Present Tense

by Miss Murchinson

Copyright © 2004

missmurchison@mchsi.com

Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.
Distribution: The Mystic Muse: http://mysticmuse.net
Author's Site: http://home.mchsi.com/~missmurchison/Chiaroscuro.htm
Spoilers: A mildly AU early Season 5. Dawn doesn't exist, and instead of falling for Buffy, Spike has discovered the attractions of an older woman.
Feedback: Yes please.
Author's Notes: This is a sequel to A Glorious Morning I Have Seen, as I continue my mission to give Joyce a fun storyline of her own. And, of course, lots of sex with Spike.
Pairing: Spike/Joyce

Part 1

Joyce stepped out of her sandals and peeled off her pantyhose and slip, then reluctantly put the sandals on again. As an afterthought, she pulled off her long necklaces and the tasteful little bracelet she'd wrapped around her wrist that morning. She gave a sigh of relief as she dropped the discarded clothing in her open briefcase and turned back to her desk. It was just too hot to keep up the guise of a professional working woman now that the gallery was closed and the customers gone for the day.

But, with or without pantyhose, she still had work to do. She had to finish inventorying the new shipment or pay her assistant overtime to do it. Since Susie was barely worth her pay on regular time, Joyce had decided to finish the job herself. She hoisted a box onto her desk and reached for a utility knife.

Using her office as a storeroom was another inconvenience. But even in downtown Sunnydale, square footage cost money, and Joyce made a living as much from keeping costs down as she did by selling art. If this new shipment didn't move quickly, she'd have to turn her daughter's room at home into a storage area again, even if Buffy was annoyed to find herself displaced by a dozen boxes of knickknacks meant to appeal to pseudo-sophisticated college students. There was no space left in the spare bedroom. It was filled with seasonal merchandise waiting for its time to come again (Joyce did a brisk business at Easter, since her main competitor on the street never carried any bunny-related items) and the leftovers from the shipment of Black Forest cuckoo clocks that cute Bavarian salesman had talked her into buying. Not to mention the series of huge, Andy Warhol-style portraits of ex-governors of Idaho that Susie had taken on consignment, only to have the artist leave town without a forwarding address.

Joyce wiped a strand of sweaty hair away from her forehead. But it was dark outside now, so it should cool down by the time she was ready to walk home. Of course, that meant she would be walking home in the darkness of Sunnydale, the town on the hellmouth. Beautiful, hot Sunnydale, the town inhabited by more demons than any other on the face of the earth.

And there was one demon in particular who she knew was going to be angry at her tonight.

The door behind her shook.

Joyce stopped, her arms buried to the elbow in packing material, her hands trying to lever a stone statue out of the depths of a packing crate. If she let the statue go now, it would drop to the bottom of the crate and most likely get chipped in the fall.

She held onto the thing as the door shook again. Something was rattling the lock. Joyce glanced at the main gallery, which was in semidarkness, lit only by one dim lamp beside the front door. The knob rattled again, and this time the door opened. Joyce straightened up, the heavy statue in her hands, as one of Sunnydale's demons stepped into the room and glared down at her.

"You weren't at the house," said Spike accusingly.

"No," said Joyce. "Because I'm here. And don't look at me like that. It's not like you have a phone. I can't call and let you know when I'm working late." She set the statue down on her desk and added, "Why didn't you knock? You must have sensed I was in here alone."

"You gave me a key," he said, holding it up. "Which sticks. I suppose I should make like a blooming handyman and ask you where the WD-40 is."

"In the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet," she said calmly.

He made no move to get it, leaning against the wall and watching her work, his frown slowly easing into a smile. "Hot in here," he commented at last.

Apparently, she had been forgiven for scaring him. She nodded, wiping another wisp of hair out of her eyes. "I turned down the air conditioning when I closed," she said. "Don't want to waste the money. I thought I'd be ready to leave before this. But it should get cooler outside soon."

He looked cool now, impossibly so in that long leather coat he always wore, and no trickle of sweat marred his James Dean swagger. But she knew better than to touch him to relieve the heat sweeping through her body. If she laid one finger on him, she would feel as if she were aflame.

After a minute or two, some of the residual tension seemed to ease from him, and he began to act more like a man at ease with his surroundings. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on the rack in the main room. And – so nonchalantly that to comment on it would have clearly been a faux pas, even to make a bawdy joke about it – he snagged the can of lubricant from the filing cabinet and fixed the lock on the door. Then he threw himself into her desk chair and picked up one of the figurines she had unpacked.

"What's this shite?"

Well, what did you expect, Joyce? Tact? "A shipment we got in today. They're supposed to be pre-Columbian design."

He snorted. "Bugger the design. These are post-Columbian manufacture." He picked up a distorted little man lying on his back with his knees up in the air. A plate lay across his belly, looking uncomfortably like a serving dish. "I wouldn't be surprised to see a 'made in China' sticker on these. And a Chac Mol! Leave it to the residents of Sunnydale to think sacrificial altars are 'cute.'"

"Someone will probably buy it to use as an earring tray," said Joyce calmly. She was used to his criticisms. "I've already sold two of those today." She set a box marked "special order" on the desk and began to unwrap it. "This one is supposed to actually be worth something, but I hope I wasn't taken in. The man that ordered it hasn't been by to pick it up, and his phone is disconnected. Maybe it's pretty, and I can sell it to someone else if he never shows up." She lifted out a wad of bubble wrap and looked down into the box, disappointed. It was another Mayan god, like the Chac Mol Spike had handled. But it wasn't very pretty. In fact, it was downright disturbing.

Joyce stared at the ugly little thing. No one could imagine this being used as an earring tray. But it did seem old enough to have been used for – well, for something she didn't like to think about.

As she reached for the statue, she heard a sudden growl behind her, impossibly close. Spike's hand grasped hers from behind, pulling her away from the box. "Don't touch it," he said emphatically.

She turned her head. His eyes, inches from hers, burned amber, and his fangs almost scraped her cheek. Even without his warning, there was no way she would have touched the statue now. There was no way she could. His grip on her was too strong.

Joyce blinked at him in bewilderment. "What's wrong, Spike?" she asked.

He shook his head slightly and blue eyes met hers. "It's magic. Not the sweetness-and-light white magic of Willow and her pretty lover, either. Ancient, dark, evil, and not inclined to be friendly even if you speak to it nicely."

"Oh." She looked down. "What does it do? Make zombies?"

"No." There was a note of puzzlement behind the sternness in his voice now. "I don't think so. Why the devil would you expect zombies?"

"There was this mask a few years ago, and – never mind." She frowned. "What should I do with this?"

He grasped her by the nape of her neck and pulled her back into his arms, not ungently, but for once without any erotic overtones. It wasn't a grip she could break without fracturing her own bones. His azure gaze seared into her as he said, "I'll find out what it is. In the meantime, lock it away, and don't touch the sodding thing unless I say so. Promise me, love."

It wasn't a request. "I promise," she said. "You can let go."

He released her. "Sorry," he said, stepping back. "Don't want you afraid of me."

She smiled. "I'm not afraid. Not of you, at least."

His eyes were dark and mysterious, and she wondered what he was thinking. He seemed pleased she wasn't afraid, but she thought he looked confused as well.

He hovered behind her, making sure she locked the box in one of the cabinets by the door before he turned away and went into the main room of the gallery, not needing even the dim light by the door to scan its contents. Joyce's fingers shook a bit as she tidied away a few papers and flicked off the office lights before going to join him. It was unlike Spike to be so perturbed by something magical. Whatever was in the box must be really nasty to affect a vampire like that. She felt no inclination to break her promise to him.

Spike's footsteps echoed through the gallery as he wandered around in there, examining the eclectic collection of artwork that filled it. At least, "eclectic" and "art" were the terms Joyce preferred to apply to her inventory. But a previous assessment of Spike's –"a motley assortment of rubbish" – stuck in her mind. Sunnydale was not a rich or a terribly sophisticated town, and she had to display what she had a chance of selling. The gallery wasn't a junk shop, whatever Spike said, and it was certainly a few steps up from Pier One, but Joyce had to admit that Christie's had nothing to fear from her.

Still, there were some nice things here. Joyce rather liked the dark paintings in the alcove reserved for shows by local artists, as long as she didn't look at them closely enough to get nasty shivers down her spine. Spike had told her the artist was part demon, but Joyce was still convinced the woman had real talent.

The window by the street held some of the items that had arrived in the "pre-Columbian" shipment, and more pieces were on display in one of the cabinets by the door. The rest of the room held statues and pottery from various periods, grouped as logically as Joyce had been able to manage with the occasional help of her scatterbrained assistant.

Ignoring these items, Spike was stalking around a recent addition to the gallery like a house cat offended by some new bit of furniture unthinking humans had dumped in its living space. "What the bloody hell –"

"Susie bought it." Joyce entered the main room, went to the windows, and tried to adjust the blinds for the second time that night. One of the slats was askew and kept pulling apart from the others. She'd have to get that fixed. Little things like that mattered in her business.

"Fire her." He stopped circling and stood in front of the chair, his arms crossed and his expression wrathful.

It really was a very silly chair. Made of molded black plastic, it was in the shape of a human hand, palm held flat to form the seat, fingers thrust upwards for the back, and wrist curved down to meet the base.

Joyce's lips twitched, but she looked stern. "This is a college town. Things like that sell here. Some frat boy with too much money will think it's just the thing for his dorm room, and maybe I'll make enough of a commission to buy that boxed set of Bogart DVDs I wouldn't let you steal for me. Besides, it's not even all that uncomfortable." She hopped up on the chair and sat facing him, her feet dangling a few inches off the floor, her face upturned to his. She fought to keep frowning, but between the heat and the mock-wrathful expression in those blue eyes, she felt as if she were melting away.

"It's a good thing I'm evil, or I'd find that distasteful and insulting to Bogie's memory." He was still frowning too, but she noticed that he was paying much less attention to the chair than to its occupant. Or, more specifically, to the blouse of its occupant. Joyce looked down. She had picked out something in a light fabric this morning, and left undone one more button than usual because of the heat. From where he stood glowering above her, Spike was getting a fairly good view.

Joyce decided he deserved an even better one and pulled his head down to hers. He uttered no complaints, his mouth opening to hers willingly. He'd been smoking and boozing already tonight, but she wasn't in a complaining mood either. The bad habits that might have driven her crazy in a human lover were simply a part of Spike, and she wanted him as he was, whole and entire.

And now. She wanted him now. She wiggled on the slippery seat of the chair, spreading her legs and sliding her hands to his hips, pulling him in between her knees, feeling the hardness of his erection through his jeans as he rubbed against her.

"Here?" he asked, his voice roughening, and his hands moving to slip off her blouse before waiting for an answer.

"Here," she said. "On this chair, to make up for teasing me about it."

He chuckled. "You always earn points for imagination, love."

"Yes, you have to hand it to me," she agreed, ignoring his groan at the lame pun because in the next moment, he had unhooked her bra and bent his head, his tongue caressing an already erect nipple before moving on to lick away the trickle of sweat that was running between and under her breasts.

"Have I mentioned that I like the way you punish me?" he murmured, his lips moving to the other breast.

"Have I mentioned that I like the way you apologize?" She kicked off her sandals and brought her knees up on either side of him, her bare feet grazing his denim-clad legs and urging him closer.

Now his hands were sliding up under her skirt, pushing the fabric up to her waist. His fingers hooked into the elastic of her panties, pulling them down and tossing them aside, so that her bottom slid into the plastic embrace of the chair. She had expected to stick to the thing, but she was moist with sweat, and she slipped along the seat towards Spike, bumping into his hips and grinding against him. He slipped one hand between them to expertly massage her clit while his other hand traced up and down her spine and his lips moved to her throat. Her fingers wrestled with the zipper on his jeans, and she shoved the pants down his legs with one hand as she grasped his cock with the other.

"I should be jealous of that bloody chair, the way it's fondling your bare arse. That's my prerogative." Spike slipped his left hand under her, between her warm body and the black plastic. Joyce infinitely preferred his hand's responsive, muscular strength to the chill, gargantuan embrace of that ridiculous chair. She put one hand on his shoulder, the fabric of his black t-shirt bunching under her fingers. She pulled herself up, guiding his cock into her with her other hand. Then she wrapped her legs around his hips, locking her ankles and drawing him deep into her.

The instructor had talked about improved control of the pelvic floor too, and she tried that out now, feeling her muscles contract obediently.

Spike cried, "Bloody hell, woman!" snatching her up entirely from that ridiculous chair. He was all her support now, holding her easily with one firm hand under her ass and his other arm around her shoulders. She had never been more conscious of his immense, inhuman strength, and thought that she could never feel so secure in anyone else's embrace.

"You're amazing, love," he was muttering as he raised and lowered her against him, building a smooth and almost excruciatingly slow rhythm that made her open even wider, letting him thrust even more deeply inside. "I'd say you were the best lay I ever had, except we don't seem to spend that much time on the horizontal."

"I've got too much to do to be a lay-about," she returned, her arms around his neck now, her words punctuated by kisses and gasps of pleasure. "I'm a busy woman. Too many things to learn, too many things to make you teach me." Her eyes sought his in the dim light. I could spend forever trying to read that midnight gaze.

"I think you've got the student and the pupil mixed up," he said.

She shook her head and tasted him again, lingeringly. Ashes and whisky, a strange combination to send waves of heat crashing through her body. Feeling drunk and breathless, she lifted her head and gasped for air, staring over his shoulder, towards the door of the gallery.

"Stop!" she cried reflexively.

He did, as only he could. He was suddenly, completely still, holding her against him. She could feel him tense, could sense as he began to change to game face, making the psychological move from her lover to her protector, readying for an attack.

"No!" She kissed his brow, easing it with her fingers until it began to smooth again. "It's all right. Nothing's trying to hurt us. It's just – I thought someone was trying to peek in through that gap in the blinds. There was something moving out there."

He was still holding her motionless in a way that should have been impossible. "You want me to stop? Close the blinds? Go into the office where no stupid wanker can sneak a peek at us?" But his words came in short, urgent gasps, his cock was still hard inside her, and his eyes begged her not to interrupt their lovemaking.

"No," she said, tightening her legs around him. "It's okay. I'm sure – it's dark in here. If anyone's there they can't see much, and –" She thought again of someone watching them, seeing their bodies interlocked like this, his hand pressing her bare ass into him, her mouth seeking out his. She felt herself smile involuntarily. She licked her lips, and finished, "So what if they can?"

His laugh echoed through the gallery. "You're liking that, are you? Thinking about someone watching us? Maybe I should carry you over there, just like this, rip down those blinds, and let the world see us? All the little frat boys and coeds are on their way out to bars right now. We could give them a bit of an education."

"No!" She clutched at his shoulders, raising her head and pulling her torso away from his chest as a new image flooded her mind. His mention of coeds made her think of Buffy, and the idea of her daughter spying her in Spike's embrace like this–

"Shh," he said, drawing her close again and making no movement towards the door. His right hand stroked her back soothingly. "I won't do it. I understand, pet. You just liked playing with the idea."

She clung even tighter to him, dizzy with suddenly conflicting emotions. Still incredibly aroused, but frightened by where her latest whim had nearly taken her, she was also gripped by a fear that she had failed Spike somehow. This was the first time she had ever turned down any suggestion he had made during sex. "I guess I'm not as eager to try everything as I thought I was," she said apologetically, her body and her emotions suspended as if on a precipice, ready to either spiral down to frustrated disappointment or to soar to some impossible climax. What she felt in the next few minutes was completely dependent on his next move, his next words.

His face was pressed close to hers now, his lips on her cheek, and she felt rather than saw his smile. "Don't worry, love," he murmured. "I'm not disappointed." He lifted her up even higher, then settled her body back against his hips again, his cock thrusting deep into her, "You see, there's no other creature in the universe I want to share this moment with."

She came then, feeling as if she were airborne, almost out of her body entirely, her flight fueled by the sound of his rich laughter in her ear.

Eventually, she came back to earth, or rather to the seat of that silly chair. She was suddenly conscious that her throat was sore as if she'd been shouting and that the temperature in the room had dropped. Sweat was drying on her bare flesh, chilling her slightly. She clung to Spike's shoulders as he set her down. She was leaning into his chest, feeling the thin fabric of his t-shirt against her cheek. She wanted him to pick her up again, to make him keep holding her close, but she heard him say, "Someone's at the door, love. Expecting anyone?"

She forced herself to acknowledge the world that existed beyond him. Someone was not only knocking on the door, he was shouting her name. Joyce gazed up at Spike. "We're the only ones I expected to be coming tonight. And that sounds like – It can't be him – but why would anyone be here at this hour?"

"Maybe he heard you screaming like a banshee, pet." His lips twitched. "We can ignore him and go for seconds if you want."

"Screaming? I didn't – did I?" Joyce pulled her blouse back on, slipped on her sandals, made an attempt to pat her hair back in place, and skidded over to the door as Spike bent to pick up a scrap of red fabric from the floor. "I just hope this really isn't – Hank!"

"Joyce," said Hank from the doorway. Hank, wearing Dockers and an open-necked shirt with a blazer tossed over his arm, looking so normal and ordinary that the sight made her blink. "There you are!" he announced, almost as if he suspected her of hiding from him.

"Of course. I work here. But – what are you doing here?" It shouldn't have been such a shock to see a man who had once been an integral part of her daily life. But for some reason, seeing him here was like coming across the decaying pillars of the Parthenon amid the skyscrapers of Manhattan. He just didn't belong.

"May I come in?" he asked irritably.

She bit her lip and reluctantly stepped back to let him enter. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Spike leaning against the far wall. In his black t-shirt and jeans, he might have faded into the shadows had it not been for that bone-white hair and his preternaturally pale skin. He was motionless. Joyce shivered. Usually, she found his ability to lurk with such unbreathing stillness exciting (not to mention refreshing, since he rarely engaged that lurking ability, and was more likely to prowl around muttering to himself, like a bad-tempered cat in urgent need of a dose of Ritalin). Tonight, his stillness was menacing.

Joyce wondered what Spike's vampire senses were telling him about her and Hank. Oh, damn. I'm probably exuding some pheromone that says, "I had mediocre sex with this guy for eighteen years until I found him cheating with his secretary." She thought of the civilized façade that she had carefully built around her post-divorce relationship with Hank. Spike could shatter that pretense forever with a few snarky comments, and once it was gone, Buffy would finally see all the anger and resentment that lay behind it. Joyce cast him a warning glance that she hoped communicated her desire that he shut up for just this once!

Worried about Spike, Joyce was only listening with half an ear to Hank's querulous saga of his search for her. " – not at the house, so I came here. I've been up and down the street a couple of times. Does the downtown always close up this early on weeknights? I thought I saw someone moving in here earlier, but I decided it was my imagination, because most of the lights were out. I was looking in a store window two doors down, and I heard this scream, so I came back to make sure."

