Chapter 4:

**

Buffy ran into the room that was not her own, her heart pounding in her chest. Dawnie, Dawnie, Dawnie, Dawnie ...

Dawnie hated her. Completely, totally, and without a doubt. Her pretty baby sister, her one-time best friend. What had happened? When had she lost Dawn so completely? Sure, she hadn’t seen or talked to her for a good three years, but that didn’t mean ...

‘Duh! She actually saw who you are, Bitch. It was the left shoulder that did it, y’know. Remember? You wore that one tank top - the 60’s vintage with the blue collar - right before Mom left ...’

Buffy shook her head at herself. Of course her left shoulder had not been a catalyst in her family’s messy disintegration. Her career might’ve played a role, her millions, maybe. Her impossibly busy schedule had certainly caused a bit of a rift, that much was as plain as day.

It certainly didn’t help that Hank had been the one to originally move with her to LA, either, or that his job as her manager/producer kept him constantly on the road, where he could fuck any number of available blonde bombshells.

Still - she looked at her shoulder and grimaced. The thing was gross, true, but she wasn’t crazy anymore or anything. She knew that her value as a person did not hinge on any one organ, limb, or muscle, but on her private, innermost soul. She was a good person, with a lot to offer to the world. She could master her life ...

But she wasn’t and she couldn’t! Buffy hadn’t been able to control a single modicum of her time, a single phoneme of her speech since her career discovery. She had signed over her life in blood, and she would never again be free from the harsh light of public scrutiny. Not until she was dead, or hideously maimed ( although she supposed that last part could be put to debate - Michael Jackson had certainly retained the fascination of the press since the destruction of his nasal cavity).

Which brought her again to her jacket, with it’s beanbag texture. She had enough pills by now to overdose a whale several times over, much less an eighty-seven pound ghost of a girl. Buffy had been collecting them, saving them since she was first admitted to The Initiative, knowing full well what they represented.

Freedom.

She had lived the better part of her life as a puppet, a Barbie that could be dressed and styled according to its owners wishes. The pills gave her choices again, personal rights. She could live or she could die, either way, the decision was completely up to her. Priceless.

Dawnie, Dawnie, Dawnie, Dawnie ...

Joyce had said they were having Mexican something-or-other for dinner. Buffy liked Mexican, really she did. Maybe she would choose to stop living after she had consumed her fill of fattening guacamole and salty tortilla chips. Good food was enough to live for, at least for a little while.

Buffy thought it would have to be.

**

Joyce heard the slamming of twin doors and winced, knowing that Dawn must’ve come home. How could she have managed to pick a fight with Buffy so quickly? It had been a literal-feeling forever since the two Springs sisters had been within miles of each other - you’d think that they’d both be dying to refortify the bonds of familial love! Of course, the two girls had always shared their well, share of fights - maybe this wasn’t such a bad sign.

She walked out of her bedroom, makeup freshly applied (She was the mother - she couldn’t look like she was anything but fully in control), and made her way back into the kitchen, half-humming to herself.

Buffy had been so normal after she had awakened from her nap. She had smiled, and they had carried on a halfway-decent conversation about dinner. It seemed that Buffy still liked Mexican, which was simply amazing as far as Joyce was concerned. Buffy liked Mexican!

Distantly, Joyce realized that she was as giddy as a preteen on a caffeine overdose. She hadn’t been this incredibly happy since Rupert had passed. Still humming tunelessly, she pulled out a knife and began to slice an apple for a snack.

“Mum?”

Joyce jumped, inadvertently cutting her hand on her knife. “Spike!”

The young man’s eyes widened as he saw her hand bleeding, “Jesus! ‘M sorry, Mum. Didn’t mean to spook you.” He set down a few bags of groceries on the counter as Joyce grabbed some paper towels by the sink and applied them to her cut. The mark wasn’t deep, a scratch, really, but it was bleeding in a somewhat vigorous manner. Joyce figured she had better apply pressure to it.

“It’s alright, Spike. I don’t know why I’m being so jumpy today.” She offered up a weak but genuine smile. Her blood was forming a crimson flower on the paper towel.

“Was just bringin’ in the rest of the food. Dawn forgot the peppers and stuff, but I know she brought in the chicken already.” Spike told her as he started to unpack green (not red) peppers, sour cream, refried beans and onions. “Want me to put these away for you?” he asked her as he pulled out a series of Mexican-style dips from a plastic bag.

