FIC: I'll Be Waiting For You When You’re Ready To Love Me Again
TITLE: I’ll Be Waiting For You When You’re Ready To Love Me Again
AUTHOR: Demona aka azraelz_angel
FANDOM: Buffy the Vampire Slayer / Supernatural
CHARACTERS: Buffy, Dean
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: 2,550
WARNINGS: None
SUMMARY: It ended as things always did in her life, with bloodshed and tears.
DISCLAIMER: "A vague disclaimer is nobody's friend." - I do not own any of the characters in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, they belong to Fox, the WB/UPN, Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. The characters of Supernatural belong to Kripke, the CW, etc. The ideas and concepts in this story are mine entirely. Please do not copy or take this story without my permission.
NOTES: AU from Becoming Part II
BETA: kaylashay81 and avamclean
Prompt: Miles Between Us by sweet_lyri - image can be found here
~*~
It ended as things always did in her life, with bloodshed and tears.
She picked at the blood that had crusted underneath her fingernails; the silence of the room was thick, making it hard to breathe.
“Dean,” she finally broke the silence.
“Don’t,” he immediately cut her off, rose to his feet and glared down at her.
“Don’t what, Dean?” she asked, hands balling into fists as she fought the urge to rise to her own feet and crowd into Dean’s space. “I told you I was the Slayer.”
An abrupt laugh escaped him and Buffy’s eyes narrowed.
“You didn’t believe me.” She didn’t realize how badly it would hurt, that after months on the road with Dean, and years discussing their lives, that he wouldn’t believe her.
“Buffy,” he started to object but she held up her hand, cutting him off. He stopped, frowning slightly at her before he scrubbed a hand over his face, and sat down heavily on the other bed. “The Slayer is a myth.”
It was Buffy’s turn to snort. She forced herself to relax her hands; her fingers ached and she shook them out quickly before she stood.
He followed her movement, eyes tracking her as she grabbed her duffel and looped the strap over her shoulder. Her eyes slid closed as she remembered the look on his face after she’d killed the shifter. He’d looked at her like he looked at the things he hunted. It had only been a moment, but it had happened.
“I’m going back to Sunnydale,” she said, not bothering to open her eyes to look at him. “Take care of yourself, Dean,” she added before she left.
She didn’t stop the tears that burned down her cheeks at the silence that followed her out.
~*~
“Get back in the car,” Dean growled through gritted teeth.
Buffy’s lips thinned as she pressed them together hard, not allowing her first response to pass through. She shook her head, buying herself a moment to rethink her argument.
“You need the help,” she stated.
“What I don’t need is to have to watch out for someone else and try to rescue Ashley Marshall.”
“I told you I can take care of myself.” Her voice rose, almost to a yell, but she managed to keep it under control. Finding the shifter and rescuing Ashley would be hard enough without the shifter knowing how close they were.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get killed burning down the gym Buffy,” Dean responded as he dug through his trunk, fingers closing around the silver spike and tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Get back in the car,” he said again, slamming the trunk shut, and fixing her with a glare. “I’ll handle this.”
“Fine,” she bit out and yanked the front passenger door open. She slid down into the seat, and made sure to use enough strength pulling the door closed that the entire Impala shook. It would serve him right for being stupid, though it wasn’t really the car’s fault.
She didn’t hide the fact that she watched him jog down the small embankment on the other side of the road, and disappear into the forest. Buffy gave him a count of ten before she pushed her door back open and slipped out of the car. She eased the door shut, bumping it closed with her hip so Dean wouldn’t recognize the familiar sound.
She shook her arm and the silver-plated letter opener she’d borrowed from the local librarian earlier that afternoon slid down the sleeve of her jacket into her palm. She really hoped that the plating would be enough to kill the shifter if Dean’s silver spike was unavailable.
She followed Dean by sound alone, leaving enough distance between them that he wouldn’t hear her following and that she had enough reaction time in case of an ambush by the shifter. They crept through the woods for several minutes before she heard the sounds of a struggle, and a woman scream.
Dean left the subtlety behind, sprinting through the forest toward the screams, and Buffy gave chase. She hesitated just outside the clearing, pressing up against a tree as Dean burst onto the scene, gun raised and shifting back and forth. The shifter had taken Ashley Marshall’s form and both women stood, bruised and bleeding, staring at one another.
