Flood
by Valyssia
All the King's Horses
[reviews]
Soon the water will come and claim what is mine.
Willow opened the door to the chapel and ushered Joyce inside. "We gotta do something about this. Its way too obvious," she noted, setting the packages she was carrying on the floor in the aisle. She spread them out and gestured for Joyce to do the same. The bags began to gravitate toward one another, arranging themselves, like with like. "The ones that stick, we need to pick up and keep together. Having what we're carrying go all wonky—it's bad—someone will notice."
Joyce nodded in agreement. As they watched the bags drift into clumps on the floor, she struck up conversation out of curiosity, "What do you make of Buffy?"
"'Kay...the big ones that wanna stick together we put between us," Willow commented offhandedly as she began to pick up bags. "Sorry, Mrs. Summers, but we need to get moving. Getting caught...it'd be bad—really, really, bad in new and interesting ways."
Joyce began to load herself down with the bags until they finally managed to distribute the weight evenly and none of the bags were doing anything unnatural. She walked beside Willow, keeping the bags between them in contact.
"Too much," Willow finally answered as she pushed the door to the chapel open. After filing through the doorway alongside Buffy's mom, they set off a brisk pace down the corridor toward the front lobby.
"Pardon?"
Willow clarified, "Too much. She's doing too much to hide. She should be more upset, but she's trying to keep me calm—keep us all calm by putting up a front. I'm really worried about her."
"I'm glad I'm not the only one that sees it," Joyce replied as they passed through the lobby. Once they were outside and had begun to make their way across the parking lot, she added, "It's an awful thing for me to admit, but I think you probably know her better than I do."
"Oh, I don't know about that, Mrs. Summers. I've only known Buffy for a couple of years."
"This way," Joyce directed, guiding their course left down a row of parked cars. "Yes, but, Willow, her life has changed a great deal and you've been a part of that. I haven't." She stopped at the back of her Jeep and set the packages down. When she managed to locate the keys in her purse, she opened the back hatch and began to load the bags in the car. "There's something else I'd like to ask you, but—"
Willow placed the last of the bags in the car and stood up to face Buffy's mother. "But what?"
Joyce shut the back of the car and locked it. "But it'll probably upset you and I'd rather not. I know that's sort of silly."
Quirking an eyebrow, Willow stood patiently waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"I'm just curious what the nature of your relationship with Buffy is?" Seeing the younger woman pale, she continued, "Willow, you have no reason to be upset."
"Oh," Willow half gasped. Struggling to choke down the anxiety that threatened to well up, "I-I...I'm—it's complicated," she stuttered, then sighed in annoyance. "I'm not sure. I mean I am sure that we're—it's just—"
Joyce put her hand up. "It's okay. I know it has to be confusing for you both."
Tearing up, Willow nodded gratefully.
"I'm glad she has you." Joyce placed her hand over Willow's. "We should go find the others. They should've been here by now."
***********
Jenkins turned the steering wheel, lazily negotiating the van through a bend in the road. He did his utmost to put the sounds coming from the aft compartment out of his mind. Though he was a large, imposing man, he did not have the taste for violence that some of the others on his team displayed. His sheer size was what had won him his role within the unit. He was the one that looked the part, while the other, smaller men played it.
As the road straightened out, Jenkins blinked and confusion set in. Illuminated by the headlamps, a figure stood in the middle of his lane, dead ahead. He started to put on the brakes, but a barked order from his superior forestalled the action.
"Run him down."
Jenkins studied the man while they barreled towards him. He stood unflinching, with his arms folded in front of him. His leather trench coat billowed in the slight breeze. As the distance closed, Jenkins made out the look of grim determination on the man's face. Bloody hell!
Time froze the instant the van collided with the man. Instead of the expected jar of tires rolling over a body, the windshield shattered. Frightened by the sudden loss of visibility, Jenkins mashed the brakes. As glass rained over him, a pair of feet smashed into his head. He was thrown across the front of the van. Weatherby let out a yelp as the two men crushed into the passenger door. Jenkins struggled to focus his eyes as the van flipped onto its left side, sending him back across the cab. His head went through the open window. The moving pavement contacted his temple and everything went dim.
***********
Harold stood eyeing the Englishman and his son. One of the plastic bags the young man was holding shifted strangely and he said, "Pets aren't allowed in the hospital, sir."
"Quite right, we'll be pleased to move on—" the Englishman replied coolly, cutting off when the guard spoke over him.
Harold vaguely watched two women approach from the lobby as he demanded, "I'm afraid I can't do that, sir. I need to see what's in those bags."
The eldest of the women walked up behind the Englishman and pinched his ear, tearing into him, "Richard Mills, there you are! How dare you run off like that!"
