Part Five

Around one-thirty in the morning, a night watchman at Weatherly Park found Angel passed out on his side next to a wooden bench, vomit all over his tuxedo. The watchman reached into the teen's back pocket, pulling out his wallet for identification. When he scanned the driver's license, he immediately recognized the name from several headlines in the sports section of the Sunnydale Press. He tucked the wallet back into Angel's pocket.

"Hey, kid," he called, leaning down and slapping Angel's cleaner cheek lightly. "Wake up, kid�" When the teen didn't respond, the watchman grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. "Wake up�"

Angel awoke with a loud groan, sat up, and immediately vomited again. "Where am I�" he mumbled.

"Weatherly Park, kid. Listen, are you okay?"

"I don't feel so good�" Angel whimpered, struggling to stand.

"Don't smell so good either. Let me help you there," the older man said, giving the teen a hand. He pulled Angel to his feet. "Think you can walk about a hundred feet?"

"Depends�"

"On what?"

"If I pass out again," Angel commented, his vision swimming. His knees buckled.

"Whoa there�" The watchman got a firmer grip around the teen's waist, supporting most of his weight as they slowly walked. "That's my car up there," he said, pointing with his free hand toward a fairly old Jetta. "Make sure you don't puke in it."

"Why would I puke in your car?" the teen slurred.

They arrived at the car, and the watchman pulled out a set of keys. "Because I'm taking you to the hospital. Now get in."

~*~*~*~*~

Buffy stood beneath the shower tap, scrubbing mechanically at the grime that had dried into crusty flakes on her skin. She winced as her loofah scraped over a tender area on her forearm, and when she turned her arm over, she saw a long, superficial gash. I must've cut it when I was checking Willow's pulse� she reasoned with herself as she continued to scrub.

It was ten minutes later when she realized she'd been standing in the shower for close to an hour, and that she'd been clean for at least half that time. She looked down at herself, saw that she'd scrubbed her body raw in some places, and decided that she'd better get out and dry off, then put Neosporin on some of the larger abrasions. She shut off the water and got out of the shower, grabbing a towel off the rack and patting the water from her limbs. She wrapped another towel about her head, turban-style, then walked over to the medicine cabinet and searched for the antibiotic salve. She made quick work of the abrasions, then dabbed a bit of the Neosporin onto the gash on her arm.

The blonde shrugged into her bathrobe and padded down the hallway to her bedroom quietly, making sure not to disturb Dawn. She pulled on some clean underwear, then a three-quarter sleeved white shirt and her baggy, denim overalls. On her feet she tied an old pair of Adidas running shoes, and she tied her still-damp hair back with an elastic, securing it into a loose knot. A black, zip-up hooded sweatshirt completed the ensemble, and she swiped a strawberry Chap-Stick across her lips before she left her room.

Her mother was waiting for her as she descended the stairs. "Can you look at a cut on my arm before we go?" Buffy asked her mother as she unzipped the sweatshirt and took it off, revealing the wound to Joyce.

"Is it deep?" Joyce immediately asked. "If it's deep, you know we'll have to get you stitches."

"I don't think so," Buffy mumbled. "Do we have gauze?"

"I'm pretty sure," Joyce said, ushering her daughter into the kitchen. "Let me check the first aid kit."

Buffy sat down on a stool and watched as her mother retrieved the medical supplies. Joyce got out a pair of scissors and a roll of gauze, wrapping Buffy's forearm a few times before adhering it with some medical tape she'd found. She cut the rest of the gauze off, then put it back in the first aid kit and put the kit away. "All better?" Joyce asked. Buffy nodded silently.

"Would you like to go to the hospital to see if we can find out anything about your friends?" Joyce asked.

"Yeah," Buffy replied. She pulled on the hooded sweatshirt over her now bandaged arm and zipped it up, then hopped off the barstool, following Joyce out of the house and climbing into her green Jeep Cherokee on the passenger side. They rode silently over to the hospital, Buffy staring out the window blankly, her arms tightly wrapped around herself.

Joyce pulled the Jeep up to the curb outside Sunnydale General. "Do you want me to come in with you?"

Buffy shook her head as she opened the door and slid out of the SUV. She watched her mother drive off into the parking lot, making a mental note where she'd parked, then walked into the hospital. Her sneakers squeaked quietly on the gleaming tiles that covered the hallway as she approached the emergency room. She came upon twin, mechanically-operated doors and pressed the square button off to one side on the wall that opened the doors. They swung forward slowly and she walked through into the waiting room, her eyes immediately lighting upon Xander. She hurried over to him.

"Hey," she said as she took a seat next to him. "Do I get to sign?" she asked, pointing to the thick, white cast that encased his right leg from his upper thigh to his toes.

He looked up at her, a bleak expression on his face. "Oh, god, Buffy�" he gasped suddenly, pulling her to him as close as he could and wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. He buried his face in the crook of her throat as she embraced him. His shoulders shook with silent sobs as they held each other.

