Now I Keep Company with Wicked, Evil Men
(Title from a lyric in Edwin McCain's Jesters, Dreamers, & Thieves)
He wasn’t entirely certain how he came to be standing here on the Slayer’s porch, hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet nervously like some teenager on a first date. He kept trying to tell himself that it was a bad idea, that it would be misconstrued, that nobody wanted to hear from him on the matter—and yet here he stood, summoning the courage to knock.
His night was supposed to have gone much differently, of course; this impromptu visit had been a rather spur-of-the-moment decision. He’d just happened to hear, as he was walking through the trees bordering Restfield, a conversation never meant for his ears: Willow and Tara, on their way home from the Slayer’s house, where they’d apparently needed to perform a disinvitation spell for the mincing, prancing visiting legend himself. Once he’d gotten over the momentary surprise that Joyce—of all people, the Slayer’s mum—had invited Drac into her house, he’d allowed himself to eavesdrop again, and had heard something that made his heart twist in a manner with which he wasn’t altogether comfortable.
Joyce was lonely—lonely enough that she’d dropped her guard and invited Dracula over for coffee. That… well, that just wouldn’t do.
Spike didn’t analyze too heavily the strange sort of tenderness he felt for the Slayer’s mum; most times, he put it down to ‘she’s a nice enough lady’ and let it go at that. But he’d had long minutes to think it over as he’d fought himself step-by-step on his way to the house on Revello Drive, and he’d come to realize that it was more than just his appreciation for her kindness. She’d tried to be friendly, even as she’d been grappling with the newfound knowledge of her daughter’s destiny; she’d given him her ear and a shoulder to cry on when he’d returned half a year later, heartbroken and maudlin over Drusilla; she never failed to acknowledge him, whether she saw him on the street after dark or in the strange sort of context that his presence alongside the Scoobies had become. She treated him like a man, like a very familiar acquaintance, if not exactly a close friend; that regard was something he couldn’t shrug off. Not when he found it so rarely.
And so here he stood, hand finally out of his pocket and halfway to the door. With a barely audible growl of self-chastisement, he rolled his head once to alleviate the tension that had built up in the muscles there and rapped sharply on the door.
He was nearly ready to turn around and head back to his crypt when the door opened to reveal a surprised Joyce.
“Spike? How are you? Is something wrong? Are you looking for Buffy? She’s not here—they’re off dealing with Dracula.” The words came out in a rush, but were followed by a genuine smile.
“Would that one of you women could say his name without some sort of bleedin’ reverence,” Spike grumbled under his breath, only to bite back his annoyance and offer a polite smile to the woman who was now looking at him with no small degree of confusion. “Actually, Joyce, I stopped by to see you, if that’s all right.”
“Me?” Joyce asked, expression a mix of clearly flattered and still confused, and he couldn’t help but notice the self-conscious way she patted her hair.
“I… well, I hadn’t seen you about for a bit, an’ thought we might be overdue for a catch-up, if you’ve got some free time. ‘s a slow night, an’ the crypt gets a bit quiet…”
“I wish I could imagine,” Joyce laughed, opening the door farther even as she jerked her head towards the stairs, down which were drifting strains of some brand of annoying sugary techno-pop. “Catching up would be lovely, Spike. Please…” Joyce stood to the side of the door and swept her arm out in invitation; ducking his head by way of thanks, Spike stepped inside, standing awkwardly in the foyer as Joyce closed and locked the door. “Now,” she answered, turning towards him, “would you like coffee, tea, or hot chocolate? Or should I just make an educated guess?”
“Surprise me,” Spike answered, smiling at her laughter as he followed her into the kitchen.
~*~*~*~*
An hour of conversation slipped by, then two, as Spike was updated on the status of the gallery, the news around Sunnydale—well, the non-demon part of Sunnydale, and any other topic of conversation to which their attentions drifted. They commiserated over Dawn’s woeful taste in music and how that would (hopefully) improve with age, the relatively quiet summer that the Scoobies had experienced in the wake of the Initiative’s defeat, and, ultimately, how rarely Buffy came home to visit for any length of time since she’d moved onto UC Sunnydale’s campus the year before.
