Series: Mortal Allies

Story Title: Episode 3, Postcards From the Edge

Chapter 4: Amor Vincit Omnia

By: Passion4Spike


Author's Notes:

Thanks to everyone who is reading and extra sloppy doggie-Spike kisses to everyone who has left a comment or a 'like'/'kudos'. It seriously means so much to me, you have no idea!

Some dialogue borrowed from 'Helpless'. There is going to be some Español in the coming chapters. There isn't a lot and I tried to make it very basic (from my mostly-forgotten Spanish in high school) My hope is that it is easy enough to understand based on what is happening or what Spike is thinking, even if you don't hablar.

This chapter beta'd by my wonderful friends, Holi117 and Paganbaby. Pre-read by TeamEricNSookie. Wonderful banners by PaganBaby. Thanks so much to all of them not only for catching my mistakes but for their support and encouragement! All mistakes are mine cos I can't stop fiddling.


Chapter 4: Amor Vincit Omnia


Mexico.

Spike wasn't nearly pissed enough when he returned to their room, but the bar had opened and the tourists were too loud and too bloody happy. Once again, when he entered the room and his eyes found Dru, he froze.

She looked up at him from where she knelt on the bed, her bare body pale and lovely as ever, her big eyes confused. "They don't speak to me…" she told him in that childlike way of hers.

Spike sucked in his cheeks, his lips pursing into an angry line. "Of course, they don't! They're Trivial Pursuit cards, not your sodding tarot cards!" he growled, moving across to the bed where she had the small squares laid out as if trying to do a reading, a stack of them still in her hand. "And they're bloody well mine!" he declared, gathering them all up from the bed and snatching them from her grip.

Dru began to whine like a kicked puppy and curled up into a little ball in the center of the bed.

Spike sighed, blowing out a long breath, his emotions ricocheting from furious to repentant in a blink. He was hurt, angry, a bit drunk, but not drunk enough, and tired. So very tired. But one thing even his wounded heart couldn't stand was to scare his dark princess. She should never be afraid, never cry, never cower or whimper. Sometimes, he was a bad, bad man.

"Sorry, pet. Didn't mean t' shout," he cajoled, sitting down next to her. "Just …" He didn't want to say he was afraid that she would destroy them, rip them to shreds, like she'd made him do to the postcard she'd found him writing. He'd been through them all probably ten times since nicking them from Buffy's bag, but that wasn't the point. They were his. He'd stolen them from the Slayer fair and square. "They aren't for seeing," he said at last, straightening them back into a neat stack in his hand.

"What are they for?" she asked, sniffing and sitting up.

"It's a bit of a game, ya see?" Spike explained. "Questions on one side and answers on the other. If ya can answer the questions properly, then ya get a point."

"Are the points tart and sweet, like honeyed lemon bars?" Dru asked, becoming interested.

Spike snorted. "Maybe… never know unless ya get one," he teased, glad to see her taking an interest in something that he liked.

"May I try, please? May I?" the brunette begged, getting back to her knees and bouncing excitedly on the bed.

"Right, then… let's see," Spike began, looking down at the card in his hand. "Alfred Nobel, father of the Nobel Peace Prize, made his fortune with the invention of which powerful tool?"

He looked up at her, waiting. Dru chewed her lip, her eyes far away and unfocused. "No fair using the pixies," he warned, arching a brow at her. "That'd be cheatin'."

Her brows furrowed, an innocent scowl crinkling her lovely features. "Cheaters run away with the races," she pointed out. "Like my Spike plucking cards from the clouds."

"True enough, I reckon…" Spike admitted, shrugging. "Alright, what is it then?"

Her smile returned, her face growing animated and excited. "Rocks!" she announced eagerly, flinging her arms into the air as if tossing confetti.

Spike arched a brow. "Rocks? How do ya invent rocks, pet?"

Dru shrugged, pouting. "Is that not right? I did so want a sweetie."

Spike looked back down at the card, shaking his head. "Let's try another," he suggested. "Who was the first major author to read his own work in public for profit?"

Dru's face again clouded with concentration and she sat quietly for nearly a full minute, thinking.

"Used to enjoy the one he told 'bout the rotten little pickpocket, you did," Spike hinted.

Dru's eyes went wide and she squealed in delight. "Angelus!"

Spike sighed and rolled his eyes. "No, not sodding Angelus," he moaned. "Dickens! Charles bloody Dickens! Angelus never wrote any bleeding books."

"He should've," Dru insisted sulkily. "So many wicked tricks and traps and beautiful agony… it makes me trembly all over," she cooed, her eyes closing as she wrapped her arms around her bare torso and swayed, humming to herself.