Appearing stunned, the Englishman tried to pull away.
The blonde began to tow the Englishman away while she fumed, "I woke up alone! Alone! I knew you'd be here sneaking in to see that little hussy of yours!" She released her grip and seized the packages in his left hand. "And what's this? Bringing her presents too?" she snarled, opening the bags in front of her as she shoved the poor guy along.
Harold stood for a moment watching the display completely slack-jawed. Uh-boy...poor guy, looks like he's gonna get worse at home than I could ever give him.
Then the redhead shrugged ever so slightly and went into a tirade too. She grabbed the younger man's ear and started in. "Alex Mills! Shame on you—just shame! Following your father into this mess—" the redhead raged.
"You folks have a nice evening," Harold mumbled, shaking his head. As he turned to continue his rounds, the young redhead was still going on. Man, do I ever feel bad for those two.
"And getting caught! Embarrassing me and your poor mother like this! When I get you alone there will be beatings...horrible, hurtsome, ouchy beatings..."
***********
Angel jumped seconds before he hit the windshield of the van. This is probably crazy. He tumbled over the top of the van, seizing the luggage rack. Using his inertia, he swung himself into the driver's side window. His feet struck the driver, causing him to whip the steering wheel to the right. The driver was torn from his seat and thrown to the other side of the cab.
As Angel landed between the two seats, the van started to roll. He braced himself, tucking into the small space. The driver slid across his back when the vehicle listed on its left side. He felt the van tip. A sharp thud sent a shudder through the chassis. Then things went straight to hell. His sense of direction became confused as the vehicle tumbled madly. He held tight to the seats, wedging himself in place. Okay, scratch that—definitely crazy.
When the van came to rest on its right side, Angel pulled himself free. As he moved to the back of the van, his eyes fixed on Faith where she hung from the now-vertical floor. He began to check the bodies of the Council members for keys to remove the manacles that held her in place. The smells of blood, filth, and fear played havoc with his concentration. One dead, lots of broken bones and other injuries. None of these men will walk away. I should feel bad, but— Once he located the keys in one of the men's pockets, he moved to release the battered slayer.
Angel removed only the U-lock that held the cuffs binding Faith to the floor while he steadied her to keep her from falling. When she was free, he kicked the rear doors open and carried her away from the van, pocketing the keys. He stopped briefly to bundle her bare, broken form in his coat, glancing back at the van. It looked like it'd been put through a car crusher. The others would think I've lost it, but I couldn't let them take her. Not like that.
Trudging across the open field from the wreck, Angel leapt the steep ditch that divided the grassland from the road and stepped onto the highway. Finally reaching his car, he loaded Faith in the rear seat. After taking the driver's seat of the black Dodge, he backed the car onto the highway, then set off to find them a room. I'll call the cops when we're safe. They can collect the pieces.
***********
Willow stole into her friend's room to find her still awake and flipping channels.
"There's never anything on this late," Buffy grumped and turned off the television.
After taking a seat in the recliner, Willow pulled the blanket over herself. "Why don't you try and get some rest. It's been a pretty awful day," she covered her mouth and yawned, "The others are on their way to box up Mayor Meany at the gallery."
"No more 'red alert.' Guess that's a good."
Quirking an eyebrow at the blonde, Willow remarked, "Yeah, it's a good. Now if you'll rest and get better, maybe things will get normal," realizing it wasn't a very good lie once she said it.
Buffy brushed it off by switching subjects, nervously stating, "I'll go with you."
Putting the leg rest up, Willow turned onto her side in the chair and mumbled, "'Go with me' where?" as she closed her eyes.
"I'll go to the prom with you."
Willow turned back to face her friend and leaned forward in the chair. "Oh...umm...wow," she smiled, "Wow! You mean—?" the smile brightened, "You really mean it?"
When Buffy nodded, the redhead sprung out of the chair. Before she could react Buffy was wrapped in Willow. "Whoa," she chuckled, "I'm supposed to be resting remember. Kinda hard when—"
Letting go, Willow appeared sheepish as she said, "Sorry. I just...I'm just so happy. We're gonna have fun. I promise."
"It'll be fun if I can walk. Not so much sure now, but you're right, I should go and I can't think of anyone I'd rather go with."
Willow began to positively beam as her friend fell silent. "We'll make it fun even if you're still—" she offered resolutely, adding, "I promise."
"'Kay, Will, I'll hold you to that," Buffy replied with a warm smile. "Now put this stupid railing down and give me a hug without all the bendy, twisty chiropractic badness."
***********
Faith cracked an eye open. As she took in her surroundings, her brow knit tightly with alarm. After unsuccessfully trying to rise, she snarked, "Y'know, I got that you guys were all about the kinky fun, but isn't this—?" Briefly assessing the nylon rope that held her to the bed, she began to struggle to get free.
