It was so light, so early that it made his eyes hurt and his heart ache. An early morning wakening of the like he hadn’t really appreciated—not only in the past few weeks he had been immune to the sun, but since he was a beauty inspired poet in the human world. A ponce for all colourful sunsets and romantic gestures.
The dappled beauty of his Buffy in the morning light hit him hard in the gut, though, and being a ponce for the glory of life suddenly didn’t seem like such a bane. She glowed, and how that was possible in the natural harsh light of morning was beyond him. Her inner light should have clashed with the sun, but it shone so hard the pain in his eyes went all the way through his body. It was one of those moments where Spike was hard pressed to dampen William’s creative enthusiasm. So for once, he let it go.
And admired. He basked in the heat on his skin, the different shades of colour that could only be appreciated during the day, and loved his girl.
At last, his girl.
If there was a tear in his eye, he ignored it. Let the feelings play out without guilt or fear. The happiness he felt—Buffy in his arms and safe from hate and harm—made him so grateful for the foolishness that was his mouth under the influence of some strong spirits. And grateful to Harris—God be his witness. If the ignorant git could dump a woman like Anya on her wedding day then he deserved whatever vengeance the newly demonised Anyanka could convince someone to dish out.
Except he was getting kind of fond of the younger versions of these people he’d spent the past few years being hated and tolerated by. And if not exactly fond in return, he thought they might at least like him this go round.
Buffy moaned and curled up against him, her arms entwining around his neck and bringing him flush against her. Her heat scorched him from neck to toe and his lips tingled with the irrepressible desire to make love to her body. Know her in a way that Angel only thought he had. If there was one thing Spike was willing to stake his new millions on was that the poof never gave Buffy a good first experience. The brooding sod wouldn’t have a clue on how to make his girl scream in pleasure. He’d seen the glorified walking hair gel advert in action—and it wasn’t a pretty site. Even if he did really use mousse.
His girl.
The declaration just wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t let his tortured memories alone. It seemed so unfair that he hadn’t been neutered in this time and yet, each olive branch he offered to this demon-fighting clique offered him a tree in return. Though the Buffy of his time would rather plant the stick in his heart and kick his ashes about. How could he help but feel nervous?
His future Buffy had expressed often enough his place in the scheme of things. He was beneath her; she emphasised it with nasty barbs and flinging fists. She wanted nothing to do with him, could never, would never feel anything for him other than his convenience.
How could he help but feel like he was taking advantage? Young innocent Buffy wanted him, and God help him if he was so weak he couldn’t say no. Was so evil he sought her out and made the moves to have her be his.
Now his imbalance of right and wrong were coming back to push him into a premature no soul-having quandary. His need to have Buffy be his—have her return his love—had brought him four years back to the past. If he had been thinking with his head rather than the other, more single-minded head, he would have left her alone. Taken his family and gotten the hell outta Dodge. Forced his sire and grandsire to seek hope somewhere other than the Hellmouth and allowed Buffy to fall in love with someone as innocent as she.
But her smell, her hair, her heart—he could never turn his back on her and her fight. And to be so close to her was to want her. And how many times did he have to keep reminding himself he was an evil vampire who shouldn’t give two tosses whether he was ruining her life by being in it.
How could he resist the sleep-warmed leg that slid over his, her tantalisingly bare inner thigh resting against the emerging bulge of his cock? He nearly groaned low in his throat—but wanted her to sleep for a little while longer. Her thigh rubbed him in her slumber, her slow heartbeat enough to convince him her little torture show was not consciously planned. Yet he couldn’t help the hand that reached under her top to rub gentle circles around her nipple.
He bit his lip as he felt the fever between her legs heat his groin, pushing him beyond the limits of his jeans. His overeager fingers released the zip and he held back the desire to throw caution to the wind and kiss her into carnal knowledge right then and there. As it was, he nearly combusted as her thigh rubbed against the exposed rigid flesh of his cock, the agony so sweet he was nearly sick.
Turned toward each other he captured her lips, her leg now slung over his hip as she worked her centre over him—and still she slept. Kissing hungrily in a projected dream. His hand left her rock hard nipple and drifted down the back of her sleep shorts, stroking her rump and pushing her wetness against him in a way that was almost wringing the tears of frustration from his eyes.
He never woke up in the morning with his Buffy. This one was a dream, gave him so much more than his heart had ever hoped to receive, and he nearly jumped right back into that other reality when a small hand grasped him. With a little wiggle of her hips she encouraged him to slid his hand down and dislodge her pants, encouraged him to make her naked and ready for him.
