Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapters 26, 27, & 28.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae* and Science
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."

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Chapter 48
Sunspots

18 February 2001


Been sitting here, staring at this blank page for hours. Don't know quite how to start.

...

Yesterday when

Last night Buffy tol

I didn't know I could hurt like

...

Joyce is dead.

Sometime yesterday afternoon, when I was sitting round the crypt, waiting for a rerun of Dawson's Creek to finish up—she died.

Hundred and twenty years, I've seen a lot of death and most of it at my own hands. I've killed to eat, to survive, in self-defence, for pleasure, for payment, out of anger and frustration and sometimes just because I was bored. Young, old, rich, poor, black, white... the demon never cared. Death was death. I went on. They didn't.

I've done... god, some of the things I've done. Things that ... There's a reason, I suppose, that the Watcher's books all warn about me. It's not something I usually think about, though. It's just... part of it. Part of being what I am.

After my mum... I don't think I ever looked down at whatever body was on my hands and thought about...what I'd killed. Never wondered what sort of person they were, if they had... friends, family, loved ones. If there was anyone out there that cared. That would mourn their death. That was Angelus' gig; his art, I suppose... finding the people who'd hurt most because of a death and making sure they got to ... participate. Not me. Maybe that makes me more of a monster. Maybe it just makes me an animal. I don't know.

Not sure I'll ever look at killing a human the same again.

The chip never taught me about grief. Can shoot all the electricity into a bloke's brain that you want and it'll never hurt so bad as looking into the eyes of someone you love and hearing them say, "my mother died."

Can't compare at all to the feeling that someone I cared about is gone.

Joyce.

First time I met Joyce, she was standing over me with an axe and telling me to get the hell away from her daughter. Looked like an avenging angel, sent down for the sole purpose of bollixing up my plans.

She was.

In retrospect, I've never been so glad for divine intervention in my entire existence.

She was always kind to me, never treated me like a monster. Always asking if I'd like a cuppa if I dropped by, which... well, knowing Buffy wouldn't like it meant it didn't happen often but... she was a real lady. Brilliant. Generous. A truly good person. And the world's a bit poorer now, without her in it.

It... aches. Inside. Like a hollow place. Haven't felt like this since... well, since my own mum...

And, last night, listening to Buffy talk about... about her, how she was, things she'd done... god, I never thought anything could hurt so much. Never thought that it was possible to hurt so for someone else. If I could've taken her pain for her, I would have. Buffy... she's so much. She's so... they demand so much of her. The Council, her Watcher, her bloody friends, the world, the Powers... they ask so much of this one, tiny little slip of a girl and then they go and take and take and take from her...

And it's fucking unfair, is what it is. It's unfair that someone as good as Joyce should have to go out in such a way. Such a bloody meaningless way. God. Fucking mortality. You wake up one morning, fit as a fiddle and then... out of nowhere... pop, and you're gone, and that's it. It's dirty fucking pool. Playing with people like puppets.

Why go to all the trouble of letting her get better only to...

And the worst of it is, she's gone and now Buffy's the one who has to bloody suffer for it. She's the one who's got to bleed, got to cry buckets of salt, got to gasp and choke just to be able to breathe around how much she's hurting inside.

I get it now. Angelus once said that death was a mercy for the dead and torture for the living. 'Course, he probably meant it as some sort of profound bloody lesson on how to really fuck people up, but...

I get it now.

I wish I didn't. But I do.

All I can do is hold on. Give her what strength I can. Watch her back and stay out of her way for a bit. Take care of patrolling, since I know the Scoobies can't possibly handle it all on their own. And... do what I can to comfort her at night. Not being able to talk right now... I want to tell her... so much...that she's not alone. That I'll stay as long as she'll let me. That... that I loved Joyce, too.

And I'm sorry she's gone.

But nothing... nothing can make this right.

***

19 February 2001

Been thinking a lot. About death, mostly. About... about some of the things, I've done.

I wonder if Buffy wasn't right. Maybe... maybe I am nothing more than a serial killer in prison. I look back, at... the last century plus and...there's a lot of death. A lot of blood.

Not sure how to put it into words. I don't understand The demon in me is confused. It remembers it, all of it, and it doesn't really care. It... death is just how it goes on. How I go on. Do people feel guilty about... chickens? Cows? Deer? Do they feel bad about... about if the cow was a mother? I can't really remember. I doubt it. 'Course, when I was alive we generally thought women were second class citizens, and that was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to the callousness and stupidity of the Victorian Male. But, aside from those PETA wankers and some of those bleeding heart vegans, I'm not sure that people get all that sentimental about their food.

On the other hand, humans generally don't torture their food. Or, you know, have conversations with it. Or sex. Well... some of them do, but—and I never thought I'd say this but—even I have to draw the line at something like buggering sheep. That's just...disgusting. I've eaten mutton.

But the point is... the bleeding point of it is that...

