Open All Night by Kindred | Nocturnal Light

14.

Buffy’s mind was too crowded with conversations and confrontations to sleep. Instead, she had a bath and then set about gathering up her bedding for the laundry. An exhausted Spike heard nothing of her nocturnal activities, nor did he stir when she left the house in search of blood.

A ringing telephone entered Spike’s dreams followed by the voice of Joyce Summers on the answering machine. “Hey, sweetheart. I guess you’re out, huh? I’ll be finished here earlier than I thought. Just so you know, I’m hoping to catch a flight later tonight after the symposium, instead of tomorrow. Did you eat the lasagna I left in the freezer? Well, I can figure something out for myself later. Hope everything’s okay on your end. See you soon honey. Bye.”

The turn of the bolt in the front door roused Spike again a short time later. His heavy eyelids opened to a dated stucco ceiling. He closed them again. Soft footsteps trailed from the front door to the kitchen. He heard the microwave click open. A series of faint beeps indicated a program selection.

Buffy had no idea how one prepared blood. It wasn’t like microwave popcorn. There weren’t any helpful or easy to follow instructions. While waiting for the program to end Buffy put another pouch of blood in the fridge. Then she saw the message indicator light on the answering machine. Buffy listened impassively to the message.

Joyce always sounded so cheery on the phone. Coming home early was a sign that things went well in San Francisco and all her mom’s hard work in preparation was paying off. But Joyce coming home also meant Spike had to go. The last thing Buffy wanted was her Mom’s trouble radar to start flashing like an emergency siren. Finding an injured or worse, an amorous vampire in her living room would destroy what they had built together.

At last the piercing beeps of the microwave rang through the quiet house. Buffy pressed the door opener and put her hand on the bag of blood. It felt sort of warmish. Maybe a little longer was necessary. She chose a medium heat level again and punched in twenty more seconds.

Spike struggled to sit up when she entered the living room. He failed, just managing to turn onto his back and lean his head against the crook of the sofa arm. Buffy brushed the angora sofa throw off his body and lay the warmed blood on his chest.

“They had pig or beef. I picked beef.” Buffy thought of it in terms of steak versus pork chops. The butcher, however, didn’t bat an eyelash at the request. Discerning Sunnydale customers had a wide range of exotic requests for a discrete and well connected butcher. He merely filled her order and slipped his business card into her bag with the receipt and a thoughtful nod.

Instantly Spike morphed and moved the bag to his lips. With a crushed hand he couldn’t get a good enough grip on the bag to puncture it. Sensing his mounting frustration, Buffy sat on the edge of the coffee table and secured the bag over his mouth. A hungry growl accompanied his forceful piercing of the bag. Spike soon sucked the contents with gusto.

It was an odd scene. The Slayer ministering to a wounded vampire and that vampire staring at the source of his sustenance with wonder. Spike could feel the life sustaining flow of warmth seeping through his battered form as the needed healing began. Cellular strength returned gradually as broken bones, torn ligaments and damaged muscles knit themselves back together. Injured flesh slowly returned to Spike’s version of normal.

There was no shame either in showing himself truthfully to her. Spike lay on her mother’s sofa and revealed the truth of his continuing existence to Buffy. Blood. It was all about blood for a vampire. Blood for strength. Blood for sex. Blood for another day. Buffy heard the blood swirl and gurgle down his throat as he eagerly consumed it. Why didn’t that sound sicken her?

Golden eyes stared at her without blinking. There was a glint of compassion in her eyes that puzzled him. It did not compute. Spike had little experience with such a reaction. Disgust was nowhere to be found in her sweet face. That realization in itself was a healing balm.

One other automatic response activated during his feeding. Spike shifted his reclining position to ease his strengthening erection. It wasn’t something he could have prevented even if he’d thought about it. Warm blood always did that and animal blood was no exception. The pain of Angel’s fists returned, accentuated by the activated healing. The pleasure of arousal was present as well, made even more acute by Buffy’s nearness to him. Pleasure and pain existed as one with Spike.

He slid his less injured right hand down the length of his torso, drawing back the side of his bunched leather coat and cupping his palm snugly over his erection. It howled for attention in his jeans. Buffy followed the path of his hand with her eyes and slipped the empty bag from his lips. His low rumbling growl hit her hard between her legs. The sensual tenor of the scene aroused her. Golden eyes held her gaze and suddenly she wanted him like that.

Buffy released a sigh. Shouldn’t she be mad at Spike or annoyed or at least somewhere in the vicinity of pissed? Spike’s return to Sunnydale upped the ante in the complication stakes. Strangely, no feelings of hostility visited her. Angel’s interference still chimed in her head, the ample evidence of which lay prostrate before her on the sofa.

An insistent hand cupping his denim held her spellbound. What kind of a deviant was she? He was injured and in need of rest, not whatever debauched scenario was accelerating through her imagination with added sound track. More frustration soon surfaced. Spike’s one handed efforts proved acutely unsatisfying. Buffy swallowed the enlarged knot in her dry throat. She set aside the emptied bag of blood.

“I’d like to do that,” she spoke softly and slid tentatively down the coffee table. Her hands moved to his belt and unclasped it. Spike relented and moved his hand aside. She opened his pants completely and slipped them down, off his hips, much to the relief of a warmed and fully engorged cock. Buffy curved her hand around his girth. A look of amazement crept over her face.

