Disclaimer:  I don’t own or profit from BtVS.

A/N:  Let’s check up on Spike and his twisted family dynamic, shall we?  If the Summers clan motto is ‘Family First’, what do you suppose the Aurelius motto is?

Spoilers:  Passion

Remember When

Chapter Eleven

Spike landed face first on the bed and was instantly transported into the memory of Kent in summertime.  His bed smelled of English roses, sunshine, and his long forgotten home.  Longing curled inside his chest, so deep and tight that it threatened to squeeze the unlife from him.  For the barest of moments, his desires transformed and he no longer craved the concrete tastes of blood, sex and violence, but ached for the intangible and unobtainable.  He yearned for an unidentifiable something he was unworthy of having.  He closed his eyes, immersing himself in the sorrowing goodness the scent evoked as his arm was wrenched towards the wrought iron headboard, his wrist tightly encircled by cold metal.

“Daddy says you aren’t to leave.”  Drusilla nipped at his ear, her sharp fang slicing the cartilage.

Spike jerked away.  “Sod off, Dru.”  He had been tormented by his sire many times over the last century, but the burn of betrayal never seemed to lessen.  If he were a proper vampire, he would take pleasure in the pain she inflicted on him.  And to an extent, he did.  Whips and chains weren’t his particular fetish, but they had their enchantments.  It would be simpler if she only inflicted physical pain on him, rather than delighting in the emotional turmoil brought about by the games she played.  Her favorite was to watch her dark prince pine for her attentions while she clung to her daddy.  It gave her a fission of pleasure that sex couldn’t evoke.

Control.  It always came down to who had the power and who didn’t.  Drusilla was a beautiful woman, a deadly predator, and the queen of William’s heart, but she was forever trapped in the torment of her turning.  She always felt weak and victimized and in her desperation to claim a modicum of control she embraced the dark arts of manipulation her daddy inducted her into. 

The more Angelus abused her, the greater her revelry.  Not because she garnered physical pleasure from the degrading acts he forced on her, but because by embracing them, by giving herself over to fits of abandon, she reclaimed her sense of power – a wicked power that she delighted in inflicting on her childe, because she knew he would never turn on her.  Her dark prince would take all the abuses she heaped on him, letting her reconstruct her sense of self through the smidgeon of power she was allowed to claim for herself, because he loved her.  He loved her like the raven loved the moon and death loved the bloodless corpse.

“Uh oh.  Summers’ sunshine has been flitting through the winter’s shadows trying to burn all the lovely darkness away.”  Drusilla sing-songed from behind, raking bloody furrows down his naked back with her long fingernails.  He grunted against the pain, and buried his face deeper into the mattress.

“Daddy.  My Angel.  Come dance in the garden,” she called, her voice a knife blade through the echoing factory.

“Christ, Dru.  You’re shrill wench.  You’re startin’ to sound like Darla.”  Angelus leaned against the doorframe, watching his childer with a lazy smirk.

Dru swayed to absent music as she licked Spike’s blood from her fingers, a contented smile stretching her red lips.  “Oh, how I miss Grandmum.  We used to play the nastiest games.”

“Yes.  I remember.”  Angelus chuckled darkly, his fingers playing along his lower belly near his belt buckle.  Spike fought to hide his cringe.  The games his sires played were wicked and cruel, usually involving him in positions of submission.  He had no more energy for it.  After two days of torture, he was exhausted.  The pints of pig’s blood he consumed were now pooled on the factory floor, festering with larvae and buzzing with flies. 

All he wanted was for them to leave so he could sleep and dream of better times – a past where Angelus was safely tucked away behind his soul, and Spike never heard of accursed Sunnyhell.  He inhaled deeply.  Perhaps he would dream of Kent, its open, sundrenched meadows, and his mother’s melodious voice.

“The pixie and sunshine have danced through the garden and trampled all our weeds.”

