Banner by the lovely and talented nmcil12

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Spike woke up with a jolt, all thoughts of the past fleeing as the horror of the present consumed him.  He could hear screams from a few cells down – horrible, ear-splitting, set your fangs on edge sounds – and then everything got quiet.  A few minutes later, two soldiers walked by dragging the body of a dead demon.  He knew it was only a matter of time before he’d be screaming out his final agony, only there wouldn’t be anything to drag once he’d stopped, just a pile of dust to sweep up.  Taking the escape his memories allowed, Spike again thought back to the days after he’d left Sunnydale the last time.
After the scene at the Slayer’s house, he’d wandered around for a while, traveling.  He’d sent Joyce a postcard thanking her for listening to him that night.

~*~
Joyce,
I just wanted to thank you for the drink the other night.  It was nice to have someone to talk to.
Spike

He hadn’t expected a reply, actually he’d expected the Slayer to show up and stake him.  But to his surprise, he’d gotten one back a few days later.

~*~
Spike,
Stop by anytime you want to talk.  You’re always welcome here.
Joyce

After that, he and Joyce had regularly exchanged postcards and letters.  They’d talked about where he was, discussed art and literature, and his life (or unlife) and what he should do with it.
 
~*~
Joyce,
I’ve been moving around a lot lately.  I’m going to have a friend stop by your gallery and you can give him any letters you want to send me ‘till I settle down somewhere.  His name is Clem and he wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Spike

Joyce’s kind nature had gotten to him.  It was like when he’d used to write his Mum while at university.  It was that thought that had made him stop killing one day, cold turkey.  He’d just put a letter to Joyce in the post and had grabbed a woman outside the post office for a late night snack.  She’d screamed – and that scream had pierced his heart just as if it were Joyce screaming, as if it were his mother screaming all over again.

He’d stammered, “Sorry, thought – thought you were someone else.” he’d let her go with a push and had hurried away.

He’d ended up at the little abandoned hotel room he’d been crashing in without remembering how he’d gotten there.  His mind had been a jumbled maelstrom of screaming Happy Meals and furious bloodlust.  It wasn’t until he’d found himself face down on his rumpled bed that he’d realized the truth – he couldn’t kill anyone anymore.  How the hell could he write a letter to his mother – or her embodiment – and then casually kill someone?  It was unthinkable.  What would he say?  Dear Joyce, how’re you, just offed someone’s daughter, hope yours is well?  What would she say?

If his mother had been alive, it would’ve killed her all over again.  She hadn’t raised a murderer, whatever else he might be.  Spike had grabbed the phonebook from the dilapidated dresser in the broken down room and had wearily started looking up the closest butcher shop.

After a few days Spike had realized that while bagging it wasn’t so bad – pig’s blood didn’t taste too horrible if you doctored it up – he still had a problem.  His belly was full and he generally felt sated, but since he’d stopped killing, he was starting to crave the violence, the brawling, the blood and gore and triumph.  After a week or so of jonesing like a junkie desperate for a fix, he’d finally hit on a solution, and even though it went against his very nature, eliminating demons in the towns he was in curbed those cravings.  He’d found his groove and after a few weeks of his newly turned leaf, Spike found that he could write to Joyce with the cleanest conscious he’d had in years.

~*~
Spike,

Have you been watching Passions?  Can you believe what’s going on?  Did you know Timmy was a doll?

How have you been?  I got a new art shipment in this week.  I took your advice and had Clem ask around and there are quite a few demons in town that paint and even one or two that do sculptures.  I’ve displayed some of them and even sold a few!  I loved the poem you sent me.  I hope you don’t mind, but when I read it, I thought it just went so well with a painting that we had at the gallery that I had the painter incorporate it into the painting.  He (at least I think it was a he) agreed to share the profits with the writer (I didn’t tell them who sent it to me), so I have enclosed your portion of the profit.

I was glad to hear that you’ve decided to stop killing.  You have choices in your life.  You decide what to do, no one else.  I’m proud of you, Spike, and I bet your mother would be, too.  I was flattered when you told me in your last letter how much I remind you of her.  She must have been a great woman.

Anyway, on to other local news.  Apparently the mayor was some sort of demon and tried to eat the graduating class, but Buffy and her friends stopped him. They had to blow up the high school to do it though.  She’s been awfully sad though, I think it had a lot to do with what Angel said to her the day you where here and how he said it. After that they didn't spend a lot of time together and Angel left town right after the battle.  I spoke with him shortly before that and told him I didn’t think he was right for her.  I guess he agreed, because he only stayed long enough to help against the mayor.