“You’re warm.” There was a touch of astonishment in her voice. She looked up at him.

“For a little while, yeah,” he said and nodded. His forehead started to wrinkle. Pain and pleasure stood shoulder to shoulder inside him.

“Is this going to hurt you?” Buffy suddenly registered the evident bruises that had not faded. One grotesque splotch seeped down from his rib cage toward his hip.

“No,” Spike lied. Nothing was going to make him stop her. He was practiced at handling pain. It was a matter of focus, of putting it aside. With the anticipation of pleasure, the pain shrank away faster.

Inching closer, Buffy moved to her knees. She paused and mentally assessed just how this mysterious task was to be accomplished. There was apprehension but also a thrilling excitement as well. She could do this for him and to him. Make him feel something other than beaten. Offer him some warmth he wouldn’t have to steal.

“He had no right to do this to you.” Buffy bit her lip, feeling deep shame for Angel’s actions.

“He loves you.” Spike surprised himself by uttering those words without a trace of the bitter animosity he felt.

“Love is a misery.” Buffy’s mumbled reply ended as she kissed the tip of Spike’s engorged shaft. Sweet bloody Christ. Warmth and softness. Buffy’s mouth there. Uncontrolled reactions flew through Spike’s body. He buckled and winced as his musculature reacted in concert to her warm lips. With concentrated effort he pushed the pain into a corner of his mind, containing it. An unneeded breath whistled softly through the air.

“I’m through with pain, Spike. I want to feel good. I want you to feel good. Should I be licking? What?” Spike looked at her with a stunned expression, idling in anticipation. “Spike, help me out here. What do I do?” She wrinkled her brow with uncertainty.

“Go easy love, tongue and lips is fine, but no teeth, yeah?” That earned him an incredulous stare. Like, duh. Buffy knew enough to keep her teeth out of it at least. Unfortunately, all those illicit Cosmo articles she read once upon a time fled from her memory. This was real. This was Spike, and from this particular angle he looked huge. How was she going to be able to proceed? Feelings of inadequacy and determination elbowed each other in her mind. Spike had given her such unrestrained pleasure. She wanted to give him the same.

“Tongue and lips, okay, here goes.” Her personal pep talk was so endearing. He was going to love this girl. She had no idea how he would love her.

Her initial innocent attempts were stop and go. Spike’s cock flopped around rather inconveniently, as if playing tag. Once he showed her how to support it and lick at the same time, things improved.

Up and down his length her tongue slid, tracing the slick skin and prominent veins. Certain angles worked better than others. Teasing down the foreskin to tickle the glans was a definite hit. It was actually okay and the look on his face was beyond amazing. When Buffy suddenly shifted position and licked his balls, Spike jumped. That sounded like a yelp.

“Is that okay?” She needed some confirmation. Glazed and wandering eyes found hers. Spike tried to smile.

“Bloody better than okay, love.” Spike spread his legs in a conscious attempt to be doing something other than ramming himself into the farthest reaches of her throat. It was a good bet that urge would not be appreciated. He held back as if his life depended upon it.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“Fuck no. Put it in your mouth,” his soft voice constricted with need. Buffy pursed her lips over his glans and obeyed, sucking him into her mouth a couple of inches. Her tongue met him and pulsed against the underside of the head. Spike groaned in response, far beyond sense and reason. She surfaced quickly and released his shaft. Her lips held their suggestive position as she stared at him.

That was a sound she wanted to hear again. He brought his palm tenderly to the side of her head, encouraging her. “Keep doing that. I liked that.” Half a grin surfaced on his lips. Okay, she definitely wasn’t hurting him. Buffy sank down his length again.

There would be time for instruction and technique later. The sweet earnestness of her desire to bring him pleasure was a gift he chose to savor. She experimented with varying depths, pressures and tongue positions. Spike did not disappoint. He elicited sounds she had never heard before. Sounds of trust and surrender.

Emboldened by her success, Buffy continued. It wasn’t that hard to coordinate and she could tell she’d sent him someplace marvelous. Not so long ago the thought of this activity was extremely unappealing, even dirty. Now in the throes of something illicit and thrilling, Buffy thought only of Spike. She was doing this for him. Giving him something no words could convey. Suddenly she felt very sexy.

The weirdest thoughts entered her mind. The old cheer leading rhythms she practiced so diligently sang through her head. Buffy pushed away a goofy compulsion to jump up and whoop in triumph. It was entirely too silly to be seriously considered and Buffy wasn’t a total maniac. Plus, Spike’s ego was already in critical condition and any additional boosting may result in outrageous behavior. She didn’t want to encourage crowing, or strutting, or any other potentially annoying and prolonged displays of manliness. Buffy preferred him like this, possessed by surrender. All contusions aside, he looked calm and serene. He looked magnificent.

For his part, Spike was blissfully oblivious. This was a luxury he had not often enjoyed. Drusilla didn’t enjoy this act; well, not with him anyway. She was not particularly talented in the ‘giving of pleasure’ categories. Especially if the recipient was not Angelus. All thoughts fled Spike’s mind but one: Buffy. Buffy’s mouth. Buffy’s warmth. Buffy…

He tasted salty and tangy but there was something else besides. There was an underlying coolness that was present as a flavor. Buffy remembered tasting snowflakes at Grandma’s house one Christmas. He had something of that refreshing essence as well.