Spike rolled his eyes and stood up, looking around for the rubber band that had kept the cards together, but not finding it.

"Do I get my point now?" she asked as he gave up and wrapped the cards up in a t-shirt and put them back in his bag.

"You get fewer points than the sodding Slayer," he muttered under his breath. 'Not even any fun to take the piss outta you about it. Can't take a sodding joke, or toss back a properly-good insult, or even pitch a good hissy fit without going too bloody far… not like Buffy.'

Spike clenched his jaw and shook himself, sending thoughts of the Slayer out of his mind. Didn't do any good to compare Dru to the Slayer – was like comparing apples to refrigerators. He was just still hurt and angry over the chocolate man. Dru was Dru… the love of his unlife. May not be able to take a joke like Buffy, or hurl insults and quips, or blush like a nun in a brothel, but she could see the stars on the ceiling, and dance to music only she could hear, and she needed him and maybe even loved him… in her own way.

He turned around and gave her a weak smile. "We'll get ya a point later, pet. Don't have any with me just now."

"Can we play a new game? I'm ever so bored," Dru asked.

"Why don't we see what's on the telly?" he suggested, picking up the remote and turning the TV on. He flopped onto the bed, stretching his legs out as he leaned back against the headboard, still fully clothed, boots and all. He stiffened when she curled up against him, cozy as you please, as if she hadn't just gutted him only a few hours ago.

Not moving or even wrapping his arm around her, he clicked the channel changer, flipping past news reporters and cooking shows until he hit on a Spanish-dubbed broadcast of 'The Price is Right'. A smile returned to his face, remembering watching it with Buffy and how she cleaned his clock as they played along. Cheeky chit won every sodding bid!

"I'd ever so like to count his wrinkles," Dru said, sitting up and peering at the TV more closely. "They're likes rings on a tree, one this year, one the next. How many do you reckon there are?"

"I dunno, do you count 'em with his dick hard or soft?" he grumbled.

Dru's eyes went wide with wonder. "May I try both? It'd be a frolic an' a romp!" she declared, turning in the bed and swinging her leg over Spike's prone body. She began rocking her hips against him, pressing her clit against the rough fabric and hard buttons of his jeans. "I shall ride him until his wrinkles melt like bitter snowflakes at Carnival." She stopped moving suddenly and looked down at her childe. "I do so miss Brazil. When shall we be there?"

Spike huffed out a breath and lifted her off, tossing her onto the empty bed next to him, not noticing her look of indignation at the treatment. "We'll be there when we get there," he rumbled, standing up, his mood turning again, fickle as… well, as Drusilla. "We bloody well decided to travel about Mexico for a bit. How many times do I have to remind you?" he demanded, as he started pacing in agitation.

Dru pouted and flung herself flat on her back in the bed. "I don't like it here," she sulked. "There're no candies or balls or proper masquerades."

Spike clenched his jaw in frustration, stopping his trek across the carpet to pull out his cigarettes and lighter. 'Should'a brought a few bottles of tequila with me,' he thought dourly, lighting the smoke. He looked down at the brochures, fliers, and maps that littered the table as he drew in the nicotine and waited for it to calm his frayed nerves. One pamphlet in particular caught his eye, and he pulled it from the jumble.

A slow smile spread over his face as he turned and showed it to his petulant sire. "Dru, luv," he rumbled, stepping over toward the bed. "How would you fancy a ballet?"

** X-X-X-X-X **

Sunnydale.

Buffy stood alone on the balcony in the Bronze, leaning on the railing and looking down at her friends on the dance floor. Couples. Couples. Couples. Everywhere she looked there were couples making googly-eyes at each other, stealing kisses, and holding hands. It was depressing.

She looked down at the postcard in her hand from the 'Ballet Folklórico de México'. There was a beautiful Mexican dancer pictured in a dazzling dress, the skirt flaring around her in a kaleidoscope of vivid colors as she twirled. The Slayer found herself staring at the intricate design and floral patterns on the dress and the almost-blindingly bright colors. It would be amazing to see that dancer in motion, see those colors come to life.

As the music changed to yet another slow tune – another couple's dance – she turned the card over and read Spike's message again. Her heart twisted in envy, and maybe a little jealousy, each time she read it, but she couldn't stop her eyes from roving over the words, picturing it all. A romantic meal by candlelight with whispered endearments and quiet laughter, a champagne toast to destiny and eternal love, a slow dance to a sultry, Latin beat, a vibrant ballet shared with the love of your life, full of brilliant colors and lively dance, then soft kisses, reverent touches, a slow, beautiful joining beneath a sky full of glittering stars.

