TITLE:	The Serpent's Tooth (part 7, Promises and Lies)

AUTHOR:	Oni

SUMMARY: 	Buffy Finds Out

RATING:  	NC-17 for just about everything

PAIRING: Joyce/Angel, run, save yourselves...

DISTRIBUTION:  	Lar can have anything of mine she wants.  Everyone else, ask
first. Archived at (drumroll) my NEW WEBSITE:
http://www2.stas.net/6/wasabioni/

DISCLAIMER: 	Same old, same old.  The characters aren't mine, but the work
is.

FEEDBACK:	Talk to me! WasabiOni@n...


The Serpent's Tooth
by Oni
	His teeth slice into the meat of her shoulder, leaving a ragged semicircle
when she jerks and pulls herself free.  She flees with desperate speed.  He
follows her, his muscles driving him easily after her, his mouth open wide to
take in the thin ribbon of blood she leaves in her wake, savoring each sweet
corpuscle.

	At the far end of the pool, she stops and turns at bay, suspended almost
motionless a few inches under the water, eyes narrowed, her own teeth gleaming
with promise.  She waits till the last moment, when he's already begun his
rush, slipping under him, taking hold of his cock to pull him close.  She
locks her legs around his waist and sinks her own teeth into his broad chest
once, teasingly, shoves him away and flees again.  He drifts towards the
bottom, tumbling out of control, then he recovers and goes after her again. 
From above, they look like sharks, pale and deadly as they streak through the
dark water.  

She's made it to the shallows, has her foot on the top step, nearly safe, when
he snatches hold of her ankles and pulls her down with a splash. He pins her
with the full weight of his body, crushing her against the steps.  “Gotcha,”
he rumbles, grabbing her throat and holding her still. 

 For a long moment, they're still, his hair dripping water into her face as
their eyes meet, dark and light.  Then he takes hold of her hips and with a
peremptory thrust sinks his erection into the cool slickness of her, claiming
her.  She smiles, and reaches up to pull his mouth down to meet hers.  

The smack of skin and splash of water is the only sound as he drives into her,
as she arches and opens herself wider for him, as greedy for his flesh as he
is for hers.  Suddenly he stills, pulls away from her she looks up to see his
face shiver like a windswept pool to reveal the demon staring down at her,
nostrils flared at the smell of her blood still oozing lazily into the water. 
He growls and lowers his head to lap at the slow trickle, his hips never
missing a beat as he continues to pound into her.  The feel of his tongue,
slightly rough and cool on her skin stokes the fire building inside her.  Her
clit throbs, a red coal heating the thin layer of water being pushed in and
out between cock and cunt, and she sinks her nails into his broad back,
pulling him closer, as he latches on to her in earnest, his thrusts growing
faster, harder, grinding her painfully into the steps, abrading her hips and
back, freeing more blood into the water, till the water around them grows
pinkish and the air fills with the smell of her blood.

She's almost there, when he takes his mouth away, slowing again.  She moans in
protest, looking up into his face.  Seeing her own blood smeared on his lips
and teeth as his eyes grow dark again, searching her eyes for something... 
Then he turns his head, offers her his throat.  She sinks her fangs into that
white column, and this is what she's for, the exquisite sensation of her teeth
sliding through the silken skin, the brief resistance of the vein, and then
the blood flowing into her, sweet and cool down her throat but when it hits
her white-hot core it's like gasoline on an open flame, and the explosion
blinds and overwhelms her as she screams his name into his skin.  And he
follows her, spending himself with a growl that echoes in the cavernous space.
 

They lie spent, entangled in each other as the ripples slowly die out.  

Bloody Hell, Spike thinks as he retreats from the sight of the lovers sprawled
in post-coital bliss. He eases his way back down the roof, jumping across to
the broad oak that he'd used to get to his observation post.  He could use a
strategically placed knothole about now, he thinks leaning against the rough
trunk.  He grins up at the starry night.