“Yeah, like that. Suck me.” His breathy whisper reached her ear. Encouraged by her success so far, she took him in further and concentrated on sucking. He gasped in helpless ecstasy as she increased her pressure.

“Like that?” she paused and then sucked harder, all the while watching his blissful face. At last Buffy achieved a steady rhythm of engulfing and releasing him that satisfied. A small muscular tick touched his lips. When he spoke again the words were so soft she thought as first they were in her own mind.

“Buffy…” he sighed, lost in the ether of her mouth.

The shock of hearing him say her name was matched by the sudden presence of his cool, milky semen on her tongue. She swallowed quickly, trying to handle the frothy volume. He spurt in wave after wave and she swallowed it without flinching. Her description of the flavor wouldn’t have been ‘yummy’, but it wouldn’t have been ‘yuck’ either. ‘Better than mom’s organic yogurt’ would have been more accurate.

Spike’s hips jerked helplessly into her mouth until the last of his fluid was expelled. When that ceased, Buffy scooted across the carpet on her knees and looked into his face.

“Say it again!” she demanded.

“What?” Spike looked into her animated face and wiped some errant ejaculate from her cheek.

“My name. Say my name.” She stared transfixed at the wonder of his lips.

“Buffy…” he whispered. In response, she covered his swollen mouth with hers. The care she took to kiss lightly was soon ignored as Spike growled and deepened their kiss.

15.

The pain Spike felt from the beating was no great impediment to pleasuring Buffy thoroughly and tenderly. His crushed left hand would need some time to heal but his right hand was ready, willing and able to take up the slack. Her soft flesh and arching breaths healed Spike more than time or the balm of blood.

After a while, Buffy warmed the other bag of blood and served it in a huge mug with miniature marshmallows. It was an impulsive request on Spike’s part and it received an initial incredulous stare from Buffy. There was that bag of marshmallows stuffed behind the coffee filters and Spike made himself look particularly pathetic, so she relented. Buffy was never much of a fan of marshmallows and seeing those sugary blobs floating cheerfully in that velvety liquid moved them into the ‘foods that will never touch my lips again’ category.

Later they lay in an easy embrace, naked and wrapped in the angora throw on the living room carpet. A soft sated hum wandered up from Spike’s chest. That’s when the bubble burst.

“I could love you, Slayer.” Soft fragile words tumbled from Spike’s tongue.

Buffy opened her eyes in shock. Love? No, no, no. She didn’t want that. She wanted what they already had, good feelings and orgasms and no soul slicing fighting. Love was pain and hurting and headaches from crying. Love was hopelessness. She didn’t want to plummet from the rapture she felt to that misery. She wanted skin and salt and the sound of thunder from Spike’s throat. Love would destroy that.

“No Spike, don’t love me,” her voice echoed in an empty monotone. “You love Drusilla. I love Angel, and we’re all miserable. Let’s keep it at that. No surprises. No confusions. I don’t want it anymore. I’ll never hurt like that again. Ever.”

The girl had some weird ideas. Spike turned on his side and stared at his mark on the base of her neck. He lay his palm against her collar bone and lightly stroked the spot. Contrary to her supposedly more modern views, Spike didn’t go in for casual relationships. From day one he knew it would be serious business with this one. Even when all he had in his mind was her destruction, it was serious between them.

He didn’t do casual.

“Buffy?”

“I’m serious.” She turned her head, set her jaw and looked him square in the eye. He was a lost man. What was he supposed to say?

“Okay pet, fine by me.”

“Say it then.” She removed his hand from her skin in an effort to make her position more serious. The seconds ticked by as he tried to figure out what it was she wanted to hear. More lies.

“I won’t love you Slayer.” The words rushed from his lips along on a bitter sigh. It wasn’t very convincing. Spike wasn’t the best liar, that was Angelus’ department.

Drusilla always said that Spike was made to smash and bash. It was true. She responded to him best when he was soaked in destruction. He wrote poems for Drusilla with his fists and fangs. Chaos and ruination were the masterpieces he carved for her. However, Drusilla’s riotous pandemonium never erased a deeper truth that predated her entrance into Spike’s life.

William was born to love, to feel it and be tortured by it. Spike loved as deeply and madly as William, but with the added zeal of a hellion. Spike’s love was all consuming fire and brimstone, rain and sorrows, flesh and bone.

Love was his required respiration.

For her part, Buffy was not completely blind to this truth, to what she did to him. She felt the truth of his desire and the weight of it. She wasn’t just a body under him, that much was clear. She also was not just fucking blindly. It was Spike. His body. His touch. His kiss. His whispers. It was all Spike.

It was Spike at her neck, tickling her skin with his nose and tongue, torturing squeals of pleasure from her and tracing the contours of his insignia with microscopic precision. It was Spike between her legs, teasing her to one orgasm after another, giving her waves upon waves of boundless pleasure. His touch was raw or soft or electric or hypnotic, but it was always honest.

His fingers returned to her throat and softly stroked over his mark. Two tiny punctures indicated that they had gone far beyond barriers and games. No words were needed. Inexplicably, Buffy snuggled closer to him.

“Good.” She seemed pleased. Spike quirked his battered eyebrow.

“Good?! You don’t want love? Is that it?” He furrowed his brow in an attempt to understand the situation.

