Rating: very mild R
Pairing: Spike/Drusilla, Angelus/Drusilla
Notes: For the Spikeficathon for ladyoneill, who wanted Spike/Dru, set in the past, Angelus as Spike's sire, a puppy who gets to live.
Drusilla, now, she claimed the blood here tasted of gas-lights and dancing girls, heads in baskets and towers touching heaven, and that was the kind of utterance that always sent Spike dizzily headlong in love with her all over again. She was a girl like no other, his Dru.
Bloody shame he didn't have her all to himself. He'd known this was coming the moment Darla said she was going straight on to Italy without them. Witnessing it was even worse than he remembered from the last time. He gritted his teeth at the sight of the two figures rutting on the bed and schooled himself not to put his fist through the half-open door.
"William," Drusilla murmured, one hand outstretched towards him, and Angelus twisted his head, shooting a sly grin over his shoulder.
"Care to join us? Willy?"
"Spike," he muttered uselessly, focussing on the skin of Angelus's back, the way those muscles moved smoothly beneath the dark lines of the gryphon. Drusilla moaned, and arched into her sire's body, long fingernails raking bloody trails on his pale skin. In a moment she'd be keening his name, and that would be too much. Spike would drag the elder vampire off her and just maybe, if he was lucky, gain the upper hand in the fight for a minute or two before Angelus tired of the sport and tossed him out into the Paris afternoon sunshine.
Instead he pulled the door shut and trudged downstairs. Their new domicile's former owner was still where he'd died, sprawled across the floor in his library, eyes open and face frozen in terror. Spike kicked the corpse viciously aside and sank onto the chaise longue.
Enhanced senses were a blessing and a curse. He'd never regret being rid of the glasses, but two floors away he could still hear Angelus's grunts, Drusilla's whisperings. He half wished the sack of meat on the floor was still alive. A bit of mindless chitchat with dinner wasn't on his list of most enjoyable ways to wait for sunset, but it would beat concentrating on the skittery sounds of the insects in the walls.
There was a low thrumming from somewhere. He listened, thankful for the distraction. A heartbeat. He'd heard enough of them, knew how they quickened and hammered and then turned sluggish and weak as the last of the blood left the body. This was quieter than any he'd heard, and much faster.
A restless hunt of the room turned up the possessor of the mystery heart, cosied behind an armchair. Spike looked down with disinterest at the little dog. It thumped its tail, looking back up at him with every appearance of rapt attention.
"Not gonna feed you," Spike said. "You're feeling peckish, there's a couple of nice bits of human lying around." That had amused Darla at the house they took in Suffolk; on the day their party left, they'd let the hunting dogs in. The animals hadn't eaten in days.
Spike thought about killing the puppy, just because it was there and because some random cruelty to a small fluffy animal might help lift his mood, but it wagged its tail again and he rolled his eyes. A wolfhound, now there was a dog worthy of a good scrap. This little poodle-thing would try to gum him to death.
The ceiling above him shook. The puppy yipped at the sound. Spike glared fiercely down at his hands.
He couldn't decide who he hated more; Angelus, for always keeping Drusilla from him, or himself for not fighting harder.
And he had fought. A year ago, newly turned, he'd been horrified to find them together. Angelus had sneered and taunted and suggested if he wanted her, to come and take her. Drusilla had reached out her arms, looking like nothing so much as a perfect china doll, fragile and exquisite, and the fact that his heart was no longer beating hadn't been enough to stop the rush of blood to his head.
He'd been clumsy, inexperienced, having never raised a hand or fist to anybody in his life. Angelus had seemed to take no effort at all in beating him into the floor, and then taking Dru less than a yard from where he lay, too broken to move. And after he'd healed, Angelus had announced that he, not Drusilla, was Spike's sire, and that he had to teach him to handle himself if he was going to last more than a month. Lesson the first, naturally, was to defer to one's sire in all things.
Two months after his turning, Darla and Angelus had had a row, again, and Angelus loudly and coarsely fucked Drusilla, again, and Spike attacked him in a raging fit of fury, again, and this time he took twice as long to heal, and spent three weeks chained without blood in a freezing cellar.
