All About Spike - Plain Version

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Chapter: 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  Epilogue

Present Tense
By Miss Murchison

Sequel to A Glorious Morning Have I Seen

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.

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.

Setting: 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.

Thanks: To DorothyL , Keswindhover, and Devil Piglet for correcting my errors and for all the encouragement. And to Keswindhover and Devil Piglet for the great manip of Spike and Joyce.


Chapter Two

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 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 bloody 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.


Continued in Chapter Three

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