Chapter Three

        "What did this?" demanded Joyce.

        "I'm okay, Mom," said Buffy for the fifth or sixth time.  "Just some scratches.  Ow!"  She shifted on her perch on the toilet seat and tried to pull her tiny skirt down over her leg.  The fabric was insufficient to hide her wounds from her mother's eyes.

        "These aren't scratches, they're claw marks," said Joyce.  "What was this thing?"

        "It's some kind of mountain lion," said Willow, passing Joyce another bandage. 

        Joyce, who was on her knees in front of Buffy, looked up at Willow.  "Is?" she asked.  "It's not dead?"

        "It should be," complained Buffy.  "I know I got it right in the heart.  I did my bit with the slayage, but it didn't cooperate with the falling down dead part."

        "I don't know, Buffy," said Willow.  Her eyes were dark and earnest as she watched Joyce and Buffy from the doorway.  "I mean, I'm not sure you hit the heart.  It was really fast, and it was on top of you as soon as you shot the crossbow.  "Tara, is there any antiseptic?"

        Tara, who had been rooting through the medicine chest, looked up.  "There's some hydrogen peroxide—"

        "No," said Willow quickly, looking at the bottle and glancing nervously at Joyce.  "That's not the right kind."

        Buffy looked up and said, "Ick, no, that's the stuff you use to bleach hair."  She patted her blonde locks self-consciously and added, "Not that I know much about that."

        Joyce rolled her eyes and stood up to take the bottle from Tara and put it back in the medicine chest next to a razor and some aftershave.  She reached for a tube of medicine.  "This will work better, and it won't sting," she said.

        "Thanks, Mom," said Buffy, "but I really will be okay."  She shifted anxiously again.  "I hope Dad's not too upset.  I'm not sure telling him all about being the Slayer and stuff was the right thing, especially in a rush like that."

        "It's about time he found out," said Joyce.  "And you'll stay until I finish.  Just because you're the Slayer doesn't mean you can't get an infection.  And you don't want to scar, do you?"

        That made Buffy sit still, although she still looked anxious to get away.

        "We kind of had to tell your dad," said Willow.  "Between you being all bleedy and his hearing something outside, he was going to call the police."

        Buffy frowned.  "I wonder what that thing was that he heard in the yard.  Couldn't you tell at all, mom?"

        "I didn't see anything scary," said Joyce.  "I—uh, took the garbage out."  And I did, about an hour earlier! "—and there were a few noises, but then I, uh, fell somehow, and—there, you're all done!"

        Buffy stood up and bounded out the door and down the stairs.  Joyce stood up and started packing her first aid supplies.  She looked up at Willow and Tara, who were watching her quizzically.  "Aren't you two going to join the research party?" she asked.

        Willow picked up the bottle of peroxide and turned it around and around, biting her lower lip as she glanced from Tara to Joyce.  Tara looked up at the ceiling.

        Joyce took the bottle away from Willow and stowed it in the cabinet again.  "She doesn't want to know," she said firmly, holding the bathroom door open for them.

        Joyce watched the two witches troop down the stairs before she finished cleaning up the bathroom.  She was worried, but not about Buffy finding out about Spike.  She bundled up some bloody washcloths to take down to the laundry room and stepped into her bedroom.

        A blond head poked through the window and Spike said, "'Lo, love."

        Joyce ran to shut the door to the hall and stand with her back against it.  "I thought you went back to your crypt," she hissed.

        He stayed out on the roof, leaning on the windowsill and grinning at her.  "Wanted to make sure all was right and tight here first.  What happened to the Slayer?"

        "How—" She didn't finish the sentence.  He'd smelled Buffy's blood, of course.  "A mountain lion attacked her.  She'll be okay."

        "I knew that last part, love, as soon as I saw you were able to smile."

        "Was I smiling?"  She'd been fretting a moment ago.

        "Since I stuck my head in this window."

        She frowned then.  "Well, you need to get out of here before Buffy spots you."

        His lips twitched in annoyance.  "Don't like leaving you alone."

        "Alone?  Spike, I'm surrounded!"

        "Yeah, by the Scooby twits and two blokes you've shagged."

        Joyce almost moaned.  "Don't start that!  There's too much going on here for me to wind up in that hammock again tonight."

        Now his lips were curved in a smile.  "If that's the effect my being jealous has on you, pet, I need to let my green-eyed monster escape more often."

        She tried to be stern.  "Well, I need my blue-eyed monster to go home and let me deal with all these houseguests."  Her voice softened. "I'll come by your crypt tomorrow and see you."

        "Well—" he looked behind him.  "I'll get down from here, but I'll be about the neighborhood for a bit. Won't come in unless you need me, though."  Mischief sparked in his eyes. "'If you need me, just whistle!'"

Joyce started to chuckle, and her laughter grew as he added, "'You know how to whistle, don't you—just put your lips together and blow.'"

        She stepped over to the window and kissed him quickly on the lips.  "I don't think I'll be doing any blowing—tonight at least—but thanks.  Now, go!"