Spike had grown up since then, he acknowledged to himself with a hard sort of pride. He'd found the thrill of the fight, the rush that came from pitting oneself against a worthy opponent, and some time between that group of policemen in London and the pitchfork-waving mob in Yorkshire he'd developed his own sort of style. He'd taken out most of the sailors on the ship that had brought them to France without even shifting into his fangs.
True, Angelus had had a certain point about them not being able to steer into Calais without a crew, and about the lack of places to escape a vengeful mob while at sea, but that was part of the fun.
There was a scream from above their heads - Dru's, of course, he'd know that noise anywhere - and he kicked the chair until it lay in shards. He considered the sharp pieces of wood. Angelus, whatever else could be said for him, was a good sire as far as survival expertise went. He had made sure to teach him early what could hurt them. Fire, beheading, holy water, the sun, a stake through the heart. He could race upstairs, plunge the weapon into Angelus's back, and he would be dust before he could turn round.
He wouldn't, though. He wasn't so struck blind by love as to think that Drusilla would ever let him touch her again if he killed her precious daddy. And even if there was some slim, miraculous chance that she would, he wouldn't. Couldn't.
He had never beaten his sire in a fair fight. Dust him while his back was turned and he never would. Never even know if he might have, some day. They were all going to live forever, after all - long enough to see the new century, and the one after that, and all the ones after that. Spike had faith that his love was endless and unwavering. Angelus wouldn't stay interested forever.
"He'll get bored," he muttered. "Or she will. She'll see what he's like. And I'll be here."
The puppy tilted its head and barked.
"Shut up," Spike said, disgusted. "You don't know me and Dru."
"Where did my Spike go away to? He's been gone such a long time."
He spun around, the animal forgotten. "Didn't hear you come down, pet."
She had a robe pulled around her, a white muslin garment that covered her top to toe. Modest, his girl, even when she'd been screwing their sire; no doubt letting him do things to her that would shock the most hardened whore at the Moulin Rouge.
"Don't come over," he said, realizing she was barefoot. "Broke some furniture. Can't have you getting all cut up on splinters."
She hissed, dark eyes flashing with pleasure. "All beneath the skin," she said, "burrowing all the way inside and hurting ever so."
He crossed the room to her and took her hands. If he pretended, tried as hard as he could, he could block out Angelus's scent on her skin. He kissed the inside of her wrists. The fingermark-bruises were already starting to fade. She complained about that, sometimes, saying she wished they'd stay for longer, they looked so pretty.
God, he loved this girl.
"Did you find a friend?" she asked suddenly, clapping her hands as she peeked behind him, and he realized that the infernal dog had trotted over to join them.
"Yeah," he said reluctantly, glaring down at it. "Was going to eat it myself later, but if you want it…"
Dru knelt down to scoop it in her arms, stroking its back with one long, elegant finger, and Spike wagered with himself that by sunrise they'd know whether only humans could be turned. "She's all alone," Drusilla crooned. "All the other puppies went away and left her by herself."
"And I cry buckets for it, lamb, I honestly do," he said. "Sun's almost set. Leave that thing down and we can explore the city, see the Seine, Montmartre..."
"Daddy says you're to hunt alone tonight," she said, cutting across his words. "I'm to stay here with him. " She flicked her tongue across her lips. "I was most terribly naughty earlier."
He was ready to rage, argue, plead with her. Then he pictured Angelus waiting just outside the library door, listening to every word, that damnable smirk on his face.
"Fine," he said. "I'll bring you back supper. Some pretty little French dancing girl, that do? Bring you back a whole brothel of them." And he'd have stormed out on that, except she made that tiny whine she always made when she knew she'd hurt his feelings and she was sorry.
He sighed, and rubbed his eyes.
"I'm sorry, love," he said, quieter. "I really will find you something nice, all right?"
"My sweet William," she said, the words worth more than all the lady's favours he might have dreamed of when he was a foolish little boy reading stories of knights.
"And you must bring a special present for Duchess," she said as he opened the door. He turned, puzzled. The puppy in her arms - Duchess, apparently - was staring in abject adoration at its new mistress.
"I will," he said.
Maybe he could bring the animal back some treat, he thought as he stepped into the balmy night air. Even if it was just a dumb animal, barely worthy of being eaten. Even if it was unlikely to survive a night of Drusilla's care and attention.
At the end of the day, Dru's bitches had to stick together.