"Scream?" said Joyce. "Um, how odd." She very carefully did not look at Spike now, but kept her eyes fixed on Hank's face and hoped she looked curious instead of guilty. "Screaming?"

"Yeah, it sounded like it came from here, but I suppose it couldn't have." Hank ran a hand through his thinning hair. "It wasn't like a scream of pain, exactly. It was like nothing I ever heard before."

Spike gave a short, sarcastic bark of laughter, and Hank turned, noticing him for the first time. "Who is this?" he demanded.

Joyce opened her mouth and shut it again, taking a moment to consider her response. The exact truth was impossible, but she had promised herself long ago that she would never lie to Hank or cheat on him the way he had lied and cheated. She had always suspected she was being sanctimonious by staking out this moral high ground, but it had helped her self-esteem survive the divorce, and she had clung to the knowledge that she had not broken any vows.

Now that they were divorced, cheating was no longer an issue. Lying, however, was another matter. Joyce looked over to Spike, who had given up imitating a statue to don his duster and retrieve a pack of cigarettes from one pocket. He was fumbling with his lighter, flicking the element with those strong, talented hands…"He's an artist," she said sincerely.

Hank had never thought much of the artists Joyce worked with, as none of them made enough money to meet his qualifications for a social equal. Now, he obviously dismissed Spike as an employee, one of the "help," of no more interest than a gardener or a janitor. "Isn't smoking illegal in here?" he asked pointedly.

"I think that's only during business hours," fudged Joyce before Spike could respond with a curse. He stared at her over the glowing tip of his cigarette, and she cast him another pleading glance. His eyebrows twitched in annoyance and his gaze slid away from hers, but he said nothing.

"And what's that thing?" said Hank, glaring at the hand chair.

"A coffee table," snapped Joyce, her self-control slipping. "What do you think it is?" Irrationally, she didn't want Hank staring at the chair, much less commenting on it. She wanted to think of Spike when she looked at the damn thing, not Hank.

In Joyce's mind, Hank was now associated with late child support checks, nasty letters from lawyers, and Buffy's disappointed frowns. On the other hand, there were few objects that had not been improved by being linked in her imagination with Spike. Even some of the most mundane or unlikely objects. Loofahs, her feather duster, the spatula she used when making his favorite cookies, that big, flat sarcophagus in his crypt…

Joyce's mind jerked back to the present as Hank pointed out, "It's hardly the best piece here, even in this place. Why does it get the central position in the gallery?"

Joyce rolled her eyes, far more annoyed than when Spike had made a similar comment. Perhaps that was because it was so like Hank to act like he had the right to order things, even here, at the business she had built entirely on her own since the divorce. She knew that it was how he got results on his job, by always seeming competent and in-control. But his pretense of always knowing what was best had begun to annoy her a long time ago.

Spike's shoulders shifted and his expression darkened even more. "Maybe the lady wanted it to sell fast." His voice was pitched low, and Joyce guessed he was close to switching to game face, even as she realized he was repeating her own earlier defense of the chair.

"I did," she said quickly. "But now I'm considering putting it in storage and only hauling it out for special, private showings." A glance at Spike showed that his mood was lightened by that, his lips twitching and the gleam in his eye now more randy than menacing. She took a deep breath. "Forget the chair, Hank. Why are you here?"

"I came to see Buffy. To make up for missing her birthday. You know I –"

She knew his tales of self-justification by heart. "Yes, Hank, you explained. But that was months ago."

"This was the first time I was able to get away. She was supposed to meet me for dinner. She left a message at the restaurant that something came up, but she didn't say what it was."

Turnabout is fair play. Joyce pressed her lips together to keep the thought from escaping and creating unpleasantness. Besides, poor Hank did look bereft.

"It took me hours to drive up here," Hank said. "And I really wanted to show her my new – uh, vehicle. So I went to her dorm and eventually found her room, but no one knew where she was. Then I went to the house and you weren't there."

Why would I be there? My days of waiting around for you are long over. "I had to work late," she said mildly. "I had to unpack a shipment, and," she added because some explanation of her companion seemed to be called for, "Spike was helping me with – something."

Hank looked at him again. "What do you do? Set up exhibits? Haul boxes?" The last remark was made with an incredulous assessment of Spike's spineless slouch that failed to take into consideration the wiry muscles hidden under the folds of the duster.

"I'm stronger than I look, mate," purred Spike. "Besides, I don't answer to you. The lady appreciates my talents, and that's all you need to know."

Hank moved closer to Joyce, and she stepped back reflexively. Not taking the hint, he leaned close again and whispered in her ear, "Are you sure it's safe to be alone here with him?" He peered over her shoulder. "He looks pretty seedy. I know you cut these artistic types a lot of slack, but some of them live on the edge. He might rob you."

Joyce rolled her eyes in exasperation. "That's not what he's here for, Hank," she said out loud. "And I wouldn't say he lives on the edge." Whispering was a waste of time; Spike had obviously heard Hank's comment, but, fortunately, he'd been amused by it.

"Is he even in this country legally?" Hank turned back to Spike, glowering suspiciously. "What nationality are you?" he demanded.

"Drunkard," retorted Spike immediately, drawing a snicker from Joyce.

Hank turned to Joyce, but before he could begin sputtering his outrage, she said, "Honestly, Hank, he's quoting from Casablanca. Don't you know when you're being teased?" She stepped into the office and picked up the phone. "Let me worry about Spike. And let me call some of Buffy's friends. Maybe I can find out where she is." And maybe I can get rid of you before you ruin the rest of my evening. Spike and I were going to watch "To Have and Have Not" on cable, and it airs in less than an hour.

Part 2

Two and a half hours later, Joyce opened the passenger door of Hank's new "vehicle" and peered down at the driveway of her house. The cement seemed very, very far away. She eased one foot onto the running board and hopped safely back to earth. Slamming the door shut behind her, she peered up at the vast expanse of yellow metal that was now parked by her back door.

"So," said Hank, coming around the side of the car to meet her, his eyes gleaming with pride, "what do you think? Quite a piece of basic transportation, isn't it?" He laid a proprietary hand on the bright flank of the Hummer.

"Oh, yes," said Joyce. "It's quite amazing," she added sincerely. Only in America. Only this country's automobile industry would make it possible for a man to buy his very own tank. His own bright, shiny, yellow tank. It looks like some enormous alien child dropped his Tonka truck in my driveway.

"I've wanted one of these for ages," he said. "Was only able to afford one recently."

Of course. Because you don't have to pay child support any more. Joyce calculated that the monthly payments on this monstrosity could have covered Buffy's tuition. And the gas bill just for driving up from LA would have gone a long way towards paying the huge textbook fee.

"What kind of mileage do you get?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He looked a bit put out at that, as if she'd mentioned the pimple on his face or his receding hairline.

"Well, the mileage should improve once the engine's broken in," he hedged.

Joyce seethed, remembering their last conversation about finances, and how he'd insisted that Buffy learn to stand on her own two feet, get a part-time job, and pay her own way. Joyce had to agree with the principle of teaching young people a sense of responsibility. But Hank didn't know about Buffy's very important but unpaid job as Slayer, and Joyce was adamant that their child get a good education. So she was scrimping to put Buffy through college, while Hank drove around in a tank with a sunroof and a CD player. And, as he had pointed out proudly, six electrical outlets.

What do you do with six electrical outlets in a car? Dry your hair? Make toast? Microwave dinner? And what effect does microwaving Hot Pockets have on your gas mileage?

Better stop that train of thought and change the subject before her anger showed. "Thanks again for dinner. It was –" really boring listening to you drone on about your Hummer and your job while the waiter ignored us " – um, delicious." She couldn't keep herself from adding one last time, "Are you sure there are no motel rooms available?"

"Not really," he said. "There's a big game tomorrow, and everything's full up."

Joyce tired to force sincerity into her tone as she said, "Well, you're welcome to my spare room for the night, of course. But I have to leave for work early, and I don't do a Continental breakfast." It came out sounding more resentful than joking, and she turned away before she could make things worse, leaving him to follow with his luggage.

By then, her mind was rerunning her conversation with Willow, who had picked up the phone at Giles' apartment. "Don't worry, Joycie. Buffy will be back as soon as she kills that big cat thing…" " What big cat thing?" "Well, we're not sure exactly. We're researching it while Buffy and Riley patrol. We're not even sure it's a demon cat yet. Maybe it's just a normal puss that's escaped from a circus or wandered down from the mountains." Joyce could hear the effort Willow was putting into maintaining a cheerful tone. "Probably something Buffy can handle in between vamps without even breaking a nail."

Of course, Joyce thought now. It had to be Slayer business that kept Buffy from meeting her father. Buffy adores Hank and would never stand him up unless she had no choice. But I'm sure Buffy is just fine. She'll kill some demons, sleep with that Riley boy, and when she comes by tomorrow, she'll be so happy to see Hank that I'll be happy for both of them. Joyce forced herself to stop grinding her teeth as she slipped the key into the lock of the back door. In the meantime, there's no need to worry about Buffy. My little girl can take care of herself.

Hank lingered on the porch for a moment, peering out into the yard.

"You have a hammock," he commented. "That's new. Is it something Buffy wanted?"

"No, it's mine," said Joyce absently, still wondering what kind of creature her daughter was fighting.

"Oh."

"Why, 'oh?'"

"Oh, it's just not something I'd ever imagined you'd want. You're not the loll-about-in-a-hammock type."

Joyce's fingers clenched on the door knob.

She had, in fact, asked Hank for a hammock once, for her birthday. He had gotten her a bracelet instead. She hadn't complained, because he didn't seem to remember her request, and because it had been a very expensive bracelet, if somewhat gaudy for her taste.

He had insisted that the bracelet be listed on the divorce papers as one of their assets. She had gotten to keep it in the settlement, but had sold it a few years ago when one of his child support checks was late.

Joyce took a deep breath, turned the key in the lock, and opened the door of her house for Hank. She wished momentarily that he were a vampire, so that the lack of spoken invitation would cause him to slam his face into an invisible barrier on her doorstep. But he strode over the threshold as if he owned the place.

Before following Hank, Joyce glanced over her shoulder at the hammock, swinging a bit lopsidedly between two trees. She had mentioned to Spike once, idly, that it might be nice to swing in a hammock and read on quiet afternoons when she didn't have to work. The next night, she'd heard curses and banging in the back yard, followed by his unusually late arrival at the back door. She had been unsurprised to see the hammock at dawn the next day, but had waited to thank him so that he could cling to the illusion that his efforts to hang it had been stealthy and efficient.

Joyce showed Hank up to the guest room, reminded him that he should know where everything was, and escaped to her own room as soon as possible. She picked up the phone and called Giles' apartment again, but this time got only the answering machine. She left a request for whoever received the message to have Buffy call her, and then left a similar message on the machine in Buffy's dorm room. Sighing and stretching, she went into her bathroom to shower. Her worry over Buffy was such a constant in her life that she engaged her coping mechanisms almost automatically.

A half-hour later, she pulled a long flannel nightgown over her head. The evening had turned chilly, and she wanted to sleep with her windows open. I enjoy the fresh air, and it's not as if something can crawl in and ravish me. Not with Hank in the next room. And there wasn't anyone here to complain that her outfit made her look like a Victorian matron and start scrounging in her drawers to find her something lacy and seductive to wear, just for him. Unfortunately.

Joyce regarded her reflection in the mirror for a moment. To her surprise, she looked almost serene. Well, it would be a lie to say she wasn't worrying about Buffy, but she wasn't panicking either. I should write an advice book for mothers of superheroes. How to deal with stress while your child is out killing huge, scary monsters. Long, hot showers helped, as did yoga breathing, and mind-bending sex. Too bad only the first two were available at the moment. Of course, there was the memory of the encounter with Spike in the gallery, which echoed not just in her brain but throughout her body. She closed her eyes, remembering the feel of him between her legs, and sensing a wetness inside that had nothing to do with her recent shower.

Joyce could have used some additional Spike-time tonight. But more sex was out of the question right now. She flicked off the light switch and opened the door to her bedroom.

Hank was standing in the open doorway to the hall.

He was dressed for bed in long pajama pants but no shirt, and, oddly enough, he seemed to have just shaved. He was smiling warmly but fixedly, as if he'd been maintaining that stance and that expression for some time.

Joyce blinked at him. She was sure she'd closed that door. "Hi. Did you have trouble finding something?" she asked.

His smile wavered, then firmed again. "No, not exactly." He looked around the room. "This is nice," he said, and nodded at the dresser. "You got a TV and DVD player in here."

"Yes, I've started a pretty good collection of classic films."

He looked concerned. "It must be lonely, lying here alone at night, trying to entertain yourself with old movies."

"I'm not usually a –" she stopped. She was beginning to feel irritated. "I like watching old movies. A lot. You know that. Hank, I'm tired. If there's something you need –"

Well, now that you mention it." He was closer to her now. He had strolled across the room while they were talking. Well, of course he walked, that was the normal, human way to get there. Hank couldn't speed to her side so quickly that she couldn't see him move, and he had certainly never swept her into his arms with near rib-cracking force. Joyce's mind veered off for a moment. Last night, she had been brushing her hair, with no reflection besides her own in the mirror and only the sound of her own quiet breathing for company. She had seemed to be entirely alone, except for perhaps a tiny whiff of ashes and smoke. Suddenly, she had been caught up into a powerful, carefully controlled embrace and kissed until her breath was gone. She had clung to Spike's shoulders, feeling his muscles hard beneath her white-tipped fingers, first drowning in that kiss, then pulling away and gasping the air back into her lungs, as his hands wrenched open her bathrobe and–

Joyce forced her mind back to the present. She could smell aftershave. Her nose wrinkled. Hank had switched fragrances, and she didn't care for the scent of the new one.

"I know it's sudden. But I've been thinking about this a lot."

What on earth is he talking about? Did I miss some of this conversation when I was daydreaming about Spike? "Oh?" she said, starting to listen for clues, trying to cover any hint of rudeness.

"About how far apart the three of us are now, and how close we used to be. You know, sometimes it seems like when I talk to you or Buffy, it's as if – as if you're not really there. As if you're not even in the same room with me."

Hank looked bewildered. Joyce remembered how often he had complained over the past few years that Buffy seemed distant, and suddenly her sympathy was engaged. The poor man didn't even know his daughter was the Slayer.

"Our family meant a lot to me, you know," he said. "And I realize that it was all my fault that everything fell apart. I've done some growing up the past few months, and I want to make amends."

Joyce smiled warmly. He was actually taking full responsibility for disappointing Buffy! Maybe his visits would be more regular from now on.

Hank seemed to take encouragement from her smile. He stepped closer to her. "Maybe we could try again. I don't mean we should rush into anything permanent, of course, but would it hurt to see if there was any hope at all?"

"Of course there's hope, Hank."

"There is?" He smiled eagerly and his head bent towards hers.

"Well, of course. I know Buffy was upset you missed her birthday and Christmas, but if you just make some time with her –"

"I'm not talking about Buffy!" He pulled back a fraction. "I'm talking about you and me. Trying again. At least to see if the spark is still there –" He reached out to touch her shoulder.

Joyce was staring down at his hand when she heard the growling outside her window. She whipped her face to the side, and the kiss Hank had been about to plant on her lips landed on her hair. Still focused on the window, she twisted away from him entirely. "Hank, no!" she cried in panic.

"Why are you so frightened?" He seemed honestly bewildered. "I just wanted –"

"I'm not frightened of you!" Joyce cried in exasperation. It's the jealous vampire just outside the window who has me worried. "But whatever made you think –"

"Come on, Joyce," said Hank, his tone now seriously annoyed, that of a parent to a child who is behaving irrationally. "You're spending your nights here, alone, watching TV and dressed like – well, that –" He nodded at the nightgown. "I know you. We were married for years. You always wanted it more than I did back then. Has that changed so much?"

Joyce folded her arms across her chest, wondering why she suddenly felt too scantily clad even in that all-enveloping nightgown. "No, Hank, my sex drive is still in gear. But has it occurred to you that someone else might be working the clutch?"

"What?"

That hadn't sunk in at all. "We're divorced. We're done, you and me. It never occurred to me you'd think any differently."

"But –" He stepped closer to her again, one hand reaching out to her.

She couldn't believe he hadn't yet accepted the answer was "no." Apparently, neither could someone else. There was another growl from outside the window, this time louder. And this time Hank heard it too.

"What's that?" he demanded, dropping his hand and staring out the window.

"What's what?" squeaked Joyce. She made warning faces over Hank's shoulder, hoping to discourage Spike from actually leaping through the window.

"I think something growled. It sounded like a big animal. What kind of thing would come this far into the middle of town?"

"I don't know," said Joyce more firmly, and added with emphasis. "It doesn't matter, because it can't come in here."

"That's true," said Hank, turning back to her quickly, and catching her severe expression. "Joyce, don't look so annoyed. You know I'm right. You know you want –"

"Hank – !" She saw from his expression that her loud and angry tone had finally gotten through to him. She wanted to rage at him. But this was no time to utter all the thoughts that came to mind – thoughts that surprised her by their virulence and vulgarity. She had something more important to do.

"Hank – go to your room!" Joyce stormed past him, out her bedroom door and down the stairs.

A few seconds later, she was on the kitchen porch, looking up the trellis by the door and hissing, "Spike, get your undead ass down here, right now!"

He was beside her a moment later, his features cast into relief by the dim porch light. He was still angry, she realized with a sinking stomach. Well, so am I.

"How dare you spy on me like that?" she hissed.

"How dare I spy on you?" He started to shout, then lowered his tone with an effort as she glanced at the neighbor's houses. "What do you expect me to do when you leave me and wander off with some horny bastard who's practically drooling down your tits from the moment he lays eyes on you?"

"He wasn't –" Joyce stopped. "Was he?"

"Bloody hell, yes! I've been trailing you and him and that Hot Wheel on steroids around town all night, watching it. Are you blind, woman?"

"Of course not! Well, maybe. But, Spike –" More bewildered than she had been when she'd recognized Hank's inept pass for what it was, she stared at him. "You can't think I'd go to bed with him!"