“Never again.”

“Um, one question if I may?” This girl was definitely an enigma.

“Sure. What?”

“You do know what this means…don’t you?” He leaned forward and licked the tiny puncture marks.

“Sp-i-i-ke.” His name caught in her throat as her body and mind argued. Spike stroked the side of her cheek, focusing her attention to him.

“This means…I belong to you and you belong to me…” Buffy pursed her lips together. She’d read the fine print, every last annotated footnote. She knew that kind of behavior wasn’t like a handshake. “Forev–“

“Don’t say that.” She interrupted quickly. Her voice held pain. Buffy swallowed heavily and refused to meet his eyes. She didn’t need the specter of forever dangled in front of her face. Why be tempted with what never could be? Forever wasn’t in the fine print. Not with Spike. Not with anybody. The clock was ticking. Her mom was coming home tonight. Angel was out there and he knew the truth. The truth. It was high time Buffy figured out what the truth was.

Spike paused, waiting for some sign. She merely tightened her arm across his waist. That’s what he wanted. Forever. All previous fantasies of her death were hollow compared to what was passing between them now. A real conversation. Real feelings. Real possibilities. She lay her cheek against his breast. His deep rumbling voice filled the quiet room.

“Why shouldn’t I say that? It’s the truth.”

“No. It’s not.” Buffy paused before pushing the thickened words out of her throat. “I don’t get to have forever.”

“Doesn’t change a thing. Not for me.” Buffy looked into Spike’s eyes, grateful for the honesty she saw reflected there.

It was a doomed and sorry mess. Anything that gave him this much pleasure was, by definition, short lived. And Angel knew. That poxy faced, bloated bucket of bollocks was incapable of letting anyone else be happy if he couldn’t be. It didn’t matter, Spike would take this sweetness and lick every delicious drop of pain from it. He’d take it because he wanted it more that he could ever remember wanting anything before.

“This isn’t going to end well,” Buffy whispered, acknowledging the murky path ahead.

“Not thinking of the end just yet, love.”

An unwanted throb began to make its presence known behind Buffy’s right eye. Slayer and vampire? Again? That never led anywhere peachy keen. When Giles found out he’d put a stop to it. Or a stake. Buffy started feeling small again. Constricted. The worst part was thinking that it would end.

Suddenly, Giles’ voice entered Buffy’s mind. Inconceivable. Unconscionable. Reckless. Careless. Thoughtless girl. Even imagined Giles-speak could really be a downer. Buffy sat up with a shudder and pulled the woolen throw tightly around her shoulders, leaving Spike sprawled and naked beside her. She attempted a common sense approach.

“This is wrong Spike. You must see that.” She turned toward him for emphasis. “Wrong and bad and, shit…what’s another word for wrong?”

“It’s bloody fantastic is what it is,” a gasp of mirth bubbled from Spike’s chest. “Can’t argue with that now, can you?” Spike had the uncanny ability to stay in the now. The what ifs could get stuffed. Buffy looked askance at him, eyebrows and self-satisfied smirk at full volume. Two of his fingers walked up her spine while a blush crept across her cheek.

“Spike…there’s rules and regulations–” In the blink of an eye he was behind her, cradling her to his chest and nuzzling deeply into her neck.

“Really? You don’t strike me as the rules and regulations type, pet. That’s what gives you the advantage. You’ve got instinct and imagination…which you put to good use. You’ll probably live to be a cranky old biddy–” If he had anything to say in the matter, she would.

“Spike, listen to me. We need to be– Ohhh…” The tip of his nose nudged a feather light insignia over his mark. There was no mistaking that connection. It buzzed between them and strengthened with each touch.

“What, love? What do we need to be?” Spike shifted her in his arms and turned her around, swaddling her to his chest as one would an infant. The soft light in the Summers’ living room highlighted the side of Spike’s face. That was an expression of love and acceptance. Beatific splendor.

Buffy knew full well the color of Spike’s eyes, but what amazed her was the life she saw in them. Not just agony and the endless dirge of death and stolen lives, but the riot of a life lived. Or unlived. There had to be a glossary in Giles’ books that could help with those tricky vocabulary difficulties. Spike’s eyes exploded with experience and shone with a panorama of mischief. He’d already seen first hand more actual history than Buffy could ever even hope to read about.

“Spike…” She studied the creamy contours of his face, made soft in the diffused light.

“Tell me, sweet.” Spike too was enrapt in a study of Buffy’s face.

“Maybe we should stick to being enemies.” Buffy chanced a brief look into his eyes and then went back to the safety of his jaw.

“Enemies, hmm?” Spike kissed her temple.

“Yeah, you know, you vampire, me slayer? Like it says in Giles’ books. Enemies.” Sticking with the familiar was a safe alternative to belly flopping into whatever unknown depths surrounded them. Fraternizing with the slayer wasn’t likely to win Spike any popularity contests and Giles’ resolve face was something Buffy could do without.

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s what I know.” Her voice was flat again.

“You want me to take this back?” Spike tantalized the tiny contusions on her flesh with the tip of his finger. “Pretend I never tasted you…never wanted to?” It was a ridiculous request. Genies don’t fit back into bottles and vampire bites cannot be unbitten. “Sorry, love. Can’t do that.” Buffy flexed her abdominal muscles in protest and struggled to sit up. Spike held her firmly and drew his thumb across the mark he left on her neck. “I can’t take this back Buffy and I won’t pretend I don’t feel what I feel.”