"Don't move, Faith."
"Ah, Jesus! Not you. Lemme guess, this is another lame attempt to rescue me. Don'cha ever give up?" Faith spat as she continued to thrash against the bonds.
Angel took a cup of blood from the microwave and stepped out of an alcove by the door, taking a sip before he answered with a simple, "Yes."
"'Yes' what?" Faith snarled, continuing to fight until the pain became too much.
Narrowing his eyes, Angel replied harshly, "Yes, I give up," starting to pace, "The others, they'd be upset if they knew, but I couldn't let it happen. Not that way. So, just call me Saint Jude." He rubbed his right shoulder and groaned.
Faith gasped, "Huh?" craning her neck to see the vampire who had walked out of her field of view. Either he's just that much of an idiot, or—
"Saint Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes and desperate situations."
He's that much of an idiot. "Jude, eh? Sounds like my kinda guy," Faith replied with a quirky half grin.
"Look, Faith, both your shoulders were dislocated and your right wrist was broken. I patched you up, but if you screw around and mess it up I won't do it again. That's part of why I tied you down. They need to stay put until they're healed. We clear?"
Faith watched the vampire step back into view, taking in the limp and the stiffness in his shoulder before she replied, "Gotcha, boss," relaxing as she sighed, "Looks like you're pretty beat up yourself." Not sure I had Angel pegged as the Vin Diesel type. Witness me, here, now, for the serious clueage. That was one wicked wreck. What I remember of it.
Angel stopped pacing and turned to glare at the slayer. "I'll live," he stated plainly, "I need to know where you stand, Faith, and I need to know now." He took a sip of his dinner. "I'll protect you—keep you alive—but if you turn on me, if you so much as breathe wrong, I'll feed you to the first dog that snarls." Moving to the bedside, he added, "This is it: end of the line. What's it gonna be?"
"Guess I'm in...like I got loads of choice." Can't exactly doubt the sincerity. I'd still be playin' my new role as favorite bone to those Council brown shirts without—
"Be sure, Faith," Angel growled.
Nodding, Faith said resolutely. "Alright, I'm in." Not sure why he gives a shit. 'Specially with the little number I did on his honey, but I got no choice. Wonder what he's playin' at. Guess, I stick to see what he wants...and bail as soon as he wants too much.
Angel narrowed his eyes and breathed deeply. Once he was satisfied, he walked over to the chair and sat down. "Get some rest. We move as soon as you can."
There's a chance he's bein' straight with me, though. I sorta ran outta options a few exits back. If there's a chance I gotta take it. Not like I inspire all kinda charity. 'Cause right about now...I look like Unicef.
***********
Willow strolled into the library with Xander at her side, taking a seat at the table as he moved to sit across from her. I didn't want to leave, but Buffy insisted. Now I'm stuck here until this stupid meeting's over and she's all alone. I guess she watched TV all day. She probably would've done that with me there. At least I got to pick up the assignments we missed. Not so much a deal for me. I have enough credits to graduate even if I fail every class this semester. Buffy, on the other hand...I gotta get her caught up.
They both turned their attention to the stacks when Giles came into view.
Giles remained standing at the end of the table. "Wesley will be along shortly."
When 'shortly' became 'forever,' Willow pulled out her chemistry textbook and began to catch up on homework while Giles seated himself to pour over a musty book from his collection. Only Xander appeared immune to the topic of 'using time wisely.' His answer to the boredom involved making paper airplanes and seeing how far they would fly. Willow looked up after a particularly dramatic crash—which nearly landed one of the planes in Giles' tea—to glare at Xander.
The harsh stare caused him to develop an interest in his hands which were placed casually in his lap. Appearing bored to tears, Xander was amid contemplations of either leaving or suggesting they order pizza when Wesley finally arrived.
"Terribly sorry, Los Angeles traffic is abysmal," Wesley said crisply as he took a seat next to Giles. "Thank you for waiting."
Xander was the only one that actually turned his attention to Wesley.
Wesley began by making eye contact with Xander as he spoke, his awareness drifted between the other two who seemed to be more interested in their respective books. "I've just come from Olive View Medical Center. It seems that Council members who were transporting Faith met with misfortune last night."
Seeing that he finally had the interest of the room, Wesley continued confidently, "From what I can gather, a man wearing a black trench coat was hit by the van transporting the prisoner. From there the accounts get sketchy at best. What we do know is that there was an accident, one man is dead, four more are severely injured, and that the prisoner is again at large."
After clearing his throat, Wesley prompted, "Would any of you know the whereabouts of Angel? While it would be ludicrous to discount the possible involvement of agents of the mayor, it certainly does sound to me as though they were describing Angel."
