They'd arrived at the front yard together, just after midnight, voices raised in argument. "…you can't walk away from this." "I want you out..."  "We have something. It's not pretty..."

Joyce Summers jerked awake.  She'd been waiting, curled on the sofa, watching Leno and the clock, with her feet tucked up under the hem of her robe.  A cross and stake lay close at hand.  Shaking off the momentary disorientation of waking from her doze, Joyce focused on what she could hear from outside.

It was happening again, a vampire was stalking her daughter.  Of course, they stalked her everyday but this was different, creepy and perverted.  Joyce wondered if this was how it started before, with Angel. Was a dark obsession allowed to proceed unchecked?  Was Buffy intoxicated, the first time, by the forbidden thrill of illicit passion?  Had she learned her lesson?  The wondering twisted in her mother's heart.  It reminded her of the lost years when Buffy kept everything secret: the vampires and the slaying and the dead men in her bed.

A chill raised the hair on Joyce's arms every time she thought of Angel and his sinister games.  He had stolen her baby girl's innocence.

"I'll be damned if I'll stand by and let it happen again," Joyce thought, "Better to nip it in the bud."

She twitched back the curtain edge and watched the two of them interact on the lawn.  Pale blonde and golden.  Spike was plaintive and Buffy seething, but she made no move to strike him as she stomped up the porch steps.  He followed her closely.  The door opened and Joyce tensed despite the assurance of Willow's spell casting.  She eased off the couch and moved to the hall entrance so she could see them both.

"…like it or not I'm in your life.  You can't shut me out."  Spike said just as he hit the invisible barrier.  His mouth fell open and his face registered disbelief, shock and finally the deep wound of betrayal.

"He didn't think she would do it," Joyce thought and immediately asked herself, "Why?"

Spike's earlier words echoed in her head like an answer, "There's something between us."

Joyce looked to her daughter to deny the vampire's assertion.  Buffy was staring at the closed door, her body language muted.  She raised one hand, pushing her hair back from her brow.  It was a habit she'd had since childhood.  It spoke volumes to a Mother's eye.  The gesture and the small sigh that accompanied it indicated strong and conflicted feelings.

"Something real," Joyce said, under her breath, feeling the truth of the words in her blood.

"Mom?" Buffy inquired, turning at the words.

"Yes, honey. I was just…" Joyce waved a hand back toward the sofa, "watching TV and I…fell asleep."

"'Cause you wouldn't be waiting up or anything?" Buffy asked, with a small, knowing smile.

"No, of course not! I know," Joyce said, with exaggerated patience, "you're the Slayer.  You can handle yourself.  A chipped vampire isn't going to give you any trouble."

"Yeah," Buffy agreed, before continuing airily, "I was so on top of things with the Slayer cunning.  Getting blindsided by Drusilla and having the beef jerky shocked out of me then waking up in the middle of Spike Bondage Fantasy #5.  You know, all part of my fiendish plan."

"What? Buffy?" Joyce surged forward, losing all trace of cool, her voice and manner registering concern. "Are you okay?  Did she…did Drusilla…or Spike hurt you?"

"No, I'm fine, Mom," Buffy assured. "Really!"

"But Drusilla," Joyce insisted. "She's crazy…dangerous.  What is she doing here? Oh, god, she killed those people on the train didn't she?" Her hand fluttered to her throat in horror and then shakily reached out to her daughter, seeking both to comfort and be
comforted. "Buffy are you really okay? What happened? How did you escape?  Did you kill her?"

"No, I didn't kill her," Buffy said, answering the simple question first, "and I didn't exactly escape either."  She sighed and admitted, "Spike kind of…let me go."

"He let you…" Joyce voice trailed off and she looked over at the closed door.  She cocked her head to one side as she puzzled things out.  "Drusilla was here…and you were captured…and then…Spike let you go?"

"Yeah," Buffy nodded. "But before you run away with the white-haired knight idea…let me say - Spike?  Also the one that chained me up."

"When you say, `chained?'"

Buffy raised her arms overhead, pulling on imaginary restraints, "I mean manacled.  To the ceiling," she pointed one finger up for emphasis, "with the industrial strength hardware that says 'you care enough to use the very best.'"

"And he did this…why?"

"So we could play the demon version of the dating game.  I was the night's big winner.  Beat out a lunatic and a nitwit for the grand prize of Spike's undying, undead devotion."

"Buffy," Joyce snapped, losing all patience with her daughter's flippancy. "Tell me what happened this instant.  Start at the beginning and…."

"Mom," Buffy interrupted. "Look, I really couldn't begin to explain anything that happened tonight.  I'm sore.  I'm tired.  I need a shower.  Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

"Honey, I'm sorry," Joyce returned, obviously sympathetic yet still determined, "but I have to know one thing, right now."

Buffy looked at her expectantly and Joyce, after glancing toward the closed front door again, lowered her voice to a stage whisper to ask, "Why is he outside?"

For a moment, it seemed the Slayer might laugh or maybe burst into tears but then she simply turned and headed up the stairs, calling back over her shoulder, "How should I know?  Because he thinks he's in love.  Because he's a fool?  Or delusional?  Or more dead from the neck up than anyone realized? I don't know and I really don't care.  Go ask him if you want…as long as you don't ask him in.  I'm going to bed."

