I want you

You've had your fun you don't get well no more

I want you

Your fingernails go dragging down the wall

Be careful darling you might fall

Elvis Costello "I want you"

3/4 cup flour,

1 tablespoon baking soda

8 tablespoons butter (1/4 pound), softened.

1 cup brown sugar

2 eggs, slightly beaten

1/3 cup water,

1 tbsp. vanilla,

1 cup chocolate chips

1 cup chopped walnuts/pecans (optional)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Right, done. Mix flour, and baking soda in large bowl...done. Cream butter and sugar together until fluffy....She did it by hand, relishing the mindless stirring. Add eggs, water, vanilla to butter mixture. It had been a long time since she'd baked. She'd surprised herself by volunteering to bake cookies for the bake sale. She wasn't really the cookie baking type. Too much else to do. But lately she seemed to have nothing but time on her hands. Stir until combined. Add flour to butter mixture. Mix. Add chocolate chips and nuts (if using). Mix.

"Hey mom." Buffy retreated a step at the expression on her mother's face when Joyce wheeled to face her.

"Buffy," she said. "You startled me."

"Uh, yeah. I just wanted to make sure it was O.K." Her mother looked at her blankly. "Me, borrowing the car tonight," Buffy reminder her.

"Of course dear. I'm not going out tonight."

"Or any other night," Buffy mumbled.

"What?" Joyce asked, surprised.

Buffy hesitated before speaking, then decided to just do it.

"Mom, you've barely been out of the house for a week. You go to work, you come home. It's like you're under house arrest. What's going on?" Joyce looked away and shook her head.

"I'm just tired dear."

"I know!" Buffy said brightly. "Why don't you go out with Giles sometimes. See a movie, have an ice-cream soda."

Giles. Rupert Giles, Joyce thought.

Rupert, laughing after cold-cocking the policeman, lifting her onto the hood of the police car. Insistent hands pulling at her panties, her own fingers fumbling with his zipper and boxers. Cold metal on her ass, sliding about, both of them trying to keep their balance as they met and melded under the orange lampglow....

"No." She shook her head, clearing it of the vivid memory.

"Why not, I mean, it's not like you don't like him, right?"

"Buffy, leave it alone!" she snapped. Buffy flinched.

"O.K., but you've been kinda ..weird lately." Joyce looked at her, suddenly afraid.

"Dear, I told you I've been tired. Probably just the flu. I'm starting to feel better. Isn't Willow waiting for you?"

"Yeah." Obviously she wasn't going to get anywhere tonight. "O.K. Night mom."

"Night dear."

"Ready?" Willow said as Buffy walked back into the living room. "Everything O.K.?" she added seeing Buffy's worried expression.

"Uh, yeah. Anyway that's her story and she's sticking to it. Looking on the bright side, I guess having an agoraphobic mom might not be that bad...she'd never ask for the car back."

"True. But would the neighbors let her run the gallery out of the house?"

***

Spike lay hidden in the shadow of the foundation shrubs at the front of the house, his belly nestled comfortably in the dirt. He'd listened with interest to the little mother-daughter interaction. He smiled when he heard the front door open and felt the porch tremble as Buffy and her friend descended the stairs. He watched two pairs of feet walk past him, toward the street.

"I still can't believe that's a double? Two people, in that closet? Two midgets maybe." Buffy said complaining about her soon to be dorm room/cell.

"Even the Count of Monte Cristo would want an upgrade," Willow agreed.

"I'd better get a great roommate then, otherwise. Oh God, I might have to live at home."

"Fate worse than death." Willow said.

He moved only when he could no longer hear them. Moving quietly around to the back of the house. Spike stood on the back porch and looked in. It was a scorching hot night, and the outer door was open, leaving the screen door the only barrier between the kitchen and the night. He watched her for awhile as she finished mixing the dough and began baking the cookies. He sniffed appreciatively at the scents spilling out through the screen door. First and foremost was Joyce herself, the sweet smell of her blood pounding warmly under her sweaty skin. But he also appreciated the smell of cookies, chocolate chip cookies, his favorite. She had just put a batch on the cooling rack when he tapped on the door. Her back stiffened, and he smelt adrenaline before she'd even turned to see him. Delicious.

"Hello Luv, Let me in." Spike said. He saw her hesitate and prepared to rip the door off it's hinges; but she took a deep breath and unlatched it and let him in.

"Miss me?"

As he moved into the kitchen, Joyce backed away until she bumped into the kitchen table. It had been more than a week. She'd almost managed to convince herself that it hadn't happened, or at least wouldn't happen again. And here he was again, leather duster, black pants, red shirt, mocking grin. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She shook her head in denial.

"No? Well I've missed you. Give us a kiss." He grabbed her face and roughly kissed her, forcing his tongue into her mouth, mauling her lips. He found himself enjoying it, and not just for the terror. She was very warm and soft against him. And she smelled of so many good things: butter, sugar, flour, chocolate, fear, and blood.

