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Some of you may recall a plotbunny poll I posted awhile back, after which I whinged that the winning bunny was this big sprawling post-apocalyptic thing that I had a premise for but no plot.

Now I have plot. *\o/*

I also have this, which is the first scene of the fic but which also stands nicely on its own, I think. It is, shall we say, the happy fluffy schmoopy portion of the fic; later on there's character death and other such pleasant tragedies. Also, this may be subject to later tinkering.

Title: What She Was Waiting For (AKA the Prologue to the Unnamed Sprawling Post-Apocalyptic WIP)
Characters: Buffy/Spike
Words/Rating: 500 words - PG
(Just!) post-NFA


It’s all confusion at first: sixty women flooding into a battlefield squeezed between crumbling multi-stories. It’s pouring like a promise is breaking about ending the Earth by flood, and Buffy can barely see across the twenty feet between her and the plucky stupid band of rebels she’s come to save. They’re only chalk blurs in the rain: blue, black and dark, black and pale. In her march to them Buffy almost stumbles over a man sprawled onto the pavement. He’s nearly dead, and Buffy calls a Slayer over without ever losing sight of that platinum-white head.

Then she’s at his side. It is Spike, and awash in the shock of this basic truth she realizes she never really believed Andrew. Yet here Spike stands, pallor grayed to something like true death in this light, shoulders tight, whole frame coiled like some great night-cat – or like Tigger, maybe, half springs and resilient as rubber.

Now he’s turning; he sees her finally. His eyes don’t light like she expected, and she has a microsecond to remind herself about the demon horde thirty feet ahead and how personal moments in apocalyptic environments never work out all that well for her. And how maybe Willow’s caution of impossibles like ‘moving on’ might have some validity. She thinks she might pummel him straight into the asphalt right here and now for the gall of getting over her when he was supposed to be dead.

Then the corner of his mouth lifts. His eyes soften. That’s enough for her; she’s been waiting a long time for this, a year at least. Maybe way longer. She wraps her hands around his neck and pulls him down to her, and she kisses him like it’s the end of the world, which, hey, could be. After a moment’s frozen shock he kisses her back, hands hungry and clutching at her shoulders. Rain plasters her hair over her eyes and trickles down her back, and she thinks if she just stands here kissing him long enough, that rain’ll wash away this whole endless stupid year of grief.

But before it gets the chance he pulls back, grinning fit to break his face. Over the roar of water and other, deadlier things he shouts, “All the best things happen to me when I’m about to die.” He leans in for one more taste, quick and rough, and then he turns with what she can only describe as joy to face the black, scaly, snarling tide of death. But then his hand snatches at hers and he pulls her alongside him, grinning still. As she yanks her scythe free from her back, she thinks there's no other way she’d rather face the apocalypse than this.

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September 2017

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