Chapter Text
Spike couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a better mood. Six months he’d spent with a government-funded shock collar embedded behind his frontal lobe and now he was free as a bird once again. Free to hunt and maim and kill and do all the things that came naturally to one such as himself. It was a heady feeling.
And as he barreled back over the Sunnydale city limits he swore this was it, this was his chance to finally have himself that one good day that had eluded him these last few years and he was not about to pass it up. No more pissing around. He’d add that third notch to his Slayer-killing belt and leave this miserable shithole of a town in the dust once and for all.
But first, a little demonstration.
It was Saturday night and the Alibi Room was packed to the rafters with all manner of scum-sucking low-lives, demons all. He threw open the front door to the bar and swaggered in, calm as you please, grinning at the silence that fell in the wake of his arrival. Nothing like a dramatic entrance to guarantee the immediate attention of everyone in the vicinity.
“Evenin, gents.”
He strolled up to the bar and rapped his knuckles on the countertop, blithely ignoring the hostile glares he could feel leveled at his back. “Order of Jack and a shot of AB positive. An’ it better be fully human this time, none of that chimp swill you try an’ pass off as the real stuff or I’ll pull out your eyes an’ use ‘em as ping-pong balls, yeah?”
Willy was already sweating bullets, beady eyes darting between the vampire in front of him and the cluster of increasingly pissed off demons within his establishment. “Er, listen Spike, I don’t want any trouble here-”
“‘Trouble’?” he repeated, feigning surprise. “Hadn’t even crossed my mind. Nah, tonight’s supposed to be about celebratin’.”
Willy’s hands were steady as he obediently started fixing Spike’s usual order, his mind whirring as he tried to think of a way to get his most volatile patron out the door with the least amount of property damage. Anyone with half a brain knew the vamp’s mood could turn on a dime and never let it be said that Willy was a stupid man. Spike was obviously spoiling for a fight which meant a costly repair bill was likely in his future if he wasn’t careful.
“A celebration, huh? What, you win a big hand at poker or somethin’?”
“Better,” Spike said, knocking back the glass of whiskey, then the shot of blood, and motioning for a refill. “Much, much better.”
While he was pouring, Willy gave a surreptitious jerk of his head to signal the bouncers he hired to keep the more rowdy customers more or less in line. The twin Rothak demons weren’t much, far more muscle then brains, but they accepted beer as payment and the worse Spike could do was kill them if he wasn’t in the mood to play along.
It never occurred to him to worry that the vamp might take exception to the attempt to forcefully eject him from the pub, and that even if he did, Willy would be in any real danger of retaliation. He knew all about Spike’s chip issue, knew he couldn’t hurt humans and that knowledge had made him complacent.
He had let himself forget the grievous consequences that came from offending master vampires; a lapse in judgment that would never be repeated after tonight.
“Spike, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal, I think maybe you should just-”
He never got to finish.
In one smooth movement, Spike stood, reached over the counter, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and slammed his face into the bar top with perfunctory brutality, breaking his nose in a crunch of bone and a spurt of blood and knocking him out instantly.
“If I wanted your opinion, I’d’ve asked for it,” he told Willy’s slumped form coldly. “And if you ever call be ‘buddy’ or ‘pal’ again, next time I’ll snap your neck, mate.”
He spun to face the stunned crowd of assembled demons, some sitting, some standing, having gotten to their feet in preparation of a brawl only to freeze in shock at his abrupt explosion of violence towards the entirely human bartender, whom they all knew should have been safe from him, the neutered traitor in their midst. Should have been, but clearly no longer was.
He leaned back against the rail, smiling beatifically around a mouthful of razor sharp fangs, golden eyes gleaming in predatory anticipation, every muscle coiled tight and ready to lunge. “Right, who’s it going to be then? Who’s next?”
No one moved or spoke for a long moment until a young Brachen male called out from somewhere in the back corner. “Y-You got the chip out?”
Spike stared at the speaker as though astonished by his stupidity, claws drumming idly on the scarred wood of the bar in a way that made those standing nearest ease slowly away from him. “I did.”
A gulp from the Brachen. “How?”
His smile grew into a vicious sneer. “Magic.”
