Spike stood under an elm tree and intently watched the back door of the Slayer's home. He bounced on his toes, jiggling his hands and chewing gum furiously. Holding his hand to his mouth, he "huffed," trying to check the smell of his non-breath. Muttering curses, he reached into his pocket for the breath spray. He spat the gum onto the ground. "Minty fresh my arse!" he grumbled as he sprayed. "Tastes bleedin' awful!" Again he checked the smell. Better, but not good enough. More gum.

For approximately the 703rd time that day, Spike cursed the fact that in a moment of weakness, he had allowed Joyce to convince him to give up smoking. "Kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray," Spike mocked softly in a sing-song voice. He had, in fact, given up his beloved cigarettes for almost an entire, seemingly interminable, week before the nicotine cravings had become overpowering that afternoon. Then, in just a few hours, the would-be nonsmoking vampire smoked four packs. Realizing that he stank of tobacco, he took two showers, complete with shampoos (lather, rinse, repeat) and brushed his teeth three times. Then he started chewing gum and dosing himself regularly with breath freshener.

Now he waited, with an utter lack of patience, for the Slayer to leave the house so he could call on the Slayer's mother. Joyce Summers. The woman for whom he had agreed to give up cigarettes. The woman whose sensitive nose was sure to detect his lapse in will power. He groaned. He wanted urgently to see Joyce. He wished urgently that she not notice he'd been smoking. "Not soddin' likely, mate," he muttered to himself.

In the kitchen of the Summers' house, Buffy was delaying her exit, much to Joyce's carefully concealed irritation. Joyce knew Spike was waiting. She wanted urgently to see him. She willed her daughter to hurry up and leave. "Not soddin' likely, Joyce," she muttered to herself.

"What did you say, Mom?" The Slayer turned to her mother, a quizzical expression on her face. Buffy had noticed her mother's increasing use of Britishisms. Joyce had claimed to be watching a lot of PBS now that Buffy had left home for dorm life and had blamed the British expressions on the high percentage of BBC programming on that network.

"Nothing, honey. I was just wondering how late you would be patrolling tonight." Things had been so much simpler, Joyce thought, before Winter Break. Buffy had been safely ensconced at UC-Sunnydale and Joyce had been able to see Spike almost nightly. She had become accustomed to that. She had, in fact, become accustomed to doing a great deal more than just *seeing* Spike. Buffy had been home for two days now and Joyce was eagerly anticipating the visit which she and Spike had planned for this evening.

"I dunno, Mom. There's been a real lull in vamp activity. Giles thinks something's up but he doesn't know what. He's at his place tonight doing that research gig with Willow." The Slayer shuddered. "Ugh, better her than me." Buffy chose an apple from the bowl on the kitchen counter and tossed it lightly into the air, catching it easily. "All the vamp lackage really means to me is that patrolling has become a major bore. So maybe I won't be late. We can make popcorn and watch 'It's A Wonderful Life' again." Buffy bit into the apple.

Joyce succeeded in keeping the strain out of her voice. Mostly, anyway. "That will be nice, dear." She watched as her blonde daughter, still munching, bounced out the back door with a wave and a "G'bye" mumbled through a mouthful of apple.

The moment the door closed, Joyce burst into a whirlwind of activity. A spray of cologne, a lick of lipstick and a rapid brushing of wavy shoulder-length hair. She took a moment to inspect her image in the mirror she held in her hand. "Well, Joyce, this'll just have to do." Any further cosmetic improvements, not to mention further conversation with herself, were shelved immediately as an impatient hand began to rap at the back door.

Joyce delayed a moment answering the summons. She wanted her breathing to be at least somewhat under control. She took a slow steadying breath and then the rapping interrupted again. She did not realize that her eyes were shining like emeralds, that her face was already flushed with anticipation, and that excitement was radiating from her like radio waves.

The cause of all this stir was standing, restlessly shifting from foot to foot, at her door. When she finally turned to look at him through the glass, he cocked his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. "Well, luv, ya gonna lemme in? Or do I hafta stand here till the sun comes up and fries me?" Joyce's answer was to fling open the door. Spike sauntered into the kitchen, his eyes on Joyce's face. "Ya look great, Joyce. Something must be agreein' with ya."

