Chapter Two
The music flooded his senses, making Spike feel drugged. The beat of the drums resonated through his blood until he swore his heart was beating, and the bass thrummed through his body, making him vibrate with feeling. If he had to be stuck in his coffin-like car, it was a good distraction. Not that he minded coffins, as such.
Vampire. Hello!
He'd always loved this car, too. His first American-made, and it was aging like fine wine, just like him. And now it would be his salvation…or, at the very least, the thing that took him to it.
He dialed the volume higher, banging his head in time with the beat and letting himself feel hopeful for the first time in months. The buzz was almost as good as sex. Almost as good as the hunt and the kill.
Almost, but not quite.
Spike hadn't fed in days – not since Dru threw him out over the whole, misguided truce-with-the-slayer thing – and it wasn't for lack of appetite. At first, he was just too sad and/or too drunk to bother. Every so often, rage would pierce through his veil of despair, but the rage held a sobering affect, which Spike eschewed. Self-awareness came with sobriety, and if Spike examined himself too closely, he would know that Dru was right to be angry with him. So, he continued to drink himself silly, glorying in the oblivion.
It was at the bottom of his umpteenth bottle of tequila that he had his epiphany.
With surprising lucidity, he recalled the events that led him here, to his lowest of lows. Dru blamed him for what happened to her precious Daddy; not the slayer – even though it was bloody well Buffy's doing, dammit! – He hadn't waited around to see the conclusion for himself, but he could reason it out easily enough. The world hadn't ended, and Angelus was no more. There was no hiding that fact from Dru. The knowledge was in their bones; a piece of the Aurelian line gone.
The slayer must have rallied there at the end.
A smirk teetering on pride threatened. He growled and threw his empty bottle against the wall, watching it arc and shatter. He wasn't proud! Not of the slayer! Bloody fucking hell, she was the reason he was in this mess in the first place.
But that wasn't quite true, was it? He may not have performed the actual deed, but the slayer wouldn't have had the opportunity to end his gramps at all had Spike not stepped in to offer aid, helping the fucking slayer over his own family!
And this was the source of Dru's ire…the reason he could not be forgiven.
Still, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. He was glad Peaches was gone. Hell, he was bloody-well over the moon!
Ta-ta, tosser!
Yet, if it cost him Dru, was being rid of the git really worth it? He imagined not.
What could he do to fix it though? What's done is done and all that. He studied the broken bottle pieces and frowned. He was tempted to think they looked a lot like his heart, but that was poetic rot, and he wasn't that man anymore – not a man at all since Dru pulled him from the metaphorical gutter and changed his life for the better.
That's about when the proverbial light bulb had gone off.
All he had to do was prove his devotion to Dru: how grateful he was to her, how much he loved her above all others; and if the groveling and the pampering and the kowtowing wasn't working, there had to be something that would work.
Something bloody, begging, and slayer-shaped, perhaps? Maybe something involving chains?
Spike chuckled. One order of naked, desperate Buffy Summers, coming up!
If Spike got hard at the vision, he'd take that with him to his dusty demise.
With renewed purpose, he had stumbled to the DeSoto, cranked his music, and headed toward Sunnydale, intent not to stop regardless of his half-starved state. With every hunger pain, Spike laughed and banged his head harder, dislodging his perfectly coifed hair. No, the next taste to grace his lips would be slayer blood, and he bloody-well couldn't wait.
Spike didn't even bother running over the Sunnyhell sign, although it took concerted effort to leave it intact. Instead, he went straight to Revello Drive, not giving two shits if the whole Scooby gang saw him and came running with their handy-dandy crossbows. If his plan didn't work, he'd welcome death. He'd beg them for their stakes and arrows, or, if they wouldn't comply, he'd greet the sun with open arms.
Turns out, he fretted for nothing, receiving nary a glance from human or demon alike despite his recognizable automobile. His confidence grew, and he stepped out of the car nearly giddy at the thought of his plans actually working out for once.
He caught her scent almost immediately and paused to inhale deeply, luxuriating in the vanilla and honey aroma. If he lingered too long, enjoyed it too much, he told himself he was simply reveling in her coming demise and nothing more.
He tracked her easily through town and straight to the mansion.
Funny the bint would want to hang out here after everything. Must not be too keen on her sanity.
Maybe she wouldn't be too keen on self-preservation either?
He could only hope.
Spike stood outside listening for a bit, long enough to know Red was playing with forces she shouldn't. Her hubris could work in his favor, though; moreover, it was clearly only Willow and Buffy inside – no watcher or whelp to speak of – and Red was distracted; That meant Buffy could be, too.
He kicked in a window and jumped through whole-hog, heedless of the falling glass, a cacophony sure to draw the slayer's attention.
Sod it, that hurt! Maybe not the best idea, that.
He walked forward with brazen indifference, distracted as he inspected the gashes on his arm. When he raised his head from the wound, there she was.
Salvation.
"Spike! What are you doing here?"
Stupid bitch! What d'ya think I'm doing 'ere? Jus' come to chat over a cuppa? Ask after mum? Gossip 'bout the best hair dye?
He snarled and grinned wickedly, morphing into game face. It was time to show her he meant business, time for the bitch to die!
"I came to taste the goods before…"
He trailed off as an unnatural gale hit him full force, causing the tails of his duster to go nearly horizontal – Neat! The wind was accompanied by a commotion from Willow, which pulled Buffy's attention away. It was no good threatening her if she wasn't even going to pay attention to him. He huffed and raised his eyes to the ceiling, asking for patience, though from whom, he couldn't say.
No decency. Can't so much as die the way she's s'posed to.
