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[A/N: Onward and upward. Sorry if the subject matter bothers some of you, but I did state in the first chapter that it was about a kink. The quote is from a Patsy Cline song, (and I love Patsy, so you should go listen). Oh yeah, the poem? Its mine. I wrote it. Disclaimers in full force and effect.]

Second. Walking after midnight.



She was so far from okay it was a whole other dimension. Her mother had given her a twenty-four hour reprieve from the lectures and recriminations for some bizarre reason. But tonight was a different story.

Her mom had started with “sit down sweetheart we need to talk” and everything had gone straight down hill from here. And it wasn’t like there was any dialogue either – was just her mom, listing everything that was wrong with the situation, everything that was wrong with her and finally winding down to the big finish “what did I do that was so bad as a mother to deserve a daughter like you?”

No, “what can we do about this?” No, “have you thought about this?” No, “sweetheart everything will be okay, we’ll work through this together.” Nope. No sympathy at all.

Just lots of yelling. Whole heaps of anger. Finger pointing and blame.

And when Buffy had just cried, Joyce had gotten angrier and sent her to her room. Buffy had locked her bedroom door and slipped out the window. She wasn’t worried about getting hurt. This was easy. She’d been sneaking out since she was fifteen, since they’d first moved from Los Angeles.

Most nights she just hung out at Restfield Cemetery, writing and talking to the headstones. On the harder nights, when she and her mother were fighting and Joyce headed for the liquor cabinet, Buffy would walk through the cemeteries, through the woods or wherever she could go to be alone.

Tonight was a walking night. She’d skipped out of school today, not wanting to face anyone, especially him. . Mr. Stevenson.

How embarrassed am I? Fall asleep in his class then practically barf on the cutest teacher in school. Bet that would’ve gotten me out of class for the rest of the week.

A soft sigh escaped from her as she moved through Restfield. The nausea was gone, for the moment, but she learned in the eight weeks she’d been pregnant that always having pretzels was a good thing.

How the hell am I gonna tell Riley? What’s he gonna say? This is so hard. Okay. . Hey Riley, missed you. . . I’m pregnant. Nope. Riley we need to talk. Ew. Nope that was parental speak for not good. Something else. Hey. I know. Riley? What does je suis enciente mean? Shit. He doesn’t speak French. Ohhkay. Dude. I’m knocked up. Yeah you know, bun in the oven? Yup. That’s me.

Unaware she’d been talking out loud, Buffy also didn’t know she had an audience. “Miss Summers? What are you doing out here at this time of night?”

His voice startled her, making her knees wobble a bit when she turned around to face him. “And in a cemetery?”

Mr. Stevenson always wore dress pants or chinos and a button down shirt and tie, his hair was always combed back and this man? Whoever this man was he looked just like Mr. Stevenson except for the all black and jeans . . and spiky curls.

Buffy stared at him, her mind completely blank. Two years she’d crushed on this man and now? She found out he was even hotter after dark than he was in daylight.

Oh my god. Her heart was thumping away and it wasn’t because she’d just gotten busted. Nope. Her heart was pounding away because he was hot. Sizzling.

“Mr. Stevenson?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh . . um. . “ whooeey. Ohmygod. He’s so damn cute. Why couldn’t I be older?

“Why are you out at this time of night?” Will hadn’t missed the dejected slope of her shoulders before he’d called out to her, but he couldn’t see her reddened eyes, but all the same he figured she’d been crying.

“I, uh, you know. . um. Snuck out of my room after fighting with my mom.” She started walking again, this time back into Restfield instead of out of it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Will caught up to her in three strides.

She shrugged. “Not much to say. Mom thinks I’m a screw up and well . . .” she refused to look at him, instead staring down at her feet.

“I don’t think you’re a screw up. You’re smart, funny and cute. You should do well in college.”

“Mr. Stevenson. I’m,” she hesitated, then said, “I’m not going to college, at least not right after graduation.”

“Why not?” He half turned to look at her, a question in his eyes.

“I’m pregnant.” There. She’d admitted it to a third person now. “And I’m not having an abortion. I think I want to keep the baby.”

He’d had his suspicions yesterday. After all, he hadn’t grown up under a rock and he was a fairly experienced guy. “That’s why you and your mom . . .”

“Were fighting.” Buffy sighed. ‘Not sure what she wants me to do. But isn’t it like my decision?”

“Yeah it is, but you’re only seventeen.”

“I’ll be eighteen in January.” He looked at her, saying nothing.

