Endless Night

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Desinations of the Heart Series: Story 4/5

Summary: The night of Februray 13th.

AUTHOR: Ariane
EMAIL: ariane_five@yahoo.com
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING:Buffy/Spike
SETTING: Post 'Potential' S7
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February thirteenth.  She’s staring intently at the window display in the corner drugstore. Though it’s a quarter to ten, the little shop is open late tonight. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and the store is crowded with last minute shoppers. The window is filled with hearts and more hearts: red, pink, silver, porcelain, paper, crystal—literally overflowing with hearts and the paraphernalia of love.

Stuffed bears, puppies, kittens, pigs, unicorns, devils, vamps, elves, and fairies all bear various heart-shaped gifts. And all the chocolate hearts, chocolate, chocolate everywhere. It’s a nightmare, she thinks. Is it illegal to have so much sweetness concentrated in such a small space?

The whole sight makes her dizzy. She takes a step backwards and tries to put the window display in perspective. She is so far from all of this, so detached from the idea of love or the possibility of love, that the gaudy display seems, to her, to be some bizarre ritual from another dimension.

You are chosen. You are not. You will find joy. You will not.

A young man rushes past her, elbowing her aside as he hustles toward the door of the shop. He didn’t even say excuse me, she thinks. Am I invisible?

Some are born to sweet delight. Some are born to endless night.

You don’t need valentines in a graveyard. You just do your duty. You just slay. Night after endless night. Demon, demon, vamp. Vamp, vamp, demon. Dust and gore. Drycleaners three times a week. No, she is not born for love. But she does love, and it is a problem.

Because she looks at the discrepancy between herself and the women of her generation, and she knows she is aging fast. Not enough sleep. Some scars just don’t go away. She’d never be able to wear a swimsuit again. Day after duty filled day. That’s what lies before her. No valentines for her. No tension filled dates and tentative kisses. No planning the future with someone who loves her. No picket fence, no diapers.

She’ll never have a future. Plain and simple –her hours are marked. A year? Six months? A week? Tomorrow? In the next moment? Something big and bad will get her. Take her down. Then she’ll just be gone, and there will be no one who will mourn her. Sure, her friends will cry for a while, but they’ll be happy for her. Happy that she’s finally found peace and returned to heaven. And they won’t try to resurrect her again; at least she knows that for sure.

They’ll let her go peacefully this time. All of them, except for him. The one she loves. It’ll kill him if she dies. He’s as much as told her so…several times, since she rescued him. Always worrying and fussing when she goes out slaying without him. He carries her heart inside him; she knows this now, and it hurts.

Something in her resists the notion of her death. She wants the great big, heart-shaped box of chocolates. Not a casket. She wants sweetness and love. Something in her is starting to rise in protest against the heavy burden placed upon her life. She thinks that maybe it’s time to leave. To run. Just disappear, and they’ll never know why or when or with whom.

She’ll escape. Now she just has to convince him. She tries to think of running away without him, and somehow, she just can’t make it work. But will he say yes? Or will he, now that he is all…good…do what she asks of him? She has a strange feeling that he’ll say no. Get all righteous and remind her of her duty. But does he really want to see her die again? That is her ace in the hole. Her one little piece of sure-fire blackmail that will shut him up if he protests.

But if they run away, where will they go? What will they do? Slink through the underbelly of the world, trying to hide from the First or the Second or whatever the hell this terribly annoying evil thing is? She tries to picture them on a deserted island. Long, beautiful beach, palm trees…sun. No, forget that. How about a mountain retreat? Pine trees, great achingly wide spaces where demons will stick out like a sore thumb. Demons like Spike. Okay, not a good plan. So where? Where? 

The young man, who so rudely barged past her a while ago, emerges from the shop carrying a huge package. He glances at her as he passes by and gives her a little wink.

