The sacrifices were lined up around the edge of the circle. In the center Judas had suspended Spike from the ceiling with heavy chains, arms stretched over his head, feet brushing the rock floor.

Her boy was asleep, but he would wake up soon. Drusilla tapped her fingers along the blades her minions offered to her. Drusilla had tried raising William already. In her high, quavering voice she sang him a song from a cabaret they ate at in Paris, 1896. When that didn't work she allowed Judas whip long red stripes into Spike's pale back that reminded her of the ribbons in Ms. Edith's hair. Then Judas tried tickling his knee with a crowbar. Still no response, although Judas seemed to perk up some. Angelus, Dru remembered distantly, was always happier after he hurt someone. She hoped her boys would get along.

Finally Drusilla chose a long serrated knife and turned back to Spike.

"Don't you want to wake up? We can walk through the oceans and I will cover you in flowers," she offered. Spike remained limp and silent. Oh well, she had tried. In one cruel, swift motion Drusilla shoved the knife into Spike's bare stomach, through flesh and muscle, deep into his intestines. Dru imagined the iron teeth of the blade must be hungry after all this time. It was only polite to offer her guests a meal.

As she extracted the blade, tooth by tooth so she could examine the pretty crimson bits it carried with it, Spike's eyes slowly opened.

"Drusilla?" he muttered, through clenched teeth. His eyes were gummy and he couldn't tell where he was.

Drusilla kissed his cheek tenderly, running her tongue along the sharp line of his cheekbone. A brief desire floated through her to cut herself against all his brittle edges, but there were things to be done. Everyone was watching her expectantly. Keeping her face to Spike's neck, inhaling his fear and exhaustion, Drusilla drew the rough edge of the knife down along his ribs, ripping away the alabaster skin, exposing blood and muscle to the dusty cavern air.

"I'm going to draw you a picture, darling boy, and I need some paint. You don't mind, do you?"

In response Spike hissed in pain, but there was nothing he could do to stop her.

Her followers swirled around her. Now they didn't complain about missing their night's slaughter. This was what nourished them, not blood but agony. Destruction made their knees grow weak with longing. To see William the Bloody tortured and wrecked was an entertainment more valuable than one meal out of an eternal lifetime. Each minion came forward snarling, digging prying fingers into Spike's wounds, cupping small lakes of blood in their palms. Carefully, because she frightened them, they traced precise lines on the floor with the cold liquid. Everything would be perfect.

As Drucilla carved away at Spike his limbs grew strangely cold, the pain receded, and his eyes cleared. Lucidity was nice, he decided. It made you notice things. Someone was screaming for one. Was that him? Probably not, it took a bit to make him cry out. Like a dead witch with hot little fingers. Were any of the people around him witches? Four humans in front of him outside of the pentagram Dru was painting with his blood, four in back then. Math. He was doing math. The blood on the floor looked strange. It smelled frozen, or was that him?

Drusilla was before him again, smiling and happy. Good, then. Spike had always wanted Dru to be happy. With a high, insane laugh, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, her mouth warm against his. Sagging against the chain Spike suspected something was wrong, but he could not figure out what.

Somewhere, somewhere that was not where he and Drusilla were, somebody was speaking in Latin. Magic then, he decided as Drusilla's searing fingers slid down his chest, teasing the open wounds. Around the perimeter of the circle he could hear bodies dropping to the floor. Were they dead? Would Dru let him have a sip? She was moving closer like she wanted to whisper a secret, her fingers wrapped around his neck, drawing him in.

Dru's fingers, coated with blood, pressed into the back of Spike's head, incinerating him, boring into his brain. Now that it hurt, now that she was scalding him inside and out with her hot fingers in his skull, he couldn't scream.

Then it was over and Spike was gasping for air he didn't need. This wasn't fun anymore. Had it been fun?

"Let me go," he whispered.

"Thank me," Drusilla whispered back, smiling her secretive smile.

Like hell, Spike thought. He was working up the energy to say it when Drusilla stepped back, her white dress coated in him. Holding up her hands all he could see was blood until she opened one fist, displaying a black speck on her palm. Resting among the scarlet like a crouched spider was his tiny little chip. With a conspiratorial smile, Drusilla crushed it between her fingers.

