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Spike watched her dancing across the battlefield, her naked arms lifted to the full moon, her skirt half-torn from her. He watched her stop by a still living soldier and drop to her knees. He saw her kiss the boy, bring his hand to her naked breast.
Then he watched her kill him even as she fondled him through stained wool trousers.
Spike didn't care.
Whatever made his dark goddess happy, made him happy.
If she wanted to fuck every soldier in Flanders, he didn't care, because, in the end, she was his. They both knew it. They both reveled in it.
"Join me, my William," she cooed, one hand beneath her skirts, the other raised to her lips as she licked the blood from her fingers. "Make love to me amongst the dying."
Spike smiled and stepped over a corpse, leapt a trench, swept her into his arms. "I love a good war."
"I love you," Drusilla promised, pulling him down to the bloody earth.
End