It's not just the fucking that's got him rock hard, the thought of how dear
Buffy will react to the news that her ex-boyfriend, her long-lost true love,
is not only *fucking* her own dear mum, but has *turned* her is more than
enough to do the job.  It's fucking priceless.  It's going to tear Little Miss
Perfect’s world apart.  Pity he can't be there to see the look on her face
when she gets the news.  Ah well, at least he can be the bearer of bad
tidings.  He jumped down to the ground and walked off into the night, humming
cheerfully.

***

The boys have gotten so big, Joyce thinks as she looks at the latest batch of
photos from Buffy.  Tommy at 6 looks a lot like his father, blunt and blond
with the personality to match.  He's nearly as stubborn as his mother.  David,
the baby, on the other hand is an elfin 4 year old, dangerously cute.  His
hair is the same shade as his mother's natural shade and his eyes are her
eyes.  It's been more than a year since she's seen them.  She wishes she'd
known then that it was the last time she'd see them.  She wishes...

She looks up as Angel comes out of the bathroom, drying his hair.  Speaks
before she thinks, “Do you have to go?”  He sits down on the bed next to her,
puts his hand on her shoulder, and kisses the nape of her neck.

“Yeah, I need to make the final arrangements for…the move,” Angel said.  

The slight break in his voice reminded her he wasn't just going to L.A. to
arrange for their relocation, but also to arrange for her ‘demise’.  Halloween
is only a few days away, and Buffy is planning to come for Thanksgiving. 
They’ve run out of time.  So long Sunnydale!  Hello brand new life!

“Why don't you come with me?” he asked, not for the first time. He's worried
about leaving her alone again.  Until a moment ago she'd thought she was
looking forward to a little solitude.  Still, Joyce shakes her head.

“I hate LA.  With my luck we'd run into Hank."  And there's a thought to
elaborate on later: her, Hank, a dark alley, and a little bit of payback…
Angel sighs, disappointed.  

"I'll be fine," she reassures him, then looks at him sidelong, wickedly  "But
don’t leave me alone too long.  You don’t want me getting lonely…”  Only
teasing, but she doesn't miss the little spark in his eye, his uncontrolled
reaction to the idea of infidelity.  

“Never happen, mo chuisle,” he says.  She laughs as he places his huge hands
on her waist and effortlessly lifts her up and holds her suspended in the air.
 He thinks she looks like an angel, smiling down at him, her dark gold hair
backlit.  Did she love him yet?  He wondered. 

Twenty minutes later he left her standing there at the front door waving
goodbye.

ii.

Buffy, balancing her coffee in one hand carefully opens the door one-handed
and steps out onto the porch.  Lets the door slam shut behind her, wanting to
keep the heat in.  The utilities had been awful last month.  Bills, bills and
more bills…Nope, not gonna think about bills, this is her time; the boys are
asleep.  Riley is watching TV.  

She sits down in the big old Andirondack chair she'd bought at a garage sale
their first summer here, with a deep sigh, and takes her first sip of coffee,
looking out into the serene dark.  Long day at work, but she's pretty sure
she's got the Grayson place sold.  Chalk one up for Buffy Finn: superseller! 
It's nice sitting out here even though there's a definite nip in the air. 
Looks like they might get snow for Christmas again this year.  The boys will
love that.  Personally, she could do without it, she's still not used to snow.
 Thinks it's fine in movies and on top of the mountains, but not really
something she wants as a part of daily life.

This house is new, like the town itself, and there are still woods in back of
the house, she can see the dark outline of pines silhouetted against the
night.  They look sinister and mysterious, and when the wind blows they make a
sound like people whispering on the other side of a wall, but it's all a
front; Buffy has been into the woods and she knows there's nothing in there. 
It's just trees and bushes, some small animals, a few coyotes.  No ghosts, no
demons, no vampires, no monsters.  The boys are safe playing in the backyard,
even after dark.  

Still, once a week she tells Riley she's going out jogging and she goes on
patrol, Slayer sense and instincts alert as she moves quietly through the deep
shadows under the trees and makes sure that nothing's changed.  But there's
never anything there.

Sometimes, she just has to run, to burn off all the excess energy her
not-quite-human metabolism produces and that she doesn't get much chance to
burn off sitting in an office or showing houses.  An hour or two of running
does wonders to settle her nerves, and stop the itching in her palms, the
restless urge to Slay.