"Why not?" Her stomach clenched again as she recognized real distress on Spike's face. "He's your past," he said vehemently. "He's done you before, more times than I've had the chance to yet. I know you like it better with me – I know that, a man can tell – but you've never said bugger all against him. And he's human. When I heard all that shite about family and being Buffy's father –"

She stopped the flow of words by putting her fingers across his lips, anxious to reassure him, but momentarily uncertain of how to do so. Then the thoughts that had crossed her mind when she stormed out on Hank came back to her. Maybe there was a time for those words after all. She stepped closer, until the folds of that horrible nightgown brushed his chest, gathered her courage, and said, "Spike, do you have any idea how desperate I'd have to be to put up with Hank's clumsiness ever again, especially after all the shit he's pulled? Even if there wasn't a gorgeous, very talented vampire in the picture? I'd sleep with a Fyarl demon before I'd let him near me, and," she pulled Spike's arms around her waist, "it's not like I'm that hard up." She rubbed her hips against his and heard the hiss of his breath as he pulled air into his lungs. He held that breath, dark eyes staring into hers. She stretched up, letting her body slide against his as she moved her lips next to his ear and said, "What you did to me in the gallery was enough to wipe out the memory of every time he ever had me. Just that one time, all by itself. So were all the other times we've been together. Any one of them was better –" She stopped. Hank didn't belong in this conversation any more. "Spike, the way you hold me, the way you touch me, the way you're so hard inside me I have to scream, I can't get enough of that and I can't stop thinking about it. When I feel myself get wet, and hot, and horny, I'm thinking of your lips, your hands, and –" She rubbed against him harder with her body, still not caressing him directly with her mouth. "And this. Damn it, Spike, I can feel how hard you are right now. Do you really want me to keep using this tongue –" and now, at last, she dove into his mouth for a second, "to argue?"

His hands were hard on her shoulders as he thrust her away from him, holding her at arm's length, even as he finally let that long breath go in a ragged gasp. "Joyce, are you trying to use sex to win this argument?" he demanded.

"I guess maybe I am," she said, suddenly guilty. She hadn't looked at it that way, but –

His voice was warm with approval now. "That's my girl."

Five minutes later, Joyce's nightgown was rucked up around her waist, her hair was mussed, and she was breathing hard. "No, don't take it away, I want that," she murmured as he pulled her hand out of his jeans and started to lead her down the porch steps.

"Patience, love. We need a more comfy place to lie down," he said. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?" she muttered, and then froze. "No, Spike. Not the hammock! That never works!"

"It will this time," he promised. "Come on, pet. Let's try again."

"My back was sore for two days after –"

"We're going to try something different. Please, love." His tone was soft and coaxing. "I'll let you put your hand down my pants again."

"Well –"

A timeless interval later, she was sweaty and naked in the hammock, lying on top of Spike, who was making the damn thing sway dizzyingly in an effort to get enough momentum to thrust his hips upward and drive his cock deeper into her. With each oscillation, the length of canvas seemed more in danger of spinning them around a full 360 degrees, hopefully with enough centrifugal force to keep them anchored to the fabric instead of dumping them on the ground. She realized that as the one on top she should be doing more of the work, but she panted and hung on to Spike's shoulders for dear life, thinking that this was like the carnal version of some theme park ride, combining vertigo and passion in an unlikely but satisfyingly scary way.

"All right, love?" he asked, when she wailed and clung to him after a particularly wild swing.

"Yes," she gasped, "coming along just fine." As the hammock rocked, she tried to concentrate on his hands, which were reassuringly firm against her back and her butt as they held her against him. "Yaaaah!" she mewled again as the hammock lurched drunkenly.

Joyce was dimly conscious that she shouldn't be making so much noise. A moment later, a light switched on in the house and a window was opening somewhere upstairs. Before her brain could recall Hank's existence, she heard a car pull into the driveway beside the house. Suddenly, she realized that several people whose good opinion she cared about might be in imminent danger of finding her swinging naked in her back yard with a vampire clamped between her thighs. Striving for rationality but failing to achieve it, she sat up, looking around in a vain attempt to assess the situation. Her movement, which unfortunately coincided with Spike's next thrust, had roughly the same effect as standing up in a canoe.

She and Spike had finally overset the hammock. Their intertwined bodies slipped from its embrace and hurtled towards the ground.

Joyce, the first to tumble out, gasped in fear, but Spike managed to twist his body like a falling cat's – only in reverse. More interested in easing Joyce's landing than his own comfort, he altered their trajectory just enough so that he landed on his back, his arms around her as he tried to cushion her fall. This was less painful for her than hitting the ground, but hardly a soft landing. Every bone in her body was jolted, and her hips ground against his with mind-numbing force. Between lightheadedness from that last giddy swing and the sensation of his cock driving deep inside her, her nervous system shifted into overdrive. She shrieked involuntarily as her whole being celebrated a truly amazing orgasm.

Simultaneously, Spike gave an almost feline roar, and she felt him shudder as he came too – just as a car door slammed and voices began shouting in the driveway.

Still shivering from post-coital disorientation, Joyce disengaged her limbs from his, jumped to her feet, fumbled around on the ground for her nightgown with one hand, and started prodding Spike to get up with the other. "It's Buffy!" she hissed. "Get out of here! She'll have her stake out, and I don't know if I can talk fast enough to keep her from using it!"

Spike stumbled to his feet and tried to flee, but was brought down almost immediately by his jeans, which were puddled around his ankles. He staggered to his feet again, and Joyce yanked his pants up before giving him a forceful shove on the butt, propelling him towards the shrubbery at the back of the yard. She pulled her nightgown over her head and tugged it down over her body, just as Buffy rounded the corner and Hank started yelling from the upstairs window.

"What did this?" demanded Joyce.

"I'm okay, Mom," said Buffy for the fifth or sixth time. "Just some scratches. Ow!" She shifted on her perch on the toilet seat and tried to pull her tiny skirt down over her leg. The fabric was insufficient to hide her wounds from her mother's eyes.

"These aren't scratches, they're claw marks," said Joyce. "What was this thing?"

"It's some kind of mountain lion," said Willow, passing Joyce another bandage.

Joyce, who was on her knees in front of Buffy, looked up at Willow. "Is?" she asked. "It's not dead?"

"It should be," complained Buffy. "I know I got it right in the heart. I did my bit with the slayage, but it didn't cooperate with the falling down dead part."

"I don't know, Buffy," said Willow. Her eyes were dark and earnest as she watched Joyce and Buffy from the doorway. "I mean, I'm not sure you hit the heart. It was really fast, and it was on top of you as soon as you shot the crossbow. "Tara, is there any antiseptic?"

Tara, who had been rooting through the medicine chest, looked up. "There's some hydrogen peroxide –"

"No," said Willow quickly, looking at the bottle and glancing nervously at Joyce. "That's not the right kind."

Buffy looked up and said, "Ick, no, that's the stuff you use to bleach hair." She patted her blonde locks self-consciously and added, "Not that I know much about that."

Joyce rolled her eyes and stood up to take the bottle from Tara and put it back in the medicine chest next to a razor and some aftershave. She reached for a tube of medicine. "This will work better, and it won't sting," she said.

"Thanks, Mom," said Buffy, "but I really will be okay." She shifted anxiously again. "I hope Dad's not too upset. I'm not sure telling him all about being the Slayer and stuff was the right thing, especially in a rush like that."

"It's about time he found out," said Joyce. "And you'll stay until I finish. Just because you're the Slayer doesn't mean you can't get an infection. And you don't want to scar, do you?"

That made Buffy sit still, although she still looked anxious to get away.

"We kind of had to tell your dad," said Willow. "Between you being all bleedy and his hearing something outside, he was going to call the police."

Buffy frowned. "I wonder what that thing was that he heard in the yard. Couldn't you tell at all, mom?"

"I didn't see anything scary," said Joyce. "I – uh, took the garbage out." And I did, about an hour earlier! " – and there were a few noises, but then I, uh, fell somehow, and – there, you're all done!"

Buffy stood up and bounded out the door and down the stairs. Joyce stood up and started packing her first aid supplies. She looked up at Willow and Tara, who were watching her quizzically. "Aren't you two going to join the research party?" she asked.

Willow picked up the bottle of peroxide and turned it around and around, biting her lower lip as she glanced from Tara to Joyce. Tara looked up at the ceiling.

Joyce took the bottle away from Willow and stowed it in the cabinet again. "She doesn't want to know," she said firmly, holding the bathroom door open for them.

Joyce watched the two witches troop down the stairs before she finished cleaning up the bathroom. She was worried, but not about Buffy finding out about Spike. She bundled up some bloody washcloths to take down to the laundry room and stepped into her bedroom.

A blond head poked through the window and Spike said, "'Lo, love."

Joyce ran to shut the door to the hall and stand with her back against it. "I thought you went back to your crypt," she hissed.

He stayed out on the roof, leaning on the windowsill and grinning at her. "Wanted to make sure all was right and tight here first. What happened to the Slayer?"

"How –" She didn't finish the sentence. He'd smelled Buffy's blood, of course. "A mountain lion attacked her. She'll be okay."

"I knew that last part, love, as soon as I saw you were able to smile."

"Was I smiling?" She'd been fretting a moment ago.

"Since I stuck my head in this window."

She frowned then. "Well, you need to get out of here before Buffy spots you."

His lips twitched in annoyance. "Don't like leaving you alone."

"Alone? Spike, I'm surrounded!"

"Yeah, by the Scooby twits and two blokes you've shagged."

Joyce almost moaned. "Don't start that! There's too much going on here for me to wind up in that hammock again tonight."

Now his lips were curved in a smile. "If that's the effect my being jealous has on you, pet, I need to let my green-eyed monster escape more often."

She tried to be stern. "Well, I need my blue-eyed monster to go home and let me deal with all these houseguests." Her voice softened. "I'll come by your crypt tomorrow and see you."

"Well –" he looked behind him. "I'll get down from here, but I'll be about the neighborhood for a bit. Won't come in unless you need me, though." Mischief sparked in his eyes. "'If you need me, just whistle!'"

Joyce started to chuckle, and her laughter grew as he added, "'You know how to whistle, don't you – just put your lips together and blow.'"

She stepped over to the window and kissed him quickly on the lips. "I don't think I'll be doing any blowing – tonight at least – but thanks. Now, go!"

He was gone a moment later, and she turned back to the door but stopped when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She was still wearing the horrible nightgown, her hair was in disarray, and –

A moment later Joyce was pawing through her drawers looking for something more presentable to wear. She tossed some slacks and a top on the bed and pulled the gown up over her head. A second later, a piercing whistle sounded from somewhere out in the yard.

With a gasp, she yanked the gown back down and reached for the blinds.

Ten minutes later, clothes and makeup impeccably neat, and the blush in her cheeks finally fading, Joyce descended the stairs to the hallway. She could see Riley and Hank sitting on the couch, and she started moving more quietly. She didn't want to get drawn into the discussion, although she had to admit that Riley might be the best person to convince Hank to accept Buffy's Slayer status. He looked normal and competent, he was a male who knew how to talk about sports and shooting things, and he had won Hank's heart by taking the time to exclaim over the Hummer even in those first stressful moments when a bleeding Buffy had been about to take off after whatever strange creatures had been howling in Joyce's backyard and Hank had caught a glimpse of the strange armaments the Scoobies were unloading from Giles' car.

The men were still discussing the "animals" that Joyce had talked Buffy out of chasing in order to bind her daughter's wounds.

"Sounded like a couple of cats," said Hank. "Big ones. Could have been panthers, but there were at least two of them."

"You're sure there were two, Mr. Summers?" asked Riley. Joyce suddenly realized who he reminded her off – that Sergeant Friday from Dragnet. Or was it the other one? The pompous one with the impossibly calm and level tones. The one she always wanted to punch for seeming so sure of himself.

"Well," Hank said in a confidential tone, "I'm sure there was more than one. Because whatever was howling out there was having sex with something."

"Really?" Riley started to chuckle. "You mean, it sounded like –"

"Yep."

Riley was shaking his head now, and trying to sound like the Voice of Experience. "Maybe. Who knows? I can tell you, Mr. Summers, the strangest things happen in this town. There are creatures in Sunnydale that engage in bizarre practices you've never even imagined."

Damn straight, thought Joyce with an inward smirk.

"Yeah, well, whatever these two were practicing, I think they've gotten pretty good at it."

Joyce headed off to the kitchen. Instinct told her the conversation in the living room was about to start resembling the "Nudge, Nudge – Wink, Wink" sketch from Monty Python and she had no stomach for that right now.

Buffy was standing in front of the refrigerator, an array of containers on the counter next to her. She was obviously trying to assemble snacks for her friends. Knowing that very little good could come of her daughter's culinary experiments, Joyce rushed to take over.

Buffy was frowning at a plastic tub partially filled with some red, gelatinous substance. "I think this duck sauce has gone bad, mom," she said, her nose crinkling in distaste. "And there's no Chinese takeout left to eat it with anyway."

"Then toss it out," said Joyce after taking a peek. Buffy was right about the snack's condition, if not its nature. Joyce made a mental note to stop at the butcher's for some fresh blood when she was running errands tomorrow. She'd been planning to pick up a nice pot roast for the weekend anyway. She could stock up for Spike at the same time.

She slipped a frozen pizza into the oven before gathering some celery sticks and dip and carrying them into the dining room, where Giles was passing out books to some of the others. "Do you have any idea what kind of creature attacked Buffy?" Joyce asked him.

"Not certain yet," he replied. He kept paging through a book, not giving Joyce his full attention.

"It was a big cat," said Xander, always the easiest of the group to distract from his research. Unfortunately, he was usually also the most ill-informed. "But it looked like it was wearing one of my Aunt Doris' quilts."

"Quilts?" asked Joyce. Even for Xander, this seemed an odd description.

"Yeah, it had a kind of design on its back –"

"It's a jaguar," said Giles.

"It's a car?" said Xander. He frowned. "No, I saw it. It was a cat, Giles. A big, scary cat. Like a leopard. But with weird spots."

"No, Xander," said Giles in a sharp tone. "Like a jaguar. Like the kind of big, scary cat they named the sports car after."

"Oh. Yeah," said Xander, and added after a few seconds. "I knew that."

"Sure you did, honey," said Anya, passing him a book. "Here, take this and look up jaguars."

"Okay." Xander collapsed into one of the dining room chairs, opened the book, flipped over a few pages, and said, "How do you spell 'jaguar?'"

This time Willow took pity on him, turning her own book around and showing him an illustration with a caption. "I think this is the one Buffy fought. It's mystical, and there's some special ceremony you need to do before you can destroy it. I'm trying to find out the details, but the only thing mentioned here is this weird altar."

Xander peered at the page. "Chac Mol," he read. "Is that the jaguar?"

"No," said Giles with annoyance. "It's the name of an altar used by certain Mexican and Central American tribes for ritual sacrifices."

"Chac Mol?" asked Joyce, leaning over Xander's shoulder to stare at the picture. "We got a shipment of those in at the gallery today."

"Yes, Joyce," said Giles, only a shade less impatiently than he had spoken to Xander. "I saw them in the window this afternoon. All modern manufacture. The one we're looking for would be very old, and likely imbued with power by many previous blood sacrifices."

"But one of the ones at the gallery is old and evil," said Joyce.

"Hmm," said Giles as he turned over a page and began making notes in his journal.

"Sp – someone told me it was so full of magic, it was dangerous even to touch it."

There was no response. She realized that her words had washed over them unheard, as they all stared at their books, assuming that nothing she had to say could help their quest.

A buzzer rang just then, and Joyce went into the kitchen to take the pizza out of the oven. She left it to cool while she tried to think of some way to get the others to pay attention to her.

So when Buffy came back into the kitchen a few minutes later, instead of mentioning the Chac Mol, Joyce asked if she should make coffee.

"That would be great, mom," said Buffy. She was smiling, and the scratches on her legs looked like they were healing already. By morning, she would have only faint marks left from her encounter with the jaguar. Joyce sometimes believed that Buffy's battle scars hurt her more than they did her daughter. "It may take Giles a while to figure out what can kill this thing, especially with Dad here, because they can't talk about it too loud. We're trying not to freak Dad out too much. But I don't want to push him to go to bed because it's so good to see him at last."

She really is happy to see Hank. Joyce smiled at her daughter as she poured water into the reservoir of the coffee maker. "I'm glad he came to see you, honey."

"Me too. I was really upset when I couldn't make it to dinner, but he took you out instead, right?" Buffy must have read something on Joyce's face, because she rushed to say, "Don't worry, I'm not going to do that whole I-hope-you-guys-get-back-together thing. That was very tenth-grade, and I'm so over it." She reached up to get a pile of plates from the cupboard.

Joyce said nothing. Inwardly, she was praying that Hank wouldn't tell Buffy that he had been ready to resume the relationship. She couldn't bear it if she were to be responsible for Buffy's disappointment. Be honest, Joyce. If Hank even hints at it to Buffy, you'll kill him. Because you know perfectly well he's probably only sniffing around here because the last secretary dumped him. And he'll be off again as soon as he hires another twenty-something with a yen for older guys. But there's no way you'll be able to convince Buffy of that.

"And it's nice the way Dad and Riley get along, isn't it?" said Buffy.

"Charming," said Joyce between her teeth as she fumbled for a coffee filter.

"Riley reminds me of Dad sometimes," continued Buffy, merrily slicing pizza. "They've both got that kind of solid feel, you know." She picked up the plate and went out of the kitchen.

Joyce dropped the coffee filters and tore after Buffy, stopping herself suddenly at the door to the living room. Hank and Riley were still sitting on the couch, chatting while the rest of the Soobies talked in hushed voices in the dining room. The two of them looked up and smiled at Buffy as she set slices of pizza down in front of them. Hank and Riley. Riley and Hank. Why did I never notice that before?

"Is something wrong, Joyce?" Giles was peering at her over his glasses.

She turned around to smile reassuringly at the Scooby gang. "No," she said. "Just counting heads for coffee." And deciding which ones have to roll.

She went back into the kitchen, thinking about Riley now. There was no need to panic. Buffy wasn't about to get married, or even engaged, to him any time soon, and Riley was a safe-enough boyfriend for the short term. At least he knew that Buffy was the Slayer and was able to provide some measure of help to her, even though Joyce had her doubts about his effectiveness. And sooner or later, Buffy would realize that however handsome he was, Riley was not only boring, he was jealous of her Slayer strength. Buffy would realize that the life of Riley would really be a life spent apologizing for who she was.

My daughter is not making an eighteen-year-long mistake. If Buffy didn't come to her senses in time, Joyce would get rid of Riley herself. After all, she had gotten rid of Angel as soon as she had seen the right moment. And Angel had been a bigger threat.

No, Riley wasn't the immediate problem.

Joyce flicked on the coffee maker and thought hard. It was her job as a mother to protect Buffy. She needed to take it more seriously. If she could get rid of inappropriate boyfriends who were threatening her child's future, surely she could take care of one demonic oversized housecat.

She picked up a book Buffy had left on the counter and began to read while she waited for the coffee to brew.