Joyce bit her lip as she listened to Buffy stomp along the upstairs landing.  She followed the sound of footsteps all the way to her daughter's bedroom.  Buffy slammed her door closed with finality, no further questions would be answered and no speculation entertained.  Joyce Summers knew the futility of banging her head on her daughter's
brick wall of denial.  The weight of being the Slayer's mother settled on her shoulders and sank in, filling her stomach with icy dread.  But after a minute or two of abject despair, she shook off the feeling.  Cinching in the belt of her robe, she padded over to
the front door peephole and peered out.  Spike was still there, sitting on the front step, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands, crying. 

Joyce sighed.  Something needed to be done.  She went into the kitchen, took down two mugs from the cabinet, filled the kettle with water and started it heating.   As she waited for the water to boil, she contemplated the night through the window above the sink.  She viewed the darkness with suspicion, wondering if Drusilla was lurking nearby.  The kettle gave voice to a faint whistle and she snatched it from the stove.  Buffy wouldn't approve if she knew what her mother was planning. 

Spike glanced up as the door opened.  His face filled with hope and then emptied again.  He looked back toward the street, rubbing a hand over his eyes.  Joyce studied his back and the thin lit-crescent of his profile, searching for some sign of intent.  He was a mystery to her, as much as her daughter was a mystery.  And, though Joyce had
never admitted it, they were permanently linked in her mind.  She had learned the truth about them on the same night.  She'd learned Buffy was the Slayer and Spike was a vampire…and somehow he was going to help her daughter save the world.   For Joyce Summers, the world turned inside out that night.  It became something totally
unrecognizable, but because of Buffy and Spike, it didn't end.

"I've made some tea," she said, surprising herself with the unruffled tone of her voice.  She was standing just inside the house, holding out one mug while cradling the other to her breast.  "Would you like some?"

"I don't want tea, Joyce," he said, quietly.  He was the picture of icy fury, his jaw clenched as he gazed fixedly ahead. "I want in the bloody house.  Invite me in."

"You know I can't do that."

"Yes, you can.  It's your house, idnit? You jus' say the word."

He turned to look at her then, pleading, desperate.  Joyce was amazed at how young and vulnerable he seemed.  Not a monster at all.  His hair was in disarray from his fingers combing through it.  His eyes were liquid with unshed tears and his mouth pouted into fullness as he whispered, "I'm not going to hurt her.  You know I wouldn't.  I
can't.  I only want to talk to her."

"She doesn't want to talk to you," Joyce reminded him and he looked away again.  After a minute or two of silence, she asked, "What happened tonight?  What did you do?"

Spike sighed.  He turned around to stare at her, taking her measure with his eyes.  He held her gaze for a moment before lowering his head.  All of the fight seemed to leave his body on a shuddering breath.

"Oh, Joyce," he whispered, "I done myself over, ain't I?"

"You…what?"

"I screwed it up good," he clarified, bobbing his head slightly in the direction of the house as he added, "with Buffy."

"So it seems," Joyce agreed.

She watched him, warily, but he barely shifted his dejected position.  His face was shadowed but she felt sure he was crying again, soft and steady.  Slowly, she edged out of the house, nervously checking the area for sinister shapes.  He was slumped sideways, leaning one shoulder into the porch rail.  She bent over, placing the mug of tea by his knee.  He sniffed.  She fished in the pocket of her robe, extracting a few clean, if crumpled, tissues.

"Here," she said, handing him the wad. "Blow your nose."

He did as she asked; glancing up sheepishly afterward to comment, "Guess there's no chance left of terrorizing you with my demon nature."

"Oh, I don't know," Joyce replied, without a trace of humor. "Right now, I'm afraid for my daughter."

"Why?" Spike asked, fiercely. "I won't hurt her.  I love her…need her."

"Love? Need?" Joyce asked, with obvious skepticism. "I've heard that before from one of your kind…on these very steps."

"Angelus?" Spike scoffed.  The anger flared in him again when Joyce gave a brief nod but still she wasn't afraid.  She watched, fascinated, as his mouth twisted through a series of silent, half-formed curses before he finally spit out, "Angelus never felt what I am feeling.  He NEVER loved her...not like this.  This is…"

"What?" Joyce exclaimed, her gaze searching his. "True? Right? Pure?"

"Fated," Spike answered and his blue eyes cut into her, chilling her to the bone.

Joyce deflated, sinking down to sit beside him on the steps.  She stared at the creamy surface of her tea as if looking for a sign, some inkling, of how to proceed with the job of parenting a child with such a Hellish suitor.

"Another vampire," Joyce thought. "It can't be coincidence.  What is it about Buffy that causes…this…sort of…thing?"

"I don't understand," she confessed, turning to the one being who might have answers to all of her unasked questions. "Buffy's the Slayer, your enemy.  How could this happen? Did she do something?   Give you some reason to…hope?  How does something like this even start? Why? When?"

Spike considered her, searching his own mind for answers.  Sitting  beside him on the porch steps, filled with fear and uncertainty, Joyce, suddenly, reminded him of her daughter.  Buffy had come to him with similar questions: How? And Why?  She had come seeking his perspective on the past.  He breathed in the scent of Joyce Summers, sighed it out again, and decided to tell the whole story.

"I could say it began with my turning," he said, quietly.  "Or the first Slayer I killed."  He paused and Joyce shifted, turning hazel eyes on him.  Buffy's eyes,  Spike thought, even as he continued his narration, "Hell, I could even come over all poncy and tell you it
started the day I was born…. But the truth is…it all started in Prague."


 

Continued....