Back For Evil

He kisses her, presses his entire body up against hers. He's never stopped loving her. She laughs, and he swallows it, intoxicated. She snakes her tongue into his mouth, scrapes his teeth. Forever his Drusilla. Still, he thinks he isn't satisfied.

"My Spike," she says, slowly, passionately. As if they've never been apart. "My precious Spike." And yes, he loves her, he remembers, his body remembers. Even despite everything she's done. Even though she was unfaithful. Even though she left. Even though she's a killer.

It's her lair, and there's blood on the walls, on the floor. Innocent blood, and it bothers him. She looks at him, suddenly, a look he knows better than any other.

"What is it, pet?" he asks. A century-long habit. "What do you see?"

And she stares straight at him with that hollow look. "Dirty, filthy, just like him." She yanks her hand from his grasp. "Just like Angelus."

And he feels guilty. Guilty he'd done this to her. He does love her, after all.

"Filthy, dirty," she repeats, like a frightened child.

"Dru," he says, tries to grab her hand. Her entire body jerks backwards.

"Leave!" her voice shakes. "Filthy! Dirty! It screams in my head," she nearly sobs. There's so much misery in her eyes he regrets ever coming.

He turns around. Once, not looking was enough. It sooths nothing now, and he curses the soul, the pain. For the first time, he truly wants it gone for good.

He'd throw it all away for her.

He turns around and the hollow look is gone. Instead there is anger. Maybe even fear. She's always concealed her fear well. "The Slayer doesn't want you," she says. Malicious. He deserves it. "You did this for her and now she doesn't want you."

He looks to the ground. Her feet are bare under her black skirt. He wants to see her again in a white dress. His angel of death. "You don't want me either."

She shakes her head, starts and doesn't stop. "Not like this." Her head is still moving, then suddenly isn't. Her eyes are on him again, and his heart, though dead, seems to flutter.

A step back puts his foot by a puddle of blood. She must have company. She was never a messy eater. "I want to come back," he says, ready to admit this is just a fit of desperation.

Drusilla puts a hand to every temple, tilts her head back and forth. He's missed that. He misses her so much there are no words to describe it. "No," she finally says. Straightforward.

"You wanted me back with the chip."

"Plastic and metal and hurting," she says, rhythmic, musical. "Weren't your fault. Weren't dirty and fickle." She spits the last word at him, and he finds himself leaving, choking on tears.

Buffy wants him there, at least, he reminds himself. And some day, maybe in fifty years, maybe in a hundred, he'll go back for Drusilla. She'll still be there.