Chapter 3
It was as though someone had dunked her head underwater and chained her feet to the bottom. But now she was free, kicking furiously to break the surface.
“Buffy, what’s going on here?”
She opened her mouth, but words caught in her throat. She was straddling Spike. His hands were gripping her upper thighs and from the feel of it, he was more than happy to see her. And God, what had she done?
“Just sparring,” she heard Spike say right before he pushed her off his lap and rose to his feet fluidly as if nothing had happened at all. And here she was, sitting on her butt, feeling like a child who had broken her mother’s favourite vase.
“You’re bleeding,” her mother said and Spike just shrugged, nonplussed.
“Slipped up is all. ‘S already healing, no worries.”
While her mother’s glance darted between the two of them, Buffy wanted to stare him down and say, I don’t need you to defend me. And why was he? Because this hadn’t been sparring. She’d lost control of herself as she never had before. She’d gone all Hulk Smash. She still remembered the hunger for it, the craving to paint her skin with his blood.
“Well, let me heat some food for you, at least.” Her mother gave her the look Buffy knew meant they’d talk later. Spike didn’t look at her at all, hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans as he followed Joyce into the kitchen.
He lied for you.
No, not for me. He’s going to hold this over my head somehow, twist it all around and use words to cut me up. It’s what he does best. Hitting the nerve.
She stared after him and slowly picked herself up from the floor, secretly terrified of losing control like that again. And the worst thing? She didn’t even get to eat her sandwich.
*******
“So… you two were just sparring,” Joyce said, her arms crossed over her chest as she looked around the kitchen. “That’s why it looks like a war zone in here.”
He bent down to right the chair, pick the fallen knife and scattered bits of unfinished sandwich up off the floor, feeling a lot like the time his mother had caught him sneaking bits of fresh-out-of-the-oven gingerbread into the pockets of his breeches when the cook’s back had been turned. “Well… got a bit carried away, I suppose.” It had been stupid of him to rile the Slayer up, what with that piece of plastic shoved in his brain. Except, he’d do it all over again. He’d always loved holding his palm over an open flame, to see how close he could get without catching on fire and there was nobody who had more fire than her.
Joyce shook her head, her shoulders sagging and bloody hell, he felt a tiny bit bad for making a mess. He threw the sandwich into the bin and put the knife on the counter, almost sheepishly.
“I swear to God it will be a miracle if you two and the house survive the holidays.” She opened the fridge, took out a bag of blood and glanced at him over her shoulder. “How do you…”
“’S fine, I’ll do it.” He took it from her, not missing her relieved smile before she went over to sit by the kitchen island, regarding him quietly.
“Why did you do it? Invite me here?” he asked, his back to her, setting the temperature to 98.6 and watching the mug rotate inside the microwave.
“Nobody should spend Christmas alone.”
“A demon here, you know. Celebrating Christ’s birth is not usually on our annual bucket list.”
“Why did you accept then?”
Got him there, didn’t she? It was a bloody good thing Joyce couldn’t see his face. Felt safer this way, less likely to have her see him split down the middle. “Nothing better to do anyway. And… not like you gave me much of a choice, did you?”
The microwave pinged and he took the mug out, apprehensive to face her, but doing so anyway. No reason to be scared of a middle-aged woman. Well, unless she wielded an axe.
“I can be stubborn, I know. But so can you.” She paused, as if considering her next words. “It’s okay to admit you’re lonely, Spike.”
He tensed, drinking so he wouldn’t have to speak.
“And to answer your question, I invited you because I know how it feels. With Buffy off at the campus, I get lonely sometimes too. And I thought it would be more… lively, with you here. It’s kind of quiet with just Buffy and me.”
“Well, lively is one word for it.” He hid his smile behind the rim of the mug. “But it’s just how we are, the Slayer and me. We snark, we brawl, always have. Suppose we always will.” One day, he’d get the chip out and pay her back for all the times she’d broken his nose without a reason, looked at him as if he was a rat scuttling down in the sewers. There was nothing he wanted more than to take her on again, the one adversary he hadn’t managed to best. They were so different and yet, too much alike in some ways. Followed the blood, not the brains, lived for the rush of it all, even if the uptight bint wouldn’t admit it even to herself.
Joyce shifted on the stool, hands linked on the countertop. “I won’t pretend to understand because I know… obviously, the regular rules don’t apply to you two. Violence seems to be a part of the package, regardless of how much it wigs me out, as Buffy would say. But… do you think you could try to be friendlier towards one another?”