        He was gone a moment later, and she turned back to the door but stopped when she caught sight of herself in the mirror.  She was still wearing the horrible nightgown, her hair was in disarray, and—

        A moment later Joyce was pawing through her drawers looking for something more presentable to wear.  She tossed some slacks and a top on the bed and pulled the gown up over her head.  A second later, a piercing whistle sounded from somewhere out in the yard.  (click here)

        With a gasp, she yanked the gown back down and reached for the blinds. 

        Ten minutes later, clothes and makeup impeccably neat, and the blush in her cheeks finally fading, Joyce descended the stairs to the hallway.  She could see Riley and Hank sitting on the couch, and she started moving more quietly.  She didn't want to get drawn into the discussion, although she had to admit that Riley might be the best person to convince Hank to accept Buffy's Slayer status.  He looked normal and competent, he was a male who knew how to talk about sports and shooting things, and he had won Hank's heart by taking the time to exclaim over the Hummer even in those first stressful moments when a bleeding Buffy had been about to take off after whatever strange creatures had been howling in Joyce's backyard and Hank had caught a glimpse of the strange armaments the Scoobies were unloading from Giles' car.

        The men were still discussing the "animals" that Joyce had talked Buffy out of chasing in order to bind her daughter's wounds. 

"Sounded like a couple of cats," said Hank.  "Big ones.  Could have been panthers, but there were at least two of them."

"You're sure there were two, Mr. Summers?" asked Riley.  Joyce suddenly realized who he reminded her off—that Sergeant Friday from Dragnet.  Or was it the other one?  The pompous one with the impossibly calm and level tones.  The one she always wanted to punch for seeming so sure of himself.

"Well," Hank said in a confidential tone, "I'm sure there was more than one.  Because whatever was howling out there was having sex with something."

"Really?"  Riley started to chuckle.  "You mean, it sounded like—"

"Yep."

Riley was shaking his head now, and trying to sound like the Voice of Experience.  "Maybe.  Who knows?  I can tell you, Mr. Summers, the strangest things happen in this town.  There are creatures in Sunnydale that engage in bizarre practices you've never even imagined."

Damn straight, thought Joyce with an inward smirk.

"Yeah, well, whatever these two were practicing, I think they've gotten pretty good at it."

Joyce headed off to the kitchen.  Instinct told her the conversation in the living room was about to start resembling the "Nudge, Nudge—Wink, Wink" sketch from Monty Python and she had no stomach for that right now. 

Buffy was standing in front of the refrigerator, an array of containers on the counter next to her.  She was obviously trying to assemble snacks for her friends.  Knowing that very little good could come of her daughter's culinary experiments, Joyce rushed to take over.

Buffy was frowning at a plastic tub partially filled with some red, gelatinous substance.  "I think this duck sauce has gone bad, mom," she said, her nose crinkling in distaste.  "And there's no Chinese takeout left to eat it with anyway."

"Then toss it out," said Joyce after taking a peek.  Buffy was right about the snack's condition, if not its nature.  Joyce made a mental note to stop at the butcher's for some fresh blood when she was running errands tomorrow.  She'd been planning to pick up a nice pot roast for the weekend anyway.  She could stock up for Spike at the same time.

She slipped a frozen pizza into the oven before gathering some celery sticks and dip and carrying them into the dining room, where Giles was passing out books to some of the others.  "Do you have any idea what kind of creature attacked Buffy?" Joyce asked him.

"Not certain yet," he replied.  He kept paging through a book, not giving Joyce his full attention.

"It was a big cat," said Xander, always the easiest of the group to distract from his research.  Unfortunately, he was usually also the most ill-informed.  "But it looked like it was wearing one of my Aunt Doris' quilts."

"Quilts?" asked Joyce.  Even for Xander, this seemed an odd description.

"Yeah, it had a kind of design on its back—"

        "It's a jaguar," said Giles.

        "It's a car?" said Xander.  He frowned.  "No, I saw it.  It was a cat, Giles.  A big, scary cat. Like a leopard.  But with weird spots."

        "No, Xander," said Giles in a sharp tone.  "Like a jaguar.  Like the kind of big, scary cat they named the sports car after."

        "Oh. Yeah," said Xander, and added after a few seconds.  "I knew that."

        "Sure you did, honey," said Anya, passing him a book.  "Here, take this and look up jaguars."

        "Okay."  Xander collapsed into one of the dining room chairs, opened the book, flipped over a few pages, and said, "How do you spell 'jaguar?'"

        This time Willow took pity on him, turning her own book around and showing him an illustration with a caption.  "I think this is the one Buffy fought.  It's mystical, and there's some special ceremony you need to do before you can destroy it.  I'm trying to find out the details, but the only thing mentioned here is this weird altar."

        Xander peered at the page.  "Chac Mol," he read.  "Is that the jaguar?"

        "No," said Giles with annoyance.  "It's the name of an altar used by certain Mexican and Central American tribes for ritual sacrifices."

        "Chac Mol?" asked Joyce, leaning over Xander's shoulder to stare at the picture.  "We got a shipment of those in at the gallery today."