Angelus sighed deeply, stepping further into the room.  His childe was beautiful, an amusing doll he loved to break over and over again, but egads could she be trying.

“What are you on about, Dru?”  He choked on the last word as he inhaled.  The fragrances of sweet innocence and honey-slick womanhood were redolent in the dingy room.

“Well, well.  William the Bloody Awful Vampire has groupies.  Isn’t that….sweet.”

“Don’t know what you’re nattering on about, mate.”  Spike denied.  Fucking Summers women.  Bad enough being punished for letting the baby bint go, but now the Slayer had to show up and flout her stench all over his sodding things.  They were just buggering up his unlife left and right.  Why did they keep coming here?  Were they set on killing him slow? Were they trying to keep their hands clean by inciting his family into torturing him to death?

Why do they tend to me so lovingly, a tiny, fractious voice questioned.  Spike drew his free hand beneath him, hiding the woven band still decorating his wrist.

Angelus ignored him and drew a deep breath.  “Smells fucking delicious in here.  The scents are so thick a vamp could practically sink his dick into them.”  He cut a sly glance to his childe who danced in circles while lighting candles.  “Or at least something a little more tight and wet.” 

“Play your soddin’ games elsewhere.  Leave me to rot in peace.”

Angelus chuckled, swooping Drusilla up into the air.  She squealed with delight, tilting her head back so her loose, dark hair twirled around her shoulders.  Angelus buried his face between her breasts, worrying back and forth like a dog with a bone.

“You know what my favorite game is, Dru?”

She wrapped her arms around his head, holding him close.  “Pokers and brands?”  Delight lit up her eyes as she thought about all the lovely designs her daddy could burn onto her flesh.

Angelus licked a long trail from her breastbone to her arching throat.  “Debauching the innocent.” He steadied her on her feet as he leered at her with yellow eyes.

“Oh!  I’m good at that game, Daddy!”  She clapped excitedly, bouncing on her toes.  “I played it so well when you and Grandmum fetched me home to be yours for eternity.”

“That you did,” Angelus rumbled, remembering the games he played with the innocent mortal girl before he turned her.  He caught her by her long hair, reeling her in.  “Now, my devil childe.  I want you to pretend you’re sweet, little Dawnie and I’ve finally got you in my evil clutches.”

Dru giggled and on the bed, Spike couldn’t help his recoil.  Spike knew exactly what Angelus would do if he ever got his hands on Snack Size.  He surely didn’t need an enactment, especially on his bed.

“Shall I scream the way little Anne did when you ripped her dress and spilt her milk?  You were such a bad daddy for making her cry.  She never ate cakes and honey again.”

“That would be perfect,” Angelus purred.  “Your little sister was a sweet bit of spun sugar.”  He leaned closer to Dru.  “Now, run!” he commanded with a roar.

Dru’s shrill scream was more of a squeal as she darted to and fro about the room trying to elude Angelus, who stalked her between the brass candelabras.  The candlelight sputtered, casting devil caricatures on the walls.  Unable to look directly at them, Spike watched as Angelus’ shadow puppet engulfed Drusilla’s willowy frame, swallowing her whole, until it seemed as if she no longer existed.

Angelus inhaled deeply, casting a sly glance at Spike who sulked on the bed.  “Mmm.  Dawn and Buffy all in one delicious potpourri.  I can’t wait to have them together in my bed.  Oh, the things I’ll make them do to me, to each other.  Always wanted sisters.”

He grasped Dru around the waist and launched her onto the bed next to Spike.  The crippled vampire struggled against the manacle locking him to the bed.  His thrashing scooted him to the edge and his lifeless legs tumbled to the ground with a hollow thump.  Spike lay half on half off the bed, his dead weight yanking hard on the sharp cuff, drawing beads of blood on the inside of his wrist.  The angle of his upper body forced his face towards the mattress, immersing him in the fragrances that were driving Angelus into a lustful fervor, effectively trapping Spike between the heaven of Buffy’s scent and the hell of watching his sires play their sick games.