What was that? Was that flirting? Or pity? She looks down at her clothes—baggy grey sweat suit stained with grass, demon parts, and vampire dust. She runs a dirty hand through her hair which is tied in a floppy ponytail, bedraggled and dirty. Still fighting over the hot water with those Potentials. Except for that wondrous, long bath with Spike four days ago, she’s had barely fifteen minutes in the bathroom. She lets out a long sigh. Yeah, that guy was definitely not flirting.


* * * * *


She turns her back on the shop and walks slowly back toward the cemetery. One more round and then home and bed. And what is Spike up to? He hadn’t wanted her to go on patrol tonight. Said she needed sleep. So she lied to him, chained him up and said she was going to bed early. But she was so restless. Anxious.

He’d been very evasive these last few days since their lovely bath together. She wonders if he was shocked at what she looked like naked. All those scars. She’d been too forward. Rushed him into a situation he wasn’t ready for. But he’d stayed with her, hadn’t he? Stayed for hours in the bath, letting her hold him, comfort him. But afterwards, when they emerged from the water, it’d been awkward. She’d wanted him to come with her to her bed. Take the next step. But he…he got all shy…mumbled something about it all being too fast.

Is she fast? What the hell did he mean, anyway? Doesn’t he want her anymore?

As she steps into the graveyard, two vamps jump her. With a few kicks and two sharp thrusts of the stake, mechanically and absently, she dusts them.  She continues on, winding her way through tombstones and crypts, through statues of angels and sad weeping maidens. She finds herself standing in front of Spike’s old crypt. Looking around to make sure she is alone, she steps inside.

It is dusty and empty.

The floor is scattered with broken glass, and it appears that his favorite chair has been used for target practice. Its upholstery is slashed and the stuffing is strewn over the ground. She kicks a broken bottle, and it skitters across the floor and smashes into the back wall. His crypt is not posh anymore. And definitely not comfy. Just empty and abandoned and melancholy.

Thoughts, of some of their more memorable moments together here, float through her mind. Their last night together, and that terrible morning wake up call by Riley. Her telling Spike that their relationship was killing her. And Spike’s face, oh God, his face when she’d said those words to him. It’s killing me. His face had been so naked with hurt, so defenseless against her words.

She’d plunged them both into endless night with her words.

Maybe that’s why it is so hard for her to speak, to talk. Not just to him, but to everyone. She always ends up saying the wrong thing. Too brash. Too arrogant. Too insensitive. Jokes at the wrong time. Timing.

Yeah, she definitely has a problem with timing. Always in too soon and out before the real payoff. She is the original ‘I can’t stick around for happiness’ girl. And that’s why it was so incredible to her that he’d come back. And that he’d gone and gotten his soul for her in the first place. It was just plain unimaginable.

He’d done it for her. So that she could find it in her heart to forgive him. To love him. That’s all. Because he loves her. And he doesn’t really give a damn what anybody else thinks about it because it was none of their business. It is between them. Only them. Her and Spike.

Spike, her love. All tender and vulnerable in the bath. Letting her touch him, hold him. Letting her probe his wounds, bind up his ribs, letting her give back to him everything she’s taken away. Letting her give him back his dignity, when he’d pushed her gently away.

Not the right time, Buffy. Want it to mean something. Something that will last.

He’d spoken the words softly, his eyes full of concern.

Something you won’t run away from, or be embarrassed about, or have to explain away or hide.

She hadn’t protested, just helped him dress and led him downstairs to his prison. Chained him up and gave him a quick kiss goodnight and returned to her bed alone. But she hadn’t slept all night. Every cell of her body was crying out for him, begging for him to come to her. But, of course, he couldn’t because he was chained. Chained by steel, and by all the words she’d battered him with before.

Words she’d spoken in this very crypt.

She gazes around her, and a sudden fury rises in her heart. She’d like to burn it down, blow it up; she’d like to destroy the evidence, the memories, and the betrayals. Level it to earth and dust, so no one could ever wander inside to see the ghosts of the Slayer and her Vampire playing out their final, bitter dance.  How much of his reluctance, his shyness with her, is fear?

