| She hadn’t really been paying attention as Andrew rattled on about his adventures in L.A.; she was more concerned about the new Slayer he’d brought back with him. Damaged. Completely insane and raving about blood and hands and needles and now locked safely in a holding cell beneath the house they’d rented in Rome. A heavy cloud of guilt had descended upon her which she couldn’t shake. How many others, just like the girl in the basement, were out there wandering the world? “...and it was so cool...we went in guns blazing just like Butch and Sundance, except we’re both blond...and then I rescued him...” Startled by his last words, she glanced over at him. “Rescued him? Blond?” she asked, puzzled. “You mean her...” “Uh-oh.” “Andrew...” Buffy slid off the couch and grabbed Andrew by the collar. “Ow!” “Tell me!” “Can’t!” Andrew twisted out of her grasp and scuttled across the room. “I made a sacred promise. El creatro del noche will never forgive me...” “And translated that means...creature of...what?” “Umm...the night.” “Did you say blond?” Andrew nodded mutely. “Oh, my God.” * * * * * As she wove her way through the labyrinthine corridors of the hospital, the scents of blood, antiseptic, bleach and formaldehyde made her nauseous. She held the small brown paper bag she carried to her nose and took a deep breath to drown the smells. The fragrance of chocolate and burnt sugar soothed her. For the thousandth time since her arrival, she quickly went through her mental checklist: talk to Angel, explain, ask, shout, calm down-- find him. She’d completed the first five tasks, but the final one was proving to be a little more difficult. Because, for some strange reason, she was afraid. She’d lingered for a half hour in the horror that was the hospital waiting room, obediently waiting for visiting hours. Old Buffy would’ve blazed on through, ignoring the rules. New Buffy wasn’t so brave. New Buffy was older and wiser and not quite as sure of her welcome. New Buffy didn’t know if she could find the words to say what she felt. No, that was old Buffy. Well, they say people never change. Language was not one of her strong points. Words. Too many words. They just screwed things up. Things got lost in translation. She paused outside the heavily barred door to the critical care unit. In a bored voice, the guard on duty explained that she’d have to sign in and then get approval from the attending nurses that the patient she wanted to see was awake and ready for a visit. Stupid rules. When did Spike ever sleep? But that was the old him. She didn’t even know who or what he’d become. Maybe he didn’t even remember her. Maybe he’d just wanted to forget her. * * * * * The guard gazed suspiciously at the brown paper bag she held in her hands. “No sneaking in blood to the vampires,” he growled. She shook the bag, rattling the contents. He grabbed the bag from her and looked inside. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he handed the bag back to her. “Are you sure you got the right hospital?” “I’m here to visit Spike.” The guard scanned down a sheet of paper on his clipboard and frowned. “Last name?” “Last name?” “Yeah, what’s the patient’s last name? There’s five vamps in there named Spike.” “Uh...Spike...” She glanced up and down the corridor. “Spike...” She stepped next to the guard. “He never told me his last name...” The guard snickered. “One night stand?” She flushed with anger. “Spike. Blond. Uh…maybe. His hands were...” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t say those words. “He’s got a...soul,” she added as an afterthought. “Oh, him. Got a big mouth on him.” “Yeah, sounds right.” “The one with a soul.” The guard laughed, picking up the phone to call the nurses’ station. He spoke softly and then turned back to Buffy with a salacious wink. “Through the door. End of the hall to your right. Room 303. Gotta keep him isolated from the real vampires.” “He’s real,” she retorted, giving him a dirty look as he held open the door. She wasn’t sure whether she was more offended by the guard’s snide remark about one-night-stands or by his referring to Spike as not being real. Sometimes she hated humans. * * * * * The dimly illuminated hallway echoed with groans and muffled cries, floating out from behind the closed doors she passed by on her way to room 303. She paused outside his door, suddenly deflated. She’d been running on adrenaline for the last twenty-four hours; and now, all her grim determination to see him face to face crumbled. She glanced down at the bag in her hand. “Stupid idea.” Embarrassed, she stuffed the bag in a trashcan in the corridor. She took a deep breath and opened the door. * * * * * “Angel?” In the pitch black room, the sound of his disembodied voice startled her. She didn’t answer. Shaking, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness and then moved slowly toward his bed. He was dressed all in white: white hospital gown and trousers, a white sheet pulled over his feet and his arms swathed in gauze. He sniffed the air and frowned, staring right at her. “Nurse? Bringing me a spot of Jack to top off that lovely shot of morphine?” She reached down and tenderly touched his thumb with the tip of her finger. Now he was trembling. “Buffy.” * * * * * She tried to speak, but nothing came out. She squeezed his thumb; he flinched. “Buffy,” he repeated her name slowly, softly. “Best not to squeeze the fingers just yet.” “You’re all...white. Like an angel...er...a big snowball.” She cringed, mentally smacking herself. Way to say the wrong thing. Very profound, Buffy. He didn’t laugh. Not exactly how he’d imagined their first meeting. He stared down at his arms. What’s she doing here? What do I say to her? Gonna kill Angel for letting her in here. “Gandalf the White.” He frowned. Andrew. Just wait ‘till I get my hands on that little ponce. “Gandalf?" He’s hallucinating. “Are you okay?” she asked. Oh, yeah. Another profound sentiment. Releasing his thumb, she sat down on the chair next to his bed. I don’t know what to say to him, she realized. There are no words. “Just fine. Taking a breather from Angel’s ‘helping the helpless’ gig. The helpless turned out to be a little stronger than I reckoned on.” “Oh,” she said guiltily, trying not to look at his hands. This was going downhill fast. What to say? What to say? She squirmed in the chair. He sighed. “Why are you here, Buffy?” “I...I...was just...” she stuttered, “I was...Um. What’s your last name, anyway?” Incredulous, he stared at her. “My last name?” She explained her encounter with the night guard. He laughed, and she joined him. He yawned and smiled up at her. “God, Slayer. You never change.” “I’m older,” she smiled back at him. This was good. He’s smiling. He doesn’t hate me. She scooted her chair closer to his bed, gently resting her head upon his shoulder. “Missed you,” she whispered. With a long sigh, he rubbed his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes. “I believe you.” ~end~ dark dreams fic |
| Lost in Translation Spike/Buffy Angel Season Five Post 'Damage' |