Chapter 22
Daddy.
Buffy could remember very vividly a time when Hank’s little visits, Joyce’s name for his random appearances in their lives, had been like living in a dream world. There would be weeks, sometimes months, where Buffy would wait with star-struck eyes for her father to come and see her, without any real concept of how long she would typically wait for him. It was as if he were a celebrity, a hero, a man so important, so busy, that Buffy was lucky if she got to see him at all, and therefore, Hank got away with a lot more than he should have.
When he arrived, he always arrived in style. He’d drive up to the estate in a limo, or a rented vintage car, and once, after he’d taken her to see the Broadway performance of Annie, he dropped on the lawn in a helicopter like Daddy Warbucks himself, returning from a long journey abroad. Hank would smile handsomely when he saw her, his blue eyes twinkling with the promise of tall tales she couldn’t wait to hear. Joyce was terrible at telling stories without a book to go on, and she couldn’t get the accents right anyway.
But when Hank came home after so many days away, he’d say, “Who’s my favorite little girl?” as if he adored everything about her. He’d wait with bated breath for her to reply, “I am, Daddy,” before he’d comically waltz over, kiss her hand like her prince, and she’d fall in love with him all over again. Any sadness, any longing she’d felt while he was gone would be forgotten the minute he hugged her close.
Those fantastical memories, however, were before puberty reared its ugly head. Hormones have a tendency to shatter a girl’s image of her father, and Buffy’s vision had long ago been smashed to smithereens. Helicopters and trips to New York to see plays no longer worked to patch up the wounds of neglect, and Buffy was growing more desperate to make him see the damage he left when his little visits became miniscule.
* * *
“What did you do?” he said in wonder, taking in the careless mess of Buffy’s bedroom that she’d yet to straighten up after her last tantrum. She folded her arms and waited for his eyes to land on the painting that she’d destroyed.
When it happened, she would be ready for it.
“What did you do?” he shouted, his voice oddly high-pitched and his shoulders rising up like fizz in a glass.
She said, casually, “I was having a bad week.”
Hank’s wide eyes trembled in disbelief as he looked both his daughter and the painting over. “Do you…do you have any idea how much that painting was worth?”
She shrugged and leaned her hip into the vanity table, staring him down.
He laughed cynically, shaking his head. “You just don’t care about anything, do you? That painting was a gift. A very, very expensivegift! And you just tear it apart? Didn’t it mean anything to you? Is that how I raised you?”
“How you raised me? How you raised me?!” Buffy had never yelled like this before. “Oh, let me tell you about who raised me in this stupid house! My maids! How ‘bout that, you dickhead? I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
But that never happened.
Buffy blinked, her chest heaving as she came back to reality, Hank’s voice pulling her out of her daydream.
“Buffy? Did you hear me?”
“Huh?” She looked over at her father who had yet to cross the threshold into her bedroom from the hallway, leaning nonchalantly in the door.
“I asked if you found it.”
“Found what?”
“Whatever had you trashing this bedroom looking for it,” he said, laughing, and checking his watch. He really wasn’t that funny, she realized.
She sighed, long and heavy, and sat on the edge of her vanity, her eyes immediately falling to the ruined painting that he never noticed. “Nope, still haven’t found it.”
“Well, get Gretchen or whatever her name is to—”
“Gilda.”
“Right, Gilda.” Hank cleared his throat. “Anyway, get one of the maids to help you look for it. Look, I can’t stay long.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Buffy, you know I’m busy.”
“Shyeah, busy screwing over third world countries,” she said, not trying all that hard to whisper.
He inhaled sharply, his voice caught on the cusp of a retort, but something changed his mind. He licked his lips and scratched the side of his head. “Listen, I just got back from that probation office.”
Buffy’s interest piqued at that. “Oh? What um…what happened?”
He spoke as he pulled out a ringing cell phone from his pocket. “Had to get a look at him before I just released a criminal into the – hang on a sec.” He held up a finger and took the call. “Yeah. Yeah? Shit. Ok. No, no, I get it. Ha! You clever son-of-a—”
Buffy rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth in boredom, waiting. Hank glanced at her and frowned, turning away from her, as if that would keep her from eavesdropping. She snorted at him and picked up the box of chocolates he’d had some poor worker send her from Marquise de Sevigne, her favorite chocolatier. She ate one truffle and threw the rest in the trash.
“I know, but what kind of overhead are we looking at? I don’t have time to do research. That’s why I hired you to do it. Listen, Bill, I’m doing family time now. Can I call you in a half hour? Bye.”
He flipped his phone shut, smiling apologetically as he turned back around. “Sorry, had to take it.”
“Whatever. Continue?”
“Oh, right.” Hank slipped his hands in his pockets and looked at her worriedly. “You really like that punk? If you had me breaking any laws—”
“He didn’t do anything wrong. He doesn’t deserve to be punished for something he didn’t do. Someone had to speak on his behalf.”