"Actually, the mayor is in no position to authorize any such action. That is in large part the reason we tolerated your tardiness so readily. The mayor has been detained. It would be very good of you if you could have the Council pick up the pieces for us, so to speak," Giles offered, ignoring a chuckle from Xander.
"Certainly," Wesley replied.
After nodding affirmation, Giles remarked, "I will give you the specifics later. As to Angel's involvement in any such matters: to the best of my knowledge Angel has departed from Sunnydale."
"There is also the matter of Buffy Summers. We are in the unenviable position of having more slayers than at any time in our history, however not even one that is actually fit to perform the duties," Wesley commented, openly displaying his dismay. "I have not been able to assess her condition, nor have I been allowed—"
Giles cut Wesley off, remarking waspishly, "Had you proven yourself to be anything more than a political puppet, you would have the access you demand, but I'm afraid that since you are neither 'friend' nor 'family' you will just have to take my word that she is doing quite well. Now I'll thank you to drop this matter immediately."
Wesley glared at the former Watcher as he asked coolly, "What are you hiding, Mr. Giles?"
"Pardon me, one moment," Giles interrupted, raising a finger. "Willow, Xander, that will be all for now."
Xander got up to leave, giving Willow a perplexed stare when she refused to move.
Willow defiantly made eye contact with Giles. "No, I think I'd like to hear this."
Giles replied, "I would prefer you didn't," appearing nonplussed at Willow's open refusal.
Xander hung back, moving to stand behind Willow as if to protect her.
Giles sighed and remarked politely, "Willow, really, I must insist. I do not wish to be curt in your presence."
Willow crossed her arms and turned to glare at Wesley. "Actually, I'm sorta hoping for a little curt. Curt's been pretty much absent and I think curt's long overdue."
Unable to stifle the subtle smile that flashed across his face, Giles demeanor turned earnest when he admitted, "This would be far easier for me were you not here. You have my deepest apologies."
Willow submitted, saying, "Alright, Giles," as she rose to leave. After hastily packing her things, she reluctantly made her exit with Xander in tow. They walked in silence together until they were outside, then Willow asked, "So, how do you feel about Mexican?"
Xander playfully wiggled his eyebrows.
Enjoying the sunlight and fresh air, Willow set off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk. "For dinner, silly. I need to pick something up for Buffy. She'll never get better with that garbage they've been feeding her."
"Sounds good," Xander replied, matching pace with his friend. "Did I hear Wesley right? Faith's free and Angel may've made with the big rescue? You don't suppose he's—?"
Willow stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk and swung around to face Xander. Giving him a look, she asked tersely, "And just what makes you think that, Xander?"
Xander hung his head. "I dunno. I guess it's just the disappearing act and—"
"There's only a couple of things we know of that'll cause that. One of them is pretty unlikely—what with Giles...and Buffy's not exactly been feeling frisky," Willow filled in, adding in a low mumble, "And if she were I—well, I'd hope the frisk would be—" Falling silent, she started off at a casual pace again.
Striding beside her, Xander offered, "I'm sorry, Will."
Several moments of silence passed between them. Finally, Willow asked, "The charlatan or the fanatic?"
Xander snapped out of his reverie and gave his friend a sidelong glance. "Huh?"
"If you really needed something—just had to have it—and you knew two people had the 'it' you needed, but neither one was gonna give 'it' up without a fight. One's a charlatan and the other's a fanatic, which one would you choose?"
"Dunno, Will. It sounds like bad choices all around," Xander responded thoughtfully.
"I'd pick the charlatan," Willow answered resolutely.
Hiking the backpack she carried along with her own book bag, Willow gratefully handed the bag off to Xander as he gestured, then started to explain, "See, thing is, once you get a faker figured, they usually back down. A fanatic never will, 'cause they believe—regardless how wrong they are—that they're right. You can't reason with a fanatic. You may as well try to get Cordy to wear shoes from Payless; it just won't happen." When she glanced over Xander was motioning for more. "The Council is the fanatic and the charlatan is Faith. Of the two, I'd rather deal with Faith."
Xander's expression flashed with understanding for just an instant. Then he went back to looking completely mystified. "What's that got to do with Angel?"
"There's hope for the faker. Regardless how we may feel about her, there still may be hope. Angel's enough on the outside he may see that. He's disconnected enough she may even listen. Feeding her to them—even I had problems with that and I can't stand Faith. Just 'cause I can't stand her doesn't mean I want to see her tortured."
Xander quirked an eyebrow and asked, "Tortured?"
Willow gave her friend a quick glance. "Reconditioned, reprogrammed, reeducated...whatever euphemism they're using this week. Fact is: I go straight to the bad place."