“No, I can get them.” Joyce lifted up the paper towel and was pleased to see that her cut wasn’t bleeding quite as much as it had been earlier. “I know you have to get back to your studio. And don’t you have a class tonight?” She was starting to pick up a weird vibe of some sort, and it was putting her on edge. But why? Spike wasn’t acting out of the usual ...

“Nah,” Spike shook his head, “Tomorrow.” He looked at her seriously, “Call me if you need any ‘elp with anythin’. I know you’ve got to be under a bit of strain right now.”

“I will,” she replied quickly, turning her back to the bleached blonde. A few seconds later, she heard the front door click close, and Joyce let out a short sigh of relief.

She didn’t really know why.

**

Riley looked around the hotel room, completely bored out of his mind. He had nothing to do until Angel came back from ‘recon.’ He couldn’t even unpack because Angel wanted to find an apartment so they could ‘blend’.

He was quickly becoming sick of the whole deal. Why oh why had he convinced Angel to do this? Sure, the lure of a job at “People” was deliciously tantalizing, not to mention overwhelming, overmastering and overpowering; Riley was beginning to drool just thinking about it (No, really. He even had to wipe his mouth less saliva dribble onto his shirt collar).

But Angel! That self-righteous, womanizing, obscene, hateful bastard son-of-a-bitch from the bowels of Hell; that sadistic, crude, profane, rude, barbarous, pugnacious, raunchy, evil anus and his affinity for torture!

Riley could already tell that things were about to get out of hand. He had never seen Angels so ... enthusiastic about anything, much less a case, and when Angel set his sights on a prize, well, things usually got ugly, and fast.

Angel was ruthless when it came to the hunt; like a predator stalking prey. No tactic was above or below him’ the concept of immorality was simply lost on him. Anything went, anything go’ed, anything and everything and nothing at all.

And that was just when he was dating.

Oh! Riley eye’s widened. Sure, Buffy Springs was a dish but Angel would never, ever ... would he?

Riley wasn’t surprised to realize that he didn’t want to know the answer.

**

Anya was in a decidedly horrible mood when she finally left The Magic Box.

Not only had she not had sex that morning, her store had lacked sufficient customers to render a profit for the day, some inventory still had not arrived despite her frequent calls to the shipping company, she had spilled coffee on her computer keyboard, which made the keys all sticky, and on her khaki pants, which made them all stained. On her way back from the deli (she had bought a low-fat roast beef sandwich with honey mustard sauce for lunch), a rare bout of cloudy humidity had caused her hair to curl and frizz around her ears, making her look like Shirley Temple post-electro-shock therapy, and a dog had attempted to hump her leg. One of her heels had broken, her deodorant stopped working, her car’s battery had run out, and there were rabbits in the pet store’s front window, where anyone could see them!

Plus, the dog had reminded her of Xander, which made her miss him again. She hated when that happened.

So, by the time she got home, Anya felt angry, scared, unattractive, and lonely, and was therefore in desperate need of cold comfort aka. Spike’s penis. But first she had to do something about her hair, because it looked fluffy-bunny levels of horrendous, which sucked (but not in a sex way; Anya generally enjoyed it when things sucked in a sex way, unless of course, the sex was bad, in which case things sucked in a bad sex sort of way), and she didn’t want Spike to see her look sucky in a non-sex sort of way.

A full hour later, Anya arrived at 1637. She opened the door, stepped inside, threw her purse down on the floor, and walked downstairs into the basement. “Spike?” she called in her best husky-horny voice, “I’m ready to seduce you now.”

Spike was painting furiously on a large canvas towards the back of the room, his hands and brushes stroking fast, swirling acrylic (Anya could tell it was acrylic paint because she couldn’t smell any turpentine) into the form of a human face. The features were contorted, the nose too long, the mouth slanted, the eyes strangely blank - but the subject of the painting was painfully clear. Anya felt her heart constrict.

“Do you miss her today?” she asked, her voice piper-clear as Spike turned around to face her, paint splattered all over his face and hands. “I miss Xander. A dog humped my leg on my lunch break.” She took a step forward, knowing instinctively that Spike would be ready and waiting for her. He always was when he thought about Dru.

Spike sighed and creased his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose with his blue-red fingers. “Yeah,” he replied simply, opening up his eyes as he heard the distinct rustle of clothing being shed.

