SOMEWHERE IN EUROPE, 1943

Spike sits smoking outside a cafe, occasionally sipping a bitter coffee and flipping absently through a newspaper detailing the growing horrors of the second World War when a letter flutters to the wrought-iron table.

The envelope is inscribed Spike in curled script, and inside is a message forged in Drusilla's hand. He and Dru had been apart for a few years, no relationship burning passionately for all of its centuries together, to explore their own conquests, and her message is at first a welcome surprise but then a worrisome account.

It seems the vamps do not fit into Hitler's vision of perfection, and Dru has found herself in trouble.

"Sick fuck," Spike mutters, rising from his table and tossing a wad of small bills and loose change on the metal with the paper and letter.

Dru is apparently staying in an adjacent country where the Nazi occupation has spread, a special supernatural unit working to capture and slaughter as many vampires as they can get their hands on and causing quite a stir in the global vampire community. Dru beckons for Spike to meet her at a scrawled address to join her in the efforts against the war.

Within a day he's arrived, and slips through shadows to avoid the men on the streets, having to wipe out more than one who approaches with a swift punch. Soon he's climbing the stairs of a dingy apartment building and knocking at the appropriate door, which creaks open at his touch, already unlocked.

Spike waits at the threshold. "Dru?" He calls.

A yellowed lamplight flickers on the the corner, revealing his Lord of Dramatics sprawled domineering in a chair. "Come in," the demon beckons.

Spike swiftly crosses the threshold. "Where is Drusilla?"

"I couldn't say. Likely out with our comrades trying to avoid slaughter. Funny... it's not so nice being on the other side of that, eh, Spike?"

Spike bristles, slamming the door. "And what are you doing here, in Dru's place?"

Dracula smiles. "I was invited of course."

Spike mutters, "I thought you didn't need an invitation."

"An invitation doesn't have to come distinctly from one's lips for me." Spike recalls the all-too-familiar sensation of being controlled by Drac's mind, now understanding that the rule is only irrelevant because he can skirt it in a thought. Dracula continues, "But your pet did have the courtesy to let me in some time ago... In more ways than one."

Spike cringes visibly. "Enough with the riddles. Where is Drusilla?"

Dracula rises and sighs decidedly. "Drusilla was not the one who called you here. I'm afraid she's too busy in her own battles somewhere." Spike has a flash in his mind of his Dru staked, burned, beheaded. "I called you here, because it appears we now have a shared interest."

"If you mean Dru, I assure you-"

Dracula laughs dismissively, approaching the brooding vampire across from him. "Always the tunnel-vision with you, William the Bloody. I assure you Drusilla holds no special place in my heart that any other escort couldn't fill. No, our shared interest is the survival of our people."

Spike scoffs. "You really think this Hitler bloke can wipe us out?"

"He's already killed hundreds."

Spike grimaces incredulously. "And how the fuck's he done that?"

Dracula darkens. 

"Oh, this is too good," Spike murmurs in bitter teasing. "Do you finally regret it now?"

Dracula moves back to his seat in the stark wooden chair, exasperatedly prodding at his temples.

"That fucking book," Spike mutters. "Which, by the way, cost me a whopping eleven quid--"

Dracula dismisses him. "Quiet," he hisses tiredly.

Spike stills, scoffing and sauntering closer to Dracula. He hops to sit roughly on the table, causing the lamp to rattle slightly, giving a shaky glow to the shaky aura between them. It's then that he notices with great amusement and mild concern that Dracula himself actually seems afraid.

Spike eyes him. He beckons, "You really think we're in danger here?"

"Well, they've got Drusilla, haven't they? Shouldn't that worry you enough?"

"We don't know that," Spike bristles with some confidence, knowing that Drusilla is more powerful than your common vampire, and sharp too.

Dracula sighs darkly, letting one hand fall to the table while the other continues massaging his pounding temple. His mind flashes with all his people, hundreds of slaughtered vampires and far greater bouts of captured Romani at the whim of this one vile human man.

"This has really done a number on you," Spike laughs, his confidence growing weaker with every passing moment.

Still staring at some nothing in the darkness outside the lamplight, Dracula absently flutters his hand, running the back of his fingers along the side of Spike's thigh, craving a kill or a touch, whichever comes first to ease his anguish.

Spike grips at the swaying fingers, pulling Drac's attention to face him. No words pass the younger's lips as his perplexity and worry grow. Dracula growls slightly, freeing his fingers to pull himself up by the crook of Spike's leg. Spike stares curiously at him as the hand crawls back up his thigh to rest contemplatively at his bony waist.

Dracula sighs, his other hand moving to caress the sharp jowls and jaw as his mind slowly stills in anticipation.

Spike tentatively moves his own hands, reaching to grip the gaudy front of Dracula's shirt and the soft velvet cloth of his cloak as Dracula's fingers run through the slicked back shock of hair, finally resting at the nape of Spike's neck where he encouragingly tugs to open the face up towards him.

With a surprising tenderness, as if coddling a pet, Dracula dips his own head to brush open lips across cheekbones. His shivering breath and billowing black hair tickle at Spike's skin as the tall frame pushes against his open legs on the table. There is the slightest pause before Dracula's lips meet the other's, which Spike quickly closes with a violent, needy kiss.