'Painted the town red! Dining, dancing, and a ballet fit for a princess, all topped with a romantic shag beneath the stars. Amor vincit omnia. HYYF –S'

"Love conquers all," Buffy murmured, running a finger over the last of his message. She'd had to look it up – luckily, the Sunnydale High library had an overabundance of Latin dictionaries. "Not so sure about that, Spike," she continued with a sigh.

"You look nice tonight." The male voice from just behind Buffy made her jump, the card slipping from her fingers and nearly fluttering all the way down to the dance floor below. She lunged dangerously over the railing and snagged it from the air in a panic, before whirling around to find Angel there, not two feet away. 'Wow! Great job, Slayer! Let the vampire sneak up on you!'

"W-what?" she stammered, suddenly hyper-aware of the card in her hand. She quickly stuffed it back into her purse, out of sight.

"I said, you look nice tonight," he repeated, coming up to stand at the railing with her.

"Oh, this old thing?" she quipped, putting on an air of nonchalance and waving a hand at the silky red party dress. Sequins glittered as she moved, enough to draw the eye down her body, but not so many to be gaudy.

Angel frowned. "Old? I've never seen it—"

"Joke, Angel, it was a joke. It's new. Mom bought it for me as an early Christmas gift. So, thanks," she admitted, turning back to lean on the railing and look out at the crowd below. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

"I thought I told you—"

"I'll do it," he interrupted. "I'll… answer your questions."

Buffy's brows went up and she turned to look at him. "Really?"

"On one condition."

She curled her lips into a sneer. "What?"

"You dance with me."

"I don't think—"

"Just one dance. That's all… and I'll tell you whatever you want about Angelus."

"You'll meet me at the school library?" she clarified. "For as many days as it takes?"

"Yes."

"And you'll make with the truthfulness?"

"Yes."

"But you want a dance?"

"Yes."

"Can I think about it?"

"Sure," he agreed, looking back out toward the band to hide the stab of disappointment he couldn't keep from his eyes. She had to think about a dance – there had been a time when she would've flown into his arms on the spot and begun dancing. He sighed, resigned, and waited.

Buffy turned and mirrored him, leaning her forearms on the railing.

"What were you looking at when I came up?" he asked after a time.

"Oh, nothing really," Buffy replied casually.

"You were pretty intent on it. Good thing I wasn't Spike, you'd be dinner right now," Angel pressed.

Buffy's skin flushed hotly, a picture of Spike 'dining' on her in a way that had nothing to do with blood flashed in her mind. Something low in her belly fluttered and tingled with the mental image, making her squirm in place. Bad Buffy!

She cleared her throat, refocusing. "Spike could never sneak up on me… he can't keep quiet that long," she pointed out, hoping Angel hadn't guessed she'd actually been thinking about Spike or that the postcard was from him. She didn't need a lecture, or him running and tattling to Giles again.

Angel snorted, nodding. "Good point," he agreed. "So, what was it?"

"Just a… postcard from a friend."

"I thought I knew all your friends, and they're all down there," Angel pointed out, waving a hand at the couples dancing.

"This is… uh, an old friend. He moved away." Not lying. Spike was way old. He was a friend. And he moved away.

"And you miss him," the vampire observed.

"No – well, maybe, a little," she admitted.

"More than a little," he suggested, turning his head to look at her, his brown eyes seeming to see through her casual answer.

"What is that, more of your creepy smell-a-vision?" she accused tartly, turning to glare at him.

Angel shrugged and looked away. "That and the way your heart was fluttering… the way it used to do around me."

"Stupid vampires," Buffy muttered, embarrassment replacing the naughty blush coloring her neck and face. She pointedly turned back to watch the couples below. "It's complicated. He's got a girlfriend and, also… the away-ness." 'And, he's an evil, soulless vampire who wants to kill me,' she added silently. 'Plus, he's an annoying pain in the ass and a pig, and I soo don't want to handwash my delicates on his abs.' That was convincing, right?

"Things sometimes change," Angel pointed out diplomatically.

Buffy snorted softly. "Not with him," she sighed. 'Which is partly what I like about him – his loyalty and bizarre vampire honor. Call Alanis Morissette, the irony abounds.'

They both grew quiet, listening to the music for a while, lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Buffy asked, "Do you know what it means to 'paint the town red?'"

"Well, I guess it depends on who's saying it. For most people it just means to have a good time, get drunk, indulge, party a lot," he answered. "It supposedly started in 1837 when the Marquis of Waterford and a group of friends over-indulged in a town called Melton Mowbray, in Leicestershire. The story goes that they literally painted the town's toll-bar and a bunch of buildings red."

