"Power Of Love"
by Debbie Nockels
(November 2000)
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of the characters from BTVS or ANGEL. They're owned by Joss Whedon (who ought to treat them nicer), MutantEnemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, the WB, Fox, etc.
SUMMARY: Buffy's in a coma. Can Angel bring her out of it?
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PART THREE
"Anjanette Dubois," murmured Giles. "She died in 1872, two months after her thirtieth birthday, at the hands of one of the Order of Taraka. She killed him after a long battle, but her injuries were so severe that. . . ." His voice died away, then Giles roused, blinking. "What does any of this have to do with Buffy being in a coma?"
"Yes." With some effort Joyce, too, came back to the matter at hand. "Angel, I don't understand why you brought this up now."
"Giles, didn't you ever wonder why every Slayer has died young? Every last one of them?" Angel glanced at Joyce. "I mean, so far."
Giles' eyes flickered. "Slayers lead extremely dangerous lives; you should know that better than most."
Angel nodded. "Yeah, killing demons is risky work. But so is fighting fires, and look how many firemen there are in their thirties and forties. Doesn't it seem just a little unbelievable that in more than a thousand years not one Slayer has managed to survive to see even thirty-one? Especially considering the kinds of recuperative powers the Slayers have? Hasn't anyone in the Council ever wondered about that? Haven't you?" His gaze at Giles was pointed.
Joyce massaged her temples. "Angel, please. I'm too tired for guessing games. What is your point?"
Before Angel could reply Giles heaved a deep sigh. "Of course I've wondered; many of us have - many Watchers, that is. The Council is well aware that the mortality rate for Slayers is unusually high. Many of the deaths can be attributed to inexperience and carelessness, especially in the case of the younger Slayers."
"That's probably true," said Angel quietly. "But what about the more mature Slayers? They're stronger, more experienced; their reflexes are quicker - but still they die, so many of them that an insurance company would take one look at the statistics and raise its hands in horror. Why, Giles?"
Giles was silent.
Angel persisted. "Could it be that the stress level simply becomes too much, especially since unlike firefighters or policemen, Slayers traditionally have had no support group? Even their Watchers are forbidden to become too emotionally involved with their charges, as you know only too well. You also know as well as I do that Slayers usually become estranged early on from their families and friends. In fact, I believe the Council encourages that to happen."
"Yes," Giles agreed heavily. "It's believed that the fewer distractions a Slayer has from her calling, the better."
"But Buffy's friends help her," objected Joyce, frowning.
Angel smiled a little. "Yes. Buffy is unique in that, as she is in so many other areas. Her relationship with you, Joyce, and with Giles and her friends - all of you know about her and are there for her, and she knows that. She knows that she can count on all of you, and that gives her strength." He paused. "She loves you."
"But that's also her weakness," Giles pointed out, quietly.
Angel nodded, sighing. "Ironically, yes. Because she cares about all of you, a part of her is always worrying about your safety, especially Willow and Xander and, and Riley-" He stumbled a little over that last name, but forced himself to continue. "Since those three are the most actively involved with her in the slaying side of things, that puts them in the most danger."
"Which they wouldn't be in if it wasn't for her. At least, that's the way Buffy sees it." Leaning against the wall Joyce exhaled loudly. "So she's not only risking her life battling evil demons every night and saving the world two or three times a year, she feels personally responsible for the safety of her best friends."
"That's why I left," Angel repeated. "I thought if she could have a normal relationship with a normal man it would take at least one stress out of her life." Then Angel gave a short laugh. "It never occurred to me that she'd fall in love with a demon hunter and just add one more person to her list of people to worry about."
"Do you think Buffy didn't worry about your safety, Angel?" Giles asked, giving him a curious glance. "I can assure you that she did. That she does."
"Yes," Angel acknowledged, "but she knows I can hold my own in a fight with demons. I'm not mortal; Riley is."
Joyce said quietly, "Buffy isn't in love with Riley. She cares for him, maybe she even loves him, a little - but it was you she called for, Angel, not him. And I think that's just one more stress added onto all the rest."
"What do you mean?" Angel was more than just confused; he was clueless. "Sure, Buffy said my name, but she was probably just dreaming or - or something."
"I think it was more than that, Angel. A lot more." Joyce smiled a little, but it was a sad smile. "Deep down, maybe even unconsciously, I think Buffy realizes that Riley is only a make-do boyfriend because she can't have you, and she feels guilty about it." Again she put her hand on Angel's arm. "Come on, let's go in."
