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It had been a year. One unexpected, unpredictable, unparalleled year since they’d said goodbye to Sunnydale without so much as a backwards glance in the rearview mirror and embarked upon lives they could never have imagined would even cross, much less commingle. And yet there they were, sharing a London flat, exploring both the high and low points of city life.
Their early days in England had been a constant holiday, with Spike spending long nights dragging Faith from pillar to post, showing her every possible attraction the city offered. He had started with the newer developments, things that he himself hadn’t seen since he and Drusilla had left England for Europe in the late 1930s, and worked his way steadily back to include destinations that had been well-known during his humanity. There had been no shortage of eyerolling from his companion as he pulled her into yet another gallery or stately home, but he saw her reading the informational plaques in the museums and the galleries, watched her become transfixed by paintings and the sights on the night tours on which he’d book them. She enjoyed every moment of art and history and culture as much as she did the nightlife and the pubs, although she was much more reticent to admit it.
Spike had figured Faith out fairly quickly—he knew that she was damned smart, but it wasn’t hard to guess that she had had little in the way of formal education; a few weeks of watching and listening to her had helped him to put the pieces together. She’d admitted one night that she had dropped out of school shortly after her first stint in juvenile custody; she hadn’t seen the point in trying to go back and act like everything was normal when it was more than apparent that her life was in turmoil. Once she’d been called, the pointlessness of classes and homework had taken on a whole new dimension, and by the time she’d fled to Sunnydale the armor around her fears of intellectual inferiority had been firmly in place.
It was easy enough to see that she had learned quickly to pretend to a certain level of detachment, of being above everything, including the formal pursuit of knowledge; the wisdom that came from a life of hardship and of making her own way was indeed something that she possessed in spades. Steadily, however, she’d gotten more comfortable and let her reserve slip, and Spike found that she in fact had quite a voracious appetite for learning, provided that the subjects interested her. She tended to go through fiction quickly, veering away from the classic gothic novels he’d first brought her and instead working her way through Austen, Eliot, and Lawrence. The more modern the book, the slower she seemed to read, however; to him, it seemed as though she’d seen far too much of her world, and needed the escape of the long ago and far away.
And so it was that one of the happiest nights he’d experienced over the course of his existence—and certainly one of the most peaceful—involved sitting on the sofa of their flat watching telly while she scanned a history of the Victorians and lobbed questions at him. All of his grimacing, mock-scowls, and grumblings were lost on her; she’d simply smirk at him, volley back at him some comment about it not being her fault he was old enough to be history, and turn her gaze back to the pages in front of her, lost in a world of strange social customs—courting and suitors, dance cards and corsets and ankles zealously covered for decency’s sake—even as she herself lay half-draped and scantily-dressed with her head pillowed in the lap of a vampire. Time had its way of marching on; and thank the gods for that truism, he thought as he looked down at full breasts barely covered by the tank top she’d chosen as loungewear.
They both heard the faint thump in the hallway outside their door, though only Spike stilled completely, his hand tightening in Faith’s hair as his muscles stiffened. Shooting him an annoyed look, she managed to free her hair and sit up; when she moved to rise from the sofa, however, Spike’s arm shot out and pinned her against the back cushion.
“No.”
Faith would’ve made a remark about being barked at so harshly had she not learned to read the lines of his face so well; the way that his jaw was tensed and the corded muscles in his neck were held taut, the way his hands clenched and unclenched slowly told her that he was either furious or anxious, and the way his gaze had locked on the front door told her that whatever was on the other side of it was responsible.
“What is it?” she asked, voice low but steady. If she needed weapons, she wanted to be prepared.
Her only answer was a short, sharp shake of his head as he jerked to his feet. Halfway between the sofa and the door, he turned to look at her. “Go into the bedroom, Faith, and don’t come out until I’ve said, yeah?”
“I take orders from you now?” she shot back, clearly furious at both his tone and his dismissal.