"I'm guessing it means something else to vampires?" Buffy prompted, her stomach knotting in worry. Had Spike and Dru gone on a killing spree after their romantic evening? She kept letting them go – as if anyone they killed outside of Sunnydale wasn't her problem. But was that true? Maybe she was responsible. What about all the people Angelus killed after their one-night tryst? Giles said they weren't her fault. That Jenny and Kendra weren't her fault, but…

"It can mean the same thing, or it could be a bit more literal," Angel admitted.

Buffy nodded stiffly, not looking at him. There hadn't been any blood on the card. Surely, if Spike meant her to take it literally, there would've been blood. He's not the most subtle person in the world. Ugh! Until proven otherwise, she was going to assume they'd just had a normal good time with the painting being figurative. Time for a change of subject. "Have you ever been to a ballet?" she wondered.

"Yeah, sure, a few times," he revealed. "Dru really loved them."

Of course, she did. Why else would Spike go to a ballet, if not for Drusilla? His princess. That little envious monster inside Buffy kicked her in the stomach.

"Do you like them?" Angel asked, misreading her expression.

"Oh, uh, I don't know, I've never been to one. But I love the ice capades. My dad takes me every year for my birthday… or well, he used to. We missed last year, but he said he'll be here for my eighteenth, for sure. They do pieces from operas and ballets. Brian Boitano doing Carmen is a life changer. Oh, he doesn't actually play Carmen, but a lot of sophisticated people go."

Angel smiled indulgently. "Sounds fun," he agreed unenthusiastically. "Maybe we could try the ice-skating thing again sometime," he suggested. "That one time got cut a bit short."

Buffy turned to look at him, her head shaking negatively. "No, Angel. I can't tell you how much that's not happening."

"Because of the guy from the postcard?" he asked.

Buffy snorted. "No, because of all the reasons you already know. We can work together, but we aren't together-together. We aren't date-y, or ice-skate-y, or paint-the-town-red-y. We can't be."

Angel nodded and sighed, looking back down at the crowd. "Did you decide about that dance?"

Buffy considered, looking from him to the couples below and back again. One dance. One last dance. "Okay, sure. Let's dance."

As she preceded him down the stairs to the dance floor, she couldn't help but imagine Spike beside her, offering her his arm, guiding her to the floor, gallant and gentlemanly. She thought of him pulling her into his arms, his hard body moving with hers in time to the music. She thought of deep, rumbling whispers against her ear and shared laughter, of champagne toasts and flaring Mexican dresses twirling around graceful ballerinas. She tried really hard to not think about the last part of his missive… the making love under the stars. Of his lean, strong body and how his skin would look like living marble in the moonlight. Of his hands on her skin, of his lips and tongue and…

'Oh, man! That escalated quickly! I so need to get a life… or at least a date with someone of the non-undead variety.'

** X-X-X-X-X **

Mexico.

"C'mon, pet, at least try it," Spike urged Drusilla that night as they made their way to the ballet, holding up a fresh, warm churro for her from a street vendor.

She wrinkled her nose and turned her face away from him. "It smells of fat conquistadors and pilfered prizes."

Spike rolled his eyes. "They're deep fried sweet dough sprinkled with sugar. You wanted sweets earlier… here ya go."

"Not the right kinda sweetie," Dru contended as her eyes drifted to a young Mexican boy with dark hair and dark eyes, standing in line with his mother waiting for his own churro. Her frown turned to a hungry grin. "There's the sweetie for me," she declared greedily, running her tongue over her lips. "May I have him now, my Spike?"

Spike looked around, shaking his head. "We're in the middle of the square, Dru, with people all about and policia on every sodding corner. Did you enjoy being beaten within an inch o' your life in Prague?" he wondered bitterly. "Cos, personally, I didn't find it all that agreeable."

Dru huffed and folded her arms over her chest. "You never let me have treats," she accused, stomping down a foot petulantly.

"Yeah, well, just not fond of getting stabbed with sodding pitchforks," he retorted, taking her arm and guiding her away from the boy, who had gotten his food and was devouring it with pure, innocent joy. "I'll get ya a treat later, pet, when it's safe."

"Do you promise? A doughy boy with sugar and spice all on his insides?" she pressed.

"Do my best," Spike placated, taking a bite of the churro. It was delicious! He'd seen people enjoying them with hot chocolate, coffee, and with thick chocolate dipping sauces, too. Buffy'd go wild for 'em like that, but they were brilliant plain, as well. "You sure, pet?" he offered one last time, but Dru turned her nose up. Spike shrugged and ate hers too.