***********
The receptionist sat studying her computer terminal. It had been miserable lately and she was both worried and grateful that her boss had not been in. A flash of movement in the hallway to her left caused her to divert her attention from the screen. She sat staring at the space for few seconds. Whatever it was, it had been very small.
There was another flourish of motion and she screamed jumping out of her chair as the rat scurried past her. As the rat brushed her ankle, her vision clouded and she swooned. There was a loud cracking noise on contact. Her leg convulsed and she collapsed to the ground twitching.
***********
Giles turned to Wesley. His expression hardened as he queried, "What do you know of the Cruciamentum?"
Wesley quickly rattled off, "It is a test administered to the slayer on her eighteenth birthday. She is stripped of her powers and pitted against a vampire foe." A harsh glare darkened his features, "It is also the point at which your shortcomings became apparent."
Brushing off the barb, Giles continued, "When I first became aware of the test, it occurred to me that there was little difference between it and what either of us might confront were we to find ourselves facing a vampire foe."
Wesley nodded in agreement.
"This would indeed be the case were the slayer pitted against an ordinary vampire. In the case of my charge, Miss Summers, the Council went out of their way to locate a foe so vile that they, themselves feared him. They sedated him to keep him under control. Zachary Kralik." Giles paused momentarily to watch with satisfaction as Wesley paled. "I see you recognize the name."
When he received a nod, Giles prompted, "Can you think of a reason they might do this?"
Recovering, Wesley puzzled over this for a moment, finally replying, "I'm certain they had their reasons."
"This was the thing that caused me to question the wisdom of the Council. It seemed an extreme measure aimed at one purpose." Giles offered frankly, "My involvement in the test will forever haunt me. It was tantamount to attempted murder. The fact that Miss Summers survived only goes to illustrate how extraordinary she actually is."
"That seems a bit overstated," Wesley crisply remarked.
As Giles responded, his brow furrowed with disquiet, "Is it?" and he sighed, "The vampire in question turned one of the skilled agents the Council sent to oversee the test and killed another."
"I fail to see what this has to do with—"
Giles snapped at the younger man, cutting him off, "It has everything to do with her condition. Do you not see that these people have little regard for the lives of these young women? They view them as one might a tool. The word 'instrument' is even freely cast about." He rose to his feet and began to pace.
When he spoke again, his tone changed to reflect regret, "Would you make a phone call knowing that Cordelia would be injured or perhaps even die as a result?"
Wesley wheezed, "No."
"Yet you would do the same to Buffy or Faith? How can you not see the flaw? Do you honestly believe that the Council wished to play tiddlywinks with Faith? Can you be so blind to trust that their interest in Miss Summers' condition is purely academic? You are a much more naïve than I suspected if you believe they would not eliminate her in order to summon a replacement."
Wesley wore an expression of unadulterated astonishment as he stared at Giles.
"Are you willing to sign her death warrant?" Giles ranted, "The Council loves to tell us that we are waging a war. They tout stories of grand battles and great defeats of good over evil. These are romanticized notions, to be sure. If we really are speaking of war, then the intriguing thing is that in war no civilized leader would promote leaving a wounded man behind on the field of battle. If there was a chance to save the man, aid would be freely offered."
He grew somber and met Wesley's gaze. "All I am suggesting is that we show Miss Summers that same consideration. We exist to aid and offer wise council to the slayer. Should we not offer aid in her times of need as well?"
After returning to his chair, Giles concluded, "You are either friend or foe. I will not tolerate anything else. Mark my words when I say you do not wish to cross me. I give you until nine p.m. to make your decision, if you are willing report to my flat."
Stunned by Giles' words, Wesley managed to rasp, "Why?" through a parched mouth.
Giles cracked a thin smile, turning to take his leave as he clarified, "Patrol. As they are so fond of saying, 'the show must go on'."
***********
Faith scanned her surroundings with marked disgust as she moved through the dank sewer tunnel along side the vampire. "So, what're we doing again?"
Angel swung the gasoline can he held into his left hand to avoid hitting the slayer. "Helping a friend."
"Right," Faith intoned, exaggerating the 'i' so that the word seemed to drag on forever. Shaking her head, she added, "We need to get you some new friends."
Angel chortled as he stopped to inspect a pool of standing water. Once he'd had a close look, he tipped the can up, dumping about a quarter of its contents into the pool. After setting the can down, he pulled a box of matches out of his pocket and took one out. Sweeping the can back up, he struck the match with his thumbnail, winking at Faith. She started to run as he let loose the match.
A plume of fire chased them down the tunnel as the walls around them trembled ominously.
Faith ducked into an alcove and spat, "And they say I'm psycho?" as she pulled the vampire in beside her with her good arm.