There was a collective “ah” of inhaled breath from those still present in the room. The handful of vampires-barely more than fledglings-that had been in the bar when he’d arrived had fled immediately after, sensing and instinctively giving way before the power of once much stronger than they. All of the more peaceful demons had followed soon after, joined by those more warlike of their kind who either knew Spike by reputation or those who had fought him in the past and wanted to avoid a repeat performance, all of them eager to get as far away as possible from the bloody melee that was surely about to erupt.
Only, strangely enough, violence had not in fact seemed to be imminent.
The ten or so demons that remained-not including the Rothak brothers who were mostly standing around and staring stupidly, unsure how to proceed without direction from their employer-kept shifting their weight and exchanging awkward glances with each other, none of them wanting to be the first one to attack.
William the Bloody was not an opponent to be taken lightly even at his worst, and this wasn’t the pathetic incarnation they’d gotten used to jumping in dark alleys and cemeteries in large groups these last few months. He wasn’t drunken and morose or humiliated and doubting himself, halfway beaten already. This was Spike at his best: clear-eyed, level-headed, and confident, braced and ready to take on all comers. He was deadly, absolutely lethal, every inch the Slayer of Slayers he was rumored to be.
Spike smirked and straightened, then took a sudden step forward. Every single one of them flinched. His smirk widened.
“That’s what I thought,” he purred in satisfaction.
He shook off his ridges, tossed back his drinks, and made his way to the door. No one tried to stop him.
“Don’t worry lads, I really didn’t come to make trouble. That was just an added bonus.”
He gave the Brachen who’d spoken up a friendly slap on the back, making him stumble, before disappearing out into the night in a swirl of black leather. “Now if you boys don’t mind, I’m afraid I have a previous engagement. Doesn’t do to keep a girl waitin’.”
Riding high on freedom, on the rush of victory, he’d easily tracked her scent to a cemetery out on the edge of town, never mind that it wasn’t her usual route.
He had meant to kill her that night, truly he had, and he thought it’d be easy, with his demon pacing barely contained beneath his skin, restless and hungry. He thought all it would take was one last look at her haughty little holier-than-thou face and he’d be able to snap her scrawny neck like so much dry kindling. Or at least, that had been the plan.
He really should know better by now. When it comes to this Slayer, nothing ever goes according to plan.
-
Buffy finds herself lying flat on her back and blinking dazedly up at the quote-unquote ‘ceiling’ of the lower level of Spike’s crypt (which mostly consists of dirt, concrete, and the occasional tree root instead of, ya know, a roof) without clearly recalling how it is she came to be there.
There’s a ringing in her ears that’s making it hard to think and her jaw hurts like whoa but the last thing she remembers is-
Oh, right. Spike had punched her in the face.
“Ow,” she mumbles, reaching up to lay a palm delicately over the throbbing on her jaw. From the level of pain she’s in, she’s willing to bet she’ll have a hell of a shiner there in an hour or so. Concealer, here I come.
Spike’s face appears above her, slightly out of focus due to her blurry vision but she can tell he’s got a mocking brow raised. “Right. Now, what have we learned?”
She tries to glare at him through watering eyes. “Oww,” she says again, more emphatically this time.
Now that some of the shock of having been hit is wearing off she’s starting to realize it actually really, really hurts. Like a lot.
He rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “Lighten up will ya, Slayer? Nothing’s broken. Now get up, stop your whingin’, an’ tell me what you learned.”
She struggles to sit up, wincing even as her vision starts to clear and the ringing finally stops. God, why is he being such a jerk? Why don’t I punch him in the face and see how much he likes it?
“I learned getting punched hurts a whole bunch?” she mutters mutinously as she hauls herself to her feet, brushing dirt off her shorts, avoiding his gaze, ashamed of the way her eyes are watering with more than just lingering pain. (So what if your feelings are hurt? You’re the Chosen One. Grow up.)
He taps two fingers under her chin so she’ll look at him and meets her eyes squarely. “Never underestimate your opponent,” he tells her seriously. “Overconfidence will get you killed someday.”
She flushes, chastened. She hadn’t been thinking. Once he’d agreed to spar with her, she’d been so excited she kind of let it go to her head. After they’d finished clearing out the wide, half-circle area of space in the lower level he’d previously been using for storage and he’d taken off his duster she’d just...swung at him.
