Brutti’s pick your own adventure day (6/7: The One With The Post-Apocalyptic Schmoop)

This entry is part 6 of 7 in the series Brutti's pick your own adventure day
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Author Brutti ma buoni
Title Pick Your Own Adventure 6/7: The One With The Apocalypse and the Schmoopy Household Chores
Rating and warnings PG13, mild sexiness, implied minor character death, possibly prior major character death depending on interpretation
Word count 515
Medium Fic
Setting Post-series

“Your turn.”

Buffy poked him. “Nope, no way. Definitely your turn. I did it last night.”

Spike didn’t move a muscle towards the door. “Nope, I remember it perfectly well. You wouldn’t do it, because of the rats. And Giles needed changing, so we swapped.”

“That was the night before. Seriously,” she shifted up onto one elbow, bent to kiss his part-exposed belly, just an open-mouthed brush of lips and breath that had him harder than was likely or sensible in the circs. “Look, someone has to take out the trash. Or… well, rats. I do not like rats.” She paused, still face-down to his abdomen in an attitude that promised much. “There could be rewards, after.”

Spike had a brief internal struggle. He had, in fact, taken out the trash yesterday, and they both knew it. But there it was. An offer of prolonged oral sex from Buffy the Vampire Slayer was probably worth risking his life.

“‘Kay. You’ll do-” he jerked his head towards the other room, as he buckled on his outdoor gear. At least he didn’t have to bother with a sodding filtration mask on top of all the rest. Axe, shotgun, stake… all ready. He looked up to check the answer to his unspoken question.

“Yep,” she said, and slipped into her own radiation suit. The first aid kit in her hand looked worryingly light. She shook it, slightly. “If you see any-”

“Yeah.” He wouldn’t. Plasma and antibiotics were not exactly lying about in the streets, unattended. Which was a shame. Pretty much everything else was.

In fact, they both knew he had the easier job. Out there, no matter the wild things that roamed, at least the enemies were known, quantifiable, possible to fight, get some release. Radiation and solar winds were just things to be dodged. In there, in the silent sickroom, there was just the onward march of the post-irradiation decline, and neither Spike nor Buffy was qualified to do much more than give fluids and hope.

Some lived. Even Giles, of all people, still breathing on. Much longer than expected. In fact, it was going to be time for a hospital run before too long, see if they couldn’t scare up some actual medicines to keep on with the treatments that were apparently doing the job. Dangerous, sure, to leave the place unattended, but they wouldn’t get far without backing each other up. Buffy and Spike had long since agreed it needed to be done. They couldn’t let down those patients who were surviving, against all the ridiculous stack of reasons why they should be dead already.

Spike bumped his face mask against Buffy’s in simulacrum of a kiss, and a promise to come back. Then hefted the first of the bodybags to the sealed inner door. “Right love. I’m not back in thirty, you know the drill.”

She waved. “And when you are, gonna say thank you till you feel it in your toes.”

He was smiling, as he stacked the toxic corpses, and sealed himself into the airlock. Whatever got you through the day, right?


Okay, I like the plot and all, but where’s the sex? It’s here, guys. It’s here.

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