Ashley on the left raised her hand and pointed to the Ashley on the right. “She changed! She… She was something else,” she blurted out, tears rolling down her face.
Dean brought his gun to focus on Ashley on the right. But Ashley on the right took two steps back, throwing up her hands and burst out in tears. “No! No, I’m Ashley!” she pleaded and Dean turned his gun back on the Ashley on the left.
Buffy carefully studied each Ashley, watching their behavior as Dean hesitated, not sure how to handle the situation. And then there was the moment that Ashley on the right tensed, fingers curling into fists as Dean swung his gun back toward Ashley on the left.
Buffy didn’t hesitate as she burst forward, letter opener gripped tightly in her hand, charging straight for Ashley on the right. Her charge was not unnoticed, and all three in the clearing turned their heads in her direction. It was the distraction that the shifter needed, and it sprinted toward Dean. Dean recognized his mistake a moment too late, and was trying to bring his gun around, but didn’t make it in time. The gun went off, the shot wide, as the shifter tackled Dean. They slammed backwards, Dean’s head colliding hard with the ground, and the gun bounced out of his hand, landing a few feet away. Ashley on the left was stunned immobile for the initial moment of confusion, and then with a small squeal, she took off in the direction of the road, and Buffy hoped she was able to find her way back to safety, and a good therapist.
Buffy grabbed the shifter, one hand on the back of its neck, the other on its shoulder, and dragged it easily off Dean. He gulped in a few breaths, blood streamed down his face from his busted nose. Buffy turned her attention back to the shifter who was dragging itself backwards on its elbows. It froze when their eyes met and it actually bared its teeth at her.
“What are you?” it hissed at her, struggling to get to its feet.
For the first time since she’d left Sunnydale, and even before that, since the emergence of Angelus, Buffy felt comfortable answering, “The Slayer.”
The shifter’s eyes widened in recognition of the term and then it attacked.
The familiar fire erupted in Buffy as she threw herself fully into the fight.
~*~
The number on the crumpled, faded card, had long ago been memorized, dialed countless times over the last two years, but still Buffy held it in her hands, staring at it as she stood inside the dirty telephone booth, just outside the Los Angeles Greyhound station. She shifted her weight, readjusting the duffel bag strap on her shoulder, loath to set it down at her feet. She let out a heavy, resigned sigh, and then pushed the coins into the slot, waiting until she heard dial tone before she punched in the number. The card was shoved deep down into the front pocket of her overalls as the call was placed.
“Hello?” His familiar voice was neutral in greeting at the unknown number.
She swallowed hard around the lump in her throat, suddenly afraid she’d made the wrong choice in calling for help.
“Hello?” he repeated, annoyed this time.
“It’s Buffy,” she forced out.
“Where are you?” all traces of irritation gone from his voice, immediately replaced with concern.
“I’m in L.A.,” she answered, pausing to take another breath. She remembered the last time he’d visited her in Sunnydale. The curve of his lips as he smiled. The green of his eyes as he focused on her. She trusted her gut that he wasn’t going to betray her. “I need your help.”
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath and she heard the sound of rustling papers in the background. “I’m in Wyoming. Thirteen hours, less if I push it.”
“Are you in the middle something?”
“It can wait.”
She knew it couldn’t, as was the case with most of his jobs. But Buffy let herself be selfish in her misery, and hoped that no one died because she was weak.
“I’ll find a place for the night. Call you when I get settled.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, probably trying to judge the situation, and how many traffic laws he’d need to break to get to her.
Tears sprung to her eyes, and she shook her head, willing them to recede, angry when one splashed hot down her cheek. Boy was that a loaded question. “I’ll live,” was her whispered, broken response. It was the truth. She’d live whether she was miserable or not. She would live while Angel was in Hell.
Dean arrived in L.A. eleven hours later.
~*~
It began in lockdown at the Resnick Hospital, the psychiatric division of the UCLA Health System in Los Angeles. It was the beginning of summer, and lazy waves of heat radiated up from the parking lot, distorting Buffy’s view of the entrance gates, and the freedom that lay just beyond it.
“Buffy,” the soft voice of Christine, one of the nurses, drew Buffy’s attention away from the parking lot and she turned her head to look back over her shoulder.
