It was May again, and a Tuesday at that. The end of the world. Or would be, if he couldn’t stop it. No pressure or anything then, eh, mate? Spike had saved the world before – he’d even had the biggest part one of the times and had gone out in a blaze of glory all proper like – but this time? This time it was all on him, and it didn’t even involve his fighting prowess. That, he could at least have some confidence in. This though? God, he was going to muck it all up, wasn’t he?
He stared into the roiling void that would devour the world unless it was stopped. Why had they decided he was the one meant to be doing this? Anyone would a better choice to fulfil the bloody prophecy. Even Angel. Well, no, not Angel. Liked Barry sodding Manilow, didn’t he?
Lightning crackled through the void, and a horrible whistling sound started up. He could feel a tug as the void began to grow and suck things within.
“Spike!” Buffy called, breaking away from the others up there on the rooftop to stand beside him. She took his hand in hers, her left entwining with his right like it had atop the Hellmouth two years ago to the day. She looked into his eyes, their hazel depths gleaming with determination. “You can do this. I believe in you.”
He swallowed hard and looked back at the void, the words of the prophecy running through his head. No style at all, and no way to know until it was nearly too late that it was all about some silly wanker whinging on about losing his bird to a better man or somesuch rot and love being dead. Seriously, why did that merit a bloody prophecy when a souled up vampire sacrificing himself for love and Christmas and sodding puppies apparently hadn’t? Probably because any sane person would have laughed themselves silly at the thought of how to stop it.
Buffy gently squeezed his hand. He was procrastinating. Bloody hell. He didn’t want to do this. No choice though, was there? He took a breath and closed his eyes, keeping the sight of Buffy’s face firmly in his mind.
“All is quiet as time stands still,
A single moment for good or ill.
Frozen, though your eyes flash fire.
Through the good and bad, you’re my desire.
“Walked through hell together, you and I.
Made it close to heaven’s gate.
Not for us to truly die
Two fingers up, I give to fate,
Make my own at your side
Because you know, it’s a hell of a ride.”
Spike opened his eyes as the whistling and tugging stopped. The void was closing. Stupid poncy thing, set to gobble up the world unless some sodding idiot of a poet spewed some heartfelt, on the spot love poem at the thing. Least nothing said the poetry actually had to be all that good.
“That was beautiful,” Buffy whispered.
He blinked at her, a little overwhelmed by the sincerity in her voice. Liked it then, had she?
‘Course, there was no accounting for taste when it came to the Slayer. She liked him, after all.
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