He gulped slightly as Anya stood naked before him, her chest heaving, her nipples standing erect and proud in the cool basement air. She turned slightly to toss her clothes onto the top stairs, and Spike admired the gentle swell of her stomach, the dip in her spine, the velvet-soft skin of her ass.

No, he wasn’t in love with her. Didn’t think he ever could be. But that didn’t change the fact that she was his best friend, that he could find solace in her arms or that she was, without a doubt, incredibly hot.

She looked back at him and explained, “I don’t want paint on my clothes.”

And then she was in his arms, tearing at his clothes and his paint-wet hands were sliding over her breasts, covering them in a color that looked like blood. Spike went to kiss her neck as she started to force his pants from his hips, but she turned her head and refused contact with his mouth.

“No,” she panted, her voice carrying with it the echo of a sob. “No kissing. Please.” Spike understood at once; she would break if he kissed her. “On the stairs,” she said as she pressed her hot hand to his cock, “Doggie style. I need your penis hard, Spike. Hard and fast ...”

“On the stairs,” he repeated gruffly, needing no more prompting. Anya nodded her head vigorously, tears she didn’t want shining in her eyes. Why did Xander have to leave her? Why did she have to feel so hollow inside? It was as if her guts had been carved out like a Halloween Jack O’Lantern's, except that she wasn’t even sure that she had a soul left to flicker with flame.

She wished she could be in love.

**

After doggie style on the stairs, there was slippery shower humping, followed by missionary style comfort-sex on Spike’s bed. Then came spooning and talking. Anya hated the talking part, so she mostly just listened to Spike talk and enjoyed the feel of his fingers as they stroked her stomach. She liked his voice; it sounded rhythmic like waves.

“I miss everybody who’s gone,” he whispered, his voice soft with sleep-sex. “Mom, Dad, Dru. Don’t know why they had to go when I didn’t manage it. Not that I’m not glad to be alive ‘n’ all, ‘specially after half expectin’ death for so long. ‘S just that my family’s been torn up a bit, y’know? Makes a bloke feel like ‘e’s got to be glue and ‘old everythin’ together.”

Anya snuggled backward into his chest, needing physical contact. “Dru was just engaged to you,” she pointed out, “She wasn’t legal family, and your Mom ditched you and Giles. That leaves her out of the family thing. And Giles is dead now, so he’s not there anymore. You don’t have any family left to be torn up.”

Spike stiffened slightly, holding her just a little bit harder, “I don’t think that’s true. Paper doesn’t make a family, Pet.” He burrowed his nose into the sweet-smelling crook of her neck, ‘I dunno. Maybe ‘m wrong. Dawn told me as much earlier. Said Dad died ‘fore the wedding so the family-thing didn’t apply to me.”

“He did,” Anya said simply, closing her eyes, “And it doesn’t.”

“But I love ‘em,” he said quietly. “Doesn’t that count for somethin’ or other?”

Anya turned over in his arms and blinked at him with her clear, brown eyes. “Only if they love you back the same way, and I’m not sure they do.” She didn’t give Spike a chance to reply in protest, “Joyce hasn’t stopped by the house since Giles died, except to pick up Dawn, and Dawn only comes here to escape Joyce. It’s very likely that they don’t consider you family, just a family friend or a neighbor who’s too stupid to lock his doors. I think you might be suffering from a case of unrequited platonic love.”

“Oh,” Spike said, the concept obviously never having occurred to him. “Uh ... oh ...” But then he relaxed again, as if he had found a sudden comfort somewhere in his thoughts.

“I don’t think so,” he muttered, “I mean, Dawn also told me ‘er sis was Buffy fuckin’ Springs ...”

**

Buffy stared hard at her fajita, feeling slightly nauseous. A messy mass of sour cream and refried bean poked out on either side of the tortilla, reminding her of an infected wound. With puss. Icky, icky infected puss.

She thought it kinda resembled her left shoulder.

‘No! Stop thinking stuff like that! Your left shoulder is normal, remember? I mean, sure, it’s not half as pretty as your *right* shoulder, but that doesn’t mean it’s totally abhorrent. I mean, look at your right ankle for Christ’s sake!’

