The door's ajar on the plot bunny hutch, the words Bitter!Wes and Angelus just drifted through my head.

I have some bunnies in need of adoption, but I've spent all day working ducking out to the writing stall and writing sex scenes, so I've not listed any of them.

Amy's encouraging me, darn her.

I've kind of got a story idea. I'm just throwing down random ideas right now, but it's nice to have an idea.

I don't worry about the bunnies until bits of dialogue start coalescing from the primal ooze. Then I know I have to do something about it. So far Bitter!Wes and Angelus are only glaring at each other.

Connie (OT), have you read Any of The Brat Queen's New Series?

Yep. Heh. Not sure if I shouldn't leave the field to her.

Connie (OT), have you read Any of The Brat Queen's New Series?

I was just about to link to that!

Love TBQ. Love her.

Hey, look! New V!Giles!

Hector Stevenson, the man killed in the park, had last been seen at the hospital several weeks before. Sunnydale being what it was, it was difficult to get a comprehensive list of missing people to compare to the growing list of mentally damaged folk who were appearing. When the available information was correlated, no one area showed a higher number of missing people being discovered crazy.

Spike sent Sammy, Fred and the girls out to look for centers of demonic activity. He himself took Willy's, looking for both information and more opportunities to re-establish his reputation as the vampire most likely to rip out your hipbones and use them as a planter.

Giles debated going with him, but he knew that was the bloodthirstiness talking. He made a promise to himself that if he checked four volumes of dark lore for mentions of Glory, then he could go out and find something to beat up. After all, the technique had gotten him through Oxford.

He was halfway through the third volume, which described Glory's influence over the mentally ill and brain damaged, when he remembered something from before Joyce's surgery. She had seen Dawn's dual nature, had known the girl wasn't her daughter. But as opposed to the other people who had seen Dawn for what she was, Joyce had recovered her wits. Perhaps she remembered that time, perhaps she remembered something of the influence Glory wielded over those whose minds were in altered states.

He hadn't seen her since the one visit anyway, and he did want to find out how she was doing. It was research, so he wasn't violating his personal bargain. Such sophistry had also gotten him through Oxford.

Once he determined that Buffy wasn't visiting her mother, Giles didn't bother sneaking down the hospital corridor to Joyce's room. He paused in pleased surprise in the doorway.

"Joyce, you're up."

Joyce looked up, startled, from where she sat in a chair near the bed. The magazine she'd been reading slipped from her fingers. Giles crouched swiftly to pick it up and return it to her.

"'Art & Auction,'" he read. "Keeping up with the business, are you?"

"Giles," she said, blinking at him. She looked at the doorway uncertainly.

"Are you expecting someone?"

"Oh, no, I'm just ... hello."

He smiled back at her but remained crouched at her side, trying not to appear too intimidating. "I was wondering how you were doing."

She looked uncertain, then nodded slowly. "No, I don't suppose ... Buffy tells you." Her voice was much clearer, but she was obviously searching for the right word or making sure of how to pronounce it. "I'm ... doing better."

"That's wonderful." He patted her hand and pretended not to notice the way she almost pulled away. He wondered if Buffy had spoken to her about him. "Buffy told Spike that you were going to be working on walking."

Her smile was tired. "I can stand by myself, but I'm still a little wobbly. I'm going to need a--a--oh, what is it, what the old ladies use." She held her hands out in front of her.

"I think you call them walkers here."

"Yes, a walker." She frowned as she said it. "Just like my grandmother."

"We call them Zimmer frames in England. I had an old aunt who said she was going out for a Zimmer race when she went out with her friends."

Joyce chuckled. "If I keep up with my exercises and physical therapy, I should be able to graduate to a cane in a few weeks. I may not even need that by summer."

"That's very good. And I shall dare your wrath and say 'I told you so.' Have they said when you'll be released?"

The frown reappeared. "Not very long. A day or so. Xander's been building a ramp on the front steps."

"You don't seem pleased."

"Buffy's been talking about leaving school to stay home and take care of me. Apparently she hasn't been going to class, she's taking care of the house and checking things at the gallery. She shouldn't have to do all that, she should be in school."

"I'm sure it won't be for long, only till you're reliably on your feet again. And it's better than planning your funeral."

Joyce blinked at him. "You used to be more tactful."

