Ficlet. "Till the next time the world ends". A/B/F/S

I'm not totally happy with this. I just tossed it all together because I've seen that one of the unmet requests at buffyverse1000 was Angel/Buffy/Faith/Spike and I've been dying to write them for ages. So I decided to give it a shot. (A reprieve from the fic of doom. Ah!)

But I dunno. Constructive criticism and suggestions are welcome. And if you spot any mistakes, please let me know.



Till the next time the world ends



Once upon a time this could not have been. Now, in the days of the never after, the time of the impossible, of survival and almost normality, it feels inevitable and not in the way of prophecies. Just the natural order of things. Funds and freedom, Buffy had joked.

They still have duties and missions and distance holding them apart. But the world is a smaller place and the remoteness is only physical and can be bridged in the space of hours. Isolation of the heart is more difficult to overcome but they’ve mended the holes through maturity and acceptance and the dread of loss makes forgiveness and reconciliation simple. You mourn the dead and love the living. Treasure the fact that they are alive in the first place.

Awkwardness lasted little time in those first few days, none of them truly surprised at their respective choice of pairings. And after they shouted the accusations and the fear they fell into a heap of bodies and heat and let the consummating reality of it all envelop them and make them whole and strong. Laughed at their lack of shame and felt good about themselves.

They take reassurance in the mundane and in the oddness alike. Remember shared tastes and find new ones, play familiar clichés, Buffy and Angel eloping to the beaches of the Gulf, romantic getaway of tepid waters and warm breezes, re-acquaintance with half-forgotten moments of perfection and the discovery of carnality, while Faith and Spike abandon themselves to orgies of demon-slaying, alcohol and rhythm on the dance-floors of LA and listen to blues and punk sprawled on the floor in the mellow of the afternoons. Gather to watch bad Van Damme movies that Angel abhors and the others love. “I don’t know how you can stand to watch that crap” countered by Spike with “intellectual honesty”, whatever that means, popcorn and snark. They leave to dark rooms to do their demon thing, blood and tenderness, unspeakable things conveyed in the purity of raw touch. Arms round each other, Faith and Buffy sleep in a tangle of feminine limbs, curves fitting together seamlessly, two parts of a whole, still the two. They don’t want to be alone anymore. Angel and Faith talk quietly, a habit of confidence from her prison years and implicit trust and respect from even before. They’ve seen the worst of each other and she bears the mark but some things they too leave unspoken. She asks about Connor but not about Wesley. And some things are only remembered once. “I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry too.”

And when they part ways to Rome and parts unknown they know they’ll return. Again and again. Fighting the fight. Till the next time the world ends.