Buffy felt as if she were drifting out of a dense fog in which she had been lost, just barely able to *see* what had been taking place during the past few minutes, but unable to take any real part in it – to control it. And yet – she had the vague sense that it *was* her who had done it. Overwhelmed by a powerful rage, a force that had taken her over...
And left her to take in the damage she had done – without meaning to – without even realizing that she had.
Her mother stood in the doorway, staring at her in wide-eyed shock and horrified dismay; her little sister stood by the stairs, her eyes huge as she looked at Buffy with an expression of confusion and terror that made her feel sick inside. They both looked at her as if she were a stranger – as if they had never really known her at all.
Maybe they hadn’t, if she was capable of something like…
*Oh, God…Spike…*
Her eyes came to rest on the fallen, dazed vampire on the floor at her feet – where her fists had driven him. His eyes were fastened on the floor as he fought the haze that surrounded him, warring for his consciousness against the violence of her attack. His body was trembling as he tried to pull himself up on weakened arms.
Why should he be so weak? she wondered with alarm. She had only hit him once. But then she remembered – she had also attacked him through her mark on his throat, through the bond that made him hers, using it deliberately to cause him the most excruciating pain that she could, to punish him for…for what?
What had Spike done to merit such violence?
The answer was painfully clear to her: nothing at all.
These thoughts all rushed through her mind in a matter of moments, and in the next instant she crouched down in front of Spike, reaching a trembling hand toward him, with the intent of helping him up.
He flinched back away from her with a sharp intake of breath that revealed his fear, but then froze, not daring to pull away from her any further. She could see it on his face – the cautious expression, deliberately calm, keeping perfectly -- *obediently* -- still, as he struggled with his instincts, not to resist her, not to give her any further reason to hurt him, even with such a small defiance.
Buffy’s hand stopped, her heart smote with the truth of the matter. He *expected* her to hurt him now, after all she had done to him already. He was afraid of her, afraid of angering her simply by pulling away from her touch on *his* body – which was his right – wasn’t it?
And *she* had placed that fear in him.
*Oh God…what is happening to me? What am I becoming?*
Joyce had no way of knowing anything about her daughter’s internal turmoil of the moment. All she saw was Buffy’s powerful fist viciously striking the vampire to the ground; then crouching down beside him to touch him again. Whether the touch was intended to harm, or to help, did not matter. Joyce saw Spike’s instantaneous reaction of fear to Buffy’s touch, before his entire body went rigid and he forced himself to not resist.
She was across the room in an instant, gripping Buffy’s arm none-too-gently and pulling her up and away from the fallen vampire.
“Get away from him,” she ordered sharply, a note of anger and disgust in her voice that made the little girl inside the Slayer quail at her mother’s disapproval.
As Joyce knelt down at Spike’s side, Buffy stepped back, feeling useless and ashamed and awkward and completely clueless as to what she should do. She wanted to help, but knew that her help was not wanted at the moment – and understandably so. She was still dazed from the whole experience, too much so to wonder about the tenderness in her mother’s eyes as she looked at Spike.
She did realize, however, that her mother did not really seem surprised by the whole thing. Spike must have told Dawn what had happened, and Dawn must have contacted her. Buffy was just too overwhelmed by all of it to try to figure it out now.
She felt a strange mixture of emotions – dread, shame, relief – like a child who knows she’s going to be in trouble for wandering off, but is still so very grateful to have been found.
“Mom,” she began weakly, feeling like she should try to explain – but having no idea what to say.
“Buffy, please be quiet,” Joyce cut her off in a quiet, terse voice that made Buffy flinch. For the moment, her concern was completely focused on Spike.
Over the past few months, the blonde vampire had become a welcome fixture in her home – an extended part of her family, like one of her own children to her, though in reality he was over a century older than her.
In some ways, the emotional, expressive creature, who wore his heart on his sleeve, and tried sloppily to cover it up with a façade of bravado, was every bit as vulnerable in her eyes as either of her daughters – every bit as much in need of love and – well, mothering.
When Dawn had called her and given her a shaky, uncertain description of what was going on between Spike and her older daughter, she had found it difficult to understand – but the fear in her youngest’s voice had been enough to make her cut her trip short and come home early.