“Never say never,” he said, secretly thinking I’d rather chew on nails. The two of them could never be friendly. As much as he liked Joyce and could tolerate the rest of them, he’d never be a ‘white hat’. He’d rather sunbathe before that happened.
“Promise me you’ll try then. It would be good for you too, since you can’t really do anything but let Buffy hit you.”
“Hey!”
“It’s true.” Joyce shrugged. “So, promise?”
“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “I promise.” There you go, you sod, making promises you can’t possibly keep. Brilliant. And it wouldn’t mean jack if it wasn’t Joyce asking it of you.
“You know, sometimes I wish they sold parenting books for stuff like this. I try not to think about her going out every night, fighting God knows what and getting hurt, and I know that for both you and Buffy it’s almost normal, but I just…” A frustrated sigh rolled off her shoulders. “I find it hard to deal with sometimes.”
“To be fair, you’re not the one who has to deal with it.” He drained the rest of the blood and went over to the sink to rinse the mug out. “You shouldn’t worry anyway. She’s… she knows how to handle herself,” he said grudgingly. “We may not see eye to eye most of the time but I can admit she’s one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen plenty. Plus, she’s got you lot to keep her going. ‘S what the others didn’t have, why they let go.”
“I guess. I still worry.”
“’S what happens when you love someone. Know you can’t help it. A word of advice though, those parenting books are rubbish.” He hooked his thumb in the direction of the coffee machine. “Coffee?”
“Thank you,” she said with appreciation he wasn’t used to hearing. “Maybe you should have told me that years ago when I bought about a hundred of them.”
“You don’t need a stranger to tell you what to do. All you need to do is love her, be patient and listen when she needs to talk, even if all you want to do is slap some sense into her.” It’s what he did, for Dru. Would have given her the world if she’d let him. He still missed her. It was a phantom sort of ache, like missing a severed limb, wishing it would grow back one day and knowing the chances were more than slim.
“That’s… actually good advice.” The coffee machine whirred, brewing. “You didn’t have… you didn’t have any kids, did you? I mean, when you were still human?”
The thought of his human self even finding a woman willing enough to spare him a second glance let alone touch him was ridiculous enough to make him laugh. “No, no little ones. Just… Dru. Yeah. She was a bit of a child herself. Someone had to take care of her, but I didn’t mind. Would have done anything for her.”
“You really loved her, didn’t you?”
“Do. Still… do,” he said, words tumbling out almost too quickly. He looked away, busying his hands with pouring coffee into a mug decorated with dancing kittens. Would he crawl back if she asked now? Was it Dru he missed, or was it the feeling of being needed, of taking care of someone who’d let him love them, even if they’d never love him back?
‘Course I would. I’d take her back. She made me who I am.
But she’s never loved you the way you wanted. Maybe it’s not enough.
“As I said before, her loss,” Joyce said, startling him out of his thoughts. “You’ll find someone better.”
He should have been angry and denied it as he would have months ago, but the fight had gone out of him, so he just shrugged, grimacing. “Can’t do worse than Harmony, can I?”
Joyce clucked her tongue in disapproval and stood up. “I’m sure she had her qualities.”
Sure she did, a big nicely rounded pair of them, he thought with a dirty smirk.
“Okay, I can see what you’re thinking and I’m going to pretend I have no idea what it is.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, smiling his most innocent smile.
“Good.” Joyce reached over him to take the mug, her hand squeezing his shoulder. Funny how he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him with deliberate kindness. “Thank you for the coffee. I’m making dinner in a minute and since you promised me… why don’t you go help Buffy set up the tree?”
It was more of forceful suggestion rather than a question and so he could only bring himself to nod.
The Slayer with one giant stake at her disposal? Sounds like fun.
*******
“What in the bleeding hell do you think you’re doing?”
She was a disaster on two legs, battling with the tree as if it was a Fungus demon. Not that he could blame her. He sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere near that giant anti-vampire-friendly monstrosity.
“Shut up.”
Her cheeks were flushed, teeth gritted as she wrestled the tree almost twice her size into the upright position in the corner of the living room. He could have offered to help. He could have, but she’d probably use it as an excuse to ‘accidentally’ shove a branch through his heart. Besides, it was so much more amusing to watch her struggle.
You promised, William.
Fuck, didn’t promise to help her, just not taunt her that much.
Once she got it upright, the proud smile on her face slumped when she realised she somehow had to wedge it into the stand.
Well, this ought to be entertaining.
He sprawled on the couch and watched it all unravel.