Christine stood with two men in suits. The older had the beginnings of grey making its way into his beard. And the younger one didn’t look much older than she was.
“These men are with the FBI. They’d like to discuss the fire with you,” Christine explained, eyes holding Buffy’s as she took in the request.
“There isn’t much to discuss. I burned it down,” Buffy automatically responded, her voice flat and forced, and she ignored her fingernails digging into her palm as images of kids dying and vampires exploding to dust by her hand.
The older man looked over at Christine for a second before he took a step forward, his voice deep and gravely as he spoke, “It’s really just a formality. We’re aware your case isn’t involved in other school arson incidents across the country, but the Bureau loves paperwork.” He offered her a forced smile at the end of the explanation.
Buffy took a long look between him and his partner before she returned her gaze to Christine. “Okay,” she agreed, and Christine returned her nod and disappeared, giving them some privacy.
“I’m Agent Ulrich and this is Agent Hammett,” the older of the two made the introductions as they took seats opposite Buffy.
“As you already know, I’m Buffy,” she softly stated, studying them both. Agent Ulrich pulled out a small notebook from his jacket pocket and clicked his pen once to get it ready.
And then the questions began. Nothing specific about her reasons for burning down the gym, only details on how she had done it, and then Agent Ulrich finally turned the conversation where she was worried it would go this entire time.
“There was one last thing we needed to discuss. You originally said you burned the gym down because there were vampires.” No inflection in his voice. Just a man asking a seemingly routine question. A question that’s answer had led to her current stay at Resnick.
Fear closed her throat at the words, and her heart hammered in her chest. The younger agent, if that really what he was, canted his head slightly at her reaction and his eyes narrowed. This was a test. It had to be a test. She’d done so well with her recovery that they’d talked about release. About allowing her back out into the world. Her mother had talked about moving, about starting over. But this had to be the final hurdle, to decide whether she would be allowed back into the world or whether she still believed in her delusions.
“I suffered a psychotic break.” Buffy had repeated the words so many times to herself and to the counselors that it was a wonder she didn’t believe it herself. But she knew what she’d seen in that gym. Knew what had killed her Watcher.
“What if you didn’t? What if we said that we believed your story?” Agent Hammett offered with a smile that she imagined he thought was reassuring.
The laugh bubbled out of her throat and she reveled in it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d genuinely laughed. It had to have been before she was called. “Well then I’d say you belong in here with me,” she answered. She would pass this test. She would show the doctors she was cured, that there would be no relapse; she was ready to be released.
Neither of them laughed, but Agent Ulrich offered her a sympathetic smile. He clapped his hands on his knees, breaking the silence, and then pushed himself to his feet. “Ms. Summers,” his voice rolled over her name and she nodded. “Good luck,” he added and then he turned and headed toward the locked door.
Buffy turned her attention to Agent Hammett and she watched as he ran his hands down his suit pants. The calm FBI Agent disappeared the moment Agent Ulrich left. His leg bounced for a few moments before he shifted to the side and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. Odd that a FBI agent carried a beaten leather wallet in his suit pants rather than his jacket. He pulled a business card out of his wallet and looked at it, then at her again before he held out the card.
Buffy hesitated for a moment before reaching out and taking the card. There was a number and the name “Dean” printed on the card. He rose to his feet, tucking the wallet back in his back pocket.
“You get into any trouble when you get out of here, you call, and I’ll come,” he told her. The collected FBI Agent gone completely, replaced with a mid-western accent, and genuinely concerned eyes. “Because you’re not crazy,” he whispered and then turned to follow his partner our.
Buffy’s fingers tightened around the card, crumbling it into a ball in her palm.
“It’s just a test. It’s just a test,” she quietly repeated as she turned back to the window. The agents were leaving now and Buffy watched as they walked over to a shimmery, shiny black classic, also not FBI appropriate. “You can do this,” Buffy whispered to herself.
She had every intention of throwing the card away. Sure that if the doctors saw her keep it that they’d view It as a failure, a relapse into her delusion. But when she left Resnick Hospital a week later, Dean’s card was safely tucked away in her bag.
There was a chance it was a trap. They’d use it to draw her back in. But Dean had looked serious when he’d said she wasn’t crazy. And if she ever ran into trouble again, it wouldn’t hurt to call to call someone who didn’t want her committed.