Angel started to chuckle again.
Faith bent down, bracing her upper body by placing her left hand against her thigh. "What the hell is that stuff?" Faith panted, gesturing to the can with her bandaged hand.
"Just a little something I mixed up to solve a problem," Angel explained in loose terms.
"Y'know, 'pyro' and 'vampire' can only end badly, right?"
Angel ignored the helpful suggestion, setting off down the tunnel from whence they had come to inspect his handiwork.
Careful to avoid the chunks of flaming debris, Faith looked at what had been a standing pool of water. At the bottom there was what looked sort of like chalky gray seahorses with blunt faces. The three tiny creatures wriggled and writhed in pain. Their bodies were still burning becoming more charred by the second. Faith pressed against her temples, trying to stave off the burning migraine she'd suddenly developed. "What the hell are those?"
"My nieces and nephews," Angel offered cryptically as he turned his back and began to stride down the tunnel again.
She stumbled after him, slowly due to the throbbing pain. Shaking her head, Faith raised and eyebrow and sighed when the pain started to ebb. "Well, it beats the victim act," she mumbled softly to herself before she set off at a light jog to close the distance between herself and the latest in a series of crazy bosses.
***********
The late afternoon sun beamed through the window warming her shoulders as Willow glanced up from her book and winked at Buffy, giving her a reassuring smile.
Buffy rolled her eyes. Jeeze, I feel like a dork. I don't get the audience. Both Mom and Will insisted on coming to my first P.T. Now I'm on my belly on an oversized beach ball looking like a total idiot. And all to prove to this reject from a bad seventies sitcom that I still own a sense of balance.
"Mrs. Summers, the leg must be moved through its full range of motion at least twice a day now that the" — paper rustled as the physical therapist looked at her patient's chart — "injury— This can't be right."
"It's okay. Buffy heals very quickly," Joyce offered in a reassuring tone.
I'm the slayer, lady! Repeating the expected movements, Buffy tilted right and left, then back and forward on the ball. Y'know...one girl in all the world chosen to play punching bag for every evil meanie with a god complex.
"Can we ask you your professional opinion? The doctors haven't been able to tell us much," Joyce prodded.
The physical therapist continued to pour over her patient's chart for a few more moments before she offered softly, "Typically the symptoms of spinal shock don't clear up for at least four to six weeks after the initial injury. It really is impossible to tell what the patient's quality of life will be like until after that time elapses."
The therapist and her mother moved away to speak privately, but Buffy could still hear them if she concentrated.
"Part of my job is to be reassuring while not inspiring false-hope. Surely you can understand that. Patients in your daughter's situation are prone to deep depression. In fact, depression is expected. Creating false-hope can only make things worse further down the line."
"I appreciate that, but I am not your patient."
"I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Summers, but I hesitate to speculate. I've never seen anything like this. What I might offer would only be a wild guess," the therapist concluded, moving back to her patient.
Just gimme my goddamned crutches so I can go home! After briefly considering popping the big blue ball, Buffy went back to mindlessly repeating the actions: right, left, forward, back.
Moving to help her patient up, "Alright, Miss Summers, very good," the therapist said, "Now we'll work on getting you mobile again."
Buffy nodded gratefully as the therapist sat her back in the wheelchair. At least I'm in my own clothes. This would've been so much more the nightmare in one of those flimsy paper gowns.
"Have you ever used crutches?" the therapist asked politely.
"Once when I was little."
The therapist nodded and offered, "Well then, this shouldn't be hard," as she rolled her patient over to a set of widely spaced banisters.
After rising to her feet with the therapists help, Buffy accepted the crutches and began to pace back and forth between the banisters as expected before the instruction came. Her lame leg dragged awkwardly on the wooden floor, sliding along against the sock she wore. Not being able to control it enough to even lift it was unnerving, but she ignored the unrest and simply went through the motions required to prove herself. I make it through this and they'll let me outta this hell. Just a little bit more. It'll all be good.
"Look at that. You're a natural," the therapist encouraged.
If you only knew.
***********
Wesley took a sip from his snifter and settled back into the sofa in Giles' living room. Pulling the first book down from the stack before him, he noted, "We seemed to function better as a unit this evening."
After taking a seat in his high-backed leather chair, Giles removed the second book from the pile and laid it open in his lap before he quipped, "Yes, well, I suspect that was largely owed to your not running off at the first sign of trouble."
"I am a scholar, not a warrior, Mr. Giles," Wesley remarked defiantly, "I'm still not certain how I allowed you to talk me into this foolishness."
"The facts speak for themselves, Wesley," Giles commented offhandedly as he began to read.