"What's wrong?" she asked, feeling his tears on her skin.

Xander pulled back slightly, wiping his eyes on a tattered tuxedo sleeve, then took a deep breath. "Oz is dead," he said quietly.

Buffy gasped, her eyes widening. "What?" she asked shakily.

"I saw them� saw them put him in the� bag�" he said, fighting to regain control of his emotions. He looked up at the blonde girl who was now sitting before him with tears streaming down her cheeks. "� and I saw them zip it up� and put it in the ambulance."

Buffy lurched out of her seat and scrambled for the restroom, skidding to a stop on her knees before the toilet. She retched several times into the porcelain basin, then wiped her mouth with a piece of toilet paper and rested her forehead against the cool tile, her chest heaving as she breathed raggedly. She stood on shaky legs and walked over to the sink, taking a mouthful of water and swishing it around her tongue and teeth, then spitting it into the toilet. She flushed, then washed her hands and returned to the waiting room.

"You okay?" Xander asked quietly when she returned to her chair.

"I'm - " she cut off as the doors opened again and a very frazzled-looking Giles rushed in carrying a duffle bag, with Spike trailing behind. The older man rushed toward the receptionist, speaking quietly with agitated movements. Spike's gaze drifted about the room, a lazy sneer planted firmly on his face. "What are they doing here?" Buffy asked in a near-whisper.

"Some security guard from Weatherly Park brought Angel in a few minutes before you got here," Xander explained. "I heard something about alcohol poisoning and stomach pumping."

"Well, well�" Spike drawled. "What have we 'ere?" He swaggered over to the obviously distraught teens, then looked about himself and slouched down into a chair opposite them. "Date get nasty on you, Harris?"

Xander's bloodshot eyes flickered from Buffy to Spike and then returned to Buffy, who was still sniffling quietly. He didn't respond to the bleached teen's question.

"And Willow?" Buffy asked, ignoring Spike's presence.

"She's in surgery," Xander said. "She was hurt pretty bad� but the doctor said that they'd do everything in their power to make sure she's okay."

"What're you lot talkin' 'bout then? Figured you'd be 'ere with Angelus." Spike draped his left arm over the back of the seat next to him, stretching out.

This time it was Buffy who glanced at the teen. "I didn't come here for Angel," she said dully. She turned back toward Xander. "What about Anya?"

"She hasn't talked yet� they took her up to psych to evaluate her." He heaved a shuddering sigh.

"What the bloody 'ell is goin' on? If you lot aren't here with the magnificent poofter, then�" He trailed off. "What happened?" he asked, suddenly concerned.

"Car accident�" Buffy mumbled. "My fault� my fault�"

"Hey," Xander said firmly, grasping Buffy's chin and forcing her to face him. "This wasn't your fault. That truck was all over the road, Buffy� and Oz was changing the radio station when it swerved toward us. He didn't even see it."

"But if I hadn't asked you to tail me, he'd still be� he'd still�" she broke off on a sob, burying her face in his chest.

Spike had realized the basics of what had occurred. He'd been ready to verbally attack Buffy for not paying close enough attention to Angel's drinking, but now�

The door into the ER opened and Giles exited, followed by a very ill-looking Angel. The dark-haired teen was dressed in sweats, and had dark stains residual of the charcoal the nurses had force-fed him to extricate the rest of the alcohol from his system around his mouth. Spike barely spared him a glance, instead scrutinously gazing at Xander and Buffy, both of whom were weeping openly.

Giles waved to Spike and he left in a flurry of leather, half-running from the waiting room in his attempt to get away. He needed some alone time to ponder what he'd just discovered.

~*~*~*~*~

Monday morning, the SHS student body wore somber faces and dark clothing in memory of Oz. The accident had been a front-page headline the next morning in the Sunnydale Press. The Dingoes had immediately put plans of fame on hold, out of respect for their lost guitarist.

Willow was still in a coma. She was peacefully oblivious to her boyfriend's death.

Anya hadn't been released from the psych ward of the hospital yet, though she had spoken Sunday afternoon, when Buffy and Xander had visited her, bearing gifts of flowers. She'd stared right at Buffy and accused her of causing the accident, which had left Buffy guilt-stricken and depressed. She'd gone home soon after, running upstairs and curling up atop the covers of her bed and staring at the tiny cracks in her ceiling for hours.

Now it was Monday afternoon, and Buffy carried a sketchpad and a charcoal set in her arms as she shuffled down the hallway, a blank expression on her face. She turned a corner and walked straight into a firm, male chest.

"Bloody - watch where you're going!" Spike exclaimed as Buffy collided with him. Her art supplies scattered as they dropped to the floor, and she stared at them for a moment, little bits of charcoal rolling down the hall.

"Maybe that's my problem�" she mumbled, her eyes still on the charcoal bits. "Maybe if I� if I had been watching where I was going� maybe Oz would still be�" her voice tapered off to a quiet whisper that Spike had to strain to hear. "� alive."