As their kiss turned frenzied with a need that knew it was time—that waiting for birthdays was just a romantic girls dream—as the gyrating rhythm of their hips began to shimmy the sheet down to uncover their actions, there was a loud throat clearing behind Buffy.
“Bloody hell,” Spike yelled in panic, falling backward off the side of the bed with his dick flapping in the air. Rolling away from the bed and toward the now mocking sun—now that it had shed its light on everything—he quickly zipped his aching length back behind hard, durable fabric and bit his tongue to stop from releasing a torture bellow.
The giggles from behind him—both of the embarrassed kind—helped to cool his frustration. Only now that his senses weren’t filled with Buffy did he scent her. That addition of woodsy flavour—of nutmeg and earth that shouted out to him of an unwanted presence in his bed.
“I know you’re into girls, Red, but this is fuckin’ ridiculous.”
The amusement stopped in one moment of shocked confusion.
“I what?” the redhead eeped in frantic disagreement.
He had the decency to look sheepish.
“Er, sorry bout that. Was thinking of some other Red.” Which really did nothing but dig a deeper grave for himself as Buffy’s eyes murdered him in jealousy.
“You know another Red?” she asked with eyes flashing like strobe lights. “How is that even possible?”
“You know what, pet? You’re right. Was a Blue was thinkin’ about. Just got a bloody shock, didn’ I! Making out with my girl,” he stressed. “Was in the moment, yeah? Bleeding well forgot about the little interloper. Thank you poofy grandsire,” he said to the air as he rolled his eyes and slumped back to lie on the floor. The perfect picture of thwarted manhood.
“Sorry?” Willow squeaked and he couldn’t help but let his lips quirk in an indulgent grin.
“S’okay Red. Not your fault Angelus tried to scare the bejeezus out of you. S’what we brought you back here for. Didn’ want the big Brood to snack on your pretty neck.”
Double doses of ewww reached his ears, and he grinned wider.
“Right then, little ladies. Must be time to tuck into some pop tarts, or whatever you bints fill yourselves up with for breakfast. I need to see me a man about a removal van.” He paused, wondering what it was he was going to move into his new place. Everything he had in this world was at the Watcher’s place, and he wasn’t in any rush to barge into that little encampment. Wasn’t like he had much anyway. Still, it was time to move out and get the girls moving on the disinvites aplenty.
“Actually, might just enlist Harris. ‘M sure he’s probably feeling a mite anxious about Ang…has anyone told the whelp about Angelus?”
Buffy and Willow exchanged a glance and guilt shadowed their return worried negative.
“Right, I’ll fill him in; tell him no more unaccompanied nightly excursions. Not that the wimp goes anywhere unless he is half an inch behind the Slayer anyway,” he teased, enjoying the light flush that spread across Buffy’s smooth skin.
Everything about her was luscious and even with an obvious witness he could feel himself getting hard. Yeah, he’d always had it bad for her, and even now nothing was going to change. He may be evil, but he was also a man, and a man in love at that. She wanted him, and God help him—though the deity had never held much appeal—he was going to let her have him. He’d think about the ramifications of his soulless possession of her later. Consider what he owed her later. When he could start thinking with his other head again.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
The Harris place gave him the jitters. Brought back to a time when he was willing to surrender to forever in hell, just because he could no longer snack on real bait. Just because he was reliant on humans to keep him safe. And had to suffer their intolerance and hatred while doing so.
Harris’s basement had seen the first and only time he had ever tried to end his existence. Buffy had in recent times pushed him into wanting to try it again, but luckily she hadn’t pushed her advantage, leaving him instead to go poof into the past to make them all different. Hopefully change for the better…though that was a raging impossibility with cursed vamps and vengeance demons running around trying to cock it all up to hell.
He stood in the sun while he waited for his knock to be answered. The father he had avoided like the plague while he had been holed up in the damp basement squinted out the door at him, the sun in his eyes. Spike smiled at the little bit of evil that seemed to already be punishing this man—a splitting headache if the glass of spirits in his lazy hand could indicate.
“Yeah,” was the slurred greeting and Spike felt himself tense angrily at how this idiot was ruining lives. It felt peculiar to care, but for some reason this earlier version of Xander Harris was making the Big Bad feel all protective. He let his face slide to demon advantage, felt his fangs itch at the widening of the other’s eyes and growled low in his throat when the glass hit the floor.