Joyce shut and locked the door, darting a quick glance toward the neighbour's house. "Yes, actually, I've started a new aerobics program. I'm getting shag --" Spike cut her off by taking her into his arms and kissing her. His kiss completely robbed her of the ability to think; the world receded, leaving only the sensation of his mouth, his tongue and his hands. He tasted of maleness. Spearmint. And something else. . . Joyce detected the tiniest lingering hint of tobacco.

Joyce pulled back from the kiss, her eyebrows creeping up toward her hairline. Spike still held her close to him as she tilted her head inquiringly. She said not a word, letting the skeptical expression on her face do the speaking for her. The silence which seemed to stretch for minutes lasted less than ten seconds. Spike, chagrin lashing at an undead heart which was unaccustomed to such a feeling, released Joyce and stepped away.

Knowing that the best defense is a good offense (and vice versa), he affected wounded innocence. "What?" he demanded. When his lover's only response was to raise her right eyebrow even higher, he lifted both hands, palms up and pressed on. "I said 'What??'"

With ageless and unanswerable female logic, Joyce replied, folding her arms across her chest. "You know what. . . and if you don't, I certainly am not going to tell you." Her lips pressed together in disappointment, she walked to the tap and began to fill a kettle with water. Joyce hated the bitter edge to her voice when she spoke again, but was unable to soften it. "Would you like some hot chocolate, Spike?"

Irritation at the long wait, combined with Spike's own annoyance at his inability to stop smoking and indignation at Joyce's seeming rejection, combusted into fury. "Have it your way, then! I'm weak! I can't stop! An' what's more, I don't wanna stop an' I don't intend to stop! If ya can't take me as I am, I'll bloody well get out!" As he grasped the doorknob, Joyce's voice stopped him.

"No, wait!" Instinctively, she knew that if Spike left now, he would never come back; or rather, if he ever did come back, it would be as an enemy, not as her lover. Tentatively, she stretched out a hand and lightly touched his back, wincing a bit as he flinched away from her. "Please stay. I'm so sorry. I was being a bitch."

The blond vampire closed his eyes and tilted his head back, relief flooding his mind. He truly had not wanted to go. Sighing, Spike turned to face his lover. "No, baby, I'm the one should be sorry. I tried to stop and I just couldn't do it."

Joyce stepped close to the vampire, placing her hands on his chest. "We'll just have to deal with unimportant stuff like that later. We were about to do something a lot more fun than arguing. More fun even than hot chocolate." A mischievous smile lighting her face, she tugged at the front of Spike's ever-present duster, pulling Spike's body closer.

Spike's hands slipped along Joyce's arms to her shoulders, where they began a delicate caress that sent shivers of desire zinging to her every nerve ending. He ran his tongue across the inside of his lower lip, lodging it finally inside his cheek. His eyes, seeming to darken as the pupils dilated, locked Joyce's with an intense gaze. His thumbs began to stroke Joyce's collarbones. A sound, half purr and half growl, slipped past his lips. "Yeah? And what might that be, hmm?"

"Mmmmm. . . I think you're on the right track." Joyce was, once again, finding breathing difficult. Spike's long, slim fingers began to trace an electric line up her throat and he lowered his lips to hers. Joyce responded as a woman dying of thirst would respond to a pitcher of water. The unlikely pair entwined, seemingly intent on defying that law of physics which maintains that two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time.

R-r-r-r-r-ing! R-r-r-r-r-ing! The sudden clamour of the doorbell startled them both. They leapt apart, Spike looking about rather wildly for the danger and Joyce trying to straighten her hair in an effort to look less like a woman being cheated out of a serious shagging. Unaware of the tic twitching the outside corner of her eye, she muttered, "The paper boy. I forgot all about the paper boy. I've got to pay the dratted paper boy." Snatching her purse from the counter, she turned to Spike. "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

Almost incredulously, Spike watched her retreating back. "Don't go anywhere? Cor, I oughta track 'im down and teach 'im to interfere. He couldn't do this during the daytime? What kinda idiot goes door to door after dark in Sunnyhell?" A distinctly unpleasant thought intruded. "A demon idiot, that's what!" Without further thought, Spike raced out of the kitchen and into the living room, fists clenched, ready to take on whatever demon he might encounter. "Whoa!" Spike's boot heels skidded a bit as he came to a halt. Joyce was counting change for a plump red-haired boy.

The paper boy stared at the blond vampire in astonishment. Then he swallowed and looked at Joyce. "Gee, Ms. Summers, I didn't know you had company."