They strolled, arm in arm, through the square on their way to the opulent Palacio de Bellas Artes and the Ballet Folklórico de México. Dru seemed content, less quarrelsome, now that Spike had promised to get her a treat later. They stopped along the way to listen to and watch the street performers, Spike even dropped a few pesos into jars or guitar cases for the better ones.

There was a small, five-piece mariachi band playing and couples were dancing with lots of undulating hips and sensual energy. "Oh, Spike…" Dru breathed, looking at him hopefully.

"Would you like to dance, pet?" he asked, his eyes glittering with avarice.

"Oh, yes, please…" she replied as Spike took her into his arms and they joined the small crowd, their bodies moving in perfect synchronicity, in tempo with the music and each other. In the small pause between songs, Dru twirled away from Spike, giggling impishly. Spike couldn't help but smile at her. She was singular in the world, his Dru – a child, a woman, a devil, a seer of sights beyond his ability to imagine. He couldn't help but love her, to forgive her of her sins – she was his eternal love.

Spike reached for her hand to pull her back, but she continued spinning away from him, bumping into a man who was standing just at the edge of the dancers, watching. Dru pressed her body to his, still giggling, and pulled him with her onto the 'dance floor' as the next song began, leaving Spike standing alone in the center of the dancers.

"Uh, Dru, pet," he said deadpanned. "What are ya doing, luv?"

"Dancing!" she exclaimed. "I shall dance up into the stars on moonbeams and rainbows!" she declared, urging the man on with the sultry pulse of her body against his.

Spike sighed and moved back, taking the man's place on the perimeter, a spectator, as the love of his life danced with another. And another. And another. They began lining up for dances with the racy, lithe brunette. The hands of strangers roamed over her body, caressing and pinching, drawing squeals of delight from the vampiress. Spike tried a few times to coax her away, not wanting to make a scene or draw undue attention, but she resisted all his subtle efforts. He finally sat down on a nearby bench, lit a cigarette, and waited.

His temper couldn't stand watching her any longer, so he scanned the crowd, picking out possible treats from the Happy Meals on display. There were tourists and locals wandering about on the warm, winter night; each had pros and cons to hunting them. The tourists usually weren't too sure of where they were or where they were going, and if you spoke their language and seemed to know where you were going, they'd follow you blindly. On the other hand, if several were traveling together, like in a tour group or a family, one missing person would cause a ruckus. The same could happen with locals, but not usually as quickly, as families and friends always assumed the best and often waited before reporting someone missing, usually long enough for Spike and Dru to be gone from the area, if not the town, before anyone even started looking. The thing Dru didn't understand was that it was getting harder and harder to make off with meals, especially in big cities. Cameras were popping up everywhere, and vampires showed up on them just as well as anyone else. It wouldn't do to have their pictures plastered all over the eleven o'clock news.

Spike picked out two or three candidates as his eyes roamed over the square. He had skipped over one youngish blonde girl who was dancing because she was with a group, but then his eyes darted back to her. A smile curved his lips, her tousled hair and high energy reminded him of the Slayer dancing in the car seat, and before that, in the Bronze the first time he laid eyes on her. Buffy moved like liquid fire, supple and dazzling, a cauldron of sparkling energy. He imagined her in his arms, moving with him to the music – it was easy to do, they'd fought enough for him to know how she felt, how she moved, how she breathed. Her heat would surely scorch him, her body against his would leave him boiling, and her laugh, joyous and pure, would undo him.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, shaking his head and looking away from the golden-haired girl as he forced the image of that fireball of Slayer from his mind. "She'd sodding stake you if she knew what you were thinking, you daft git… and Dru'd claw your eyes out." He shifted his focus back to his sire, who was still dancing with yet another man… who couldn't bloody dance.

"Brilliant, dining and dancing are completely buggered. Let's hope the ballet fares better," he grumbled, lighting another cigarette. He looked around at the big tower clock at the end of the square. The ballet would be buggered too if they didn't get going soon. He dug in his pocket and came out with a handful of bills in varying denominations, a plan in mind. He sauntered over to the band, catching the trumpet player's eye with the dosh.

When the man sidled over to Spike, expecting a request, Spike said, "Take a sodding break, tomar pausa," and shoved the cash into the man's hand.

The musician looked confused a moment, as if he was trying to think of a song called, 'Tomar Pausa'. Spike rolled his eyes. "Tomar un descanso," he clarified, making a slashing gesture with his hand across his neck. "¿Entiendes?"

"Si, si!" the man assured him, looking down at the pile of cash and nodding enthusiastically.