*~*
AUTHOR: Demona aka azraelz_angel
FANDOM: Buffy the Vampire Slayer / Supernatural
CHARACTERS: Buffy, Dean
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: 2,550
WARNINGS: None
SUMMARY: It ended as things always did in her life, with bloodshed and tears.
DISCLAIMER: "A vague disclaimer is nobody's friend." - I do not own any of the characters in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, they belong to Fox, the WB/UPN, Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. The characters of Supernatural belong to Kripke, the CW, etc. The ideas and concepts in this story are mine entirely. Please do not copy or take this story without my permission.
NOTES: AU from Becoming Part II
BETA: kaylashay81 and avamclean
Prompt: Miles Between Us by sweet_lyri - image can be found here
~*~
It ended as things always did in her life, with bloodshed and tears.
She picked at the blood that had crusted underneath her fingernails; the silence of the room was thick, making it hard to breathe.
“Dean,” she finally broke the silence.
“Don’t,” he immediately cut her off, rose to his feet and glared down at her.
“Don’t what, Dean?” she asked, hands balling into fists as she fought the urge to rise to her own feet and crowd into Dean’s space. “I told you I was the Slayer.”
An abrupt laugh escaped him and Buffy’s eyes narrowed.
“You didn’t believe me.” She didn’t realize how badly it would hurt, that after months on the road with Dean, and years discussing their lives, that he wouldn’t believe her.
“Buffy,” he started to object but she held up her hand, cutting him off. He stopped, frowning slightly at her before he scrubbed a hand over his face, and sat down heavily on the other bed. “The Slayer is a myth.”
It was Buffy’s turn to snort. She forced herself to relax her hands; her fingers ached and she shook them out quickly before she stood.
He followed her movement, eyes tracking her as she grabbed her duffel and looped the strap over her shoulder. Her eyes slid closed as she remembered the look on his face after she’d killed the shifter. He’d looked at her like he looked at the things he hunted. It had only been a moment, but it had happened.
“I’m going back to Sunnydale,” she said, not bothering to open her eyes to look at him. “Take care of yourself, Dean,” she added before she left.
She didn’t stop the tears that burned down her cheeks at the silence that followed her out.
~*~
“Get back in the car,” Dean growled through gritted teeth.
Buffy’s lips thinned as she pressed them together hard, not allowing her first response to pass through. She shook her head, buying herself a moment to rethink her argument.
“You need the help,” she stated.
“What I don’t need is to have to watch out for someone else and try to rescue Ashley Marshall.”
“I told you I can take care of myself.” Her voice rose, almost to a yell, but she managed to keep it under control. Finding the shifter and rescuing Ashley would be hard enough without the shifter knowing how close they were.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get killed burning down the gym Buffy,” Dean responded as he dug through his trunk, fingers closing around the silver spike and tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Get back in the car,” he said again, slamming the trunk shut, and fixing her with a glare. “I’ll handle this.”
“Fine,” she bit out and yanked the front passenger door open. She slid down into the seat, and made sure to use enough strength pulling the door closed that the entire Impala shook. It would serve him right for being stupid, though it wasn’t really the car’s fault.
She didn’t hide the fact that she watched him jog down the small embankment on the other side of the road, and disappear into the forest. Buffy gave him a count of ten before she pushed her door back open and slipped out of the car. She eased the door shut, bumping it closed with her hip so Dean wouldn’t recognize the familiar sound.
She shook her arm and the silver-plated letter opener she’d borrowed from the local librarian earlier that afternoon slid down the sleeve of her jacket into her palm. She really hoped that the plating would be enough to kill the shifter if Dean’s silver spike was unavailable.
She followed Dean by sound alone, leaving enough distance between them that he wouldn’t hear her following and that she had enough reaction time in case of an ambush by the shifter. They crept through the woods for several minutes before she heard the sounds of a struggle, and a woman scream.
Dean left the subtlety behind, sprinting through the forest toward the screams, and Buffy gave chase. She hesitated just outside the clearing, pressing up against a tree as Dean burst onto the scene, gun raised and shifting back and forth. The shifter had taken Ashley Marshall’s form and both women stood, bruised and bleeding, staring at one another.