She likes her life, she really does.  She loves her children and things
between her and Riley are, finally, good.  Tonight she'll finish her coffee,
and then go inside and join her husband on the couch and they'll watch TV
together for an hour or so.  Then they'll go to bed, maybe have sex if he's
not too tired.  Her life is safe, secure, predictable, normal, just the way
she'd wanted.  She was finally free of the burden of dealing with death, pain,
and terror night after night after night.  She's just fine with not being the
one-girl-in-all-the-world anymore.  There's a Slayer Corps now, hundreds of
Chosen Ones keeping what malevolent demonkind survived the Final Battle on the
run.

She would never have believed it if you'd told her 10 years, in the midst of
all her teenaged anger at being doomed to an early and guaranteed violent
death, that she'd be here, pushing 30, and still alive.  And this is much
better, to be able to look ahead to a nice long stretch of years opening up in
front of her.  To know that she'll be here to watch her boys grow up, leave
home, go to college, make lives of their own, and that eventually she'll get
her chance to spoil *her* grandchildren like Mom does.  

She hears the phone ring inside.  A moment later Riley opens the door, hands
her the portable.  Mouths 'your mom'.  She smiles at him and he goes back
inside.

"I hope I didn't wake you," Joyce says.

"No, I was just sitting here, getting a little rest."  Something in her
mother's voice doesn't sound quite right, a strain.  "Is everything is O.K.?"

"Oh, of course honey, everything's fine, I was just feeling like I needed to
talk to my daughter.  How are the boys?"

iii.

The restaurant's name had been Turandot, but it has obviously been out of
business for a while.  The interior is dusty, the air stale when he opens the
door, chairs and table stacked along the walls.  The only sign that it hasn't
been entirely abandoned is the faint hum of a motor somewhere in the darkened
interior.

Light blinds him as he enters; reflexively he reaches under his coat for a
weapon then relaxes when the shape behind the beam speaks.
  
"Oops, sorry man," Turlock apologizes lowering the flashlight.  

"Turlock," Angel said, shaking hands with his contact. Angel has never been
absolutely sure whether he's human or not, his scent is oddly ambiguous.  His
looks are almost unbelievably average.  He's one of the best fixer's in LA;
and though they're not friends, they've done a lot of business over the years.
 

"It's in the back," he says.  Angel follows him through the swinging double
doors into the kitchen.  The stainless steel counters and the sinks are still
in place, but everything else has been stripped.  Turlock unlocks the door to
the walk-in freezer, and switches on the light and motions Angel inside.

The faint, unmistakable odor of death emanates from the gurney that fills most
of the space in the freezer.  Angel stares at the long shrouded shape, but
doesn't move.  Finally, Turlock steps forward and pulls back the sheet with a
flourish. 

"One Caucasian female, 40 - 50 years old, 120-140 lbs., brown/blond hair in
good condition," he says with satisfaction of a job well done in his voice. 

Angel nods.  "Where'd did you...?" he asks, no detectable emotion in his
voice.  Turlock looks at the vampire, a little surprised, it's not like him to
ask questions, strictly a cash and carry kind of guy, but hey, Angel's an old
customer. 

"Got a buddy down in Ocean Beach coroner's office.  She's a Jane Doe, they
found her two days ago at the bottom of a stairwell, in a skid row, with a
broken neck and a broken bottle of Night Train clutched in her hand.  From the
look of her, she'd been homeless for awhile." he trailed off, realizing that
Angel wasn't really listening.  He was staring at the corpse, the usual
non-expression on his face, but Turlock somehow doesn't feel like interrupting
his thoughts.

The dead woman looks tired, eyes sunken, beaten by life long before her death.
 The grayish flesh sags on her bones and there are ribs showing above the
flattened breasts.  Angel touches her face gently, and her head falls to one
side.  There's a blackish bruise at the base of her neck.  It makes him wonder
if her death was really an accident.  She doesn't look anything like Joyce,
not really; she doesn't have to: fire will cover a multitude of sins.  Nothing
like Joyce, except that her hair, under the dirt and blood, was almost the
same color.

