Disclaimer: I do not own BtVS or Ats.

Ignorance is Bliss

Chapter 6: Just a Little Taste

I died for Beauty—but was scarce

Adjusted in the Tomb

When One who died for Truth, was lain

In an adjoining Room—

"Make it right again."

Spike imagined the request and wondered, would right make right like evil made evil? Could he do this? It sounded just like the oh so noble quest he would have scoffed at a few years back. But this was the gig he'd signed up for, even though, at the time, he had expected that all good deeds would come back to Buffy. This would only take him further from his slayer, and he wasn't even sure if the effort would be worth the treasure in the end. Could he even find Dru's soul, and, if he did, would it be right of him to shove it back into that broken mind? Could she, as an innocent, take that change?

He lowered his head in his hands, and, though he didn't breathe, he pushed air out of his mouth, his teeth hissing as the questions plagued his mind. He wanted to move from his seat on the crate, but Drusilla was sitting there at his feet, staring up at him, her head moving side to side as if she were a great snake, hypnotizing her prey.

She was very good at that, fooling a mind into action. That was why Spike refused to look at her directly, instead watching her pale porcelain cheek, aglow in the lamp light, fading in and out of existence as shadow played across her skin. She was quite a beauty, and a part of the male vampire wanted to reach down and cup her cheek.

"Ask yourself, my pretty boy, why haven't you put a root in my breast? Why do you sit, unmoving, a corpse of stone, a paste of ash and milk? Why did you disobey Daddy if not to come away with me, to find what you've been missing, what you really want?"

She smiled like a coy maiden, slowly bracing herself on his thighs, pushing in and up until her lips were inches from his chin. "Don't you want to taste something warm again? Something wet and sweet and red?" She laughed, her fingers painfully squeezing his legs through the black denim.

"You still don't get it, Dru," Spike laughed, too, and wondered if a bit of her pretend madness was catching. "I didn't save you so that I could become what I was. I'm different now."

"How different?" Drusilla snapped, interrupting him. "You drink like the rest of us. Just because there's a little part inside of you that doesn't like it, doesn't mean you should stop. You're an animal, Spike. You're my animal. Come back to me, puppy." She whistled, giggling until she fell back onto the cement floor, sprawled out suggestively with one leg hiked up. "Here, beast. Come home, monster."

"You're right, Dru."

Spike cocked his head, sliding down from his seat until his knees banged against the rock. He slid a leg between her thighs, holding himself above her. "You're right," he repeated, his face transforming, brow gnarled, fangs glistening. "I do drink."

He collapsed atop her, his teeth digging into the perfect skin of her neck, pushing deeper and deeper until she cried out for him. But he only drunk more, drowning in a crimson lake until the writhing form beneath him stilled.

He questioned softly "Why I failed"?

"For Beauty", I replied—

"And I—for Truth—Themselves are One—

We Brethren, are", He said—

He didn't expect for her to come. Slayers were busy people; they had worlds to save and evil dudes to kill. But, apparently, it wasn't Buffy the Vampire Slayer standing in the doorway. It was Buffy the friend.

Two steps and she had crossed the distance, bending the side rail of the bed as she leaned in, wrapping her arms around him.

"Watch the ribs," Xander said, letting out a breathy laugh.

Buffy released him, pulling back, a sad smile on her face. "We were afraid . . ." She shook her head, leaning in until she and her best friend were touching foreheads. "I'm glad you're still around."

"Couldn't have the Scoobies without me. But I've been through worse, Buff. You didn't have to fly in." Xander smiled, adjusting his eye patch. "I'm glad you did, though." He glanced around the room. "Have you seen dead boy yet?"

Buffy nodded. "We talked. He told me what happened." A shadow seemed to pass over her face, but she stopped herself from saying what was on her mind, gently nibbling her bottom lip. "I guess you were right," Buffy said. "I let Spike get away with too much. But I thought he was different." She shrugged, brushing off her emotions with the movement. "He saved the world . . .And then he does something like this. I can't let him get away with helping her, not after what she did to you."

"That's not . . ." he cut off, letting his reply fade when he saw Buffy's eyes widen. After all, Xander was usually the one on the 'let's stake Spike' campaign. "I just don't want to spend time going after him. There are more important things coming."

Xander scooted over, letting Buffy take a seat on the bed. Angel had been able to get him to a hospital with time to spare, but the hours had turned and morning came. Xander imagined that the vampire was looking for someplace a bit less sunny to spend the day.

"What are you talking about, Xander?"

Xander raised a brow. "I mean, there's always a big bad around to capture your attention, isn't there? There's no need going after two vampires, especially when one has a soul."

"Why did she let you live?" Buffy blinked, frowning at her own forwardness. "Let me rephrase that . . .OK, so maybe I can't. Why did Drusilla take you, Xander? Did you find out?"

To see.

See into the dead--

The face of the new master.

"Not sure," Xander answered slowly.

Buffy let a moment pass, and the young man realized that she was watching him. She knew that he was lying.

"Angel said you were acting strange."

Xander laid his head back, yawning dramatically. "Listen, I'm glad you came, but the doctors gave me some meds, and I'm pretty tired."

The slayer put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "I shouldn't have woken you, anyhow. We'll talk when you're up to it. I need to call Will and Giles in the meantime; they'll kill me if I don't give them an update every two seconds."

Xander watched her go, hurt passing over his face. He should tell her. He should tell her the truth. But he wouldn't—he couldn't let her heart break again.

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night—

We talked between the Rooms—

Until the Moss had reached our lips—

And covered up—our names

--Emily Dickinson (449)