Angelus straddled Drusilla’s struggling form, ripping open her velvet bodice.  He pinned her flailing arms, and stared thoughtfully at her small, dusky-tipped breasts.  He turned his leering gaze to Spike.

“What color nipples d’ya think Dawnie has?”  Angelus asked his grandchilde curiously.  “Perky little tits.  Barely formed crabapples.  Not yet ripe, but just right.”  Angelus’ eyes glassed over as he rutted his cock against Drusilla’s velvet covered thigh, his long sinuous tongue twirling around her erect nipple.

Spike turned away, laying his cheek flat on the coverlet and pressing his face into his arm.  He had a brief spark of a memory at hearing how some animals would chew their own paws off to escape traps.  The idea had its charms.

Next to him Drusilla squealed like a piglet being slaughtered.  “See how I touch her, Spike?  She likes the pre-show.  She likes the tease.  This is how you keep a woman like Drusilla satisfied.”  The sound of fabric rending echoed in the room.  “Gonna do this to that baby girl until she bleeds out of every one of her tight little holes.”

Drusilla gasped and arched into his touch.  “Oh, yes, Daddy.  Make it hurt.”

Angelus reeled back, an ugly snarl twisting his handsome features.  He slammed his ham hock fist into her small mouth, and red rain sprinkled onto Spike’s clean, white sheets.  “Do it right!” he screamed, spittle spattering the slender woman beneath him.

Spike whipped around, levering as much weight as he could on his forearms.  “Leave her alone, you sick bastard,” he snarled.  He never hated himself more than he did that moment.  He was a useless bag of meat and bone.  A soddin’ joke.  A crippled vampire who wasn’t man enough to protect his minions—his woman—to take care of his own.  Dalton died doing what Spike couldn’t, protecting the one human who had shown him a lick of kindness in hundred years and now his dark princess, his queen, was being degraded before his very eyes.  For over hundred years he served her faithfully, fulfilling her every desire while cherishing her without a soul, just as deeply as any man with a soul could, but when she needed him the most he failed her.

Angelus leaned to the side, wrapping his large, cool hand around the back of Spike’s neck.  His claws pierced Spike’s flesh, beading blood beneath his ear.  Angelus bent close, his breath feathering over the crippled man’s cheek.

“Such a pretty mouth you have, William.  You best keep it shut, unless you want me to stuff it full.”  Angelus trailed his hand down the weaker vampire’s face, prying his thumb under Spike’s lip to run the pad along the front of his teeth.

Spike yanked his head away, his range of motion severely limited by his shackles and disability.  “Fuck you.”

Angelus chuckled darkly.  “Oh, no, boy.  I’ll be doing the fucking.  Too bad you’re a cripple.  It’s no fun when you don’t squirm.”

He turned his attention back to the woman still pinned between his thighs.  She was watching him with unaccustomed stillness.  He shuddered as her dark, fey eyes seemed to pierce their way into the hollow that used to hold his soul.

“Now, Dru.  You’re supposed to play sweet and virginal.”  He dug his fingers into her bare breast, his claws drawing ruby rivulets of blood to trail down her exceedingly pale flesh.  “Scream like my Dawnie will.  Tell me how much it hurts.  Beg me to stop.  Cry some pretty little tears for me.”

Dru’s scream was more of a moan, and Angelus rolled his eyes in disgust.  He shoved her away, edging off the bed.  He had cracked his dolly a little too deeply during her turning and now she couldn’t play the games properly.  Oh, well.  Lesson learned.  He would practice restraint with Dawn.  He would take her right to the edge of breaking, before turning her.  That way he would have a sweet, screaming innocent for all eternity.

“The worst thing I ever did while souled was kill my beautiful bitch.  Darla could play this game with ease.”

