Disclaimer: Buffy the vampire does not belong to me, and unfortunately it
probably never will.
AN: The idea for this story came from 'Challenge in a Can.' This challenge was Joyce, somber, and a shirt.
Feedback: Please! Anything you have to say!
Rating: PG
Laundry Day
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Joyce scrubbed at the bloody shirt furiously, determined to get every last spot out. It wasn't that there was blood all over the shirt: just a few spots, the biggest one only the size of penny. But she had to get them all out-by the end of the day the shirt was going to be the same blue color it had always been.
Was it Buffy's blood? Her little girl, who looked seemed so vulnerable, so innocent-Joyce couldn't stand the thought of her getting hurt. There was no tear in the shirt, so it probably wasn't Buffy's blood. Joyce didn't know which thought was worse, her only child getting hurt, or her sweet girl killing someone else. "Something else." Joyce told herself sternly. "Something."
She scrubbed harder. "Have you tried not being the slayer?" Her own voice echoed in her head.
Buffy must have tried hard, for Joyce hadn't known her daughter was the slayer until she had been told.
She thought of what it must have been like, Buffy waiting until her mother was gone to labor over the sink, scrubbing the stains out of her clothes. What else could have happened? Joyce had never seen a single piece of bloodied clothing until today. Picturing her only daughter, who had so many other things to deal with, washing her clothes in secret, tears welled up in Joyce's eyes.
She scoured the shirt mercilessly, as the tear rolled down her cheeks and into the soapy water, and the bloodstains stayed as visible as ever.
"I tried just as hard." Joyce murmured. Anything abnormal, and Joyce had pushed it out of her mind, made an excuse, built up a wall that wouldn't let that thought in. How could she not notice the way Buffy was always so tired? But all teenagers were. Of course she noticed how her un-religious daughter had an innumerable number of crosses around her room, and how similar crosses began to show up in odd places around the house.
Joyce knew that if there had been anything wrong with Buffy, her world would have fallen apart. They had been through so much already, Joyce's divorce from Hank, the move from Los Angeles; anything else would destroy the last remnants of their family.
Of course she noticed Buffy's odd comings and goings-mothers see more than we think. Joyce noticed, but didn't say a thing; not when the small jar of holy water appeared in the kitchen, not when she found the stake under Buffy's bed, not when, after being empty for days, Buffy's laundry basket was filled with a pile of clothes, all slightly damp.
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The End
AN: The idea for this story came from 'Challenge in a Can.' This challenge was Joyce, somber, and a shirt.
Feedback: Please! Anything you have to say!
Rating: PG
Laundry Day
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Joyce scrubbed at the bloody shirt furiously, determined to get every last spot out. It wasn't that there was blood all over the shirt: just a few spots, the biggest one only the size of penny. But she had to get them all out-by the end of the day the shirt was going to be the same blue color it had always been.
Was it Buffy's blood? Her little girl, who looked seemed so vulnerable, so innocent-Joyce couldn't stand the thought of her getting hurt. There was no tear in the shirt, so it probably wasn't Buffy's blood. Joyce didn't know which thought was worse, her only child getting hurt, or her sweet girl killing someone else. "Something else." Joyce told herself sternly. "Something."
She scrubbed harder. "Have you tried not being the slayer?" Her own voice echoed in her head.
Buffy must have tried hard, for Joyce hadn't known her daughter was the slayer until she had been told.
She thought of what it must have been like, Buffy waiting until her mother was gone to labor over the sink, scrubbing the stains out of her clothes. What else could have happened? Joyce had never seen a single piece of bloodied clothing until today. Picturing her only daughter, who had so many other things to deal with, washing her clothes in secret, tears welled up in Joyce's eyes.
She scoured the shirt mercilessly, as the tear rolled down her cheeks and into the soapy water, and the bloodstains stayed as visible as ever.
"I tried just as hard." Joyce murmured. Anything abnormal, and Joyce had pushed it out of her mind, made an excuse, built up a wall that wouldn't let that thought in. How could she not notice the way Buffy was always so tired? But all teenagers were. Of course she noticed how her un-religious daughter had an innumerable number of crosses around her room, and how similar crosses began to show up in odd places around the house.
Joyce knew that if there had been anything wrong with Buffy, her world would have fallen apart. They had been through so much already, Joyce's divorce from Hank, the move from Los Angeles; anything else would destroy the last remnants of their family.
Of course she noticed Buffy's odd comings and goings-mothers see more than we think. Joyce noticed, but didn't say a thing; not when the small jar of holy water appeared in the kitchen, not when she found the stake under Buffy's bed, not when, after being empty for days, Buffy's laundry basket was filled with a pile of clothes, all slightly damp.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
The End