“I see. So you’re all about fighting for justice now? That what the cool kids are into? I bet there were a few more innocent bystanders in that office you could’ve rescued if you’re going for stripes.”
Damn him. Buffy smiled at her father’s playful banter. “Yup, that’s me. Good Samaritan.”
“And no lovey stuff? Because the guy’s hair was—” Hank made a wild hand gesture over his head, indicating the feral and pointy nature of Spike’s hair.
“No lovey stuff,” she said. “But something stuff.”
Hank sighed. “Something stuff. That’s bad stuff.”
“It is not bad stu—can we stop with the ‘stuff’ thing? It’s weird when you do it.”
Hank laughed a little as he walked into the bedroom to sit beside her on the vanity. “I wish you would have told me about Angel. That phone call scared me half to death.”
Buffy picked at her pinkie nail. “Yeah, well…”
“Buffy, I can’t take care of you guys if I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Try being home for once. That might keep you in the loop.” Suddenly angry again, Buffy stood up and stomped over to the bed across from him and dropped heavily onto it, scowling.
“So this is about me.”
“God, you’re so full of yourself, Dad. Not everything is about you, ok?”
“So it’s about Angel.” When Buffy glared at him, he said, “That punk kid?”
“It’s about all of you! You…you stupid…people!” She got up and started pacing the room. “I just wish you’d all leave me the hell alone!”
He rose from the vanity and made his way to the door. “If that’s what you want.”
“Oh, how convenient! Glad I could line up your exit for you. Now you don’t have to come up with an excuse.”
Hank’s entire face tightened in restraint, but he really didn’t have anything to say to that.
Buffy laughed and folded her arms once more. “Just go, Dad.”
“I’m sorry that I—” Am a bastard. A prick. A selfish jerkwad with totally cheesy silk socks and 80s soap opera jewelry.
Buffy had all sorts of ways to finish the end of that sentence. Hank didn’t have her imagination, but he did manage to make it worse.
“—missed your recital.”
That was a natural thing for a father to assume she was angry about, she supposed. This, however, was the first of many that he ever apologized for missing. Maybe she should consider that progress. He still didn’t get it, though.
This was merely the ganache on the truffles of problems she had with her father, and none of them came in pretty boxes.
“You missed lots of things.”
“I’ll make it up to you, sweetie. I’ll be back in a few weeks. We’ll go somewhere. You’ll have a break coming up from school then, right? Why don’t we go to Argentina? You love Argentina.”
“Sure.” She forced a smile.
“Who’s my favorite little girl?” He asked, backing into the hallway and smiling, hoping that all was settled.
“I am, Daddy.”
His smile broadened, and then he was gone. No kiss to the hand, no adoring embrace. All backwards and wrong and not at all how it was supposed to go.
Buffy began to clean up her room.
* * *
“Buffy, you have to go to school today.”
“Mmmmph.”
“Buffy, get up and get ready for school. I mean it.”
“Mom, you’re so loud!” Buffy covered her head with a feather pillow.
“I’m trying to wake you up, that’s how this works.”
Joyce pulled the wadded mound of blankets off her daughter before she tried to fall back asleep.
“Hey!” she said, crawling down the bed to grab them and missing. “I need those for sleeping.”
“You need to get up. Now.” Her tone brooked no argument in a way Buffy was too tired to decipher as motherly.
Buffy sighed, slammed her hands on the mattress with a melodramatic huff, hoisting her butt off the bed, and stomped over to her closet. “Since when did you get all bossy?”
“Since I decided to quit my job and now I’m bored to death. Shake a leg, it’s nearly eight thirty,” Joyce said, standing with squared shoulders in the center of the room, waiting for Buffy to get moving so she couldn’t climb back into bed the minute she had a chance. Buffy’s piercing gaze almost made her crumble, but somehow, Joyce managed to stand her ground.
Then Joyce noticed something peculiar, tilting her head as she approached. “Is that shirt from Rupert’s shop?”
Buffy’s hands froze in mid-removal of the shirt in question, she looked down momentarily at the item she chose to sleep in, and then she continued to take it off. “No.”
“It is!” Joyce said sternly, marching over to fetch it from the floor where Buffy dropped it. She held it up and read the print on the front and back. “Well, I didn’t know you liked the Bee Gees so much but that doesn’t mean you had to steal it.”
“I paid for it,” Buffy said, totally and completely lying. And screw her mom, it wasn’t like she needed to know that she had taken it after Spike wore it and got completely sweaty in it. Oh so sweaty…
“Only losers and cheeseballs liked the Bee Gees when they were in their prime,” Joyce said. “I don’t get pop culture. It seems like everything we hated and thought was stupid back then, you guys think is cool.”
“Then maybe I’m a loser,” Buffy said, sighing and wishing her mom would get to the damn point already. She finished getting dressed as quickly as possible.