"Oh, um--yes, I suppose I was. But it's true." He saw her glance at the door again, as if afraid of--or hoping for-- an interruption. "I was wondering something, though, Joyce."

"Yes?"

"Before your surgery, you were able to perceive that Dawn was . . . different. Do you remember?"

"I don't--" She frowned in thought. "It's very blurry. I wasn't sure what was real. Why?"

Giles had long ago stopped underestimating this woman, so he told her the truth. "One of Glory's abilities is to steal the higher functions of people's minds. We've seen more and more damaged people. Most of them seem able to see Dawn's true nature, and they also seem to share an awareness of Glory. I was wondering if you remembered a connection to Glory, or at least an awareness of something of power."

Joyce folded her hands and stared off into her memories. "I remember . . . frustration. Impatience. Horrible longing. But it could so easily have been my own."

"No awareness of another being?"

She shook her head. "You say other people have seen Dawn and . . . reacted?"

"Yes, Glory has power over people with lessened mental abilities, and they seem to be aware of her search for the Key. They perceive Dawn's difference, but they are unable to do anything with the information."

"I don't care about Dawn's difference. She's my daughter, no matter if monks gave her to me or if I gave birth to her. I just hope I can help protect her."

For a moment, there was no sign of weakness in Joyce Summers. Giles dearly hoped she'd never find out about his plan to give Dawn to the hell beasts--or if she did, that he'd have a great deal of warning. Mexico was said to be a nice place for vampires.

"I'll not bother you any longer," he said, getting to his feet. "I'm glad you're doing so well."

She smiled faintly. "Check back with me in six months, though."

"I will. If only to say hello." As he turned to go, he saw a shelf of plants and cards. Among them was a small stuffed green monster, with horns and claws and as fearsome a snarl as something plush could manage. "Someone has interesting tastes in stuffed animals," he observed.

Joyce chuckled. "He's supposed to protect me."

He could picture Dawn presenting her mother with a fierce creature to protect her when no one else was about. When he took a step closer, though, he smelled Spike.

"I'll be keeping in touch with Anya," he said after the briefest of hesitations. "I hope to get even more good news about you in the future.'

Joyce smiled sincerely. "I'll make sure she has all the latest news. Good night, Giles."

"Good night, Joyce."

As he walked away, he wondered why he felt so annoyed. Was it that Spike had been visiting Joyce without Giles' knowledge? The two of them had spent time together over coffee and hot chocolate before now, so there was no reason why Spike shouldn't come to visit her in the hospital.

Perhaps it was because Joyce was obviously uncomfortable alone with Giles. He paused a moment to be honest with himself. Joyce had only ever known Spike as a vampire, she knew what he was like. Even before the chip, he'd been oddly respectful of her. Joyce had to be wondering about all the ways Giles had changed. Giles himself had to admit to conflicting impulses. The voice in the back of his mind whispered of helpless prey, of pain to the Slayer if her mother was killed.

He hadn't eaten yet, perhaps that explained his bad mood. He glanced around the hospital corridor, assessing opportunities. All the staff were going busily about their rounds, it was too early in the evening to sneak into a patient's room. Perhaps he could go down to the parking lot and wait for a solitary visitor to wander into a dark shadow.

He strolled towards the elevators. As he passed the staff elevator, the doors opened and a man came out pushing a cart of clean laundry. With barely a thought, Giles slipped into the elevator. The morgue was in the basement, surrounded by badly lit corridors and infrequently occupied departments. Dozens of places to stash a drained body.

The darkness was blissful to sensitive eyes, though the smells jangled on his nerves. Chemicals from the laundry, the scent of decomposing bodies drifting from that side corridor. The humans probably didn't notice the smell of decay, at least consciously. Which means anyone down here will be nicely uneasy already. Less effort to bring the proper level of fear to the blood.

No heartbeats nearby. Giles debated, then headed towards the morgue. If nothing else, he could see if there were any proto-vampires in the coolers.

Two corners from the morgue, he heard voices. " . . . and stop coming to the hospital, damn it," said a man. "I don't want your kind here."

"Well, if you'd bother to speak to us when you're at home--" The voice was not quite human.

"I don't want to speak to you at all! Now go away! You have no business here."

"Her most sparkling sublimity was quite clear, we're to look everywhere."

"There's nothing for you here, there's no reason you need to speak to me. Now leave me alone."

The non-human voice sighed. "Very well, sir."