One


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Shocked was an understatement. What he was feeling in the wake of Buffy’s rejection went so much deeper than that. Far closer to devastated, broken, desperate. He had turned from her door finally, after several long moments staring at the wood, and had stepped down onto the path, feeling as if someone was inching a stake through his chest, one painful inch at a time. He wanted something to drink, something to hit – anything to take away the pain – but at the same time, all he wanted to do was hide in a dark corner and nurse his broken heart.

He had known – of course he had known – that she did not feel the same way, that she would not welcome him with open arms. He knew he had gone past reasonable when he had zapped Drusilla and tied them both up, but some tiny part had hoped that the gesture – despite its extremeness – might just have shown how genuine he was in his feelings. It had been a nice fantasy, but the Slayer had only scoffed in his face, dismissed his feelings – and then left with a lovely punch to the nose.

And even though he had known it would likely have been better to leave her to calm down, he had followed her, desperately wanting her to understand, to see him for the man he was trying to be – for her. And all he had got for his trouble was some more harsh words, and a door in the face.



Somehow, his feet had led him back to his crypt and with leaden steps he went in, slamming the door behind him so that the place shook. He stepped forward, the brief violence doing nothing to assuage the burning in his chest, and dropped to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He would not cry for her.

He wanted to hate her, wanted to conjure the old images of her lying in a pool of her own blood at his feet – but it was hopeless to try; he was, as he had told the Slayer himself – drowning in her. He let out a cry – half anger, half pain – and spread his arms, head thrown back. His voice eventually faltered, but he stayed there on the floor, staring at the ceiling as if something would deliver him from this agony.

“You shouldn’t play with the sunshine, William.”

Her eerie voice drifted over him and he closed his eyes, wishing her away, as he sank back on his heels, arms lowering.

“The sunshine doesn’t want to play with you, either,” she murmured with a tinkling laugh, moving closer.

“I thought you’d gone,” he got out, too weary to be angry with Drusilla.

She stepped closer then and he felt her fingers on his neck, tracing a pattern across the back of his shoulders.

“You know I’ll always be with you, my Spike,” she whispered, running her fingers over his hair, “In here…”

She stood behind him and lowered her hand, resting it over his dead heart.

“And in here.”

She bent, nuzzling her head against his, and he found it hard to resist that old comfort.

“A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his glory,” Drusilla whispered in his ear, echoing the words she had spoken the night she had killed him.



Oh, it was hard to resist her tenderness – always had been. He had not expected to see her again, and in such a good mood, after what he had threatened – but here she was. As always, Drusilla knew exactly how to play him when he was down – just as she had known the exact words to say to the broken-hearted William in that alley, so many lifetimes ago.

“She cannot see your glory,” Drusilla whispered, “So she shuts you out of her life.”

“I know she feels something,” he found himself saying, unable to stop the words.

“She’ll never love you, William,” she whispered, arms twined around him now, rocking him just as gently as she might have done to Miss Edith, her beloved doll, “She’ll never look past the fact that you’re a dirty, evil vampire.”

He squeezed his eyes tighter together, fighting back his pain, because he knew that Dru was right.

“I love her, Dru.”

“An infatuation, my sweet William,” she murmured, her lips brushing over his ear, “It will pass. Mummy can make it pass so sweetly.”

She ran her hands down his chest, nails digging into him ever so slightly so he couldn’t help but let out a moan.

“Miss Edith told me you would come back to me,” she whispered, fangs scraping over his neck teasingly, “She knew you wouldn’t kill your dark plum.”

He had been so certain before, but now he wasn’t sure if he would have been able to go through with his threat, no matter what Buffy’s reaction had been. Drusilla had made him and, in her own strange way, she loved him. Loved him more than the Slayer ever would.



He felt her shift as she got to her feet and she rounded him slowly, moving to stand in front of him, bestowing a soft caress upon his cheek.

“No more tears, sweet William,” she murmured, running her hand across his eyes.

He shook his head unconsciously, leaning into her caress as he opened his eyes, looking up into hers.

“Come,” she said, stepping back and holding out her hand with a smile, “Let’s dance, my sweet.”

He hesitated – struggling with his own voices: the one telling him that only Dru had ever cared for him, and the other, which told him that if he did this, he would never have a chance with Buffy. He would have erased all of the progress he had made in the last few weeks and months. He would be back to the enemy he had never really stopped being.

Raising his troubled eyes to Drusilla’s gaze, he held it for a moment longer – and then took her hand as he pushed himself to his feet. She drew him into her embrace and he let himself sink into it, tightening his arms around her.

“Missed you, pet.”

She stroked a hand over his hair and held him close.

“Of course you did, my naughty boy.”



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A/N: So, erm, what do you think? Worth a go?