*The absurdity and the horror of locking the manacles around thin bones and
slipping skin under his hands.  She looks so sad, hanging there, dark bruises
marking her arms where he'd held her down.  The coolness of her skin as he
guiltily traced the ragged wound his teeth had torn in her neck with his
fingers. 

 And his demon is screaming inside him, in triumph at what he's done, and
outrage at what he's about to do.  

And all the time he was aware of the taste of her fading in his mouth, could
feel her living blood cooling slowly in his veins, and his only regret was
that there would never be any more...*

"I'll pick her up tomorrow night."  He opened his wallet and handed the
payment over to Turlock.  Who grins and makes the money disappear. 

"Nice doing business with you," he says cheerfully.

iv.

In the gym, Joyce turns on all the lights so her shadow can keep her company
as she works out.  One two, one, her fist contacting the leather with
satisfying force.  And again, and do it over and hit and hit.  She'd never
been a big fan of exercise, and left to herself she wouldn't be doing this,
does it mostly because Angel insisted that she learn how to fight, how to
defend herself.  He really doesn't understand how much she hates this, that
for her this nightly workout is *work* and she'd figured death would at least
get her out of work.  For him it's pleasure and it shows.  

She loves to watch him workout.  He's beautiful, pale skin rippling over
massive muscles as he flows through the motions, like a tiger, deadly and
perfect.  His 200+ years practice at learning to operate the gorgeous machine
of his body showing in every move he makes.  200+ years of killing for evil
and good.

Kick and kick and kick with her foot at the red dot that marked the dummy's
solar plexus.  Hit the target and most demons and all mortals would abruptly
lose interest in the fight.  Some would die.  She wonders, as she goes through
the motions of maiming and killing, what it feels like to kill.

She tries to visualize a hated face in place of the dummy's two-dots and a
line to give her punches some force.  Let's see, Snyder?  Long dead.  Anita
Summers?  No, being married to Hank was punishment enough.  Giles, looking at
her with so much loathing... and the leather splits under her blow, her fist
sinks into the stuffing.  Ooops.

She stops, her muscles are burning and she has the unnecessary urge to pant
with exertion.  Beginning to sweat now, and that's the sign that practice is
done.  And now that she's stopping, she feels pretty good.  Still not her idea
of fun.

As she picks up a towel to mop her face, she thinks about how Buffy would
react if she could see her mom, strong, able to take care of herself.  One of
the many things she'd hated about having her only daughter be the Slayer, was
the reversal of roles.  She despised the fact that she'd become the one who
had to be protected.  

After showering, she puts on clean sweats and walks down to the kitchen
hearing her own footsteps echo in the empty halls.  When he was here she felt
smothered, but now...She can't believe she's missing Angel already, he's only
been gone one day.  Hates feeling so lost, so lonely.  He'd be back tomorrow. 
There's a bottle of wine in the fridge, red of course.  She studies it, then
puts it back.  She pulls out a container of blood instead and takes it to the
table; fetches the bottle of vodka from underneath the sink.  She's been
quietly experimenting with mixing alcohol and blood.  It's not bad, the blood
keeps her from getting sick and helps her process the alcohol.  Angel taught
her the trick, using wine, she suspects he's sorry he ever did, but she
certainly isn't. 

The phone rang as she was finishing the first glass.  It's Angel of course. 
He sounds a little stressed though he insists everything went well.  He'll be
home tomorrow.  The knowledge that this is the endgame pretty much stifles
conversation.  They exchange endearments and say goodnight.

After hanging up, Joyce sits and drinks some more.  He'll be home tomorrow,
and she'll be officially dead by the weekend at the latest.  The thought
disturbs her, though she's certainly had enough time to become used to it. 
Even if it's the only way, the best of a set of bad choices she can't help
imagining Buffy's pain when she hears about the accident.  The devastation
when she comes out to bury the minimal remains.  She hopes that Hank comes
through for their daughter, she's going to need all the support she can get. 
At least she can count on Giles to be there for Buffy.

