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DeNile
by Indri
SUMMARY: Spike and Joyce, late in Season 4. PG. Spoilers for early
season five. 1300 words. Written May 2002.
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The fact of the matter is that Joyce Summers is clearly insane. It's
amazing really, how normal she looks---there's none of the eye-rolling
or wiggly hand movements he used to get with Dru. A fair amount of
babbling, yeah, but that's almost cute. And yet she's daft as a brush,
completely off her trolley, and stark raving bonkers with a cherry on top.
Because there she is, running around the kitchen, fetching him snacks.
Fetching /him/ snacks. Doesn't she remember hitting him with an axe? Or
is that all bygones-be-bygones,
you've-helped-save-the-world-often-enough-now, or maybe it's just
at-least-you're-not-that-Angel-fellow? Because here she comes, back from
the pantry, with a box of saltines and a bowl.
"Ah, crackers!'' he says, because this has become a bit of a game for
him these days, and by Christ he needs something to do. With the chip in
his head there's not much fun to be had when there's nothing on telly.
Demons to kill, when he finds them, and the joys of home decoration, but
it's not as if he's planning on being in Sunnydale long, is it? He'll
just get the sodding chip out of his head and be on his way. With a song
in his heart and all that.
He'd bumped into her first in a department store, where he'd been
shoplifting CDs. She'd recognised him from three aisles away and came up
to talk. Just visiting, was he? and he'd been forced to say no, he'd
been in town for a while. And she'd done that sad little smile thing
which meant "No-one comes to see me.'' And he thought, for a
microsecond, about how little Joyce had been mentioned by the
Slayerettes of late. Had Buffy gone to see her mum at all? So, slickly,
and without a moment's further thought, he said that he should pop by.
Well, it would piss off the slayer and he had to keep his invite up at
the house because there was no telling if the Slayer had had it revoked.
Besides, it was an opportunity for something, even if he wasn't sure
quite what yet, anyway.
Sympathy and hot chocolate. As he'd shaken her hand, he'd thought,
gullible just doesn't cover it.
He recalled the last time he'd just "popped by'' the house, looking for
little Red's spellbook. He figured he could still get into the place,
and he was glad to see a light on because he thought Joyce might be
there. Then he could have a good meal to take the edge off the liquor,
pick up the book and get back to the witch.
But as he'd wobbled drunkenly in the doorway, something strange had
happened. The bloody woman smiled. It was the warmth and sincerity of
that welcome which did it. It wouldn't have happened to Angelus because
the ponce liked to play tricks, befriend people for months before he
killed them. Spike didn't have the patience and, frankly, when he turned
up at a doorway he expected people to faint and scream and shout bloody
blue murder. So he was just drunk enough to get thrown by her smile, as
if she had bypassed all the hunt-kill-eat routines in his brain. And
before he'd realised what had happened, he was sitting in the kitchen
with a mug in his hand and was enjoying it quite a bit. He'd already
bored every bartender from here to Rio about Dru and now he was going to
bore her too.
Still, turnabout's fair play, so here he is back in her kitchen again,
getting bored by one of her stories this time. Oh yeah, all the fun you
can have in a gallery!
The microwave pings and she breaks off her story to ask if he takes
milk, and he nods without thinking. "Just a spot.'' And then he
immediately regrets it, because she's only got that crap tea in the
house, the kind with cinnamon and orange peel and whatnot: "Constant
Comment''. He thinks the constant comment must be that it's bleeding
awful. If a minion ever brought him a mug of tea that bad---and they
sometimes did---he'd pour it over them, and then pound their heads in
with the kettle.
"So you're settled in now?'' she asks him.
"More or less. Done the dusting. Still picking up a few things here and
there. My flatmate's dull, though.'' She looks at him curiously. "Got
this skeleton in the sarcophagus. Still, anything's better than Xander.''
She purses her lips and gives him this conspiratorial smile, as if he's
said something wicked. See? Utterly mad. He wonders sometimes how she'd
react if he told her of the sheer carnal pleasure he feels when he
thought of killing her daughter. Who knows? The bint might just laugh it
off.
Because really, what sort of a mother doesn't notice that her kid's the
slayer? /For three years?/ Just barmy! Mad as a hatter! And he's eaten a
few milliners, so he should know.
He has to admire her stubbornness, her wilful refusal to deal with the
world. Because, sure, it's a tough break---your only kid being the
slayer and all, with a post-puberty lifespan of a packet of crisps---but
she must have to work for this level of denial. Not that
Miss-High-and-Mighty lets her in on much, that's for sure. Joyce is
always asking him what her daughter's up to, what the boyfriend's like,
how much danger her little girl is in. And Spike, with a straight face,
tells her that her daughter is spunky and resourceful and the best
slayer he's ever seen. Because of course, if she wasn't she'd be dead
and Spike would be happily drinking martinis (or whatever) with Dru
while minions fetched him snack food and washed his shirts.
(Except that it's begun to bother him, now that he's got too much time
on his hands, that he could have killed the Slayer before. He'd had the
opportunities. He had the fabled Gem of Amara on his finger, making him
a god amongst vampires, and he'd done what, exactly? Hidden in the
bushes on the Sunnydale campus and taunted the Slayer about her sex
life---that made no sense at all. Or even that first time, when Joyce
had hit him with the axe, he still could have lashed out, broken the
woman's neck in an instant, drained Blondie in one go. Must just have
been the shock of meeting a human with enough balls to get in a good
hit. And besides, he'd always appreciated violence in women.)
And hell, shouldn't Joyce have a life of her own, anyway, friends from
work maybe, or chatty neighbours? There's never anyone else here when
Spike comes over. How lonely exactly do you have to be before you start
enjoying the company of your enemy, spending your evenings swapping
anecdotes and doing the crosswords in the /USA Today/?
Joyceworld: that's how he thinks of it, and when he steps over the
threshold these days it's with the /Twilight Zone/ music in his head.
"You are about to enter another dimension...'' She lives in her own
little reality, a universe with but a passing resemblance to our own.
It's a strange place. Slayers live long lives there and danger's always
thwarted and Our Heroes always live to save the world another day.
She'll get to have grandkids in Joyceworld and her daughter will bury
her and not the other way 'round. Even Spike's not a villain in
Joyceworld (that's the bit that always threatens to break him into
laughter). He's some kind of sodding hero, friend to Slayers and
protector of the weak. It's hilarious. She has just no idea. Why, he'd
have to be out of his mind.
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