A/N This was going to be in my 'Curiosity' series but I thought it was a little more intense and out of sync with the style of the others so have put it here.

A toast

"It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses. "

― Colette

The air was hushed and still as Spike stood by the pile of freshly turned soil. The smell of cool, damp earth permeated his senses as he stared down at the last resting place of Joyce Summers. Mortality – that fickle mistress – before him in its fragility and mystery. He slowly fished in his pocket until his hand closed around his silver flask and he withdrew it. He examined it a good minute before he unscrewed the cap and tilted it at the new grave.

"Here's to you Joyce," he murmured and took a swig before screwing the cap back on and slipping it back into the safety of his pocket. He stared at the grave a moment longer before giving a small smile.

"Probably wouldn't have approved of that," he said to the silent headstone, "the alcohol an' all." His face became earnest. "Woulda brought you a cuppa but got no kettle." He paused a moment, tone growing solemn again. "Wouldn't have been as good as yours anyhow." He stood silent a moment longer before giving a quiet and self-deprecating half laugh.

"Look at me. Talking to bloody nothing." He turned to walk away but found he couldn't quite move his feet. "They're all alone now, your girls." He couldn't make himself look at the grave as he said it. "But I promise I'll do what I can for them...protect them if I can...if they'll let me." His hand drifted to his side where the Gorra's teeth had punctured his flesh and he winced at the pain. "The littl'un in particular. Buffy is a stubborn one though. Hates my guts." He turned back to the grave. "I'll do my best for them." Momentarily out of words he fell silent. His silent contemplation was shattered by a high demanding tone from somewhere over his right shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" It was choked with emotion, defensive and vulnerable, and he sighed with a drop of his head. He had been hoping to avoid this but he should have known...

"I'm paying my respects," he answered, also on the defensive, fed up of having to justify his motives, "as I was unable to attend the funeral."

"Your respects?" Buffy sounded sneering, disbelieving and he tensed his jaw.

"Yes," he said slowly, immovably, still not turning to look at the Slayer.

"I told you to stay away from my family." She was practically yelling now and he could hear the tears in her voice. "Get away from her!"

Spike sighed, muttering "see what I mean?" to Joyce before he turned slowly to look at Buffy. Her eyes were shining with barely held back tears and her face was a contorted mask of grief.

"What do you know about paying respects?" she practically spat, "you've killed hundreds of people. You go pay them your respects?"

Spike stared at her long and hard before clearing the ground between them in two strides so he was looking fiercely down into her face. His voice was low and dangerous.

"Your mother was a bloody fine lady," he murmured angrily. "Always treated me with respect she did, and now I'm wanting to do the same for her." Buffy had a violent gleam in her eyes that stuttered a bit when he spoke. Behind it was a well of grief so deep he wondered how she hadn't drowned. He took a couple of steps back, giving her space and making his voice level again. "But if you want me to leave so you can be alone then I will."

He waited for her instructions and so was watching when the Slayer, strong and undefeated, broke in front of him. He watched as her face crumpled and her body heaved on a stifled sob.

"She was, wasn't she?" her voice cracked and he took an automatic step forward before pulling himself up short. He could feel his own insides crumbling with her. His muscles screamed to hold her, comfort her.

"Was what, Pet?"

Buffy gestured a hand aimlessly. "What you said she was." She clasped the hand to her mouth as though she could hold in the grief.

Spike nodded slowly. "She was the best of the bloody lot of you."

She heard the insult in the complement and half laughed, half sobbed. He didn't know how it happened but self control must have broken because in the next instant he had an arm around her shoulders, the other holding her steady.

"Don't touch me," she tried to snarl but the words lacked the malice and the energy.

Spike ignored her, slowly guiding her to the edge of the grave.

"Why don't you sit down Buffy?"

She looked at him with suspicious eyes, wet with tears. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"I'll let you go."

She sighed in resignation and sank to the floor. He released her shoulders and moved into a crouch a few feet away. Buffy was staring at the grave in silence.

"Want me to go?" Spike asked quietly. There was a long pause before she answered.

"No," her voice was soft and calmer, "no, you can stay."

He was shocked.

"Really?" he frowned a little, "you sure?"

"Yeah," Buffy replied, keeping her eyes on the headstone, "you're right." She shrugged. "Mom liked you – for some reason." Now she looked at him. "I think she'd want you to be here."

He couldn't help the smile that slipped onto his face and for the barest of seconds Buffy smiled back, before remembering who he was and quickly looking away.

"She didn't always like me," Spike said nostalgically, breaking the awkward moment. Buffy looked at him again and he moved from his crouch to sit, propping himself up with his hands.

"When I first met Joyce she was standing over me with a giant fire axe."

Buffy's hand flew to her mouth in remembrance, a grin breaking out on her face. "That's right! I'd forgotten."

"Get away from my daughter," Spike mimicked, pretending to brandish an axe, just like he had the second time he'd met Joyce.

Buffy half-laughed, "and you ran away."

"No!" he protested, holding up a finger. "It was a strategic retreat. Word of advice Love; you do not get in the way of a mother like yours when she's protecting her young."

Buffy gave a small, sad smile.

"Yeah," she whispered and stared down at her hands, eventually using them to wrap around her legs so she could rest her chin on her knees.

"I'm curious," she said finally and tilted her head to look at him, "why did she like you?"

Spike met her gaze, a small smile twitching the corners of his mouth. "You'll never believe me."

"Try me," she responded in her pouty voice and for a second he thought he saw the old Buffy back. It only lasted a second because then he saw her shoulders were still tensed like she carried a burden and the edges of her face still had sharp lines of grief.

"We bonded over 'Passions'," he admitted.

The look on her face was both incredulous and highly entertained.

"'Passions'?"

"Yup."

"Really?" he heard the derisive tone.

"Hey! 'Passions' is a quality bit of television."

"If you say so," she smirked.

As he looked across at her he realised that this was the first real conversation they'd had in a long time, especially after the whole crush-being-revealed incident with Drusilla. She seemed to realise it too because the shutters came down over her face and she quickly broke eye contact. Now seemed to be the time to strategically retreat. He slowly and quietly got to his feet. Buffy's head twisted sharply to look at him, panic flashing in her eyes, as she moved to spring to her own. Spike quickly held up his hands.

"I thought it is time I should be going." Buffy eyed him warily from the ground, half ready to jump. "Figured you might want some alone time," he inclined his head to the grave and watched as the tension melted from the Slayer and she sank back to the earth, "to talk or whatever."

"Yes," she whispered, a tiny frown on her forehead, "at least I think so."

"Do you some good," he told her firmly and at her enquiring look shrugged and muttered off handedly, "or so I've heard."

"I'll do that," she whispered, then turned to him properly, a puzzled expression on her face that melded into something earnest. "Thank you, Spike."

"No problem Slayer," he gave her his gentlest smile, inclined his head to her, and began to walk away.

As he retreated he heard her faltering start, a hitch in the breath as she began with, "Hey Mom. It's me." He felt a wrench in his own chest and sped up so he couldn't hear more of the private conversation.

"I promise Joyce," he muttered, "I'll keep 'em both safe if it kills me."