"Who is Buffy?" Drusilla's shrill, angry voice sliced through the fog of sleep surrounding him.

"What?" he asked, thickly. Who was Buffy? He didn't know any....oh, god. The Slayer. He said her name? His mouth still stung where Dru had slapped him; he was lucky she hadn't first gone to get a knife. It was hard to make Drusilla truly angry, but he'd woken on more than one occasion to shackles and blinding pain when he'd made her that way.

"Who is she, Spike?" Dru leaned over him, eyes ablaze. "I heard you, calling to her! You left me and went off where I couldn't follow, after her. Where did you go?"

"I didn't go anywhere, pet." Her sudden motion caught his eye, and he swiftly captured her wrists as she raised her hand to strike at him again.

"You're a wicked boy, to hide from me." She struggled against him, twisting and pulling in an attempt to free her hands. "You're wicked, and you have to be punished."

"I was right here, Dru." He pulled her fingertips forward to his lips. "Remember, love? I went out for a bite to eat, and then I came right back here to you."

"You're lying! You were gone, jumped down that nasty hole, and I couldn't see you. It was so dark, where you were. And she was there, too, wasn't she? Wasn't she?" Her voice had changed, a note of desperation creeping in, and she was beginning to shiver.

Spike pulled himself up in the bed, and gathered her close, pinning her arms to her side in a tight embrace. In a smooth, practiced voice, he said, "It was just a dream, pet. That's all." He glanced down, noting with alarm the spreading bruises where he had grasped her arms moments before. Oh, no. She was getting worse.

"Yours or mine, Spike?"

"What?"

"Was it your dream or mine?" She stared ahead, seeing who knew what, and her voice sounded faraway.

"It doesn't matter, love. We don't know any 'Buffy', and I didn't leave you. You know I'll never leave you." She had relaxed against him, and he drew a hand up to stroke her hair. Her anger had left her, and she was sick and exhausted again.

"But you did, Spike, you left. I didn't like it. You're not allowed."

"Shh, pet. I'm here, now. Tell you what – let's go back to sleep now, and tonight you can look at the presents I brought you. Would you like that?"

"Oh, I love presents, Spike." She was so easy to please, his love - the odd pieces he'd picked up at that motel would keep her happy for hours. He'd find her something even better, tonight.

"I know. Come on, sleep now. Everything will be all right." Spike pulled her down into the soft bedding; arms still wrapped snugly around her. Drusilla sighed once, and lay still, drifting down to sleep almost immediately. But rest was a long time coming for Spike.

Each time he closed his eyes, his dreams crowded back in, confusing and shameful . He stared at the ceiling, wishing he knew what the hell was going on. Why? Wasn't even as if she was attractive; just another bottle blonde with an attitude. So why was he having these goddamn dreams?

Revulsion rolled over him. That was....perverted. Dreaming about killing her was one thing; this was something else. Maybe all the years of living with Dru were rubbing off. Maybe he was cracking. Hell, maybe it was all just from sleep deprivation; he was so tired. His eyes drifted shut.....and he could still feel her heat, flowing over him in waves, could still smell her, sweet and musky, and he was still hard, still wanting it, still – he jerked himself awake. No! That won't do. Had to snap out of it, keep it from preying on his mind. It was bad enough that he dreamed about the Slayer, but he'd be damned if he let it disturb Dru. The one tonight had already upset her, scared her, made him bruise her. He hated the bitch more than ever, for that. He had to take care of it, one way or another.

When sleep did come, it was fitful, he was too afraid of what it might bring, how Drusilla might be disturbed. At dusk, he slipped from their bed, and made his way to the common areas. There were things he needed to do, plans to make, research and reading and thinking, and he had to find some way to purge himself of the tension that had him wound up so tight.

As he stepped into the hall, he saw three or four of the minions whispering together. When they spotted him, the smart one, what was his name? Dalton – came hurrying towards Spike, a huge grin on his face.

"What the hell are you so happy about?" snapped Spike.

"We found it!"

"Found what?" What was Dalton prattling on about? And why did his head feel like it was full of cotton-wool? Oh. Whiskey. Fifth of. Right.

"The cure, Spike! We found a reference to a 'Rite of Restoration'. It's in one of Du Lac's manuscripts – and we know where it is. Some of the boys went over to get it; they should be back soon." He rubbed his hands together, pleased with himself.

Spike's black mood began to lift; they'd got it. They could fix her. "Are you sure? What's this 'Rite' entail?"

"We won't know till I get it translated, but yes, I'm pretty sure."

Dalton was unceremoniously slammed against the wall, his head encased in a crushing grip. "What? You're pretty sure?"

"We'll know today! They – they'll be back soon, and I'll have it translated tonight. I'll come and get you immediately."

"You'd better," he growled. "I'm not in the mood for any more of your cock-ups."

"Don't worry, Spike."

