Chapter Text
“you whisper
i love you
what you mean is
i don’t want you to leave”
--Rupi Kaur, the breaking
...
Joyce parked the SUV in the driveway of her home.
She pulled the keys from the ignition, cutting short the local talk show host mid-rant. (PCP gangs run wild; what are we spending our taxpayer dollars on anyway? If only Mayor Wilkins could see Sunnydale now.) Popping open the trunk, she gathered as many grocery bags as she could carry.
Once Joyce and Buffy had had an assembly line system when it came to groceries, in which one person would grab bags and the other would sort everything out in the kitchen, a leftover remnant from LA. (“Many hands make light work,” Hank used to remark.) But Buffy was gone, off to college; Joyce was alone now.
It was supposed to be liberating. Joyce’s girlfriends—the ones who hadn’t been eaten or turned into zombies, anyway—all talked about the children growing up and leaving the nest with bated breath and an aura of awed anticipation. In many ways it was nice. Joyce could bring men home without worrying about Buffy catching her in the act of being an adult who enjoyed sex. The chances of said men being a robot or just straight up evil had also drastically decreased, though Joyce was sure that was a coincidence. As was the house not finding creative new ways to be broken by some monster of the week. She could invite her book club friends over, drink wine, and moan about life without feeling that nagging sense of guilt.
The house was far too large for one person.
Even when Buffy lived there, part of Joyce had questioned the purchase. An apartment would’ve been more sensible, less of a strain on the budget. But it felt like their home in LA, only without Hank. At the time, she’d wanted some sense of normalcy and familiarity for Buffy (which was laughable in retrospect, not that Joyce had any way of knowing that)—and for herself.
But it was just so large for one person.
Joyce set the grocery bags on the counter, going back out for a second round. Was it any wonder she spent most of her time at the art gallery these days? Thinking of the art gallery in conjunction with Buffy made Joyce wince: yet another failure to add to the long list of failures over the past three and a half years.
Sometimes Joyce felt as though she was being punished for not being a good enough mother or a good enough wife. Maybe if she’d stayed with Hank, worked things out, didn’t move to Sunnydale, Buffy would’ve never been called as the Slayer. It was an irrational thought, Joyce knew that—Buffy had been expelled from Hemery High because of her slaying—but the conviction persisted, especially in moments like this, when a task that had once been simple and easy as putting away groceries now stretched out twice as long, tedious and dull.
When the milk and eggs were at last placed in the fridge; when the flour and sugar found their proper place in the pantry, Joyce headed upstairs. She needed to finish packing for the Thanksgiving trip. There were still several days left before she had to leave, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared. And besides, it gave Joyce something to do.
How were Darlene and the others? Her niece had been so little last time they’d met up; Buffy had held Cecilia in her arms and crooned the fussing child to sleep with soft, albeit off-key (Buffy was a great many things: a good singer was not one of them), lullabies. It had been nice, even as the strain of Joyce’s marriage falling apart cast a pall over everything.
Joyce was both disappointed and relieved that Buffy wouldn’t be coming along—Joyce knew the family saw her daughter as something of a black sheep these days. Really, it was for the best. Buffy could focus on her studies during the holidays. Joyce sat on the bed, staring at a blouse, unmoved. Maybe she’d take a nap. She still had time, after all. Her plane would be leaving early Wednesday morning. Illinois wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Or maybe she’d turn on the TV, see if there were any fun, soapy shows to watch, like Passions, Joyce rather liked—
The doorbell rang.
Joyce started, gripping the blouse to her breast as though someone had tried to rip it away. A loud staccato of a knock followed, echoing through the large, empty home, then the doorbell impatiently sounded off again. Standing, Joyce called out, “Coming! One moment!”
She had no idea who would’ve stopped by at this time of day, and in such rude fashion, too. The knocking had picked up again, incessant and even a little desperate, if that was possible. Frowning, Joyce set aside the blouse and headed downstairs.
“What—?” Opening the door, Joyce was stunned by what she saw:
There stood a familiar-looking man, wrapped beneath a tattered blanket and smoking. Not in the figurative sense, like smoking tobacco, but literally smoking as though someone had set him on fire. Dark bags underlined his red-rimmed eyes, face sunken and skull-like and emaciated.
“Help… me…” The man collapsed over the threshold, laying in a heap at Joyce’s feet.
…
Spike had been having a no good, very bad week. Year. Years, really.
First, he loses the Gem of Amara. Then he gets kidnapped by nancy boy soldiers. He escapes, which, hello, big bad, of course he does, only to find out he can’t feed for some reason. And to add insult to injury, Harmony, his (technically ex) girlfriend threw him out! Threw him out! He was supposed to be the one throwing and staking and general ne’er-do-welling!
At least someone was sympathetic to his plight. Joyce nodded along, making a batch of hot cocoa, as he told her of all his woes. It might’ve been a touch embellished, and Spike conveniently forgot about the part where he tried to murder her daughter (and her daughter’s friend), but he was a victim of circumstance, dammit. Joyce, right fine lady that she was, was the only person who understood that.
And to think he’d almost gone and asked the Slayer for asylum instead.
“How awful, William.” Joyce set the cup of cocoa before him. Spike was touched that she remembered to add the little marshmallows he liked, even if what he really wanted was blood, frankly. Much of their chat last year had been lost in the fumes of alcohol and grief, but he hadn’t forgotten the comfort she’d provided, before his wanker of a grandsire and her bitch of a daughter showed, ruining everything. “But I’m not sure how much I can do for you. Maybe we should call Buffy…?”
