Shadows of Dreams

Chapter Two

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"Angel?" Doyle questioned as he heard the heavy sliding door of the vampire’s apartment being opened. Tossing aside the newspaper, he was startled off the couch by the sight of Angel carrying an unconscious, waiflike redhead in his arms. "What happened?"

"Is Cordy here?" asked Angel, not even sparing the little Irishman a glance as he continued to his bedroom.

"No, she's left already," he stated, trailing after the vampire. "I take it this is your 'friend'?"

Angel didn't even bother to answer as he gently laid her down on his bed. Doyle’s questions weren’t of importance, the only thing that Angel was concerned with was the unconscious girl lying before him. He didn’t even need to look down at his shirtfront to know it was saturated from her sweat and that could mean only one thing, she was running a fever. Sitting down on the bed, he cupped her face, his fingers stroking the clammy skin. The heat she was generating was tremendous.

"Willow," he called softly, keenly watching her face for any response and silently cursing when there was none. His fingers continued to caress her cheek as he watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, it was a labored effort and an unnerving rattle accompanied each breath. To the vampire, she appeared to be nothing more than a walking skeleton, ashen skin accentuated jagged cheekbones and sunken eyes that were ringed with black. However the rapidly darkening bruises about her neck and wrist were even more distressing to Angel, bruises that he had caused and bruises that he knew Doyle would certainly notice and question. But those questions and the reasons behind it all could wait, his fingers once more tapped against her clammy cheek, trying to rouse her. "Come on, Willow, wake up."

"Jesus, what happened to her?" Doyle asked quietly.

"She's burning up, we need to get her temperature down," Angel pointedly ignored Doyle’s question and turned away so he could pull Willow’s boots off. Dropping one on the floor at the end of the bed, he glanced up at the half demon. "Go run a cool bath."

As Doyle headed toward the bathroom, Angel dumped the other boot and moved back up the bed, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of her sweat soaked shirt to push it up. As soon as the damp material was lifted, he could smell it, that unique tang of blood and he frowned. Carefully, he pushed the hem of the shirt up, the dark green material giving way to the pale skin of her abdomen marred by a deep and weeping gash. It fell diagonally across her sunken stomach and disappeared under the waistband of her skirt. Scowling, he brushed his fingers across the swollen and inflamed wound. It wasn’t bleeding enough for the amount of blood he smelt and he bit his tongue in frustration.

"What happened, Willow?" he whispered to the unconscious girl as he carefully sat her up. Easily supporting her with one arm, he eased her shirt off, tossed it aside and laid her back down. The strong scent of fresh blood assaulted him and he glanced over the skin he’d exposed. Narrowing his eyes and following his senses, he took hold of one of her arms and turned it over. There, on the pale flesh, was similar gash to the one on her stomach and it was bleeding profusely. Swearing softly, Angel grabbed her abandoned shirt, bundled it up and pressed it against the wound, hoping to still the flow of blood.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Angel shook his head in bewilderment. None of it made sense and he couldn’t even attempt to try and piece together what had happened, what she had been doing or how she’d ended up in such a mess. Slowly he opened his eyes, letting them roam over her once more and the situation suddenly became a lot darker as his eyes fell on the hollow of her elbow. His free hand strayed up to the joint and his thumb brushed across the skin, pulling it taut and clearly displaying the pinpricks that marked it. Keeping a firm pressure on her wound, his free hand strayed to her other arm, gently moving it to reveal similar marks and he instinctively knew they were the result of intravenous needles. Grinding his teeth together, he glanced back up at the pale face.

"Damn it Willow, what the hell is going on with you?"

Keeping a firm hold on her shirt, Angel continued to undress her, quickly removing her remaining clothes. The whole picture Willow presented was disturbing, her body was wasting away, she was fighting an infection and by the look of it she was losing. The needle marks nagged at him, they could mean only one thing - she was using drugs and on a regular basis. They could have been prescribed, but more than likely they weren’t. Either way, he needed to find out what she was using and he urgently needed to get her some medical attention. Gathering the sweaty redhead up in his arms, he carried her into the bathroom.