“Spike–“

“Buffy. This is me.” The flesh of his face rippled to reveal the demon’s visage under the human mask. His voice roughened, but remained calm and controlled. “I don’t have any other face I’ve kept from you behind door number one, two or three. I’m not going to go after your mom or your friends. I don’t play games.” He quirked the corner of his mouth into a sly smirk. “Okay, I do play games, but not mind games. Not with you. Contrary to what you may have been told, that’s not exactly my style.”

Buffy looked deeply into Spike’s contorted face. Whatever else he was, Spike hadn’t proved a liar. Not that he was good or anything, but that he was true to his word. Spike had done horrific things, but so had Angel. If she could turn a new leaf, why couldn’t Spike? Yeah, yeah…big evil dude. Wily vampire. Dedicated black hat. Maybe he could take a holiday from that stuff. Hadn’t he vacuumed her room and ironed her pillow cases for crying out loud? Maybe he was capable of something else.

What was that damn destiny again? To rid the world of vampires and demons. Who’s to say that always meant with a stake? Buffy’s thoughts expanded. She couldn’t make Spike good, but what if he chose not to do evil? What if he tried? What is a man but the sum of his deeds? Yesterday could never be changed, but today was another matter altogether. It was an intriguing proposition.

“We can have something here, Slayer. Something good.” She looked into his yellow eyes, the cruelty in them now fled. “You just have to want it.”

“But we…” Buffy’s tongue stumbled. What had Spike done except go after something he desired? Buffy should have known better; after all, she’d listened to Giles’ soap box sermons often enough. “I broke the rules–“

“Fuck the bloody rules and regulations. Fuck those pencil pushing wankers and their soddin’ decoder rings.”

“Spike.” His name wafted on a strained whine as if from the edge of a cliff. Her lips trembled with growing anxiety. He calmed her with a gentle kiss.

“Turn off your mind love, listen to your body.” He cuddled her closely. “Tell me,” he whispered in a dreamy tone. “Tell me that you want it. Wrong, bad, against the bloody rules…but you still want it. I want you to tell me…tell me Buffy…”

“I…I…Spike…” Her voice left her throat. The intimacy of the moment made it difficult to breathe.

“The truth, Buffy. Speak it. You feel it…just say it.”

“I want…”

“I’ll catch you…I’ll catch you.” He mouthed the words tenderly with the barest volume, drawing his lips over her cheek. She fought against breathlessness to speak her inner most wish.

“I…want it.” These words accompanied a tear from the corner of her eye.

“I know love, I know.”

Spike eased Buffy into a reclining position beside him and proceeded to kiss her. Soft, easy lips and the tips of tongues tasted and teased, enjoying the breath of affection passing between them. It was a sweet, playful duet known unto lovers, for that’s what they were now, lovers. They embraced with the totality of their being, closer and closer, closing a door to the world for a time; for a space they alone would occupy.

The shadowy living room soon filled with the soft mewled tones of Buffy’s parched pleasure as Spike’s fingers slowly traced the pathways of her body. He inhaled the sweet incense of this new Xanadu — a slayer shaped pleasure dome opened before him, a perfect surrendering fortress of bliss.

Buffy took what Spike offered her because she wanted it. Time would alter this delight soon enough and make it seem sallow and wicked. Other voices would crowd into her head and make their feelings known. Everyone would have an opinion and a pronouncement on just what should be done to remedy the situation. Giles might well rub a hole in the lenses of his glasses over this one.

But that hadn’t happened yet. That future was not now and not here. That future did not exist. It wasn’t in this room, made soft and sheltering by the kisses and deliberate caresses of a dead man and a girl who wanted to stay alive.

Buffy had only her opinion in her mind. Not Giles’ or Xander’s. Not Willow’s. Not Joyce’s. It was a refreshing change. Buffy’s fingers followed their own direction as they navigated a meandering path across Spike’s bruise mottled skin. She traced the major muscles on his shoulders and neck, his arms and back, all the while careful of his still tender rib area.

Buffy dared a fantasy in which Spike stayed in Sunnydale, a future where they could have something between them other than the mere cadence of agitated respiration. After several minutes of silent mutual exploration she tentatively broached the subject.

“What’s next?”

“Well, we haven’t tried the kitchen, love. Your island looks sturdy enough and plenty inviting.”

“Spike.” She rolled her eyes at him.

“I think I could manage the stairs and your bed makes the most interesting chirp. Did you happen to notice?”

“Would you stop it with the one track mind, already? Geez.”

“Make me.” Spike’s tongue was a dangerous exclamation point.

“Spike!” Buffy let out an exasperated burst of air and continued. If there was going to be an arrangement negotiated, there was one iron-clad, non-negotiable point. “If you’re thinking about staying in Sunnydale, the killing is over.” There, she said it, plain as day.

He tilted his head and countered with an indisputable truth. “Vampire, pet. Gotta eat.” Spike never actually thought through the logistics of continuing this situation. He always lingered in the fleshier aspects of their arrangement, in the sense memory of being covered by the molten cream of the slayer’s liquid body.

“The butcher shop always has blood, Spike.”