Buffy glowered at her innermost self. It was stupid to hate one of your ankles and try to cover it up and stuff. Plus, she really liked wearing sandals with cute skirts. She couldn’t do that if she wore socks all the time to hide a perfectly perfect-looking ankle. She liked her right ankle.

‘But what about your left ankle?’

Buffy said that she liked it, too. Then she noticed that Dawn and Joyce were giving her weird looks, so she plastered her biggest, brightest smile onto her face. “Pass the tortilla chips?” she asked in her sweetest, clearest, perkiest voice.

Just as long as she could conceal her true self, she knew that everything would be fine. They didn’t have to know how ugly she really was, they couldn’t be allowed to know. If they ever, ever, ever saw into the blackness that was her soul, the torpid ichor of her thoughts, she knew that they would cast her away forever. They couldn’t love the monster she saw in herself, nobody could; to do such a thing would be to go beyond the limits of human capacity. Buffy knew that she needed to hidehidehidehide ...

Dawn was staring at her with spite-laden eyes, and Buffy half-shuddered with terror. That’s why Dawnie hated her! Because she could see Buffy’s true face, her demonic visage, the hideous cesspool of her very soul! Dawnie’s eyes spoke of truth, of knowing, and Buffy realized that her hands were shakingshakingshaking as if she were having a seizure, and she felt the raw burn of bile in her throat. Oh, God, she was going to be sick, so sick.

The fajita on her plate was swimming now, swirling and swirling in front of her eyes like a greasy whirlpool. Red and white and dead. She could smell the death rising from it, clogging in the hair of her nostrils. Death and suffering, death and decay, death and death some more ...

“Lisbeth, are you okay?”

Buffy shuddered, half-leaping out of her seat when her mother laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘No!’ she wanted to scream. ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me or you’ll feel it, hear it, see it! I can’t have you touch me and know me and hate me! I have to hide it, you see? I can’t let you ...’

But all that came out was a groan.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “My stomach ...” She bolted from the table and ran into the downstairs bathroom, where she promptly lifted up the toilet seat and vomited into the bowl, clammy sweat breaking out across her forehead. Death had to be better - had to be better than this -this numbness. But she couldn’t - oh she couldn’t give up the only control she had! She -

“Mom?” she heard Dawn’s voice coming from the kitchen. “You remember Dr. Kervorkian’s number, right?”

Buffy rested her head against the toilet’s rim and sobbed the dry, noiseless sobs of the almost-dead. She knew that her life was over, that she would never feel again.

She wondered whether or not she should become a country singer.

**
 

Chapter 5:

**

Spike woke up early, having decided to go for a morning jog. When he was with Dru, it had been a bit of a routine for him, a way to burn off some excess energy while his girlfriend got her beauty sleep.

With Anya, Spike’s early morning workout usually consisted of well, sex. Normally, he preferred orgasming to more traditional means of cardiovascular exercise (who wouldn’t?), but right now, Spike just wanted to think. During coitus, Spike’s other, rather brainless, head did most of his thinking for him - a situation not exactly conducive to logical thought processes.

He had just finished passing 1630 when he heard the sound of a second pair of footsteps joining with his own. He craned his neck over his shoulder to see the strange, ghostlike girl that was Dawn’s sister. Elizabeth, right? No - she had introduced herself as Buffy (a bloody idiotic name, if you asked him) - he should call her that.

She smiled as he greeted her, “’Lo, Buffy.”

“Hi, Pike!” Her voice was almost inhumanly perky, and it sounded strange coming from such a pale, anemic body. “Mind if I jog with you?” Spike was in need of solitude, but what kind of gentleman would refuse companionship to a lady if she asked for it?

Besides, he was almost concerned for Buffy’s health; her body hardly looked like it was up for a run. In fact, it barely looked like it was fit to breathe (but that was beside the point as Buffy was obviously capable of pulmonary respiration). Either way, she was a Summers, and he felt that he ought to look out for her. Couldn’t do to let her get hurt, after all - Joyce would kill him.

“Sure thing, Pet,” he stopped, jogging in place for a few seconds so she could catch up. “How things settlin’ in at casa Summers?”

Buffy frowned, but then her features smoothed out again with understanding, “You mean Dawn and Mom?” she said as they started to move forward, side by side. “Okay, I guess. I think Dawn wants me dead, and Mom thinks I’m psychotic, but y’know, other than that things are going pretty well.”