She’d been aiming for his torso, for his chest or arms or shoulders, too focused on checking her strength so she wouldn’t hurt him that she hadn’t noticed him step neatly to one side, hadn’t had time to block the fist that was already rushing toward her unprotected jaw. She’d been stupid, impulsive, she can admit that, much as it wounds her pride to do so, but still, she can’t let go of the fact that he seems to think it’s completely fine to punch her in the face during a sparring session. She has a right to be mad here!
She crosses her arms and scowls at him, preparing to dig in her heels. “Well, what about you O’ Ye of Infinite Wisdom? What the heck was that about? That wasn’t sparring! You don’t spar by laying your partner out like that, that’s not how this works!”
His dark brows lift with sardonic amusement. “You tellin’ me you weren’t tryin’ to hit me just now?”
“No! I mean, well, yeah, I was, but not like-”
“Not like what? Not like for real? What’d you think I was gonna do, stand still an’ let you hit me, then praise you like some sort of nancy-boy Watcher?”
He shakes his head. “Pet, if that’s what you’re after, you go to Rupes or one of your precious Scoobies for that kind of shit because you’re sure as hell not goin’ to get it from me. Your real opponents aren’t goin’ to hold still an’ let you get a point on ‘em an’ correct your form while they’re at it, an’ neither am I. If you want to land a hit on me, luv, you’re goin’ to have to earn it, fair an’ bloody square. Watch, learn, adapt, an’ take your lumps an’ your losses as they come. I’m not here for the sole purpose of strokin’ your ego.”
He grins then, a quick flash of sharp white teeth in the dimness. “Think of it as a character buildin’ exercise.” He sobers quickly. “I won’t mollycoddle you Slayer, if you want hand-holdin’ an’ reassurance you won’t find it here. If you don’t like it, then there’s the door.”
He nods at something over her shoulder-the ladder-then returns his gaze to her face, waiting to see what she’ll decide.
Part of her, a big part, wants to get angry. To scream and whine and throw a tantrum, to stomp her foot and storm out with a huff and a toss of her hair. This isn’t what I signed up for!
Except. Except it sort of is, isn’t it? Isn’t that why she wanted to spar with Spike in the first place, specifically because he wasn’t Giles? And if she expected it be easy, well, then that’s her own fault, not his.
She hesitates and looks down at the hands that are hers but aren’t at the same time (twenty-year-old Buffy hands…). These hands have seen four more years worth of battle then she has, carry the experience of an older, more mature and capable version of herself. Experience she no longer has access to, maturity and capability she hasn’t earned yet.
Whatever battles she’d lived through, whatever knowledge she’d gained, she’d lost it along with her memory. These hands have fought Spike before and had somehow beaten him. These hands belonged to the girl who’d killed the Master, the specter who’d haunted her nightmares since she’d first heard his name. A girl that she isn’t and in some ways, can never be again (is that a good thing? She doesn’t know yet).
She doesn’t think of herself as overconfident, but then, when was the last time she lost a fight? She’d beaten Lothos and his minions after less than a year of training, but then, most of Lothos’ power had come from age and wisdom, not true skill. The few threats she’d faced in Sunnydale prior to waking in the future had felt more like stepping stones then real foes, like pins someone was setting up for her to knock down. Even Luke she’d managed to kill in the end.
She thinks of the way she’d thrown herself at Spike, no plan, no strategy, so preoccupied with dialing down her strength because she never once doubted the blow would land, thinks about how easily he’d knocked her flat with one swing. She’d been completely out of it for a few vital seconds, if he really wanted to, he could’ve easily finished her off. Not that he would. But if it hadn’t been Spike, if she’d been in a real fight and she’d made such a mistake, that mistake would have cost her her life.
Decision made, she lifts her head and meets his eyes, hoping he can see the new resolve there. She lifts her hands and settles herself into a ready stance, weight balanced low. She waits to see what he’ll do next.
His blue eyes light with an almost unholy glee and begin to swirl gold as he grins and rocks his weight back and forth on his heels, nearly bouncing on his toes as he beckons her forward. “What are you waitin’ for, a soddin’ invitation? Show me what you got, little girl.”
Oh it is so on. She bares her teeth in a grin and flings herself at him again.
-
It’s hours later when he calls an end to their sparring session and insists on walking her home despite her repeated, vehement protests that she’s fine, really, she can definitely make it home on her own without his help.
