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The streets ran red with it, the air rife and heavy with it, and the very corpuscles of the night swelled with the scent of it. Blood. Rich, thick burgundy elixir lubricating the activities. Spike watched Drusilla dance in the street, the hem of her gossamer gown drenched and brushing over the red puddles in a ghoulish mockery of sweeping.

“Dru, luv, I think they’re dead. Even the moon won’t look at them now,” Spike said, flicking open the zippo and lighting the cigarette that dangled from his lips. He cocked an eyebrow upwards, glancing at the pale, indifferent moon. It winked in and out of clouds, a beacon spotlighting the proclivities of vampires then a shade casting pale shadows and silvery threads of accusation. The cigarette turned to ashes in his lips, so he tossed it aside.

Drusilla stopped her dancing, the muted tune she’d been humming stopped as well. “The moon doesn’t like us, my Spike. Thinks we’re dirty things,” she smiled, feral and beautiful. “Thinks to make us pay, but angel’s wings and killing things will make it all go ‘way.”

Spike sighed. “Don’t know what you’re on about now, Dru, but pack it in, eh? Think I’ve had enough of this fare for one night.” He held his hand out to her, and smiled softly when her own reached out to take it. Her long delicate fingers closed around his, black tipped red nails scoring his palm lightly, but deep enough to elicit a growl.

She pounced onto him, wrapping her legs around his waist. “I do so like it when you growl, lovely.” She licked a spot of blood off his face, then bit his cheek.

“Ow! Dammit, Drusilla!” Spike snatched his face away from her fangs, marveling again at how controlled she could be when lucid: her fangs glistened with his borrowed blood, but her face, her pallid face, stayed a porcelain mask of human perfection. The best of both worlds, Spike thought to himself. He reached up, caressed her face, then took firm hold of her jaw, nearly losing his composure when she growled in appreciation. “No biting, baby.”

She snapped her teeth in mock compliance. “Kiss me, my William.”

She still called him that. William. Spike didn’t hate it as much as he let on, because he knew he still was William. ‘Twas that part of him that kept him at her side when she neglected him, when she teased and danced away from him into the cold arms of anyone but him. It was also the part that kept her coming back. She never danced away for long, and it was because that human side of him - the devoted, besotted, obedient side of him - appealed to her the most, though she’d never admit it. Instead, she reveled in his killing, his brutality, begging him to stripe her with whips and lashes. To hurt her in the ways only he knew.

Only way he could do that was to be “Spike,” he corrected, just before attacking her lips with the same ferocity she’d shown in killing the crowd of men in the street. The blood, so rich and spicy in the air, fueled his desire for her, and he stalked forward, forgetting the bodies and the blood and the pale indifferent moon.

His teeth worked on her bottom lip, drawing blood and lust up equally fast within her. He slammed her deceptively delicate body into the wall, relished the crack of her skull on the bricks. “My wicked plum,” he whispered, chewing on her swollen lip, “black beauty.”

“Yes, my beautiful boy. Take your fill, my William.” Her nails dug deep into the flesh of his shoulder, and he heard the sound of his shirt ripping. Her skirt followed suit, the finespun fabric rending easily under his coarse grip. “That’s it, darling.”

“Shut up, Dru.” He muttered, ripping at his button fly as she ground down on his hips. “Just a mo’, love, and we’ll be at this right and proper.”

He shoved her against the wall again, growling at the high pitched squeal that he elicited. “Know what you need, don’t I, love? Hard and fast and nasty ‘gainst the wall, bricks scrapin’ at your back, makin’ ya bleed while I pound away at ya.”

“Oh, yes, Spike.” She leaned forward and bit at him again, moaning when he eluded her. “Oh, come now, Spike, my boy, let mummy have a taste.”

“Oh, you’ll get a taste, goddess, but I think you’ve had enough blood for one night, love.”

Her legs fastened tight around him, arms wrapped like snakes around his neck and shoulders, and he pushed into her.

“My sweet boy,” she whispered into his ear, her words shuddering out on stilted breath with each thrust of his hips. “So beautiful.” She petted his head, and Spike nearly purred. “You should see what I see, my William. Beautiful bodies and blood and dancing twinkling lights in it.” She started to keen, her body tensing. “The moon, it doesn’t like us. Dirty, pretty things, it thinks us. Why can’t the moon love me, Spike?”

Spike leaned forward to kiss her quiet.

“Bit...busy, Dru,” he grunted against her lips, wanting nothing more than her silence as he worshiped her in the way he’d become accustomed to doing. “Close your eyes, pet. Forget the bloody moon.” He lifted her legs higher around his waist, fingers digging into her thighs. “I’ll love you enough to make her envious.”

He pulled away, looking into her frightened eyes. “Close your eyes, love,” he whispered. She did and rested her forehead against his, whispering, “Make her jealous, Spike. Spiteful moon. Not nearly so pretty as we.”

“Never, pet.”

Spike continued to thrust into Drusilla, listening to the rustle of her dress on the bricks, the way they scraped through the material to etch at her ivory skin. The thick scent of her blood entered their atmosphere, and he growled low, felt his face change. The shifting crunch of bone and cartilage bringing his demon forward. She trembled in his arms, inflamed by the pain and pleasure of their rutting. Spike leaned forward, his mouth nipping at the skin of her shoulders, her neck.

Her body tensed impossibly stiff, and he bit down, drinking her in and she screamed into the night, blood curdling and high, and Spike slammed into her once more, emptying himself - as always - into her.

She panted against him, and he counted himself fortunate. She rarely breathed for him. She’d cast off every bit of the mortal coil when Angelus and Darla had driven her mad. But every once in a while, in great fits of passion, fear, or insanity, she breathed. Spike had learned to count those moments as tiny miracles - not that he really believed that’s what they were - but they kept her with him, connected to him. The tiniest bits of humanity left to her and she only shared them with him.

He figured it was because she knew his secret: he carried his humanity with him.

“‘S alright, love. I’ve got you.” He loosened her legs from his waist and lifted her off him. The moon had finally disappeared behind a thick blanket of clouds. He chuckled. “See, Dru, the moon’s hidden away. Jealous, she was, of us. Of you.” He kissed her. “Nothing in or out of this world is as beautiful as you, pet. Nothing good enough for you, ‘cept me.” He stroked her hair. “Never be anything to take me away from you, Dru.”

She giggled suddenly. “Peasants and paupers with sticks and swords. The light of white in the blackest sky.” She kissed him hard. “I want to leave.”

He glanced over the night sky, felt the prickle of dawn in his shoulders. “Can’t, love. Light soon. We need to rest.”

“Rest for the wicked comes not so cheap. Sticks and swords,” she repeated, singing. “Angel’s wings and killing things.” She stopped and leveled her hypnotic eyes on him. “And you’ll betray us all with her.”

Spike shook his head, both in denial and confusion. “Never, my lovely.” He wrapped his arms around her. “Now let’s get you out of the coming sun.”She followed, walking where he led, muttering and humming.

The day dawned bright as they lay to rest. Bodies bloating in the streets of Prague with the rising heat.

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