When she opened her eyes, it wasn’t to a painful white or the recognizable smell of a hospital room. She didn’t see the worried faces of the doctors clamoring around her, didn’t hear the voice of her mother and her boyfriend calling out to her.
There was no pain, where she was. No hurt, no nothing. Just a vast, endless sea of wheat, and a sky straining to be just the perfect shade of blue. Envious, it seemed, of the eyes that did not see her now. And look, just there. A cloud, wispy, gossamer as it spread like the finest, clearest white silk to a sky that knew no end. But there were no lips curling around them, no petal soft flesh lifting upwards to form an adoring smile.
The wheat, though… It grew from the ground, beneath her. It was a piece of the earth, a measure of support from the soft soil that bore it. And the ground was compliant, but resolute. It would grow what was asked, but only if it was needed. Truth was a hard thing to bear, but the ground did so with pride. It would be ignored then, because it refused to grow what was wanted. But if paid attention to…
The ground never bared anything more sweetly then when it was tended to by a loving hand.
The sun was warm, she decided. And as she stretched her white, red-stained clothes beneath her, she muttered aloud, “If only William could see me now…”
*~
“Joyce, I don’t think now is the time for this.”
“Then what other time would you suggest, Hank? Because that’s my baby girl in there, and nothing’s changing! Something should be happening, and it’s not! My little girl needs to open her eyes, and she’s NOT!!”
“Don’t shout at me, you know I had nothing to do with this!”
“…”
“Get that look off your face, Joyce. She’s not just your daughter, she’s mine to!”
“Maybe when it’s convenient for you, SURE—!!”
“You DARE to—!”
“ENOUGH!!”
“…”
“… Angel, we—“
“NO! No, I don’t want to hear it! Ever since she was brought in, all you two have done is argue, and blame each other, when you both know that neither one of you is at fault!”
A gulp of air.
Restraint.
Pain, so sharp and to the point it made him weak at the knees.
“… Have either of you even gotten in touch with him yet? Let him know what’s going on? That his best friend might not wake tomorrow? Or the day after, or the next day, or the next?!”
He hated this.
It should be his voice she woke to, his touch that was responded to.
But even with as much as it hurt, he loved her too much to sit back and watch.
“Make the call.”
“Angel—“
“Make the God damned fucking call, Mr. Summers. Or so help me, I’ll break one of your bones for every minute you refuse to.”
And he would do it, too.
She wouldn’t die because of his anger, his rage, his jealousy.
She would live, because the world was nothing without her in it.
She had to.
She had to.
She had to.
*~
It had been at least two weeks, with no word from her. Not a damned word. No phone call, no letter, no e-mail, no messages in their web-chats. Nothing. Not a sodding fucking thing.
Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, just that it was something. One thing that had never let Spike down before was his gut instinct, and it was the same feeling that drove his mind now. He’d tried getting a hold of Hank and Joyce, but they either never answered or hung up before he could get a word in.
It was almost pathetic really, that if he’d had the Peaches’ number, he’d have called him to. Just to ask about his girl, because he hadn’t heard from her in two weeks, and he was going out of his mind.
It was dark in his room, though his closed curtains where the cause of that. It helped him think, made it easier to concentrate on keeping calm.
Not that keeping calm was an option, but he had to try something.
His phone buzzed from its place on his dresser, and he fell off the bed in his effort to reach it before the third ring. “Buffy?!”
“… Is this William?”
A male’s voice, and not one he recognized. “Name’s Spike, mate. Who’s this?”
“Spike? But the number was listed under William Pratt.”
Spike sighed, reaching up to rub his eyes. “Yeah, s’me. Now who the bleeding hell is this?”
“Angel. This is Angel. Look, William… Spike, whatever your name is—“
“It’s Spike you bloody poofter, ge’ it straight!”
“Whatever!” There was a pause from Angel, and a small period of static indicating a deep sigh. “Something’s happened.”
There was a sinking feeling in his gut, like a rug had been yanked out from under him. Something was roaring in the back ground, though he couldn’t be sure what. “Lemme guess, Buffy broke it off with you. So sorry mate, but ‘m not the one to call ‘bout how to get her back, ‘cause frankly—“
“She’s in the hospital! There was a shooting at her father’s company, and was caught in the crossfire. She’s unconscious, she’s… Buffy’s in a coma. We thought… I thought… Maybe, if she hears your voice, or something, I don’t know, maybe she’ll wake up. It’s like… It’s like she’s dead, and the doctors aren’t sure when she’ll wake up—“
‘No no no no NO!!! She’s just fine, put her on the phone! Let me talk to my girl!’
He hung up the phone, his grip around it tightening by the second, until the plastic broke in his hand. With a barely discernible hiss and a swoon, he dropped the plastic shards to the ground, ignorant of his now bleeding hand. His insides felt cold, as if someone had torn him open and shoved buckets of ice inside him. It would account for the sudden heaviness of his body, and the way his skin didn’t feel right. He wanted to scratch at it, tear himself limb from limb, because nothing felt the way it was supposed to. Nothing was right, and his mind refused to register his closed eyes as he fell to his knees in despair.
*~
Angel cursed silently, snapping the phone shut and chucking it at one of the chairs. With an aggravated sigh, he sat in the other chair, running his hands through his hair before holding his head in them. Abruptly, he looked up, his eyes shiny with tears as he gazed at his girlfriend.
She was so pale… As if the walls had sucked out all her color. Buffy’s face was unmarred, hey eyes closed as if sleeping. There was no movement behind her eyelids, and he wasn’t sure if that was normal. Should her eyes be moving? But coma patients couldn’t move as they slept, he knew that, which meant they probably shouldn’t be. But didn’t coma patients dream? He’d read that somewhere…
It didn’t matter. Angel sighed again, reaching out to take Buffy’s hand in his. Her skin was chilly. He thought it was because of how cold the room was, but he couldn’t be sure. And moving the blankets was out of the question, because then he might jar her arm, and she was so delicate the IV needle might move, and he wouldn’t know what to do…
This place was driving him insane, and he didn’t know what it would take to stop it.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
The second chapter! I've had mixed feelings about whether or not this is confusing, so you all will have to let me know.
Chapter End Notes:
TBC...