So what if she feels battered and bruised in a thousand places, her muscles feel like overcooked noodles, and her legs don’t seem to want to work? She just needs a minute to rest on the nice, cool, soft dirt floor and then she’ll be good to go. Really!
Spike simply rolls his eyes, ignores her mumbled protests, peels her off the floor, and hauls her bodily up the stairs and out the door.
They’ve only gone about a block before Buffy has to admit, if only to herself, that she’s incredibly grateful for the strong arm banded around her middle, since at this point it’s probably the only thing keeping her upright and moving forward.
It’s kind of ridiculous if she thinks about it. It’s not like Spike beat the crap out of her or anything, he didn’t even break bone, didn’t leave anything worse than some deep bruising that will heal in a day or two (the ones on her skin anyway; the damage to her pride will take a while longer to fade but she supposes that’s fair. It was a lesson she needed to learn), but she’s utterly exhausted, so tired she can hardly keep her eyes open long enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
He’d demanded nothing less than her best, put her through her paces in a way that would have horrified all but the strictest of Watchers, and as a result she’s sore, covered in sweat, aching all the way down to her bones, and almost asleep on her feet.
The crazy-making thing is, if she had it to do all over again she still wouldn’t change a single thing. It had been the most grueling, punishing workout of her life but it had been amazing at the same time, pushing her body to the utter limit in a way she never had cause to before, finding out that she even had limits in the first place! They’re definitely gonna have to do this again. As soon as her muscles stop feeling like they’re made of jelly, that is.
She can’t help being a little miffed though. Because whereas she looks like something the cat dragged in, ate, and then coughed up, he, of course, somehow still looks like he walked off the cover of some 80’s fashion magazine advertising men’s leather coats. She glares at her him out of the corner of her eye. Totally unruffled, not a hair out of place and, understandably, his chest isn’t heaving with exertion, starved for oxygen the way she is. She can’t get over the way he’s not even sweating, the jerk.
He turns his head to peer down at her and she abruptly realizes how closely she’s pressed against his side, their faces inches apart (and since when has he been that much taller than her? How has she never noticed that before? Then she remembers she’s wearing not wearing heeled boots for once in her life). If she had any energy left at all she’s sure her hormones would be throwing a parade and she’d be a red-faced puddle on the ground by now but instead she can only muster up relief at his continued support and gratitude for the non-warmth he’s radiating against her overheated skin.
“Vamps don’t need to sweat, pet. Thought I told you that.”
Huh? She blinks dumbly and mentally rewinds. Oh. “I said that out loud?”
He snorts and pauses for a beat to hitch her closer, almost off her feet, all but carrying her through the slowly lightening neighborhood streets.
“Yeah, you did. An’ it’s like I said, ‘s about maintainin’, yeah? Vamps don’t need to maintain a certain body temperature so we don’t sweat or shiver.”
“Oh. That makes sense.”
Her thoughts are coming thick and slow like they’re moving through molasses and she gives a jaw-cracking yawn before resting her head against his shoulder and letting her eyes fall closed completely. Comfy. She might technically be walking down the sidewalk but since she’s not the one doing the steering she figures it doesn’t matter whether she’s watching where she’s going or not. He can wake her when they get there.
He ends up letting her go at the intersection of Revello and Main, right across the street from her house. She pushes off from his shoulder with gentle fingers and gingerly turns to face him, wobbling only slightly as she does. She points at his chest imperiously.
“Tomorrow,” she tells him, her attempt to sound authoritative ruined by the way her voice slurs the tiniest amount. “Tomorrow? Rematch. And then, your butt? Is gonna be massively of the kicked.” She pokes him lightly for emphasis. “Believe it, buster.”
He cocks a scarred brow and lifts his chin, an insolent smirk curling up one corner of his mouth. “That right?”
She narrows her eyes at him. “You don’t believe me?”
He shrugs airily, shoving his hands in his duster pockets and rocking back on his heels. “Never said that.” His smirk widens and his blue eyes spark with mischief. “But suppose we make it the night after next? Give you a day or so to recover, as it were.”
She wants to be righteously offended, but honestly, the various aches and pains that she was mostly able to ignore on the walk here are starting to make their presence known now that she’s no longer distracted and the idea of turning right around and fighting Spike again tomorrow night is...not a fun one.
