Spike was laying on the couch with his legs over the arm and his head in Drusilla's lap. She was
stroking his hair with her fingers, humming quietly. From his place, he could see Angel and
Buffy sitting at the table in the small dining area, papers spread out in front of them.
"Well, he wouldn't need an anesthesiologist," Angel said.
"Since they're already operating on his head, we can just hit him over it to knock him out," Buffy
Little Buffy sounded mean. Mean, mean. Unhappy, sad were little Buffy and Dad. Angel,
Daddy, Daddy, Angel.
Spike shifted his gaze to the multicolored ball he held in his hands. He frowned at it. "Dru,
what's this color? Color is what?" he asked, pointing at a spot on the ball.
"That's red, my Spike," Drusilla answered. "Red like the blood in all the little bodies. It makes
my mouth water."
Red, red, the color was red. Fred, dead. Red is what they bled.
Spike turned the ball in his hands. Yellow. Blanket yellow. Soft, soft. Yellow, yellow. The ball
was yellow like his blanket. Ball, fall. Bouncy, bouncy.
"Ok, the operating room, hallway and recovery room at the neurosurgeon's are all windowless,"
Buffy said. "Dr. Walters said he'd need one nurse to assist him and you there, just in case."
"What's this one?" Spike asked Drusilla.
"Blue," Drusilla responded. She ran two fingers down his forehead and over his eyelids. "Like
the color of your pretty eyes. So cold, yet so warm." She walked her fingers down his nose,
speaking with each 'step.' "Just like my Spike."
Spike giggled and batted her hand away. "Silly, Dru, Dru, silly. Love my Dru. Love my Buffy,
too. One, two, five, six, nine!"
"Shh," Drusilla said, putting a finger to his lips. "We mustn't yell or Daddy will get mad."
Spike nodded and looked over at Angel. Mad, Dad. Don't get Daddy mad. That's very bad.
Bad, bad, bad, bad. Bad boys didn't get little Buffy kisses. He liked Buffy kisses.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Buffy?" Angel asked. He sighed. "We don't even know if
the surgery would be successful. Maybe we should just let him alone until..."
"Until what, Angel?" Buffy said sharply. "Until Spike turns into a mindless lump? Until he
forgets he can't go outside during the day and does? Until we have no choice but to stake him?"
Ut-oh. The Slayer's mad. Very, very mad. Mad at Dad. Dad not get little Buffy kisses. Bad
Daddy. Bad Daddy's get no love. Love, no love, love me do. Do, do.
"Don't you 'Buffy' me in that tone," she snapped. "You lost that right a long time ago."
"Maybe they'll get into a fight," Drusilla whispered to Spike. "And we can see the icky Slayer
Bleed, blood, dead doggie. No more woof, woof. "Woof," Spike said, looking up at Drusilla.
"Rrrr-ruff," Drusilla answered back. "Are you mummy's good puppy?"
"Arf, arf!" Spike barked loudly. Drusilla laughed and started to rub his belly. He laughed.
"Angel, I want my partner back," Buffy stated. "If I have to, I'll find a way to pay for this on my
"Will you still love him even if the surgery doesn't work?" Angel asked frankly.
"Yes, you do," Angel interrupted.
"Color, color, what is?" Spike said, pointing to another spot on the ball.
"Green, like the grass," Drusilla said. "Did you know there are worms under the grass? I want to
be a worm, so I can crawl in the dirt."
"Dirt, bath, clean, naughty," Spike said. Naughty, naughty. Dirty equals naughty. Gotta find
dirt. "Daddy, where is dirt?"
"Dirt is outside, Spike, but you can't go out right now," Angel answered.
"But I bloody wanna!" Spike yelled, rolling off the couch to his feet. "I want dirt, dirt. Get dirt.
"Spike, I said no," Angel told him patiently.
"No, no, no is yes!" Spike yelled. "YES, YES, BLOODY HELL YES!!"
"Oh, this is not good," Drusilla fretted. "Not good."
"Spike, enough," Angel said firmly, rising from his seat.
Spike brought his arm back and threw the ball at Angel as hard as he could. Angel deflected it
and the ball ended up hitting a picture on the wall. It fell to the ground with a crash. Glass
shattered onto the carpeting.
Spike looked at Angel's angry face and took off running down the hall. Halfway down, he
stumbled and fell to the floor.
Bad boy, bad boy. Broke it. Crash, crash, crush. He was bad, bad. So very bad.
Spike scrambled forward on his hand and knees to his bedroom. Without stopping, he leapt up
onto the bed and yanked the yellow blanket over him. He crawled under the covers as far as he
could, curling up at the foot of the bed.
So wrong, so long. Thanks for the fish. Fish, fish. Glub, glub. Bad fish, fish bad. Just like him.
He was a bad fishy. He should get flushed down the loo. Flush, swish, swish.
The bed moved and Spike tensed. He saw the light when the covers lifted at the head of the bed.
"Are we burrowing like little mice?" Drusilla asked, crawling under the covers with him.
"Shh," Spike hushed her. "Daddy mad. Angry at Spike. Spike was bad boy. Don't tell Daddy
where I be, see, dee, el, es."
"I won't tell," Drusilla whispered. She moved close to him and ran her hand up his leg. "Do you
know what we can do under the blankets, luv?"
Bad, bad. Very bad Dru. Naughty, naughty in the bed. Being naughty with Dru.
Giggling filled the room.