Don’t ever want to go there again, Slayer. We can touch, talk, and speak of love, speak of slowly blossoming friendship and faithfulness. But we’re not ready to take the next step. Because there’s a cliff there, love, and I don’t know if we’ll fly or fall into the abyss.

She slams out of the crypt, literally ripping the door off its hinges. The force of her sexual frustration is almost tangible. She’s burning and tingling. One track mind. His hand on her breast, him pressing against her, his naked body slipping against her in the warm water. She knows he wants her. But why won’t he take her? Take what she’s offered in so many ways these last days? All those subtle, sneaky, blatant touches and glances she’s given him, which he pretends to ignore. But she knows he’s burning for her inside, too. The tension, when they’re in the same room together, is unbearable. Everyone can feel it. Everyone knows something’s going on.

So when will the time be right? When it’s too late?

She runs smack into a large demon who’s brandishing a huge axe. He slams her to the ground, and she just barely recovers her breath before she sees the axe rush down towards her head. She twists away at the last moment, feeling the axe glance off her scalp as she scrambles to her feet. Better run from this one, she tells herself. She sprints around him and hears him roar in frustration as she hops over the graveyard wall and heads for home.

Blood is streaming down her face, staining her sweatshirt. That was close, very close. Can’t go in the house like this, she mutters to herself. So much blood. She can feel it pulsing out of her with every step. Not sure I’m gonna make it home, she worries. Backyard. Hose. Don’t want to scare the Potentials. Too much blood.

She staggers up her driveway and sneaks around to the backyard. Where’s the damn hose? She plops down on the back porch and waits for her slayer healing powers to kick in. But for some reason they don’t, and she watches helplessly as her blood forms a little pool at her feet.

"Is this it?" she wonders to herself, as she tips forward and falls into a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs.


* * * * *


She wakes up an hour later, her clothes soaking with dew and blood. No one even knew she was lying out here, her life blood gushing away into the earth. She rolls over to her side, and she hears a strange pounding noise coming from inside the house. No, not from the house, but from the basement. Someone’s swearing and shouting and beating against the walls. Who’s down there? Did they capture a demon and chain him in the basement?

Chains. She sits up. What’s wrong with her? She knows who it is. It’s Spike. And why’s he making such a racket? Doesn’t he know he’ll wake everyone up? Oh, yeah, no one’s home. Left this evening after dinner. All gone off on a little field trip with Giles. She crawls to her feet and somehow makes her way into the house and down the stairs into the basement.

“What’s your problem?” she asks and then stumbles into his outstretched arms.

“Where’s the bleeding key?” He’s shouting at her. “You lied to me! Why did you go without me?”

Now she’s lying on his cot. Must have passed out again. Why does he want the key? She raises her hand to her throat and weakly pulls on the silver chain around her neck. She keeps his key next to her heart. Someday she won’t need a key. There’ll be no need for keys or locks or chains. And why is he spinning around her?

“Stop spinning!” she says weakly, as he jerks the chain over her head and unlocks his shackles.

It’s his turn to take care of her. He carries her up to the bathroom and cleans her wound. The bleeding has stopped, but the gash is deep and jagged, and he’s afraid that he’ll need to stitch her up. He’ll need ice and a needle, some thread. He props her up against the wall and rushes downstairs to the kitchen, finds what he needs and then rushes back to her. She looks up at him as he enters the room.

His wrists are bruised and bloodstained. How long had he struggled to get to her?

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” he says, distracted by the glazed look in her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

“Endless night,” she mumbles.

“Hush, love. You’re babbling. Now, just tilt your head to the side. I’m gonna stitch you up.”

Later, he strips off her filthy clothes and gives her a sponge bath. She’s shaking uncontrollably. He lifts her up in his arms and carries her into her bedroom, placing her gently on the bed.