Spike pursed his lips, “Wouldn’t worry ‘bout it too much. Dawn’s a stubborn chit, but ‘m sure she’ll turn ‘round at some point. Mum’s probably just worried for you. Know that she’s not seen you in quite a bit. ”

Buffy wrinkled her nose, her ponytail bobbing as she ran. “Look, Pike ...” she started to say.

“It’s Spike,” he finally managed to correct her. “With an ‘S’.”

“Like the fish?” she giggled as they turned onto the next block of houses. Spike glared at her out of the corner of his eye. Buffy wasn’t exactly acting like the brightest of the bright, but surely she didn’t think a ‘spike’ was a type of fish!

“No -” he stopped speaking and let out a loud chuckle at the mischievous glint he saw in her eye, glad to see that the bint had some life in her after all. “And you’re Bunny like the rodent, eh?” he teased back, somewhat surprised to feel his dark mood lifting. He supposed it was a good thing - too much brooding couldn’t be good for one’s health.

Buffy rolled her eyes, “Way lame,” she said, in obvious reference to his comeback. She continued to speak without pause or breath of air - effectively preventing Spike from informing her that the fish joke had been too weak in itself to allow anything close to a clever response. “Listen - I was wondering since you’re kinda, well young and since I’m new in town -” she paused, and Spike decided to interrupt, having already sussed out what she wanted to know.

“Want me to show you ‘round town, Luv?” he asked her. “Introduce you to the brightest and best of Sunnydale?” Buffy certainly wasn’t shy, but it couldn’t hurt to introduce her around to his friends, let her establish some ties. Spike knew what it was like to be displaced in a strange land - the sooner Buffy made some friends, the easier time she would have of it.

“Ewwwwww!” Buffy shrieked, stopping dead in her tracks. “What are you, insane!” She was panting now, her nostrils wide as she gasped for air. The ghastly pallor of her regular complexion, was gone, replaced with a brilliant pink hue. Her eyes were narrowed, her chin tilted at a superior angle. “Do I look like I want to hang out with punked-out vamp wannabes?” She sneered in a sudden, rather severe upper-class English accent.

“No,” Spike retorted with a loud snort. “But ‘m not keen on bouncy, anorexic Buffy Springs clones, and ‘ere I am.” He wasn’t quite sure why the pop star’s name had popped into his head - must’ve been Dawn’s influence. Oh well, two could play at the ‘dissect appearances’ game. At least, he was pretty sure it was a game - was Buffy still joking with him? It was a little hard to tell ...

Buffy tossed her hair over her shoulder, “Whatever! Just ...” She paused, and her eyes widened with something like shock. “Oh my God! Did you just call me a Buffy Springs clone! You asshole!” She looked like she was about to slap him, but then she paused and crossed her arms over her chest instead, “What kind of freakish recluse are you, anyway?”

“Buffy!” the girl jumped and whirled around at the sound of her mother’s voice, and Spike wondered why Joyce sounded so panicked. Did she think something had happened? To Buffy? Did she even know where Buffy was, what she was doing?

“Over here, Joyce!” he yelled when Buffy continued to seethe in silence.

“Spike!” a panting Joyce, finally made her way onto their block, red-faced and completely out of breath. “Buffy! Why didn’t you tell me you were going out? I don’t care if you need freedom - but I have to know where you’re going in case anything happens to you! Do you know -”

“Right,” Buffy snapped, her tone vitriolic. “’Cuz we all know how one-Starbucks towns always have the highest crime rates.” She stomped her foot on the ground, pointing an accusing finger, “And do you have any idea what he called me! A wannabe, Mom! A fucking Buffy Springs wannabe! I thought he was a family friend, but obviously he’s some sort of baby-sister fucking pervert ...” She paused - “Tell him who I am, Mom!”

Spike looked at Joyce, completely baffled. Normally, he would take insult at such horrible, degrading aspersions, but something was very clearly ‘off’ about Buffy. Her statements were just too outlandish to be taken at face value. “Joooooyce?” he stretched out his almost-step-mother’s name a couple of vowels for emphasis, his eyes very clearly pleading with her to rescue him from a strange, sticky situation.

“Tell him!”

Joyce looked at Spike, obviously nervous; her hands were flying around her face, even more so than usual. “This is Elizabeth,” she said slowly, taking care to pronounce each and every syllable. “My daughter.” Her eyes darted quickly to Buffy, and Spike knew then that Joyce was not telling him the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help her God.