"No, Bobby, no, um, he's not, um, company. Not company. . .no . . . no . . . he's, uh . . ." Joyce's mind was spinning like a mouse in a wheel, racing frantically and getting nowhere. Then, suddenly, inspiration. "He's an artist whose work I am thinking of showing at the gallery. Mr., um, Williams, this is our paper boy, Bobby. He was just leaving, weren't you, Bobby?"

"Yeah, Ms. Summers. I gotta collect from the rest of the block. Mom's waitin' for me in the car. G'bye, Mr. Williams. It was nice meetin' ya."

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, nice." Grinning, Spike watched Joyce as she watched Bobby go down the walk to the idling car by the curb. As Joyce slid home the deadbolt, Spike stepped close to her back, slipping his arms around her and nuzzling her neck. "An 'artist' am I, then?"

Joyce pressed her back against the lean body of her demon lover. "Well, mmmmm, there is a certain mmmmm artistry in what you're doing now." She twisted in his embrace and faced him. She tilted her head back in mute invitation. Again the half purr, half growl escaped Spike's lips as he moved to take Joyce's mouth with his own. Teasing her, he barely brushed her lips with his. Once. Twice. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. He could feel her desire rising, matching his own. On Spike's third pass at her mouth, Joyce caught his head and held his mouth to hers.

Content to allow her to take the lead for the moment, Spike parted his lips for her tongue. Tongues twined around each other, stroking, velvet-soft and wet, yet stoking the flames of passion. Never breaking the kiss, Joyce tugged at Spike's t-shirt, pulling it loose from the confines of his jeans. Murmuring a sigh against Spike's mouth, she ran greedy hands under the loosened t-shirt, caressing his stomach, ribs, chest. Spike gasped as Joyce's nimble fingers found his nipples.

Breathless with desire, Joyce pulled slightly away from Spike's embrace. "Upstairs?" That one word was almost more than she could speak.

A slow, tantalizing smile spread across Spike's face. "I thought you'd never ask." He lifted her easily into a "bridegroom's carry" and headed for the stairs. As his foot touched the first step, the telephone rang. Spike clamped his eyes shut. "Don't tell me you're gonna answer that. Don't ya have a machine?"

Squirming out of Spike's grasp, Joyce grimaced. "I have to answer the phone, honey. My sister Darlene has been ill and they were gonna call if there was a change." On the fourth ring, Joyce snatched the phone from the cradle. Muttering darkly, Spike followed her.

As Joyce talked with her brother-in-law, Spike began to amuse himself by undressing her where she stood. Despite Joyce's feeble, and necessarily silent, protests, Spike's fingers made quick work of the tiny buttons on the blouse which he then opened, revealing a scrap of lace masquerading as a bra. Cupping her breasts in his hands, Spike caressed them, kneading gently. Joyce's nipples stood at attention in the centre of Spike's palms. Spike unhooked the front clasp of the bra and released his lover's breasts. The lace had left patterns on the skin and Spike began to trace them, first with his fingertips, then with his tongue.

That talented tongue swirled around one nipple and Joyce gasped involuntarily. "No, no, I'm fine, really." Even to herself, that sounded implausible. She tried again to reassure her brother-in-law. "I was just . . . watching something, uh, on the television and . . ." As Spike pulled her nipple into his mouth and sucked gently, Joyce found the presence of mind to cover the phone with her hand. "Mmmmmmm."

"C'mon, baby, get off the bleedin' phone." His voice was raspy with his need for her. He slipped a hand under the waistband of her pants, popping open the button. When he reached for the zipper, Joyce swatted his hand away.

"Well, I'm glad Darlene is mmmmmm better. I'll ummmm call you tomorrow. I've really gotta go now. No, really, I'm fine. Love to all. Bye." Joyce put down the receiver and took Spike's platinum head in her hands. "You are an impossible man."

Spike grinned unrepentantly. "Yeah, I am . . . and you know you like me that way. Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, we were headin' upstairs." Once again, Spike gathered Joyce into his arms and started for the stairs. Halfway up, the beeper in his pocket began to bleat. "Oh, for . . ."Spike put Joyce down and looked incredulously at the offending object. His response to seeing Giles' phone number there sent Joyce's head reeling. She had thought she had heard profanity before. She had been wrong. Spike employed words and phrases in combinations she'd never thought possible and he continued, without repeating himself, for a very long time. One thing he made abundantly clear was how much he regretted having agreed to assist the Slayer and her team. When he finally wound down, he tore open the beeper and ripped out the batteries. Flinging the batteries to the floor, he swept Joyce up again and stormed the rest of the way up the stairs.