“Bugger that. Animal blood is foul.” He risked a swat, but his indignant taste buds demanded to be heard.

“Will it keep you alive– um, here?” She circumnavigated his Adam’s apple with the tip of her middle finger.

“Bloody hell, I’m actually considering this.” His bluster and exasperated scowl were merely for show. He already knew he’d do it. Nothing was worth more than the continuation of this bliss. The Slayer was more delicious than any of his evil schemes had ever been.

“You could supplement…” her voice trailed off. She’d been thinking this through.

“Hang on!” Spike’s eyes widened. “Yeah, that guy! He walked away. I could do two or three a night like that–“

“No Spike,” Buffy interrupted firmly. “NOT civilians.”

“Then what?”

“Me.” She lowered her eyelids. Spike felt a living beat within his body. He was speechless. “I’ll do it.” Buffy felt a new kind of bravery as she voiced her desires. “I want this to continue. If you’re interested, that is.” If he was interested? Spike swallowed heavily but continued to look dazed.

“My mom’s coming home tonight. That means you’ve got to go. And no more middle of the night visits. My mom’s a light sleeper and…”

“And you’re a tad loud when properly motivated.”

“Something like that, yeah. I was thinking that after dinner we could find a nice– I mean nasty crypt for you to move into.” Buffy sighed deeply and went on. “Angel already knows and it’s no one’s business what we do. Angel doesn’t own me Spike, and neither do you. No one does. No one will ever own me.” Spike understood the emotion behind that sentiment completely. He chose not to bring up the finer, technical aspects of his bite, but he knew full well what she meant. She’d never be an object to him, something to posses. He nodded and kissed her shoulder.

“Who knows how long I’ll–” Buffy forced herself to continue. This was a difficult certainty she could not evade. She was the Slayer. Death was always in the picture. “I think I deserve something for doing a dirty job.” Once upon a time all she wanted was a date out to the movies or dinner. Now she wanted rapture in the arms of this vampire. Nothing else would suffice.

“Okay, if we’re setting out the ground rules then I’ve got a couple for you.” Spike’s tone of voice changed. Time for some bargaining.

“And that would be?”

“Henceforth, my schnozz is off limits. There will be no punching or grabbing of the nose and nostril area. Whatsoever.” He sounded deadly serious.

“That’s it?” She liked his nose. It had a definite lived in quality to it.

“Oh, and no more calling me a pig.”

“Um. What if you’re being a pig?”

“Non-negotiable terms, Slayer.” He glared at her with a serious expression.

“Anything else, Mr. Not-a-Pig?” Spike pursed his lips to avoid his creeping grin. He counted his terms on his fingers.

“Nasal respect…no more pig references of any kind,” he raised an eyebrow at her menacingly. “And, oh yeah. No more saying I can’t love you.”

“Not very demanding at all, are you?”

“Not a jot. Well?”

“I won’t love you, Spike, but I do kinda like you. And we both like this.” Spike smirked at her girlish blush.

“This is good,” he pronounced plainly. Buffy swung a leg over his waist, moving over him carefully.

“So…permanent truce?” She wiggled herself against his hardening shaft. “Pinky shake?”

“Ask me again in a few minutes.” Spike flipped them and plunged back into her body. He sank his fangs into her welcoming neck. A growling exclamation of sated passion rose between them.

Yours. Mine. Ours.

“Mmm, ask you what in a few minutes?” Buffy’s breathy voice floated on a tidal orgasm she’d yet to register.

“Truce, love?” Buffy drifted toward sleep, dumbly unaware of what had just occurred.

“Truth?” she mumbled with her eyes closed. “I think I could love you…” Her respiration elongated into a restful sleep rhythm.

Spike smiled with satisfaction at her disclosure. He pulled out of her body and spooned her tenderly, pulling the warm sofa throw over them once more.

“Sounds like the beginning of something good.” Spike nuzzled his nose into her neck and joined her in sleep.

A/N: That’s it folks…some smoochy, some truths and a little open-ended. I have no plans for further sequels to this story. Thank you for reading and for sending me feedback. I am appreciative of your time and attention. 🙂

The End

Just before dawn Buffy walked the length of Revello Drive. Her sand encrusted jeans rustled stiffly against her weary legs. A few houses had lights on in small upstairs windows; no doubt early risers going to work, facing the new day. The sky stretched out overhead in wispy chevrons of muted pinks and blues. The darkness of the night sky always broke into a riot of colors before dawn. The speckled swath of the Milky Way dimmed as competing cloud vapors chased each other across the vast expanse, racing toward the glowing horizon and the burst of a new day.

A faint chorus of bird songs reached Buffy’s muffled ears. She plodded onward, one foot in front of the other, past homes and yards that seemed subtly transformed. The street looked different, or was it that Buffy hadn’t ever given much thought to the layout of her street before? When did the Wallaces paint their front door that putrid shade of orange? Surely there was a municipal bylaw in place to protect innocent neighbors from such repugnant color choices. Shit, had the trees rotated on their moorings? Was that hedge always there?

Thoughts tumbled clumsily through Buffy’s mind. Saturday mornings used to be her favorite. Cartoons as far as the eye could see and breakfast in her Little Mermaid cup and bowl. That all seemed so long ago, like a bedtime story she remembered about some other little girl’s life. Before vampires and demons, before the fate of the world was tipped into the palm of her small, yet mighty hand, before the night lengthened into a twisted parody of forever in her sights; Buffy Summers was a normal girl.