“Yes?,” Buffy’s voice had picked up an artificial British inflection once more. Spike hadn’t quite noticed that she had abandoned it in the first place, “Tell me, dear mother? Are you really that ashamed of my considerable fame, my international popularity? I understand my dear - truly I do. I shouldn’t wonder that you would be embarrassed to introduce me. You are so transparently jealous of me - it’s quite pathetic, really.” She turned to Spike, “Mother’s been terribly distraught since Father dropped her for a more attractive package. She’s become quite the hag, wouldn’t you agree?”

Joyce closed her eyes, pained, “Buffy ...”

Spike took a step back from Buffy, realization slamming into him. “She really believes it, doesn’t she?” he asked Joyce. “She thinks she’s a bloody pop star ...”

He almost didn’t hear Joyce’s whispered reply.

“She is ...”

**

“What?” Spike looked at Joyce in shock, “She’s what?” He couldn’t believe her words - couldn’t comprehend the fact that the Summers would’ve lied to him so completely and for so long. Not to mention the fact that Buffy certainly didn’t look like a pop star - she looked like a (lucky) Holocaust victim - did he have something in his ear? Maybe Joyce was just playing along with Buffy’s delusions? That had to be it! Surely ...

“Well, I did try to inform you, silly child. But you just wouldn’t believe me, now would you? A shame really, when a man can’t recognize true class when he sees it ...” Buffy was obviously enjoying herself now - her tirade was picking up in speed and enthusiasm.

“She’s Buffy Springs. The Buffy Springs.” Joyce repeated herself, her hands fluttering uselessly. She looked over her shoulder, agitated and self-conscious. “Do- do you think we could take this inside?” she half-muttered, her eyes flitting every which way, as if she were expecting a molester to jump out of the bushes at any one second.

A molester didn’t, and the nude old man getting his newspaper most certainly didn’t either. Two cats, a robin, three worms, and a forgotten baseball mitt also went for cover - animals can always sense when a storm is on the simmer.

“No,” Spike said slowly, carefully, his cobalt eyes narrow like snake-slits, his jaw clenched so hard as to make his teeth grind together. “I think we’d better hash this out here, M - Joyce” His eyes flamed, “Did Dad know?”

“Of course Father knows, dear,” Buffy giggled, “He’s my manager, after all.”

“He means his father, Buffy,” Joyce informed her daughter quietly. “And yes - Giles knew. I told him who I was - who we were - right before I agreed to marry him.”

“Huh?” Buffy took notice at that, “Who’s father are we talking about, now?”

“Oh,” Spike snapped, fury rising within him an icy, molten pressure, “So that mean ‘m the only one who wasn’t important enough to be in the know.” he concluded with a half-snarl. “Bloody ‘ell! Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t he tell me! All the time we’ve known each other - been close - and you couldn’t fuckin’ well tell me who you bloody well were! Fuckin’ millionaires, fuckin’ celebrities and what all, and it escaped your bloody minds to fuckin’ well let me know!”

“Language, Spike,” Joyce whispered, half-stunned by the ferocity of his attack. “We didn’t think - didn’t know how you’d react. You were so sick -”

“I don’t think he’s taking it very well at all,” Buffy sniffed in a long-suffering sort of way.

Spike was now looking considerably paler, almost drained, as if Joyce’s words had sapped the fight from him. “Joyce,” he said tiredly. “That was two years ago. Two years. You can’t tell me you thought telling me the truth would pull me out o’ -”

Joyce stammered helplessly, “Well ... no ... not exactly - we were more worried about how you’d - keep it a secret. You always d-drank a lot with Dru and -”

Buffy interrupted, “Um, Can I go now? This is getting kind of boring.”

Spike looked Joyce straight in they eye, “Bullshit.” he stated in a steady tone of voice, his eyes half-glowing with hurt and malice, “Never heard such a load o’ crock in my life. Fact of the matter is you don’t think much of me, Joyce. Guess you never ‘ave, never will. ‘M nothing to you - just a sad, pathetic excuse of a man. Just the son of a guy you almost married. Not important enough to keep informed. What did you think I would do Joyce? Start ‘ittin’ you up for money?”

“What!?” Buffy squeaked, “Who almost married who? Mother ...?”