Ashley on the left raised her hand and pointed to the Ashley on the right. “She changed! She… She was something else,” she blurted out, tears rolling down her face.
Dean brought his gun to focus on Ashley on the right. But Ashley on the right took two steps back, throwing up her hands and burst out in tears. “No! No, I’m Ashley!” she pleaded and Dean turned his gun back on the Ashley on the left.
Buffy carefully studied each Ashley, watching their behavior as Dean hesitated, not sure how to handle the situation. And then there was the moment that Ashley on the right tensed, fingers curling into fists as Dean swung his gun back toward Ashley on the left.
Buffy didn’t hesitate as she burst forward, letter opener gripped tightly in her hand, charging straight for Ashley on the right. Her charge was not unnoticed, and all three in the clearing turned their heads in her direction. It was the distraction that the shifter needed, and it sprinted toward Dean. Dean recognized his mistake a moment too late, and was trying to bring his gun around, but didn’t make it in time. The gun went off, the shot wide, as the shifter tackled Dean. They slammed backwards, Dean’s head colliding hard with the ground, and the gun bounced out of his hand, landing a few feet away. Ashley on the left was stunned immobile for the initial moment of confusion, and then with a small squeal, she took off in the direction of the road, and Buffy hoped she was able to find her way back to safety, and a good therapist.
Buffy grabbed the shifter, one hand on the back of its neck, the other on its shoulder, and dragged it easily off Dean. He gulped in a few breaths, blood streamed down his face from his busted nose. Buffy turned her attention back to the shifter who was dragging itself backwards on its elbows. It froze when their eyes met and it actually bared its teeth at her.
“What are you?” it hissed at her, struggling to get to its feet.
For the first time since she’d left Sunnydale, and even before that, since the emergence of Angelus, Buffy felt comfortable answering, “The Slayer.”
The shifter’s eyes widened in recognition of the term and then it attacked.
The familiar fire erupted in Buffy as she threw herself fully into the fight.
~*~
The number on the crumpled, faded card, had long ago been memorized, dialed countless times over the last two years, but still Buffy held it in her hands, staring at it as she stood inside the dirty telephone booth, just outside the Los Angeles Greyhound station. She shifted her weight, readjusting the duffel bag strap on her shoulder, loath to set it down at her feet. She let out a heavy, resigned sigh, and then pushed the coins into the slot, waiting until she heard dial tone before she punched in the number. The card was shoved deep down into the front pocket of her overalls as the call was placed.
“Hello?” His familiar voice was neutral in greeting at the unknown number.
She swallowed hard around the lump in her throat, suddenly afraid she’d made the wrong choice in calling for help.
“Hello?” he repeated, annoyed this time.
“It’s Buffy,” she forced out.
“Where are you?” all traces of irritation gone from his voice, immediately replaced with concern.
“I’m in L.A.,” she answered, pausing to take another breath. She remembered the last time he’d visited her in Sunnydale. The curve of his lips as he smiled. The green of his eyes as he focused on her. She trusted her gut that he wasn’t going to betray her. “I need your help.”
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath and she heard the sound of rustling papers in the background. “I’m in Wyoming. Thirteen hours, less if I push it.”
“Are you in the middle something?”
“It can wait.”
She knew it couldn’t, as was the case with most of his jobs. But Buffy let herself be selfish in her misery, and hoped that no one died because she was weak.
“I’ll find a place for the night. Call you when I get settled.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, probably trying to judge the situation, and how many traffic laws he’d need to break to get to her.
Tears sprung to her eyes, and she shook her head, willing them to recede, angry when one splashed hot down her cheek. Boy was that a loaded question. “I’ll live,” was her whispered, broken response. It was the truth. She’d live whether she was miserable or not. She would live while Angel was in Hell.
Dean arrived in L.A. eleven hours later.
~*~
It began in lockdown at the Resnick Hospital, the psychiatric division of the UCLA Health System in Los Angeles. It was the beginning of summer, and lazy waves of heat radiated up from the parking lot, distorting Buffy’s view of the entrance gates, and the freedom that lay just beyond it.
“Buffy,” the soft voice of Christine, one of the nurses, drew Buffy’s attention away from the parking lot and she turned her head to look back over her shoulder.