Silence hung between them for several minutes before Wesley decided to broach a new subject. "You know, I've always had more than a passing interest in Norse legend and mythology. While their culture is largely vilified or romanticized by ours, their sheer contribution to the society from which we herald inspired me to dig deeply into their history," he offered, speaking stream of consciousness. "Several years ago, I stumbled across a legend that might be of interest. It always fascinated me because it seemed to merely be one piece of a much greater puzzle."
Positioning a finger as a placeholder in the book on his lap, Giles regarded the younger man with mild interest.
"The legend is of Tyrik Turgeis, great-great grandfather of the conqueror Turgeis who founded Dublin. It predates the proper recorded history of these peoples and therefore is spotty at best," Wesley offered pensively.
After a moment's pause, Wesley began to relate, "The legend recounts an attack by a pack of wolves. Tyrik was severely injured. It was thought he would surely perish. Instead, he disappeared along with a score of his strongest men for a time. When he returned he was fully healed save for the hand he lost during the attack. The key element that drew my attention was this: after his return he is said to have lived four lifetimes waging war and dispensing justice."
Giles reached for his drink, taking a small sip before he remarked, "One might presume that this is the source of the legend of the Norse god Tyr."
"Indeed." Wesley nodded. "One must also understand that life expectancy then was much shorter than it is now. Twenty-five years, perhaps thirty. Though, even taking that into account, still places his age at his time of death well over one-hundred years. The natural conclusion would of course be that he was turned—made a vampire—but the remaining evidence fails to support this. He was deeply respected by his people. A vampire would surely feed within the community, thus destroying such impressions."
Thoughtfully fingering the rim of his brandy snifter, Giles noted, "Medicine during that time would not support many other conclusions."
"Magick can certainly be used to heal, but only to a limited degree. These people were deeply pagan at this point in their history. That fact would support such a theory. However, the detail of his men's disappearance would appear to suggest a journey. I intend to dig deeper. The circumstances would certainly apply to our current dilemma," Wesley reflected, beginning to read when he drew silent.
***********
Joyce helped Buffy painfully move from the hospital wheelchair to the passenger seat of the Jeep. After stowing the crutches in the back seat, she got in, started the Jeep, and pulled away from the curb, all without saying a word.
The two Summers women rode down the street, enjoying an uncomfortable silence. Joyce had too much too talk about so she concentrated on driving; Buffy had nothing she wanted to talk about so she focused on the scenery passing by the passenger window.
After several blocks of rumination, Joyce settled on what she wanted to say. When the Jeep pulled up to a stop sign, Joyce looked over at her daughter and started, "So..." before faltering.
Buffy responded, "So..." with no enthusiasm.
Gamely, Joyce tried again, "So I... I couldn't help but notice..." Why is it so hard to get from 'what to say' to 'how to say it'? She wrung the steering wheel in frustration as she started driving again.
"Notice what?" Buffy asked flatly. Not that she cared to have a conversation on any of the topics her mother may have had; it was just the expected response so Buffy filled it in.
Glancing over at Buffy again, Joyce tried a new tack. "I really like Willow, you know that, right?"
Buffy looked at her mother for the first time since she got in the car. With a quizzical look, she answered, "Uh-huh."
Joyce smiled, "It's—it's been a joy watching her grow from the timid girl I first met just two short years ago to the vibrant young woman she is now. And it's obvious that you're responsible for that. She's a wonderful person." Glancing again, she saw the first smile on Buffy's face that day.
"She is," Buffy agreed pleasantly.
"She loves you, you know," Joyce said, punctuating with a look at Buffy to measure her reaction, "It's so clear...in every look, every...touch." She let out an amused grunt. "Honestly, other than her gender, she's everything I ever hoped you'd find."
Worry creased Buffy's face, "Mom, we're not—"
"I just need you to know," Joyce continued over her daughter's objection, "what I'm about to say has nothing to do with who or what gender Willow is."
Buffy waited for her mother to continue, doing nothing to encourage her to do so, futilely hoping she'd pause all the way back to the house.
"I worry about you getting hurt," Joyce said compassionately.
"Mom—" Buffy started to protest again. Then again, I'm thinking the ride home from the hospital...probably not the place to point out I can protect myself.
"God, just a few months ago I was watching the news about Matthew Sheppard, guiltily feeling relieved that I didn't have to worry about anything like that."
"Mom..." Buffy wanted to reassure her, but couldn't think how.
"I know, I know. You're this 'slayer' and can protect yourself," Joyce placated. She changed her approach, "But what about Willow? Have you thought about the danger she could be in?"
"Mom, we live in southern California, not Kansas," Buffy said dismissively.
