Title: The Real World
Setting: B3
Rating: G
Words: 486
Note: For the prompt “Deja Boo.” Takes place during The Wish—what if Buffy Summers had never come to Sunnydale? And what if Spike trailed her there when she finally did arrive? Quotes in italics are lifted from the series. First thing I’ve written in 8 months and it’s a bit clunky, but here you go.
***



This is the real world now. This is the world we made. Isn’t it wonderful?

Spike is lurking in the shadows outside the Watcher’s house when the Slayer comes striding out, all business and poor attitude, blonde braid thumping between her thin shoulder blades. He steps into the pool of light under the streetlamp, flicking his smoldering cigarette into the gutter. She spins to face him, the harsh yellow glow highlighting the scar crossing her lip and cheek. He lifts both hands, cocking his head in a gesture of nonaggression and acquiescence, until her right hook catches him squarely across the jaw.

“Ow!”

“What do you want, Spike? ‘Cause I really don’t have time for this right now.”

“Now just you hold on a bleeding second!” His voice is muffled by his hands massaging his TMJ.

“News flash, Spike. Me Slayer. You undead creep. Remember what I told you in Cleveland? Keep following me and you’re gonna end up in an ashtray.” Buffy’s clutching her stake, circling in closer.

“You wanna dance, pet? I’m happy to oblige.” He’s standing straight now, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he side-steps her like a cat, leering. “But my end in Sunnydale’s not so different from yours this time round.”

Buffy pauses in spite of herself. “What’s that supposed to mean? What are you talking about?”

“The Master. I want him gone. So do you. And neither of us is going to manage it alone.”

Buffy barks out a short, mirthless laugh. “I can handle myself. And he’s turning this town into vampire Burger King. Free people-shakes, no need to worry about getting dusty in the process. What’s not to love?”

Spike shakes his head. He doesn’t expect her to understand vampire politics—there’s no such thing as a free lunch, whether it’s blood or buffalo wings. There’s always a price. “Mass production. ‘s wrong. No hunt, no rush, no crunch? It’s not who we are. I like this world. I like it how it is. The Master is a ponce, but he’s a ponce with power, and a talent for innovation. Let him get a foothold here, there’s no telling how far he’ll go. We’ll be ghosts of a race.” Spike can see that Buffy’s relaxing as he talks, her stance softening, her arms slowly coming down to cross tightly across her abdomen. “’Sides, bagging Slayers is my gig. I’ll thank the Master to find his own game.”

“So this is what, some kind of unholy vampire-Slayer alliance? You want to be partners?” She’s still got a white-knuckled grip on that stake and two eyes on his every move, but she’s turned a little to let him walk down the sidewalk next to her. She’s not sure why she’s not staking him, but for some reason this whole absurd situation makes sense in her head.

He smiles evilly, tongue curled against his teeth. “I want to save the world.”