Spike was asleep when Joyce climbed carefully down to the lower level of the crypt. She smiled at the sight of him sprawled on the big bed. She'd been so relieved when she first learned he didn't sleep in a coffin, Bela Lugosi style. It was also nice he neither needed "native earth" nor showed any tendency to take the form of a bat and hang upside down during the daylight hours.

Yes, it had been a very pleasant surprise the first time she'd found him lying in that bed in an almost tastefully decorated cave.

And he didn't wrap himself in a cape while sleeping, either. Or anything else, for that matter. Nudity was a fashion statement Joyce approved of, at least where Spike was concerned.

He was lying on his stomach, and she took a moment to admire the graceful curve of his back as he lay motionless against the sheets, one hand flung up over his head, the other lying by his side. His face was turned away from her, and she reached out to touch the slightly disarranged blond curls, but pulled her hand back as another idea struck her.

Smiling mischievously, she kicked off her sandals and climbed up on the bed next to him.

"Ow!" Spike howled, coming to full consciousness immediately, swiveling around, hands coming up to fight, his features starting to change – until he realized who his attacker was.

"Balls, Joyce, be careful. I could have –"

She was laughing. "Sorry."

"Bloody right you should be sorry." Spike rubbed his ass angrily. "I'm supposed to be the one that bites!"

"You'd never bite me," said Joyce calmly. "But I couldn't help myself. It was just there, and so – inviting. And I'm sure I didn't break the skin."

"I'm not," muttered Spike. "Besides, don't you know any better than to wake a guy up at 2 o'clock in the afternoon?"

"If you're quoting Bogie, you're not really mad," she said, wriggling closer to him. "Come on, roll over and let me look."

He pulled away with a suspicious look. "Why, so you can bite me again?"

"No more biting," she said primly. "I promise."

Muttering darkly, he complied, and she touched him, with gentle fingers this time. "Just as I thought. No skin broken, and I'm sure the marks will fade in a minute or two." His skin was taut as steel, though. Her hands moved up to the small of his back, leaning into him and rubbing with firm fingers. "I'm sorry, Spike," she said again, in as contrite and sorrowful a tone as she could manage while touching that sleek, pale flesh.

"Well –" He propped his chin on his hands and appeared to consider her apology. Since I'm getting a back rub out of this –" He glanced at her over his shoulder. "I am, ain't I?"

She rolled her eyes in mock dismay, and continued massaging him, her hands moving up his back little by little. His skin was remarkably unscarred and smooth.

"What happened after I did a bunk last night?" he asked eventually.

"You didn't do a bunk, if that means running off. I didn't need your silly whistling to know you were lurking out there. And nothing much happened. They read lots of books and talked for hours." She shifted her position to reach his shoulders, but found it awkward to lean over him. He muttered as she pulled away, but gave a pleased sigh when he realized she'd merely paused to slip off her panties and climb astride him, pulling up her skirt and rubbing her pussy against his ass as she pummeled his back with her fists.

"So the Scoobies are busy scratching their heads and trading witticisms again?" he asked after a few minutes. "I'd say that lot has the devil's own luck to survive most of their battles, but I'm sure it's not the devil that's providing the luck."

Joyce kneaded the hard muscles in his back as best she could, and was rewarded with a grunt of satisfaction as she felt them relax a bit under her hands. She'd need fingers of steel to give a really effective massage to one of the undead, but at least she'd loosened him up a bit.

He rolled over and smiled at her, stretching luxuriously and looking as if he expected to be wholly satisfied very, very soon. "That was lovely, Joyce. But there's another bit of me that needs a tension reliever. Really could use a good massage." His expression was serious; only his eyes laughed.

"Oh?" She could play at being serious too.

"Yeah," he said, taking her hand and laying it on his cock. "Right here. Desperately in need. Got a terrible cramp."

"Oh," she said again, drawing her eyebrows together in mock dismay. "That's too bad. Because my poor hands have gotten very, very tired."

"Sorry to hear that," he said hoarsely. "Was really hoping you could help me with my problem."

"Well, I don't want to disappoint you," she said, bent over him, her lips skimming his as she breathed the words. "Maybe you wouldn't mind if –"

"If what?" His lips followed hers, seeking to keep contact as she pulled back and away from him.

"Well, if it wouldn't be too much of a disappointment, I could use my tongue instead. And my lips."

"I'll deal," he said, with a joyous laugh, reaching for her.

But she pulled away again, slipping down to nibble at his throat and run her hands along his chest. Slowly, she kissed her way down his torso, taking first one nipple and then the other between her teeth as she teased the tips with her tongue.

"Ow! You're killing me," he complained, but she ignored his whining. Even if she hadn't known perfectly well that he loved this, the sensation of his cock stiffening against her belly as she moved over him would have reassured her. She continued to play until he was fully erect and muttering wildly. She was enjoying the game almost as much as he was, sneaking looks at his face, noting that he'd caught his lower lip between his teeth and that his eyes were closed, his expression intent.

Grinning, she slipped off of him to crouch by his side on the mattress, hearing him moan when she moved away. One of his hands dropped down to stroke her hair, and she could feel his whole body quiver in anticipation. Then he lay still, and she knew he was deliberately restricting his breathing, focusing his feelings, concentrating on her touch. She let her hands, lips and tongue wander everywhere and anywhere – except one place. He tolerated it at first, then drew in air so he could begin gasping and groaning but still not insisting, until she worked her way down to his thighs without ever addressing her attentions to the bit of him that he'd particularly requested she "massage." He put out his hands to guide her, but she shook him off, slipping her own hand under one leg and running it up and down from ass to knee until she felt his muscles twitch beneath her fingertips.

"Bloody hell, woman, where are you going?" he demanded. "Seems to me you're missing the crucial spot."

A laugh escaped her parted lips as her mouth moved up his body again, but only to concentrate on the soft crease where hip met thigh.

"Balls!" he bellowed.

"No need to shout instructions," she replied. "I'll get there in a little while. If you're a good boy."

He swore vehemently, and she said sternly. "Now that was naughty," and her mouth moved further up, towards his ribs, where there was an old scar that always fascinated her. She'd long since noted that most of Spike's scars were on his chest, testaments to his preference for meeting trouble head on.

He was particularly sensitive, if not downright ticklish, at that particular scar, and a moment later he was bawling with mingled frustration and laughter, complaining that she was torturing him, dragging him through hell, she was a bitch, a witch, a siren, a worse demon than he was. He ended the rant with a final, desperate, "Please!"

She sighed. "Well, since you've finally remembered the magic word…"

"Oh, Spike, I almost forgot," said Joyce. "I need you to do me a favor."

Freud had the wrong question. Spike was convinced of that. That Austrian pillock shouldn't have kept asking, "What do women want?" but "Why do the bitches always get us to do what they want?"

Because Spike was about to cave on something. He didn't know what it was yet, but he knew Joyce was going to ask him to perform some stupid labor of love and he was about to agree. Just as he always had with Drusilla.

Well, just as he had most of the time with Dru. He'd been able to distract his ex from her craziest desires. After a few decades of practice, he'd gotten pretty good at keeping her from burning things down or randomly killing their allies. But then, he'd needed that skill with Dru. She'd been barking mad.

Joyce could be amazingly daft at times, but she wasn't actually crazy. On the other hand, Spike had only had a few months practice in saying "no" to her, and so far he hadn't gotten very good at it. Of course, it wasn't as if she was about to ask him to bring about the apocalypse, or kill everyone on the street who happened to be wearing red, or to track down some poor sod of a demon that she needed for her own insane purposes.

"I want you to find a demon for me," said Joyce.

Well, so much for that theory. Spike sat up in his bed and stared at her. "You want a demon?" he said.

"Not just any demon," she said calmly, pulling her blouse on. "Besides," and she smiled happily at him, "I just had one demon, and very nice it was too."

Spike stretched back out on the bed. Another difference between Joyce and Dru. Joyce didn't pout or whine to get what she wanted. And she didn't withhold sex either – although she certainly knew how to tantalize. He stretched a little more luxuriously, remembering certain details of their lunchtime tryst. He had the distinct impression that finding him asleep in his crypt had distracted her from the original purpose of her errand, and that she wasn't regretting the distraction in the slightest. Neither was he. Her method of awakening him had been both rude and pleasant.

The lack of manipulative behavior was all jolly and good. But Spike noticed Joyce wasn't actually asking him to perform whatever little chore she had in mind. She was just assuming he would.

He forced his eyes away from the sight of her wiggling her bottom into her respectable business suit and stared at the ceiling. "So, just who is this other demon, and should I be jealous of the bugger?"

She giggled. "Of course not. It's whoever ordered that nasty Chac Mol in my gallery. After Giles showed us those pictures last night, it occurred to me that my missing special order client may be the demon who conjured up that jaguar. Although I suppose he could be some kind of nasty human and not a demon at all."

"Wouldn't think you'd like any dealings with a nasty man, pet," he remarked.

"No," she agreed, completely missing the irony in his tone. "But I still have to find him. So I can make him stop before Buffy gets hurt by that jaguar."

"You want me to help the Slayer," he said levelly.

"Yes, of course, I want to do this for Buffy," she said, picking up a mirror from the table furthest from the bed and propping it up so that she could brush her hair and fix her makeup. And just when had he started keeping a mirror around here for her convenience? He was damned if he could remember. But it was the kind of thing she would expect to find someplace where she slept – or, at least occupied a bed – occasionally.

"Joyce, love, you do remember what I am, don't you?" he asked, as near to exasperation as he could get with her.

"Of course." She looked up, startled. "I mean, you live in a crypt. It makes it hard to forget."

"But you do realize – the things I've done?" Even as he said it, he cursed himself, wondering what bloody-minded impulse was making him remind her of things that could lead her to reject him.

"I know what you were," she said, stowing her things away in her purse and looking around for her shoes. "I hit you with an axe the first time we met, remember?" She smiled, as if it were a fond memory.

She says that she knows what I was. What the bloody hell does she think I am now? A housebroken puppy? He remembered her lack of fear whenever he changed to game face, and the way she'd woken him, not even considering it was risky to attack a sleeping demon, however playfully. Surely she realizes that the sodding chip isn't a complete protection to her. She lets me so close to her – I could drink her or snap her neck, before the chip had a chance to activate. But she acts as if she doesn't even remember the chip's existence. As if she knows that I wouldn't do it. With or without the chip. He remembered the night over a year ago when he had shown up drunk on her doorstep, crying about Dru. There had been no chip in his head then. Joyce had made him hot chocolate, and he – he hadn't even thought of biting her until Angel came along. Even then, it had been a game with him, teasing Angel, not really meaning to hurt Joyce, even before the Slayer barged in.

Joyce had found her shoes and was smiling at him again. It wasn't the sort of smile a woman gave to a puppy. It was the sort of smile a woman gave to –

Never mind. He decided he didn't want to know what she thought she was sleeping with. Because he'd have to tell her she was wrong, of course. And that could mean no more wild sex in this bed, or upstairs on the sarcophagus, or in her silly little gallery, or in the park at night, or in every room of that too-perfect, middle-class house of hers, or –

It could also mean no more nights laughing together over old movies and pizza. No more long talks about nothing. No more –

Never mind what was going on in that head of hers. Some things a demon was better off not knowing.

"So," Joyce said, smiling with complete assurance, "you'll find this guy for me. I figure you can ask around the demon bars and places like that." Her smile grew wider. "You'll investigate for me. Like Sam Spade."

No, it wasn't a request. That was good, in a way. It saved him from admitting he was giving in to her. He sighed. "Give me the bastard's name and address."

"The phone's disconnected and there's no one in the apartment now."

"Never mind." He propped himself on one elbow and reached out his other hand to her. "It'll give me a place to start looking."

She handed him the information on a sheet of notepaper. One of those fancy notes, with artwork on them. In this case, Georgia O'Keefe flowers. Great, bloody vulvas of flowers. He'd never seen anything more feminine. He glanced up at Joyce. Well, on paper, that was.

He watched her slip on her sandals and head for the exit.

"Is that it, love? Don't I get a kiss goodbye?" he called after her.

"If I kiss you, I won't say 'goodbye,'" she called back down, with a throaty laugh that wiped away his resentment. Almost.

"I'm playing the sap for you, sweetheart," he muttered as he reached for his jeans.

That night, all the Scoobies met at the house on Revello Drive, with Hank in tow, and Joyce had to hustle when she came home from work to make a dinner big enough for all of them. But the scramble seemed to be worth it, and she was pleased to see that there were a few leftovers. That was always the surest way to tell if there'd been enough food on the table.

Buffy's friends were well-brought-up enough to help with dinner, so the dishes were taken into the kitchen and rinsed while Joyce hermetically sealed bits of meat and vegetables in her Tupperware containers. The Scoobies trooped out one by one as each chore was completed, moving on to the living room and their night of research into mystical jaguars. Hank had shown a tendency to linger in the kitchen, but Riley distracted him with some questions about basketball, and the two of them wandered off before Buffy had finished drying the big salad bowl and putting it away in the cupboard.

"Great dinner, mom," said the Slayer as she headed off to join her friends. The phone rang as Buffy was going past, and she swung the receiver into her hand with a fluid motion. "Hello?" she said. She listened for a moment and hung up. "Must have been a telemarketer," she said. "One of those machines. I couldn't even hear breathing."

"How annoying," said Joyce, turning on the dishwasher and straightening the dishtowel where it hung by the sink. She followed Buffy out of the kitchen and stationed herself in the dining room. A cursory glance at the crowd in the living room assured her that no one was upstairs at the moment.

The phone rang again, and Joyce picked up the portable in the dining room. She craned her neck to confirm that no one had picked up the extension in the living room. All the phones in the house were accounted for. "Hello?"

"Hello, love," said Spike. "Got the Slayer a minute ago."

"Hi! Good to hear from you! I was hoping you'd have a chance to call," said Joyce.

"Being overheard, are we?"

"Definitely. Were you able to get through that contacts list?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," said Spike, playing along with her tone. "I have some very important business to discuss tonight. With the party you sent me to find."

"That's excellent," chirped Joyce. "Let me get my date book. I'll ink that appointment in right now." Hoping for some measure of privacy, she moved further back into the room to where her purse leaned on the sideboard, but Xander chose that moment to come into the dining room and paw through some papers, forcing her to match her actions to her words.

There was a moan of exasperation from the phone. "Love, it's better if I do it on my own."

Joyce leaned over her date book, pen in hand, and spoke firmly. "Nonsense. You know I'll make time with you – for you, I mean. Even if I have to rearrange my schedule."

Spike's tone became more forceful. "You really don't need to come, pet."

"But I always do, with you," said Joyce. She smiled at Xander as he picked up a book and left the dining room.

There was a strangled noise at the other end of the line. "All right, then. In twenty minutes. I suppose I'll have to come up to your window since the slay squad is there."

"It's a date," said Joyce happily.

A few minutes later, Giles looked up from a ponderous tome and mentioned that a cup of tea would be nice. His comment was greeted by silence. He glanced around the room. "Where's Joyce?"

"Mom went to bed," said Buffy, not taking her eyes from the folio she was paging through.

"Oh?" said Hank. He too looked around, as if expecting to find his ex-wife lurking in a corner. "Kind of early for that, isn't it?"

"Well, she said there were a lot of disturbances last night, so she didn't get much sleep," said Buffy. "And she knows there isn't much she can do about the slayage. I think it's good she's so sensible about these things."

"Yes, it is," agreed Giles. And he got up to make his own tea.

Joyce climbed out her bedroom window, inched her way down the roof, and reached out to grasp a tree branch. She took a deep breath and swung her feet out to land on a lower branch. She clung there for a moment, and then felt fear subside as old tree-climbing skills came back to her. She hadn't done this since childhood, but it seemed that feeling your way along a slippery branch with the soles of your feet fell into the same category as riding a bicycle. And the yoga exercises were coming in helpful again, as she discovered when she stretched for the next branch. In just a few seconds, her feet dropped to the ground and she was in the back yard.

She wasted no time rounding the house and making her way to the sidewalk along Revello Drive. She was dressed in a dark shirt, jeans, and sneakers, but she didn't want to risk Buffy or one of the Scoobies peeking out a window and spotting her. Or, worse, spotting Spike.

She smiled as she saw him, three houses down from hers, a dark form in his leather duster, leaning against the side of that horrible old DeSoto with its blackened windows. He was smoking, of course, and looking all angry and Rebel-without-a-Cause. She shivered happily, even though the anger was directed at her.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"Sneaking out to meet my boyfriend," she retorted, and was rewarded by an involuntary twitch of his lips. She added, in a further effort to make him smile, "You look very James Dean."

She was successful in winning the smile, but apparently an argument was not that easily avoided. "Well, Natalie, you were supposed to wait for me to come and get you," he said, tossing his cigarette onto the sidewalk.

She moved a few steps out of her way to grind out the butt. It had been very dry lately, and she didn't want him to be responsible for a fire. "All of Buffy's friends are there, and Hank too. Someone might have heard you." She tossed her head and stuck out her chin.

"It's not like I was going to ring the doorbell and stand there holding a bloody corsage." He was, however, holding the passenger door open for her. She smiled, realizing that he saw nothing incongruous in this action. She stepped off the curb and over to the door, tilting her head up for a quick kiss on the lips before sliding into the depths. "I don't like the notion of you wandering around after dark without protection, pet," he said in the tone of a man who knows he won't be heeded. He slammed the door with emphasis and moved around to the driver's side.

Joyce looked around her and saw that Spike had at least cleared off the front seat of the car, but that he had done so by tossing most of the junk and garbage into the back seat. Which meant that he had no immediate plans for the two of them to roll around back there. Either this really was a business trip, or they were doing it on the front seat. "Where are we going?" she asked, before he could continue the argument.

"Demon bar by the highway," he said, putting the car in gear and pulling away from the curb.

It really is a business trip, then. At least for starters. "Are you sure this guy will be there?"

"He'll come to Rack's." He cast her a sideways glance. "Everybody comes to Rack's."

She giggled. "Why? And does Rack look like Bogey?"

"More like Frankenstein's monster with a bad hangover. But it's a place to make deals and get information. And nasty hits of magic that will turn you into a junkie if you're stupid enough to buy. He keeps trying to move the place into town, but even the demons think he'll lower the tone of the neighborhood."

"That bad?"

"Compared to Rack's, Willie's Place is Maxim's." Spike peered through the grime on the window and somehow managed to navigate down the dark street. "The beastie that hired the bloke who made your special order should meet me there. He put out the word that he's still interested in that Chac Mol. I put out the word that I might be able to locate it." His right arm stretched out along the back of the seat, and she slid over to sit next to him. She looked up at his profile and saw him give a smirk of satisfaction as she settled in close, her thigh pressed against his. His right hand squeezed her shoulder, and she smiled contentedly before forcing her mind back to her mission.