"Brilliant," Spike muttered as he walked back to the edge of the 'dance floor' and waited. The music ended abruptly right in the middle of the song. When it was clear it wasn't starting back up right away, the crowd began to disburse.

"Have a good time, pet?" he asked Dru as he intercepted her, taking her elbow proprietarily.

"Oh, yes! Spike, it was ever so merry!" she replied breathlessly, unaware of the sarcasm dripping from his words.

"Glad t' hear it," he grumbled, guiding her toward the huge, ornate building that housed the ballet.

"Is my Spike not having fun?" she pouted, looking over at him.

"Sure I am. It's a sodding laugh riot watching you dance with half the gits in the bloody country. What more could a bloke ask for on a date with his girl?"

Dru's expression turned to a moue. "Didn't think you'd mind."

"Yeah, well… thought wrong, luv," he complained as they neared the front steps of the Palacio de Bellas Artes. They were fashionably late, most of the other patrons having already gone inside to their seats. Spike had actually bought the tickets, not finding any way to reliably steal them. Of course, he nicked the cash he used, so it all worked out.

The Palace of Fine arts was an imposing building, on a scale and level of ornate opulence with something much, much older, such as European cathedrals. The exterior façade was made of Italian Carrara marble and featured cherubs and sculptures representing music and inspiration, among others. At the entrance of the theatre, there were bronze mascarones – faces whose function was originally to frighten away evil spirits so that they would not enter the building. The roof covering the center of the building was made of crystal and depicted the muses with Apollo. The art and majesty of the building itself was grand on a scale rarely seen in North America.

Drusilla was enthralled.

Spike felt supremely pleased with himself as she 'Oohed' and 'Awed' at every sculpture, mural, and stained-glass masterpiece. Her hands were never still, twirling through the air as if touching each element of the building, speaking with the spirits living within its walls. Bloody hell, he could've just brought her here to visit the empty building, didn't even need the sodding ballet. But there was a ballet, a folk ballet, and the pictures in the brochure made it look vibrant and exciting. He hoped so – he'd sat through too many boring, uninspired, and downright ugly ballets in his unlife, but Dru loved them, no matter the quality, so…

"C'mon, pet, got us a box all to ourselves," he encouraged, as he took her elbow again and began to escort her to their seats with the help of a porter, who directed him to the 'Palcos'.

"It's so very clever," she gawped, her eyes still roaming over every inch of the lavish space. "And it tastes of rubies and lightning."

"Glad you like it, pet. Think you'll enjoy the dancin' and whatnot, too," he continued, finding their box and guiding her inside.

"Oh, Spike," she breathed, stepping up to the railing and looking out over the gallery and stage below. "It's made of starlight!" she declared, looking at the 'curtain' covering the stage.

"Tiffany glass, actually," he corrected lovingly. He could see how she'd think it was made of starlight – it was stunning. The 'curtain' was a mural created from nearly a million pieces of colored glass depicting two volcanos in the center of a Mexican landscape. It was the only one of its type in any opera house in the world, according to the brochure.

"May I have it?" she wondered, looking back at him with hopeful eyes.

"Don't think it'll fit in our bags, luv. Bit hard to nick something that weighs twenty-four tons," he replied, smiling. "Maybe I can get ya a bitty one in the gift shop."

"Oh, yes! Please!" she enthused, clapping her hands together gleefully, as the house lights dimmed and everyone quieted, ready for the show.

** X-X-X-X-X **

Dru was floating on air by the end of the performance, the pixies giddy and fluttering on dragonfly wings. She'd been entranced, utterly spellbound, by the dancers and their vibrant costumes. Spike, too, had to admit it was one of the most brilliant shows he'd ever seen, but watching her childlike joy and rapture with it was even better. He loved making Dru happy, it healed very wound she inflicted on his heart, melted every shard of black ice.

"The peacocks and hummingbirds danced with rainbows, my Spike," she said dreamily as they headed down to the gift shop so Spike could nick a few baubles for his ladylove. She twirled around gracefully, Spike keeping a light hold on one of her hands as she danced around him in elated bliss. "I should so much like to dance with the rainbows, my Spike. May I? May I, please?"

"Not this time, luv," he cajoled. "Maybe come back again and see, yeah?"

"Oh, yes! That would be delightful," she agreed happily.

In the gift shop, Spike had to release her hand as he prowled through the crowd, looking for trinkets that he thought Dru would like and slipping them into the capacious pockets of his duster. She seemed perfectly happy to wander through the shop, as well, picking up trinkets and dancing with them, keeping the eyes of the staff on her and off him. But, when Spike had finished his perusal, pocketed all of his selections and turned to go, she was nowhere in sight.