Well, he'd show her! Have a good rough and tumble, he would, before bringing the slayer to her knees. It'd be tempting to finish her off here, but he'd settle for merely sampling the goods a bit before knocking her out and taking her to Dru. They could drain her together, fuck over her cooling corpse.
It'd be beautiful. The stuff of legends.
He took a step forward, ready to lunge, to take advantage of her distraction, but he halted short, confused. Because Buffy was gone, vanished in a matter of seconds, and where she'd been standing glaring at him just moments before now stood Drusilla, awash in glowing light.
Had she come chasing after him? Did she kill Buffy? If so, where was the slayer's corpse?
His eyebrows furrowed as he cocked his head. "Dru, luv, what are you doing here?"
She danced closer to him, all languid motion and graceful, enticing curves.
"My Spike. My dark knight. I could not let you leave."
She somehow edged closer without him even realizing…not until her hands were on his face and her fingertips were digging into his skin hard enough to hurt.
He purred, welcoming the attention he'd gone so long without.
"But you said – "
A finger shot to his lips. "Tsk, tsk, my Spike. Do not remind Mummy. Mummy didn't mean it." She drew out her words in that sing-song way of hers and tapped her finger in time.
Could this be true? Could it be that easy? All this time and all he needed to do was leave in order to show her what she was missing? If he had known that, he would have left months ago. Instead, he'd stubbornly clung to her, holding on white-knuckle tight, and refusing to believe it was over no matter how many times she'd told him so.
Love's bitch, he was.
Her words now seemed too good to be believed – a daydream he'd had while wiling away long hours without her – but he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Oh, Dru," he said, engulfing her in his arms. "Love you, I do. So much. I'll never do anything to hurt you again."
"Don't say that, my Spike," she said, smiling. "Mummy likes to hurt." She growled against his jaw, nibbling with blunted teeth.
He couldn't help it. Spike sneered, pulling away from her embrace. It's not that he minded a little torture with his pleasure – and if it would make Dru happy, he'd oblige – but being reminded of it in this place, in particular, only served to remind him of her preference for Angelus…how Spike never did quite measure up to her Daddy. Not in the sack. Not as a vampire. Not at all.
"You know I'll do anything you ask of me." Even though he meant it, he couldn't look at her while he said it.
"Why are you sad, my William?" She forced his face back to hers, kissing the ridges of his forehead. "If you are thinking of Daddy, it is alright. I have forgiven you." Their eyes met, his hopeful, hers delighted. "I understand," she added as she began trailing a finger down his torso.
"You do? You forgive me?" He hated the uncertainty he could hear in his voice. He hated how, even in death, Angelus could still torment and degrade him.
"I'll prove it." Her eyes alighted. "I'll let you claim me, my Spike. I'll be yours forever. Just as you've always wanted." As if to emphasize her meaning, she let her hand find its way to his groin, squeezing his hardening length through the fabric of his jeans.
Spike groaned, but whether at her demonstrative gesture or her words, he couldn't be certain.
"Yes, Love. Yes." He was already ripping off her dress and kissing her violently.
As he caressed her breasts and tweaked her familiar, rosy nipples, a thought echoed in the recesses of his brain.
Hadn't he been here for a reason? Wasn't he supposed to be doing something? Something to do with the slayer, yeah?
But all thoughts were lost when Dru ripped his shirt. Threads snapped and buttons flew as she pushed him through a doorway and onto a bed…a bed that still smelled like her. And Angelus. The thought made him a little sick, but he pressed on, more violently now, determined to excise every bad memory. He began by pushing her down against the sheets and covering her with his body. Then, as he lowered his head to kiss her neck, he thrust into her, his impatience to claim what was rightfully his causing him to rush past the foreplay he usually preferred. Just before his fangs found her jugular, he stopped. There was another smell here. One he recognized.
Buffy.
Instead of distracting him or causing him pause, the smell only ratcheted his arousal. He thrust harder into Dru, making her squeal and squirm. In return, she tightened like a vice around his cock, a fierce, almost painful grasp that caused him to cry out.
That was…new, but not altogether unwelcome.
"Bite me, Spike. Bite me. Make me yours!"
He didn't have the wherewithal to deny her, nor did he want to. He resisted the urge to tear into her neck, to punish her for the anguish she'd put him through. Instead, he pierced her skin gently, delicately, taking long droughts of her life's blood. As the taste overwhelmed him, he thrust deeper, harder, not ceasing even as she cried out her ecstasy for him.
"Mine," he whispered in her ear. "My princess. Always."
"Yours." Her answer was quiet and raspy, as if she couldn't quite catch her breath from pleasure.
He didn't expect her to claim him in return, didn't know if she would want to, but when her fangs pierced his skin, he couldn't hold back. He came hard, pumping inside her and riding out his pleasure with perfect, if disbelieving, joy.
"You're mine, my Spike. All mine."
"Yes, luv. All yours."
He rested his forehead against hers, chest heaving with unnecessary breath as he attempted to gain control over his overwrought emotions. He noticed absently that she was doing it, too, and he found he loved the feel of them breathing together. Loved the heat of her skin, the vanilla and honey of her scent, and the sound of her heart beating against his skin. His tongue flicked out to lick her already healing scar, and he could taste the remnants of her blood. So sweet. So intoxicating. Like nothing he'd ever tasted before…
He stilled just as unfamiliar fingers laced through his hair and pulled him back gently, more gently than Dru would have handled him.
And just like that, he knew. Before he even opened his eyes, he knew.
It didn't make sense, but when did sense ever matter here? Not on the Hellmouth.
He forced himself to open his eyes, to see the truth for himself. Sure enough, startled green irises stared back, confirming what he'd already suspected.
The Slayer.
Well, fuck.
