Title: Play Ball
Author: Pattyanne
Disclaimer: None of the BtVS characters
belong to me.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Hospital smut. Spike Richardson
is the star pitcher for the San Francisco
Demons He's hit by a car, and winds up as
one of nurse Buffy Summer's patients.
AN: This won't be a long one, I promise, and I
AM working on the next chapters of ATP and
BED. I just needed to clear my head with a
little pointless smut.
Feedback: I'll cry if you don't.
***********************************
The First Inning: Batter up!
"Hey, there! Are you waking up for me? How are you
feeling?"
There was an angel standing beside him. Dressed all
in white and heart-breakingly pretty, with a glowy kind
of aura back-lighting her. Definitely an angel.
Which, unfortunately, could only mean one thing. For
some reason....he was dead.
"Don't go back to sleep!" the angel ordered sternly. "It's
past time for you to wake up. Come on, now. Open your
eyes."
This was a pretty bossy angel.
"I mean it! Open them up!"
**I don't want to....**
"Talk to me!"
**Go away....**
"Tell me your name!"
**Why don't you KNOW my name? Are YOU new
here, too?**
"Wake up!" the angel shouted, clapping her hands
sharply together right next to his ear.
**All right, already! I'm awake...**
Taking a deep breath, Spike forced his eyes open a
crack. "Stop yelling at me," he grumbled, shocked at
how weak his voice sounded, and equally surprised
to see that his right leg was suspended in mid air.
Oddly enough, his surliness seemed to make the angel
very happy. Her face was instantly transformed by the
prettiest smile he'd ever been graced with. She was
obviously a professional.
"I'll stop yelling," she said, 'if you'll tell me your name."
"William," he croaked, then cleared his throat. "William...Tho-
mas....Richardson. But...most people....call me Spike."
"Well, Spike...I'm very happy to meet you. Want a drink of
water?"
He nodded, which turned out to be a huge mistake as it
made him momentarily dizzy.
The angel smiled and helped him lift his head, offering
him a drink from a green plastic cup. He took a small sip,
then laid his aching head back down.
"Spike...do you know where you are?"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, in as friendly a tone as
he could produce.
"Are you sure?"
Pesky angel.
"Sure I'm sure," he said, summoning up a smile for her. "I
mean....it's not really the way I've always pictured it, but
who am I to question the Lord?"
Angel-face laughed. Beautiful, heavenly laughter. Like
bells...like crystal...like....like angels laughing. He
immediately searched his fuddled mind for something
else amusing to say, just to hear her laugh again.
"Who indeed?" the angel said. "Are you in pain?"
That question gave him a nasty start. His eyes widened
in alarm. "Should I be?"
The angel, who appeared to be sporting a name tag
on the front of her white robes, shook her head. "No,"
she said. "You're pretty doped up."
"Excuse me?" Doped up? Doped up on what? On dope?
On drugs? They're pushing drugs in Heaven?
What the hell was happening? This was insane. There were
no drugs in Heaven. He had been dragged to Sunday School
and Church for most of his childhood and early teens, and
none of the ministers had ever mentioned a drug problem in
Heaven. Not once. Angels, yes. Angel dust, no.
Well, this was certainly disillusioning. And who said they
could give him drugs anyway? He hadn't even used drugs
when he'd been alive. Hellishly ironic, considering that it was
mostly fear of of being killed by them that had kept him
away in the first place.
And it hadn't been for lack of offers He was...had
been...in a profession where drugs were plentiful
and easy to come by.
Nearly everyone he met had something on them that they
were willing to share. But the promise of the high just wasn't
enough to block out the common sense his parents had
drummed into him all his life, not to mention the regular
screenings performed by the team doctors.
All that, coupled with the fact that he had seen too many
of his friends die painfully unnecessary deaths long before
their time, had kept him straight and clean.
And now...THIS had happened! Dead in his prime,
drugged against his will, and....strapped to a bed?
**What the hell kind of Heaven are they running here,
anyway?**
"Heaven?" the angel asked, smiling sweetly. He must
have spoken that last thought out loud. "You think you're
in Heaven?"
Oh, no. This was just getting worse by the second. Dead,
but not in Heaven.
The alternative was unpleasant, to say the least.
"You mean...I'm not?" he asked meekly, hoping perhaps
to hear that he was in Heaven's waiting room and would
be called in shortly for his interview with God. Here's a
magazine to read while waiting.
"Of course not," Angel-face laughed, a little too gleefully,
he thought.
Of course not. OF COURSE NOT? Well, what precisely
was THAT supposed to mean?
And why would she say it that way, as if the whole idea of
him ending up in Heaven was simply too ludicrous to
imagine? Maybe he hadn't been saintly in his earthly life,
but he certainly didn't consider himself a candidate for
eternal damnation.
How in the hell had he landed in hell? He'd led a good
life. He'd never deliberately hurt anyone. He hadn't cheated
on any of the women he'd been involved with. He didn't steal,
lie, run red lights, drink to excess, duck out on his bills, or
park in handicapped spaces.
He'd always been kind to animals and the elderly, had
made regular charitable donations, remembered to return
library books on time, paid his taxes and called his mother
every Sunday.
