The end of the world wasn't so bad, considering.
It started in Los Angeles and worked its way outwards, an unrelenting army of demons and creatures and, okay, a couple dragons that seemed disinclined to limit itself to the Southern California area. Angel and his gang weren't able to contain it; they lost Gunn, and Illyria changed sides mid-battle, remembering her interests in destroying the world of man and seeing this as the means to do so. Lorne was gone. In the end there was Spike and Angel, and when they went back to Europe to try and contact the Slayers or the Watchers or anyone, Spike left off to track down Dawn, who'd moved from Rome to England in search of the Watcher's Council. Angel went after Buffy.
She found him, fighting off a good score of vampires intent on taking him down. It seemed like old times, too wrapped up in preventing the end of the world to talk even though there was so much to say, about themselves or their lives or the direction the battle was going in.
They went back to America. It was bad, even by their estimates. Especially by their estimates. They lost Slayers, Watchers, legions of those that had been on their side to the Dark, as they'd come to be called. It was everything they'd hoped would never come to be.
In the midst of this destruction and mayhem, Angel found time to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, and Buffy taped his bandages with gentle fingers. It was their way of relearning each other.
The skies of Cleveland were cloudy and grey. They had just finished ousting a crèche of would-be demons, only to get caught in the torrential downpour of evening rain as they stepped out of the warehouse. They ran; though this was their best protection, warding off fire-demons and some other night-dwellers. Their hotel room was bare and only contained necessities: a refrigerator for storing blood and a shower to clean themselves of demon gore. Everything else was bonus.
They cleaned up, one after the other, and Buffy sat on the bed curled up against the headboard. "Angel," she said, and everything was in her choked voice.
"I know," he said, turning his back on her, watching her reaction in the mirror before him. The radio from the next room was louder than necessary, and bits of lyric could be heard through the wall. When he turned, she was there, pressing her lips to his.
When they had sex that night, it was for the night he came to see her on the eve of an apocalypse, laughable in comparison to this. It was for the day he remembered and she didn't; it was for the moment he turned and walked away. But history meant nothing now; neither did the future. There was only the present, and only this, now. It was the way it had to be, for them--for who ever got a perfect ending?
words © SA. characters, show, and people not mine. no infringement is intended.