SERIES TITLE  : Twelve Days of Christmas ;
CHAPTER/TITLE : On the first (and last) day of Christmas
AUTHOR        : Black Widow
EMAIL         : bw@l...
SUMMARY       : Joyce calls in a favor
SPOILERS      : None. 
RATING        : G.
PAIRING       : Gen Fic
DISCLAIMER    : The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant
                Enemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, and Greenwolf Productions, 20th
                Century Fox, the WB Network, and whoever else may have a
                hold on them. The situation is wholly mine, and I do
                not mean to infringe upon any copyrights.
ARCHIVE/DIST  : List archives. Anyone else, please ask.

*

The opening of the new exhibition had been a complete success, she
hadn't expected any less. She'd called in all her favors from
everyone. Over the previous twenty five years she'd built up a
reputation, not just in Sunnydale or California and not just in the
States, but globally.

Since... since the time she'd had nothing else left to care for she'd
thrown all her effort into the gallery, championing artists and
sculptors and anyone whose work appealed to her. She'd traveled and
searched and begged and borrowed. She'd given hope and light to
artists young and old.

Each year, in December, she'd staged an exhibition highlighting the
talents of new artists, giving them a showcase for their work. She'd
driven all the gallery owners in California mad with her passion and
her devotion to her foundlings as she urged and cajoled them to do the
same, making them accept the modern, getting them to embrace the new
technologies, making them filthy rich off all her hard work and her
discoveries.

This year, though, was different. She'd gone to all her artists with a
commission and an idea that would have bankrupted her if they hadn't
been just as devoted to her. Every one of her artists had willingly
accepted her commission and had refused to take a cent. And every
single one had come to Sunnydale, from every corner of the globe, at
their own expense, to share in their Grande Dame's party.

And not just her artists. She'd asked some of the friendlier gallery
owners she'd helped to contribute. Once the word had spread, she'd
received offers that had surprised even her. The gallery was locked
down tighter than Fort Knox as Old Masters that hadn't seen the light
of day, pieces that had been thought lost or had been hidden in
private collections, stood side by side with much younger works.

Which was as it should be, she reflected, as she sat to one side. The
theme she'd chosen - 'mother and child' - had come as a shock to her
closest friends and had surprised those who knew her well. Perhaps,
she mused, that was why everyone was here now.

Graciously she accepted the praise and good wishes of all her friends,
old and new, as they wandered through the gallery and sought her out
as she sat quietly, watching them.

Arranging the works had been a nightmare. Achieving the correct
balance, not just aesthetic but physical, between water colors and DNA
sculptures and oil paintings and nano-technology and still life and
the latest craze in chaos theory and quantum fractures, had made her
old bones more tired than she could ever remember. But the effect was
stunning and she could see it in the eyes of her friends: the animated
discussions, the posturing and posing; the awe on the faces of her
youngest friends as they found themselves standing in front of an
ancient work which, to them, was the stuff of legend; the confusion of
the older types as the DNA sculptures gave birth, grew old and died.

Yet, as the evening drew to a close, she had one last surprise for
them before they could go to the party. She waited for all the limos
to draw up outside before she signalled for the cover to be removed.
On a plain piece of white card was an old photograph of a young woman
holding a new-born baby.

She stared at it for a few seconds before signalling for the door to
be opened. As her guests slowly filed past, she watched them stop and
look. A few shook their heads, a few took one glance and rushed out
the door not wanting to acknowledge her pain. Some stood there and
looked back at her and smiled, some with tears in their eyes. As the
last walked out the door she saw that they were all gathered outside,
shivering in the cold December air, waiting for her.

She smiled as best she could at Xander as he held the door open for her
with what was left of his one remaining arm. He was still stubborn and
proud and refused to wear prosthetics, and she winced as she saw the
pain etched amongst the scars covering his face as he leaned to kiss
her cheek. Buffy's death had hurt them all, in more ways than she ever
cared to imagine.

Rupert gently squeezed her hand as he led her through the throng to
her car, the spontaneous applause filling her with a joy tinged with
sadness as she looked into the faces of all her... children. Finally,
she realised, she could accept them for what they had become. They
were her family, and she was so proud.

*

At the house, Giles pushed her old fashioned wheelchair across the
snow-dusted grass to the greenhouse where she spent most of her free
time. She was so pleased that the city controllers had relaxed the
force shield over Sunnydale for the festive season and allowed some of
the snow to reach the ground.

Once, long ago, it had snowed on Christmas day in Sunnydale and it had
been years before she'd learned of its significance. These days snow
was a regular occurrence, even in the summer, but she was glad to see
it now.

"No, leave the lights off," she told Giles as the warmth hit them.
"And, please, if you wouldn't mind, I would like to be alone for a
while." Giles knelt beside her, as he always did, on the bad side of
her face. Most of her internal organs were shot to pieces, beyond
repair thanks to all the drugs she'd had to take to keep herself
alive. But all that was hidden. Her face, however, showed the damage
the years had done to her; she had aged gracefully until the last few
years when the strokes had taken their toll and left her crippled and
disfigured. Her mouth hung slack and she could barely see out of the
one real eye she still had. Science and young Willow - Professor
Rosenberg, now - had given her an artificial voice and an artificial
eye.

"Go, darling, I'll be all right," she told him as he looked at her
with so much love it hurt more than she could stand.

The door closed behind him and she took a deep breath. "I'm glad
you've come," she told the figure skulking in the shadows, enhanced
optics picking him out clearly. "After all these years, I still don't
know if I did the right thing back then."

Still he stood in the shadows, quiet and aloof, not moving, not
breathing. "I know how much you loved my daughter. I know how much you
still do, even though you won't admit it to yourself."

The shadows didn't hide his discomfort. Not from her. "We made a pact,
you and I, back then, and I've waited a long, long time. Now it's
time; you promised me this favor. My work is done and you wouldn't
begrudge an old lady her present on Christmas day?"

She waited but he didn't move. "Come out from the shadows, let me see
you properly. I know you haven't changed; are you afraid of seeing
what I look like now?." At her command the lights in the greenhouse
began to glow softly and she saw the vampire straighten and walk
towards her.

As he knelt beside her she saw the tears in his eyes and she wondered
at the sight of a vampire crying, "I really shouldn't have been so
cruel to you."

She watched his face change, felt his strong hands stroke her hair and
the cold of his lips on hers before easing her head to one side.

Gently his fangs pierced the skin of her neck and she heard the
anguish in his voice as he whispered her name. "Joyce, I love..."
barely audible, but loud enough to ease her heart as he drained her
blood.

"I love you," there was no pain anymore as her eyes closed and her
last breath passed her lips, "Angel."

Continued in Two Turtle Doves