"You're not still blamin' yourself for this, are you? Of all the bloody ridiculous - " he cut himself off. "Why am I talkin' to you?"

"It's my fault�" Buffy whispered, having completely ignored Spike's tirade. "All my fault�" Her eyes were still on the mess that her charcoal had made. "There's a mess. I need to fix it."

Spike reached out and grabbed the arm of a boy that was walking by. "Oi, mate," he began. "Pick up these bits of charcoal an' I'll grade you up on the next US History quiz."

The boy immediately complied, returning the drawing material to its case hurriedly. He then picked up the sketchbook and held both out to Spike, who took them from him quickly.

"All my fault�" Buffy mumbled once again.

"That's it," Spike said forcefully, taking hold of Buffy's arm. "Let's go." He half-dragged her down the hall at a quick pace, and they made their way outside to the parking lot, where he situated her in the passenger seat.

"Where are we going?" Buffy asked as he stalked around to the driver's side and got in.

"You," he said, "are going to your mum's gallery. And then I am going to forget that I actually cared about you for a moment and go back to my normal life of loathing you with a fiery passion." He gunned the engine and stomped on the gas pedal as he shifted into drive, the tires squealing loudly as the DeSoto shot out of the lot.

~*~*~*~*~

"Mrs. Summers," Spike called loudly as he led Buffy into the gallery. "Mrs. Summers!"

Joyce emerged from the back of the gallery, surprised to see Buffy and Spike standing before her. "What can I do for you, Spike?" she asked.

Spike removed his hand from Buffy's arm, dropping it down to his side. Buffy wandered off to admire the various pieces. "Your daughter is depressed," he stated. "She's obviously blamin' 'erself 'bout the accident, an' you need to do somethin' about that before she does somethin' irrational."

"Are you saying I don't know how to handle my own daughter?" the older woman asked, immediately becoming defensive.

Spike ran a hand through his bleached locks. "I didn't say that, Mrs. Summers. But I am sayin' that if you don't get 'er to open up with someone, she's gonna kill 'erself." Joyce opened her mouth to protest. "Look. A bloke I knew in London wasn't 'ome the day that someone decided to rob 'is place. This bloke's girlfriend and lil' bit were at the flat when the pillock showed up, an' they got murdered. 'E got back, saw what 'appened, an' killed 'imself a week later."

Joyce's eyes widened. "You don't think�"

"I think someone needs to get through to 'er," he replied. "An' I think it needs to 'appen soon." He turned to leave, and had made it almost to the door when Joyce's voice stopped him.

"Spike�" she said tentatively. "You seem to know� um� a lot about situations like this - "

He bristled. "No offense, Mrs. Summers, but your daughter an' myself don't get along too well." He glanced at Buffy, who was staring, mesmerized, at a completely black canvas with a small red circle in the middle. "An' I don't think she'd take too kindly to my 'elpin 'er." His eyes shifted back to Joyce. "There's gotta be someone else�"

"That's the problem," Joyce said. "I don't think there is. Normally, Willow and Xander would help her through something like this�" she trailed off, then cleared her throat. "Xander witnessed the accident, he's probably more unstable than Buffy right now. And Willow� she's going to need Buffy's support when she regains consciousness."

"Bugger," he said under his breath, knowing that he couldn't, with good conscience, allow an innocent girl to fall into the depths of depression, no matter how much he disliked her. He'd been roped in, he realized with a frustrated sigh. "I'll do it," he said finally. "But you've gotta understand that your daughter might never be the same girl again."

Joyce nodded happily. "Thank you, Spike."

He nodded, slowly approaching Buffy. "C'mon, Blondie," he said, nudging her shoulder.

Buffy's eyes never strayed from the red spot in the center of the canvas as she asked, "Where are we going now?"

"Don't rightly know," he replied. "Anyplace in particular you fancy?"

"There's a spot in the park, in the middle of a bunch of trees. Sometimes I go there to get away from life."

Spike raised his scarred eyebrow. "Right then," he said. "To the park."

They exited the gallery and climbed back into the DeSoto, driving over to the park. Spike killed the engine in a small parking area near the entrance, then plucked the salvaged charcoal bits and sketchbook from the seat, carrying them with him. "Lead the way to this getaway spot," he said.

Buffy slowly made her way through the park, Spike following behind. "This is it," she said suddenly, looking up. They stood in a small clearing, but branches from nearby trees formed a thick canopy overhead, and little direct sunlight entered. She sat down, cross-legged, and her eyes wandered about their surroundings.

"I brought these," he said, offering up her art supplies. "Thought you'd want 'em later."

She looked at him curiously before accepting the supplies from him. "Thank you," she said, opening the sketchbook and charcoal case immediately.

Spike shrugged out of his duster, balling it up and lying down, using the coat as a pillow. His black tee-shirt rode up slightly, revealing a thin strip of skin. "You're right," he said. "Peaceful 'ere."

Buffy said nothing, but continued to draw.

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R to NC-17