She pours herself another glass without thinking of it; the alcohol smoothes
things out a bit, makes it all a little bit distant, and she needs distance. 
She thinks about just how dependent her official "death" will make her on
Angel.  As long as she's officially among the living she still has money of
her own, a bank account, an identity.  She could, if she had the nerve, call
up her few friends, visit relatives, go downtown and shop without worrying
about anyone seeing her.  But once she's officially dead, all that goes away. 
At least until she creates a new identity.  

Not that she thinks that Angel has thought it through, she doesn't suspect him
of that level of treachery, but neither has he suggested setting up separate
finances for her.  It would be easier, in fact if she knew he was trying to
control her, manipulate her.  Then she could tell him to fuck off, then she
would find the courage to run away, to hand him his head on a plate.  But he
means it, he does love her.  She's come to realize that two centuries and
change do not necessarily lead to self-knowledge.  He's still sincerely
ignorant of why he does the things he does, which is scary.  He's still
essentially that 18th century Irish boy.  He may have heard of the ego,
superego, subconscious, but they're only words to him.  Angel always thinks he
knows what he's doing.

Everything he did to her, everything that happened was because he loved her,
and couldn't bear the thought of letting her go.  The way he'd loved Buffy. 
And the one thing she felt grateful to whatever powers were running this world
for was she’d gotten clear in time.  The thought of what he could have done to
her; what he would have done to her daughter, makes her own predicament seem
minor.  

Now if only she could relax, take what he offered her, and forget the niggling
resentment; banish the formless longing for *more*.  For some kind of purpose,
for some kind of grand passion, for fuck's sake, and shouldn't she by now know
the danger of answered prayers?

She's finished one bag, has to get another out to mix a new drink.  Vodka's
getting kind of low too.  A parade of familiar faces that she won't ever see
again, marches through her brain.  her daughter, her grandsons, her friends,
Xander, Willow, even Riley.  She'll even miss Hank...well, no she won't.  And
of course Rupert.

She could go see Rupert.  In fact she should go see him, just to tell him
goodbye.  To warn him, so he'll be ready when the call comes.  Yes.  She
finishes her drink and stands up.  Angel took the car, but it's not that far,
less than a mile, she'll walk.  She hopes her hair is OK, wishes she could
check, but oh well.  She drifts out the door into the night...

Her skin is porous, an insignificant barrier to the night which surrounds her,
fills her, she's a Joyce-shaped bubble drifting through the quiet night
streets.  Past the houses decorated for Halloween with cartoon witches and
skeletons in the windows, plastic gravestones planted in the yard, and
jack-o-lantern lights strung around the gutters.  She needs to remind Angel
that she doesn't want to die on Halloween; she doesn't want to spoil some poor
paramedic's holiday.

The stars are bright eyes staring down at her, uncaring.  She loves them for
their indifference.  She's tired of being looked at.  Tired of being watched,
taught, and untrusted.

She smiles at a couple as they pass her on the sidewalk.  The girl especially
is very pretty; Joyce likes her dress.  They are young, and careless; to be
walking unprotected in the Sunnydale night.  Still not a safe thing to do even
with the Hellmouth shut.  She can hear their heartbeats, each unique as they
smile at her, and go on.  The seductive hiss of their blood moving through
their bodies tugs at her, and she takes a step after them, then she remembers
why she's out here and where she's going, and turns back to the path.

A large orange tabby is sitting on a wall near Giles' house.  She reaches out
to pet it, and is surprised when it casually accepts her touch, no cliched
hiss and growl, just the normal arrogant press, and blank animal gaze.  It's
warm and soft under her hand, the purr reverberating through her hand into her
body.  She wonders idly what it would taste like, and it turns suddenly under
her hand, and slips away into the night.

And here she is, someplace she recognizes, the place she was headed all along.
 Courtyard, fountain.  The other apartments are dark.  It must be late. 
Looking at the lighted windows of Giles apartment she runs her hand over the
slightly rusted metal of the little cafe table where they'd had coffee so many
mornings.  She no longer feels light, with the memories of her former life
weighing her down.  Realizes that this was probably a bad idea, coming here,
but she still can't resist moving toward his door.  

The door is ajar.  And she can smell something sweet and beguiling wafting
through the door...

Blood.

Continued in Part 2