Edited for length
By: catatonic1242

Dislaimer: All of the characters in this work of fiction are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and the evil corporate weasels at the networks.

Summary: A fill-in-the-blanks fic covering "Forever" through "Chosen" from Spike's point of view. The things we didn't get to see.

Pairing: B/S

Author's Notes: I wrote this for the NaNoWriMo Challenge in November of 2003. There are 50 chapters of about 1000 words per chapter. Each chapter corresponds to an episode (as noted in the chapter titles), and each chapter can be read as a stand-alone. Everything is in canon (to the best of my knowledge). Chapters are individually rated.

Chapter One: Forever
Word Count: 1018
Rating: PG

I ran into her on my way home from the liquor store. I had a bottle of Jack Daniels under one arm, fresh pack of cigarettes in my hand. She was walking kinda fast, eyes fixed on the ground-- the way people walk when they don't even realize they're walking at all. And when I say "ran," I mean literally. Smacked right into her on the corner of Palm and Third Street. Nearly dropped the JD, which could have been disastrous, given how much I'd end up needing it as the night progressed.

"Spike." Willow looked up at me, startled.

"Watch where you're going," I snarled back.

"Sorry," she muttered, brushing past me.

"Awful hurry you're in. Some big important evil come to end the world again? Scurrying off to your Scooby meeting?"

"What?" She turned around and looked at me again, but her eyes were unfocused. Glassy. After a moment she shook her head as if shaking away a cloud, blinked a couple of times and seemed to process what I'd asked. "No. No, I'm going... I'm going over to Buffy's. We're having a group... thing." Willow gestured lifelessly with her hands before giving up and letting them flop to her sides. "For Joyce."

"For Joyce? Her birthday?" I perked up, curious. Another birthday could mean another encounter with Dawn, the Rebel with Absolutely No Clue. I liked Dawn. Dawn didn't... She didn't judge, I guess.

"What?" Willow stared at me as if I was one card short of a full deck. "Her birthday...? Spike, Joyce is dead. She died on Tuesday."

Tuesday. Tuesday. What's today? Today's... Today's Thursday, right? It's Thursday, because NBC was advertising the newest episode of "Friends" earlier today and I made a mental note... Or is it Friday?

Joyce is dead?

"Joyce is dead?"

"I'm sorry, I... I thought you knew. Something went wrong with the tumor, or where the tumor..." Willow started to trail off, but I leaned forward and grabbed her arm. Not hard enough to hurt her-- the chip -- but enough to get her attention.

"Will..." I said, warning in my voice.

"She had an aneurysm. Buffy came home and found her on the couch. There was nothing anyone could do," Willow finished. She shook her arm away from me and turned to continue walking. She made it about three steps before turning back to me.

"I'm sorry, Spike. Someone should have told you."

And then she walked away. Left me standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, clutching my liquor and trying desperately to remember if today was Thursday or Friday. Because suddenly it seemed very important to know if Joyce had been dead for two days or three. I turned and barged back into the liquor store.

"What's today?"

"Excuse me?" The guy behind the counter looked baffled.

"Today. Day of the week. What is it?"

"Thursday."

I turned and walked outside again. Continued walking down the street. I turned into the cemetery, I know, even though I don't remember doing it, because suddenly I was in front of my crypt.

Shit. Shitshitshit. Shit. Joyce.

I sat down on the cold concrete by the crypt door and fumbled with the pack of cigarettes. And then I fumbled with my lighter. And then I fumbled with the whiskey until there wasn't any more whiskey to fumble with.

And then I sat and shook my head. Joyce wasn't dead. Joyce couldn't die. If anyone was immortal around here, it was the Slayer's mom. Not me. Her.

Flashes. Little flashes of memory cut through my brain like a knife through skin, and it fucking hurt. Hurt like the chip firing, and I looked down and saw that I'd crumbled the now-empty pack of cigarettes into a tight ball in my fist. I opened my hand and it decompressed, expanded. I watched it, barely seeing it at all.

"Well, Spike, sometimes even when two people seem right for each other, their lives just take different paths..."

She must have been so lonely. She was always right there whenever I stopped by, no matter why, with a story and a cup of something hot. She didn't judge. That's where Dawn got it from, I realized.

I stood and threw down the empty bottle. It shattered at my feet and I stomped through the broken glass, crushing it under my boots, and out into the cemetery. Do something. I needed to do... something.

Flowers. Joyce would like flowers. I could have gotten some here, nabbed a fresh bunch off a well-tended grave. But that didn't seem right. As if anything ever seemed right anymore. But Joyce should have her own flowers.

There was a convenience store just down the street, one of those open 24/7 places with bright lights and 12 pumps and attendants who greet you over a loudspeaker. And it had anything a vampire could need in the middle of the night. And they didn't usually ask too many questions.

I walked up to a display of flowers in pre-packaged bunches. Carnations, roses, sunflowers... Daisies. Joyce liked daisies, I think. I don't know why I thought that, but I did. Daisies seemed important. Vital.

And I paid for them, too. Walked up to the cash register and laid my purchase on the counter. The attendant looked me over. Old guy. Retiree. Working there to keep the boredom from caving his life in. Joyce... She should have had that chance. The chance to retire and take a stupid job to stave off boredom.

I realized the guy was staring at me. "What?"

"Flowers at 9:30? Date with a lady friend?"

In a sense, I suppose. "Yeah."

"Anything else?"

"Uh... Yeah. A pack of Marlboro Reds, please."

He reached up and grabbed a pack from the display area behind the counter and scanned it with the flowers.

"That'll be $8.72."

I placed a $50 on the counter. Won it playing cards a couple of days ago. $8.72 didn't seem like enough. Not enough money to... to mourn her. "Keep the change."

I walked out and turned right, headed toward her house.