"So what's this beastie like? Is he as cute as you are?" She glanced at him to see if he got the reference.

"Nobody is," he retorted immediately, and added unnecessarily, "The Big Sleep."

"What happened to the other guy – the one who placed the order at the gallery?"

"The middle-man is sleeping the big sleep," said Spike. "Thanks to an incident that was very possibly completely unrelated to this little problem. There are lots of nasty things in Sunnydale, and one of them bit him about a week ago."

"Vampire?"

"Yeah. Didn't sire him though, so I wasn't able to interrogate the corpse." He looked down at her. "Any chance at all you'll go home and let me handle this for you?"

"None at all," she assured him.

"Love, promise me you'll stay close and that if there's a major cock-up, you'll follow my orders."

"Sure. We're on your turf. I'll be good."

"You always are. That's what worries me. Nothing else there will be."

Joyce would have preferred it if Rack's place looked like Rick's from Casablanca. But she wasn't surprised to find it more like a very grungy version of the bar scene in Star Wars. Too bad. She wasn't much of a fan of science fiction movies, and the sight of odd-looking demons had lost its novelty long ago. Rack's was filled with a bunch of sorry-looking specimens that would have seemed cheesy even in a low-budget film. But if this was where she could get information about the jaguar, this is where Joyce would spend the evening. Besides, it was kind of exciting. She hadn't been taken to a bar on a date in over twenty years. She wondered if demons smoked pot, assuring herself she was too sophisticated to be shocked by that. She'd even tried marijuana herself once, a long time ago. Then she remembered that Spike had talked about magical drugs for sale.

But Spike led her up to the bar and ordered, prosaically, "Two Guinness, in the bottle, and I'll open them myself, mate."

The very large, dull-grey creature behind the counter shoved the bottles over silently and waited.

Spike reached into the breast pocket of his duster, fished around, and came up with a scrap of red fabric. He stared at it for a moment, and Joyce recognized a pair of her underpants. The bartender was staring too, and judging by his expression, rayon and lace were not acceptable currency in this establishment.

Joyce plunged a hand into the pocket of her jeans and produced a twenty dollar bill, which she slapped on the counter. The bartender took it away and returned a moment later with a ridiculously small amount of change.

"Thanks, pet," said Spike, carefully tucking her panties back into his pocket. He scooped up the bottles of beer in one hand, wrapped his other arm around her shoulders, and led her to a booth at the back of the bar. "Try not to do anything too conspicuous," he said.

"You mean like waving ladies' red underthings around like you're practicing bullfighting?" she asked.

He ducked his head, almost shamefaced. "Forgot I'd saved those last night."

"Saved them from what?"

"Not 'from' anything, love. 'For' something."

She decided she definitely didn't want more details. Well, at least the panties he was hording were hers, and not some demon bimbo's. She looked around her, and noticed that there actually were some demon bimbos present, and that at least one of them had her purple orbs on Spike. Joyce slid closer to him in the booth and met the female demon's eyes levelly. Her rival moved on to consort with a big creature with huge horns and a biker's jacket. Probably just into leather. Definitely a slut. Joyce grabbed Spike's hand and squeezed it proprietarily.

Spike watched Joyce issue her non-verbal warning to the Bathor demon. He had expected his lady to handle herself here, because, after all, this was Joyce. But he was surprised how unafraid she seemed, and he found himself grinning from ear-to-ear at the way she'd let that Bathor know whose property he was. Spike had done pretty much the same when the Vassago leered at Joyce earlier, but she hadn't noticed that exchange at all. She never did notice the other males who looked at her, which was one of the few things that helped keep his jealousy in check. If she'd been at all conscious of the way that pillock Hank was slobbering over her the previous night, Spike might have had to risk setting off the chip to pull the stupid git's head off.

Now, Joyce was sitting next to him, sipping her beer and looking around curiously, like a kid at some fairground. You'd think she was on the bloody midway, watching clowns make balloon animals, instead of gazing at a couple of Yurkemi demons who were literally locking horns.

"Are you – are you Spike?" The high-pitched voice sounded incredulous, but it was unclear if it was the vampire's name or his appearance that presented the problem.

Spike looked at the creature standing in front of the booth. It was about a foot shorter than he was, and all of its extremities, from its antennae to its tail, were scrawny and seemed underdeveloped. Its flaky hide was covered with parti-colored scales that glimmered silver, blue, and yellow in the dim light, but the effect was more diseased than decorative. The silly bugger seemed to have a good opinion of itself though; it was dressed in a toga-like garment that looked like real silk and had a cashmere stole falling off its sloping shoulders. It wore a wide belt that was too large for it, with a scabbard holding a large dagger. The point of the knife dragged down past what appeared to be its knees.

"Yeah, I'm Spike. Who are you?"

"My name is Texiculigalupnahuatatl," said the demon.

"You realize that there's a much better chance of Beckham leaving Man U than of us ever remembering that," said Spike. "You're a Guecubu, right?"

"Yes," said the demon, antennae quivering in what appeared to be surprise. "Not many here know my honored race."

"Don't know about honor, but I saw one of you a few years ago in South America. Or maybe I saw one of your scalps. Sit down."

The Guecubu slid into the booth opposite Spike and his lady. It nodded at Joyce. "Is this creature necessary to our discussion? It pains me sufficiently to have intercourse with a vampire, much less," and the antennae wobbled, "a human."

"By 'intercourse' you had bloody well be meaning nothing more than talk," growled Spike, switching to game face. "And my lady stays."

The demon quailed at that, but cast Joyce a resentful look.

She stared back at Texi-co-whatever. "I'm not going anywhere until I find out a few things," she said.

The demon glared at Spike. "I understood that you would be the one providing the information. I was told that you knew the whereabouts of my property."

Spike leaned back against the booth to keep himself from batting the insolent little twit across the room. "A nasty little Chac Mol," he said. "Enough ancient power rolling off it to scare Montezuma into finding himself the victim of his own revenge."

"Yes," squeaked the Guecubu, almost bouncing in his seat. "That's what I'm looking for! Where is it?"

"I hope you don't play poker, mate," said Spike, rolling his eyes in disgust.

"I don't know what poker is, but that Chac Mol is mine!"

"Not according to the shipping manifest," interjected Joyce. "It's mine."

"No!" The Guecubu's antennae whipped around faster. Spike felt its tail lash against his legs as the creature vibrated in agitation. "It was sent here for me to complete my Quest!"

"Waddya want?" interrupted a voice.

Spike looked up to see the bartender glaring at the Guecubu, which blinked up in confusion.

"I want my Chac Mol!" squealed the little demon.

"We don't carry that," said the bartender. "We've got Corona and Dos Equis, though."

Spike sighed. He'd met Fyarl demons with better social skills than this stupid Guecubu. "You have to order something, mate, or they'll throw you out." He looked up at the bartender. "Bring him the same as us, and we'll take another round." His eyes slid to Joyce, hopefully. She slapped another bill on the table without batting an eye.

"Now," said Spike when the bartender was gone, "why do you want this Chac Mol so badly? What's the plan? Apocalypse? Evil World Domination? Sunday barbecue?"

"It is no business of yours."

"Yes it is." Joyce spoke firmly, leaning across the table. "You see, I have your little altar, and I'm not going to give it up until I find out what it's going to be used for."

"You! You're – you're a human female." It was unclear which aspect of the description the demon found more distasteful.

"Thank you," said Spike, restraining his anger with an effort. If he killed the little wanker before they got the information they'd come for, Joyce would be even more pissed off than she was already. "I'm sure the lady hadn't noticed that before. Now answer the bloody question."

The demon moaned. "The treasures of my house have fallen into low company."

"That's okay," soothed Joyce. "We don't like you much either. Although your name is kind of cute. I wish I could pronounce it. It sounds like a gas station followed by a sneeze."

The Guecubu stared at her. "I don't understand," it said. It jumped almost a foot in the air as the bartender slammed three bottles down on the table in front of it. "What's that?" it shrieked.

"Shut up!" growled Spike. "Half the bloody bar's staring at us." He ripped the caps off the bottles and handed them around.

Joyce sipped hers. The Guecubu watched her in fascination, took a drink in obvious emulation of her behavior, and began to choke and gag. Spike stood up to slap him on the back, which made him start to quiver and shake.

"Maybe if you got rid of the fangs," suggested Joyce. "They seem to be making him nervous."

Spike slipped back into human face as the Guecubu protested angrily. "I know no fear! I am a great warrior among my people. It is inconceivable that I should feel fear."

"Inconceivable?" said Joyce. "You use that word. But I do not think it means what you think it means."

This made Spike smile at last. "The Princess Bride," he said.

She nodded, but the Guecubu stared at her in bewilderment. "Are you telling me this human woman is royal?" he asked Spike.

"No," said Joyce. "We're talking about a movie."

Spike raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in involuntary amusement. Of course, my Joyce is too bloody nice to leave even this sorry mess in confusion.

"Ah," said the Guecubu, nodding. "I know movies. I watched many on the television at the hotel while waiting for the coyote to smuggle me here."

"You got yourself smuggled into the country with a bunch of illegals hiding from La Migra?" asked Spike. "Sounds like a great warrior's path, all right. But let's get on with this. What brings you to the Hellmouth?"

"I'm on a Quest to become the greatest and most powerful demon ever seen in my tribe and to lead them in battle."

"The great and all powerful Guecubu," snorted Spike. "Doesn't have quite the ring you need to strike terror into the hearts of the masses, that."

"Pay no attention to the Guecubu behind the curtain," intoned Joyce. She saw the demon's expression and hastened to apologize. "Sorry," she said. "I realize this is important to you."

"Important!" The demon's antenna quivered with outrage. "I will have you know that not just anyone could go on this Quest! I had to qualify for the honor. I am from a powerful family. The blood of my kind has produced heroes. I have fought bravely in battle against the enemies of my house. Once my application was accepted, there were years of ritual sacrifices. Can either of you say you've accomplished such labors?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Spike. "You're some kind of chosen one. We know the drill. But get down to details, sugar plum. What exactly did you come to town to do?"

"I came to kill the sacred jaguar, of course."

Spike and Joyce exchanged incredulous glances. But before Spike could respond with a pithy assessment of the Guecubu's chances against something that had wounded a Slayer, they were interrupted again.

The booth was dark, but the shape that had moved in front of it was big enough to cast it into even deeper gloom.

"What's that?" demanded Joyce staring up at the creature.

"Abigor demon," said Spike, shifting uneasily in his chair. "There's a family of them in Sunnydale."

"Do you know them well?" asked Joyce.

"Not exactly socially," he whispered. "I killed one last week."

"Yeah. You killed my father," snarled the Abigor, which appeared to have very good hearing.

"It's Iñigo Montoya!" snickered Joyce, giddy from the unaccustomed consumption of two beers in a row.

The Abigor looked confused, and Spike took advantage of the distraction to put a hand on Joyce's shoulder, shoving her under the table just before he switched back to game face, jumped up, and lunged at the Abigor.

Somewhat to Spike's surprise, Joyce obediently slipped under the table as he landed the first blow in the fight. Unfortunately for him, the Abigor merely reeled back and produced a short but extremely serviceable-looking sword. The Abigor gave a wild yell and attacked.

Spike moved out of the way and successfully ducked the next several thrusts of the sword as he looked around for a possible weapon. There were none to be seen, and, to his complete lack of surprise, none of the other denizens of the bar looked as if they planned to offer him any assistance. The Guecubu demon apparently believed that being inconspicuous in a fight was a heroic trait, because it was shrinking back into a corner of the booth.

Spike got in a kick or two, but the huge Abigor caught him in the jaw with its fist, and before the vampire could recover, the Abigor was swinging the sword back, with the obvious intention of getting enough momentum to take Spike's head off with its next blow.

But before the blade arced back, the Abigor's eyes went blank, and the weapon dropped from its hands. The big body thumped to the floor of the bar, revealing Joyce behind him, holding a bloody knife. Spike realized that she must have stolen the weapon from the Guecubu's scabbard when he had forced her under the table.

"That's my girl!" he yelled admiringly, just before he knocked her down again.

Sprawled across the incredibly filthy barroom floor, Joyce looked up in time to see Spike, his fangs still bared in a gleeful smile, snap the neck of a second Abigor that had come up behind her. Then he reached down to grab her by the arm with one hand, leaned over to haul the Guecubu demon out of the booth by the tail with the other, and legged it out of the bar at full vamp speed. The demon shrieked in horror as Spike flung open the back seat of the DeSoto and tossed it in, swinging it around by its long and scaly appendage. Joyce managed to catch her breath enough to tumble into the front seat on her own. She slammed the door, dropped the knife that she still held on the floor, and reached out to brace herself against the dashboard as Spike tore out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

"My tail!" screamed the Guecubu, writhing in pain on the back seat.

Joyce stared in revulsion at Spike's hands. They were both clutching the steering wheel as he fought to keep the car on the road, but the left one also held a length of tail, complete with pointed tip.

"Stop whining," said Spike, rolling down the window and tossing out the severed body part. "It'll regenerate."

"It hurts," wailed his passenger.

"Don't worry about that wanker," said Spike to Joyce. He shook his head, and his game face disappeared.

"I'm not," she said. "Although I must say that when I thought that it might be nice if you got a piece of tail tonight, that wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

Spike chortled with laughter, but the Guecubu only sobbed louder.

"We'll need some way to control him when he calms down," said Spike.

Joyce looked down at the floor of the DeSoto, where she had dropped the demon's own weapon. It was covered with blood, and she wouldn't have felt inclined to hold the gory thing even if she had felt confident of her ability to use it. She opened the glove compartment and pulled out some mangled maps, a can of Cheez Whiz, several empty cigarette packs, a Slim Jim, a pack of matches, a silver flask, and a gun. She dropped everything but the flask and the gun back into the compartment and displayed the weapon. "Will this kill him?"

"Sure as shooting," said Spike after a glance at it. "And give us a bit of that other, love."

Joyce turned around in the seat until she was on her knees, pointing the gun at the demon in the back seat. Since one hand was busy holding the weapon, she unscrewed the flask with her teeth. She took a swig herself before passing the flask over to Spike.

He took a much longer sip than she had before saying, "You saved my unlife back there, pet. Thanks."

"Ditto."

He looked at her suspiciously. "You wouldn't be quoting that git Swayze from that silly movie with demi-brained Moore, would you?"

"Ghost?" She was indignant. "Certainly not. In fact, I'm surprised you would even think of it. Makes me worry you've been watching that sentimental trash over and over." Just to make sure he wasn't too upset by the criticism, she slid the hand not busy holding the gun along his thigh and gave him a friendly squeeze.

He grinned at her, swerving dangerously close to the verge of the road for a moment. "I only watch Ghost for the Whoopi Goldberg and Vincent Schiavelli bits. Besides, it's a bloody stupid idea to kill a character and bring him back as a ghost."

"Topper," said Joyce.

"Well, maybe Topper," conceded Spike. "I mean, you've got Cary there. And a fast car, and his lady was dead too and partying with him. But, as a rule, if you're going to have a leading man, he needs to be fucking corporeal. Otherwise, you get Demi kissing Whoopi, which was bloody well disturbing. Whoopi is much too good for her."

The Guecubu demon in the back seat had finally stopped screaming and was staring up at the gun barrel. "Do the two of you ever do anything but make bad puns and discuss old movies?" it demanded.

"Sure," said Joyce, wriggling to make herself more comfortable in her kneeling position, and managing to bring herself a bit closer to Spike in the process. "Lots of things."

Spike grinned and took a hand off the steering wheel to pat her affectionately on the ass.

"Gah!" said the Guecubu. "Now I have to imagine you two having human sex! How repulsive!"

"Well, I don't want a wanker like you imagining us having sex," growled Spike, his smile disappearing. "And I'm not human."

"No, you're a vampire. A hybrid. That's worse." The demon sounded thoroughly disgusted.

"You know, this twit is starting to seriously annoy me," said Spike to Joyce.

"Do you want me to shoot him now?" she asked, waving the gun and reveling in this unexpected chance to play Bad Cop. But she couldn't help feeling a bit guilty when the demon quaked in terror.

"Better wait until we get to the gallery and I have a chance to really interrogate him," said Spike. "And to look at that Chac Mol again."

Hank peered nervously through the windshield of the Hummer at the neon sign that advertised Willie's. He didn't like this neighborhood much, and it bothered him even more that his daughter seemed so familiar with this place. And that Buffy was becoming so bossy. She'd directed him here and ordered him to wait in the Hummer with Riley while she and that Giles character went inside to ask some questions.

"Are you sure she's safe in there?" he asked Riley uneasily.

"What?" asked Riley, who had been examining the controls to the SkyFi satellite radio. "Buffy? Sure. Everything in there is a lot more afraid of her than she'd ever be of them."

Hank let himself be reassured momentarily, even though he still had trouble believing his little girl was a superhero. But he felt inclined to trust Riley, even if the man was dating his daughter. Riley had a military background, he understood basketball, and he had spent a good portion of the evening discussing sequential fuel injection, torque, electronically controlled four-wheel drive, traction control systems, and other tenets of Hummerology with great enthusiasm. In order to have the honor of riding in Hank's front passenger seat, Riley had even tossed the keys to his own SUV to that odd Xander boy.

But Buffy had been less impressed with the Hummer, dumping huge bags filled with pointy weapons on the virgin custom carpet floor mats in the back and complaining that it didn't have much seating for something this big, forcing them to take two vehicles.

Giles hadn't complimented the Hummer either, merely pointing out that two vehicles meant that they could split up as they conducted their search. Xander would drive Anya, Willow, and Tara to some night spots frequented by white witches and the friendlier sort of demons, while Buffy and the others tackled more recalcitrant sources of information. Hank was trying not to think too much about the fact that at least two of his daughter's best friends were witches. He had no idea what Anya was, and the few comments he'd heard her make made him reluctant to ask.

It bothered Hank a lot that Buffy seemed to look to Giles for advice instead of Riley. Hank wasn't inclined to trust Giles. He remembered how Giles had gone through Joyce's kitchen cabinets as if he belonged there. The man seemed too much at home in Joyce's house and Buffy's life. And he probably didn't even watch basketball.

A few more minutes went by, the only sound that of Riley turning the pages of the Hummer owner's manual and giving occasional grunts of admiration and approval.

"Who is Buffy going to see?" Hank asked at last.

Buffy yanked the rear passenger door open in time to hear the question. "Just Willie. I hit him for information all the time." She hopped inside.

"Hit him up for information, you mean," said Hank. He'd hoped she'd grown out of her tendency to mangle clichés.

"No, she usually just hits him," said Giles, climbing into the seat behind Riley. "But it didn't do much good this time. We're convinced he doesn't know anything about the jaguar."