"Well the tubs full..." Doyle started to say, only to have Angel cut him off.

"I want you to call a doctor - get them here as soon as possible," Angel demanded as he slowly lowered Willow into the bath. He couldn’t help but wince as she didn't react to the cool water.

"If she's sick you should take her to the hospital," stated Doyle.

"Call a doctor," Angel repeated, his voice low and menacing. "She’s not going anywhere."

Angel was only just aware that the little man had left the bathroom. To the vampire, Doyle was on a peripheral sphere of importance, and even as the soft Irish lilt could be heard making the call, it wasn’t important, the only thing Angel could see or hear was Willow. Shifting slightly, he grabbed a face cloth from the edge of the bath and started to wipe her face, ignoring the blood from her arm as it stained the water, preferring to concentrate on getting her temperature down.

"He's on his way." Doyle said, sticking his head through the doorway. "I'll go back up to the office and wait for him."

"Thanks," Angel murmured as he continued to wipe the cool water across Willow's face. It seemed to be having no effect, even while she was surrounded by cool water he could feel the heat radiating from her body. Doyle was still talking to him, but Angel wasn't listening. He could hear the words, but they made no sense, just as the girl before him made no sense. The emaciated body, the tangle, knotted hair, she looked nothing like the girl he had left in Sunnydale months ago and he closed his eyes, no longer able to stand the sight of her or the blood that was swirling about in the water. It was only a brief respite, a soft moan escaped her lips and Angel’s eyes shot open. "Willow? Come on, Willow, wake up for me."

There was no response and Angel wondered if perhaps in desperation he’d imagined the sound. Sighing, he tossed the face cloth aside and turned his attention to her wounded arm. Carefully lifting it from the cool water, he lightly ran his fingertips through the blood and raised them to his mouth, hesitating briefly before licking them clean. The sweet tang of her blood was soon replaced with a pungent aftertaste that he couldn’t quite place. Repeating his actions, he allowed the taste to roll around the tip of his tongue and his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"Opium," he stated quietly. It was a rare thing for Angel to be truly shocked, but for the next ten minutes he was working on auto-pilot as he resumed bathing her clammy face, letting the cool water slowly coax her temperature down slightly. And during that time, he struggled. There were too many drastic changes and there was no way in heaven or hell that he could explain, rationalize or even contemplate how this girl in the bathtub with opium flowing through her veins and serious wounds could possibly be reconciled with the relatively carefree girl he knew back in Sunnydale.

Leaning down, Angel pulled the plug and let the water drain from the tub. With no real effort on his part, he wrapped Willow’s still unconscious form in a towel and took her back to his bed. No, there was no semblance to the girl he once knew and all he could do was wait for her to wake up so she could explain what had happened. Although, going on her initial reaction to him in the street, it was unlikely that she’d be willing to sit down and chat over coffee. He dressed her in one of his t-shirts, unable to stand the sight of her wasted body, and used the towel to stem the flow of blood from her arm. There was nothing else he could do except stroke her face, trying to break through the darkness of unconsciousness.

"Wake up for me, Willow," he whispered to her, his fingers stroking her gaunt cheek. "You're safe Willow, nothing can hurt you now. I promise you that, little girl, I won’t let anything hurt you."

It seemed to the dark haired vampire that hours passed before he heard voices from the office upstairs. Doyle's Irish brogue mixed with a typical Californian well-to-do accent as they made their way down to the apartment, but Angel didn’t move from the side of his bed, nor did he withdraw his caresses from the girl’s cheek, even as the two men entered his bedroom.

"So what do we have here?" asked the Californian accent.

"Angel, this is Dr Inger and Dr Inger this is the young girl I was telling you about," said Doyle, ushering a rather non descript man over to the bed.

"I appreciate you coming," said Angel, finally pulling away from Willow and standing up to shake the man's hand. "She has a fever, an infected wound and I believe it's gone into her lungs."

There was nothing but skepticism in the doctor’s glance as he raised an eyebrow at Angel and turned his attention to Willow. "Let's have a look, shall we?"