She winces and hurries to conceal it behind a regal nod of acceptance. “Yeah, sure. Whatever works best for you.”
His smirk is in danger of developing into an actual smile as he shakes his head and turns away, heading back the way they’d come, in the direction of Restfield. “You’re an odd bird, Summers.”
“You’ve said that already.” She’s grinning now too, raising her voice to better be heard as she calls after his retreating form. “Thanks for walking me home Spike!”
“Don’t mention it.” He spins to face her and walks backwards for a few paces, expression deathly serious as he adds, “Ever!”
She rolls her eyes and waves him off and it isn’t until she’s turning to check that the street is clear that the nagging feeling that she’s missed something obvious suddenly hits her full force. She can make out the barest hint of the sun starting to poke out over the horizon and her blood freezes in her veins.
Sunrise. It’s sunrise. No way, that’s impossible, how can-? She went to see Spike right after meeting Riley and it was barely four o’clock then, it can’t already be-!
The previous day’s events play on fast-forward in her mind’s eye.
Running to tell him what she’d learned from Riley, and him telling her about getting the chip out. Asking him to spar with her, him agreeing and then…
She’d run home, to change her clothes and leave a note for her mom saying she’d be home late. Then she’d run back to help him clear out the lower level storage space, which ended up taking longer than either of them expected. By then she’d been hungry and he’d complained he was tired of listening to her stomach growl.
Somehow she’d convinced him to let her drag him across town to the pizza place she liked and then she’d been surprised when he ordered himself a plate of wings while she devoured an entire pizza on her own. She’d been even more surprised by the garlic dipping sauce he got to go with them, and she asked him about it, concerned for his health (and sanity) and they ended up talking for quite a while about a whole slew of things.
By the time they were both done it was fully dark outside so she figured she should patrol the cemeteries between the restaurant and Restfield. And he’d tagged along for want of anything better to do, though they’d ended up only dusting one lone fledgling towards the center of town. It was late when they made it back to his crypt and actually got started on sparring, and then they’d been at it for hours and hours which means…
She is so grounded.
Everything else-her exhaustion, her mom’s understanding of her Slayer-ness, and the fact that she’s not technically a teenager anymore (physically at least)-forgotten in the wake of her ensuing panic, she scrambles across the street and sneaks around to the kitchen door. She considers climbing the tree outside her room but she can’t recall if she left the window unlatched and honestly she’s not entirely certain her arms would cooperate to lift her weight right now. Best not to chance it.
She unlocks the door as quietly as humanly possible and eases herself inside silently, thinking cat-burglar thoughts, praying her mom is still asleep.
Only of course her luck isn’t that good because her mom is standing in the kitchen at the stove and staring at her, wide-eyed and holding...a spatula?
The delicious smell of cooking bacon crashes over her like a wave and her mouth instantly floods with saliva as her eyes try to roll back into her head. Holy moly!
“God, please tell me there’s some bacon left,” she moans. She’s starving.
“Buffy!” her mother cries, turning off the burner and tossing the spatula aside. She hurries around the island to pull her daughter into a tight embrace. “Thank goodness you’re alright! I know you said you’d be late honey but I wasn’t sure-I was making you breakfast hoping you’d be back soon but...”
Over her shoulder Buffy can see the kitchen counter is covered in plates of various breakfast foods. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, toast. There are even carafes of milk and orange juice sitting out like they’re on the set of a 50’s sitcom or something. Her heart sinks. Her mom only stress-cooks when she’s, well, incredibly stressed and she feels like a terrible daughter for making her worry so much.
“I’m fine Mom, I’m okay.” She smiles, trying to look innocent of any crime, hoping her mom won’t notice the way she’s coated in dried sweat and mud and spotted with rapidly purpling bruises. “I’m way sorry I didn’t call, I just completely lost track of time. I was doing some sparring-training-with a, um, a friend and the day totally got away from me.”
Her mother’s brow furrows as she runs a critical eye over her disheveled appearance. “Training? With what, a heard of wildebeests?”
Damnit. She laughs nervously and takes a small step to the side, inching closer to one of the stools stationed around the island.
“No, just a friend, named, uh-” she takes a deep breath and steels herself. Here goes nothing. “-Spike. You probably don’t know him.”