Drusilla struck with the alacrity of a snake, wrapping her long legs around Angelus’ waist and yanking him atop her.

“I can do it, Daddy,” Drusilla pleaded desperately.  She had to please him.  She couldn’t live another century without his attention.  “Oh, please don’t hurt me, you evil man.  I’m as sweet as sugar water.  Pure as an angel.  I’ll just die if you touch me.”  Dru’s tone dropped into forced saccharine notes.

Angelus snorted.  “Good enough.  Now, scream for me.  Scream.”  He grunted the last word, ramming into her hard.  She screamed like she did the first time he fucked her all those centuries ago.

Spike wished he could rid himself of his hearing as easily as he did sight.  They grunted and groaned, squealing and screaming.  Angelus whispered all the dirty things he would do to Snack Size once he had her, and Dru cooed in delight.  Their games rocked the bed, rattling the old factory wall, and making it hard for Spike to keep his weight balanced on his torso so his shoulder and arm weren’t wrenched too badly.

Spike felt hot pricks of tears at the backs of his eyes.  He couldn’t figure out what made him more miserable: the fact Dru loved him so little she would disregard him so blatantly, or that he felt sick to his stomach at having to witness their games.  It was one thing to fuck her sire in another room, but it was another to do so right in front of Spike and in his bed, no less.  He had always known she belonged to her daddy, but at least she allowed him his delusion, if only to ensure his loyalty to her.  He supposed it wasn’t necessary now, with Darla no longer in the picture to distract Angelus away from her deranged charms.  For the first time in her unlife, Drusilla had Angelus’ complete and undivided attention, something that would surely change once Angelus brought the Slayer and Snack Size into the fold.  Spike knew when that happened, his dark princess would find her way back to him for the cold comfort he would unquestionably offer.  How could he not?  For all her cruelty he loved her unswervingly.

He disliked being reminded of what Angelus did to Dru when he first stalked and turned her.  He liked the idea of Angelus doing the same to Dawn even less.  And maybe that was the true source of his despair.  As a vampire he shouldn’t care what happened to the baby bint.  He should be reveling in it.  The thought of tasting her sweet virgin blood should be an aphrodisiac.  The idea of debauching her should be arousing.  The sick twist he felt in the bottom of his belly at the thought of Dawn being used so cruelly was just another example of how he wasn’t made right.  His sires had known from the get go that something wasn’t right about their newest fledgling childe, but Spike’s enthusiasm for the hunt distracted them.  They claimed his peculiarity was the consequence of being sired by a lunatic vampire, and he didn’t much disagree, but over the decades he had put more thought into it.

He was sure it might have something to do with the man he was before his turning.  He knew why Drusilla was as bloodthirsty and insane as she was.  She was made to be that well before her turning.  All of her sweetness and innocence were lost before she became a vampire, and all the remnants of her soul were happy to flee when death overtook her.  The demon that invaded her body made a right cozy nest in the empty hollow that used to house her soul.

Liam had always been a whoring bastard, and Darla was just a whore.  They were made for each other, really.  Their souls were already tarnished, blackening the housing with sin before the demon moved itself in.

But William had been a good man at his turning.  He hadn’t been prepared in the manner Drusilla had been.  When he walked into the mews a century ago, he hadn’t expected to meet his beautiful Angel of Death.  He hadn’t been ready to die.  He had his mother to care for, his estates to see to, people who relied on him.  Those responsibilities served to tether parts of William to the material plane, forced to share space with a demon. 

Oh, he was still a demon at the core.  But in his heart, William still lingered like a bad stench.  He loved his spot of violence, his bloodlust and just plain lust, but the fundamental problem was that he loved.  His ability to love violence, bloodshed, and – by all that was unholy – Drusilla, was the quintessence of his abnormality.

It was disgraceful.  Disgusting.  Freakish.  He was irrefutably a bloody awful vampire.