She had worried about Spike when he had seemingly dropped off the face of the planet about a month earlier, and had worried still more when Buffy had mentioned finding him, apparently rendered unable to so much as defend himself against humans, let alone feed.
It was clear from the start that Buffy held no sympathy for the situation of the essentially crippled vampire, and Joyce had thought it wisest not to mention his friendship with her and Dawn – at least not while he was the captive of Buffy and her Watcher.
She was quite certain that Buffy would be furious over the whole situation. Whether or not she would recognize the reason behind her anger, Joyce knew that it would be the idea of being deceived by her mother and sister that would bother Buffy the most.
But Spike would be the one to pay the price.
Buffy had responded to her mother’s subtle questioning by saying that she could not stake Spike in his current helpless condition – she just would not feel right about hurting a creature that could not fight back, and Joyce had felt at the time that she was sincere. So, she had kept her mouth shut and hoped for the best, determined however to intervene the moment it seemed that Spike was in danger.
And that moment had come when she had walked through her front door, just in time to see the helpless vampire crumpled under the power of her daughter’s brutal fist.
“Spike,” she said softly, crouching down beside him where Buffy had been, her serious, concerned eyes seeking his downcast gaze.
His mouth was trembling as he drew in short, shallow breaths, obviously in pain and clearly badly shaken by the incident, but managing to keep an impressive amount of control over his emotions, considering the circumstances.
She leaned forward, edging nearer and reaching toward him with a gentle hand. “Spike,” she repeated firmly. “Are you okay?”
She was surprised, and a bit hurt, when he jerked away from her – but realized an instant later that it was not her he was afraid of, when his eyes shot up anxiously to Buffy’s face, obviously trying to gauge her reaction to what Joyce had done. He drew back cautiously against the base of the center island, trying to make it unmistakable to Buffy that he and Joyce were not overly close.
Not anywhere near as close as they actually were.
He had no way of knowing what small, innocent thing might set off her jealous, possessive rage next.
Joyce turned wide, stunned eyes on her daughter, as intuition revealed to her the reason for Spike’s fear, and the look of anguished disbelief on her mother’s face struck Buffy like a blow, as Joyce shook her head slowly in dismay.
Then, her mouth set in a firm line, and she said in a calm but severe voice, “Buffy – I think you’d better leave the room for the moment.”
Buffy’s eyes widened, a cold feeling of fear beginning in the pit of her stomach – she was beginning to feel like an outsider in her own home. This thing inside her, whatever it was, was turning her *into* an outsider.
“But – Mom…” she protested in a weak, trembling voice.
“Buffy!” Joyce snapped, lowering her voice when Spike flinched almost imperceptibly beside her – presumably not because of Joyce’s anger, but because of Buffy’s potential reaction to it. “I am your mother and this is my home. And I am telling you to leave the room. *Now*.”
Buffy recognized the tone of her mother’s voice, knew that there would be no room for argument, and turned to slowly, dejectedly obey.
“Buffy Anne Summers.”
Her mother’s firm voice stopped her in the doorway, and she turned around, biting her lower lip, a faint glimmer of hope in her tearful green eyes. The look on her face, while completely genuine, had rarely failed to get her her way in the past.
It did this time.
“Do not leave this house,” Joyce said quietly, a warning note to her voice. “You don’t need to be here right now. But we *are* going to discuss this, young lady. Tonight. So don’t go far.”
Buffy nodded, her head lowered in subdued disappointment, before she turned and went up the stairs to her bedroom – still just as she had left it when she had moved into the dorms on campus.
As soon as she was out of sight, Joyce saw Spike visibly relax, his whole body trembling as he leaned his head back against the island, breathing out a deep, shaky breath of relief. Joyce watched him cautiously for a moment, trying to gauge his condition. His mouth was bleeding and bruised from Buffy’s blow, but other than that she could see no visible wounds on him – and yet, he appeared to be in pain.
Slowly, silently, she reached out a hand and took his firmly. Instinctively he started to jerk it back, before remembering himself and relaxing his hand in her gentle grip, bringing a second cool, shaking hand to cover hers in a desperate need for reassurance. At that silent signal that it was all right, Joyce slid a little closer to him.
