Title: Open All Night Author: kindred Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns these characters lock, stock and profitable barrel. Rating: NC-17 Feedback: Yes, please! I am happy to receive it. Summary: Sequel to "No Vacancy". It takes place in S3 in Sunnydale. Have-itch-will-travel Spike visits Buffy...they enjoy an entrée of truth, but it comes with a side order of consequences. 13. 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. tbc...