He felt Drusilla’s long fingers weave through his hair, urging him to tilt his head to look at her.  He blinked away his tears, meeting her dark, sorrowful eyes.

“Save me, dear, sweet William.  Save me,” she whispered softly, her entire body shuddering under Angelus’ forceful thrusts.

In the shine of her dark, glassy eyes he could see the reflection of the girl she used to be, before Angelus sank his fangs into her and shredded her world apart.  He imagined her flitting through the market streets, exclaiming over lengths of colorful ribbons with her sisters and mother.  The sweet, innocent girl who loved taking tea with her dollies, sneaking cakes with her sisters, receiving lemony kisses from her mother and adoring hugs from her father.  She was made eternally beautiful by Angelus’ corruption, allowing her to be a part of Spike’s life for more than a century.  She was everything he lived for, his black goddess, his deliciously wicked plum, but in moments like these he desperately wished she had lived and died in her time, unsullied by the monster she called Daddy.  If by some secret wish he could give her the peace of a mortal life, he would.  Even if meant he never existed as a vampire.

“I would have saved you, my love,” he pledged.

Her full lips curled into a soft smile before they parted in a venomous sneer.

“Bad dogs get no cake!”  She wrenched his head to the side, and tufts of platinum hair yanked free of his skull.  Her sickening laugh of pleasure trilled down Spike’s spine as she turned her attention to Daddy, playing the game of debauched innocent with zest. 

It was a game she wouldn’t be subject to if those soddin’ girls hadn’t traipsed la-de-da into his lair.  The sweet scent enfolding his bed became bitter slayer musk in his nostrils, grinding away at the traces of his humanity until his demonic capacity to hate flooded his veins.  He could trace his every misfortune back to the Summers clan.  His failure to kill the slayer bitch at the high school was because of her harridan of a mother’s interference.  His distraction during Halloween was because of the motor-mouthed little sister, and his utter soddin’ cockup with Ford was because he was reacting to the Slayer’s disgust over his supposed perversions.  That final one had been the beginning of the end for him and his dark princess. 

She didn’t understand why he failed to kill the Slayer time and again.  With every failure he was less of a demon in her eyes.  He had to redeem himself.  He had to be the demon she needed him to be.  He had to prove and assert himself as a dominant male to gain back her respect.  It was the only way to save her from herself---to save her from Daddy.

The bed trembled and the tension on his wrist was released.  He blinked up at Dru, realizing his musings had protected him from their finale.  Angelus was gone, leaving him alone for once with his queen.  She gently lifted his naked body onto the bed, and spun away to search through his drawers.  He could tell by her vacant eyes and off key humming she was lost in her own thoughts.  He allowed her to dress him like a dolly, slipping jeans over his hips and drawing a tee shirt over his head.  He grimaced at the uncomfortable itchiness of his own skin.  Dried blood was flaking beneath his clothes, and he longed desperately for a bath, but it was something he knew he wouldn’t be receiving from his vacant princess.

He caught her by the wrist when she would spin away from him, drawing her onto the bed.  She didn’t resist.  She snuggled against his side, nuzzling the column of his neck, lapping away the old blood.

“Stay the night with me, luv,” he pleaded quietly.  He desperately needed her companionship.  He wanted to rekindle some spark of kinship between them.

“I must go with Daddy.  The air worries.  A birdie chirps her secrets from her nest of wires, an enemy seeking to destroy our happy home.”

“Not so happy, princess.”

“Shush.” He flinched as she lifted her pale hand, but she merely placed one long finger against his lips.  “Bad dogs don’t get to speak.”

She pressed a bloody kiss to his mouth, and he could taste their mixed essences.  Gracefully she eased off the bed and lifted him into his wheelchair.

“Now be a good boy, my Spike.  Don’t let the pixie and sunshine get you.  They’ll gobble you up and spit out your rotten pit.”

She swayed out of the room, unmindful of how Spike’s despairing eyes followed her.