Spike tightened his hand, just a bit, and leaned closer with a cold smile. "I'm not worried at all, mate. But you should be." He stepped back, then, and swept down the hall, calling over his shoulder, "I'm going out. Don't bother her."

Dalton relaxed as Spike disappeared around the corner. It was impossible to know what would and wouldn't please him. He was in a good mood, he was in a bad mood – anything could set him off; he was so volatile. Dalton imagined tonight's little display had something to do with Drusilla – Spike's bad moods usually did. And when he was in a bad mood.... He probed gingerly at the bruises from Spike's hand. Dalton had thought becoming a vampire would take care of all the bullies he'd had to endure throughout his life. He'd discovered, to his horror, that he had merely substituted even worse bullies. How could he have become a predator, and still be a victim? Full of self-loathing, he began to head for the book room.

***

As he moved up the hall, Dalton spared a last glance towards the closed door, and suppressed a shudder. He might be afraid of Spike's temper, but it was nothing compared to the fear Drusilla inspired in him. She made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Mad as a March Hare, and Spike worshipped her. Dalton shook his head. No accounting for taste, he supposed. He was glad, though, that he only had to worry about pleasing Spike. He didn't allow himself to think too hard about how it would be once Drusilla was better.

***

Spike needed something to kill, something to occupy him while he waited for the damn book to arrive, and waited again for the translation to be done. He stood by the door of the car, and the dream-images washed over him again. The Slayer, sweaty and good-as-naked, legs splayed out along the seat.....he growled angrily, and yanked the door open, throwing his balled-up coat towards the opposite door. He needed something to burn those filthy pictures out of his head.

He needed to eat. He'd start with that. He threw the car in gear, and headed for town.

***

Standing in the grocery store, he stared blankly at the row of leather cleaning products. Hell. How was he supposed to know which one worked best? He should have made one of the morons do this. Finally, he just plucked one at random from the shelf, and dropped it in his pocket. As he turned to go, he bumped shoulders with a small woman who was hurrying towards the register. Sudden hunger twisted in his belly, and his mouth watered. Yeah, he could do with a bite. Smiling, he trailed behind her to the front of the store.

Spike sauntered outside and leaned against the DeSoto. He could see the woman standing at the checkout, hands resting impatiently on her hips. He lit a cigarette while he waited, calm and relaxed again. Nothing like a nice kill to quiet the nerves. Beat the hell out of those patent nostrums they used to sell down at the chemist's. He smiled to himself at the thought of his old Gran taking up murder for her nerves. He wished Dru was here to share the joke – and, for a minute, he let himself believe that Dalton was right. They'd translate it tonight, and she'd be right as rain again. He missed her so...hunting was always so much more fun with her. Hell, everything was more fun with her. His smile grew brighter. No harm in a little optimism, was there?

In a few moments, the doors slid open, and the impatient woman came out, laden with packages, head down, fumbling in her purse for her keys. She didn't even look up at his approach. Spike never ceased to marvel at how stone stupid the population of Sunnydale appeared to be. He put his best helpful smile on his face, and said "Excuse me...."

She looked up, then, a bit alarmed, her gaze flicking back and forth between the car and the double doors, then settling on his smooth and open face. He saw her relax, apparently having decided that he wasn't a danger. "Yes?" she asked, a little nervously.

He opened his mouth to make an offer of help, the practiced lies ready at his lips, but found he suddenly couldn't speak. Young, tanned, blonde, she had a slender body and a short skirt, and she looked so familiar, like someone he knew. His brow furrowed in concentration, and the thought occurred to him that she smelled wrong. Perfectly healthy, but just not right, didn't smell like...like... oh, hell. He felt his stomach drop with a sickening rush. Standing there in the parking lot, lights glinting off her hair, she looked like the Slayer. For a minute, Spike actually felt dizzy, crushed under the weight of his realization. He heard himself say "Sorry, thought you were someone else", and then he turned and all but ran up the street.

***

Blinding anger surged upwards in him as he walked, threatening to engulf him in a rage he hadn't felt in ages. Two blocks over, his nature no longer hidden behind a human face, he grabbed the first man he saw, large and hairy and as far from the image of that blonde bitch as he could get. He yanked the guy into an alleyway, punching and tearing blindly. Slammed his head over and over into the pavement, till he felt the bone give way, then jerked him up and bit savagely into his throat. It wasn't enough, the man was already dying, his blood sluggish to the surface. It took so long to drink that Spike pushed the body angrily away, unsatisfied. That bitch. That fucking bitch. I won't have it, he thought. I won't. This – he had to fix this. One way or another. He stood, fists clenching, staring out into the darkness for a long time, his demonic face twisted with rage. Then his human face returned, calm settling over his features again. Decision made, he turned on his heel and headed for Evergreen Cemetery. They'd mapped her schedule tight enough, he knew she'd be there soon. And he'd take care of this for good.