Spike shook his head, turning his head to glare at Buffy with hatred in his eyes. “There’s an Espresso Pump on main. College students frequent the place. Two clubs. Imagine The Bronze is more your type, try there for free beers ‘n’ fast fucks. Most popular joint in Sunnydale.” The otherwise benign words came out thick and burning - like oil set to bubble, and Buffy felt something travel through her veins, igniting her, making her want to retaliate. She never did. She never got the chance.

“Bye, Joyce.” Spike smiled a smile without mirth, and started to saunter back to 1637, his back turned firmly against the two oldest members of the Summers clan. He told himself he wouldn’t look back. Not ever again.

His non-family was officially torn.

**

“Mommy?” Joyce sighed as she washed a few pots by hand, wondering what ‘personality’ Buffy was currently exhibiting. She had called Buffy’s doctors, had talked to them at length about her daughter’s fluctuating behaviors and they had assured her that no disassociative personality disorder existed.

So why was Buffy acting the way she was? Why was she so ... ‘Crazy,’ Joyce’s mind supplied in its most helpful manner, ‘Her behavior is completely off the wall. First she acts normal, then she’s loud and irrational, then nervous and scared of human contact - she’s nuts! Completely nuts!’

The only new bit of information she had garnered was that Buffy did display signs of a certain psychological disorder - one that she would look up on Google once she figured out how to spell it - that caused her to believe that one area of her body was hideously ugly ...

“Mommy?” Buffy said again, and Joyce felt a barely noticeable flutter of fingertips against her shoulder blade. She didn’t move, in truth, she was half-scared to do so. The girl standing behind her, that pale shadow of a person, was a stranger to Joyce. A strange, volatile being that wore the face of what had been her daughter, and Joyce felt despair coat her heart like pine tar.

Dawn hated her. Spike hated her. Buffy definitely hated her. Giles was dead, gone from her life, but Joyce was fairly sure that he hated her from Heaven. How could he not? She was a failure as a wife, mother, woman and person. No better than her daughter, really. Just more subtle in her disturbances.

The fingers hissed against her skin once more, “Who’s Giles?” Buffy asked, her voice almost sweet in its uncertainty. “And-and Spike. I know he’s not having sex with Dawn, honest. I don’t know why I said that. He looks really gay.”

Joyce buried her hands in soapy water, keeping her back firmly turned against her oldest daughter. “Rupert Giles is the man I fell in love with after the divorce. I came very close to marrying him.”

“Oh,” said Buffy, and her voice was very meek. “Why didn’t you?” she asked finally, after a long pause. “Why didn’t you, though? Was it Daddy? Or -”

“He died,” Joyce half-snapped, the pain of her loss rising to the surface of her being, “ His heart gave out right before the wedding.”

“Uh huh,” there was something earnest in Buffy’s inflection now, and Joyce took a deep breath, willing herself to face the confusing enigma of emotional angst her Lisbeth had become. She turned around on her heel, and her breath caught in her lungs as Buffy’s wide, hazel eyes caught her gaze and held it. Her daughter looked contrite and confused - her lips were thin and pressed, her eyebrows dipped down, causing her forehead to furrow. “And Spike is his son?” she questioned, her nose wrinkling as her fingers fiddled with a few, stray strands of sallow gold. “So that makes him ...”

“Nothing.” Joyce answered succinctly, immediately flinching when she realized how awful that sounded. “On paper, anyway.” she rectified herself previous statement quickly, wondering where that cruelty had come from. Of course Spike was something ... “The truth is that he’s a member of our family, whatever we did or didn’t say to him about before...”

She paused - should she discuss stuff like this with Buffy? How really and truly fragile was her daughter, anyway? Was she allowed to discuss the hell that had been her life, the hell that had tormented Mrs. Hank Springs for far, far too long ...?

“And off paper?” Buffy asked quietly, obviously in need of further elaboration. She seemed anxious, her tiny jaw set tight, her emaciated muscles tense as she looked to her mother for an answer.

“He’s my son,” Joyce stated slowly, steadily. The words felt alien on her tongue, and she almost choked, even as she registered the bizarre grain of truth embedded in them. “Or my stepson.” she added. “And he’s always been such a friend to Dawn, she treats him like the big brother she never had.”