She braces herself for yelling but instead of the third degree she expects regarding where and when and why she started hanging out with boys named ‘Spike’, her mother simply frowns, appearing confused. “You’ve been training with William? But I thought he couldn’t hurt humans anymore because of that chip?”
‘William’? As in ‘William the Bloody’? How does she…? Her mouth drops open and she boggles at her mom. “You know Spike? Since when did you-?” Then she remembers. “Wait, no, he said something about that once. He said you were a classy lady.”
“Did he?” The woman smiles and a pleased flush spreads across her cheeks. “I’ll have to thank him. He’s a very nice boy.”
Buffy collapses onto a stool, shaking her head in disbelief. “Color me confused girl here, but I am so not with the getting it. How did you two even meet?”
“It was a couple years ago, that same night you first told me about your slaying,” her mom explains as she moves to the counter and begins loading a plate with food. “I think he might’ve been helping you to save the world that night? I’m not quite sure, I never got the full story and of course now he won’t admit to anything of the sort. He always changes the subject when I mention it. I was very confused and frightened at the time but I remember being surprised that such a polite, well-mannered young man could be a vampire.”
She sets the plate and a glass of milk down in front of her daughter and the girl wastes no time grabbing a nearby fork and diving in.
“I didn’t believe him at first, not really, but then he reminded me that I’d already seen him once before.”
Buffy tilts her head and raises her eyebrows, letting her expression ask the question since her mouth is currently full of yummy breakfast-y goodness.
“It was during an attack-a vampire attack-on your school, during parent-teacher night of all things.” Her smile turns impish. “I hit him in the head with an ax.”
She sucks in a breath, her eyes going round, and almost chokes to death on a piece of scrambled egg, having to cough a few times and take a gulp of milk before she can speak again.
“What?” she croaks. “Why?”
“You and I had gotten separated in all the chaos and when I found you all I saw was some strange man in a long coat leaning over you, acting like he was about to hurt you. I just grabbed the first thing I could find and hit him upside the head with it, to get him away from you.” She runs a gentle, loving hand over hopelessly tangled blonde hair. “No one messes with my little girl.”
She beams, delighted at this turn of events. “Go, mom!”
She leans into the petting and her eyelids droop, her lethargy returning tenfold now that her stomach’s full and she’s home, but she forces them to remain open. She’s still got some questions after all.
“So, what, after that you decided it would be a great idea to befriend the scary vampire, or…?”
“Well, when he came back into town a few months later and he was so upset over his breakup with that girlfriend of his-Drusilla, I think her name was?-he showed up here looking for you, but I could tell something was wrong. I invited him in for some hot chocolate and he ended up telling me the whole story. I think the poor boy really just need someone to listen.”
She sighs while Buffy is busy reeling over the fact that her mother had apparently willingly, knowingly invited a highly dangerous vampire into their house to talk to him about his girl troubles. As much as she wants to retroactively scold her mom and pull a huge wig over this very real threat to her mom’s life, she can’t because Spike…hadn’t hurt her.
Even back then, before the chip, before her amnesia, or their friendship, back when he still had every reason in the world to hate her and want to see her suffer, it apparently never occurred to him to press his advantage when he had the Slayer’s mother literally within his grasp. Losing her mom would have ruined her, killed her spirit if not in body and he, the Slayer of Slayers, hadn’t put so much as a scratch on her mom.
Because he’s honorable, he’s got principles, if he’s going to kill her it’s going to be in a fair fight, and he doesn’t play mind games. Hadn’t he told her that himself, when they first met?
And he calls me odd! She thinks, semi-hysterically. He’s got to be the weirdest vampire on the face of the planet!
“Anyway, once he came back to town last year and that terrible chip was put in his head he started dropping by every so often, a few times a month. We talk, sometimes I make dinner. It’s nice to have company in the evenings now that you’re off at school or when you’re out slaying. Truthfully I don’t think he knows many people in town and I think he gets lonely sometimes, out there by himself. Though, come to think of it, I haven’t seen him at all this last month or so...”
She flushes and averts her gaze, avoiding her mother’s searching look as a warm glow suffuses her chest at the thought that she’s been helping Spike feel less lonely. She likes that idea. Likes it a lot. Maybe too much. (Though she supposes it’s fair, since he does the same for her.)