Dawn took the cue as well, and moved eagerly closer. “Are you okay? Spike, are you all right?” she asked anxiously, her voice trembling, afraid and uncertain.
Joyce held up a hand to silence her daughter, but Spike nodded shakily, opening his eyes to look up at Dawn with a weak smile. “ ‘M all right, Bit. ‘S all right. I – I’ll be okay in – in a minute.”
His breath was still coming hard, and he winced painfully as he finished speaking, leaning his head back again, his hand rising to cover the still-throbbing mark on his throat, concealed from Dawn and Joyce by his shirt. He had no idea what Buffy had done to him. This was different from the other times she had used her mark to punish him. The pain had lessened since she had done it, but was still coursing through him in ever-weakening waves – too slowly weakening.
“What is it?” Joyce asked gently, aware that something was wrong that was not immediately obvious, edging in nearer and putting a comforting arm around his shoulder as she looked him over more closely with a concerned frown. “Where are you hurt?”
He shook his head weakly, not knowing how to answer her question simply, and his mind too full of pain to come up with a proper answer. “It – it’ll pass…” he whispered. “It’ll…”
His voice trailed off, as another wave of pain hit him, weaker than the last – but still strong enough. He pulled away just slightly from Joyce’s arm around him, uncomfortable with her gentle affection. He was in physical pain, and his emotions were so raw and near to the surface from the past few days of abuse he had endured, that he was sure that any more tenderness would cause him to break down completely.
And that was the last thing he wanted, especially in front of Dawn.
Joyce looked at him closely for a moment, and then followed her usually accurate motherly instincts. She did not loosen her gentle arm around him, only pulled him slightly closer, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She looked up at Dawn as she edged closer to Spike.
“Dawnie, Honey…could you give us a few minutes? There’s something I’d like to talk to Spike about.”
Dawn frowned, reluctant to obey. She did not want to be sent from the room like a child, so the “grown-ups” could talk. Spike was as much her friend as he was her mother’s. But then – Dawn’s instincts were nearly as good as her mother’s, and she sensed that this call on her mother’s part was the right one. She nodded silently and headed toward the door.
Joyce turned her attention back to Spike, who had just drawn in a sharp breath as the latest wave of pain, much milder now, coursed through him – so neither noticed the girl’s moment of indecision. She had planned on waiting in the living room with a bit of mindless television, but she stopped at the base of the stairs, looking up them thoughtfully. As she did, her jaw slowly set in a hard, angry line, and her eyes narrowed as her decision was made.
Quickly and purposefully, Dawn made her way up the stairs.
Oblivious to her daughter’s decision, Joyce turned her full attention on Spike, who was still breathing hard with the exertion of Buffy’s punishment on his body, but had an expression of relief on his face – as if the pain had finally passed. Joyce gently sat forward, placing her hands on his shoulders and urging him to sit up, to face her. His eyes were still down, and he swallowed hard, realizing that the moment of truth, so to speak, had come.
“So what happened?” Joyce asked softly, but intently, seeking his gaze.
He still kept it stubbornly averted, his jaw set in determination – but still trembling just a bit, his hand still unconsciously resting at his throat.
Joyce noticed that immediately, and took one hand from his shoulder to gently tip his chin up to meet her eyes. Reluctantly, he complied; he could resist Joyce Summers no better than he could have resisted his own mum as a boy.
His eyes widened in alarm, and he swallowed reflexively, as he saw her intent in her eyes, before she took her other hand from his shoulder to close around his wrist, gently pulling it down away from the spot he was so carefully covering. He shook his head slightly, a pleading look in his eyes, but her eyes were so full of compassion and understanding, and he knew beyond all doubt that if there was one person he could trust completely, it was Joyce Summers.
Reluctantly, he allowed her to move his hand, to carefully pull the soft fabric of his shirt collar down far enough to reveal the glaring red mark on his throat; he turned his head away, his eyes closed in unexplained shame, not wanting to see her reaction to what she would see.
