SERIES TITLE  : Twelve Days of Christmas ;
CHAPTER/TITLE : Three French hens
AUTHOR        : Black Widow
EMAIL         : bw@l...
SUMMARY       : Christmas isn't just for children...
SPOILERS      : None. 
RATING        : PG
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.

*

"Hey! Mrs. S., wait up!"

Joyce looked over her shoulder as she fumbled for her front door key,
smiling at the mass of dark hair dancing about the woman's face as
she ran to meet her. "Hello, Faith, how are you dear?" 

"Five by five, Joyce. How 'bout you?"

Old habits die hard, she thought. Faith was a couple of years past
forty now, and she was still the same young, but much tamer, girl at
heart. "Oh, you know, older, slower," she replied, struggling with two
big bags of groceries, "but not very much wiser."

"Here, let me," and Faith easily took the heaviest bag from her. "You
shouldn't be..."

Joyce laughed, cutting off Faith's well-intentioned remark. "I'm not
*that* old, dear."

"Yeah, sure, sorry. It's difficult, y'know? Everything's so easy for
me still, I tend to over-compensate."

"Yes, dear, I do know. Age creeps up on you so slowly, you never
notice." Joyce pushed the door open and felt the familiar ache in her
shoulder. Just when, she wondered, did that first set in? "After you,
dear. In the kitchen."

Faith watched her as they set the bags down on the kitchen table,
seeing her wince and noticing that she wasn't moving as freely as she
should. And Faith felt again that uncomfortable ache inside her which
she knew was fear. 

Prison had reformed her and she'd come back to Sunnydale to rid
herself of her guilt, to prove to them that she really had changed,
only to be rejected by everyone. Well, almost everyone. The remarkable
thing about Joyce Summers, and what made her so special, was the
capacity of her heart.

"C'mon, put the kettle on, I'll stick this lot away," Faith said,
busying herself.

They'd buried the last of the animosity between the two of them years
ago, and the friendship they'd forged in Joyce's grief had become the
foundation on which they'd both rebuilt their lives.

"I'll take the tray through, you go and sit down." Faith kept her back
to Joyce so she wouldn't be able to argue.

Steeling herself, Faith put the last of the groceries away, picked up
the tray and tried her best to saunter through to the lounge.

"You're not telling me something, Faith."

"Yes, well," Faith knew it was hard to break tradition where Joyce was
concerned. "Me and the girls want to do Christmas different this year.
Ever since..." Everyone she'd known had tried to avoid her, but she'd
settled down in Sunnydale to spite them; she'd even got married and
had kids, but then the bastard had run out on her, "Y'know, you've
looked after us every year - *every* year - and now we want to do
Christmas for you."

Faith had learned a lot raising her own children. Joyce had taught her
how to love, how to be a mother; Faith had been so deperate not to
make any mistakes, and she knew that her kids filled the second
biggest void in Joyce's life.

Before Joyce could argue, she continued, "I owe you a lot Joyce. You
cared for me when no one else did, despite everything. I'm back on my
feet now, I've got everything under control," and the ultimate ploy,
"and the kids love you so much. It's about time you put your feet up
for a change and let us fuss over you."

Faith looked at her so pleadingly, Joyce wondered if that was the real
reason. Charity was such a bundle of joy, and Hope was so full of
energy. And she was more tired than she'd care to admit. "Thank you,
dear, that would be lovely." She looked fondly at the portrait of
Faith and her two lovely young daughters, which held pride of place on
her living room wall.

And Faith had discovered something else. She'd discovered that Christmas
wasn't just for children. Faith didn't have a mother. She never knew
what it was like to be loved, but she could see it in the eyes of her
children. And she knew damn well that all the love she would have
received as a child, the love she saw when Joyce was with her girls,
she knew she'd want to return all that love and more.

And when she'd seen Joyce drive away from the hospital, she'd gone in
and twisted the doctor's arm. She'd realised that Joyce was the
closest thing to a mother she'd ever had, and she was going to make
sure that this was going to be the best Christmas that Joyce had ever
had.

Continued in Four Calling Birds