She led the way inside, through the almost empty lobby to the large reception desk where a security guard was seated. "Hi, Mr. Adams."
"Mrs. Summers, you're back again? I thought you left for the night. I thought everyone had left," the middle-aged man said, his tone surprised, while his shrewd brown eyes gave Angel a swift but thorough examination. "Hoped maybe you were all going to get a good night's sleep for once." He cocked a meaningful eyebrow at her.
Joyce gave him a weary smile. "Not tonight, I'm afraid. At least, not right away. Mr. Adams, this is Angel. He'll be going in with us to see my daughter and I want him to have the same access to her that I do."
"Sure thing, Mrs. Summers," the guard said genially. He jotted something down on a long notepad. "Angel . . . what's the last name, son?"
"Jones," Angel replied shortly, suddenly impatient to be done with all the delays and in with Buffy. Giles shot him a surprised glance. Of course, Angel realized, he probably knows my real name; it must be in the Watchers' Diaries.
He gave a little shrug. There'd be time later to explain about the family with the possessed son, when he'd first used the name Jones (actually it was the first name that came to mind) while trying to determine just what exactly was possessing their child. He quickly banished that unhappy memory, not wanting to dwell on it.
Formalities completed, he followed Giles and Joyce through a set of double doors, then down long, echoing corridors where glimpses into the few open doors revealed only curtains drawn around beds or motionless, sheeted forms surrounded by monitors and/or IV bags. They stopped outside Room 114. The door was open but long curtains concealed the bed from sight.
"Before we go in," said Joyce, looking up at him earnestly, "I want to prepare you. She's been unconscious for two weeks and she's lost weight - "
"Joyce." Angel cut her off, but gently. "I've seen a lot of sick people in my time. I know what to expect." He gave her an encouraging smile and walked into the room.
Despite his words to Joyce, his first sight of Buffy was a distinct shock. He felt it like a kick in his stomach. It wasn't just the weight loss, though he hadn't thought she could get any skinnier than she'd been the last time he saw her. No, it was the absolute paleness of her skin (how could she lose her tan so quickly?) and the unfamiliar stillness of her body as she lay in the bed.
They'd turned her over onto her right side, to avoid putting any pressure on the injury site. She was facing him, and the faint, barely perceptible motion as she breathed was the only movement Angel could detect. The hair that had been shaved was beginning to grow back, but the ugly wound still showed pink against the now bristly patch of skin. A closer look revealed tiny holes where the sutures had been, but they'd been removed. Even the bruise marks had faded until they were barely visible.
The doctors must be puzzled at how fast she's healed, Angel thought, wondering if at some time in the near future Buffy's case would be written up in the journals as a medical mystery.
"Angel."
The vampire blinked. Willow rose from the chair next to the bed. He hadn't even noticed her sitting there. "Willow. How are you?" Even as he spoke his eyes returned to the figure in the bed.
Willow didn't bother to reply. Instead she walked around the bed, then paused beside him. She reached for his hand, digging into her pants pocket, and deposited something into his palm, something that gleamed silver. It was a claddagh ring, the one he'd given Buffy on her ill-fated seventeenth birthday.
Angel gazed at it dumbly. There wasn't a speck of tarnish to be seen on it; obviously it had been well cared for. His eyes flashed to his own hand, where an identical ring decorated his left hand, its heart pointing inward to his heart. He'd taken it out of his dresser drawer before leaving Los Angeles, obeying the little voice in his head that was urging him to take it with him.
"I found this in Buffy's jewelry box," Willow told him. "She loves you, Angel. Bring her back. Please." Her eyes pleaded with him, then she left the room, closing the door behind her.
Angel sat down in the vacated chair and carefully took one of Buffy's hands in his. It was cool, and the ebb and flow of her life force weaker than he'd ever known it. He had to listen carefully to hear her heartbeat, so slow and feeble was it. "Buffy. Buffy, it's me. Angel."
Not a flicker of an eyelid, not even a hitch in her slow, shallow breaths to indicate that she'd heard him. Of course he hadn't expected that easy a resolution either.
That would be a little too much to hope for, he thought wryly. He looked at the ring Willow had given him. That same little voice was telling him to put it on her finger where it belonged, but this time he hesitated. It was one thing for him to wear his ring, with all that it symbolized; he knew he would never love another as he loved Buffy. But he had no right to impose that on her.
Those days are long past, he reminded himself. Buffy doesn't know that in my time this was used as a marriage band. She just thinks of it as a love token. And it just might help me reach her. Firmly he placed the claddagh on her ring finger. She'd lost so much weight that he had to hold it in place by twining his fingers in hers. Which he'd planned on doing anyway.
