Disclaimers and the like in Part One.

***Mum (4/?)***

We ended up sitting at the dining room table with our hot chocolate. Spike was
thrilled to see that I did have those
marshmallows as promised, but I was picking up something distressing on my
mom-radar. Ever since Buffy told me she was the
Slayer (and subsequently ran away), my mom-radar has been on
twenty-four/seven, and I have to admit, I've been getting
better. I've seen how those kids' parents treat them, and have come to realize
that it's my duty to look out for them, since their
natural-born parents refuse to. I've even found myself watching Rupert in a
similar way, especially since Buffy's eighteenth
birthday and graduation. My mom-radar is now finely-honed - my only even
vaguely supernatural talent.

This evening Spike and the little dark cloud that's surrounding him was a huge
unidentified mass on my radar screen, and it's
almost screaming out at me. I watched him trace the design on the coffee mug
with his finger and noted that the black nailpolish
he's so fond of was chipped. I contemplated it a moment and realized that I
had never seen a fresh coat of polish on his
fingernails in the time I've known him.

"Spike, what's wrong?" I finally asked.

He looked up at me with those sweet blue eyes and a slightly startled look on
his face. He'd been rather quiet all evening, not
that he's a chatterbox on normal occasions. He must have been very shy as a
little boy. He looked at me for a moment without
speaking, and then said, "Drusilla's in town."

Ah. Drusilla.

Except for that one evening when we first had hot chocolate together, when
Drusilla had first dumped him, I haven't heard
Spike say her name or really mention her. He's told me some of his adventures,
carefully edited, I'm sure, so as not to disgust
me too greatly, but he's always skimmed over her part in those stories as best
he can, or told tales that she had no part in. He's
avoided talking about her.

A thousand thoughts rushed into my brain, but all my mouth and tongue are
willing to form was, "I see."

He nodded. "I haven't actually seen her, but she's here. I can feel her."

I took that in.

He rubbed his hands over his face, over his eyes. It was such a human action
that for a moment I truly forgot what he was. "I-I
don't know what to do," he whispered, looking up at me. He took my hands in
his and I wanted to cry at the look of
despiration in his eyes. "Help me, Mum. What should I do?"

I thought for a moment, just looking at him look at me. Finally I asked him,
"Do you want to go back to her?"

He frowned. "Sorta," he replied.

"Do you want to stay here in Sunnydale?"

Pause.

"Kinda."

Conversations like this make me wonder if he's really ten and not ten decades.

"Spike," I said slowly, "I can't help you unless you tell me what it is that
you want to do." I paused. "Do you know what you
want to do?"

He turned his head away from me, as if somewhat ashamed. "No," he told me
reluctantly, and then turned back towards me.

"Well," I said, since he didn't seem to be motivated to speak, "what are your
options?"

[End Part 4]