“You’ve splashed your booze all over m’ boots,” he accused while still in take-down mode, his face shifting back to his human face. The sun had remained blinding in its shine, so he knew the elder Harris could never say for certain what he’d seen, but it gave him a sense of satisfaction that he might have given the irresponsible git something to think about. Something to be afraid about.
The other man said nothing, stood there in a perplexed stupor the likes he had no patience for. Leaning around him, Spike took no notice of the statue-like git as he announced his presence loudly to the interior of the house. Within minutes he could hear booted feet pounding down some stairs and the tousled hair of the brunette he was after popped up from seemingly nowhere. His smile was hesitant, a bit wary, but he continued to the door as if he had been expecting Spike.
“Willow called,” he offered as he grabbed his coat, bypassing his father without even a glance.
He preceded Spike down the path, watching with interest the silent standoff before Spike turned with a swish of his ever-present coat and strode to the door of his Desoto.
“Hop in, Whelp. Got us some organising to do.”
Within seconds they were both inside and Spike roared down the street, darting occasional curious glances at the apparently sullen passenger in his car.
“What the bleedin’ hell is eatin’ you up? Thought we’d had a beer together, saved the Watcher…pals and all.”
Xander looked a little nonplussed at the memories, guilt crossing quickly over his face until he settled into a determined mask of affected indifference.
“It’s…I mean…Look, you’re still a vampire, and I hate vamps. Pure and insanely simple.”
Spike’s eyes flew off the road to hit him with offended purpose.
“Is that right?” he drawled, the hurt only minimally evident as he tossed the change around in his head. He thought he’d made progress, broke the code that held this one of Buffy’s friends away from his attempts to atone. “An’ why is that then?” he asked, his voice tired, resigned to some in-depth diatribe about how he had hurt them all, tried to kill them all in the name of love and evil. Except that wasn’t this time, he hadn’t done it all again, had done things the right way, the good way—unless his idea of good was so skewed he had even yet stuffed the bloody thing up.
“Vampires killed my friend Jesse. The year Buffy came to Sunnydale, we found out about vamps and demons and your fabbo relative Darla took a bite and made him one of you. He wasn’t so loyal to the friendship after that and I had to kill him.”
The dead tone to the voice and the knowledge he’d never been privvy to startled Spike so badly that he pulled to the side of the road and shut off the motor.
He thought for a moment, contemplated that kind of blind hate, tried to focus on an act that had formed his judgment by leaps rather than degrees.
“A woman completely obliterated my heart when I was human. She devastated me and put me in the way of Dru and bein’ vamped. Doesn’ mean I hate women forever more now. My Da was killed in the Crimean war, left me with a slight intolerance to the Russians. What ‘m tryin’ to say is, I get where you’re comin’ from. You lost a friend, and that’s pretty rough.” Spike stopped talking to actually take a breath and contemplate the necessity of what he was about to say—to himself as well as the slightly tainted and judgmental youth in his car.
“’M sorry.”
The stillness in the car was like an electric current that held them electrocuted to the spot. Only difference was the untouched quality of their hair. Still, the buzz implied a change and it made Spike hope. Hold unneeded breath for the sign that said his point had hit its mark. They were only words—two words he wouldn’t have been able to spit past his lips a month or so ago. Words he couldn’t have aimed at the carpenter and mean it. Until now.
He could see the process of thought plainly on the brunette’s face, and he waited. Waited for fate and hard work to end their battle and declare sides.
Spike was right—they had shared beers and trauma like two guys out for a friendly time. Only when he’d returned home did his mind start to twist the events, see vampire faces merging with each other. Sure, one had been vengeful, heroic in his attempt to save Giles’s life, while the other had dripped blood from her teeth, eager to dive back into the throat that had been ripped off the prongs.
So, he’d concluded that he was thinking too hard about repenting demons, and instead focused on his lost friend. The one who he’d not taken the risk of his life to endure, to offer a chance at life. He’d seen the demon that had taken over his friend and had reacted. Only once the dust had settled at his feet did the childhood memories flood into his mind and he balked at what he had done. His mind had closed, hated anything with a ridge and fang in complete alliance with Buffy and the others.
There was no argument. Vampires were bad, were evil—unless they had souls. And even then they seemed to be the harbinger of death and prophetic crap.
Xander couldn’t help but cringe into the silence of the interior. He was so conflicted about Spike. His actual deeds didn’t add up to the ones in Giles’s books, so how in Hell’s name was he supposed to know which was the real vampire?