"Bloody hell…" he muttered, looking around outside the shop and still not seeing her waiting for him. He closed his eyes and homed in on her scent and on the blood link between them for a moment, then began walking with a purpose. "Backstage," he realized after a few moments. "To dance with the sodding rainbows."

He drew curious looks going upstream against the departing crowd, then polite calls for him to stop from the staff as he pushed through the less ostentatious doors at the back marked, 'AVISO! Personal Autorizado Solamente.' There were some exclamations of surprise and protest as he stalked through the backstage prop area, and then down the corridor toward the dressing rooms, but he kept going, following his nose and the faint tingle that thrummed through his blood, drawing him toward his sire. He didn't stop until he emerged through the 'Salida de Emergencia' at the end of a long, utilitarian hallway.

But there, he froze. Everything froze, beginning once again, with his heart. The ice spread in splintering waves out from his chest through his twisting gut, to encompass the whole of him in an agonized arctic rictus.

Dru was there. She was not alone.

The primary male dancer from the ballet was with her. The colors of his costume hanging from his lean, hard body in shreds, the fabric swaying like an undulating rainbow as he pumped against Dru with wild abandon. He had her pinned against the marble wall, her velvet skirt bunched up around her hips. Dru's pale legs were wrapped around his waist, a stark contrast to his mocha skin and the brilliant hues of silken ribbons that leapt with every jerk of his body.

Spike stood there, transfixed, unable to speak or move or even think, overwhelmed with the knives ripping through him, once again gutting him from the inside out. He watched while the man neared climax and Dru's fangs extended. Watched as she took him as surely as he was taking her, her body filling not only with his spurting completion but the ruby red liquid of his life. Spike watched as Dru rode him down when his knees gave way, as she drained him even as the last of his jizz pumped into her, his body twitching in ecstatic death.

Spike didn't notice when someone behind him screamed. He didn't notice the angry voices, then the frightened ones, or when they turned to warnings and panic. He could only see his love still taking her fill from the dead man, her hips still urging his slack cock to satisfy her, her fangs drawing every last breath of life from him.

When it did register that someone was calling for the police, when a crowd was gathering, he couldn't help the thought, just for the barest of shameful moments, of letting them have her. Letting them hurt her. Letting them beat her. Letting them punish her. Dru had never been particularly faithful to Spike, but reconnecting with her beloved 'daddy' had made her worse, it seemed. The only time he'd had her all to himself had been when she'd been sick and weakened by the crowd in Prague.

'Let them beat her, weaken her. Then she'd be mine again… all mine.'

But it only lasted for a moment, that wicked, traitorous thought. In the next moment, he was in motion, racing to her, snatching her away from the still-trembling body, and dragging her through the growing crowd, parting them with his own demonic countenance and thunderous growls.

Sirens blared and lights began to flash, painting the streets and buildings blood-red as they ran, up one alley, then down the next boulevard, turning corners and ducking behind parked cars. More and more policia converged on the area, their pulsing lights flaring like fire all around the vampires, threatening to corner them. Spike hauled her up a fire escape and they leapt from rooftop to rooftop, just above the deafening klaxons, Drusilla giggling the entire time.

"Get your kit together. We're going!" Spike ordered as they barreled through the door to their hotel room.

"But I didn't get to dance with the rainbows nearly enough…" Dru complained, her skirt still mostly bunched up around her waist where she'd been holding it so she could run. The sight and scent of the dancer's final performance ran down her thighs making the ice in Spike's chest flare to jealous rage.

"GET YOUR FUCKING KIT NOW, YOU DAFT BINT!" he bellowed, frantically gathering up his own clothes, books, and other miscellany that was scattered around the room.

Dru recoiled, whimpering from his outburst, still holding her skirt with one hand, but didn't move to comply. Spike growled furiously, clenching his jaw to keep from screaming at her further, and began grabbing her few belongings, as well.

"Let's go," he ordered finally, slinging both bags over his shoulders and grabbing her upper arm in a bruising grip.

"But, Spike…"

"GET IN THE BLOODY CAR! We're leaving!" he demanded, shoving her out the door and down the hall toward the parking lot. He could still hear sirens in the distance, and a helicopter or two had joined the search, their bright lights scouring the city streets for the killers of one of the beloved stars of the Ballet Folklórico de México. Dru whined again, but dropped her skirt and began trudging toward the parking lot. She wasn't moving fast enough for Spike, though. He came up behind her, once again gripping her arm and dragging her long in his wake.

