The end of the world was coming not with a bang or a whimper but with the roar of a dragon, the heat of flames, the screech of a thousand demons.
Two vampires, a demon god, a half-dead human were all that stood between hell and earth.
Spike should have known better.
As Angel flung himself at the dragon, and Illyria snapped the necks of two lesser demons, and Gunn raised a flame-thrower, a hundred girls flew past them into the maws of certain death.
And came out the other side leaving devastation, death and gore in their wake.
For a moment Spike watched them fight with sword and stake and bare hands, and listened to their voices yelling battle cries in a dozen languages, then flung himself at the nearest demon and rejoined the battle.
He knew she was there. He didn't need to see or hear her to know, and now he had another reason to fight.
For the world, for Los Angeles, for his friends, even for Angel.
But, mostly for Buffy.
For four years he'd fought mostly for Buffy.
It felt familiar and comforting, and gave him the spur to rip off a demon's arm and beat him to death with it.
It felt damn good.
And when the battle was over, and won by the side of light--in his mind, never in doubt once joined by an army of Slayers--Spike found her sitting on some broken concrete steps, cleaning her sword, a soft smile on her face.
"Hey," she said without looking up, as if no time had passed between them, as if his death had never happened to separate them.
Spike sat down next to her, wiping demon goo off his duster, remembering another time he'd sat on a set of steps with her.
Remembering that was the moment he knew he loved her.
"'Lo, Slayer."
"Not the only one anymore, not by a longshot."
"Always the only one that matters to me."
At the same moment they turned their heads, smiled at each other, and Spike knew this wasn't the end of anything.
It was the beginning for them...all over again.
End