Christine stood with two men in suits. The older had the beginnings of grey making its way into his beard. And the younger one didn’t look much older than she was.
“These men are with the FBI. They’d like to discuss the fire with you,” Christine explained, eyes holding Buffy’s as she took in the request.
“There isn’t much to discuss. I burned it down,” Buffy automatically responded, her voice flat and forced, and she ignored her fingernails digging into her palm as images of kids dying and vampires exploding to dust by her hand.
The older man looked over at Christine for a second before he took a step forward, his voice deep and gravely as he spoke, “It’s really just a formality. We’re aware your case isn’t involved in other school arson incidents across the country, but the Bureau loves paperwork.” He offered her a forced smile at the end of the explanation.
Buffy took a long look between him and his partner before she returned her gaze to Christine. “Okay,” she agreed, and Christine returned her nod and disappeared, giving them some privacy.
“I’m Agent Ulrich and this is Agent Hammett,” the older of the two made the introductions as they took seats opposite Buffy.
“As you already know, I’m Buffy,” she softly stated, studying them both. Agent Ulrich pulled out a small notebook from his jacket pocket and clicked his pen once to get it ready.
And then the questions began. Nothing specific about her reasons for burning down the gym, only details on how she had done it, and then Agent Ulrich finally turned the conversation where she was worried it would go this entire time.
“There was one last thing we needed to discuss. You originally said you burned the gym down because there were vampires.” No inflection in his voice. Just a man asking a seemingly routine question. A question that’s answer had led to her current stay at Resnick.
Fear closed her throat at the words, and her heart hammered in her chest. The younger agent, if that really what he was, canted his head slightly at her reaction and his eyes narrowed. This was a test. It had to be a test. She’d done so well with her recovery that they’d talked about release. About allowing her back out into the world. Her mother had talked about moving, about starting over. But this had to be the final hurdle, to decide whether she would be allowed back into the world or whether she still believed in her delusions.
“I suffered a psychotic break.” Buffy had repeated the words so many times to herself and to the counselors that it was a wonder she didn’t believe it herself. But she knew what she’d seen in that gym. Knew what had killed her Watcher.
“What if you didn’t? What if we said that we believed your story?” Agent Hammett offered with a smile that she imagined he thought was reassuring.
The laugh bubbled out of her throat and she reveled in it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d genuinely laughed. It had to have been before she was called. “Well then I’d say you belong in here with me,” she answered. She would pass this test. She would show the doctors she was cured, that there would be no relapse; she was ready to be released.
Neither of them laughed, but Agent Ulrich offered her a sympathetic smile. He clapped his hands on his knees, breaking the silence, and then pushed himself to his feet. “Ms. Summers,” his voice rolled over her name and she nodded. “Good luck,” he added and then he turned and headed toward the locked door.
Buffy turned her attention to Agent Hammett and she watched as he ran his hands down his suit pants. The calm FBI Agent disappeared the moment Agent Ulrich left. His leg bounced for a few moments before he shifted to the side and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. Odd that a FBI agent carried a beaten leather wallet in his suit pants rather than his jacket. He pulled a business card out of his wallet and looked at it, then at her again before he held out the card.
Buffy hesitated for a moment before reaching out and taking the card. There was a number and the name “Dean” printed on the card. He rose to his feet, tucking the wallet back in his back pocket.
“You get into any trouble when you get out of here, you call, and I’ll come,” he told her. The collected FBI Agent gone completely, replaced with a mid-western accent, and genuinely concerned eyes. “Because you’re not crazy,” he whispered and then turned to follow his partner our.
Buffy’s fingers tightened around the card, crumbling it into a ball in her palm.
“It’s just a test. It’s just a test,” she quietly repeated as she turned back to the window. The agents were leaving now and Buffy watched as they walked over to a shimmery, shiny black classic, also not FBI appropriate. “You can do this,” Buffy whispered to herself.
She had every intention of throwing the card away. Sure that if the doctors saw her keep it that they’d view It as a failure, a relapse into her delusion. But when she left Resnick Hospital a week later, Dean’s card was safely tucked away in her bag.
There was a chance it was a trap. They’d use it to draw her back in. But Dean had looked serious when he’d said she wasn’t crazy. And if she ever ran into trouble again, it wouldn’t hurt to call to call someone who didn’t want her committed.
*~*