"Where to next?" asked Riley, turning to lean over the back of his seat. "How about that place out on the highway? The one called Wreck's or something like that? A ride out there will give Hank a chance to show off his Hummer, too."

"This isn't a joy ride," said Giles repressively. "Besides, judging by a phone call Willie got while we were in there, Rack's is closed for the rest of the evening."

"Yeah, there was some big bar fight," said Buffy. "A demon got knifed, whatever did the knifing got away, and the victim's relatives tore the place up. Rack's is a wreck at the moment. I can try to find out tomorrow exactly what killed what, but considering what the clientele there is like, someone probably just did me a favor. Not to mention Willie, who is thrilled at the prospect of getting more business until Rack can open up again."

"Why do you care what got killed?" asked Hank.

She stared at him blankly. "I thought you understood, Dad. It's the Slayer's job to know things like that."

"So you spend your evenings chasing down news about bar fights and demon homicides? And – and mystical jaguars?"

Buffy pouted. "Well, it's more important than you and Riley discussing the circulation in your balls. That jaguar thing mauled someone last night. Someone besides me, I mean."

Hank winced. "We were discussing recirculating ball steering," he said, adding reflexively, "with integral power."

"Whatever," said Buffy. "We need to meet up with the others and start checking out the parks and the cemeteries." She picked up something big with sharp edges and started doing something with it – making it even sharper, maybe. Hank quailed in fear for his optional leather upholstery.

"We haven't tried asking Spike," said Riley, tearing himself away from the heating controls on his seat for a moment. "He might have heard something."

"From the sound of things, that idiot got himself involved in the big bar fight," said Buffy. "And Willie said he had a female of some species or another with him, so I'm guessing he's not worrying about the same kind of pussy that we are tonight."

Hank winced again as he began to carefully back the Hummer out of the narrow alley. Buffy was beginning to remind him unpleasantly of her mother. How many times had Joyce made him flinch with some dirty-minded little pun?

But Joyce wasn't here tonight, on what she would doubtlessly call a wild cat chase. Hank was beginning to think that she had chosen a much more sensible way to spend the evening.

Spike shoved the Guecubu down into the hand chair, holding it there with one of his own hands on a scrawny shoulder. "We need to tie him up," he said over his shoulder to Joyce, who was locking the back door behind them. "Too bad we don't have any handcuffs here."

"But we do," called Joyce's voice from the office. "We brought them here last week, when I had that funny abstract sculpture here, remember?" She bounced out of the office a moment later, triumphantly holding up the handcuffs.

"Brilliant. Toss them here, love." Spike grabbed them and pulled the Guecubu over to a sturdy display case. He secured the demon carefully with its hands behind its back, making sure the skinny wrists and hands couldn't slip through. He turned around to see Joyce holding the box she had begun to unpack the day before.

Spike took the box from her and opened it, lifting the Chac Mol out while it was still in its packing material and setting it on a counter a few feet away from the Guecubu. "That's it," moaned the little demon. "That's the altar. If only you would let me perform the ritual, I will have the power to destroy the jaguar."

Spike and Joyce exchanged glances. "If he kills the jaguar that hurt Buffy, that's a good thing," said Joyce. "But what happens then?"

"I become a great warrior and champion of my tribe!" cried the Guecubu.

"What does his tribe do?" asked Joyce.

Spike shrugged. "Not much. Try to keep from getting skinned by bigger demons, mostly."

"Well, I have no objection to their doing that," said Joyce. "Maybe we should help him do the ritual."

"Yes! Yes!" cried the little demon, jumping up and down with excitement. "Ow!" it added as it pulled too hard against the handcuffs. It deflated a bit, and its antenna dipped subserviently. "Please?"

"Well," said Spike, "now you've said the magic word, and the importance of that has been made clear to me recently, so –"

Joyce watched as Spike prepared the Chac Mol for the ritual, setting it up on top of one of her display cases according to the Guecubu's stuttering instructions. She could tell he hated taking orders from that annoying little twerp, but he was doing it for her and Buffy. He could be so sweet. She sighed blissfully.

The Guecubu was less happy. "You have to give me my dagger back, you know," it muttered in a sulky tone. "My mother said that I'm never supposed to be separated from it."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Well, if your mother said –" The demon's expression grew hopeful until he added, "I was joking. We have you bound and are holding you prisoner, remember? It's not likely I'm going to hand you a bloody great weapon, is it? Now, what does this thing need to be ready for your ritual?"

"It requires a sacrifice of demon blood." The creature squealed its words out faster as Spike picked up one of the cheap little knives Joyce sold from a display case and came towards it. "Of non-Guecubu demon blood, that is."

Spike shrugged. "Easy enough." He pulled off his duster, tossed it aside, and went over to the Chac Mol. With one quick slice, he cut through his palm and watched a thin trickle of blood drop to the altar. "That enough?" he said. "I don't bleed very freely. Not the best circulation, being dead and all."

"The being dead part is good," said the Guecubu, frowning. "But I think it would be better if I sacrificed someone close to me."

"If you mean emotionally, that ain't going to happen," said Spike. "Casual acquaintance is going to have to suffice. What happens next?"

"I chant."

"Of course. There's always got to be a boring and incomprehensible chant, doesn't there?"

"You sure this will help you kill that jaguar?" demanded Spike sometime later. He was moving restlessly around the room as he listened to the gargling syllables of the ritual.

"Yes, of course," said the Guecubu, stopping its chant for a moment. "I will be filled with the power, I think."

"You think?" demanded Spike. "You sounded bloody sure about it a while ago."

The antennae shook nervously. "The process is not described exactly in the scrolls. But the power will come, and I will destroy the scared jaguar." The chanting resumed.

"What happens to the sacred jaguar if you don't kill it?" asked Spike suddenly a few minutes later. "Does it go off and join the circus on its own?"

"No, it becomes a ravening beast that cannot be destroyed by mortal means. Only the power of the ritual can destroy it," said the Guecubu. It looked at Joyce. "Is the vampire always this chatty during sacred rituals?"

"Yes," she said absently, "but he's great in bed, so I put up with it." She was looking at the bloody dagger that she had taken from the Guecubu earlier. It was lying on a counter, wrapped in a rag that she'd found in the back of Spike's car. She made a face, and stepped back into the office for a moment to look for a roll of paper towels. The first two removed most of the goop. She dropped them in a wastepaper basket and stepped back into the main gallery, absently rubbing the blade with a third towel.

The Guecubu was still gargling syllables, but nothing was happening. Spike was standing with his legs spread and his arms folded. A half-dozen cigarette butts littered one of the cheap made-in-China Chal Mols on the counter next to him. His eyes rolled towards the ceiling. "Come on, mate, dawn will be here in a few hours. Chant faster or something."

"I don't understand," muttered the demon nervously. "I can feel the magic flow, but I am not being filled with it."

Joyce realized that the blade of the dagger was beginning to glow. She stopped rubbing it with the paper towel and watched carefully.

"You're full of something, and I'm starting to believe it's bullshite," thundered Spike. "If I even suspect you're leading us on because you think you can scamper off at sunrise –"

"Wait, Spike," cried Joyce. She held up the dagger. It was glowing more brightly now. "I think the power is here. In the blade." She pointed the tip at the demon. "This little guy said he was never supposed to be separated from his weapon. Maybe that's why."

"I told you it's not right," sulked the demon, staring at Joyce resentfully. "You two are ruining everything."

"Well, now," said Spike, "seems to me that things are looking up. You've had the power transfer, which means that if the cat gets killed with this dagger, it won't come back the very next day."

"Yes, and if you just give my dagger back to me, I will destroy the sacred beast and –"

Joyce thrust the hand holding the dagger behind her back and took a step away from the demon.

Spike shook his head. "It's not your dagger any more, mate. Belongs to the lady now. She nicked it from you in a fair bar fight."

"I know you despise me," muttered the Guecubu.

"Well, if I gave it enough thought I probably would," said Spike as he hauled the demon out of the back seat of the De Soto. He grabbed it by the shoulder and swung it around so he could unlock the handcuffs. Joyce swiveled around in the front seat to watch as the vampire gave the Guecubu a shove. "Hit the road, mate."

The little demon staggered forward a few steps before turning around to gaze at the others in dismay. "You and that vicious human female can't just abandon me out here!"

Spike growled impatiently. "It's not the bloody Mojave dessert. It's the Greyhound station. And you can thank the lady for that favor." He slammed the passenger door shut and got back behind the wheel.

"You can start your trip back home here," said Joyce soothingly. "Don't worry, we'll take care of the jaguar."

"No, no! I'm the one who's supposed to kill it! And you can't take my magic dagger. It's mine. I did all the work." The thing threw its head back and wailed as they drove away. "It's not fair!"

"Maybe we shouldn't have kept the dagger," said Joyce an hour later. "Maybe we should have let little Texaco-gesundheit keep it. Maybe he is the only one who can find and kill this jaguar thing."

"That little wanker couldn't successfully swat a cockroach," said Spike. "No, love, we'll find this kitty and kill it." He slipped an arm around her shoulders as they walked down a wooded path.

She leaned against him gratefully. The streetlights were far behind now, as they searched the grounds of the third park they'd visited that night. Each time, Spike had stated with assurance that there were no jaguars, demon or otherwise, in the vicinity, and they'd moved on. At first, she'd been filled with the thrill of the chase, but now doubts and worries were overtaking her. "Anything here?"

"Something's coming." He stopped at the top of a small rise, pulling her off to the side of the path, behind some scrubby bushes. "Down there." He pointed. "But it's no feline."

"Not even vaguely cat-like," agreed Joyce, watching the huge shape that was lumbering along the dirt road of the park beneath them.

"Elephantine is more like it." Spike was staring at the Hummer. "Except for the color. Bloody thing practically glows in the dark. And it has a friend." He tugged her back in the opposite direction as a more ordinary SUV pulled up behind the Hummer. "No point in us lurking about here, pet. Let's leave the lonely hearts down there to crash about in their yellow submarine while we check out the cemeteries."

Behind her, Joyce heard a babble of voices arguing about where to look first. Tara was saying something about trying a locator spell again. Willow started to respond, then squeaked in dismay as there was a crash. Anya coughed and whined about careless witches who dropped smelly potions and activated other people's allergies. Hank fussed about the dirt road and worried that his paintwork had been scratched. Xander gave a warning yelp, there was a loud thwang, and Buffy scolded him sharply about the proper way to handle a crossbow. Riley begged Hank to stop waving the flashlight around quite so much, and Giles' voice carried loudest of all as he pleaded for quiet.

"Even if the thing had been here, it would have headed for the hills by now." Spike's voice echoed with disbelief. "Still can't understand how that lot always comes out on top, when there are plenty of perfectly competent evildoers about."

"At least I know for sure that Buffy hasn't gotten hurt while we've been hanging out with that silly demon and searching for that cat," said Joyce, heading back to his car. "Let's keep looking."

But an hour closer to dawn, they were no nearer to finding their quarry, and she was discouraged again. She stomped onto the grounds of yet another cemetery, trying to make out Spike's features in the dim light trickling in from some streetlamps a few yards away. He took in a deep breath, concentrated hard, and relaxed.

"No?" she asked sadly.

"No," he confirmed. "Nothing here but some frisky little woodland creatures of the ordinary sort. And, about two hours ago by my calculation, a couple of frisky creatures of the human sort. Sorry, love."

Sighing, she turned with the intention of striding back to the car, tripped over a tombstone, and wound up sinking down on a large flat monument, rubbing her shin with one hand and wiping sudden tears out of her eyes with the other.

Spike was sitting beside her in a moment. "All right, pet?"

"Yes," she stammered. "No. I mean, this isn't working, is it?"

"Not yet." He gestured back towards the sidewalk. "We can try driving about just outside of town."

"No." She tried to keep her voice from cracking with despair. "It's not a very effective way to look, and it's too close to sunrise. You know how I worry about you being caught out during the day."

His arm was around her now. "I'm good at taking care of myself. You don't need to worry about me, pet."

"I can't help it." She rested her head on his shoulder. For once, his embrace did little to cheer her. "I think that's one of the few things I'm good at, Spike. Worrying about people."

He gave the lascivious snicker she adored. "Not true, Joyce. And I'll testify to that wherever and whenever you want."

She chuckled a little, but the laugh ended in a sob. "I'm useless at this demon hunting stuff, Spike. I should never have tried to fix things on my own. I should have just told Buffy about the Chac Mol and let her and the others handle it. I need to face facts. I'm not a hero. I'm just a hero's mom."

"Bollocks," said Spike forcefully. "You're a brave and beautiful lady, that's what you are. And you and me, we're a great team. We got that dagger, didn't we?"

Joyce refused to be consoled. "I thought we could be like Bogey and Bacall in The Big Sleep. Figuring it all out. Except, when I thought that, I forgot I've never even managed to understand the plot of the movie. So how could I expect to do this?"

His arm tightened around her. "No one understands the plot of that bloody film, love. And just because we haven't caught that cat tonight doesn't mean we can't do it tomorrow night."

She shook her head, burying her face in his chest. "I just don't think I'm cut out to be a smart-talking detective who foils the bad guy."

"Well, of course not," he said surprisingly, patting her on the back. "But there's nothing wrong with you, love. You've just got the wrong movie."

She looked up at him. "The wrong –"

He waved one arm dramatically. "Look around you, Joyce. Do you see guns and drugged socialites, and whatever other shite was going down in The Big Sleep? No." He smirked down at her. "What you see is two fiendishly sexy people wandering about the woods, trying to avoid her relatives and friends, while they search for a great big wildcat."

She caught on immediately, and choked on a laugh.

"That's it," he confirmed. "Pet, this isn't film noir. It's screwball comedy. We're not Bogey and Baby, but that's nothing to worry about. Because we're something better."

"Cary and Kate in Bringing Up Baby!" she agreed triumphantly, all her despair falling away as she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.

"Yeah, it's Bringing Up Baby," said Spike, returning her embrace enthusiastically. "And everything turned out all right for that lot in the movie."

"Except for the dinosaur," said Joyce, her spirits rising to pedantry.

"Yeah, I forgot the bloody dinosaur. But now we've got the right movie, everyone except huge, lumbering, useless beasts is going to be perfectly safe. You'll see, love."

"Spike, that's perfectly ridiculous logic," she sputtered, but she couldn't help feeling reassured by its very absurdity. Or perhaps she was just warmed by the way his hands had moved from patting to stroking her.

"This is Sunnydale," he pointed out as his thumb slipped under her bra and began caressing the soft underside of one breast. "You're hunting a magical jaguar and making love to a vampire who's carrying a charmed dagger." He was breathing the words against her collarbone now, as his lips moved softly over her exposed skin. "Don't see why my logic won't work here."

She tried to think of an intelligent response, but after a minute or so of not very coherent thought, she gave up. It wasn't that she was convinced by his argument, but she was suddenly aware that he'd managed to unhook her bra and was pushing her down on the monument.

Joyce gasped once at the touch of the chill granite, and again from dismay when Spike pulled her to her feet again. "Sssh," he reassured her, nuzzling her behind one ear briefly before stepping back and pulling off his coat. "Just want to take care of my lady proper."

A moment later she was lying back on the stone, snuggled in the lining of his duster, welcoming the feel of his body moving over hers as his hands reached for the snap of her jeans. She relaxed back, and felt her whole body flush with warmth as he began to take care of her as only he could.

Five minutes later, the jeans were gone and Spike was saying, "Old Archie Leach here is caressing your bottom. Good thing this coat of mine is between you and him or I'd be jealous."

"Is that who we're lying on? My eyes aren't as good as yours. I couldn't make out the inscription." She wriggled happily beneath him. "But I'm good at other kinds of making out."

"That you are," said Spike, using the hand he'd slipped between her thighs to prove his own skill. "I'm sure old Archie hasn't had a treat like this for a long while."

She twisted her hips and shoulder, and he let her roll them both over, so she was on top and he was sprawled across the late Mr. Leach. "Now Archie's rubbing your butt," she giggled. "Are you sure you didn't just go gay all of a sudden?"

"Oh, I'm sure," he said, lifting her by the waist and arranging her astride him. He purred, doing his best Cary Grant imitation, "But, my dear young lady, you don't seem to realize you've placed me in a very embarrassing position."

She giggled again. "You seem to be holding up pretty well under the stress." Since her hand was in a position to verify this, she guided his cock inside her and rocked against him.

He relaxed his hold on her, letting her set the pace of their lovemaking, lying back and gazing up at her through his narrowed eyelids. His voice was husky as he said, "And look at you. I think I caught a wildcat tonight after all."

"I do feel wild when we do this." She bent over him, licking the side of his neck until he shivered and thrust upward into her, harder, uncontrollably.

"Admit it, pet," he gasped. "You like me because I make you feel sexy."

She raised her head and met his eyes in surprise. "Oh, no, Spike."

He stilled beneath her. "I don't make you feel sexy?"

She laughed joyously in response to his worried tone. "I didn't mean that, silly. I meant that I always felt sexy." Her lips moved back to his throat, and she clenched her thighs tighter around him until he began to thrust again. "I like you because you're the only person who's ever really made me feel like that's okay."

"'Okay' isn't the word for what you are, pet. Brilliant, magnificent…"

She interrupted him with a finger across his lips and sat back, running her hands over his chest and settling her hips down against his until they were both moaning with pleasure. She had him now, he was her captive deep inside her. If she were ever to get a real admission out of him, this was the moment. "Never mind that. Your turn, Spike. Tell me the whole truth. Why do you like me?"

Before answering, he rolled her over onto her back again, grinding into her as he muttered in her ear, "Because of this, of course. Because you're my passionate, sexy, lovely lady, and I can't get enough of you." She held him close, feeling his body start to shudder in climax, listening to him praise her. She was his queen, an enchantress, an insatiable siren; he adored her gorgeous body, her profound eyes, her luscious breasts, the stunning legs that she wrapped around him, the velvety warmth of her quim; he loved the way she shagged him without embarrassment, never holding anything back, beautifully shameless.

So silly. As if I have anything to be ashamed of. We're not doing anything wrong. Still, she gloried in his words, her body responding to his even as she was sure he was the one still holding something back. But then she heard him breathe against her ear, so quietly she could barely make out what he said, "Because you're the only one who calls me a person."

She came in his arms, smiling blissfully as he dropped his head on her shoulder, because she knew he'd surrendered to her utterly in that moment.

She was incredibly warm, lying there beneath him, all soft curves and rosy flesh, the sweet throb of her pulse echoing in his ears, the intoxicating scents of her blood and her arousal surrounding him. But Spike's feelings of extreme satisfaction gradually shifted to a vague sense of unease. He tried to remember exactly what words he'd used in those last moments of passion. He began to wonder if he'd said what he thought he'd said, or if he'd just thought so hard about saying it that it seemed as if he'd actually said it.