She liked drawing horses and begged her parents for riding lessons. She loved to read and sang into her hairbrush in front of the mirror to her New Kids on the Block cassette tapes. Everything was so simple then. Buffy knew the future that was in store for her.

Buffy was going to marry Jordan Knight. She was sure of this. He was so cute and the best singer and he had the most dreamy dimples. They would live at the beach and she would be a marine biologist because she could hold her breath the longest underwater. She even had a ribbon from sleep over camp to attest to this singular skill. It was going to happen because she wanted it so much. Joyce had even taken her to a New Kids concert once and Buffy was positive that Jordan had smiled for her alone.

Sometimes crushes die a horrible death. Sometimes they just drift away like sand through your fingers. It’s often not even intentional. It just happens.

Unfortunately for Buffy, normal girl couldn’t stick around. She was pushed out by the trouble between Joyce and Hank. The move to Sunnydale sealed the deal forever. Despite the nostalgic New Kids poster Buffy taped to her wall and the dated pop tunes she sometimes still sang in the shower, normal girl wasn’t going to return. Ever. Normal girl was a memory she kept on her bookshelf with the perfect, tiny dried starfish she kept tucked inside tissue paper in the miniature porcelain tea pot grandma had given her.

After overhearing her parents arguing over the fragile state of her sanity, Buffy bid normal girl a fond farewell. That’s when she became the keeper of secrets, a flesh chalice of dark truths in an unflappable smile. Monster talk stopped and birthday party and sleep over invitations resumed. It worked for the most part. Hank and Joyce so desperately wanted to put that unpleasantness behind them that neither thought of the possibility that it was all a mask. Buffy learned to juggle a new and complex social etiquette as she shielded the world from the beings that slithered through the shadows.

Becoming an adult isn’t like passing driver’s ed or placing first in a track meet. There’s no license to be issued or ribbon involved, no secret handshake or membership card. No one taps you on your shoulder and tells you that you’re an adult.

Being a grown up is about taking responsibility and facing up to the consequences of your choices. It’s an everyday, exhausting and thankless endeavor trying to look forward with hope instead of backward with weighted regret. Negotiating the fear and the pain and the boredom. But it’s also about letting go. Letting go of wishes and fancies and most importantly, the dream that the past can ever be different.

There is a point when the do-overs dry up; a time when you stand up for yourself.

The blissfully chaotic and seemingly uneventful normal life of Buffy’s neighbors would never be hers, but she’d be damned if she’d live a life of quiet desperation either. So she got apocalypses on her plate instead of a mortgage and an electrical bill. There was some good stuff too. She had friends and family, necessary connections to the world beyond shadows. She had a sense of humor and still felt that good things were possible. Being the slayer hadn’t squashed everything.

And there was Spike. Whatever was happening between them felt…okay. Well, better than okay. If Spike wasn’t at the house then she’d check some of the old crypts. Buffy hoped that Angel hadn’t pushed Spike into leaving town. Not yet. Not when she hadn’t figured out what ‘better than okay’ meant. Not when she hadn’t told him.

1630 Revello Drive loomed in welcome ahead of her; that was home, belonging, and safety. Buffy turned up the front walk and hurried up the stairs. A pitiable sight greeted her on the porch. Spike lay in the shadows, tucked up tight to the house. He looked beaten and raw. His eyes swam to focus at the sound of her approach.

“All in all, I thought Peaches took it quite well.” His voice sounded bizarrely chipper considering the ragged condition he was in. With slow and deliberate movements, Spike stood, bracing himself against the side of the house as his head lolled with incoherent half thoughts.

“You need a muzzle.” Buffy didn’t want to think about anything right now. She dug into her front pocket for the house key, the lock clicked and the door swung open. Buffy walked inside.

“Let me mend a bit first, pet.” Spike quipped breezily, managing an air of sexual arrogance. He followed her inside. A lightning fist greeted him as soon as he closed the door. That nose was definitely broken now.

“OW! Bloody hell. What the FUCK was that for?” Spike fell back against the door. His sudden yelp of pain hit Buffy in her gut.

“You’re FEEDING?” So she did hear the poofter’s news flash after all.

“Gotta keep my strength up, don’t I?” He had the nerve to wink at her.

“Did you kill?”

“No.” Buffy grabbed his shoulder and held up a stake. “NO! I didn’t,” Spike turned sideways, there was a relentless snare drum in his head beating out an aggressive rhythm. That was never a helpful sign. He should be dead drunk to feel this rough. No such luck. His voice shrank. “It wasn’t the same.” Buffy wrinkled her brow.

“What?” she scrutinized his silent face. The result was inconclusive. She couldn’t read that dazed look at all. “WHAT?” she demanded with a snarl, her fists tightly clenching his leather. Spike winced at the returning pain and gripped her shoulders in an effort to stay upright.

“Didn’t taste right.” He paused and twisted his mouth. She was going to make him say it. “It wasn’t your blood.”

Puzzlement and horror crept over Buffy’s face. What did he mean by that? Did he want to drain her completely? She paused with uncertainty. This was a vampire she was dealing with. Spike and blood were a matched set. Forever bound.