Two words held the answer to it all; a sentiment that Angel—as broody and consumed with guilt that he supposedly was—never even attempted.
William the Bloody had said he was sorry that Jesse was taken, turned to the side of bad. And the little bump of roughness in the voice that had spoken the apology belied more than a speck of truth. More than a grain of honest feeling for his pain. Xander was shocked out of his brain, but strangely reassured as well.
“Thanks,” he muttered at last, answered by a relieved exhalation from vampire lungs. “It means a lot that you’d apologise for something you weren’t responsible for.”
Spike nodded and left the truce at that. It was time to get onto other things, other worries that he hoped didn’t counteract the hurdle he’d just cleared.
“Red tell you about our other little problem?”
“Angel doing the spooky evil stalker impression? Yeah, she filled me in. Quite a night you’ve all had.” His voice was a mixture of tease and hurt—Spike could only assume because he’d been the last to know.
“Nobody thought he’d come for you; never been in your place, yeah?”
“Still, might’ve been nice to know. I hate it when I get left out of the loop.”
Spike offered an ironic snort. He knew all too well what it was like to be kept out of the loop by this lot—particularly by the one currently at his side.
“Anyway, always thought Mr. I-Brood-Better-Than-You, Hear-Me-Roar would break the soul train eventually.”
Spike looked at the boy with new admiration at his coolness under pressure and thanked him again for being such a loser in his unamended future as to rend him opportunity of this little jaunt in the past.
They drove a street in silence, broken when Xander had thought of another oddity to add to the list he was compiling mentally about Spike.
“So, why am I your new pet project all of a sudden?”
Spike answered him with a cocky grin that showed a happiness that had been absent from his unlife for way too long.
“Harris, with the role models you’ve got, you need all the help you can get to be the kind of man who…” He stopped as memories bombarded him. Visions of when Buffy hadn’t been cruel or hateful, when she had actually treated him with the kind of trust that would leave him to care for her sister. “You need help to be a man—unless you’re beggin’ to be like your ol’ man or Rupert.”
Xander’s eyes widened in comical alarm, and they both snickered in agreement. Not the best of options. Way far from the coolest.
“And you think you’re the man to do it?” Xander yipped, incredulous at the turn of the morning—and his life.
The grin bolstered the human’s confidence and Spike continued his new effort at flashing his teeth.
“Seein’ as how I only recently was taught the right path of how to be just the right kind of man, I figure the lessons might still be kinda fresh. I’m game if you are, mate. Can speed along the learnin’ curve together if you want.” The fact that the boy would be learning about not leaving his girl for any reason couldn’t be a bad thing. The insecurities that he’d held, contributing to the break-up of his wedding could only be helped if Spike took this mission seriously. Xander needed to know that he was in no way like his deadbeat father—so when he decided to take that leap with Anya, he would have the confidence to know it.
It was out and out hilarious, and Xander just loved the idea of it. A dysfunctional teen and a formerly evil vamp along the road to manhood. It had too many opportune moments for hilarity to pass up.
“You’re on,” he committed, just as Spike rolled to a stop outside the mall. “What? You gonna buy me my very first hammer, dad?”
Spike rolled his eyes at the good-natured ribbing and opened the door, hesitating still only slightly at his renewed journey in the full sun.
“Picked up the keys and signed contracts. New place is ready to be moved into. Thought maybe should fill it up with something, you know. Otherwise I’ll be livin’ in a rather depressingly empty space. ‘Sides, need a fridge at leas’ for my blood.”
Xander grimaced, but followed faithfully as they made their way through the throng of people that never seemed to ever leave the place.
“Right Whelp, battle plan. Get in, get out. Any questions?”
Xander laughed at the wary scanning of the crowd Spike was making, and not even once wondered if the vamp was sizing up meals. As a man, he took for granted the horror at needing to shop for anything as fast as possible.
“So, you’ll need some furniture…”
“Not too much,” interjected the vamp. “Thought Buffy might like to pick out some things,” he mumbled, almost embarrassed that he had seemed more and more like his poncy human self the longer he stayed in the past and his humane side was coddled.
“Paper plates and cups and cutlery should do it. No washin’ up. Vamps are allergic to dishpan hands.”
Xander lit up with the excitement of easy—what trouble could they have picking out regulation paper plates. He slapped his hands together and bounced on his heels.
“Hand over the cash, Bleachboy, and I’ll get onto the supermarket. You eat food and stuff? I'm on it.” And he was off before Spike could open his mouth and offer any advice about what he might like to reside in his cupboards. The money hit Harris’s palm and the boy was gone.