“God damn it, Faith. For once, just mind me, and trust there’s a reason for it,” he barked back.
She would’ve responded—and likely at the top of her lungs—had the front door not been wrenched open from the outside at that moment. She didn’t have to have ever seen the woman who was now staring at her curiously to know who she was; she’d heard far too much from Spike, both waking and sleeping, to not recognize the newcomer in an instant.
“Naughty Spike, hiding from mummy after she’s come all this way to find you.”
Spike’s eyes widened, and Faith noted the warning glare he again shot her as he crossed to take his sire’s outstretched hand. Faith turned and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door; her eyes closed and she slumped backwards, bracing her back against the wall as she heard the single word he spoke in near-reverence.
“Drusilla.”
Blinking back the tears that she could feel building, Faith closed herself in the bathroom, turning on the shower and standing under the scalding stream. The noise and the pain were a welcome distraction as she tried to ignore the dawning and horrifying feeling that she’d need to find herself new escapes all too soon.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
For long minutes, silence reigned as Faith and Spike simply stared at each other, the air between them thick with hurt and anxiety, the distance between them far greater than the mere span of the room.
Spike knew what he wanted to say, but had no conception as to how to begin the conversation; Faith looked more stricken, more fragile, than he’d seen her during waking hours since the first night that they’d made love. He didn’t know how to tell her that he loved her, didn’t know whether he should continue to steer clear of the words themselves, didn’t even know if she wanted to hear it, and his uncertainty kept him silent and slumped on the sofa.
The knot in Faith’s stomach had grown until she was certain that she would never again know a moment’s true peace; the pain was unbearable, the attempt to conceal her suffering excruciating. She’d waited too long to tell him how she felt, had believed that her actions would speak where her words failed, and now she was losing him to the woman who had been his law and his love for over a century. She was losing a lover—and more importantly, her friend—and suddenly she just wanted the whole conversation to be finished, wanted him out of her sight and her life if that was where he was determined to be. She wanted to nurse her wounds and rebuild her walls in private; the rest was simply a tragic curtain call to the little drama they’d been living.
Finally, she broke from the tension and the silence. “You know what? You do what you need to do, and I’ll get by just fine. Did it for years without you—without anybody, actually. Just don’t think I’m going to be sitting on my ass waiting for you to come back; there’s more than you out there, Spike, and all I gotta do is walk out there to find it,” Faith snapped, falling back on aggression to hide the ache in her heart and the fear gripping her insides. It seemed so long since she’d been alone, since she’d had a day without him, and it terrified her to think that the morning might again be dreary without him. She had lived for years without him, but they weren’t happy years, not years to be repeated.
“Are you finished?” Spike asked, watching her warily from his position on the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands on the back of his neck.
“Take the floor, blondie. It’s your show anyway,” she shot back, years of agony giving the words an extra edge.
“Good. Now sit your ass down and shut up; got some things to say to you,” Spike ordered, springing to his feet. When she didn’t make a move, he raised a brow at her as he leaned back against the wall, posture deceptively casual. “Need me to help you find a seat, love?” he asked lowly.
Despite her glare and her annoyance at the imperiousness of his tone, Faith found her feet moving, found herself seated on the edge of the sofa, looking up at him. “So here I am, Spike, looking up to you like a good little penitent and everything. Say your piece and get the hell out; I told you before I don’t play this kind of drama.”
Spike’s heart clenched as he watched her trying so damn hard to be heartless and brave; they’d been too close for too long, however, for her to be successful. He knew what was under that act, knew the agony that she was trying to hide—because he was feeling it too, had felt it since he’d seen the look in her eyes when she’d caught sight of him talking to Dru. He still couldn’t say when it had happened, couldn’t even hazard a guess, but the girl in front of him had become his world. Her life, his—it was all one, hopelessly intertwined, for better or for worse, since the second she had appeared on his doorstep in Sunnydale. And god help him, but he wanted it to be for the better—he owed her too much, loved her too much, to let it be for worse.
