I want you

Did you mean to tell me but seem to forget

I want you

Since when were you so generous and inarticulate

I want you

It's the stupid details that my heart is breaking for

It's the way your shoulders shake and what they're shaking for

Elvis Costello, "I want you"

She was lying on her side in the bed she wanted to see burnt, and her with it. His cold length cradled her from behind, done at last. It hadn't hurt much this time. Either he was growing less brutal, or maybe she was just getting used to it. How many weeks had it been? Summer ruled everywhere but she was always cold.

"You wanted to know what happened to Dru?" Spike murmured into the back of her neck.

Her memory wasn't what it used to be, but she was sure she hadn't asked; not that it mattered.

"She's gone. I lost her." He held her closer. God she was cold.

"Once upon a time..."

The children sat dressed in their Sunday clothes, neatly arranged around Miss Edith’s table, waiting for their tea. Their faces were greenish and the smell wasn't too bad so Spike reckoned they couldn’t have been dead for more than a day or two in the tropical heat. Up to her old tricks, Spike thought angrily as he closed the door to Drusilla’s room. The same damned thing that had nearly gotten them both killed in Budapest. And where the fuck was she? There were only a few hours left before dawn. He’d never have let her be out so late, he always made sure that she was home, with him, safe from the sun, with him in their black-sheeted bed.

He went into the parlor and sat down on the sofa to wait for her. He looked around the room, and shook his head. There were spatters of dried blood on the cushions and snowdrifts of dust on every surface. He couldn't help smiling when he saw that the TV tube had been ruined by having a lamp shoved through it; the little people on the box must have said something that displeased her. They always did. His Dru wasn’t much of a housekeeper. It was one of the things he took care of for his princess. As soon as they got things settled he’d take her out of this pigsty, go somewhere nice. He checked his watch again. Where the hell was she?

It had taken nearly three nights, traveling as air cargo, to reach Brazil. He’d searched their old lair, but she was long gone, leaving yellow police tape and angry humans behind her. It had taken another two nights to track her to this place, an abandoned villa on the edge of town.

The sun had crept dangerously close to the horizon and he was edging closer to panic when he finally heard her familiar whispery tread in the hallway. He stood up as she entered the room.

"Spike?" She asked. "Is that my Spike?" His heart warmed at the sight of her, she was so beautiful. Her white skin gleaming like polished bone, her dark eyes gleaming under the black curtain of her unbound hair. There were dark stains of varying ages on her dress, she really hadn’t been taking care of herself.

"Yeah, Baby." He frowned as she retreated from his open arms, shaking her head.

"Oh Spiiike, you’re too late," she said sadly.

"What?" And then he heard it, a low menacing mutter that brought memories of fire and desperate flight along cobbled streets. Ah fuck.

Spike ran to the nearest window and peered out. There were lights coming up the hill, the wind brought the smell of fire, and angry humans, too many angry humans. Spike knew that they had to get out of the house, once outside there was at least a chance of losing themselves in the hills.

*Never a mob around when you need one, Joyce thought.*

"Come on baby, we’ve got to get out of here," he said, grabbing Drusilla’s wrist and dragged her toward the door. Just as Spike pulled the door open the large window shattered as someone chucked a rock through it. Too late, too bloody right. They were already here.

Spike held Drusilla close to him as he rushed through the door, shoving the two early birds out of the way. The early birds about to kick open the door fell aside, but recovered before they had made it halfway across the yard. Spike heard them coming and let go of Drusilla as he turned to face them.

*If he held her any tighter, Joyce thought almost lazily, she wouldn't have to hear much more of this story.*

They were big bastards, locals, two of them, one had a sledgehammer and the other a homemade club. They stank of rage and alcohol as they rushed forwards, shouting. Spike didn't speak a word of Portuguese but he guessed they weren't saying "welcome to Rio." The leader swung his club at Spike, Spike ducked, sliding under it, grabbed the man's arm and jerked him forward, into his embrace. The man screamed when he saw the razor sharp teeth reaching out for his throat. Spike grunted and lost his grip as he got hit in the side by a sledgehammer, felt a few ribs go. Got hit on the head by someone else. He fell to his knees, and realized that they were going after Dru.