“No!” Spike straightened. “Err, no. Least, not yet. She wouldn’t get it. Just need a kip and some blood, anyway, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Blood?” Joyce looked troubled. She’d been rubbing the same spot on the counter with a damp rag for the past couple seconds.
“Pig’s blood’ll do in a pinch,” Spike quickly reassured her. He wanted to smack himself; had he really just offered to drink that swill willingly? Christ, he needed to figure out what was wrong, the sooner the better. “Just have to swing by the butcher’s store, no mess, no fuss. And, uh, if you have any Weetabix?”
“Oh. I don’t, but—I just went shopping. I can swing by tomorrow after work?”
Spike almost lost his temper. He hadn’t eaten in over a week. Her scent pulsed in his throat and he had to bite back the bloodlust sliding out of his gums and over his brow with a grunt. Instead, Spike focused on drinking hot cocoa, a vein ticking in his temple. “Right then.”
Joyce hovered, uncertain, by the sink. She was still rubbing at that same spot with the dishrag. An awkward silence bloomed between them.
“We have a guest bedroom. Would you like to take your… kip there?” she asked.
Spike considered the offer. “Wouldn’t happen to have a cot in the basement, would you? Prefer places underground, since, y’know, vampire.”
“O-of course.”
Joyce almost walked down still holding the rag, paused, turned back, and set it aside. Meanwhile, Spike opened the door to the basement for her, running on autopilot. She seemed surprised but nodded, smiling.
“Thank you, William.”
“‘S nothing,” he said, a touch embarrassed himself. Where the hell had that come from?
The basement was much like any other basement—cool and dark. At least Spike could depend on some things to stay the same. Joyce kept the laundry down here, it seemed, the washing machine rumbling softly in the corner.
They pulled out the cot, a ratty old thing. Joyce apologized profusely, but Spike didn’t mind; he’d slept on far worse before. He hadn’t brought much aside from the duster on his back and the tattered blanket still gripped loosely in his hands. Once everything was satisfactory he flopped forward, dragged down into the covers by his own exhaustion. The hunger had dulled into an ever-present ache that sapped at his strength. Still, Spike had lasted this long, he could last a little longer.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” Joyce wrung her hands now that she had nothing to distract them with.
It occurred to Spike that she was worried about him; he couldn’t recall the last time anyone had worried about him. Dru, maybe, when he’d been put in the wheelchair. But it had been in her own, strange way, and she’d ultimately betrayed him for Angelus regardless.
“Nah. Not much they can do for the undead, Joyce. Once I get some blood in me I’ll be fine.”
She was speaking, but the words came from far, far away as Spike slid into blissful sleep. His dreams were strange; he didn’t remember them at all when he woke up hours later. He never did.
…
Joyce sat in the living room. The television was on. Passions was airing. She stared at the phone from across the way.
She really should call Buffy. This was Slayer business. Nothing to do with her.
Yet…
And yet…
Spike wasn't anything like the only other vampire Joyce had any sort of real experience with, the madman who’d kidnapped her and threatened Buffy. Just remembering that night made Joyce’s hands shake. Buffy had also told her many cautionary tales about the species overall, and she did still have some vague memories of parent-teacher night (and he-who-wouldn’t-be-named, although her dislike of him had nothing to do with vampirism). But Spike mostly seemed sad and lonely and hurting.
And this house was far too big for one person.
Besides, he couldn’t attack anyone anymore. Why would Spike lie about that? So he was safe. Not Slayer business at all.
Joyce heard the basement door bang open. Low swearing reached her ears before Spike did—and before she saw Spike she saw the laundry bin filled with clothes.
“You finished the wash.” Joyce couldn’t keep the shock out of her voice. Domesticity and vampires seemed, as Buffy might’ve put it, rather unmixy.
Spike paused, blinking at her over the mountain of linens. He looked around, almost expecting someone else to materialize and take the bin from his hands: claim ownership over it.
“Oh yeah.” He frowned. “Didn’t mean to.” He added, “I mixed the whites with the colors.”
This was obviously a lie.
She couldn’t tell if he was reassuring her or himself. Then Spike caught sight of the television and his face brightened. He said, “Oh! Passions! Is Timmy still stuck down the well?”
“Actually…” Joyce took a deep breath before catching Spike up on the sordid affairs of Harmony residents. He listened intently.
She didn’t have any male friends to discuss the show with, and even a decent number of her female friends regarded soap operas with thinly veiled disdain. Well, they’d have a right to judge when their daughters were regularly risking their lives every night, while they were trapped alone in a too-large house utterly helpless to prevent it.
Which was how she found herself on the floor, folding clothes with Spike, earnestly discussing Passions and soulmates and how Timmy tied the whole show together.
“... You can stay, you know.” The words slipped out mid-tirade. Spike tilted his head. “You can stay as long as you like, William. I don’t mind. But you’ll need to learn to watch your language around here, and no smoking inside the house, either.”
He didn’t answer right away, twirling a sock on his ring finger. “Ta, love.”
If Joyce didn’t kick him out, she’d have to tell Buffy sooner rather than later. Not because he was a vampire and she was a slayer, but because he was a stranger staying at their house. The apprehension was so strong, Joyce almost regretted the offer.
Then Timmy managed a daring escape; Joyce and Spike both gasped in unison. After that, she found it very hard to regret anything at all.