        "Yes, Joyce," said Giles, only a shade less impatiently than he had spoken to Xander.  "I saw them in the window this afternoon.  All modern manufacture.  The one we're looking for would be very old, and likely imbued with power by many previous blood sacrifices."

        "But one of the ones at the gallery is old and evil," said Joyce. 

        "Hmm," said Giles as he turned over a page and began making notes in his journal.

        "Sp—someone told me it was so full of magic, it was dangerous even to touch it."

        There was no response.  She realized that her words had washed over them unheard, as they all stared at their books, assuming that nothing she had to say could help their quest.

        None of them are going to listen to me.  Why should they?  When have I ever really helped with one of their battles?  Well, except for that one time when I boinked a vampire over the head with an axe . . .not that anyone ever remembers that.  And except for Willow and Tara, none of them have even bothered to suspect that I'm still boinking him on a regular basis.

        A buzzer rang just then, and Joyce went into the kitchen to take the pizza out of the oven.  She left it to cool while she tried to think of some way to get the others to pay attention to her. 

        I could just scream that the damn altar's sitting in my gallery.  They'd look up from their books eventually.  Then they'd all rush off to take it away, and they'd try to figure out how to use it, and maybe they'd get hurt.  And I—I wouldn't have anything to do at all.  I could watch movies with Spike and be bored by Hank and worry and hope and pray it all works out.

        I'm tired of that.

        So when Buffy came back into the kitchen a few minutes later, instead of mentioning the Chac Mol, Joyce asked if she should make coffee.

        "That would be great, mom," said Buffy.  She was smiling, and the scratches on her legs looked like they were healing already.  By morning, she would have only faint marks left from her encounter with the jaguar. Joyce sometimes believed that Buffy's battle scars hurt her more than they did her daughter. "It may take Giles a while to figure out what can kill this thing, especially with Dad here, because they can't talk about it too loud.   We're trying not to freak Dad out too much. But I don't want to push him to go to bed because it's so good to see him at last."

        She really is happy to see Hank.  Joyce smiled at her daughter as she poured water into the reservoir of the coffee maker.  "I'm glad he came to see you, honey."

        "Me too.  I was really upset when I couldn't make it to dinner, but he took you out instead, right?"  Buffy must have read something on Joyce's face, because she rushed to say, "Don't worry, I'm not going to do that whole I-hope-you-guys-get-back-together thing.  That was very tenth-grade, and I'm so over it."  She reached up to get a pile of plates from the cupboard.

        Joyce said nothing.  Inwardly, she was praying that Hank wouldn't tell Buffy that he had been ready to resume the relationship.  She couldn't bear it if she were to be responsible for Buffy's disappointment.  Be honest, Joyce.  If Hank even hints at it to Buffy, you'll kill him.  Because you know perfectly well he's probably only sniffing around here because the last secretary dumped him.  And he'll be off again as soon as he hires another twenty-something with a yen for older guys.  But there's no way you'll be able to convince Buffy of that.

        "And it's nice the way Dad and Riley get along, isn't it?" said Buffy.

        "Charming," said Joyce between her teeth as she fumbled for a coffee filter.

        "Riley reminds me of Dad sometimes," continued Buffy, merrily slicing pizza.  "They've both got that kind of solid feel, you know."  She picked up the plate and went out of the kitchen.

        Joyce dropped the coffee filters and tore after Buffy, stopping herself suddenly at the door to the living room.  Hank and Riley were still sitting on the couch, chatting while the rest of the Soobies talked in hushed voices in the dining room.  The two of them looked up and smiled at Buffy as she set slices of pizza down in front of them.  Hank and Riley.  Riley and Hank.  Why did I never notice that before?

        "Is something wrong, Joyce?" Giles was peering at her over his glasses. 

        She turned around to smile reassuringly at the Scooby gang.  "No," she said.  "Just counting heads for coffee."  And deciding which ones have to roll.    

        She went back into the kitchen, thinking about Riley now.  There was no need to panic.  Buffy wasn't about to get married, or even engaged, to him any time soon, and Riley was a safe-enough boyfriend for the short term.  At least he knew that Buffy was the Slayer and was able to provide some measure of help to her, even though Joyce had her doubts about his effectiveness.  And sooner or later, Buffy would realize that however handsome he was, Riley was not only boring, he was jealous of her Slayer strength.  Buffy would realize that the life of Riley would really be a life spent apologizing for who she was.

        My daughter is not making an eighteen-year-long mistake.  If Buffy didn't come to her senses in time, Joyce would get rid of Riley herself.  After all, she had gotten rid of Angel as soon as she had seen the right moment.  And Angel had been a bigger threat.

        No, Riley wasn't the immediate problem.

        Joyce flicked on the coffee maker and thought hard.  It was her job as a mother to protect Buffy.  She needed to take it more seriously.  If she could get rid of inappropriate boyfriends who were threatening her child's future, surely she could take care of one demonic oversized housecat.

        She picked up a book Buffy had left on the counter and began to read while she waited for the coffee to brew.

Chapter Four

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