“Its almost November. How afar along are you?”

“About eight weeks. I think.” She paused, suddenly embarrassed to be talking about all this with him.

“Hey. This stays between us. I promise. Not telling your mother or anyone else.” Will reached out to touch her arm. “I promise.”

“Thanks.” She stayed like that for a minute, just letting him touch her. “I’m just not sure what to do, you know? All my mom and I did was fight. We really didn’t talk about anything.”

Breaking away from him, she walked away. “Its just so hard.”

“I can only imagine. Have you told anyone else? Does . . ah,” he hesitated in case his supposition was wrong, “does the baby’s father know?”

She blew out a breath, ruffling her hair in the process. “No. Haven’t got that much courage yet. But I guess I need to, don’t I?”

“He should know.” Will watched her, his hands shoved into his pockets. She really was cute. Just his type too, tiny, petite and . . . well, female. He shook his head, determined to not think of her that way. Still seventeen, still your student and therefore, you wanker, very, very – very off limits. “So have you thought about how you’re going to tell him?”

Yup. Thought about it lots. Haven’t got an idea.” Turning to face him, she asked, “any ideas?”

“Unfortunately no.”

The lapsed into silence, neither one of them willing to break it. Buffy was trying not to squeal like a thirteen year old trying to be at least a little bit mature around him, while Will was trying very hard to remember she wasn’t a date, that she was only seventeen and far too young for him.

“So how come your out here in Restfield?”

“Short cut between my place and the Espresso Pump.”

“Oh” her voice was flat, almost disappointed.

“Wednesday night is open mic – its sort of become poetry slam night.”

“So you read poems?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? Whose?”

Oh now he had to admit it. “My own.”

“You write poetry?” How cool was that? We’ve got something in common! “So you write. That’s cool.”

Feeling kind of stupid for asking, she did anyway. “So what do you really think of mine?”

He thought for a minute, trying to give her an honest answer. “Your stuff is really good. Not typical for a teen-aged girl. Its got depth to it, and your subject matter is never trite.”

“So you like it.”

She really was adorable, looking for his approval. “Yeah, Buffy, I really like your poetry.”

“Can I hear some of yours?”

If he didn’t know better he’d swear she was flirting with him. Part of him was enjoying this – a big part of him. “Ahh. . . you sure?”

“C’mon Mr. Stevenson, its not fair.”

Against his better judgment, the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Outside of class, Buffy, you can call me Will.”

The blush that bloomed across her face was beautiful and Will was inordinately proud of the fact he’d made her do it.

“So Will, are you gonna share a poem with me?”

He hesitated again and Buffy pulled on his arm, trying to get him to cave. “All right. All right. But then I’m walking you home, okay?”

She looked crestfallen but after a moment’s thought agreed. “Okay. I’m all listening Buffy now.”

His voice was whiskey rough, laced with pain and some other emotion Buffy couldn’t begin to put a name too, but he infused the words with so much emotion as he spoke.

“black morass,
whirling spirals of oily darkness
grief unspoken,
swallowed whole
unholy birth of rage and hurt
screams shouted silently
voice aches,
sounds gone
no one hears
no one listens
swirling, spiraling, downward, inward
crippling
grinning death’s spectre
here is the fear, here is the anger
defiled, putrid
rotten
me”


“Wow” Buffy was impressed. He was good.

“And you think my stuff is good?” She was incredulous.

“Your poetry is good. You write pretty well for a girl your age.”

“Gee Will, you make it sound like I’m so much younger than you – like you’re ancient or something.”

He laughed for a moment, telling her, “ten years is a big gap.”

“Yeah, but you’re not like over the hill or anything.” Will threw back his head and laughed out loud. “No, I’m not anywhere near that hill.”

Before long, they were back at her house and neither one of them wanted to go. “See you in class tomorrow?”

Will knew he was pushing it, but he wanted to make sure she was going to be okay before letting her go. “Buffy? You are going to be in class?”

“Yeah. Mom won’t let me cut out again.” Abruptly, everything crashed back down again, reality rearing its ugly head. “I’m gonna have to tell Riley soon too. I just don’t know how.”

“Listen, if you need to talk, and I promise I won’t say anything, you can talk to me. About anything.” Will held her arm, holding her back from bolting toward the house.

She smiled at him wistfully, then leaned up, standing on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Thanks Will.”

And just like that she was gone.





So, you gonna let me know what you think or are you gonna let me guess again?





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