Her eyes widened in silent shock as she took in the puncture wound, healed very little since the moment it was inflicted, and at the moment appearing livid and inflamed – most likely as a result of Buffy’s touch only moments before.
After a moment, she released his shirt, allowing the fabric to cover the mark again, and he winced slightly at the twinge of pain at the contact.
“We need to take care of that,” Joyce said softly, a bit briskly, obviously trying to put off thinking about the truth she already knew of just how that ugly wound had been inflicted, by focusing on taking care of Spike. “We need to…”
Spike shook his head listlessly, his eyes still downcast. “Can’t take care of it. Won’t heal,” he explained softly. “ ‘S permanent.”
Joyce’s eyes widened again as she took that in, with all its implications, in the light of what Dawn had told her on the phone – which was all starting to make a lot more sense now.
After a moment, she forced herself to ask for the confirmation of what she already knew. “And,” she said in a voice barely over a whisper, “*Buffy*…?”
He nodded weakly, his eyes closed against the tears that welled up in his eyes. “She claimed me. As – her mate. I’m hers now. Forever. Like – like – marriage.”
He steeled himself inwardly for the reaction he expected, to his best attempt to explain the situation in human terms. There was no way that this beautiful lady would see a creature such as himself as a fit eternal mate for her lovely, intelligent, powerful daughter – a Slayer, no less.
But Joyce’s reaction was nothing like he expected.
There *was* anger in her voice when she spoke – but it was not directed at him.
“And this is the sort of behavior that Buffy thinks is appropriate in that sort of relationship?” she said in a voice that trembled with outrage. “Her father and I didn’t always get along. In the end we couldn’t make it work out. But he *never*…” She paused, shaking her head, fighting for control of her emotions. “I would never have even *considered*…” she tried again, finally giving up and pulling the slightly resistant vampire into her arms.
His body was stiff, rigid in her arms, as he valiantly tried to keep from breaking down – but her sympathy, her concern and love were just so much what he had needed the past few days – he could feel the tremors rising up in him, beginning in his stomach and shaking through him.
“It’s okay,” Joyce whispered softly as she felt his physical reaction to the emotions that were overcoming him. “It’s okay. She had no right to do this to you, Spike, and we’re gonna get this worked out.”
*There’s no way to work it out,* he thought despairingly, as he lowered his head to Joyce’s shoulder, gasping in an attempt to hold back his tears. *It’s done…it’s done…forever…no way to…*
“It’s gonna be all right,” Joyce’s gentle reassurance broke into his negative thoughts, her hand rising to the back of his head in a supportive, motherly gesture that made his struggle for control that much harder. “It’s okay. And no matter what happens, I’m not gonna let her hurt you, Spike.” She paused, and he felt the emphatic shake of her head against his.
“I don’t care if she *is* my own daughter,” she went on softly after a moment, slowly rocking back and forth in a soothing motion, holding him close to her. “Nobody messes with *my* family – even – well – my family.”
Her awkward words made him laugh softly in spite of himself – shaky, shallow laughter that suddenly became deep, wrenching sobs, as the power of being accepted, being included in such a way – her *family* -- created such a contrast with the savage possession of the bond he had found himself in, as to make control no longer possible.
He broke down, allowing himself to relax against her, sobbing against her shoulder, shaking, as she held him close, rubbing her hand slowly up and down his back as she had done to Dawn and Buffy countless times in moments of sorrow or sickness.
She was a mother – it was sort of her job.
She gave him all the time he needed to get out the pain, the confusion and torment of the past few days, not saying a word, just holding and soothing him until he was finally able to regain some control of his emotions. When his tears had ceased, she pulled back gently, her head tipped downward until she caught his eye, and he reluctantly looked up at her, a subdued, uncertain question in his eyes.
“Okay,” she said softly, rubbing a tear from his cheek with her thumb, a soft, sympathetic smile on her lips. “Better?”
He nodded slowly. “Feel a right ponce,” he muttered. “But – yeah. Better.”
She smiled, shaking her in silent dismissal of his negative self-assessment. “Now,” she said quietly, leaning back against the counter, her hand sliding down from his shoulder to supportively take his hand.
“Why don’t you tell me how this happened?”
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