“Uh, and my future s-um, Oth-I mean, I was okay with this? Before? I can’t imagine I was very of the understanding about my Mom being all Friend of Vampire.”
The hand in her hair stills and her mother’s gaze sharpens. “Excuse me, young lady. Since when do I need to seek your permission on who I may or may not be friends with?”
Buffy squeaks and backtracks frantically, quailing under the power of the Mom Stare. “You don’t! I didn’t-I wasn’t trying to-I never said you-”
The woman’s shoulder slump. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.” She sighs and rubs at her temples. “Besides, you’re right, in a sense. If you’d found out about all this, ah, ‘Before’ you would have certainly-what’s the phrase?-‘flipped out’, which is why I never told you about it. I was too worried about what you’d do to William if I did.”
Her heart clenches with dread. “What I’d do…?”
Her mom hesitates. “I never...I never approved of the way you and your friend treated him, spoke about him. Dismissive, bordering on cruel. But I also never said anything against it. I thought about it often, more than once I considered saying something, only I could never figure out how or when to bring it up, not without putting William in danger. I couldn’t be sure you’d really listen to me.”
“In a way, it never seemed like my place. It’s not as if William’s ever been a shrinking violet. Even after that awful woman experimented on him, he’s always been able to give as good as he’s gotten, verbally, if not physically. He’s always insisting he can look after himself...”
She shakes her head, appearing frustrated and guilty. “But he shouldn’t have to, not all the time. I should have said something.”
Buffy’s heart and stomach do something complicated as her respect for her mom skyrockets, even as her regard for her older self plummets to rock bottom (Funny, and I thought it couldn’t get any lower).
She throws her arms around her mother and squeezes as tight as she dares, beyond thankful to have a woman as awesome as Joyce Summers as her mom. Someone kind and compassionate and fiercely loyal to those she cares for, willing to do anything for those she loves. If she lives to become half the woman her mom is she’ll count herself very lucky indeed.
“Thanks, Mom.” She exhales deeply and decides to lay it all out on the table. “I really am sorry I didn’t call or come home last night. I got so wrapped up in training with Spike I totally spaced and lost track of time. I’ll try not to let it happen again. He’s the friend I’ve been spending so much time with, by the way-the one I had the fight with? But I took your advice and he accepted my apology and we’re cool now, really.”
“I’m glad the two of you made up sweetheart. And I’m glad the two of you have each other to spend time with; I have a feeling you both have much in common.” She gives her daughter another shrewd once over, lingering on the shiner showing through the dirt on her jaw. “He got that chip out, didn’t he?”
She nods. “Yep.” Didn’t even need my help to do it either, goddangit.
Her mom nods back once, firmly, her expression set. “Good. It wasn’t right, what they did to him. Experimentation on sentient beings is always wrong, no matter what, I don’t care what anyone says. I know...I know it was beneficial, too, what it did, allowing him to see there were other ways of living that didn’t involve the deaths of others to sustain himself. It gave him time to adjust, to reevaluate, and alter his lifestyle accordingly. But now that he knows he can survive without killing I’m glad to hear it’s gone.”
“Me too.” She hops down from her stool and the world sways around her in a way that makes her reach out quickly to steady herself on the countertop. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go take a shower and then sleep for a million years. ‘Night, Mom.”
She laughs softly. “Good night, sweetheart.”
It takes a lot of willpower not to curl up in the bottom of the tub and let the steady rhythm of falling water lull her to sleep but she manages it.
She has to wash her hair twice and use extra conditioner to salvage it after the thrashing it took and she wonders absently if she should cut it. It’s longer than she’s used to and it’s getting to the point where it could be a liability in a fight. Maybe once she gets around to making that salon appointment for some badly needed color correction she’ll see about getting a trim too.
She dries off, completes her necessary bedtime rituals, pulls on her pajamas, grabs Mr. Gordo, and finally, finally crawls into her blissfully soft bed, pulling the covers over her as she does.
Her last thought before she drifts off to sleep is to make a mental note to tease Spike about the whole ax-to-the-head thing the next time she sees him. The Big Bad vampire being scared off from killing his third Slayer by a vengeful, ax-wielding, PTA mom? Yeah, there’s no way she’s ever letting him live that one down.