Angel hovered, arms crossed as he watched the doctor go about his business. The examination seemed too clinical, too abstract for his liking and he had to bite his tongue to keep from insisting that the doctor wasn’t doing his job and yelling at Doyle for getting some bumbling idiot instead of a real doctor. But he remained quiet, watching intently, listening to the garble that came from the professional as he listed what Angel already knew.

"This is a nasty cut," Inger stated, looking at her arm. "Infected, should have been stitched when she first did it..."

"There's another on her abdomen as well," Angel added, watching as the doctor lifted the shirt to examine the gash on her stomach.

"Mmm..." he murmured as he bought her arm up to rest near her stomach and Angel frowned as the wounds formed a straight line. His thumb ran across her elbow, pulling the skin taut. Picking up a small torch from his medical kit, he checked her pupil response and he sat for a moment, gathering himself before turning to Angel. "How long has she been unconscious for and what is she using?"

"She's been out for about 30 minutes…” Angel said quietly, and he stared at the ashen girl, not really willing to voice his fears but knowing that he had to.  “Opium."

"Opium? Why would a young girl want to use opium,” the doctor shook his head in disbelief. “I thought these kids would want something to speed them up, not slow them down."

"What do you mean?" Angel asked.

"Opium slows down the thought process, relieves pain, said to do many things - Coleridge use to take it in the form of laudanum, when his thoughts ran away with his sanity. Mind you that's English poets for you," Inger's laughter was soon cut off by the scowls on both Angel and Doyle's faces. Coughing slightly, he turned his attention to continuing his examination. "Do you know how much she took and when?"

"No," Angel's reply was short and flat.

"Well, we should get her to a hospital."

"She isn't leaving," Angel insisted. He was ready for an argument and no matter what anyone said, he wanted her there with him, it was the only way that he could ensure her safety, the only solution he felt comfortable with.

"I don’t think you understand…”

“I understand perfectly. She’s sick, you can give us drugs to cure her infections. As to the opium, once it is out of her system it won’t be a problem,” declared Angel, not once backing down from his argument. “She stays here.”

“Withdrawal isn’t pretty, especially when you don't know how long she's been using. The greater the dependency, the worst it will be. At least in hospital she can be…”

"She stays here," Angel stated.

"Would she better off at a hospital?" asked Doyle quietly from the corner of the room where he’d been watching.

"She would be more comfortable. Nursing staff to look after her, oxygen to help her breathe easier and an IV so we can keep her fluids up until and give her medication to help ease the withdrawal..."

"You mean substitute one drug for another? There’s no way I’m letting you do that. As for the rest, we can do it all here. She’s staying here," Angel all but growled.

"Angel, maybe it's best if we take her to a hospital," Doyle tried to reason with the glowering vampire. "If she needs help..."

"She stays here. I can give her whatever she needs," Angel stated once more, his eyes momentarily flashing gold with anger. "She stays here and that's it."

"Of course, if you think that's best," the doctor said, reaching into his bag to pull out various bits and pieces. "I can stitch this up, won't help much now, it'll leave a nasty scar. I can also give her some antibiotics to help with the infections - both her cuts and the secondary lung infection. You do realize what you'll be up against? With the withdrawal I mean? Like I said, it won't be pretty - could last from a few days to anywhere up to ten days, depending on how great the dependency is."

"We'll manage," Angel spoke calmly, although he wasn’t too sure who he was trying to convince, himself or the other occupants of the room.

The doctor shrugged and concentrated on his handiwork. "Well keep her away from knives, I don't want to be stitching up another one of her botched attempts."

Angel frowned at the comment. "What do you mean?"

The doctor looked up from the stitches he had just finished in her arm and pulled her arm next to her stomach, lining up the cuts once more. "The fall of the incision, the depth, the angle - she did it herself, no other possibility."

Angel had to take a step back, move away from the bed and take in what had been said. His face may have remained stoic, but inside he was disturbed, his belief in the girl before him slowly being destroyed in the most painful way. The Willow he had known would never have considered suicide an option and yet here on his bed was evidence of how much she had changed.