“Got one question for you—why are you so damned sure I’m leaving? You wantin’ me gone?” He knew he should be trying to assuage her fears, but he had scars of his own, scars that lay raw and vulnerable since the woman who’d laid their tracks had shown back up in his life hours before.
“What?” Faith’s expression was a mix of incredulity and frustration; how he could have ever gotten that idea, she didn’t know. How the hell couldn’t he tell how she felt—she hadn’t voiced it, true, but it wasn’t obvious enough from the fact that she spent damn near every hour of every day with him? The way she'd let herself need him, when she'd sworn that she'd never count on anyone but herself ever again?
“Said it yourself, love—lived years without me, an’ didn’t have somebody else tyin’ you down. Guess I’m askin’ if you’re wantin’ off the leash.”
“Wasn’t aware that was the game for tonight,” Faith answered, and a ghost of a smile crossed both of their faces at her attempt at lightening the mood. As weak as it had been, it was enough to break down the walls that were holding them locked in their own pain and fear.
Watching him, looking and seeing what he was trying to hide behind the wan smile, Faith found that she couldn’t lie, no matter how badly her instincts were warning her to do so—it would cost her, and she would have the rest of her life to self-flagellate if it blew up in her face, but she couldn’t look at the man who had brought her so far and tell him that his presence in her life didn’t matter. Swallowing her pride and ruthlessly beating down the little voice inside that warned her she was screwing it all up, she met his eyes and said simply, “I want you here with me.”
“Was it that damn hard to say it?” he asked, walking towards her and dropping to a crouch in front of her.
“Harder,” she said simply, looking down. “I know you’re going, and I know why. Guess I’ve been waiting for it—other shoe dropping and all that jazz. But after everything… thought you oughta know. It’s been a hell of a ride,” she finished, looking back up and giving him a rueful grin, determined to remain outwardly strong.
“Can’t believe I’ve never noticed it before,” he murmured, half-laughing to himself as he reached out and cupped her cheek. “You really can be so bloody daft.” Before she could react, he’d claimed her lips hungrily with his, not pausing to tease or request entrance with tender caresses. He moved forward, his body forcing her knees apart, his hand in her hair as he held her to him; the feeling of her hands sliding under his shirt and her nails pressing into his skin urged a growl from deep within his chest. It was only when he felt her chest hitch and knew that she needed breath that he broke away, but he used the break to press fevered kisses against her cheek and down her throat.
“I… I don’t…” she gasped, moving her hands to his shoulders and pushing him back, staring at him with wide, lust-glazed, and deeply confused eyes.
“’m not going anywhere,” he murmured in the bare instant before she surged forward from the sofa and nearly tackled him, kissing him so thoroughly that, by the end, he was left panting for needless breath.
“Of course you’re not,” she answered, grinning cockily at him to divert his attention from the suspicious sheen glazing her eyes as she sat up and tossed her hair over her shoulder. He groaned as she ground down against him, his hips bucking upwards of their own accord even as he linked his fingers with hers and pulled her forward to lay flat against his chest.
“Knew that, did you?” he asked, nipping playfully at her nose before pulling back to regard her seriously. “Why didn’t you know that, Faith?”
“She’s… she’s Drusilla. Your Dru. ‘A hundred years of glorious bloody carnage’ Dru. The past year ain’t been too shabby, but I didn’t figure it’d stack up too high against that,” Faith answered honestly.
“You’re part right,” he answered bluntly. “She is that Dru—the face of my salvation. Can’t say ‘m not thankful, or that a part of me won’t always love her for that.” Spike tilted Faith’s suddenly downturned head upwards and looked at her with such heartbroken earnestness that she ached. Taking a deep breath, he continued. “But she’s also the Dru who spent a hundred years takin’ other blokes to bed—hell, other chits, too. She’s the Dru who left me behind for her precious Daddy, and who wouldn’t be here now if he hadn’t set her ass on fire. She’s the Dru who decided that our lives weren’t tied together any longer, an’ who left me for a bugger with slime and antlers. So yeah, there’s the Dru she was to me once, an’ the Dru that I know she really is.”