She watched in puzzlement as her daughter seemed to collapse on a cellular level. The muscles that had been taut promptly went slack, as if a switch had been turned, reducing Buffy to a helpless puddle of epithelial tissue and nerve endings. “I’m sorry-” she whispered, inching slowly away from her mother. “I shouldn’t have - I made you guys fight - I’m sorry.’ She bit her lip, and the red mark her tooth left seemed strangely bright against her otherwise sepulchral complexion. “Do you - would it be best if I - I dunno - talked to him? I’ll apologize. Say my meds wore off or something.”

Joyce shook her head, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

Buffy’s eyes filled with tears, “Um, okay, then. I think - I think I’m gonna make some calls. Is it okay for me to use the phone? I don’t know if you’re expecting ...”

Joyce turned back to the dishes, sighing, “It’s fine.”

**

Riley groaned as he forced open one sore, sleep-encrusted eye, the piercing shriek of his cell phone’s ring digging itself into his eardrums, causing his head to pound. “Mrgurrf,” he groaned, his throat raw as he sat up and began to dig through his jacket, trying to find the source of that obnoxious sound ...

Oh, he had left it on the dresser, Sleepily, he pawed at the mechanical instrument of torture, opening it up and pressing it to his ear. “Riley Finn, here,” he yawned, his voice thick and slow molasses.

“Hi, Riley!” The quasi-journalist blinked a few times, trying to place the voice of his caller. “It’s Andrew, y’know, from The Initiative? I gave you the call on Buffy Springs? Oops!” Andrew’s voice immediately became hushed, a razor blade of suspicion cutting through his words, “I know, I know, I never should’ve said that on a cell. I’m so sorry. Will you have to go into hiding now?”

“I think I’m safe,” Riley retorted dryly. He glared hatefully over at the other bed, where Angel was conked out, completely naked. He had brought home a woman last night - either a drunken college student or a hooker (who can really tell anymore, anyway?) and had proceeded to have vigorous, loud sex with her throughout the night’s duration, leaving Riley slightly jealous, really horny, and extremely exhausted. He focused again on his conversation, “How did you get this number?”

“ Oh cool!” said Andrew, “Is it secret or something? ‘Cuz if so, you might want to think about getting a new secretary. She gave me the number as soon as I told her I was an informant - hey, do you think I could get a code name or something?”

Riley pressed his large fingers to his temples and wondered whether or not God was punishing him for some past misdeed, “Actually, in these situations we like to keep these calls as brief as possible.” He spoke in a low and confidential tone, playing along with Andrew’s spy-like delusions, while wishing desperately for a large pot of coffee and/or another eight hours of sleep-time.

“Right, sir. Sorry, sir.” Andrew apologized at once, “ See, my friend W-A-R-R-E-N was in the office at The Initiative when one of the doctors answered a call there, a call from J-O-Y-C-E S-P-R-I-N-G-S about B-U-double ‘F’ - Y. After the doctor was done, Wa - I mean, my friend, picked up the extension and hit redial. The phone’s there have caller ID, too. So I’ve got her phone number and her address.” He listed them off quickly. “Did I do good work?”

“Fabulous,” Riley groaned, before ending the call with a flick of his finger. God, but did he need some over-the-counter painkillers! At least he didn’t have to worry about Angel’s stupid snooping techniques now that Buffy Springs had practically been handed to him on a platter ...

Wait! What was that - that thought - the one he had just had? Stop, Rewind, Repeat. Buffy Springs had been handed to him on a platter!

Riley grinned as an idea took root in one of the tiny crevices of his brain. What if this was an opportunity for him to break away from Angel? To be Riley Finn, a writer for “People”, a professional, respectable reporter with an office and a nifty insurance plan? A man, cut free from the noxious personality of an uncouth, Godless, womanizing ... bastard!

Angel wasn’t stupid; eventually he would find the Summers residence, but if Riley could get a head start, if he could keep Angel running after dead-ends and fake clues, maybe, just maybe, he could get the story to “People” all by himself. Riley’s heart swelled at the very thought of it, and he got to his feet, his body alert and awake once more.

Buffy Springs was his for the plundering, and Angel - well, he would never know exactly what had hit him, would never expect treachery from the corn-fed, bumbling good-guy of Riley and Reilly.

Riley’s feet thumped against the cheap motel carpet as he made his way to the shower. It was time for a little back stabbing - but first he needed a close encounter with a bar of soap.

His mother had always told him that cleanliness was next to Godliness, and Riley had taken that advice to heart.

**