“Is Cordelia picking you up today?”
“No, she’s got practice. Henry is driving me.”
“And how are you getting home from school?”
“Jeez, Mom, what’s with the third degree?” Buffy hurriedly applied her makeup.
“How are you getting home, Buffy?”
She grabbed her purse and backpack. “I have dance, remember? Lione is picking me up and we’re going straight to the studio. Just like we do every Friday.”
“Oh right, it’s Friday. My word, this week has just flown past, hasn’t it?”
“I’ll see you later, Mom.”
“Wait! Um…did you bring your cell phone? Gilda says you leave it in your room sometimes.”
“I have my phone. Why are you being a freak?” Buffy heard her mother follow her down the hallway.
“Is it freaky for a mother to make sure her daughter is safe? What if he…Buffy…”
She stopped walking the minute it all made sense. She turned to face her mother, noting her real concern for the first time. Calmly, Buffy said, “Mom, I’ll be okay. He can’t do anything now that we filed a restraining order. They moved his classes around so we don’t even see each other at school, and even if we did, everyone knows about it. It’s just his ego making him do this, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry… I didn’t know he was so bad to you, Buffy.”
Hold it…was her mother…apologizing? Had she finally seen her golden boy for what he really was?
“It’s…it’s ok. I didn’t know he was that bad either. Not until Spike came around.”
Joyce smiled. “I bet he’s a happy boy right now. Did you call him to make sure he got home all right?”
A beat. Then, “Ok, looking out for me is one thing, but this new talky mom thing you’re doing is just creepy.”
“You didn’t call him, did you.”
Buffy hated it when people said questions as if they were statements, as if they already knew what she did or didn’t do because she was just that predictable.
She turned around and continued walking to the door.
“Oh, Buffy… Don’t play around with Spike. You’ll regret it when he decides he’s not going to put up with it any more.”
“Put up with it?” Buffy did not have time for this! Suddenly, getting to school on time was the most important priority of her life. “Because I’m so terrible, how could he ever want me?”
“No! Oh, I didn’t mean—Buffy, you misunderstood me! I just want you to be careful!”
“Can you just go back to being the mom who isn’t completely annoying and only sometimes gets a wild hair up her ass to bark an order?”
“Wha—”
“Because this new you that you’re trying on? Is totally cliché and forced and I’m not in the mood to be your project.”
“Buffy Anne… Who taught you to talk to your mother that way?”
Buffy laughed humorlessly and shook her head as she walked out the door. “I’ll be home late.”
“Buffy! Buffy, you look at me when I’m talking to you! Henry, wait right there,” Joyce said, halting the butler as he opened the car door for the teenager who had adopted a wounding sneer to accompany the tension in her shoulders.
“Buffy, you’re… You’re grounded!”
Buffy pointed with one hand, covered her mouth with the other, and let out the most raucous laugh she’d ever emitted. Joyce had never grounded her before. Even when she broke into the principal’s office, the worst she did was make her work at Rupert’s shop, and well, that didn’t turn out to be so much of a punishment. Spike did all the work anyway. But this was something completely out of the blue, and Buffy wasn’t going to be Nazi’d into some stupid penalty just because Joyce had a crazy idea that morning to start giving a shit. Her mother was really hilarious, she realized.
She put her hands on her hips and never backed down. “I mean it. You are to come home right after school, young lady.”
“I have dance.” She folded her arms and smirked, shifting her weight onto one leg.
“Then…after dance. And you aren’t to leave this house again until school on Monday.”
“Are you really telling me what to do?”
Joyce straightened up. “Yes, I am. You’ve been acting like a spoiled brat lately and I’m at the end of my rope.”
“But Cordelia asked me to help her with math tomorrow and, uh…and I have to go shopping.”
“For what?”
“For…stuff,” she said lamely. “Am I really grounded?”
“Cordelia can come to the house for an hour tomorrow, but that’s it.”
“What about the—”
“You’re not going shopping, Buffy.”
Buffy kicked the air and pouted petulantly. “New mom sucks.”
Joyce smiled proudly. “My work here is done. Henry, see that she doesn’t hop the fence once you drop her off at school.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, nodding and smiling gently.
“Have a good day, darling.” Joyce sang the words as she kissed her daughter on the top of the head before she strolled into the house like a lioness after her first kill for the night.
When Buffy sat in the back of the car, something dawned on her.
“I am a spoiled brat.”
The car pulled out of the driveway and onto the road, and Buffy took a moment to think about other people’s families, and if she hadn’t just experienced something normal for the first time.
It was a little bit comforting.
But she was totally skipping fourth period.
A/N: Switching up the POV I hope wasn’t too jarring this late in the story, but there are too many things you need to know that you can’t really find out through solely Spike and Rupert’s POV’s, plus, this new angle managed to kick-start my inspiration so I’m really not complaining. 🙂 Thoughts?