Story for Nemo88
The Hours Inbetween
By Lilachigh
Sunnydale had several graveyards – far more, admittedly, than its neighbouring towns, but the residents cheerfully shut their minds and eyes to the possible reasons for this – the alarming number of odd deaths that occurred in their town - and put it down to good forward planning by their elected officials.
So the cemeteries lay there behind their railings: old ones, full of ancient ornate crypts, tombstones and huge stone angels, blackened and chipped over the years. Long grass lapped across the graves in a sea of gentle neglect and few flowers were left on anniversaries or Christmas. Surviving friends and family had long been buried themselves and no one was left to remember or mourn.
But the newest cemetery was well-kept. It lay on the side of a gentle hill, facing the sunrise, the grass was regularly cut and watered to green velvet and bright flowers and wreaths were laid on loved ones’ last resting places.
Spike visited it every week. Not on the same day – he wasn’t some sort of loser who had a routine. Big Bads – even chipped ones – had a reputation to keep up. But it was convenient for him to stroll through this particular graveyard on his way home from buying blood and ciggies in town and if he nicked the odd bunch of flowers from someone else to place on Joyce’s grave, that was nobody’s bloody business but his!
Tonight he heard Buffy, sensed her, long before he saw her. That was odd. She was usually too busy at night, patrolling and killing things to visit her mother’s last resting place. He’d reckoned her normal time was during daylight hours.
He often saw Dawn there. He never interrupted her but just and made sure no nasties attacked her as she sat chatting to her Mum, obviously telling her all the things she couldn’t confess to a Big Sis.
But as he rounded the last bend of the path, he saw Buffy in the moonlight, kneeling by the grave, her face a ravaged mask of despair. He felt himself vamp out – what the hell had happened now to bring this sort of reaction out of her. Had someone else died? Was the Niblet ill? Would anyone bother to tell him if she was?
Buffy stood up as he approached, hearing the swish of leather, automatically registering the hairs on the back of her neck that said ‘vampire’, then relaxing as they added – ‘Spike’.
‘What’s up, Slayer?’
She couldn’t speak. The words wouldn’t form in her brain, the guilt, the pain were too great.
He dropped the brown grocery bag he was carrying on the ground, ignoring the blood packets that spilled out, scarlet and crimson agains the emerald turf. Buffy turned away from the concern on his face, smearing the tears across her face with her jacket sleeve. Suddenly a handkerchief was silently dropped over her shoulder and thankfully she blew her nose - hard.
“It was half past eleven,’ she said at last, her voice hoarse as if her throat was sore and bleeding.
“What was?’
‘When I remembered her today!” She turned to face him, expecting, wanting condemnation, even from him. ‘Half past eleven in the evening. This morning I woke up and thought about her. Then I got Dawn’s breakfast, packed her lunch, went to work, shopped at lunchtime, came home, did some laundry, rang Xander, went to work the late shift, went home, came out on patrol- and then – and then – just as I killed a demon thingy, I remembered her again. I thought of my Mom.”
“Slayer – ”
“All day, Spike! All day, all the hours inbetween and she never came into my mind once.” Her voice rang with self-loathing. ‘Am I that shallow? That self-centred? That selfish? Why didn’t I think about her sooner? I loved her so much!”
“But you did remember her, pet.”
“No – I’ve just told you, not until – ”
“Yes! Every time you do her job – cooking, cleaning, looking after the Niblet, shopping, working, you’re thinking of her in the best possible way – the way she would have wanted you to remember. Not sitting brooding about her, but getting on with life, coping just as she did. And all the time basing every little thing you do on what she taught you. She doesn’t have to be in your thoughts all the time. She’s there, inside your head and your heart. Believe me!
“I can’t – ”
Spike’s tone became tougher. “Listen to me! Okay, you’re brave because you’re the Slayer, but you’re also brave because you’re Joyce’s daughter. She was one of the most courageous women I’ve ever known – and without a drop of sodding special Slayer blood to make her so.”
“You don’t think she’d be disappointed in me?”
Spike grinned. “Oh come on, Slayer. Joyce thought you were the bee’s knees, but I expect there were often days when she didn’t think of you every second.”
“The what knees?”
“Never mind! Listen, there will be days when you think about her all the time and days when you don’t at all. It doesn’t matter. She’s inside you, inside your head. That’s what counts. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got an appointment with the telly and a bottle of Scotch.”
He picked up his blood supplies and strolled away. Buffy blew her nose again, then gave a shaky smile as she realised she’d have to wash his handkerchief before returning it to him.
She sat on the grass and patted Joyce’s name on the headstone. “Would you ever have believed it, Mom! William the Bloody carries a handkerchief,” she said, and from nowhere a giggle escaped her because she realised, suddenly, that he was right.
It wasn’t just thinking about someone that kept them alive in your heart. In his case, he might not think of his Mom at all after so many horrendous, evil filled years, but Buffy was now quite certain that she had once taught her son that a gentleman must always carry a nice clean handkerchief in his pocket!
ends
Author's Chapter Notes:
This story was written for one of my LJ friends, Nemo_88 who made me a beautiful banner for my long story Strip Snap.