When he arrived at Joyce's bedroom door, Spike kicked it open and sent it crashing against the wall. He flung Joyce onto the bed. She landed on her back and immediately scooted to the headboard, scrambling to sit up. For the first time since Spike had turned up at her door, drunk and despondent over being abandoned by Drusilla, Joyce was afraid. She'd allowed herself to forget the violence of which Spike was capable. She'd allowed herself to forget that her "demon lover" was indeed a demon.

Spike saw the fear in her eyes and the way her lips trembled. The demonic side of his personality was delighted and his eyes gleamed yellow in a face that was suddenly as ferocious as a gargoyle's. As Joyce's hand flew defensively to cover her mouth, Spike began to struggle to contain the demon and control the bloodlust that threatened to overwhelm him. Breathing hard in an effort to focus his mind, he closed his eyes. The very sight of the frightened woman on the bed was inflaming the demon's desire to sink his fangs deep into her throat and drain the life from her. He could almost taste the rich warm blood, almost feel it flowing down his throat, nourishing him. Spike was desperate, losing control of the demon within him. He whipped around, turning his back on Joyce. "Don't look at me!"

Watching the man she had come to care for struggle to regain possession of himself, Joyce left the bed and crept behind him. With every ounce of courage she could muster, she stretched out a hand. As her hand neared Spike's back, Joyce hesitated a moment and then placed the flat of her hand between his shoulder blades. Her voice almost failed her as she whispered, "It's okay, honey. You'll be okay." She felt a shudder go through him

When he turned to her again, the face he wore was the one she knew, the one she trusted. A dismayed expression twisted Spike's face. He tentatively stretched out a hand and cupped Joyce's face. "I coulda . . .oh, baby, I almost . . . " Joyce cut off Spike's sentence by placing a finger across his lips.

"I said it's okay . . . because you didn't. Even though you wanted to, you didn't." A single tear trickled from Joyce's right eye.

Spike brushed away that tear. "No. It's not okay. We can't do this anymore." He cut off Joyce's protest. "Shh . . . shh. This is too dangerous. I didn't . . . y'know . . . tonight, but I might not be able to stop next time. Call Willow. Now. She's with Giles. Call 'er and tell 'er to uninvite me. Do it now. 'Cause I really don't want you dead." With Joyce's distressed face, now wet with tears, seared into his memory, Spike turned and ran down the stairs and out of the house.

Joyce stared after him, unmindful of her tears. When she heard the front door slam, she realized he had really gone and crumpled onto the bed, sobbing. She thought her throat would be ripped apart by sobs as surely as Spike had thought he'd rip it with his fangs. A high keening wail slashed its way from her broken heart and ricocheted around the room.

Spike ran across the yard, stumbling occasionally. "She means nothin' to me. Just a woman. A human woman. Doesn't matter. Just a toy. Good for a lark, that's all." Surprised, he discovered that he needed to sniffle. He braced himself against a street lamp. He put a hand to his face and it came away wet. "No. No. I won't bleedin' cry. That's not tears. Rain. It's gotta be rain." Spike looked back toward the Summers' house. Had he not possessed the supernaturally acute hearing of a vampire, he would not have heard Joyce's wail. As it was, the sound wrapped itself around his undead heart and squeezed cruelly.

The last dying echoes of Joyce's cry had barely dissipated into the night air when Spike turned and ran back toward her house. He flung open the door and raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. A small table in the hall crashed to the floor, shattering a crystal bowl and spilling potpourri on the floor, a victim of Spike's mad dash. He grabbed the door jamb and skidded to a halt, framed in the doorway..

Joyce turned her tear-stained face toward him. Slowly she sat up, her eyes never leaving Spike's. The silence in the room was electric with tension. Neither of them seemed able to break that silence. Finally Spike swallowed hard and, in a voice almost diffident, muttered, "Well, I told ya I was weak." He held his hands slightly away from his body, unsure of Joyce's reaction, inviting her to come to him.