"Thank me, William," she demanded.

"Thank you," Spike whispered, and he meant it.

______________________________________________________________________



It was the master's cave, Xander realized, or at least the tunnels around the subterranean church. He had woken up alone, underground, wondering why nobody had bothered watching him. Not that he was complaining, but why did everybody assume he was harmless? After it took him fifteen minutes to stagger to his feet Xander was almost ready to concede he wasn't much of a flight risk. Not that he didn't try when he saw shapes moving towards him in the darkness.

Xander could not believe Spike, or what was left of him, was walking. Dried blood was caked on the vampire's practically naked body. As Spike moved the wounds opened, trickling crimson over his skin, and bone flashed through the ripped knee of his pants.

I thought they roughed me up pretty bad, Xander thought, but reluctantly admitted he would not have survived whatever Spike had been through. His back alone looked minced. Drusilla walked beside him, decadently sullied, obviously with Spike's blood. Was that how they got off? No wonder Spike saw rape as a viable dating tactic.

"H-Harris," Spike stuttered out. The cold was making it difficult for him to talk. Still, it numbed the pain for now and that could only be a good thing. At some point he would have to figure out how extensive the damage was, but right now he wasn't feeling too much of anything. His leg kind of hurt, though.

"Doesn't he smell yummy?" Drusilla asked, running her cool nose across Xander's cheek. Xander began to shake with fear. Deep in her throat Drusilla purred.

"You smell so tasty when you're scared. But you're not for me," she pouted.

Really? Harris was for him? It took a while for Spike's smile to spread across his numb face.

I knew it! Xander thought. Always evil! Always! No soul could stop Spike from being a sadistic bastard.

"Just get it over with," Xander said. He wanted to be tough, but his voice sounded remarkably like pleading.

"O-oh no," Spike shook his head with maddening slowness. "I'm go-going to e- enjoy this." Languidly he moved in close and slammed his fist into Xander's gut. Harris crumpled over, making a valiant effort to keep his feet. And there was no pain. Well, Spike admitted, there was a lot of pain lingering out there somewhere, but none from the hated chip.

Unhurriedly he hauled Xander upright again. The chill didn't make going into game face any harder. Like a snake Spike drew in close and buried his fangs, aching from disuse, into Xander's neck. Spike didn't drink, preferring to watch the blood well up in the puncture and slip down Xander's neck. Slowly Spike licked the rivulets away. Tasted like candy.

"Gah!" Xander complained and tried to pull away, but Drusilla's hand at the back of his neck held him immobile. The dim hope of a fast death was fading fast. Where was the Slayer? He wanted to be the one to tell Buffy her neutered vamp had gotten his balls back, preferably in time for her to save him.

"It's a w-wonderful present, love," Spike said, looking at Drusilla. She was everything he had ever wanted for a hundred years. Everything he had been Spike owed to Drusilla's insane choice in an alleyway. Wrapping his arms around her with the taste of Xander's fresh blood on his tongue, Spike supposed this was about as perfect as his un-life was ever going to get.

This is too disgusting, Xander thought as Spike leaned in to kiss his sire. Turn me, shoot me, drop me off a pier, but please don't mate over me.

Spike tried to cement the feeling in his mind, Dru's hot tongue against his own, burning him, the silk of her dress scratching his exposed wounds. But the numbing cold made thinking a bitch, and he was pretty sure he had forgotten everything by the time she was dust falling through the air around him.

Xander stared at the stake in Spike's hand, the one the vampire filched from his jacket pocket. He couldn't believe it. From the expression on his face apparently neither could Spike.

______________________________________________________________________



Because it was Sunnydale, no one noticed two battered and bleeding men staggering together through residential streets. Spike, still cold to the marrow, didn't notice the carpenter's nails digging shallow crescents into his back, trying to keep a grip among the slick blood. As Spike walked he drug their weight inexorably forward. Xander steered, pushing or pulling them down dark streets past cozy homes with swing sets in the yards. Buffy's house was closest to where they exited the tunnels, although Xander doubted Spike even knew where they were going. The vampire just stumbled gamely forward, blindly hauling Xander up the porch steps to the door, which Xander opened. He fell through entrance alone, landing in the hallway on his broken arm. Giving up on the whole macho image thing, Xander cried out in pain. Ruined and bleeding, Spike leaned on the invisible barrier blocking his entrance to the house. His eyes were open, but he couldn't see anything but shadows.