That train of thought made his head hurt, so he lay still and waited to see if she would mention the foolish sentiment he was pretty sure he'd uttered.

At first, she lay peacefully, skin to skin, snuggling against him as her breathing quieted and her heart stopped racing from their exertions. Then, suddenly, she squirmed away, pushing at his chest and twisting her body to one side. "Let me up, Spike," she demanded urgently.

He moved aside slowly, dismayed. "What's wrong, pet?" he asked hoarsely, cursing himself for his revelation, wondering if he'd managed to say the wrong thing at last, the damning thing that would make her reject him.

She was squirming into her jeans. "Nothing. Well, something. I need a bathroom. Right away."

"You need –" He watched in disbelief as she yanked her top down and shoved her feet into her sneakers. "Just go over there." He gestured at the shrubbery.

"Oh, I can't do that!" She seemed sincerely appalled at the idea. "And there's a rest room just down this path. I've used it sometimes. I bring Buffy hot chocolate when she patrols this cemetery. Be right back."

Spike watched her run off. "That's my Joyce," he muttered as he pulled up his jeans and reached for his coat. "Sees nothing wrong with having sex in public, but thinks taking a piss in the bushes just isn't ladylike."

He was about follow her when he paused, drawing in a deep breath as he sensed a change in the surrounding air. He thought he caught the scent of something new, dangerous, and more than a little magical. But it was far away, and he wasn't about to chase after it and leave his lady wandering around in the dark on her own. He turned and followed the path Joyce had taken.

Joyce scampered into the concrete block that was the public restroom, flicking the switch that turned on a single bare light bulb overhead. She skidded into the first stall, and after the quickest of glances to make sure the seat was clean, she was pulling down her pants even before she had the battered wooden door bolted behind her. She dropped down on the stool with a sigh of relief.

Her discomfort eased, she looked down at her jeans and grimaced in annoyance. Her panties were missing in combat – again. She supposed it would be a waste of time to go back to Archie's resting place and crawl around in the dark looking for them. But her underwear drawer had become seriously depleted. She was either going to have to make time for a trip to the mall soon or raid Spike's breast pocket for replacements.

She was zipping up her pants when she heard someone come into the rest room. Booted feet sounded on the uneven cement floor, and there was the sound of someone's clothing shifting, but no one entered the stall next to her. She froze momentarily, and then relaxed as she heard the flick of a lighter and smelled the harsh tang of tobacco burning.

Joyce smiled. Spike wouldn't let her do something dangerous like taking a pee without his protection, of course. Men could be silly sometimes. She flushed the toilet and opened the stall door.

Spike was leaning against the wall by the paper towel dispenser, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. He was staring in consternation at a sign posted on the side of the first stall.

Joyce turned to read it. "If you sprinkle where you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat." It was adorned with hand-drawn yellow and pink flowers.

"That is the most obscene thing I have ever seen," he said.

She ignored this hyperbole and turned to wash her hands. As she reached for the faucet, the door to the restroom opened behind her.

Joyce looked up into the mirror over the sink and met the eyes of an elderly lady in a bright pink jogging suit. The woman stared at her in horror and shrieked at the top of her lungs. A moment later she was gone, the door slamming behind her.

Joyce turned around and saw Spike standing between her and the spot where the woman had been. He shrugged, but she noticed he smirked a little at the effect he'd had on the poor thing. Joyce wondered if the woman had noticed his lack of reflection or if the mere sight of a black-clad, peroxided male in this bastion of femininity had done the trick. She frowned at him. "You should have waited outside," she said severely. "Let's go."

They had barely stepped outside the door when they heard another, even more blood-curdling, screech. Joyce looked at Spike, but there had hardly been time for someone to register his presence, much less be appalled by it.

He was staring down the path that led back towards the cemetery. "It's that jogger," he said. "I think she's seen a puddy cat."

He was gone a moment later, and Joyce saw the flash of the Guecubu's dagger in his hand as he ran. She set off after him, but as she rounded the corner of the path, she was almost knocked off her feet by the elderly woman from the restroom, who was now moving considerably faster than a jogging pace. Joyce staggered into a bush, almost swore as she scratched herself, and regained her balance to run after Spike.

She heard him cursing before she saw him, and when she saw his attacker she couldn't be surprised at his language.

The jaguar was huge, at least six feet long, not counting the whipping tail, and its muscles looked incredibly sleek and powerful. Joyce could barely make out the patterns on its back in the moonlight, but the gleaming yellow eyes and bared fangs were all too clear.

It was backing away from Spike, moving slightly to the side, as it emitted a curious, coughing growl. Spike was growling too, and his eyes were as yellow as the jaguar's. He crouched, ready to strike.

The jaguar struck first. It leapt on Spike, knocking him to the ground, but the vampire somehow managed to thrust it away, striking out with the dagger as he did so.

Joyce caught her breath in relief when she saw Spike roll to his feet, but then she saw the dagger lying on the ground, with the jaguar between him and the weapon.

Fangs bared, amber eyes locked, the jaguar and the vampire circled around each other. The blade must have glanced off that smooth hide, without striking the heart. Spike too appeared uninjured. The main result of that first assault seemed to be that each combatant had gained a healthy respect for the other's strength.

Joyce dove for the dagger, snatching it up. Spike's eyes flicked to hers. "Toss it here!" he bellowed. But the jaguar took advantage of his momentary break in attention to strike.

Later, Joyce had trouble remembering exactly what she'd done. But the jaguar was on top of Spike, she was on top of the jaguar, her fist was striking something as hard as she could, and then a huge weight was on top of her and she felt a searing pain up her right leg.

"Joyce!" Spike's voice was tense with fear. "Joyce, love, are you all right?"

The heavy shape was hauled off her, and she was cradled in his arms, clinging to him as she stared at the huge bulk of the jaguar lying across the path. "Did you kill it?" she asked.

He stared at her in astonishment. "I did bugger all, love. You got him through the heart. I know I called you a wildcat before, but you really do fight like one." He gestured, and she saw the hilt of the dagger sticking up from the mottled fur. "Thought he'd taken you with him for a moment."

"No," she assured him in a shaken tone. "My leg's cut a little, I think."

As he bent to look at it, she became aware of a distant roar, and she had the definite sensation that the earth was shaking beneath her. "What–?" she started to ask.

Spike began swearing again, this time softly under his breath as a half-dozen voices erupted into cacophonous argument just a few yards away. Joyce could hear a deep, steady hum that sounded like the low growl of some strange creature, and then she made out Buffy's voice yelling, "I think I see it."

"Balls," shouted Spike, ducking as an arrow flew just over his head, landing on the ground just beside him.

"I think I got it!" shouted Buffy again.

"Don't go in there alone!" Giles' voice. "It's hurt you once already."

"Let's get out the nets, like we talked about," urged Riley. "Xander, back up and –"

"Get out of here," said Joyce urgently to Spike.

"Not leaving you with a trigger-happy Slayer –"

"You heard them. They're not shooting again until they see what's in here. And I'm not sure what Buffy will do if she sees you here and me bleeding." She leaned over and pulled the dagger out of the jaguar's hide. "Besides, it will be dawn in just a couple of minutes, and you don't have time to hang around and make explanations. Take this and go."

He tried to protest again, but she pushed the dagger into his hand and gave him a shove. "They'll take care of me. Buffy will find me lying here, and she'll think she saved me from the monster like always. Everything will be fine. But you have to go!"

Buffy's voice sounded just a few feet away now. "I hear someone talking," she was saying in an astonished voice. "It sounds like – Mom?"

Spike stopped hesitating and took off at full speed in the opposite direction from the approaching voices. The moment he was gone, Joyce grabbed the arrow lying on the ground, shoved it into the jaguar's body, and let herself fall back and give way to the pain in her leg. She almost fainted as she realized her long night was about to end at last. But she was jerked back to consciousness as a crash sounded, followed by a horrified scream from the direction of the street.

Joyce recognized Hank's voice and struggled back to a sitting position, terrified that his scream meant some harm to their daughter.

But Buffy was there a second later, holding her mother in her arms, exclaiming over the blood, calling for Willow to run for bandages, and not acting as if anyone else had been injured.

Joyce passed out in her child's embrace. She had no idea what was causing Hank's continued cries of anguish, and she was too hurt and tired to care. For the moment, all she knew was that she had succeeded in what she set out to do. Buffy was safe.

Joyce pulled her warmest robe tightly around her as she sat on the couch and regarded her company. She wasn't cold; if anything the room was too warm, with all these unwanted bodies milling around. She was only trying to forget that underneath the robe she was wearing the horrible housedress her sister had sent her a few months ago as a birthday present. Thanks to the painkillers that the nice nurse at the hospital had encouraged her to swallow, the dress was bothering her a lot more than the stitches in her leg.

Buffy had laid the hated article of clothing out on the bed when Joyce had insisted on cleaning up by herself in the bathroom. She hadn't the heart to say she wouldn't wear it, even though the moment she'd opened the package, she'd vowed it would never touch her skin. Now she was paying for her failure to remember to drop it off the last time she'd made a donation to Goodwill.

The ugly, cheap cotton dress had a Peter Pan collar and metal snaps up the front. It was covered with crude drawings of cheery teapots and flowers, and the fabric scratched her skin. The nasty little garment bespoke frugality, middle-aged dowdiness, and utter sexlessness. It also shouted devotion to motherhood and good housekeeping.

Joyce knew that image of her comforted Buffy. So she wore the housedress. And hoped none of the men in the house had noticed it.

She hoped even more that all the men and women in her house would shortly take themselves off and leave her in peace. Hank was sulking in an armchair across the room, Giles was paging through yet another one of his ancient tomes by the fireplace, and Willow was investigating something on the laptop she'd propped open on the desk. More people were moving around the other downstairs rooms.

At least Xander and Anya had made a quick exit earlier, and Joyce didn't anticipate their return. Xander in particular was certain to keep a low profile, at least until Hank was out of town.

Hank's departure couldn't come too soon for Joyce either. It had been some time after she had regained consciousness before she'd fully understood the enormity of what Xander had done to Hank. But after that, it had taken no time at all for her to lose patience with his laments.

"His foot slipped on the accelerator," Hank was muttering over and over again. "He said his foot slipped, but he must have floored it to do all that damage. I mean, the airbags deployed! How could any man get that distracted when driving?"

Joyce stared at the ceiling. You left Xander, the boy who can't say 'no,' alone with his perpetually horny, uninhibited girlfriend, and you're wondering what distracted him? Somehow, I think the accelerator wasn't the only thing that got whacked in that SUV.

Of course, Hank had always been hard to distract that way, so the idea might not occur to him. Joyce remembered now how shocked he'd been on the one and only occasion when she'd suggested that a vehicle might serve as something other than either transportation or an object of adoration.

Fortunately, not all men were so prudish. Hank's voice faded into the distance as she drifted into a daydream about certain events that had occurred recently in the back seat of Spike's De Soto.

"It's just a truck, Dad." Buffy's sharp tone roused Joyce back to full consciousness. She saw her daughter standing in the doorway, holding a tray of food.

Hank continued to lament. "If only he'd hit the front bumper. It might have scratched the military-style retrieval loops, but it wouldn't have caused as much damage. But he backed right into the driver's side."

"It's not that bad a dent. You can take it back to Hummers 'R Us and they'll make it good as new. I messed Mom's car up a lot worse than that last year and she just made me pay for the deductible. She didn't go on and on about it." Buffy set the tray down on the coffee table with an air of triumph. "Just like she's not complaining about her leg now."

Hank shut up then, slumping back into his chair and watching his family resentfully. Joyce sat up straighter and regarded the contents of the tray with some trepidation. She picked up a spoon and sniffed cautiously at a bowl of thick, red liquid.

"Tara helped me with the tomato soup," Buffy confessed. "But I arranged the crackers on the plate."

Much relieved, Joyce tucked into her invalid's meal. She had to admit that she was pretty hungry after her busy night. But it did bother her that Hank's visit was turning out to be a disaster all around. He was upset, and Buffy was more disillusioned with him than ever.

Riley came into the room then. "I finally got through to my insurance agent," he said in a doleful voice.

Hank's nod of greeting to his daughter's boyfriend was only polite. He was less pleased with Riley this morning than he had been the day before. Not only had Riley failed to protect the Hummer; it was Riley's SUV that had crashed into it, damaging the glowing yellow fenders, denting the driver's side door, and sheering off the power-folding, heated rearview mirror with the curb assist feature. Although the SUV had been under Xander's command at the time, it had been the agent of destruction. And Riley had entrusted Xander with the keys.

And since the SUV had been nearly destroyed in the impact itself, Riley was less than pleased with the situation as well. Riley went over to the couch and regarded his girlfriend earnestly. "Buffy, I need to go to the body shop now."

"Okay," said Buffy, glancing up briefly before returning to monitor her mother's soup intake.

"Do you want to come with me?" asked Riley plaintively.

"Uh, why?" asked Buffy. "Cars. Buffy. These are not things that have a lot in common. Besides, Giles wants me to help with research later."

Riley grumped a bit and made his way out the door. "They may decide it's totaled, you know. It may be the last time I see it." Joyce noted the abrupt, formal quality of his farewell to Hank. I think this is the ending to a beautiful friendship.

Also, Riley was clearly annoyed that his girlfriend hadn't rushed to hold his hand in his moment of grief. And Buffy was less than pleased with Riley for being so annoyed. Now, there's a silver lining.

Joyce hadn't forgotten that now that she'd taken care of the jaguar, she needed to get rid of Riley. She just hadn't decided how to do it yet. She'd have to be careful, and of course she wasn't planning on using anything as crude as a dagger. The situation was much more delicate because, when the affair was over, she didn't want Buffy to feel like she had been stabbed through the heart.

Because Buffy was such a dear child, really. Look at her now, sitting on the couch next to her mother, watching to make sure Joyce ate all of her soup.

Joyce was roused from her plotting by the sound of Giles' voice. "You look better now. But you seem tired."

"No, I'm all right," she said automatically, then thought better of it, and dropped her spoon back on the tray, collapsing against the pillows. "Actually, now that you mention it, I am sleepy."

"In that case," said the Watcher, standing up and gathering some papers together. "I'll continue my investigations at the Magic Box and let you rest. But there is one thing I wanted to ask you before I left."

"Oh?" Joyce asked in as faint a tone as she could manage.

"It's just that I was writing up my report on this latest demonic activity, and one point didn't seem clear. I was wondering what brought you to the park last night," Giles shrugged into his jacket and regarded her expectantly.

"Well –" She responded slowly and thoughtfully. And as truthfully as possible. Because, of course, lying would be very, very wrong. "I was worried about Buffy, you see –" She hesitated over her next words.

"Mom, were you bringing me hot chocolate again?" Buffy demanded. "Because you know I've told you not to do that. It's dangerous." She grasped Joyce's hand and held it tightly.

Joyce smiled. "But I like helping, dear." As usual, it had been unnecessary to utter an actual untruth. She really couldn't be responsible if other people insisted on perceiving her in a certain way. And came up with their own explanations for her actions.

Buffy gave her a hug. "That's my mom," she said. "But I want you to be more careful from now on."

Willow looked up from her laptop. "That's funny, Joycie," she said. "I don't remember seeing your thermos. Maybe we should go back and look for it. Ow!" She glared up at Tara who had just passed unnecessarily close to her girlfriend's chair on her way to hand a pile of papers to Giles. Tara frowned at Willow.

Joyce frowned too. "I don't think you'll have much luck finding anything I lost out there. I was running around a lot." But if you do come across a pair of pink panties with the cutest little bows on the side…She half-closed her eyes, hoping she looked too much like a confused invalid to be subjected to more extensive questioning. Thanks to all those lovely painkillers, it was easy.

"Poor Mom," Buffy said.

"Shouldn't you be going to class?" Hank asked his daughter with a resentful glance at Giles.

"Later," said Buffy. "Once Giles has made sure this jaguar thing didn't travel up here from Central America on a package tour with a bunch of other things I'll have to kill or something like that." She smiled warmly at her Watcher before turning back to her father. "Willow and Tara and I are heading over to the Magic Box with him. Come on, Dad. I'll help you with your suitcase."

Through slitted eyelids, Joyce saw Hank glare at Giles before following Buffy to the front door. She also noticed that Willow was finally powering down her computer and slipping her belongings into a backpack. Tara picked up the tray with its empty bowl and carried it off to the kitchen. Joyce smiled wanly at the various occupants of the room as they paraded past her on their way to resume their own busy lives.

Then they were all gone at last. She was the only living soul in the house. Which was just the way she'd come to like it.

From the floor below came the sound of a foot scraping on a stair. Then another, and another. Joyce sank back into the sofa cushions and smiled as the basement door slowly creaked open and a demon emerged into the hall.

"All right, love?" said Spike as he came into the living room.

"Yes, I'll be fine. They put in a few stitches at the hospital, and the doctor thinks there may be a small scar, but that's all. Were you downstairs the whole time?"

"Yeah. Was about to go hunting you down when they finally brought you back home. Then I thought that bloody circus would never leave." He sat down on the couch next to her, his eyes scanning her face. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, because his features relaxed into a smile.

"I'm sorry I couldn't let you know I was all right," she said, smiling back.

He leaned forward. "What's this?" The index finger of his left hand hooked onto the neckline of her robe.

Remembering the horrible housedress too late, Joyce squeaked in dismay and tried to pull the robe closer around her.

"Shy all of a sudden, pet?"

"No – not exactly." She squirmed over to the other side of the couch.

"I knew it!" He lunged after her, tugging harder at the robe. "You're hurt worse than you let on, aren't you? What did that bloody beast do –" He stopped, staring at the housedress in horror. "Balls! Where did this little nasty come from?"

Joyce pulled the robe closed again, blushing hard. "My sister sent it. Buffy found it for me to wear." She added apologetically, "I think it makes her feel safe to see me dressed like this."

"The Slayer doesn't know what you are," said Spike, his anger fading slowly to exasperated amusement. "Come here, pet. Let me get you out of that disaster." More gently this time, he parted the folds of the robe, and his fingers moved to undo the top snaps as he bent to kiss her.

Joyce opened her lips, kissing him back vigorously before protesting, "Yes, she does. She knows I'm her Mom. She's just having trouble accepting that I can be other things sometimes too."

He muttered something that sounded like, "Another crazy Summers woman."

She was enjoying the way his fingers were slipping inside the dress and making her nipples stand to attention too much to be offended, but she couldn't let that comment pass. "Are you implying that insanity runs in my family, Spike?"

As she'd anticipated, he couldn't resist the line she'd fed him. "Love, it practically gallops," he chortled as he popped open a few more snaps.