“I think you’re in shock, Buffy. Where’s your pajamas?” He jerks open her drawers, one by one, until he finds the soft flannel ones, covered with garish pictures of sushi. No wonder she has bad dreams. He dresses her in these and tucks her into bed, piling blankets over her. She’s still shivering.

“What should I do?” he asks her, his voice ragged with desperation.

“Something sweet…sweet…delight,” she mutters through chattering teeth.  Suddenly she goes into a convulsion. Her body arches off the bed, and the blankets tumble to the floor.

He tries to hold her still, cursing himself for his coldness. If he were warm, if he were a man…he could give her what she needs. If he were a man, he wouldn’t have been chained up and helpless as he sensed her dying a mere ten feet away from him. Just how long can an hour last?

He glances down at his wrists, bruised with his desperation to reach her. What can he offer her now? His tainted blood?

Something sweet, she said.

And then he remembers the gift hidden beneath his cot in the basement. Not exactly how he imagined it would all play out, but then his timing had never been great. He tries to tuck her in again.

“I’ll be right back, love. Think I got something that will help.”

A few minutes later, he comes back into the room holding a flat package. It’s wrapped in brown paper. He sits down on the bed next to her and rips off the paper. She looks up at him expectantly.

“What in the world is that?” she chokes, as he pulls out a large, heart-shaped box. It’s covered with frilly, red and silver satin bows and plump, pink cherubs. He takes off the lid and shoves the box under her nose.

“Take your pick. I’d go for those dark chocolate ones. Filled with raspberry, got enough sugar in ‘em to bring the dead back to life.”

He sees she’s too weak to pick, so he takes out a chocolate and places it in her mouth. One after another, he feeds her the sweet morsels. After a while, her shaking stops, and her eyes become more focused. She’s looking at him, her eyes soft, wide open and questioning. It’s a tender, pleading look. A tear slowly traces a solitary path down her cheek.

“What’s wrong now, love?” he asks.

He sets the box down on the floor and stretches out beside her on the bed. He wipes her tears and a smudge of chocolate on her lips with his finger.  He absently sticks his finger in his mouth, tasting the saltiness of her tears and the sweetness from her lips. “Did I do something?”

She struggles with the covers and makes him get underneath them so she can feel his body next to hers. He pulls her into his arms, and she presses her hot, wet, slightly sticky face against his neck.

“Where’d you get them?” she whispers.

“I bought ‘em, right and proper. Giles loaned me the money.”

“Giles?”

“Yeah, he begged me to just get on with it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? And who did you get them for?”

“Ah, Buffy. Love. As if you have to ask. For you, silly. I got them for you. Because you’re mine. You do know what tomorrow is, don’t you?”

“End of the world?”

“That’s my girl. Joking now. Chocolate must’ve done the trick. Well, I was gonna give ‘em to you tomorrow. On Valentine’s Day. After our date. It’s mushy and embarrassing, I know. But I guess they came in handy.”

“There’s a date tomorrow?” she asks hopefully.

“Of course, that is, if you’re feeling better. A date and dancing and kissing and…” He stops. She’s got her hand under his shirt again.

“I don’t want to wait ‘till tomorrow, Spike. It might never come, and I don’t want to waste anymore time not loving you.”

She yawns against his skin and then kisses his neck. He loves her. Got her a valentine present. He chose her. It makes her all warm and soft inside. She feels something sweet flowing through her…what’s this strange feeling? Too much chocolate? She tilts her head back and smiles at him, her breath catching at the look he’s giving her. He loves her.

This must be joy.

She raises her lips to kiss him. She tastes like wild berries, honey and cream. Suddenly, he’s tumbling back to his childhood, to a small boy hiding beneath a tangle of wild vines heavy with fruit on a summer’s day. He remembers that not all his years were cloaked in death and darkness.  He had known something of beauty once, and now he knows it again in her arms.

“You’re sleepy, pet. Rest now. It’s only midnight, and we have a long night ahead.”

Lots of time for other things, later.