"Spike, come in," Xander said. Possibly not the smartest words out of his mouth. Hopefully this bit of gratitude wouldn't get them all killed. The barrier evaporated and the vampire fell to his knees inside foyer. There was sound booming around him.

Dawn, running to investigate Xander's scream, gasped when she saw them and clattered down the stairs.

Don't touch him! The chip! Xander wanted to say, but he was tired and his throat hurt and he was passing out. When he woke up Willow was beside him and he heard Buffy somewhere above him.

"Shit," Buffy said looking at the two men passed out in the hallway.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs in her pink flannel pajamas Buffy didn't feel particularly heroic. Beside her, Willow was examining Xander with some of her old competency and Dawn was, predictably, fussing over Spike. He's going to bleed to death all over my floor, Buffy thought. Except that he's already dead. Oh, yeah, way too tired for this. She sat on floor next to Willow and leaned her head against her friend's shoulder.

"How's Xander?" she asked in a small, worried voice.

"I think we should get him to the hospital," Willow said softly. The carpenter shook his head.

"Couch," Xander insisted. Willow hesitated a moment. Everything looked pretty surfacey, but he winced when she touched his arm. If it was broken it he needed to see a doctor soon. Plus, internal bleeding was another fun and exciting possibility.

"Shouldn't we call an ambulance?" Dawn asked, rubbing away some of the dried blood on Spike's neck. Despite her poking and prodding the vampire showed no interest in waking up.

"No," Xander mumbled, struggling against Willow's soft hands. Somewhere in his mind there were stories he had to tell her about Drusilla, how pale she looked, that there was dried blood under her fingernails.

"Not just yet," Willow hedged. Maybe Anya could take them to the hospital.

"Willow will look after Xander," Buffy told her sister. "And there's nothing modern medicine can do for Spike. He'll heal."

Dawn glared at her like she was a raving bitch. Well, maybe I am, Buffy conceded, too tired to care. But I don't think so.

Willow and Buffy made up a bed on the couch for Xander and carried him into the living room fairly easily. Buffy was tempted to leave Spike on the floor in the hallway. He used to sleep on a tomb for god's sake, but Dawn would throw a fit. Besides, she didn't want to be tripping over him on her way to breakfast. Nothing like stepping on a dead body the first thing in the morning to start the day off wrong.

It took all three of them to haul Spike up the stairs. In retrospect, it would have made more sense to put him in Willow's bed and let Willow sleep in the master bedroom with Buffy. But, the Slayer still had some residual guilt about stealing the big bedroom while Willow was in London so they lay the corpse on Buffy's queen sized bed. No way in hell was he bleeding all over Dawn's sheets. Knowing her sister she would take it as some stupid, romantic gesture.

"Will he be okay?" Dawn demanded, staring down at Spike, wishing he would move just a little. The only way she knew he wasn't dead, dead of the forever kind, was that he wasn't dust.

"He'll be fine, Dawnie," Willow assured the girl, leading her out the door by the arm. "He just needs some rest. So do you, Buffy. Get some sleep. I've got Xander covered." It felt strangely good, Willow thought, to be able to take care of other people again. Maybe she wasn't so useless after all.

Sleep where? There's a dead body in my bed Buffy gripped, too tired to think about the strange mixture of pity and revulsion she felt towards Spike, unconscious and broken before her. If he was fundamentally different, intrinsically good now with the soul, then she had some measure of mercy for him. But if his decent behavior was some complex subterfuge, then the monster who had tried to rape her was in her bed, right where he had wanted to be. Not that this was going to be solved tonight.

Sighing, she arranged Spike so he took up no more than exactly half of the bed. Knowing this was the worst idea ever, yet too stubborn to sleep on the floor of her own room, Buffy crawled under the covers next to the demon. If there are any happy spirits left out there, Buffy decided, they would let her wake up first.