It seemed to Joyce that the air had become viscous, gluey. Breathing was difficult. Movement seemed impossibly slow. With incalculable slowness, she stood. Her feet weighed a thousand pounds each, but she moved toward the door. She stopped, breathing shakily, when she reached the blond vampire. After a moment, she stepped closer, taking both his hands and twining her fingers with his.

Spike brought their entwined hands to his lips, kissing first the inside of Joyce's wrists and then the centre of each palm. With an oddly solemn air, he finally slipped the loose blouse and bra from Joyce's yielding body. In response, Joyce pushed the duster from his shoulders. Spike let his hands drop and the duster slid to the floor, followed immediately by his t-shirt. Their shed clothing left a trail on the floor.

They lay together in a pool of moonlight. Spike looked down at Joyce and stroked her hair back from her face. An errant tear slithered down her cheek. "Don't cry, baby. We'll figure it out. Later." Gently, he wiped away the tear and then bent to kiss her. Beginning tentatively, the kiss deepened as the two lovers rediscovered and reassured each other. Passion built with each passing moment.

Spike abandoned Joyce's mouth, causing her to mewl a protest. The protest turned to gasps and moans as he swirled his tongue around an erect nipple and sucked it into his mouth. Joyce arched her back and hissed. Spike kissed and nibbled his way down her stomach till he reached his goal. He kissed her inner thigh, inhaling the heady scent of her arousal. Softly, tantalizing gently, he began to explore her most hidden mysteries with his tongue and lips. Moaning, Joyce pressed herself to him, trying to increase the pressure. He pulled back, grinning. "Patience, luv. Patience."

His tongue dancing like a cool fire on Joyce's hot flesh, Spike brought her to the peak of sensation. Every nerve cell in her body began to hum like a high tension power line. Her breath came in shuddering gasps. Her fingers scrabbled against the sheets. Her body arched like a longbow. Spike snaked a hand up her body and tweaked a nipple at the exact moment he sucked hard on her clitoris and Joyce's mind and body exploded into orgasm. It sizzled through her like lightning, leaving her gasping and lightheaded.

At last Joyce regained her voice. "Mmmmm. . . " She stroked Spike's hair as he rested his head on her hip and doodled idle designs on her stomach with one black-polished fingernail. "Oh, yeah, definitely an artist." She felt his mouth move in a lazy, pleased smile. Joyce sat up, pushing Spike onto his back. He stretched like a great cat, displaying himself for her. She slid up his body, running a caressing hand from his ankle up his leg. She slipped teasing fingers around his groin, never quite touching him where he longed for her touch.

"Hey, now!" Spike whined, squirming.

"Patience, luv. Patience." Joyce grinned, mimicking Spike's accent and advice. She trailed her fingers, stroking lightly, across Spike's stomach, tracing the defined muscles there. He wriggled, protesting that she was tickling him. Chuckling, she abandoned that avenue of attack and started over at his hairline. She pushed his platinum hair back and kissed his temple. . . his scarred left eyebrow . . .the outside corner of his eye . She ran her tongue around the shell of his ear and nipped at the earlobe. She scattered a peppering of light kisses along his firm jaw down to his throat. Spike moved to catch her mouth with his own, but she forestalled him and pushed his face away, murmuring, "Nooo, honey, my turn."

Spike bared his neck to her mouth and Joyce nibbled her way down his slender throat to his collarbone. She ran her tongue across the hollow at the base of his throat and from there she flitted to his chest. She teased his nipples into erection with quick feathery touches. Her wavy hair fell across her face like a curtain as she took a nipple and brushed her tongue across it until Spike, growling deep in his throat, arched his back in pleasure. Joyce traced his abdominal muscles again, this time with her tongue and then, at long last, she had arrived at her destination.

Joyce knelt beside Spike and took his almost painfully erect penis in her hand. She glanced up at his face and saw that he was watching her avidly. With her green eyes on his blue ones, she slowly put out her tongue and barely touched the tip. "Yer killin' me here, baby." Spike's voice sounded strangled.

Joyce merely smiled and turned her complete attention to his cock. She licked it from the base to the tip and then swirled her tongue around it as if she were licking an ice cream cone. When she nibbled at the sensitive spot just below the head, Spike groaned and thrust up involuntarily. He looked at her, wanting to see what she was doing, but her hair had fallen in the way. He reached down and brushed her hair back over her shoulder. "I wanna watch. I wanna see you."