“Meet you back here in an hour.” He had the fortitude to call before the boy disappeared completely amongst the crowd. Only the back of a hand waving in the air reassured him the instruction had been agreed upon. He had the feeling he was going to end up with a pantry floor to ceiling with Cheetos.
With a small niggling sense of apprehension, he stepped into a store and quickly picked out a decent sized refrigerator. Next stop, he needed a bed. Not usually very fussy, he found one he thought Buffy would like and put in his instructions for immediate delivery. He added pillows, comforters, and then got lost in the huge display of bedding.
His fingers slid over black satin, getting lost in the dream of it draping Buffy’s golden skin. He tossed the package on the pile, passing by a display of the palest pink sheets in the same sheen. Giving up to his normal habit of impulse, he grabbed up a set and added it to his embarrassingly well considered purchases.
The salesperson at the register raised a brow, more than impressed that a man who looked like he bordered on gothic extremes could pick out such delicate bedding and have everything match so prettily. As she tallied and the pile switched sides, she smiled, for buried under the splashes of feminine pink she found the completely separate set of sheets, blankets and the like in black and the deepest of reds. The total made her eyes cross, and she smiled in extreme good humour as he handed over more cash and left the instruction for everything to be delivered together, paying extra for the privilege.
Then he was off in a whirlwind of black leather and she couldn’t help but swoon. Some woman out there was an extremely lucky lady.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
He let her up, finally. Skin tarnished by dried streaks of her own blood, she looked like a priceless work of art, all torn and cut and bruised. To him, she had never looked more beautiful as now—punished and now forgiven for her crimes. He would spend the night showing his gratitude for her bringing him back, returning him to the life he was killed to live.
He felt amazed at how differently things felt. How fresh and fragrant the fear felt now that he was geared to enjoy rather than grieve it. His darling childe was responsible for it all, for saving him and allowing him to enjoy the smorgasbord of the Hellmouth. This time it was better, so much better. He had far more appreciation for the kill, for the opportunity to tear lives apart with his fangs—far more artistic appreciation for the colour red in all its pretty hues. Scarlet, ruby, garnet, cerise: they all told his story in the most evil detail that he couldn’t keep the smile from his face.
Dru was weak; he could see the damage his fangs had wrought on her and a small twinge shook him—a left over perhaps from being his disgusting alter-ego. However, the guilt-laden idiot had spent weeks getting his childe all healthy on sire’s blood, and in one night of frenzied punishment, he had lost most of it from her body.
It felt kinda fun, though. Like baptism of his renewed unlife in his own blood. It was more than fitting, and it tasted so sweet. But now his only family was left almost drained, and he found weakness abhorrent; disgusting. It was unfortunate, but he had a fondness for Dru. And even more, he had a need. She seemed aware of secrets from their little William that he would do himself no favours to ignore.
“Come here, my sweet. Time for Daddy to kiss all Dru’s lovely bruises better.”
She hummed and cried as her body shook the few steps to stand before him. She was naked, her blue eyes shining with a vacancy he could feel nothing but proud of.
“That’s my girl.” And that cut to the crux of the matter. She was his and the only one he had left of the all important inner four. Somehow he thought it would be impossible to coax Spike back to their side, the pest’s soulless decisions confounding Angelus till his canines buzzed. Not that he would want the impetuous upstart barrelling in when his feral newness could possess Dru totally, destroy this town properly, and kill his grandchilde’s lady-love painfully.
He pushed her back on the bed and positioned her kneeling while he stood before her. As he claimed her lips in a show of slow and gentle she had not experienced in over a hundred years from her sire, he ran his hands through her hair and allowed himself to grieve for the lost members of his family.
His own hand had deprived them of Darla, the most stunning blonde he had ever laid eyes on and so much more—his maker. The soul had ripped her from him while his loyalties had been misplaced. While he had been controlled by an unnatural restraint that sucked the proverbial life out of him.
And William, the one who had always dragged them into some trouble or other because he couldn’t control his homicidal tendencies. Secretly, he was kind of proud of Spike. If the idiot hadn’t brought them to the brink of dusting over and over again he would have even told him so. But the fool kept causing situations that saw mob after angry mob track and chase them down. A vamp liked his quiet life—and Spike did nothing but continually compromise it.