Your friend,

Joyce
 
*~*
Joyce,

I couldn’t believe it either, Timmy a doll!  I’m tellin’ ya, that show should win an Emmy, fine piece of entertainment it is.

I’m glad you liked the poem, no one since my Mum has liked my poetry.  Please tell me that no one knows I wrote the one in the gallery?

Heard about the mayor turning into a giant snake, sounds like fun!  Blowin’ up the school and all.

It took me a while, but you were right.  I get to decide what kind of life I want and I just couldn’t do it anymore.  Every woman I saw reminded me of you and I just couldn’t.  I just hope you’re right and the do-gooder life will actually give me some kind of meaning.  I mean, when I was with Dru I had a purpose ya’ know?  Taking care of her, being the biggest, baddest vamp for her, crashing and bashing for her.  But without her to take care of, I’m lost.  Although fightin’ demons has been right fun!  You were right; they are a much better fight than a human!  See where your daughter gets her killer instinct.

So, baggin’ it isn’t so bad, okay I’m lyin’ – it’s bleedin’ terrible, but I mix it with some stuff and it tastes okay.  Still tryin’ to figure out what to do with the rest of my unlife.  Can’t keep lazin’ about, wanderin’ from town to town.  Lookin’ to put down some roots, get a nice place.  I heard a story ‘bout a treasure.  I’m gonna check into it and if it’s real, you might see me soon.  Might even have you sell off a few pieces for me.  Can I stop by for a cuppa?

Spike
 
*~*
Spike,

Just let me know when and I’ll have it hot and ready for you, with the little marshmallows.  It will be so good to see you again.  I hope you can stop by the gallery and see all the new art.  A treasure, huh?  I would be happy to sell it for you.  See you soon.

Joyce

Just last week, after he’d gotten her last letter, he’d decided that he was bored and lonely with the wandering life and had started making his way back to Sunnydale.  He and Joyce had developed a friendship of sorts.  She was his first human friend… ever, really.  Even before he’d gotten turned, poor wimpy William – scholarly and meek, trying to express himself by writing crap poetry, being laughed at by his peers and the woman he loved from afar – had been friendless.  

Now, knowing that he had a friend ate away some of the loneliness, but he’d still wanted to see her in person.  Plus, his research had said that the treasure was in Sunnyhell and part of the treasure was the Gem of Amarra, fabled to let vamps walk in the sun and make them practically invincible.  No more schlepping thru the sewers to get around town during the day and he could go to the beach for the first time in over a century.

His first stop had been Joyce’s art gallery.  He’d walked in, giving a sexy smirk to the bird behind the counter, and had gone right over to Joyce.  Throwing an arm over her shoulder, the two had started talking animatedly.  They gotten caught up since their last letter and had chatted about their favorite show, Passions.  Joyce had told him what had been happening in town, and that Buffy was attending UC Sunnydale, and how proud she was of her daughter.  Spike had talked about the museums he’d visited and had commented on the work she had displayed.  They’d laughed and joked for over an hour.

“Joyce, after I get settled, do you think you could help me talk to Buffy and her watcher?  I’ve been thinkin’ about what we talked about, and I think I could be of some use around here.  I mean, it is the Hellmouth, there’s got to be some big nasty just lookin’ for a fight.”  He’d winked, then gave her that charming, boyish smile that had lured so many, and now was being used to butter her up for the good.  “I figure you might help ease my way a bit?”

“You get settled and I’ll set it up, Spike.  I think this could be home for you,” Joyce had said with a smile.

“Well, I hope so.  It’d make sense, since my only friends, you an’ Clem, live here.  I’ll say goodnight, Joyce, and I’ll come by tomorrow, hopefully with good news after my house hunting.  Gonna see Willy, he has the line on all the properties available for demons in this town.”
“Good night, Spike.”  Impulsively, Joyce had kissed his cheek as if he were her son then had smoothed back the already tightly gelled hair.  “Good luck with the search.”

“I’ll let you know how it goes.”  He’d waved as he left the gallery, a huge grin on his face.

Unfortunately, he never did get to look for a house.  He’d only gone a few blocks before the night had exploded in an electric blue arc of light and a world of pain.  He’d woken up in a whole new kind of pain, with only his memories of Joyce to ease the hurt.