Spike/Drusilla, pre-series
Caretaker
A glare sufficed to send the minion scurrying away, and Spike
pulled the girl inside the bedroom. She was crying, quiet sobs that she
seemed to try to contain. Judging by the bruise already appearing on
her cheek, she had been asked to quit the tearful act. The minions knew
better than to bring in hysterical prey.
Keeping his tight hold on her arm, he led her to the bed and made her sit there.
“Move one finger and you’re dead,” he growled in rudimentary Czech, satisfied when her eyes widened in fear.
Kneeling on the large bed, he moved behind her, lying down along
Drusilla. He leaned on one elbow and watched her for a few seconds; she
appeared to be sleeping, one arm shielding her eyes, but her other
hand, fingers dancing in the air, contradicted that. It was the third
night she had spent like this, taken by visions and held prisoner
inside her own mind. At times, random bits of sentences escaped her
lips. Spike had tried writing them down, but they didn’t make any sense
that he could decipher. A few words – Darla, Angelus, the Master, the
Slayer, the Hellmouth – were familiar. Others were plain nonsense. She
had mentioned a green light that bled, rain washing ashes off a baby, a
soul burning the world to cinders, the sword in the stone… At that
point, Spike had given up. He had taken her to see Excalibur a few
years back, but he could have sworn she was too busy dining to pay any
attention to the movie.
Her visions rarely lasted long, and he couldn’t recall a single
instance where she hadn’t roused for more than two days. He was getting
worried, which was why he had sent the minions to get some fresh blood.
“Kitten?” he murmured as he gently pushed away the arm that covered her
face. “You must be hungry. I have a special treat for you.”
She didn’t appear to hear him, and her gaze fixed the ceiling as her
lips moved silently. Sitting up, he leaned until he was directly above
her.
“You’ve got to be a good girl, now, and eat a bit.”
He shifted to his demon visage and, pricking his finger on a fang,
covered her lips with blood until her tongue came out for a taste.
“There you go,” he cooed, caressing her face lightly, before he turned
to the still sobbing girl and tore into her neck. He only took one pull
on her blood, to check it was good enough for his princess, and then
pulled her back and held her for Drusilla to feed.
Soon enough, the dead girl was on the floor and Spike was curled around
Drusilla. She tried to describe what she had seen, but her ramblings
didn’t make any more sense now than they had before. It didn’t matter,
though. He had her back, and the next night they would hunt together.
They would hunt, and Prague would bleed.