"No, you're mistaken," he was certain that the doctor was wrong, a two-bit quack that didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

"I'm sorry, I thought you knew," Inger offered, returning to the job of stitching the wound on her stomach, deciding that the sooner he finished the sooner he could escape from the purgatory he’d innocently stumbled into.

Angel moved further back from the bed, watching as the doctor quickly worked on the girl who was a stranger to him.

"What is this about, Angel,” Doyle asked, stepping up beside the vampire. “You said she was in trouble, I think that’s an understatement when you’re actually dealing with some suicidal junky."

"I don't know, Doyle. But she stays here."

"Okay, okay, I get the picture - she stays here." Doyle raised his hands in a mock imitation of surrender before shaking his head and looking back at the redhead. "Do you know anything?"

"Not really. Giles mentioned something about nightmares...but this..." Angel paused shaking his head in disbelief. Before he could continue, the doctor interrupted him.

"Well, I've done what I can, the rest is up to her. Like I said, it's not going to be pretty," the doctor was packing away his things. "She'll probably wake up in a few hours, that's when the fun will start. You'll need to keep her fluids up, which will be difficult, and try to keep her temperature down. I'll write you a prescription for some liquid antibiotics, that’ll be easier to administer rather than get her to swallow a tablet...”

Angel nodded. "A few hours? What if she doesn't wake up?"

"She'll wake up. She hasn't OD or anything. The stitches will have to come out in about 10 days. If you have any questions or something happens you have my number," he shot a glance at Willow before picking up his bag. "Good luck."

"Uh, yeah, thanks," said Doyle as he motioned toward the door of the bedroom. "I'll fix you up and see you out then."

Angel didn't even acknowledge either of them as they left the room, preferring to sit next to Willow on the bed, watching her. She hadn’t stirred once during the whole time Inger had been fussing over her, stitching her up, and she showed no signs of waking any time soon. Sighing, he stood up and went about picking up her abandoned clothes and boots. The boots rattled. Frowning, he threw the skirt and top into the bathroom before turning the boots upside down and shaking them. A key fell out of one and cash from the other. Picking up the key, he turned it over in his hands, it was to her hotel room and he put it aside, bent down and picked up the money. There was at least five hundred dollars in fifty-dollar notes and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was from a stash of money Willow had, or if she’d earnt it. He didn't really want to think about that - there weren't a lot of professions apart from prostitution for young girls with drug habits.

As Doyle walked back into the room, Angel turned his attention back to the key; perhaps something in her room would give him an insight as to what was going on with her. 

"So..." Doyle hesitantly said. "What now?"

"You stay here while I go and get her stuff," Angel stood up and kicked the boots aside before snatching the prescription out of Doyle’s hand and glanced at it. "I shouldn't be long."

It took Angel ten minutes to reach the hotel. No one stopped him as he walked through the foyer and up to her room. The room was pretty typical of the cheap hotels around the area. Dirty marked walls in the usual boring beige with matching carpet littered with cigarette burns and stains. Angel sighed and looked about the small barren room. Bed, wardrobe, the usual bedside table with a bible shoved into the shelf, minuscule bathroom - it was depressing. More so was the fact that apart from a pair of jeans, shirt, jacket and two pairs of wet panties hanging off the shower cubicle Angel had found nothing. Well that's a lie; he had found a small stash of dark brown powder ~ opium mixed with some other substance he couldn’t identify ~ which he'd flushed down the toilet.

"Damn it," he yelled, slamming the wardrobe door shut, only to have it swing back open, the mirror on the door reflecting the room. He turned his attention to the double bed that was neatly made. Frustrated, he wanted to beat the crap out of something and the perfectly made bed was just begging for it. A feral scream of pain and anguish left him as he tore at the pillows and bedding before lifting up the mattress and flinging it against the locked door. In a final act of anger, he kicked the base moving it slightly before he sunk to the floor, burying his head in his hands. "Damn it all to hell."

Biting the inside of his lip, he rolled his head back and opened his eyes to stare blindly at the mirror. There, in the shadows beneath the base of the bed, was a silver colored object. Angel stared for a moment before turning around and pulling Willow's laptop out from under the bed base.

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