Title Some Tricks of Desperation
Rating PG13
Prompt Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
Setting post-NFA, in a hellish LA
Words 750




Angel once told him about Wolfram and Hart's little morale-smasher. The whole Home Office/hell on Earth gig. Spike preferred not to believe the tale. His erstwhile employers, after all, had a less than stellar relationship with truth and honour. And, knowing Angel's weak spot for self-flagellation, what could have been better? Crush the guy, and spend nothing (except possibly some lift-maintenance fees, depending on how that gizmo worked). Cheapest setup ever.

Now, of course, it's a boringly literal truth. And this is where Spike wishes Angel wasn't now powder underfoot, because he would enjoy pointing out how much this demonstrates that Holland Manners was talking out of his arse. As, indeed, was Angelus himself when he implied that that whole 'suck the world into hell' plan was going to be a barrel of fun and gig.

This is actual hell on earth. As expected, it's bollocks. Bloody murder twice a day, six times on Sundays, and not a jot of interest. Spike even misses the sun in the sky, keeping him in his place half the day. Dull, now, with no balance or challenge to life. He can feed if he wants, free rein granted to all demonkind, though he mostly doesn't. Where's the fun? The humans are dying, bleeding out in a thousand tortured ways, and when you watch it all day, every day it loses savour.

His jeans are too loose. He hasn't smoked for a fortnight, maybe. Not that he's counting the days.

The Hell of the Apocalypse is fucking tedious, tbh.

He's staring down at his boots, noting the incipient hole at the left big toe, wondering where to source decent footwear amid Armageddon, when some very fancy shoes indeed hove into view. Red, shiny, high-heeled. Highly unsuitable for Judgment Day, which naturally makes him smile.

Somewhere deep within, he knows what he's going to see when his eyes lift. Not how. There's no transport of any viable sort. Humans are controlled and herded whenever seen in public, and even a tough Slayer will be inconveniently noticeable if she tries to move freely. And he hasn't heard from Buffy or her Slayer buddies since before any of this happened.

Buffy was in Rome. Now she's here, in the epicentre of hell, the City of Our Lady of Perpetual Torment or whatever they've renamed LA. Looking down at him with a half-smile, half-challenge, like in those precious few scattered days when they worked like a team. Not like enemies, nor hopeless lovers, not a madman and his nurse.

"Hi Spike," she says. "So, we need a warrior and I got your number from a friend…"

He's not hallucinating. 90% sure of that.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't know what to say, even – especially – if she's a figment. Didn't know what to say when he saw her from afar in Italy, with her nice shiny new life. And now, when he has so noticeably failed to save the world… Well. Not a lot to be said, is there?

She wrinkles her nose at his silence. "Spike? I'm not joking. We couldn't get here in time to stop it, but we're not going to lie down and die, right? We need to save the world. For all that stuff you talked about. Dog racing. Manchester United. People walking around like happy meals-" He can see she's not certain that one's such a great example. But heart-warming that she remembers his words from so long ago so very clearly. Heart-warming, and more, that she has tracked him down. "I want you on our side. Beside me. Please?"

Well. That's a handsome plea, and not one that he can ignore. A smattering of colour flashes across the grey and red of Hell. A bit of spice. A bit of promise. A chance for action and meaning. He stands up, sways badly from lack of nutrition and movement – fuck knows how long he was sat in that gutter, but he reckons it was at least a couple of days – and puts his hand in hers. "Hello, Slayer."

"Hello, Spike." She echoes his pointless formality. Then she gives him a quick, awkward hug, somewhere between old friends and former lovers. Not a trace of General Buffy, though she's the recruiting squad and no mistake.

"So, you're the Resistance, are you?"

"Yep. Or we are. If…?"

He gives her just a moment to be uncertain. Because a guy doesn't like to be taken for granted, present damnation emergency notwithstanding. "Yeah. Course I'm in."

*