Sitting up, keeping Faith in his lap and pausing only briefly to tuck her hair behind her ear, he murmured quietly, “An’ then there’s you. Stuck by me through all of it, you did. Worst time of my life, pet, and then there you were, doing right by me all the way around; you got the chip out… you share my life… share my bed… ‘s not a day I wake up thinkin’ you’re not gonna be there when I open my eyes. Wasn’t a hard choice, wildcat; wasn’t a choice at all.”
There weren’t words to cover this, no way to accurately convey how she was feeling. What had just happened was huge, and trampled all over the words that she was so afraid to say, the words whose borders she consistently danced around the borders; it struck her as painfully ironic that the first time that she really felt safe verbalizing them, they seemed so insufficient. So she fell back on her time-tested solution, drawing his head down to hers and giving him a chaste kiss that she slowly deepened, knowing he would understand the emotion behind the act.
“Your little speech earlier… thought that was your way of saying goodbye. Thought I might be borin’ you,” he confessed in a whisper against her lips, and the look on her face as she burst into rich peals of laughter prompted his own, deeper tones to join in.
“What the fuck, Billy?” she asked, gasping for breath as she continued to laugh uncontrollably. “Have you seen our lives? Ain’t nothin’ boring about the way we throw down, baby.”
“Guess not,” he answered, ducking his head and looking more than a little sheepish. He was doing his damnedest to prove that vampires did, indeed, blush—that much was certain.
Having pity on him, because she’d certainly made her share of assumptions in the last hour as well, she kissed him again, slow and deep, tightening her arms around him to hold him to her.
“Let’s go to bed and prove we aren’t boring yet,” she requested, her voice low and seductive as she kissed and licked teasingly down the column of his throat, urging a groan from him. Smirking with self-satisfaction, she stood slowly, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as he rose to his feet with catlike grace. “Never get tired of watchin’ you move,” she whispered, smirk transforming into a simple, joyous smile that mirrored his own.
“C’mon, then,” he answered, extending one hand to her; when she slipped her hand inside his, he raised it briefly to his lips before stepping backwards as he guided her towards the bedroom. “Got a whole book worth of moves you’re gonna get to watch.”
“You and me both,” she promised as she brushed past him and crossed to the bed.
*A wasted, lonely life and a hundred and twenty years of life after death… and I’ve finally met my match,* Spike mused contentedly as he watched her strip her shirt over her head and beckon him towards her. *It’s about damned time.*
~*~*~*~*~*~*
From the moment his hand touched the front door of their flat, Spike knew something was wrong. The air just felt different, more still, lacking the vibrancy that Faith leant to whatever environment she occupied. When it swung open to reveal a perfectly straight, neatened living area, a cold feeling of dread took up residence in his stomach, and he walked inside without calling out Faith’s name. He didn’t need to bother; she wasn’t there.
There was always a certain amount of chaos around his girl; she just seemed to breed it. Towels and clothing draped over chair backs, shoes and boots kicked off at the location most comfortable, her cigarettes and lighter on the coffee table. None of those indicators of life, things he’d always taken for granted, were present in the neat little room that he’d entered; by the time he reached the threshold of the bedroom and saw that the bed had been neatly made, he was ready to collapse. The black rose and thick cardstock note lying in the center of the bed did little to quash the growing feeling of terror that was building inside him; rather, it told him that wherever Faith was, he needed to find her soon. *Oh, Dru… you always were Daddy’s little girl.*
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Spike had been tearing London apart for what seemed like hours, pounding the pavement between the demon bars and the human establishments as well, trying his damnedest to come up with any sign of Drusilla. He’d visited her favorite places, the areas she’d loved to hunt and the ones that had always seemed to bring her peace, and had ultimately been reduced to stalking through what he could remember of the stores in which she’d enjoyed shopping. When he opened his senses, it seemed as though he could almost feel her there, feel the pull of sire and family teasing on the edges of his consciousness, but never for long enough to pinpoint even a general location. He knew what she was doing, knew she was fucking with his head, and that simply made him more furious, further steeled his resolve.