For his part, Spike didn’t want to feed from her at all. Well, not too much. The decadent high he experienced from tasting her soured his attempted kill and that failure to perform rattled him to the core, leaving him wide open for Angel’s attack.

“Oh God, that’s some kind of vampire compliment, isn’t it?” As if on cue both bites tingled in unison.

“It’s what I am.” Spike looked at her. No apologies. “It’s what you want, innit?” The words fell drowsily from his lips.

“What I want?”

“‘Cept I come…” He smirked at the word and failed to meet her gaze, “curse free.”

“You think I want an…Angel substitute?”

“Don’t you?”

“No.” She didn’t want that misery compounded by a repeat performance. Spike focused on her face, trying to gauge the truthfulness of that statement. She was a puzzle, this one. No matter how much he despised the thought, Buffy once loved Angel and probably still did. But did she feel anything for Spike? Could she be capable of feeling for him? Could they ever share anything beyond the moment of physical release?

“Honestly pet? I don’t think you have a bloody clue what you want. Don’t matter anyway, you know what you need. And so do I.”

“Spike, if you don’t want a detachable nose, I suggest we end this conversation right now.”

In the blink of an eye Spike had Buffy pinned against the wall. It was a supreme effort given his weakened condition and the extent of his injuries. Spike leaned heavily into her not quite sure whether he was awake or dreaming. His strength ebbed away as it appeared to Buffy that she alone was keeping him on his feet.

“Sweetheart,” he spoke in an affectionate mumble with eyes closed. He wanted to hold her and tell her. His feelings were developing and deepening far faster than he could control. Could she accept that from him? Would she? Buffy looked into his poor, battered face. It hurt her to know that Angel did that damage, most of it anyway, and that Spike took a beating because of her. Words swam to the surface. Spike chose as carefully as he could, wanting to convey something important. Some of the words slurred as his concentration flagged, but he was determined to tell her.

“I’m not like him, Slayer. Never was, never will be. No matter what bollocks he’s told you, ‘m not what he thinks…I’m my own man.” He fell forward, his head awash with dizziness. Buffy grabbed his arms.

“Spike?” He collapsed into her embrace.

“Won’t let him…hurt you…tosser likes to hurt little girls…make ’em…cry.” The words barely reached useful articulation.

“Sofa.” Buffy wedged herself against his side and swung an arm around his back in support. Together they lurched toward the sofa.

“He’s…bloody…liar. Don’t…trust…” Spike’s words collided in a slowing, staggered rhythm. Buffy managed to angle his limp body as he dove face first for the cushions. She tried unsuccessfully to remove his coat so she opted for the boots instead, unlacing them and then removing them from his feet.

“You rest. I’ll…” Buffy paused. She certainly was a complication magnet these days.

Had she just been mouthing off to Angel? Making a show of adolescent defiance? Or was there some genuine determination behind her contentious statements. I’m gonna live my life for me. That’s what she said. That’s what she meant. Maybe Spike could be a real part of that life, whatever it was going to be. Maybe not. Either way she’d decide. And it wouldn’t be to spite Angel either. That would just be ricochet childishness. Frustration rose again in Buffy’s gut. Ugh. Men– Vamps and their egos. It was excruciating being on the receiving end of that amount of ego fueled bullshit.

“I’ll go to the butcher’s when it opens and get you some blood.” Buffy amazed herself with that sentence. One thing was true, Spike would need blood to heal properly from Angel’s attack. She looked at Spike to see his reaction, but he was already dead asleep. Buffy reached for the sofa throw and spread it over Spike’s prone body. Asleep, without his requisite smirk and eyebrow arch, he looked young and vulnerable. There was definitely a look approaching kindness in that sleep expression.

With a sigh Buffy turned on her heel and made her way upstairs. She needed to wash her face. Crying always did nasty things to her complexion. At the top of the stairs she slid off her jacket and tossed it into her bedroom. Another round of laundry was needed. Her bed looked wind tossed. Thoroughly used. Later. There would be time for that later. First the face. Buffy twisted her wrist around the edge of the bathroom door and flicked on the light. Time for the truth.

Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror stilled her. Puffy eyes, swollen lips and smudged tracks of dirt and mascara sullied her face. That girl had been through a battle. She bore the ravaged signs of defeat. Only a few hours ago she applied lip gloss and mascara and giggled at Spike’s silly one liners and nuzzling kisses. When was that? Three hours ago? The time difference stretched out like an eon in her mind. Truly, she looked like she had faced a cataclysm of geologic proportions.

The truth shone clearly in her haggard pupils. The silly girl who loved Angel was gone and she wasn’t coming back. Clarity shone a brilliant light in her sober mind. Put away childish things. Stop living in the past. Each new journey is begun with a single step. At one time her refrigerator was littered with these slogans. Joyce had needed those words once upon a time. Buffy took in a skittering breath. It was a new day.

There were no tears left to shed but her face folded in sorrow. There was no sound, no heaving histrionics, just a quiet acknowledgement of a mindset passing into history.

This was the end of innocence: not her resolute acceptance of the legacy, not the theatrical emergence of Angelus and his bag of horrific tricks, not even the operatic anguish of sending Angel to hell; but here. Innocence ended in the bathroom mirror, with bluish fluorescent lighting shadowing her face. The truth was evident in Buffy’s own reflection and the certain knowledge that it was over for good. There was no going back.

Buffy felt older.

14.