Seizing what was likely the most perfect opening he would be able to get, Spike steeled himself and looked over at Joyce, who was standing by the stove stirring yet another pot of bubbling milk. “’s not my place to ask, Joyce, I know… an’ if I’m bein’ forward, just tell me to bugger off an’ I will…”
“Spike… ask your question,” Joyce answered, amused by all the dissembling.
“’s just… I’m wonderin’ what got you to let Drac in the front door, ‘s all. I mean, I know he can be charmin’ when he needs to be, but…” Spike let out a long, slow breath, hand massaging the back of his neck as he fought for phrasing. “Guess I just don’t understand how a bright one like you got taken in. Not lookin’ to offend, just… curious.”
“And concerned?” Joyce asked, brow raised as she dared him to contradict her. At his slight nod of affirmation, she sighed and took the pan off of the heat before coming to the island to collect their mugs. “To be perfectly honest, Spike, I don’t really know what got into me,” she answered as she busied herself with careful pouring.
“The wanker used thrall on you? Oh, he’s just…” Spike growled, moving to stand before he was forestalled by Joyce’s sudden presence at his side, mug in hand.
“It wasn’t anything as exotic as all that, Spike, as much as I’d like to be able to say it was. It would certainly make me feel better about it, that’s for sure.” Joyce stayed quiet while she collected her cup and resumed her seat on the stool across the island from her companion, taking a long sip before continuing. “No, me letting him in had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me, sadly. My vanity, my insecurity, my…”
“That’s all a bit esoteric… can you be a bit more specific, pet?” Spike asked, concern a definite undertone to his voice.
“It’s just that it’s so hard… this whole dating thing. Or now it is. I don’t know how to do this, really—be Mom, be Joyce, be…”
“A woman?”
“Well… yes.”
“Don’t envy you,” Spike answered. “When my da died, it was sort of a given that Mum was on her own with me. And if she’d gotten married, it would’ve been for money and security—not for her.”
“How old were you when…”
“Eight. ‘s been so long… still remember the way I felt when I found out he was dead, though. An’ remember seein’ Mum lookin’ so lost… like she didn’t know what to do. Years of bein’ with him, an’ she was alone again—an’ with a son to raise, on top of it. But she did it—don’ know how, but she did.”
“I’m sorry,” Joyce murmured, reaching across the island and taking his hand in hers.
“’s ok… days gone by, yeah?” Spike asked, blinking suspiciously fast, although Joyce was willing to overlook it for the sake of what she knew was the vampire’s bravado. “’s just… I knew she was lonely. Knew she had to be. An’ me… well, I wasn’t exactly the darling of society, really… so I made her my world. Much as I could. Told myself that maybe…” Spike trailed off for a moment, eyes lowering to the countertop. “Told myself that maybe I was enough to make up for all she was missing. That maybe my attention… well, that maybe my attention was better than no attention.” Then, a moment later, barely whispered, “I know that her being there was a saving grace for me.”
“I’m sure you were the best company she could’ve wanted,” Joyce answered sincerely, smiling when Spike raised his eyes to her. “You were her son—and barring that, you’re wonderful company, Spike—though you don't let just anybody see it. But I, for one, am very happy that you’re here.”
“Yeah?” he asked, voice gruff but eyes noticeably tender.
“Yes.”
“Thank you.” Joyce looked as surprised to hear the words spoken so baldly as did Spike to have said them that way, but the smile they exchanged showed that the sentiment was both heartfelt and well-received.
“So enough Victorian drama,” Spike said, clearing his throat and sitting a little straighter. “Let’s get back to you an’ this dating business. What is it that’s got you out of sorts enough to go invitin’ the prancin’ tosser in here?”
“He seemed… interesting. A little, well, oddly pale… and a bit feminine… but it felt like he was actually listening when I talked to him. I live with a just-barely-teen and have a college-aged daughter—having someone around who actually listens just doesn’t happen that often, you know.”
“Would imagine not… ‘specially given that Buffy doesn’t seem to be the type to listen to anyone, livin’ with them or not.”