Jesus Christ! He hadn't even lost his virginity until he was
nineteen!
This was completely unfair. What kind of arbitrary
criteria did this bunch have set up to earn admittance
through the pearly gates? Had he failed some sort of
unknown test or something?
And as long as he was asking questions....since when
did Hell have angels? And...and windows...with a stunning
view of San Francisco Bay....
Where was the inferno, the screams of the damned, the
little devils jabbing you in the ass with pitchforks?
He looked beseechingly up at Angel-face. Maybe this was
some kind of left handed blessing from the Almighty. Perhaps
it was God's way of saying, "Well, William, you haven't
been TOO bad, I suppose. Now, I AM sending you to hell,
make no mistake, but I'll let you take one of my angels
along for company."
Spike tried to push himself into a sitting position, and
almost blacked out at the blast of agony surging up and
down his left arm. He was surprised to see it wrapped in a
pressure bandage and strapped snugly to his chest, but
before he had a chance to open his mouth, his arm said,
"Nope!" and collapsed out from under him, dropping him
back onto the pillow with an unpleasant thump that sent
another bolt of pain screaming through his head.
**Okay, NOW it's beginning to feel like Hell...**
"Why would God let me break my arm and then
give me a headache on top of it?"
"Spike...listen to me. You're NOT in Heaven."
"I know," he groaned, placing his right arm over his
eyes.
"You're not in hell, either."
He moved his arm down an inch, peering up at
Angel-face. "Pardon me?"
How could that be true? Heaven and Hell were pretty
much the only options. It was one or it was the other.
"You're not dead, Spike. You're in the hospital."
The relief he felt at not being dead was quickly over-
shadowed by the fear that he soon might be. In the
hospital? Why?
"Why?"
"You mean why are you in the hospital?"
He nodded gently, not wanting to jar anything loose.
"You were hit by a car."
"Oh. Badly?" Big mouth, had to know!
"Not as badly as you could have been."
Angel-face, whom he now identified as a nurse,
wrapped her fingers around his right wrist, a move
that delighted him until he realized that she wasn't
holding his hand, she was taking his pulse.
"You sprained your left wrist, your right leg has a
hairline fracture and you have a whole bunch of cuts
and bruises. None of those things are too serious on
their own, but YOU also managed to get yourself a
nasty blow to your head."
She was silent for a moment, counting.
"You've been unconscious since you were brought in,"
she added, taking an electronic thermometer out of
her pocket. "Open up, please."
He obeyed, not wanting to do anything that might
make her leave the room. The gadget beeped almost
instantly, and she checked the results, writing them
down on what he assumed was his medical chart.
Sliding the chart into it's slot on the wall, she
turned to him with another one of those killer
smiles. He smiled back at her.
"You rest now," she said, heading for the door.
What!? His smile disappeared.
**Say something, you idiot! Don't let her leave!**
"What's your name?" His voice cracked slightly.
**Oh, that was well done. Sound like a thirteen
year old boy. THAT'LL impress her!**
But she stopped and returned to his bedside.
Now that he didn't have to be concerned about the
disposition of his immortal soul, he was able to con-
centrate fully on her.
Angel or not, she was pretty enough to be one.
She had beautifully clear skin that never saw harsh sun
or wind. Her teeth were even and white, and she had
grass green eyes with tiny flecks of gold in them. Her hair
was a lovely honey brown mass, tied back from her face.
The uniform she was wearing didn't reveal much about her
figure, but he didn't care. He could live a long and happy
life just gazing into those amazing eyes of hers.
"I'm Buffy," she said, extending her right hand. "Buffy
Summers."
He accepted her hand with what he felt to be pathetic
weakness. "I'm pleased to meet you, Buffy. I'm Spike
Richardson....although I already told you that, didn't I?"
Spike watched her face this time, to see if she recognized
his name, but all she did was release his hand. That kicked
the slats right out from under his ego.
"I'm pleased to meet you, too, Spike. But now, I have to go
and let the doctors who've been treating you know that
you're awake. There's also a man in the waiting room who
came in with you last night, and he's been driving everyone
nuts asking when you'd wake up."
Oh, swell. He made a face. "Do I really have to see him?"
Nurse Angel-face looked surprised. "You mean you don't
want to see him?"
"Not particularly."
"Isn't he a friend?"
"No," Spike replied glumly. "He's an agent."
"Oh. Well, if you're sure you don't want to see him
then I can probably get rid of him. Shall I try?"
Spike nodded. "I'd appreciate it."
She smiled. "Okay, then. I'll take care of it." Once
again, she turned and headed for the door.
Spike felt his heart seize up. "Are you coming
back?"
"Of course I'll be back," she assured him as she
walked out the door. "You're my patient."
He settled back into the pillows, grinning like an
idiot. His own little 'Florence Nightingale' would be
coming back.
**Sure she will,** he thought smugly, spotting the
call button. **I'm her patient!**
He couldn't wait!
TBC...
(Um...has ball player been done before? I tried to
come up with something original, and I like base-
ball, so....here it is)
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