It's still dark when they emerge from the cellar. He stops in the living room and grabs his boots pulling them on and lacing them up.
"I've got to head back to the crypt before it's light," he straightens up, "get a couple of blood packs, in case our friend shows up again," he twists his head clicking the bones in neck, "and a change of clothes." He shrugs his duster on over his bare shoulders.
"What about your shirt?"
He shrugs.
"Fine like this. Besides, if go back up those stairs with you I won't come back down," he pulls the back of his collar down straightening the leather, "I'll be back in about hour." He kisses her, meaning it for it to be a quick goodbye, but she moves her hands under the duster, warm hands on his back. He sighs, letting her deepen the kiss, pulling back before he loses himself completely to it.
"Clock's ticking, pet," he steps away from her towards the door, "back soon." The shadows of the early morning pulls him in and he all but vanishes into the gloom.
The morning dew on the grass of the graves dampens the hem of his coat, his boots leaving the first set of prints of the day in the damp.
The mustiness of the crypt is a sharp stinging contrast to the warm smell of her home and he pushes back a rising ache. He shrugs his duster off, casting it over the armchair, and drops down through the hole in the ground to his bedroom.
He strips down, leaving his jeans in a heap on the floor. In a small alcove off from the bed is an exposed, sawn off pipe, shut off by a valve connected to a spanner, welded messily together. He stands under it and unclamps it, freezing water pouring over him and down into a hole at his feet. He scrubs at his hair, dislodging dust from the cellar floor.
There's a small noise behind him and his ears prickle at it. He cocks an ear towards the sound. Footsteps in the back of the cave. He re-clamps the pipe, shaking the frigid water out of his hair.
He pulls on a pair of leather trousers that were lying at the foot of the bed and a black button-up shirt, leaving it open. The fabric clings to his damp skin.
He walks to the back of the cave. The shuffling becomes more noticeable.
"Alright, show yourself, whatever you are."
There's a breath somewhere back in the shadows. Like someone gasping.
No…. panting.
"Spike…"
Oh God.
Drusilla steps out into the soft light of the cave.
"Dru." His mind is reeling, and it takes him a moment to realise what she's wearing. A long black dress under a brocade coat with a fur trim. Old fashioned, by about 100 years.
He catches his breath. The bite mark at his neck throbs thickly like an infection.
That's not Drusilla.
As slowly as he can he palms a knife from the dresser, slipping it up his sleeve.
"Who are you?"
It smiles, "tsk tsk tsk. How cruel of such a broken boy not to remember his first friend. His only dearest friend. Are the memories falling from your mind like pennies spilling from a cut purse? Dancing across the floor." It walks a little closer to him and he hears not the clack of heals on a stone floor, but the swish and rippling of water. It draws a finger across its throat and a long deep gash blooms underneath her nail. Blood pours down like a waterfall, over the dress, a lake of it, more blood than he's ever seen in his life oozing towards him. He steps back but it floods around and over his feet, up to his knees.
"So much blood I've spilled for you. Such a gift. So soft and warm. Mother's milk slipping, slipping down our throats," it stops in front of him, and the voice of Drusilla changes. A wet, sick voice, "you're drowning in it. Such nasty tricks. Such cruelty played on our dear friend. Took away our teeth, but we'll have each other for eternity."
He plunges the knife into it's stomach, and Drusilla smiles angelically, a clawed hand gripping his wrist, pushing the knife further in.
"Did you think, you could dance in the light and leave us in the shadows? Did you think we would let you go? Heaven sent hands...did you think they could cast us out, William...
Spike looks down. The knife isn't in it's stomach, it's in his, his hand clutching the handle, Dru's fingers digging into his wrist, nails puncturing skin.
Stop-
It's hand twist the knife and slices up his stomach, chest, neck-
STOP! Please, God- no!
Such a soft little heart. It's ours to feed on
The knife falls to the floor, the blood swallowing it up.
Little spark... little gift. Tiny ember burning us back it's fingers slip inside his chest let's pinch it out.
There's a sound in his ears and he realises he's screaming.
Cold fingers close round his heart and squeeze. He coughs, spits out blood. It tastes foul.
We will feed on her, William.
No
Eat her piece by piece
Buffy-
It vanishes, along with the blood, leaving him holding the knife, still holding the knife, plunged hilt deep into his chest. A snaking, jagged cut slicing from his gut to his heart. The bite marks on his neck are open and bleeding, thick black liquid sliding down his neck.
Feed
"NO!"
He wrenches the knife out, dropping it to the floor, clutching his head.
FEED
The fangs cut through his gums and he howls, swallowing his own blood, drowning from it.
Feed.