Joyce laughed a bit, grin a touch rueful. “No, she’s very much not. Although how much of that is just ‘like mother’ traits and how much of it is Slayer would be anyone’s guess. I never really took a lot of direction, either.”
“Bit of a wild one, were you then?” Spike asked, a devilish, teasing grin in full effect.
Joyce laughed again, the sound this time much lighter and more girlish, less weighted by years of motherhood and adult responsibility. “Well, I didn’t exactly set the town on fire, but I burned my candles pretty thoroughly for a while. I had my fun. And then I met Hank, and my priorities changed. And after that came Buffy, and then Dawn, and then I knew that everything would be different for the rest of my life.” Joyce paused for a moment, eyes far away. “When things got bad with Hank—with the yelling, and the slamming doors—I used to lock myself in the bathroom and draw a bath and think about what life would be like without him—wonder if I could go back to being who I had been. And then I’d remember that I was a mother.” Joyce blinked, shaking herself from her momentary trance, and looked back at the vampire across from her, the vampire who was clearly listening carefully. “I don’t regret a second of having my girls, Spike—not a minute. But every now and then… I long for a time when it was easier. It was simpler not to have to worry about anyone but me.”
“Can see that,” Spike responded, nodding thoughtfully. “It’s gotta be hard, bein’ on your own like you are with them. And makin’ a right good show of it, too. But I know it had to be complicated—even before the Slayer gig. An’ now…”
“And now I’m being approached by vampires—NOT you, Spike,” Joyce forestalled, noting how his eyes dropped with something very like shame at her words. “But other vampires who see me as the best way to Buffy. And next week, who knows? Perhaps there’s a nice Creature from the Black Lagoon looking for someone to share a table at Chez Hellmouth.”
“Joyce!” Spike snickered, laughing at her obviously histrionic observations—made complete with dramatic hand gestures. “I don’t think you have to worry ‘bout that. ‘Sides, everyone knows sea creatures lay eggs. I mean, really—you’re an educated woman, Joyce. I expect more from you,” he jibed, watching as she shook her head and giggled.
“You’re right. It’s just... it’s silly, really. Minor, compared to an apocalypse, I suppose. It’s just that I spent… more years of my life than I’m going to admit to,” Joyce said, quickly catching herself before revealing her age to the mischievously-grinning vampire across from her. “I spent all these years believing that good and evil were metaphors. And then I find out that demons are real, and Buffy’s the Slayer, and we live on the hellmouth…”
“I was there, Joyce,” Spike interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “You took it ‘bout as well as could be expected, really—‘s not a tale you ever plan to get told.”
“Even so...” she began, chewing her lower lip thoughtfully in a gesture so reminiscent of her daughter that Spike—for one of the very first times—truly saw a family resemblance aside from the storied Summers woman mettle. “So I find out that there are monsters in closets, and demons are real, and then there’s the spells and the curses… I still can’t sort it out.”
“Joyce… luv, these are all valid concerns, but I’m still not seein’ what this has to do with you lettin’ Drac in the house.”
“Dating was hard enough before, Spike, when all you had to worry about was whether he’d call, or whether he’d be there when you woke up, or what he’d think of a woman with two children… now you have to ask yourself if he’s not trying to get in your house rather than your pants. And whether he wants to slaughter your family rather than just… you know… get the milk for free.”
Spike couldn’t smother his chuckle in time, and looked up worriedly at Joyce, only to find that she was laughing, too. “I know… old expression. But still true—it’s so hard to know what they want from you.”
“Any one of them worth any sort of regard as a man,” Spike began, hesitantly, obviously weighing his words. “Anyone worth your regard is going to want you for you, Joyce, cliché as that is. He’s going to want you as an intelligent, vibrant, attractive woman, who works hard for her family an’ who’s a damn good mum. He’s goin’ to want your spirit, an’ your laugh, an’ the way you look at life. Any of them who want anythin’ else…” Spike trailed off, blushing a bit. “Any of them come lookin’ for anythin’ less, you send ‘em by me. Could always use a good takeaway delivery.”