Joyce took him fully into her mouth, bobbing her head up and down while she sucked gently. She took his balls in one hand and rolled them against each other inside his scrotum. Spike ran a hand up the back of her thigh, urging her to turn her bottom toward him. When she did, he began to play with her from behind, teasing her open and stroking the slick flesh with his fingers. When he found her clitoris, she moaned against his cock and the vibration of her voice shot a thrill through him.

He established a quick rhythm of stokes which Joyce began to mimic in her attentions to his cock. She spread her legs a little and opened herself more to his hand. With skillful fingers, Spike played her like a musical instrument, stroking, pinching, bringing her toward climax again. As she felt the approach of her orgasm, she took her mouth from Spike's penis and pumped with her hand. Hair swinging as she tossed her head, Joyce moaned, the sound becoming more and more high pitched. As waves of intense sensation crashed over her, she came, keening, and then collapsed.

Joyce looked up at Spike. He grinned at her, pleased with his power to bring her such pleasure. She tried to speak, but had neither breath nor voice. Spike arched a brow and carefully licked the taste of her from his fingers. When she regained control of her breathing, she turned her attention back to his still rigid cock. Kneeling between his widespread legs, Joyce took his full length in her mouth. She pulled her head back, twisting it from side to side as she went. When she reached the tip, she pressed her lips together and squeezed it. Spike groaned. Holding the base of his cock with one hand, she flicked her tongue rapidly across the tip causing his cock to twitch.

Spike's legs began to tremble and one foot spasmed against the mattress. Realizing that Spike was on the verge of coming, Joyce squeezed his balls and flicked her tongue rapidly across the tip of his cock. The orgasm that racked his body seemed to begin in his toes and continue up his spinal column and threaten to blow the back of his skull off. Every cell in his body sizzled with it. Fireworks exploded behind his eyes.

When he thought he could see again, he looked down at Joyce. She lay with her head resting on his thigh, breathing hard. Her eyes were closed and she licked her lips, removing the last traces of semen. Her hair was tangled and damp with perspiration; her face was flushed; a small, cat-like smile flirted on her mouth. "Come 'ere, baby." Spike's voice was husky, almost raspy. Joyce slid up his body and into his arms. When they kissed, they could taste themselves on each other's tongue. Spike rolled over so he lay above Joyce and between her legs.

Joyce wrapped her legs around Spike's waist as he entered her. He began to thrust slowly, deep stokes followed by shallow ones. Joyce ran her hands over his chest, shoulders and arms, reveling in his strength. She rolled her head from side to side on the pillow, moaning as the buzzing began again in her nerve endings. Her back arched. Her legs clenched and she lifted them higher, seeking a deeper penetration. A cry began deep within her and wrenched its way out and past her lips. Spike buried his face in the juncture of her neck and shoulder as he came, plunging deep inside her. He collapsed onto her.

Joyce stroked her lover's hair and murmured against his ear. "Wow. . . " She felt his smile against her skin. "Wow."

"Mmmm. . . yer not so bad yerself, baby," Spike whispered, beginning to drift into sleep. He was jerked awake by the insistent bleating of the telephone beside the bed. Joyce scrambled from under him to answer its summons. "Infernal machine," Spike groused.

"Hello? Oh. . . Buffy. . . what's the matter?" At the mention of the Slayer's name, Spike sat bolt upright, wondering just where he'd left his jeans and how fast he could get dressed. Joyce put out a hand to reassure her lover. "No, dear, that's no problem at all. I understand if you need to spend the night with Willow. I'll be fine here. Alone. No problem. Bye, sweetie." Joyce hung up the phone and turned to Spike. "Well, Buffy won't be home till the morning. What ever shall I do to amuse myself all night? Alone? By myself?"

Chuckling, Spike lay back and pulled Joyce to his chest. "I'm sure we can think o' somethin'. I mean, I can't leave you here alone, can I? Why, the Slayer'd stake me in a pool of holy water in the noonday sun if I let anything happen to you."

******Epilogue******

Much later, as Spike and Joyce were drifting to sleep, having exhausted even Spike's seemingly inexhaustible libido, Joyce murmured against his chest, "I love. . " Spike's eyes flew open in alarm. ". . . whatever twisted relationship we have got." Spike closed his eyes again.

"Yeah, luv, me, too. Me, too."

******THE END******