An overwhelming wave of futility crashed over him for a moment, and Spike dropped to a bench, head in his hands as he tried yet again to focus his senses on Dru. She was still there, dancing around the edges; he could almost see her, but he just couldn’t draw a bead. Growling with frustration, he threw himself backwards, dropping his head back and closing his eyes. He forced himself to calm, focused on slowing the tumble of thoughts to a semi-reasonable progression, and realized that there was one significant location in London that he hadn’t yet revisited. Standing and breaking into a run, he wrenched open the door of the car he’d stolen and sped towards an area he’d consciously avoided for over a century, hoping against hope that his last best guess would be good enough.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Spike left the car two streets from where he suspected Dru was hiding, not wanting to give her any more of a warning that he was on his way than necessary, and finished the rest of the distance on foot. It was the oddest thing to be back on those streets, to retrace the last steps he’d taken as a mortal. He’d never returned to the spot on which he’d lost his life, had never felt the need; now that he was here, however, the reality collided with his memories to make the experience beyond surreal. The streets were no longer cobblestone, no longer populated by carriages, and gaslights no longer provided the sole illumination of the narrow lanes. Here in the present, smooth asphalt covered the roadway, a roadway now lined with parked cars, and houses had sprung up where stables and alleys had once been.
At some point in its more recent history, this neighborhood had been as respectably uppercrust as it had been during his last visit to the homes that populated its lanes; that time, however, seemed long past now. Handsome brick and stonework brownstones were married by large chinks in their mortar, their entry stairways crumbling and ragged, the paint on easements and shutters faded and chipped. Taking a deep breath as he began his walk down the pavement of the street that had been the alley in which he’d breathed his last, he focused on finding Drusilla and on retrieving his girl. How he felt about this place could wait.
He moved silently, stealthily, from housefront to housefront; the sensation of his sire’s presence, when it came, nearly knocked him off his feet from the impact. He felt her as he approached the door of the obviously abandoned house, and took a brief moment to make certain that he heard Faith’s heartbeat, steady and strong, before pushing the door open.
Drusilla flew into his arms the moment he pushed the door closed behind him, peppering him with kisses as her hands darted over his face and chest. “I knew you’d come, my William. Knew that you couldn’t really mean to leave your princess behind. You were just cross, but I’ll make it all better. I’ve already started.”
Her last words were whispered with a fevered intensity, as though they were the most delicious secret, and Spike found himself fearing for Faith anew, even though he’d just heard her life signs. “And how’ve you done that, Drusilla?” he asked, careful to keep his tone light enough that she might think that this was just another of their games, just another instance of him teasing her into pampering and placating him.
“Don’t be wicked, Spike. I know you saw mummy’s note or you wouldn’t’ve found me. I’ve been playing with the naughty dark Slayer, the one who turned your head. She has the most delicious scream…” Drusilla murmured as she drifted away from him, twirling lightly as she gave him the innocent grin that had once both made him fall and set him aflame.
Now that she was far enough away, Spike could discern all the signs of combat that told him Faith had gone down swinging; in addition to the barely-healed burns on her face having been clawed open, Dru’s face and arms were covered with deep scratches and peppered with serious bruises, purpling more deeply by the moment. *That’s my girl,* Spike thought grimly, making a mental note to tell Faith exactly how good of a fight she’d put up. He’d been on the receiving end of an attack by his sire more than once during her fits, and Faith had done damage rivaling that he’d inflicted in his most successful fendings-off.
