Buffy The Vampire Slayer Fan Fiction ❯ The Jacaranda Tree ❯ Chapter 3
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: prophecygirl 
Non Anime: Buffy The Vampire Slayer Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Romance / Angst | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 09.10.2007 | Pages: 1 | Words: 905 | Visits: 218 | Status: Completed
Non Anime: Buffy The Vampire Slayer Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Romance / Angst | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 09.10.2007 | Pages: 1 | Words: 905 | Visits: 218 | Status: Completed
The jacaranda grew week by week. Buffy's skin turned golden tan as she spent more and more time on the beach with Roy. Faith started sleeping in her own room instead of downstairs with Buffy, so no one would see her throwing up every morning.
She turned pale and gaunt, but her stomach began to puff out a little and soon they all knew the truth even though no one said it.
Buffy took her bed into the spare room and locked herself in it for three days when she found out. She wouldn't even talk to Roy. Buffy ignored Faith and their tree for days and days. The little tree seemed to droop to the side without the girls' care, and nothing Roy did would make it stand up straight.
Buffy's tan began to fade. She got dizzy a lot. Roy took her to the doctor and he said it's back, it's back.
It's back.
He used a lot of big fancy words like metastasized and chemotherapy, but all they really meant was that Buffy was going to be sick again and again. Her newly grown hair would turn brittle and crackly and fall out. She'd have bruises all over if she just tapped her arm against the staircase like she always did.
This time, Faith locked herself in her room for three days.
Roy moved into the livingroom to help out. Mama sent over lots of what she called "good old fashioned down-home cooking." The jacaranda tree wilted alongside Buffy.
Weeks passed, and the house was very, very quiet.
~*~
Roy blinked as the sun penetrated his eyes. He opened them to see Buffy standing there shakily opening the livingroom curtains, one pale fragile hand struggling with the window lock.
"Morning," she said, her voice hoarse.
"What are you doing up so early?" he asked, glancing at the clock. Seven-thirty. Had she gotten sick again?
"There's coffee. Come to the kitchen. Come look." She put a finger to the side of her nose and crept quietly towards it with him in tow. They went to the window and looked in the backyard.
There was Faith, long flowing white shirt covering her distended belly, crouched low over the tiny little tree. She had pruned it, watered it, and was carefully mixing the coffee grounds into compost and settling them around its base.
Roy and Buffy looked at each other and smiled.
~*~
Faith flattened her hands into the wet dirt, inhaling the sweet aroma of the jacaranda blossoms. The earth sang beneath her fingertips, fresh and new. She carefully spread the damp coffee grinds over the tree's base, her cheeks turned golden-pink in the California sun. She turned the silty dirt with care, occasionally squeezing it in her hands, enjoying the feel of the freshly tilled ground.
Buffy sat on the porch in an old-fashioned rocker, slowly swaying in the new warmth of spring. It had been a long, dreary winter that reminded her of England and sickness and everything she wanted to forget.
The gingerbread house's deck creaked lightly under the rocker, and Buffy watched Faith, pretending for a few moments that everything was good. But Faith was still too thin for her second trimester, and Buffy was even thinner. Her bones were brittle and Faith and Roy watched her constantly to make sure she didn't bang her elbows on the doorway or fall down the stairs she rarely climbed anymore.
Roy brought her iced green tea and gluten-free pasta for lunch, his heart aching as he watched the girls. Faith doting on their little tree so innocently, wrapped up in her loneliness that not even the swelling of her womb could relieve. Her belly belied the rest of her body, which was stick-thin and fragile like the legs of a new fawn.
Buffy barely touched her lunch, which was not unusual. Her cancer had metastasized and the treatment made her nauseous all the time now. As fast as Giles could Western Union it, the money disappeared into doctors and herbalists and acupuncture, none of which seemed to do any good. Buffy was once a golden star, but her light was fading fast. Roy felt that the only thing keeping her holding on was the one thing that seemed to trouble Faith the most.