"Maybe," she agreed, "But Buffy has a lot to deal with. She needs to think of me a certain way so her entire life doesn't seem out of control."

"Then it's a good thing you have me around to appreciate your finer points." His lips had moved from hers now, and were busy inspecting her breasts. "Like these."

Joyce couldn't argue with that, especially since when she opened her mouth the only thing that came out was an involuntary moan. He was worrying the aureole and nipple of one breast carefully with blunt human teeth, while strong fingers caressed the exact spot on the underside of the other that drove her a very special kind of crazy. "Just don't be so hard on Buffy," she gasped at last. "She's only trying to take care of me."

"I've got the same goal. Just a different method." He ripped the housedress open all the way down the front. "Here's looking at you, kid."

His hands slid down her body, slipping across her ribs, belly, thighs…Then he was on his knees before her, gently spreading her legs apart, and she shivered in exquisite anticipation, as he…took her calf in his hands and carefully examined the bandage covering her stitches.

"Never mind that," she said, sitting up straighter. "I told you it'll be fine."

"I'm not so sure," he said, sitting back on his heels and gazing up at her earnestly, one eyebrow quirking upwards. "You're an invalid, that's what you are. Need lots of rest and tending to."

"Precisely," said Joyce, reaching for him. "And I know just where I need tending."

But he moved backwards, away from her, sliding around the coffee table towards the television. Now one corner of his mouth was twitching too. "I think you need to avoid overexcitement, love. You want to be taking things slow. Let me find something relaxing for you to watch. The home improvement channel, maybe?"

"Spike!" She glared at him in exasperation, realizing she was being paid back for teasing him during her last trip to his crypt. "All right, then. Please!"

But he only picked up the TV Guide and started thumbing through it. "Now, if I wasn't a rude, mannerless demon, that word might have an effect on me," he said. "But since I am –"

Joyce bit her lip, stopping herself before she could start to sputter and plead. She reminded herself just how incapable Spike was of denying her anything she really wanted. So she wriggled her shoulders back more comfortably and took a deep breath, pulling the housedress open even wider, splaying her fingers and sliding them sensuously down her body. "Too bad. I may just have to take things into my own hands. At least until my guy remembers he promised me to hunt down some pussy." She began to suit her actions to her words.

As she'd guessed, this teasing was something he couldn't resist. His eyes glowing first blue, then amber, then blue again, he dropped the magazine and stalked towards her on hands and knees, the muscles in his shoulders and back moving smoothly under his black t-shirt as he crossed the short distance to her. She slouched further down on the couch as soft lips caressed her calves and her thighs, moving slowly but surely towards the right goal at last. Eyes closed, her head flung back against the sofa cushions, she disarranged his platinum curls with her fingers. Her growls and purrs of pleasure grew almost catlike as one strong hand slipped under her, cupping her ass, and the thumb of the other moved to her clit, while his tongue –

There was a sudden, discordant, choking noise. Joyce's head snapped up. She turned to see Hank standing in the doorway. As he stared at her incredulously, his clunky key ring slipped from his hand and landed on the floor with a clash that echoed sharply in the suddenly quiet room.

The impact jogged the keyless entry pad on the ring and drew an answering shriek from the central power, anti-theft security system of the wounded yellow monster that had pulled back into Joyce's driveway while she was busy with Spike.

For once, Hank didn't answer the call of his Hummer. "I – I left the owner's manual on the kitchen counter when I called my insurance agent earlier, and when I came back for it, I heard these noises –"

Joyce was too stunned to move, but Spike was on his feet before the wail of the Hummer faded into silence. Quickly, he pulled her robe around her and moved to place himself between her and Hank's fascinated gaze. "Stop looking at her, you pillock!" he roared.

Hank took a step backward and stammered. "I didn't mean – that is –" His natural sense of entitlement kicked in and he added, "I was married to her for eighteen years, after all!"

"Was!" growled Spike. "Past tense. So keep your eyes off her!"

Joyce stood up, pulling the belt of her robe tight, and took Spike by the arm. "Don't," she said. "It's not like he meant to."

"Joyce, I think you owe me an explanation," Hank said stiffly.

"Hank, I'm sorry –" Joyce stopped, silenced by that long-standing promise she had made to herself never to lie to her ex-husband.

Because after that horrible day when she had realized her worst fears by finding Hank nuzzling his secretary in a darkened office, she had occasionally indulged in daydreams about producing a handsome boyfriend to show him up. True, her fantasy had not included Hank interrupting her while an apparently-much-younger boyfriend had his face buried in her crotch, but that may have merely been a deficiency of her imagination.

She had been shocked and embarrassed to find Hank staring at her and Spike. But – sorry? That might be a bit of a stretch. It wasn't as if she'd been doing anything wrong, although she did feel a bit of guilt over the satisfaction she was getting from the look on her ex-husband's face. "I never intended you to find out this way," she said sincerely. "But I don't have to explain anything to you." She added candidly, "In fact, I really think you should be able to figure it out for yourself. Considering what was going on when you came in here."

Hank attempted to demonstrate his grasp of the situation. "You're having an affair with this – this –"

"With this," snarled Spike, switching to game face for a moment.

Hank demonstrated a surprisingly good vertical jump and scurried back a few feet towards the door. "He – he's one of those things Buffy told me about. Demons, or vampires, or something. And you're sleeping with him?"

Joyce rolled her eyes. "Sometimes. But I usually don't get all that much sleep."

"Joyce! How could you do such a thing?"

Spike was growing bored with the continual exclamations of outrage. "Well, for one thing I'm a lot better at it than you are."

Hank's face grew redder. "Oh, really? I suppose she told you that!"

Spike sneered and slouched back confidently, hands on his hips. "Didn't need to say a word, mate. The first time I had her I could tell she'd never really been given what she needed. And listen to you! You came in here because you heard strange noises, eh? You don't even know what she sounds like when she's really enjoying herself!"

Forgetting his fear of a few moments earlier, Hank moved forward, stabbing an angry finger in Spike's direction. "You – you stay out of this! Joyce, you are being completely irresponsible!"

Joyce stepped between the two men, shoving Spike behind her and pushing Hank towards the door. He staggered back, almost as surprised as he had been when Spike switched to game face. Before he could protest, irate words spilled from Joyce's mouth. "No, Hank, I am not irresponsible! A married man running off with his secretary when his family needs him is irresponsible. Breaking promises to visit the daughter who adores you is irresponsible. Spending six figures on your own personal tank when your child needs an education is irresponsible." Joyce panted, uncertain if she were moved by overwhelming righteous anger, a painkiller-inspired lack of self-control, or some combination of the two. "A divorced woman having sex with her boyfriend is just having fun."

Hank was clearly unsettled by his ex-wife's unusual rage, but he continued to sputter from the safety of the hallway. "It's just like you to act like this is nothing to be ashamed of! But if you're so proud of yourself for playing the slut with this – this thing, why haven't you told Buffy? You can't tell me you're not hiding this from her."

Spike lunged forward, but Joyce pushed herself between him and Hank again. "I most certainly am not! I tried to tell her, but she didn't want to listen."

Hank snorted incredulously.

"It's true. It was like she wasn't able to hear what I was saying. It bothered me, but then I read an article about it in Working Mother. Sometimes a child just isn't ready for certain information about sex, so they block it out. You just have to wait until they're more mature and ready to listen. So that's what I'm doing with Buffy."

Hank stared at her, openmouthed. "You read a parenting magazine for advice on how to tell your twenty-year-old daughter you're having an affair with a vampire?" Involuntarily, his gaze slid to Spike's.

Spike shrugged. "Don't look at me, mate. That one's floored me too."

Hank shook his head in bewilderment. Slowly, he bent and picked up his car keys, trying to regain his dignity. "After what I've seen today, it doesn't surprise me that Buffy is the way she is," he said stiffly.

"Thank you," said Joyce even more haughtily. When Hank blinked in astonishment at this response, she added, "I'm proud of who Buffy is. So, thank you for implying that I helped make her that way. Although I don't think I could have made her any different, even if I'd wanted to. And, Hank, you'll never be a real father to her again until you learn to be proud that your little girl is the Slayer."

Hank shook his head as if in disbelief. Spike stood back, relaxed now, a smirk of satisfaction on his lips.

Joyce shrugged. "That's too bad. Buffy could have used you in her life." She walked over to the front door of her house and held it open. "Good-bye, Hank."

"It's not fair to blame people for accidents," Anya was saying. "Especially when they're completely accidental. And not caused by contributory negligence." She ticked off some items on a clipboard and frowned at a display of candles.

Buffy, who was scanning the contents of one of the bookcases near the back wall of the Magic Box, responded impatiently. "Xander backed Riley's truck into my Dad's Hummer, Anya. Dad's not getting over that any time soon. But, the good news? He doesn't live in Sunnydale. Which means Xander will probably get to live."

"If he avoids Riley," said Willow sotto voce. She smirked up at Giles and Tara, who were seated with her around the table in the middle of the room. They looked down, hiding smiles.

Anya picked up a candle, looked at the tag on the bottom, and made another checkmark. "I'm just saying that it's not as if I was doing anything that could cause a thing like that to happen. Because Xander has explained to me many times that having sex while driving is dangerous, so we would never do that."

Giles hunched over the tome that lay open on the table in front of him and looked as if he were considering stuffing his fingers in his ears.

Anya stomped back to the counter and set her clipboard down with a thump. "I don't want certain pieces of evidence to be misconstrued. Because it's not unusual for a man to forget to zip his fly, you know. Just because he's hanging out a bit doesn't mean that someone was –"

"Anya!" Giles dropped his head on his hands and kneaded his brow as if he were in pain. "Can we never convince you that there are some things people simply don't want to know?"

Anya looked confused. "I don't understand. Because I was saying that there is nothing to know –"

Before she could continue, Tara rose, took her gently by the arm and led her to the back of the room, offering softly worded advice.

The phone on the counter rang and Willow picked it up. "Uh, yeah," she said in a startled tone. She held the instrument out to the Slayer. "Buffy, it's your dad. He sounds kind of upset."

Buffy took the phone from Willow, and said, "Dad? What's wrong?"

Giles and Willow waited anxiously as Buffy listened to the voice squawking through the receiver.

But after a few minutes, Buffy gave a confused laugh. "Dad, are you sure? Because in a list of unlikely events, that's got to come somewhere between the Ice Capades performing in hell and Christina Aguilera learning to sing."

Giles shrugged. Whatever was bothering Hank didn't seem to involve an impending apocalypse. He commented, a bit snidely, "Perhaps there's been yet another Hummer-related incident."

"Maybe he got a disk jammed in the CD player," snickered Willow. "Did you find anything in that codex?"

"I finally tracked down that text I was looking for last night. It contains what purport to be instructions on how to kill the sacred jaguar."

Willow blinked. "Purport to be?"

"Considering that Buffy destroyed it with a simple arrow to the heart, I have to classify this as meaningless mumbo-jumbo. Unfortunate, because it means I can't trust any of the rest of the information here, and some of it looks quite interesting."

"Why, what does it say?" Willow leaned over the table, squinting as she tried to read the tiny, ornate text upside down.

Giles adjusted his glasses and scanned the page. "First of all, that the jaguar can only be destroyed by a special warrior who has completed a lengthy ritual. All nonsense of course. Fortunately."

"What's nonsense?" asked Tara, coming back to the table, with Anya at her heels. Both Giles and Willow eyed the ex-demon warily.

"It's all right," said Anya, a bit resentfully. "Tara's explained to me that it's considered rude to discuss having oral sex in moving vehicles, so I'm not going to mention it any more."

Tara sighed and looked apologetically at Giles and Willow. "Well, I tried," she said, pulling up a chair. "What's fortunate?"

"Giles found a bogus ritual," said Willow.

"Yes, mere legend, apparently," said Giles. "Destroying the jaguar was supposed to bestow special powers on the killer. But any warrior who could get this power would have had to be very strong in the first place, most likely some sort of demon. Before the ritual steps could even begin, it would have spend years in self-denial and sacrifice for the sake of its home and family. Then it would have to prove itself a fearless fighter in defense of those it loved, and use a special weapon to slay an enemy in battle. Then there's the ritual – a rather unpleasant one, using the blood of the warrior's deceased beloved to infuse the consecrated weapon with the power to kill the sacred jaguar. But the warrior also has to be ready to let its own blood be shed by the beast. An immense combination of strength and sacrifice." Giles stopped peering at the book and looked up at the others. "It's hard to imagine something that strong and determined existing in Sunnydale without us being aware of it."

"Well, it's a good thing the jaguar was killed before some big, strong whosis came along, looking for all this special power," said Willow cheerfully. "Because the last thing we need in Sunnydale is to have something like that wandering around loose. There's no telling what it might decide to do to pass the time."

As Buffy hung up the phone and came over to the table, Giles closed the book and dropped it on a pile to be shelved. "Is everything all right with your father?" he asked.

Buffy sat down on the chair next to him and crossed her arms over the pile of books. "He's wigged out completely, I think. He says he saw something at the house, but it was kind of hard to get him calmed down enough to describe it. And he left the house before me, so I don't understand how he could have seen anything at all."

"Magic, Sunnydale-style stuff?" asked Tara.

"I'm not sure." Buffy looked puzzled. "I can't remember everything he said, but it sounded like he thought my mom was having an orgy with a demon." Willow made a choking noise, and Buffy began to laugh in response. "Yeah, Will, you're right. It's just funny. Poor Dad, the whole thing with me being the Slayer and his big yellow tank getting dented up has got him so upset he's imagining things. I mean, we're talking about my mom here! The only time there's any excitement in her life is when some demon breaks into the house and smashes up the furniture."

Spike's naked foot caught on a cord and brought a lamp crashing down in the middle of the living room. Joyce moaned and cried out, but she didn't seem to be aware of the destruction of her property. Considerately, Spike rolled both of them away from the broken shards and closer to the front door.

"That wasn't Hank coming back, was it?" she asked a few seconds later, when other sensations stopped reverberating sufficiently for her brain to register the noise.

"Don't worry, pet, we're all alone here," he assured her. "Just you and me, and the rags of that bloody awful dress."

She giggled, glancing around at the scraps of clothing lying all over the floor, and vaguely noticing the disaster of the lamp for the first time. Spike had vowed she would never be in danger of wearing the hated symbol of dowdiness again, and had vamped out for the sole purpose of tearing it to shreds with his fangs.

"Your ex must be a hundred miles from Sunnydale by now, love," he was saying now, as he leaned over her, supporting his upper body with his hands palm down on the floor, and moving his hips smoothly as he thrust hard into her. "With his knickers still in a twist, most likely."

"Not Hank," panted Joyce. "He's probably rationalized away everything that happened here. I'll bet he forgets all about it by the time he gets to LA."

"How any man could forget you, how any man could leave you –" he muttered. "I couldn't."

"But you're different," she said, lying back and glorying in the feel of his body moving over hers. "You're different from anyone else. Wonderfully different."

Suddenly, he caught her wrists up and held them over her head, leaning his face close to hers. Her eyes snapped open in surprise as he asked, "I need to know, pet. What is this to you? This thing we have?"

"This thing?" Her hips shifted, impatient with his sudden stillness.

He didn't move. "Yeah. This thing. Where do you think it's going? Where do you think we're going, you and me?"

"Going?" Joyce's eyes focused clearly on his now, and she stopped thrashing beneath him. Her lips relaxed in a long, slow smile. "I have no idea."

"Doesn't seem to bother you."

She bucked her hips against his and rolled him over again, pulling her wrists away from his grasp and taking hold of his forearms instead. She held his arms up over his head now, smiling down at him. "Let me tell you a story, Spike. About my marriage."

He opened his mouth to object to hearing anything that had to do with Hank Summers, thought better of it, and lay quietly, eyes fixed on her face, listening intently.

"When I married Hank, I was sure I was making the right decision for my future. I had everything all planned. We'd have secure jobs, at least one perfect child, and a nice house that I'd have fun decorating. And we'd love each other forever. For a long time, that all seemed to be coming true, at least on the outside. But I didn't like working for someone else, our beautiful daughter was obviously troubled in a way I couldn't understand, and a nice house didn't seem like much compensation for the things that were going wrong. And I used a lot of energy refusing to admit to myself that Hank didn't turn me on much any more, and that he'd never really satisfied me in bed."

Her face was sad, as she recalled that time, and her grip on his arms relaxed. He reached up and traced the frown on her lips until the corners quirked upwards again. She continued her story. "So, the more I planned, the more carefully I tried to map out my family's future, the more miserable I got. Then my marriage fell apart completely, and I was forced to move and start my own business, which isn't nearly as fancy as the place I worked before. And not only is this house not as nice as the one I had in LA, it keeps getting damaged by marauding demons. And, hardest of all, I found out my daughter was the Slayer and risking her life on a nightly basis."

She shuddered a little at that memory, and he pulled her down toward him. She snuggled into his chest, holding onto his shoulders for reassurance. "And I got you. All unplanned. All scary as hell. And completely crazy. I know you think I don't realize how scary and crazy this is, but I do."

She raised her head and he saw tears on her cheeks. He rolled them over again, as if to place his body between her and the scary things in her world, as he kissed those tears away tenderly. Slowly, gently, he began to thrust inside her again, and she spread her legs wider, opening to him, accepting him as deeply inside her as she could.

Before he could think of any words of comfort to match his actions, she spoke. "But, you know something else, Spike? All this scary stuff has made me happier right now than I've ever been. I'm my own boss, and not only do I get to redecorate this place all the time, I can buy most of the supplies I need at cost. And my little girl is an amazing woman who makes me incredibly proud. I'm terrified for her all the time, but I also know there's no perfect safety for anyone."

One of Joyce's hands was caught between their bodies, and she pressed it hard against the place where, on a real man, she would have been able to feel a beating heart. "And my undead boyfriend makes me feel more alive than I'd ever thought possible." She was tracing the line of his right cheekbone with her other hand, and he turned his head to catch her little finger in his mouth and suck on it.

She caught her breath, and her eyes half-closed, her voice trailing off dreamily. "So I've decided I'm not planning for the future any more. I'm not even thinking about it much. I'm just living now, in the present tense. Right now, I'm content –"

" – to take things as they come?" he finished for her.

Her eyes opened wide, sparkling with sudden mischief. "Or to take whatever makes me come."

He roared with laughter. "Well, love, I think I have something that can help with that."

Before he was done proving it, the day was considerably older, and several bits of Joyce's furniture were considerably more battered – to her complete lack of dismay.

And down in the basement where Spike had hidden it behind the washing machine, the Guecubu's knife glowed dimly, patiently waiting to be claimed by the hand that had earned the right to wield it.

The End

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