William remembers. Not... not fully. Too much time. Too much death. Too much blood. You get...

When I was turned... yeah, the first day or two it was about all I could do not to chomp into any human that walked by. The hunger is overwhelming. It burns. It hurts. The demon just spent a couple of days moving in and making things habitable and now it's bloody starving and needs to eat. So, Dru taught me how to eat. She was a finicky eater, so, early on I picked up on her habits. Then later... later Angelus taught me how to make it... fun. How to hunt, how to torture and maim and bleed them slow so they screamed right up til the end.

And... thing of it is... there were things he did, that I was made to do, that... didn't...appeal. Maybe too much of William was clinging on—he always was a bit squeamish but... didn't take me long to figure out that what Angelus considered fun wasn't. Not for me. I mean, yeah, I liked the fight and I liked... getting some of my own back against those tossers who'd made it their life's work to mock and ridicule me. And there were times when... But...

I'm bollixing this badly, trying to explain. And god, if I can't bloody explain it to myself then how could I ever make Buffy understand?

Is this where the soul comes in? Would it be easier to... rationalise it?

I can't. I did it all, didn't I? And no, it wasn't always about eating and yeah, most of the things I did, I enjoyed.

But... looking back on it now, viewing it through ... this...

God, it's so bloody meaningless. So... Did I leave people crying and heartbroken and drowning in grief like Buffy is now? And worse, because... most humans, they can accept natural occurrences easier than something like me coming along, having a good time. I can't...

Is this remorse? Guilt?

This... gnawing feeling inside me that I've cocked up something badly and didn't even know it?

But, I can't take it back. Can't fix it. How can I? And I'm ... too selfish, I guess, to want to be anything but what I am.

But I can change, yeah? I can... that's what all this has been about, isn't it? It's not meaningless, not if I can... not if I can change. Do what I can to take some of the evil out of the world. Balance out the scales for what I've done.

Sounds daft, wrong. No more wrong than falling in love with Buffy, I suppose.

I can do it.

It's... Joyce would have... appreciated that. I think.

***

20 February 2001

I haven't really thought of my mother in almost a century. Hurts, too much, but... listening to Buffy talk about Joyce, I can't help it. Memories come back, not... not the ones right at the end, thank god. I can keep those squashed down in the deepest, darkest part of my brain and pray I never have to relive those memories. But the rest, it all comes trickling back.

I remember... sitting beside her on the piano bench, back when I was still in short pants. I'd watch her play, long fingers dancing over the keys, smiling as she sang. She loved music. She was always singing something, humming as she went about the house or while she did her embroidery. Greensleeves, or Early One Morning, or Love Will Find Out A Way. She liked the old tunes. Had a folio of nothing but sheet music for old folksongs and ditties that she'd collected. Always said that's why she picked my father out from among all the men who'd sought her hand: he'd brought her music when the rest brought jewels and flowers.

She'd loved him, I think. Unusual in those days but... even after he died, she never even thought of remarrying.

There was a portrait of her, when she was young. I remember it hung in the east parlour, where the light was best. Probably went up for auction with the rest of the house, after...She'd been considered a beauty, in her day. Even when the consumption... never could quite take her beauty away. Made it fragile, instead. Delicate. Like one of those little Dresden figurines.

She didn't have a cruel bone in her body. Never said a harsh word against anyone. I'd have given my left arm to have saved her...

God... I was so bloody stupid. Should never have...

It's been so long since I...not really sure what one does, when mourning a person.

I want to do something, for Joyce. Flowers, maybe? People are always leaving flowers for the dead. I don't fancy those overblown things with all the... ribbons and shit. Too pat. Don't think Joyce would've cared for them either. But with all this bloody snow...

Must be someplace where I can get some.

***

20 February, 2001

God, that stupid wanker just doesn't see anything past his overwhelming bigotry, does he? Fucking Harris. Don't know what it is about fangs that gets his knickers so twisted, but I wouldn't leave a cat in his care. He'd probably stake it if it hissed at him.

Was just gonna drop some flowers off on the porch. No intention of going in. If Buffy knew I were Mr. G, it'd be different. But she doesn't and... the last thing she needs right now is me getting underfoot when she's awake. I've been keeping my distance, staying just out of her range. Watching the house at night to make sure nothing tries to attack when her guard is so low. Following her bloody Scoobies around on patrol when I can, trailing her when she's out walking, making sure no stupid little fledges decide to intrude.

'Least I can do, for Joyce, is watch out for her little girl right now. Make sure nothing harms her. Not even me.

'Course, Harris had to catch me bringing some flowers by. They weren't much, and I didn't pinch 'em—though I had a devil of a time trying to track down a Horti Demon here in town. Stupid little demons, but they can make just about anything grow, even in a foot of snow and rock hard earth. Thought... I'd just leave 'em on the porch, or maybe by the backdoor. Only Harris had parked his fat arse in the middle of the walk and wouldn't let me pass.

