It was dark.
Really dark.
And considering what he'd been doing before the dark part, that was probably bad.
His arms were stretched up uncomfortably over his head; his whole body weight hung from his wrists.
Oh, yeah. Rescind the probably. This was bad.
"My pretty little Spoike," a feminine voice hissed. Sharp fingernails scratched his cheek.
Cancel the bad. Pencil in a disasterous.
"Dru," Spike croaked, forcing his eyes to peel open. "Lovely to see you, Pet."
"You've been terribly naughty," Drusilla giggled, running her fingers over his bruised and swollen face. "Look at all the pretty, pretty colors they've turned you. You're a fruit basket, all apples and plums."
Manacles around wrists: iron, strong, too tight to break his hand-bones and wrench out. Bugger.
Angel's son: across the room, unconscious, bleeding, shackled. Double bugger.
Bold Heroic Rescue Attempt: gone all to hell.
Drusilla circled him, smiling... and it was bizarre, the mix of fear and aching tenderness that rose in his throat. His black goddess. His ripe, wicked plum. He breathed deeply, taking in her smell of blood and mildewed lace and sour wine and insanity.
His Dru.
Killing her was going to suck.
"I've heard such sad stories about you, pretty Spoike. They made Miss Edith cry and cry."
"Sorry about that, love. You know I wouldn't hurt Miss Edith's feelin's for anythin'."
"Liar," Drusilla purred, her fingernails tracing the zipper of Spike's jeans. "You'd like to bash in her brains. Miss Edith says you've been terribly bad. Doing nasty, dirty..."
Drusilla punctuated her words with a vicious squeeze, and Spike's eyes flew wide.
"... things with the Slayer. Making messes of the pretty hellmouth. Shame on you, Spoike."
"Yes, darling, I've been terribly naughty. Do you forgive me, my princess?"
Drusilla reached languidly into a box, pulling out a small dagger and tapping it against the flat of her palm. "You've been playing hero with Daddy and you didn't even invite me."
She sliced his t-shirt open from bottom to top, letting the tip of the blade paint a thin red line up his neck to his chin.
"You went to Africa to get Willy back."
She reopened the scar at his eyebrow, biting her lip in concentration, getting it perfect.
"That..."
One cheekbone slashed.
"Was..."
The other.
"Very..."
And the knife pressed against his throat.
"Silly."
Spike inhaled sharply as Drusilla increased the pressure, blood welling from the ever-deepening cut.
"Poor Spoike. You always were so dreadfully jealous of Daddy. And he could be so wonderfully hurtful." She clucked her tongue. "I dreamed of you on the blue moons. Dreamt of you rotting. Little squirmies wiggling in and out of your eye sockets. You would have, you know. Too late now..."
Drusilla trailed the knife over his chest, drawing little spirals and loops, leaning over to lick the blood from his throat.
"You taste nicer than Daddy. Did his Slayer ever tell you that, my Spoike? Darla's very cross about it."
"Darla's dead."
Drusilla giggled. "That's never stopped anyone from playing with me, pretty Spoike. They come to me in my garden and sing little songs about dewdrops. Darla's very cross because you died for Daddy."
"I didn't die for..."
"Ssssh," she whispered, laying a finger across his lips. "You wore Daddy's trap. How it sparkled! Like baby fish. You changed all their plans, changed the game. Burned poor Willy right up, and him just arrived for tea. Not a very nice thing to do to Willy, was that, Spoike? But you taste better this way."
She wiped a drop of his blood up with her finger, spread it across her lips.
"Darla says it doesn't matter. But Darla never liked you. I think you knew that." She caressed his arm gently, regretfully. "But I like you, Spoike. Will you come back to me, now that Willy's all burnt up?"
"Of course I will, darling. Just unlock me, and we'll burn through this town like..."
Her laugh was high and piercing, almost a scream. "We've played this game before. I didn't like it last time. You changed the rules. You've changed your rules. No more electricity, no more spark. I wonder where it's coming from?"
"I've got the chip out now, my darling. It'll be like it was before."
"You don't know," Drusilla whispered. "How delicious."
"What don't I know, Pet?"
"You don't know Willy got all... burnt... up. You think he's still in there. Oh, he was lovely, Spoike. From the moment I saw him. I set him free, sent him soaring away, sent him off to have his repose. And what a long repose it was. Oh, they wanted Liam to burn, my Spoike. The Wolf, Ram, and Hart. They wanted Angelus out to play forever and forever, Liam all burnt up where the nasty gypsies couldn't ever get him back, no matter how they cried. Poor little Spoike. Always second choice."
She dug the tip of her knife into the flesh above Spike's heart. "Should I show you, my darling? You tried to cut him out once. Should I show you that he's gone? Show you how pretty and black you are on the inside?"
"You're lying," Spike gasped.
"Am I?" She dug deeper with the knife. "Do I lie, Spoike? Didn't you feel him burn? Turn into light? He knew it would happen, my Spoike. He knew ever so long ago. That's why I wanted to eat him."
"Dru..."
"My soul is wrapped in harsh repose," Drusilla whispered, trailing her hands gently across his arms as she walked to stand behind him.
"Oh, bloody hell, Dru, don't..."
"Midnight descends..." she tugged playfully at his duster, his sliced t-shirt, "In raven-coloured clothes..."
Spike whipped his head around to stare at her, horror dawning.
"But soft... behold... a sunlight beam..."
And Dru wrapped her arms around him from behind, crossing her hands over his chest where the amulet had lain.
"Cutting a swath of glimmering gleam..."
She burst her hands apart, miming the way the amulet's light had spread out through the Hellmouth.
"You were, at the end, you know," Drusilla licked his earlobe. "Effulgent."
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