Fic: The End
Author: Bruttimabuoni
Title: The End
Rating: R
Characters: Spike/Angel
A/N: written for grazieprego ficathon
Prompt: from stultiloquentia “Humans? They're long gone. Vanished. Extinct. They only exist in stories.”
It is fimbulvetr.
Who would have expected that to come true? No one, frankly. No hold-out Norse folklorist had tutted on a late night chat show, “Ah yes, well, you can’t say you weren’t warned about the prelude to Ragnarok.” The tales were known, of course, but discounted; called cute, mythic, disbelieved. And then they came true. It was a hell of a shock.
Not literally true, sad to say. “Three successive winters where the snow comes from all directions.” How long is that? Eighteen months, perhaps, before the end of days? Sounds bearable, surely? Not so much. Before civilisation finally gave up the struggle, it was pretty well agreed that the ‘winters’ signified ice ages. Which was a lot of snow. Unsurvivable snow for most.
So what is left? The tiny, warm-blooded, burrowing types. Cockroaches, naturally. Some things in the deep seas, probably, though there is no one left to fish them up and check. Faeries and other ethereal spirits - ghosts are the new big boom population, needing no sustenance beyond their own distress.
And the vampires.
*
It has been one hundred and thirty-three years since summer.
The long winter nights are vampire heaven. Surely?
Except no. Because there’s little prey. Small, squeaky nocturnal beasts, yes - but there’s hardly gourmet pleasure in draining a vole.
And also no. Because there’s no new companionship. No fledglings, awkward and irritating. No newbies to amaze with tales of the old ways. No new lovers, spicy and intoxicating. All that ever will be already is.
Their numbers are shrinking. Not a surprise, what with the (lack of) food situation. Feuds and wars have erupted, mainly through boredom. Even suicides; immortality not quite the big prize when the world becomes a white blank, heading for the Twilight of the Gods.
Spike hasn’t reached that point. He’s focused on living. Someday, maybe, the sun will shine again. New populations will arise. He wants to be there to tell them what came before. Some memories should remain. Besides, he’s only got the one unlife, and hellfires await when he loses it. So he unlives on.
Angel is less convinced the struggle is worthwhile. He spent decades protecting the last of the humans. Watched with silent pain as his little flock dwindled and faded into the dark and the cold. Then sought out Spike, his last charge.
Their relationship is fractious. This surprises no one. Or wouldn’t, if there were anyone left to be unsurprised.
*
Sometimes when they fuck, it’s furious and punishing. You’re not her, him, them, whoever it might be that the other misses most at that moment. Skin is clawed and stripped. Fangs are bared. They end by breaking apart unspeaking, and lick their wounds distantly for days before returning irresistibly to each other.
Sometimes it’s melancholy. They tell stories of the past. Vampire life, pre and post souls: the horror, regret and secret nostalgia for guilt-free times. Darla and Drusilla; all their atrocities, their painful glories, their transformative power. Even Buffy. She was the great unspoken for many years. But one day Spike made a glancing remark about blondes past, and the words flooded out of both men. Her strength and honesty. The grace of her fighting. A little, even, about her in love and sex. Her life unspoken, they both fear she will be forgotten, and so they choose instead to bear the pain of each other’s love. It keeps her alive, for them.
Mostly, though, they huddle for closeness and companionship. Warmth for the spirit, if not the body. They have known one another for three hundred years, on and off. It makes for a lot of talking points.
And every once in a while, when news of another loss reaches them, Spike makes Angel promise, in blood and desperation.
“Don’t you leave me. We’re going to make it through. Promise me.”
And Angel promises. Spike is his purpose now. It’s almost enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
Title: The End
Rating: R
Characters: Spike/Angel
A/N: written for grazieprego ficathon
Prompt: from stultiloquentia “Humans? They're long gone. Vanished. Extinct. They only exist in stories.”
It is fimbulvetr.
Who would have expected that to come true? No one, frankly. No hold-out Norse folklorist had tutted on a late night chat show, “Ah yes, well, you can’t say you weren’t warned about the prelude to Ragnarok.” The tales were known, of course, but discounted; called cute, mythic, disbelieved. And then they came true. It was a hell of a shock.
Not literally true, sad to say. “Three successive winters where the snow comes from all directions.” How long is that? Eighteen months, perhaps, before the end of days? Sounds bearable, surely? Not so much. Before civilisation finally gave up the struggle, it was pretty well agreed that the ‘winters’ signified ice ages. Which was a lot of snow. Unsurvivable snow for most.
So what is left? The tiny, warm-blooded, burrowing types. Cockroaches, naturally. Some things in the deep seas, probably, though there is no one left to fish them up and check. Faeries and other ethereal spirits - ghosts are the new big boom population, needing no sustenance beyond their own distress.
And the vampires.
*
It has been one hundred and thirty-three years since summer.
The long winter nights are vampire heaven. Surely?
Except no. Because there’s little prey. Small, squeaky nocturnal beasts, yes - but there’s hardly gourmet pleasure in draining a vole.
And also no. Because there’s no new companionship. No fledglings, awkward and irritating. No newbies to amaze with tales of the old ways. No new lovers, spicy and intoxicating. All that ever will be already is.
Their numbers are shrinking. Not a surprise, what with the (lack of) food situation. Feuds and wars have erupted, mainly through boredom. Even suicides; immortality not quite the big prize when the world becomes a white blank, heading for the Twilight of the Gods.
Spike hasn’t reached that point. He’s focused on living. Someday, maybe, the sun will shine again. New populations will arise. He wants to be there to tell them what came before. Some memories should remain. Besides, he’s only got the one unlife, and hellfires await when he loses it. So he unlives on.
Angel is less convinced the struggle is worthwhile. He spent decades protecting the last of the humans. Watched with silent pain as his little flock dwindled and faded into the dark and the cold. Then sought out Spike, his last charge.
Their relationship is fractious. This surprises no one. Or wouldn’t, if there were anyone left to be unsurprised.
*
Sometimes when they fuck, it’s furious and punishing. You’re not her, him, them, whoever it might be that the other misses most at that moment. Skin is clawed and stripped. Fangs are bared. They end by breaking apart unspeaking, and lick their wounds distantly for days before returning irresistibly to each other.
Sometimes it’s melancholy. They tell stories of the past. Vampire life, pre and post souls: the horror, regret and secret nostalgia for guilt-free times. Darla and Drusilla; all their atrocities, their painful glories, their transformative power. Even Buffy. She was the great unspoken for many years. But one day Spike made a glancing remark about blondes past, and the words flooded out of both men. Her strength and honesty. The grace of her fighting. A little, even, about her in love and sex. Her life unspoken, they both fear she will be forgotten, and so they choose instead to bear the pain of each other’s love. It keeps her alive, for them.
Mostly, though, they huddle for closeness and companionship. Warmth for the spirit, if not the body. They have known one another for three hundred years, on and off. It makes for a lot of talking points.
And every once in a while, when news of another loss reaches them, Spike makes Angel promise, in blood and desperation.
“Don’t you leave me. We’re going to make it through. Promise me.”
And Angel promises. Spike is his purpose now. It’s almost enough.
~~~~~~~~~~