“She does, at that,” Spike agreed noncommittally, scanning the room and attempting to decipher the layout of the house even as he kept one wary eye on Dru, whose expression darkened at his words.
“Of course you would know,” she spat, her twirling ceasing and transforming into the sinuous movements that he knew so well as she stalked gracefully towards him. “You’ve let the little minx into your heart, haven’t you, my Spike? Spending all your time with her, letting her in where only your princess should be. You’ve been very, very bad. Mummy will have to do so much work to fix you—it seems only right to do it here, where I first made you, my William.”
“Not going to work, Drusilla. Told you days ago that a man can’t wait forever. ‘s like you told me… I have to get my pleasures somehow.”
“Bastard!” she shrieked, hand lashing across his face, one razor-sharp nail slicing across his cheek in a mocking parody of the affectionate bloodletting in which they used to engage.
Spike reacted in an instant, hand flying up to capture hers and twist it behind her back. She was the older of the two of them, and his sire to boot, but he was the one who enjoyed a more-than-occasional infusion of Slayer blood; judging by the scent that was beginning to permeate his consciousness, Dru had been more intent upon spilling that delicacy than on enjoying it. Banding his arm around her and holding her against him, her back to his front, he pressed his lips against her ear and demanded, “Tell me where you’ve put her, Drusilla.”
“She could have been such a pretty dolly, Spike… torn apart little girl so lost in this world. Why wouldn’t you break her, drip blood on all the shards… like Daddy did with me? You kept her. She could be so dark… ages of scrumptious violence, just the three of us.” Contempt and a certain sense of longing and awe warred in Drusilla’s voice; she hated that he had made a life with a still-human Faith—there could be no doubt about that—but the promise of what the girl could be if turned had been too bright for her to simply let go of the dream. That was the only reason that Faith’s heart still beat, he was certain; Drusilla had wanted her turned, by his fangs, before her eyes. She’d wanted to recreate the family that had been falling to shambles about her for years, not recognizing just how thoroughly the bonds had been broken.
“Drusilla.” The word was both warning and thinly-veiled threat, and he felt the fight drain from her momentarily as she sagged in his arms.
“Pretty poppy is in the bedroom,” she grumbled sullenly, and Spike heaved an internal sigh of relief that this entire fiasco might soon be over. “We were having such fun, too. The way she bleeds, my Spike…”
Her reverent tone chilled him, and he wondered exactly how much blood she had spilled in her play. He refused to take her bait, knowing that she was glorying in his worry and concern, that each rambling word was perfectly chosen to cause the most amount of pain. He’d spent a century with her, had been both her paramour and her caretaker, and knew exactly how intelligent and vicious she was; she had been Angelus’ chief project and most eager student, and she had excelled in every form of torture in which she’d been instructed. Spike himself may have once been the poet, but Drusilla was the master of words chosen to act as knives.
He carried her forward into the bedroom, stopping for a horrified moment as he reached the door and caught his first glimpse of Faith. Drusilla had apparently been planning for this since he’d told her goodbye days before; shackles had been installed on the wall, and there Faith was held, slumped in unconsciousness, though it looked as though he had been right—she’d put up a hell of a fight while she’d been awake. Her fingers were bloody and knuckles bruised, her long dark hair matted with blood, her left temple blackening from the blow that had likely incapacitated her to make her capture possible. Across the mattress, resting on a bloodstained sheet, lay Dru’s toys, and Spike felt his gut clench as his eyes returned to his girl. Her shirt had been torn open, her pants removed, and her flesh was bruising and bleeding from dozens of scratches, bites, and cuts across her torso and down her legs. There was the faintest scent of charred flesh in the air, and Spike could see numerous burns, scattered randomly amidst the scarlet trails left by his sire’s other attentions. By far the worst of her injuries was directly over the scar that served as remembrance of her duel with Buffy; by all indications, Dru had attempted to repeat with claws and fingers what the other Slayer had needed a dagger to accomplish.