As Dru’s hand found her way to his cock and gripped him hard, those small feelings of loss passed beyond him and he succumbed to her mouth, her luscious lips showing him a new existence. A fresh new tomorrow that would see them smashing their way through Sunnydale. If Spike wanted to act all soul-like without the benefit of having one, then Angelus was happy to let him watch as he bled the Slayer dry. Preferably while claiming the fuck weak little Angel had been deprived of with the shock emergence of Spike.
He lifted Dru and allowed her to wrap her legs round his waist and sink over his cock, soothed with the feel of her cold passage as it massaged his lust. He allowed her to move him for awhile, noticing with such lackadaisical fashion that her body was slowing, becoming more frail. With a gentle nudge he aimed her face to his neck, laughing out loud in amused bursts as her fangs were sunk in his throat and some of the plasma he had stolen from her was returned.
When he came it was with a few more vicious thrusts, an anger and strength for killing overcoming him. He threw his childe off his cock and back on the bed before bending over and grabbing his pants. In a rush he was dressed, looking down at a whimpering Dru with impatient irritation.
“Go clean up, Dru. Its time we left and find a new place to call home.”
He watched as her shudder turned into a full-blown vibration, her body thrumming with some kind of news that allowed his eagerness to be gone, to fall aside so that he could wait and share in its destruction.
The smile that broke through her vacant and slackened expression impressed him with its complete lack of goodness. Everything about his childe thrilled him; she reeked of evil intent and he felt his cock harden with the need to see her once again in action, remind himself how she could subdue a terrified victim with nothing more than her eyes. It was simply the most delicious thing he had ever witnessed, and he couldn’t believe how excited he was to see it again.
“I see it like it was Daddy, all stone and flowers…so pretty.” And she spoiled the enthusiasm with a pout. “But it’s all wrong this time. Naughty William will spoil the party before it’s even begun. Daddy must find somewhere new, somewhere even the nasty Slayer can’t find us. Somewhere with streamers and cake. Miss Edith doesn't like gardens...they need water to grow, and nothing ever grows for me.”
Angelus watched her with a frown creasing his usually smooth face. “So what you’re saying is, the gorgeous and empty mansion I already decided to move us to, is not such a good idea?” He began to pace, not even looking at Dru for an answer. He was well-versed enough to know that when she said something, explanation be damned, he’d want to listen. “Damn. Was a really nice spot, too. Okay, think. Need another place.”
On a pivot he saw Dru still collapsed and curled into a shivering ball on his bed. “Go clean up, Dru. It’s beyond time we were getting out of here. Move before the little Slayer comes along to attempt to dust us!”
His smile was cold as he continued the pacing. “Needs to be big enough to house the minions. Glam enough to fit the image. It’s fine, Dru. I’ll just eat the neighbours. They won’t think to look for us right next door.” It sounded satisfying enough, a little lunch with his new hideaway. But he was experienced enough to know that killing someone and taking over their place couldn’t be permanent—someone would come to call and he’d have to kill them too. Then another and another. Best he find somewhere as deserted as the original place he’d intended, keep them as far under the radar as possible till he could work out what his return to his demon roots would mean for him and Dru.
Despite having to alter his plans on the fly, as well as being stuck with the least capable of his get—weakened to the point of his own irritation—he felt like he was in an amazingly good mood. He felt like singing. Only songs he could think of were by some dickwad called Manilow—and that was so far from his current image he almost wanted to barf.
When he turned and still saw Dru wailing softly on the bed, he rolled his eyes in an attempt to tamp down his impatience and anger. Obviously words weren’t getting through to her. Lifting her from the bed with an uncharacteristic gentleness, he nudged her on her feet to the small bathroom, and set to checking out his souled existence in this place. Nothing bore reflecting on; nothing was of enough consequence to carry over into his new experience of undeath.
It was a timid Dru that exited the bathroom, still a little wet and dripping, fresh clothes covering the healing ruin of her skin. Angelus smiled as he enveloped her in his arms, rubbing his cock against the fabric covering her crotch.
“That’s much better. Now, go sit in the corner like a good little girl while Daddy looks in the classifieds and finds us a new home.”
She did as he said, dived into the corner like a mouse who had been trained by too many nasty zaps. But rather than subordinate in misery, she rocked back and forth and smiled. The pictures flittered in and out of her inner eye, and though her naughty Spike thought he could save the girl from her darling Daddy, he was too wicked and would be punished. With whips and chains and knives and the cruelest of water. Her daddy would make their wayward child bleed, would bring him home and make him stay. He might have forgotten who he was, but she knew the truth, and together, they could help him return to the dark.
Naughty boys that wandered in the light would always end up burned to a crisp.
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