"You know what this means, Buffy. It stands for friendship, loyalty, and love. I love you, and I'm not letting you go, just as you wouldn't let me go when I tried to kill myself that Christmas. I know you remember it. I was on the hilltop waiting for the sun to rise. . . ."
Settling himself more comfortably, Angel began talking, reminiscing about their times together, chuckling about how she'd knocked him on his ass at their first meeting. For the first time he admitted how scared he'd been when he suddenly recognized that the emotion he was feeling every time they were together (the same emotion he'd experienced almost since his first sight of her) wasn't just feeling protective and wanting to help her.
It was love.
He also admitted his near-panic when it dawned on him that she loved him in return. "I almost left right then," he now confessed. "My bags were packed and I was only waiting for the sun to go down. I remember pacing the room, cursing, because it was still daylight outside and because I was trying not to think about how I'd just killed Darla.
"We never talked about that, did we, Buffy?" He was silent a moment. "This isn't the time or the place for a lecture, but Darla was my sire and, for vampires, killing your sire is not only unheard of, it's almost inconceivable. Vampires can leave their sires, and usually do sooner or later, but killing them?"
He shook his head. "I don't think it's ever happened before. It isn't even supposed to be possible; the bond is too strong. But that afternoon, all at once I realized that I had actually done it. I'd driven a crossbow bolt into Darla's heart and killed her - because of you, Buffy. Because I was protecting you. It was then that I realized that whatever we had between us was out of the ordinary, and I knew something that special shouldn't be thrown away. Or run away from."
Angel sighed, chafing her hand. "So I unpacked my bags. I wasn't thinking very clearly, I guess, because I also decided that I would keep on helping you, but we shouldn't see each other again because a vampire and a slayer falling in love was just too weird."
He chuckled ruefully. "Confused much, as Cordelia would say. Anyway, as soon as it was dark, I went to the Bronze and waited for you - to say goodbye. And then we kissed . . . and I thought my heart would burst from everything I was feeling. I couldn't leave; do you remember? You were the one who walked away that night; and I just stood there and watched you go."
Angel stopped, aware he was treading on dangerous ground. "Well, maybe this isn't the best subject to be talking about right now. I remember when Xander came and told me that you'd gone to hunt the Master. . . ."
An hour passed, and still Angel talked on. He sipped water from Buffy's carafe when his voice began to fail, and then continued. Another hour went by, with no change in Buffy's condition. Finally Angel fell silent.
She was there, somewhere, and he knew - how, he couldn't have said, but he knew - that he could reach her. But it was clear that this plan wasn't working. No, this battle wouldn't - couldn't - be fought in this world. He had to follow her to whatever corner of the otherworld she'd fled to.
Planting his elbows on the bed, Angel sandwiched her hand between his and rested his forehead on their clasped hands, as if he were praying. He closed his eyes and stilled his thoughts, allowing his memories of Buffy to rise in their multitude. For he remembered every moment of their time together; good, bad or indifferent, not one second, not one movement or one word, was lost to him.
(Buffy, sitting on the steps of Hemery High, learning about her destiny from her first Watcher, Merrick . . . Buffy, at their first meeting, telling him she wanted to be left alone . . . Buffy at the Bronze, her lips telling him she understood that they had to stay apart, while her eyes spoke volumes of denial . . . Buffy, drained by the Master, lying lifeless in a pool of water, her white dress spreading out around her like broken wings . . . Buffy fighting vamps, her motions swift and sure and graceful, turning a grisly duty into a deadly ballet . . . Buffy in his arms, soft and yielding and eager, as he was, to finally consummate the love that consumed them both . . . Buffy's trembling voice whispering that she loved him, then telling him to close his eyes, an instant before stabbing him and sending him to Hell . . .
Buffy sending him sprawling with one shove, tearfully demanding, "What about me? I love you *so* much" . . . gawking along with him in wonderment at the snow-filled sky that prevented the sun's rise from killing him as he'd planned . . . Her sorrowful gaze as together they tricked Faith into revealing her betrayal . . . "Are you still my girl? he asked her, and she instantly replied, "Always" . . . Buffy's face, filled with steely determination as she bade him drink from her, that it was the only way to cure the poison of Faith's arrow . . . Her eyes staring at him through the smoke and mist of the smoldering school, silently remembering and bidding him goodbye until he forced himself to turn and walk away from her . . . Buffy, clutching at him, sobbing that she'd never forget the day he was human . . . .