Drusilla whimpered as Spike’s grip tightened, fury making the tempering of his responses impossible. His gorgeous, vibrant girl; after he had sworn that she would never suffer again, to be the indirect cause of her torment… Spike shook his head to clear it, reminding himself of what was most important. *She’s not dead, you git. Just go get her.* Reaching one hand behind him, he pulled the taser from where he’d tucked it into the back of his pants, released the safety with his thumb, and brought it to Drusilla’s throat; the jolt that he gave her was minutes longer than necessary, but he was unable to stop himself. Once he was certain that she would stay out for long enough for him to get Faith to safety, he draped her across the foot of the bed before searching for the keys to the shackles.
Wincing at the blood that covered his hand as he pulled the keys out from under the pile of small knives on the sheet, he took a moment as he stood in front of Faith to simply reassure himself that she was still alive. He was close enough to hear her breath, to smell even more acutely her blood, and could hear the life rushing through her veins; reassured, he gingerly freed her ankles before positioning himself carefully in front of her and unshackling first one wrist, then the other, catching her carefully and laying her across the bed, as far from Dru as possible. It wasn’t ideal—he wanted her worlds away—but he had something to do, and he refused to lay her on the floor or let her out of his sight. Shrugging out of his duster and covering her carefully with it, he ghosted his fingers across her cheek and bent to press a kiss against her forehead. “Jus’ be a minute, sweet; Spike’s got you, gonna take care of you… jus’ be a minute,” he promised as he turned back to his still-unconscious sire.
Staring down at the woman who had been his dark goddess for over a century, with full knowledge that the ground upon which he stood was the same as that upon which he had first seen her, Spike was overcome with grief. He had resigned himself to what he would have to do on the drive across the city; he knew that as long as Drusilla was still standing, Faith would never be safe. Now that his sire had determined that she would reclaim her William, he knew that she wouldn’t be deterred from her task; it took only another glance at Faith’s bruised and bloodied face to steel his resolve, though his heart clenched from thoughts of the mission upon which he’d set himself.
Palming the stake he’d removed from the pocket of his duster, he reached down and brushed back Dru’s dark hair, looking at the wounds Faith had inflicted upon her face, seeing how much they’d healed even since he’d walked through the door. Faith would be ill for weeks, even with her advanced healing, and the psychological impact of the games that he knew Dru loved to play… Spike shook off his thoughts and the shudder that ran down his spine as he thought of the long road ahead. He had to focus on the task at hand—he had to say goodbye, while he still had the strength.
“’m sorry, Princess,” he murmured quietly, fingers idly combing through ebony locks as he took in every last detail of her features one final time. “You were everything for so long… was never s’posed to be like this, Dru,” he continued, blinking back tears that were coming too fast to be denied and swallowing past the lump in his throat. “You said goodbye, and my world fell apart—it all went to hell, an’ you didn’t care. Didn’t come when I tried to call out for you, when I used the bond. Hell, you’ve been punishing me for years, an’ we both know that even if you got me now, you’d only want me for a while. Just ‘til you’re better, stronger, ‘til you find someone else to worship you the way I always have. An’ it’d kill me to see you leave me behind again; my heart couldn’t take it. You opened my eyes to this world, sire, and I’ll always worship you for that... but we weren’t meant to walk it together.”
He heard a restless groan rumble in her throat and knew that his time was drawing short; he had to do this while her eyes were closed. If he had to look at her, hear her voice, and drive a stake through her heart, he may as well drive it through his own. Leaning over and giving her a chaste kiss, he whispered, “I’ll never get over this, Drusilla, but I can’t let you stay. Can’t let you hurt her again. You know what it’s like to protect your own, love; used to do it for me with Angelus when you could. But I want you to know, I will always love you for finding me, for seeing me. For making me more than I was, an’ for showin’ me love. I know you loved me, kitten, best as you could, an’ I want you to know that I loved you, too. Remember that,” he finished, bringing the stake up to her chest and pressing the tip forward until it broke the skin. “I’m so sorry, Dru,” he murmured as he put pressure on the stake and felt it break past the resistance of her ribcage to slide fluidly down.
