A/N: Beta'd by amyxaphania

***

Another couple of weeks passed and though neither Spike nor Buffy had spoken of that night’s events, Drusilla suspected something. She had grown increasingly irritable, flying into one of her fits at the slightest provocation. Yesterday it had been that the bed sheets were too rough, like serpents scaling round me and crawling inside my flesh.

She wasn’t usually violent, but this time she picked up a vial of holy water—something that they only had lying around because Dru occasionally liked to mix a little in with her meals to add a little extra sting—and threw it in Buffy’s direction. Buffy ducked, but the bottle shattered against the wall over her head, its contents raining down on her.

If Spike’s heart still beat it would have stopped just then. He flew across the room faster than he could ever have thought possible to try and shield Buffy from the poisonous liquid. He held her tiny frame beneath his own as holy water showered down on him.

Fortunately the bulk of it landed harmlessly on his duster, but he felt the painful prickle build up as it trickled down the back of his neck and across his right cheek. He gritted his teeth as the pain grew to a searing burn and his skin blistered and corroded where the water landed.

When it finally subsided into a dull ache, Spike peeled himself off Buffy. She stared at him with wide eyes, her hand moving as if of its own volition to touch the side his face that had been burned, but stopped sharply when Drusilla screeched once more. This time, she had drawn her fingers through her long dark hair and pulled free several locks.

“The pixies, they lied. They lied to me,” she insisted, her voice growing louder. “I started the tea party, but all my jam and crackers are gone, gone, gone.” She pulled her knees to her chest and began rocking while chanting the word gone over and over again. Spike hurried to his sire’s side to calm her down, but not before shooting Buffy a worried look.

Things could not carry on like this. Something had to give.

***

Something did give. It just wasn’t anything that Spike had expected.

He returned after a night on the prowl with an unconscious co-ed slung over his shoulder. Ever since Drusilla had become a lot less stable, he and Buffy had gotten into the routine of one of them hunting while the other stayed in and kept an eye on Dru.

Spike took it upon himself to fetch her dinner every night and tried to avoid Buffy when he came back with it. Her distaste for killing hadn’t gone and every time she saw him with another victim the face she’d make—so weary and conflicted and heartbreakingly sad—well, it was something Spike didn’t like to see, much less cause.

He tried to enter the warehouse quietly, but the door burst open and Dru greeted him, looking to be in far better spirits than she had been in a long time. He wondered idly what had gotten her in such a good mood, but didn’t have to speculate long as he soon heard a booming voice with an Irish lilt coming from their makeshift home.

“And then I cracked the babe’s head open over my knee, like this.” Spike heard the voice pause as he presumably demonstrated. “Was just like breaking an egg. And she must’ve begged me at least a hundred times over at that point to stop, have mercy. Ye’d think they’d learn by now that that only riles me up more.”

“Darling, you exaggerate that story more every time you tell it. Last time she begged fifty times and before that twenty. I’m starting to think she didn’t beg at all.” Spike also recognized that voice, all breathy and feminine and, after handing the co-ed over to Dru, entered, steeling himself to deal with the unexpected houseguests.

He saw Buffy sitting in the corner of the room
looking extremely uncomfortable and if possible a little green. Angelus was there and so was his bitch of a sire, Darla. He had her pinned to the wall with one hand as he growled.
“Maybe I should take ye out back, m’dear girl, and show ye just how well I can make a lass beg.” Darla was giving him one of her stormy looks, like she was pissed off, though Spike knew that she was really desperate for Angelus to make good on his word. Unfortunately for her, the brunet noticed the new arrival and the room and pulled away from Darla with a grin.

“Ah, William m’boy, it’s been too long!” He grabbed Spike roughly by the shoulders and planted a kiss on his forehead.

“Angelus,” Spike muttered, giving him a small nod.

“We were just telling yer latest fledge about our last trip to Germany. Such a cute little thing that she is.”

“Isn’t she? All bright colours and innocence—tasted like spun sugar.” Drusilla had filed back into the room, apparently having had her fill of the science major he’d picked up.

“Much better than the last one you decided to keep,” Darla agreed, turning her nose up at Spike. “Though she is a little on the scrawny side.”

“I don’t know about that.” Angelus appraised Buffy. “She looks ripe enough to me, but that’s not what we’re here for,” he said backing off at his sire’s wrathful glare. “We came to catch up and what’s more we brought ye all a treat.”

He opened up the door to what Spike assumed was originally a supply closet, revealing four sets of hungry looking eyes peering out. They were children, ranging in age from six to eleven years old, packed in the closet like sardines in a tin.

“We found them in an orphanage in Belize,” Darla explained. “They practically melt in your mouth.”

Drusilla clapped her hands excitedly and reached for the youngest of the bunch, but the rest of them made no move towards the children.

“It’s too bad I didn’t know that ye’d have another mouth to feed.” Angelus sighed.

“I—I don’t mind,” Buffy squeaked out. She looked like she might heave. “After all, I’m the youngest, so you guys with the seniority can go ahead.”

“Hush, child,” he cooed, “I can’t rightly let ye not have a taste of this. Here.” He shoved a small girl towards her. “I was saving this one for meself, but I’ll let ye have her.”

“Oh, um, thanks,” Buffy mumbled and gave Spike a desperate glance. He knew she couldn’t kill the child, but she couldn’t let her live either—not in this crowd—so he did the only thing he could think of and, reaching over, broke the child’s neck with a quick jerk.

“Just like unscrewing the peanut butter jar,” he joked. “They always need the men to do it.”

Angelus stared at him oddly for moment, but then broke into a grin. “And isn’t that the truth.”

Evidently passing Angelus’s scrutiny for now, Spike tore into the meal with the rest of them. It wouldn’t do well to arouse suspicion.