“Spike!” Joyce gasped, mock-scandalized. The impish grin he gave her was met with a tender one from her, and she took his hand for the second time that night. “Thank you.”
“’f course,” Spike answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Lot of them give romance a bad name. My day, they’d’ve been drummed out of society for not understandin’ courtship.”
“Would that we had that mindset back sometimes,” Joyce said quietly. “It would be nice to be… well, wooed, for lack of a better word. Flowers, cards, candy—the little things. Is that too much to ask for?”
“Not at all. And the ones that’re worth it, Joyce—they’ll know that, too.”
“You sound like me giving Buffy the dating talk,” Joyce accused, teasing through a throat tight with emotion.
“Yeah, well… great minds, thinkin’ alike, yeah? Can’t help we’re both devastatingly intelligent to go with our good looks, now can we?” Spike answered cheekily, raising a brow.
“I suppose not,” Joyce answered, blushing fetchingly as she tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Looks good on you,” Spike said after a moment, and Joyce raised questioning eyes to meet his. “Bein’ complimented. Add that to the list of what Mr. Somewhere-Around-the-Corner will do for you.”
“Yes, sir,” Joyce answered, smiling even as she blushed anew. “You’re quite the charmer, you know?”
“’ve had years to practice. Believe me, I’ve gotten better at it in a century or so.”
“That’s hard to imagine.”
“Then take it on faith,” Spike responded, smirking teasingly. “The past hundred years have served me well.” Spike’s eyes flicked to the clock, taking in the time as he stood. “Thank you for the cuppa, luv, but I believe it might just be time for vamps to head crypt-ward. Got a night’s worth of havoc to cause, an’ all that.”
“Do you now?” Joyce asked skeptically.
“Well, yeah.” His rebellious answering look lasted only a moment before crumbling. “All right—so ‘ve got some telly to watch, an’ you need to get some rest for work tomorrow, right? Just don’t want to overstay, ‘s all.”
“That’s more like it.” Joyce couldn’t help but laugh at the abashed look on his face, as though he’d been caught doing something far more scandalous than being thoughtful. Then again, this was Spike, who carefully shielded his sensitivity from all but the most discerning of eyes—there was likely nothing more scandalous to be caught at than thoughtfulness, at least in his view. Not for the first time, Joyce found herself marveling at the core of sweet young man that resided inside the brash vampire. “You’re most certainly not overstaying your welcome, Spike. But you are probably right—I should get some rest. I suppose beauty sleep is going to be necessary if I plan to rope in this mythical Mr. Perfect.”
“That may be, but jus’ make sure I’m the only ‘very pale’ somebody you go lettin’ in here, yeah?” he asked playfully as he ducked out the door.
“Yes, dad,” Joyce teased back, rolling her eyes. She reached forward and hugged him, catching Spike completely off-guard; his already-widened eyes grew rounder when she brushed a small kiss against his cheek. “Thank you for being gentleman enough to keep a lady company,” she said, smiling as she pulled back.
“Anytime, luv,” Spike answered, head ducked shyly for a moment before he recovered his bravado. But even with it intact… it didn’t feel right to just let that be the last word. As he reached the last porch step, he turned back to the screen door, where she was watching him just like any overprotective mother over a venturing child. “Joyce? I sleep most of the day, but… ‘m always awake in time for Passions.”
“I’ll bring coffee.” Her smile caused an answering one to shape his features, and he nodded at her before slipping through the yard, taking the shortcut back to his crypt.
Spike realized, as he slipped inside and shrugged off his duster, that he had felt warm the entire walk home, despite the chilliness of the evening. The weather didn’t affect him, but he still usually felt the bite in the air late at night. It wasn’t until he was drifting off that he realized what had made him feel so… so cocooned…
For the first time in over a century, Spike had been treated like a man—valued for what he had offered, and appreciated even though his offer wasn’t ideal or perfect. For the first time in over a century, he had been in the presence of a mother’s love. And he thought that perhaps once again, although more than a century had passed, his attentions might have been enough to make her happy.