He kept his eyes on hers until they no longer existed, until her dust coated his hands and the sheets beneath where she had lain; he had to be sure that they had never opened, that her death wasn’t attended with the heartbreak of knowing that her William had brought it about. Collapsing to his knees under the weight of his grief, he sobbed for long minutes, mourning years long past, a love lost and a heart broken, forsaken opportunities and wasted years.
A weak, tentative hand against his cheek shook him from his grief, and he raised tortured blue eyes to meet Faith’s haunted and saddened gaze. She attempted to give him a lopsided smile, wincing from the pain and settling for tracing his cheekbone with her fingertips. “Knew you’d get here,” she rasped through a throat that he feared was raw from screaming.
“Tore the bloody town apart to find you,” he answered, giving her a wan smile and raising his hand to swipe at his cheeks, only to pause, horrified anew, when he realized that the action would coat him in his sire’s ashes.
“Don’t,” Faith whispered, reaching up and brushing his tears away herself before drifting her fingers down his face, pausing underneath his chin. Spike looked at her, both grateful and confused, and she managed the smile she’d begun earlier as she murmured softly, “Love you.”
Fresh, tearless, wracking sobs burst forth from Spike, and he rested his head for an instant on the bed by her side, careful not to brush against her lest he disturb her injuries. He reached up and twined his fingers with hers, squeezing her hand briefly before releasing it and standing slowly. He lifted her gently and walked towards the door, unwilling to hazard another glance at the ashes of his sire; only when he’d cleared the house and was safely on the asphalt did he feel as though he was capable of drawing breath again.
Looking down and seeing the terrified, guarded expression on Faith’s face, he realized he’d left her declaration unreturned; chastising himself mentally, he smiled reassuringly down at her. “I love you, too, Faith,” he vowed quietly, and the light in her eyes temporarily extinguished the ache in his heart. He knew there was a long road to healing for both of them, but that didn’t matter yet—couldn’t matter yet, not in the face of their revelations. “Let’s go get you well, yeah?” he asked, resuming his steps towards the car and taking care not to jostle her.
“No hospitals,” she answered, and the stubborn set of her chin told him there was no chance of him changing her mind.
“Then it looks like you’re stuck with me as a nurse,” he teased gently.
“Gotta find you an outfit,” she bantered back, and he felt his heart lighten by another fraction of a degree. She wasn’t broken, not completely; this was still his girl, who’d come through so much, who’d just survived so much more. He still had her.
“’m so sorry, wildcat,” he said, urgency plain in his tone. “But ‘m so proud of you.”
“Just take me home and patch me up, Billy,” she answered, though he was certain that she blushed. “Thanks for… coming after me,” she finished hesitantly, reluctant to mention Drusilla. There would be time enough for that conversation later.
“Love you. Wanted m’ girl back,” he answered, shrugging as he, too, avoided mention of the elephant in the room. The remainder of the walk to the car was silent; as he laid her gently in the backseat, however, he promised, “I’ll always come for you, wildcat.”
“I know,” she answered, smiling and brushing a finger over his lips before he stood, closing her door and seating himself in the driver’s seat.
As he pulled away, making a mental list of the first aid supplies he’d need for Faith’s wounds, Spike looked back at the incredible young woman asleep under his duster. As much as his heart ached for the loss of his sire, as much as he hurt for the pain inflicted upon Faith and the feeling that he was the cause of it, he knew that they would be all right. They were in love, had broken down the walls and admitted it; somehow, they’d find their way.