*That's it. Sparkly lights and she wasn't cold anymore, could hardly feel anything at all.*

Spike heard a dull thud, wood on flesh. The bastard with the sledgehammer came back for more as Drusilla screamed, the sound burning the fog out of his brain. He dodged the blow, came to his feet driving his hand into the man's belly and through him. Spike savored the feeling of warmth and wet squirming on his arm for a second and then jerked his hand free, grimacing at the stink, and left the dying human to writhe in the hard-packed dirt. His princess! He heard another thud behind him and turned...

And there was my black princess right as rain, she had taken the club away from her attacker, and as he watched she finished him off. Crushed his head like an eggshell. It was beautiful.

*His voice grew husky with the memory, still holding her tight. Somewhere deep inside the ice, she knew she must be in pain. She felt the hint of teeth at the nape of her neck, but was disappointed when his grip slackened and he let her go, turning away from her to speak into the dark.*

He smiled at his princess and she smiled back, her little pink tongue flickering out to sample the blood and brains smearing the cudgel.

"Pet," he breathed. Later it was the image of her he tried to hold on to.

*She could breathe again. Was this a good thing?*

The main mass of the mob had reached them and began pouring into the yard. The mob hesitated a moment as the vampires turned together to face the too familiar sight of mortal faces, torchlight glimmering in their eyes and on the clubs, pipes, garden tools, machetes they'd armed themselves with. The sky was turning grey, the sun preparing to tip the scales even further against them and Spike realized that this was probably it. He wondered why he felt almost... happy. He had his princess back. And if he had to go, he'd rather it this way, in a burst of glorious violence. They'd paint this yard with flesh and blood before they burned. He grinned, and the mob rushed forward.

And then it all fell apart. Just before the first of them reached them, Drusilla left his side turned and ran back into the house. She was screaming about "My babies!" Spike tried to go after her, but the mob rolled over him.

*The blackness bordering her vision was receding. Her ribs ached and she could feel how cold she was again.*

He couldn't remember much about the fight that followed, only the feeling of being overwhelmed, dragged down by wave after remorseless wave of fragile but unrelenting foes. He clawed and gouged, bit and slashed until his hands and face were black with blood but they just kept on coming; too enraged for retreat, hitting, chopping slashing him with their improvised weapons, their hands and feet until he went down and stayed down.

*She thought of him lying bleeding into the dirt, and hid her smile in the mattress.*

He was lucky, he supposed, that they hadn't realized they were dealing with vampires. When he went down, senseless and bleeding; no pulse, no heartbeat they figured him dead, and left him there to join the rest inside the house. When he stirred he heard Drusilla screaming in agony. One armed, nearly blind, something wrong with the back of his head he dragged himself toward the house, toward the screams."

He followed the sound, managed somehow to pull himself up to the window. Thinking he might be able to break the glass, get to her somehow. He'd heard Dru scream in pain before, the right kind of pain was better than blood for her. But her shrieks now held no delight. This pain was unwelcome, real. He could barely see her, past the press of bodies that surrounded her. They were chopping at her, machetes, knives; avenging butchers; she was in pieces. Her white skin crosshatched by bloodless slashes, one hand gone at the wrist, the other gone with the arm, hamstrung, but she was still moving, still screaming. Screaming for him.

"Spiiike!" she shrieked as he clawed at the wall, trying to pull myself up. Her tormentors were scared shitless, and they kept chopping at her, till her white face was unrecognizable, her black blood puddled on the floor, while he tried to break the glass with his mutilated hand, with his face, and Drusilla screamed and they kept on and on...

It was almost funny, he said, the look on their faces when finally they managed to cut through her neck and she turned to dust. He let himself fall from the windowsill and lay in the dirt, hollow and uncaring as the morning sun crept across the yard towards him.

"I buried myself in the soft dirt under the house, as the sun came up."

He grabbed her, pulling her up to face him, and stared into her face. His face was blank, his eyes pale and empty. She wondered what he saw in her eyes. He brushed her hair back from her face with a black nailed finger.

"You're cold," he said, and pulled the sheet up over her.

END Part 4