Joyce suddenly started to struggle, it took him a moment to remember that she needed to breathe. He stopped to let her. While Joyce gasped for breath he reached around her back and untied the apron, she was wearing a short sleeveless dress under it. He lifted her up onto the table sending everything crashing to the floor. He held her down with one hand while he unzipped himself. He ripped off her underwear, and ignoring her feeble protests spread her legs and began to push himself inside her. He covered her mouth as she took a breath to scream. Shook his finger at her, chiding.

"What did I tell you about getting your neighbors killed?" Her eyes widened, and for a moment he was afraid she might blow it for him, but he felt her sigh.

"No," she whispered. Satisfied, he returned to forcing his way inside her. Joyce whimpered and tried to make herself relax, but it hurt, she could feel herself tearing. It just got worse when he started to thrust. It was like being fucked with an icicle. She wondered if she was going to live through this. She wondered if she wanted to.

Spike was enjoying himself, she was dry and tight and the heat of her, the smell of her fear, her futile struggles, was infinitely exciting. He barely managed eight thrusts before he came in a rush of ice and fire. He collapsed on top of her.

"Fucking hell," he gasped and covered her mouth with a sloppy kiss. He got off her after a moment, and pulled up his pants. When he saw she wasn't moving he pulled her up himself, pulled her dress down. He could smell her bleeding, and his hunger roared to life. She stood there, passive and unresponsive.

"Joyce?" he said. No response. He said her name again: silence. He nipped at her neck, nothing, nipped again and licked at the few drops that eased out - and barely stopped himself from sinking his fangs into her tender white neck. She was so good.

No marks. He reminded himself, but fuck him she was tasty. Her blood shouted at him so loudly, it made it hard to think. He picked her up and carried her into the living room and propped her up on the couch. He tried to consider the problem rationally, through the growing haze of hunger. If it weren't bloody summer, he could use the vein in her arm, but long sleeves would look slightly suspicious in 90 degree heat.

Finally, he knelt between her legs, and pushed up her skirt above her hips. The sweet smell of blood mixed with the sour stench of his own dead emission wafted out, enflaming his hunger. Spike knelt, and licked his way along her inner thigh until he reached the junction of leg to pelvis. He growled, and sank his fangs into the femoral artery. Joyce's body jerked at the pain. He grabbed her hips and held her still as her blood flooded into his mouth. It was sooooo good. The taste of it was deep and rich beyond anything he could remember. He moaned as a glorious warmth spread through his body. It took all of his willpower to pull away after only a few swallows. He looked up and saw that her eyes were still closed, but tears had marked her cheeks. He sighed and rested his head on her thigh, content.

Later, he got up and made tea. He kept one ear open while he was in the kitchen, but she never moved. When he came in through with the tea, she was still sitting on the couch, arms wrapped around herself, looking at nothing. He put the cup in her hand and wrapped her fingers around it.

"Here. Do you good," he sat down next to her, picked up the remote, and started to flick through the channels.

Joyce eventually came back to herself, having nowhere else to go. She found herself sitting on the couch, the TV flickering in the darkened room. Mel Gibson was leaping tall buildings with a single bound on some LA freeway. Her whole body ached, and something cold and heavy was lying in her lap. Someone's head, someone with bleached hair. She stiffened as memory rushed back to her. Spike turned his head to look up at her.

"You're back. I was beginning to worry. 'Ere, do you like this Lethal Weapon stuff?" He asked curiously. Joyce blinked, realizing that he really wanted an answer.

"I've only seen the first one," she said.

"Yeah. Well this is crap. Passes the time though. Your tea's gotten cold." She was staring blindly at the television, he noticed tears were leaking from her eyes again. "'Ere, Joyce, what's with the waterworks?"

"Why?" Joyce whispered. Spike grinned and tweaked her nipple. He snuggled his head more comfortably in her lap.

"Because I want to. That's sort of the whole point of being a demon. Being able to do what I want, when I want, to whomever I want. And you're mine now, 'til I say different. Did I tell you I saw Buffy last night?" He felt her stiffen anxiously.

"Buffy? Where?"

"I had a few of my guys ambush her out by the old factory," so much fear, so easily elicited; Joyce was so much more fun than her daughter. "Not to worry, your daughter is quite the slayer, she dusted three of them before the rest remembered how to run away."

"Oh, thank God," she said. He waited until he felt her relax slightly.

"She dropped this." She felt him put something into her hand. She looked down and saw a hair barrette, one of Buffy's. She looked at Spike and his smile was colder than Antarctica. Her eyes widened as she processed the threat. Spike laid his head back in her lap with a contented sigh.

"This is nice," he said, turning his attention back to the screen.

 

END part 3