With each memory, the sense of Buffy that Angel carried in his heart grew stronger, the warm amber glow that accompanied that sense, as much a part of it as the memories, became deeper, brighter. With the very last memory that came, of Buffy standing in the dormitory corridor, thanking him for not liking Riley, an amber spark shot before his closed eyes, bobbing and weaving before him. In his mind, Angel followed it.
<><><><><><><><>
Buffy sat with her back against her favorite tree, the one at the very edge of the hill overlooking the lush valley below. Not that there's anything there to see, particularly, she thought, her mouth curving up in a faint smile. Although horses wandered here and there, grazing the dark green grass, no houses or barns, or dwellings of any kind, were in sight. Or people. She hadn't seen a soul since she got here, except for the horses and other assorted wildlife, none of it threatening.
It was strange that she'd ended up someplace like this, she mused. She'd never been the outdoorsy type, never gone in for hiking or bike riding or camping or stuff like that. No, her preferences for spare-time activities had always been for shopping malls or movies or just an evening at The Bronze with the Scoobies, yet ever since she'd first woken up to find herself in this place (wherever it was) instead of Sunnydale, she'd been entranced by the tranquility of her surroundings. The weather was always perfect, too; no rain and just the right temperature, neither too warm nor too cool.
At first she'd mostly slept, catching up on what felt like years of deprivation, waking up only to yawn and stretch, then roll over and sink again into a slumber so deep it felt like falling into thick, dark water. But after a while - days? weeks? - she'd begun having short periods of wakefulness in between her long naps. The wakeful periods grew longer until now they edged past the time spent sleeping.
It was easier when I slept all the time, she thought, gazing with unseeing eyes at the pastoral scene below. Then I didn't have to think about anything. Now. . . .
Now she had no excuse for not noticing the oddities that occurred at frequent intervals. Such as the voices she continued to hear; familiar, loved voices, twining their way in and out of the constant background noise of wind and leaves and . . . well, she wasn't entirely sure what other sounds contributed to the ceaseless murmur; she only knew they were there. Just as she knew, now, that the voices too were real, and that they were talking to her. She heard them and understood what they were saying; she just didn't want to listen.
They wanted her to leave this peaceful land and return to them. Return to a life of the unending violence and danger that came with fighting evil; a life of constant fear that those she loved would come to harm because they insisted on helping her in that fight, or because some evil entity realized that hurting them would hurt her. A life where she rose in the morning wondering if she'd live to see the next day.
A life where she couldn't be with the person she loved most in the world because that would endanger his soul and release another terrible evil into the world, an evil she would then have to fight - again. Ever since the moment Angel had silently bidden her goodbye and she'd watched his back recede through the haze over the high school parking lot, there had been a void in her life, an empty, aching space that refused to be filled.
Her friends helped; in fact, she couldn't have made it without them. Willow, sweet yet tough; Xander, always ready with a quip to relieve the tension - she knew she could count on their unflinching loyalty even in the worst of times. Tara, Willow's lover, had also become a friend, though there wasn't the bond with the shy young witch that she had with Willow. Anya . . . well, Anya was Anya. Not exactly a friend, but as long as the former demon and Xander continued as a couple Anya would lend her assistance, complete with loudly voiced complaints and acidic comments.
Riley. Buffy shut her eyes and rested her head against the tree. Riley helped too, and not just with the demons. She couldn't deny the feelings she held for him. His generous heart and devoted nature had attracted her almost from the beginning - not to mention his boyish good looks and impressive physique (buff without being all Schwarzeneggar Guy). Riley loved her; she knew that. And she -
Buffy sighed, feeling a deep sadness saturated with guilt, a tangled web of emotions she'd only recently become aware that she'd been carrying for some time. She cared for Riley. She did. She worried about his safety, fretted if they became separated during patrol, and counted on his presence. He made her feel cherished; he eased the soreness in her heart so she felt less lonely. Surely that was love . . . wasn't it?
Two tears escaped beneath her closed eyelids. It didn't matter. What she felt for Riley might be a love of sorts, but it didn't even begin to compare with the love she had for Angel, even when, as now, she hadn't seen him for almost a year. Maybe she loved Riley - but she was in love with Angel. And Riley deserved better than someone who couldn't give her entire heart to him. She knew that, had known it for a long time. She'd just never had the courage to break it off with him, to give up the comfort he gave her.
She heard footsteps coming up on her left but didn't bother turning her head; somehow she already knew what she would see.
"Buffy."