“Are you just going to sit there?” she asked, chest heaving. Yeah, she was spitting mad and frustrated. Made all the blood flow just the way he liked.
“What? Does the almighty Slayer need help?”
“I never need your help.”
“There you go then.”
The first time she tried, the stand slipped and the tree fell to the floor with a whoosh.
“I hate you, stupid tree!”
“What has that poor piece of wood done to you?”
“It’s evil.”
The second attempt ended up even worse when she failed to see the stand right next to her foot and managed to trip over it. It happened almost in glorious slow motion, the way her eyes widened, arms flailing to catch onto something as she toppled backwards, bringing the tree along for the ride.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then he saw her, buried beneath a pile of needles, cursing, scratched up and limbs askew, and he couldn’t help it. He laughed so hard his stomach hurt, his cheeks strained and aching. Yet he managed to stagger towards her and roll the tree off. Never let it be said that he didn’t try.
“I hate you.” She was pouting, standing up and shaking stray needles from beneath her baggy T-shirt. It was a sight for sore eyes.
“Don’t blame me because you’re useless at this whole Christmas shindig.”
“Ugh. My hands are all sticky with sap.” She frowned and now that he was so close, he couldn’t help but smell the faint scent of blood. He might hate her but he wouldn’t mind licking those scratches until they were clean.
“Stop staring at me like that, it’s wigging me out.” She stepped away, arching her eyebrow. “There’s plenty of wood to go around, buddy.”
“Well, stop smelling like dinner then!”
She poked his chest with an indignant finger. “I swear to God, if you—”
“Are you two okay in there?” Joyce’s voice carried from the kitchen, interrupting the staring match.
“Just dandy!” he yelled back, removing the Slayer’s finger. Her skin was blazing hot against his. “As much as I enjoy watching you fail, why don’t we put our differences aside for a mo and get this bloody tree up, yeah?”
“Fine,” she said sullenly. “But I’m only letting you help because I’ve got to go patrolling soon and Mom would kill me if I got any more needles on the floor.”
Being manipulated by Joyce seemed to be an ongoing theme here. “Whatever, short stuff. Hold it while I get the stand beneath.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. And you’re one to talk about being short,” she said, but lifted the tree anyway.
Together, they managed to get the tree up and secure in five minutes, ready to decorate.
He had a tinsel angel in his hand when she said, “No angels! Because of… reasons.”
He rolled his eyes but dropped it back into the box anyway. “Does Captain America know you’re still mooning over your ex?”
“I’m not mooning. I’m all with the sunny, non… cloudiness.”
“Are you even speaking English?”
She reached up to hang a snow-white ornament near the top, her T-shirt riding up to expose her lower back. He looked away.
“Are you seriously saying that, Mister ‘oh bleeding bloody hell, sodding pansy’.”
“That’s not how I talk, you bl--… At least I know what proper grammar is.”
Her response was to stick her tongue out. It was incredible how annoyingly childish the Slayer could be. This was the creature that made the demon population shake in their boots. It was a sad, sad world.
“You’re a hypocrite anyway. You’re still pining after Drusilla. At least I’m trying to move on.”
He had a half mind to strangle her with the string lights, headache be damned. “I was with her for over a century, so excuse me if I find it hard to just forget everything with a snap of my fingers. You and the Poofter hardly compare.”
The muscles in her back tensed like a tautened bowstring and for a split second he wondered if she’d snap. But then she slowly relaxed and bent down to get more ornaments. As much as she liked to pretend it hadn’t touched her, he knew better. Hitting the weak spots had always been almost too easy with her. She was an open book written in a language he spoke fluently, her emotions see-through.
She’s not the only transparent one.
“Just because we weren’t together as long as you and her, doesn’t mean I loved him any less,” she said, almost too quietly. “Love, I mean. Love him any less.”
So many hurtful things he could have said, to dig inside the wound a little deeper with salted words and feel her flinch and try to twist away like a wounded animal. Instead, he swallowed it all back, hating her just a little bit more for making him feel for her. For making him acknowledge another thing they had in common. They just gave and gave and played with their hearts raw and open on the palm of their hands and all they got in return was heartbreak.
“Hand me the other end of lights, will you?”
They finished decorating the tree in silence.
TBC
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Previously: All of you have been brilliant and Joyce interrupted Buffy's murderous (or quite possibly sexually frustrated) rampage.
Beta'd by All4Spike, the best beta anyone could ask for!
Beta'd by All4Spike, the best beta anyone could ask for!
Chapter End Notes:
There was quite a bit of Joyce/Spike in this chapter. Hope you didn't mind that too much!