"You're a bad, bad man," she snarled at him, trying to pull free.

"Yeah, well, you're a cheatin' whore, so I guess we're even," he shot back furiously, his jealously and rage consuming him. He opened the door to the DeSoto and pushed her in, slamming the heavy door hard enough to make the entire car shudder. He did the same putting their bags in the trunk, and then again with his own door. He stopped then and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with trembling hands, trying to calm down. No sense escaping the melee around the arts center only to draw more attention by speeding away like a bat outta hell.

"I'm not enjoying this one little bit," Dru pouted, crossing her arms over her chest sulkily.

Spike snorted. "Well, reckon we're even again," he replied sarcastically, finally feeling calm enough to start the car and head out into the night, away from the city, the opulent building, the brilliant dancers, and the scene of the heartbreak.

** X-X-X-X-X **

Spike took another long swallow of tequila before wedging the bottle back between his legs. He'd finally stopped at the outskirts of town, feeling sure they hadn't been followed, and picked up a couple of bottles of the numbing elixir. He sat behind the wheel of the DeSoto in front of a small bodega, letting the liquid burn away his anger and fill the void Dru's infidelity always seemed to leave. He should be used to it by now, he supposed, but… well, he just wasn't. Dru was asleep next to him, curled up like a child on the wide leather seat, her head resting on his thigh.

Spike ran his fingers through her hair, doing his best not to breathe in the scent of other men's colognes and sweat, and the dancer's pleasure and blood. "What the hell did Angelus do to you, pet?" he asked softly, before taking another swallow of tequila. She never talked much about Angelus turning her, little dribs and drabs about him killing her family, but nothing about what he did to her personally. Part of him wanted to know every detail, another part never wanted to think about it.

He pulled the trinkets he'd gotten for her from his duster's pockets, a small replica of the stained-glass curtain, which glittered in the low light from the store, and a small doll in one of the bright costumes of the dancers. He wanted to crush them in his grip and grind them into dust beneath his heel, but, looking down at her face, so innocent in sleep, he put them on the seat beside her, so she could see them when she awoke.

Spike closed his eyes and rested his head back against the seat, wishing for someone to talk to, someone who could understand this feeling inside. Dru could never understand what her actions did to him, but it didn't make it hurt any less, or make him any less angry with her for it in the heat of the moment. He only knew one person who'd had her heart ripped to shreds this thoroughly. Buffy. She'd understand. She'd listen. He knew she would. His eyes flashed open and he leaned over and opened the glove box. Rummaging around a moment, he pulled out a small mobile phone. It was the last thing he'd used Joyce's credit card to buy before shredding the plastic as he crossed the border into Mexico.

He opened the phone up and pressed the power button. A little jingle played, making Dru murmur in her sleep, then it just sat there silently waiting for him to dial the number. Spike stared at it, his guts twisting with the realization that he couldn't do it, couldn't call her, couldn't show her she was right about Dru. Every time he'd defended Drusilla when Buffy had called her a 'ho' crashed back down on him, guilt rising in his chest for accusing his sire of the very same thing only a few hours ago. He tried to think of someone else he could call, a friend to talk to, someone, anyone, who would understand, and came up blank. How pathetic was he? His only friend in the whole bloody world was his sworn enemy? The sodding Slayer?!

He powered the phone off and put it away with a sigh.

The defeated vampire lit a cigarette and had another swig of liquid heat before pulling the last thing he'd nicked from the gift shop from his pocket – a postcard. He couldn't call the Slayer, but he could do something – he could write. He fumbled for a pen, using the steering wheel as a desk. He considered his words carefully, making sure to not lie – she'd asked him not to lie to her. He'd tried not to… much.

'Painted the town red! Dining, dancing, and a ballet fit for a princess, all topped with a romantic shag beneath the stars.'

He pursed his lips, going over it. Every word the truth – the streets were painted red with the lights from the police cars. He'd dined on churros and tequila, Dru on the rainbow-man. Dru danced with the whole sodding male population of Mexico City. The ballet was brilliant, certainly fit for a princess. And, by Dru's standards, her shag in the alley with the dancer was romantic… and beneath the stars.

He nodded to himself, pleased with his effort, then added something he hoped was the truth. 'Amor vincit omnia.'

"Not sure about that last bit, Slayer," he muttered. "Guess we'll see."

'HYYF –S'


End Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! It looks like posting on this will be on Saturdays and Thursdays, so more soon!

Alfred Nobel invented Dynamite (among other things). Dru's answer of 'Rocks' and tossing her hands in the air was her interpretation of mining using dynamite.

The Palacio de Bellas Artes is amazing! Google it!