<><><><><><><><>
Straight as an arrow the brilliant amber spark shot ahead of him, but not so fast that Angel couldn't keep up as it led him through the otherworld. Under other circumstances he might have enjoyed the journey; certainly the glimpses he was afforded of other realities intrigued him and at any another time he would certainly have stopped to investigate more than a few of them. But not now, not when Buffy lay dying in a cold, sterile hospital room, and it was up to him to persuade her to return to her life.
Abruptly, between one footfall and the next, the scenery changed. No longer was he hastening through a kaleidoscope of land- and cityscapes. Suddenly he was surrounded by fog; great billowing banks of it. But this was no gray, dreary, mundane fog such as he was familiar with. All the colors of the rainbow and then some, shades he had no name for, coruscated within its roiling banks; every few seconds different sections of the cloud would light up as a dazzling colored sparks blazed into brief life and then faded.
Angel's determined stride faltered. For a moment he gazed around him in wonderment. This, he realized, wasn't fog at all. No, this was the matter of which reality was formed - literally. He reached out and cupped his hands together, capturing a small amount of the fog between them. If he desired, and if he had the ability, he could create whatever he wanted out of this. . . .
He let his hands fall apart. All he wanted right now was Buffy, and he wasn't going to find her standing around here. With one last lingering look, he marched through the haze. On the other side of it, he panicked. Where was the spark he'd followed? It took several long moments before he spotted its faint glow. He sprinted after it, determined not to be sidetracked again. How long he walked Angel never knew, only that at long last he emerged into brightness, and a landscape as lovely as any he'd ever seen. Then he spotted her.
Buffy was at the top of a hill, sitting beneath one of the numerous trees dotting the landscape, gazing out over the valley. The surge of relief left him lightheaded and he had to pause a second to let the dizziness pass before tackling the path that led up to her.
She was in profile to him, and as he drew closer Angel grew even more anxious. If it hadn't been for the occasional blink of her eyes and the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, he would have thought she was carved of marble. His footsteps slowed and he crossed the final yards separating them almost hesitantly. Wetting his lips he said her name. "Buffy."
"Angel. What are you doing here?" Her greeting, if it could be called that, was quiet. No, not just quiet. Listless.
"Buffy, you have to come with me. Please."
"Do I?" She still hadn't looked at him, her gaze fixed, trance-like, on the vale below them.
"Yes, before it's too late." Compelled by his sense of urgency, Angel knelt beside her. "Buffy, do you know where you are?"
Her shoulders moved in a faint shrug. "Not really. I know I'm not in our world, if that's what you mean." The apathy in her voice sent a wave of fear through Angel as she continued. "Am I dead?"
"No!" Angel caught himself; he hadn't intended to be so sharp. "No," he repeated, more gently. "You're not dead, Buffy, but you have been in a coma for two weeks and - "
He hesitated, not wanting to come right out and tell her that back in Sunnydale she was dying. " - and your vital signs are getting weaker."
"Oh." There was a pause. "So I'm dying."
Angel grimaced slightly. That was Buffy, blunt and to the point. "Yes," he conceded with a sigh. "That's why I need you to return with me."
For the first time Buffy moved, turning her head toward him. In the same lifeless tone she asked, "Why?" Her eyes too were dull, with none of their usual spark.
Angel took a deep, unneeded breath, knowing this would be the hard part. How to persuade her to come back to a life she was trying to escape? Appealing to her sense of duty wouldn't work. She knew as well as he that another Slayer would be called as soon as she died. No, he would have to approach her from a different angle.
"Because you have people there who love you, Buffy; people who need you. Your mother and father. Giles. Willow. Xander. And - and Riley. He's almost out of his mind worrying about you."
He tried to smile. "They had to put a sedative in his coffee to get him to rest before he ended up in the hospital too."
"And you?" Her voice was thin. "What about you, Angel? Are you worried? Do you need me too?"
Looking into her too-old eyes, Angel had never felt such a sense of futility as he did then. What good would it do to rehash their hopeless situation? It wouldn't make either one of them feel any better. Frantically he searched for words. There had to be something he could say, some magical answer that would free her from this suicidal depression.
Her thready voice continued. "Do you pray each day that the ache will start to get better, the way I do? Do you dream about me, about kissing me and making love with me, the way I do about you? Are you living a big fat lie because everyone thinks you've moved on, that you're over it . . . and you let them think it because it's easier than making them understand that you'll never be over it? Are you letting someone who loves you believe the lie too because you're too much of a coward to tell him the truth?"
On To Part Four