"Wyoming, dear," Joyce corrected, then waved it off as unimportant. "Do you think that can't happen here?" she asked stridently. "I know you've never been tuned into the news, but have you really not heard about the attacks in L.A. and San Francisco? The rallies the hate-mongers held right here in southern California after Matthew Sheppard died? Maybe you can protect yourself—" she looked pointedly as Buffy's leg "—normally, but Willow can't."
Buffy looked defiant. "'Kay, so you're saying that, without the question about liking another girl too much, these people would've left the little Jewish girl alone?" Raising an eyebrow, she said, "I'm thinking not." She crossed her arms and glared at her mother. "I've been worrying about protecting Willow from that kind since we met."
Joyce moved on to her next point. "Have you thought about all the consequences? What about Willow's family? Sheila and Ira are Reform but other parts of her family are still Conservative. There are aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins that might never talk to her again. Has she thought about that?"
"I don't really know," Buffy answered harshly. "Not that it matters." Buffy glared at her mother and explained, "With the Reform-Conservative thing, there's already Rosenbergs she can't talk to. And just liking-girls-that-way'd be a problem for them, even if she never acts on it. Even if we never become an 'us'—which is barely a possibility right now—she'll have to deal with that."
When the Jeep pulled into the driveway, Buffy angrily flung open her door and started to maneuver her leg out. "And I'm not basing whether me and Willow ever become 'me and Willow' on if there're Summers that won't talk to me."
***********
Reaching back to fluff her pillow, Buffy blinked at the textbook in her lap. I dunno why I'm bothering. It's not like whether I pass history or not is gonna matter. I don't even intend to be around for the final. Mom and Will are both concerned, so through the hoops I jump...to make them happy. Doesn't matter what I feel. I just don't want them to wig.
Buffy set the book on the floor by her bed and manually moved her right leg out to the side, bending her knee. After gently repositioning the rubber catheter hose to where she couldn't feel it against her left leg, she picked up the book again. Can't believe that stupid therapist yesterday with her depression speech. She doesn't know crap, it's obvious. Another idiot with an expensive degree doling out advice they're too clueless to give. She's still walking; until she isn't...she lacks the qualifications to know shit about it.
A knock sounded from her door and she said, "C'mon in." And Mom...all concerned about something that'll never happen. I wish I could put her mind at ease, but what I got—not exactly the sorta thing that makes you rest well. I could never begin to explain it to her anyway. And in a couple days I won't have to.
Walking over to the bed, "It's time for your pills," Joyce remarked, offering Buffy the two pills she was holding and a glass of water.
"Thanks." Buffy accepted the pills and tossed them into her mouth. Then she took the glass from her mother and drank half of it down, setting it aside when she was finished. I just need to make sure—I don't want Will or Mom to find me. It's gonna be bad enough...
Joyce quirked an eyebrow and looked at the text book in her daughter's lap, trying to see the title. "Are you feeling okay?
I can't believe—! Oh... Buffy figured out what her mom was looking at and giggled. "Yeah, Mom, I'm fine. I just—I dunno...after my birthday I was sorta struck with this burning desire to actually graduate. Something about them not caring," she replied with a smile. I just wish—there's not, so it's pointless to even waste my time... Useless dreams. Other options...not so much. I'd run if I could, but then if I could run...it'd be a non-issue.
Folding her hand in the book so her mom could see the cover Buffy reflected, "Will helped me catch up on homework, but I've still got lots of reading to do. So...can't do much else. May as well..." I dunno though, someone has to do the job and god knows Faith won't so... Regardless what I think, what I feel, what I want... It's the right thing. Travers is an asshole—the very worst kind—an asshole with a point. Listen to me. She hissed.
The smile faded from Joyce's face as she asked, "What's wrong, honey?"
Me and my big mouth. Buffy offered her mother a reassuring smile. "Nothing, just something Will said. Y'know how she is." 'The right thing.' Boy, are there ever a few religious whackjobs out there that'd have major issues with that...until they got eaten by vamps...or— Well, fundies actually like apocalypses don't they? Scratch that.
"Well, get some rest. You've got a big day tomorrow," Joyce remarked and started for the door.
Buffy focused on the book and replied in an aloof tone as she started to read, "I will, Mom." When her mother shut the door, she reached under the side of her tongue with her index finger and extracted the pills. Opening the drawer of her nightstand, she took out a small jewelry box and pulled back the felt, placing the pills underneath. This is gonna suck. I gotta act like nothing's wrong when—
It'll all be over soon.
Author's Note: Thanks to Howard Russell for lending his figurative pixely pen to this chapter. Yup, there's a Howard scene. See if you can spot it. Valyssia winks. This chapter and the next cover a period of days from Sunday evening to late the following Friday, providing a limited view of the events that transpire leading up to and including 'The Prom.'