That night, Roy fell to his knees beside the couchbed and spoke to a God he had ignored for years. Please, please, he prayed. Let them survive. Take me, let me be with my father, but let them live well and be happy. Inside the pit of his stomach churned angrily, knowing that it might not be one or the other. Earlier that day, he'd been to the doctor and found out there was sickness in his blood, too, a different kind of sickness but every bit as serious. Human Immunodeficiency Virus, the doctor had said, frowning so hard that Roy thought his face might break. Roy wished he were back in the sixties, a flower child, back in a time when no one died from making love.
He had never prayed so hard in his life.
She turned pale and gaunt, but her stomach began to puff out a little and soon they all knew the truth even though no one said it.
Buffy took her bed into the spare room and locked herself in it for three days when she found out. She wouldn't even talk to Roy. Buffy ignored Faith and their tree for days and days. The little tree seemed to droop to the side without the girls' care, and nothing Roy did would make it stand up straight.
Buffy's tan began to fade. She got dizzy a lot. Roy took her to the doctor and he said it's back, it's back.
It's back.
He used a lot of big fancy words like metastasized and chemotherapy, but all they really meant was that Buffy was going to be sick again and again. Her newly grown hair would turn brittle and crackly and fall out. She'd have bruises all over if she just tapped her arm against the staircase like she always did.
This time, Faith locked herself in her room for three days.
Roy moved into the livingroom to help out. Mama sent over lots of what she called "good old fashioned down-home cooking." The jacaranda tree wilted alongside Buffy.
Weeks passed, and the house was very, very quiet.
~*~
Roy blinked as the sun penetrated his eyes. He opened them to see Buffy standing there shakily opening the livingroom curtains, one pale fragile hand struggling with the window lock.
"Morning," she said, her voice hoarse.
"What are you doing up so early?" he asked, glancing at the clock. Seven-thirty. Had she gotten sick again?
"There's coffee. Come to the kitchen. Come look." She put a finger to the side of her nose and crept quietly towards it with him in tow. They went to the window and looked in the backyard.
There was Faith, long flowing white shirt covering her distended belly, crouched low over the tiny little tree. She had pruned it, watered it, and was carefully mixing the coffee grounds into compost and settling them around its base.
Roy and Buffy looked at each other and smiled.
~*~
Faith flattened her hands into the wet dirt, inhaling the sweet aroma of the jacaranda blossoms. The earth sang beneath her fingertips, fresh and new. She carefully spread the damp coffee grinds over the tree's base, her cheeks turned golden-pink in the California sun. She turned the silty dirt with care, occasionally squeezing it in her hands, enjoying the feel of the freshly tilled ground.
Buffy sat on the porch in an old-fashioned rocker, slowly swaying in the new warmth of spring. It had been a long, dreary winter that reminded her of England and sickness and everything she wanted to forget.
The gingerbread house's deck creaked lightly under the rocker, and Buffy watched Faith, pretending for a few moments that everything was good. But Faith was still too thin for her second trimester, and Buffy was even thinner. Her bones were brittle and Faith and Roy watched her constantly to make sure she didn't bang her elbows on the doorway or fall down the stairs she rarely climbed anymore.
Roy brought her iced green tea and gluten-free pasta for lunch, his heart aching as he watched the girls. Faith doting on their little tree so innocently, wrapped up in her loneliness that not even the swelling of her womb could relieve. Her belly belied the rest of her body, which was stick-thin and fragile like the legs of a new fawn.
Buffy barely touched her lunch, which was not unusual. Her cancer had metastasized and the treatment made her nauseous all the time now. As fast as Giles could Western Union it, the money disappeared into doctors and herbalists and acupuncture, none of which seemed to do any good. Buffy was once a golden star, but her light was fading fast. Roy felt that the only thing keeping her holding on was the one thing that seemed to trouble Faith the most.
That night, Roy fell to his knees beside the couchbed and spoke to a God he had ignored for years. Please, please, he prayed. Let them survive. Take me, let me be with my father, but let them live well and be happy. Inside the pit of his stomach churned angrily, knowing that it might not be one or the other. Earlier that day, he'd been to the doctor and found out there was sickness in his blood, too, a different kind of sickness but every bit as serious. Human Immunodeficiency Virus, the doctor had said, frowning so hard that Roy thought his face might break. Roy wished he were back in the sixties, a flower child, back in a time when no one died from making love.
He had never prayed so hard in his life.