He claimed I was just doing it to suck up to the Slayer. Right, because leaving some frostbit wildflowers was really gonna earn me points. Pillock. Willow looked like she might have believed me but... I don't bloody care. They probably pitched 'em.

Doesn't matter. Was the thought that counted, right?

Joyce was the only one of that lot that ever treated me like I wasn't a freak. I liked her. Just... wanted to show some respect.

Should have known I wouldn't even be allowed that.

***

21 February 2001

Funeral is tomorrow.

Pity they won't hold the thing at night, but in this town I suppose it's not such a good idea.

Buffy is holding together. Bit delicate at times, but she's a little stronger every night. Not crying as hard, or sounding as lost as she did that first night—though it's still more than my old heart can bear. I swear, it breaks a little every night, holding her, feeling her come apart.

She caught me tonight, following. She'd gone walking out on her own for the first time and... suppose I was sticking too close. When she turned and looked at me, thought at first she was going to tell me to get lost. Instead... she let me be with her.

Grief does funny things, they say. Maybe that explains it.

She'd stopped at her mum's gallery. Just stood there, for the longest time, staring in the window. God, I've never seen her look so...small. Lost. What I wouldn't give to be able to just walk up and put my arm around her, hold her tight, let her know she's not alone.

Walked her home, then sat on the porch with her and watched the snow fall. Makes me ache, being so close and not allowed to touch her, especially when she's in pain and I know just how to stroke her back to ease it a bit. It's hard, knowing how she feels in my arms, knowing what comforts her and being unable to do a bloody thing.

Just being able to hold her hands, even if it was only for a minute, being allowed to touch... to try to tell her...

Not even sure what I said. Just trying to speak round the ache in my throat hurt.

I want to be there, for the funeral. There's a copse of trees near where they're burying Joyce. If it runs late... could maybe make it there soon as the sun's low enough. Could take the DeSoto over, wait. So I'll sizzle a bit. Wouldn't be the first time, and it won't be the last. Worth it, just to be there for her.

Not that I'd be much good, but...

I can't stand the thought of not being there.

***

22 February 2001

Should have expected Angelus to turn up. Bloody hell. God, he's got a way of twisting her. Last thing she needs right now is his poncy arse here, mucking with her head. But there he was, stepping out of the shadows like some great hulking wanker of a hero. Riding in in his big expensive car all dolled up in his nancy-boy clothes.

I hate him.

Spent the funeral sitting just on the other side of the fence in the DeSoto, in the shadow of the buildings across the street, trying to watch through the peephole I'd scratched in the window paint. There are days when my little sun allergy is a bloody inconvenience. Least I could hear fairly well. Soon as the sun moved behind the trees I grabbed the blanket and made a dash for the woods.

Watched as all the onlookers wandered off, then the Scoobies. Heard her say she wanted to stay, so... settled in to wait.

'Course, ten minutes after the sun was below the horizon, there he was. The Great Git himself. Rising up out of the Dead People Patch, ready to deliver presents to all the good little demons of the world.

I should've brought a cactus.

Couldn't bear to watch them stand about and make googly eyes at each other all night—or worse, snog—so when the ditch digger finished up his work, I followed him out of the graveyard. Figured, if nothing else, Angelus would make sure she got home. Just hoped he wouldn't bruise her too much. God knows she doesn't need him making promises he can't keep and dumping all his brooding angst in her lap right now.

And yeah, I'm jealous. So what?

Glad to see not everyone over the age of thirty in Sunny-D is blinkered. That ditch digger scarpered out of the graveyard right quick. Had nothing better to do, so I followed him home at a distance. Took care of the two vamps that were tailing him when he came out of the graveyard, too. Last week or so I've had so much pent up energy... felt good to work it out on those wankers. And the bloke had done a good turn for Buffy, waiting to fill in the grave 'til she was ready... least I could do was make sure he made it home in one piece.

By the time I got back, she and Angelus had gone. I didn't want to see if she'd taken him home. Couldn't bear it.

On the other hand... at least I've got her dreams, yeah?

Cold comfort, that.

***

3 March 2001

Starting to worry about her.

Reminds me a bit of Dru, right after Prague—barely eating, getting thinner, walking about in a daze. Anyone who looks at her can tell she's holding on by a thread. Every night she breaks down in my arms but... I don't think it's enough.

I can't help her any more than I am already and it's enough to make me want to smash something in frustration. The demon's upset, whining and growling that I ought to be doing something. But my bleeding hands are tied. Can't talk to her at night, can't talk to her when she's awake. All I can do is watch out for her and make sure nothing slips in while she's so off guard.

Fuck.

God, it's hard not to say anything at night. Couple of times I've had to fang out and bite my tongue bloody just to keep from blurting out something to comfort her.

Three more months. I can make it three more months, yeah?

Then I’ll tell her everything.

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