À quelque-chose malheur est bon. It's the french way of saying that every cloud has a silver lining. Literally translated, it means, "to some, evil (or, misfortune) is good." A rather masochistic translation, in a sense, or construed for vampires, it implied that some are happier without souls. Could also mean that they think they deserve the pain… could be a bit of both…
So, this is insanity. It was co-written by the three of us, and a big, emotional thing that ughh. So, before any further insanity, this was written by the Star that lied, myself and William. Whipped cream was provided by William. I brought tissues. Never again will we let Star choose the plot for the set just after S6, so Spike has a soul, to warn everyone. Also, he's out of it, from his conscience battering on him. The poem (italic lines) interspersed in there is written by William (obviously)
Warnings: Insanity, references to Seeing Red, siring (which includes blood and such) , ensouled!Spike and RealtivelySane!Dru
Spike lay on the ground chest still throbbing from his soul. Sodding thing hurt like the bloody sun. His wounds even seemed to sting more with the addition of the bloody thing. Then, things had started to flood back, things he'd done, people he and his black beauty had killed, things he'd done later, without her, kidnapping the witch. Even the roughness between him and the slayer, that culminated in… "No," he groaned, forcing himself into a sitting position. He didn't want to hurt her, he'd just thought—well, it was what she'd done to him, treated him like a bloody convenience, and then, he'd done it back, just once. Once was all he needed, wasn't it? And he'd shown them both why she could never love him. You could take the man out of the demon, Angelus was proof of that, but you couldn't take the demon out of the man.
Not who I thought, but maybe I'm gone,
Perhaps he'd done the opposite by trying, tried to supress it only to have an explosion of demon, flooding out, doing things that he could never—oh, god. Lifeless faces flashed before his eyes, to a symphony of cries and screams. He could hear a voice at his ear, telling him to come back to the darkness, the shadows where he was home. No. No, he couldn't. He had that spark In him, like the love he used to think was real, burning him away into ashes, consuming . He slid down the rock wall of the cave, letting himself collapse to the floor. He had a soul now, but maybe it hurt because he didn't deserve it. Oh, the screaming, oh, god, the screaming was awful, echoing thorough his ears. No wonder Dru could never stand it, oh, it was like being torn apart.
Drusilla was nearby at the time. She liked Africa. There were big kitties that liked her well enough, and the locals tasted good. She was here this time desperately, after rethinking her statement, that Spike was too lost for her to save him. She had a small scar over her heart from the tip of a stake, and that should prove that her Spike was gone, but he didn't feel gone. He felt close, like lying on blood spattered rocks, shouting for mercy his bloody soul would never give him. It was a cruel little birdie, once a dove, now a raven, drenched in blood and deviously, cleverly ripping him apart from the inside. Maybe she could take it out. She was tired of letting him save the bloody world. She'd known he would be ashes, but she hadn't known how it would torture both of them.
Matter of factly, she set Miss Edith down, putting the doll in a bag she'd stolen from some locals, and left to find her Spike. He was lying on the ground when she saw him, tears streaming from his face as he muttered things that even Drusilla couldn't make sense of. Drusilla helped him into a sitting position, noticing how wounded he was, as he winced away from her touch. He was like her, shattered. When she'd woken up from Angelus's torment, lying on the floor of the convent, that was how she felt. Her life was over, her hope was gone, and there she lay beneath the wreckage, wishing she'd gone with it all. She'd exploded in fury, shattering walls and stained-glass condemners and then breaking down when the Holy Water of the fountain burned her. She'd said many things that night, most of them about her birdie, the gently white dove of a soul, that had flown away and never looked back. But the one thing she hadn't felt—or not yet, anyways. That would come later.
Spike felt hands on him, and was reminded of the way he'd been treated as a child, he fought against the hands at first, but felt the touch was good, actually, helping him, No! No! HE was bad. He didn't deserve the comfort. "Stop," he said softly, vision obscured by tears and grime from the cave floor. "Stop. No! William is gone! Please?" he choked out. He could feel the other kids pushing him, like they had before. When he looked up at them though, he saw them as he'd left them, one puffy-faced and bloated from his body thrown into the ocean, two with slit throats, Peter with his neck broken, one of them with a railroad spike sticking from his forehead. Spike begged them to stop as the pushing got rougher and rougher.
And I deserve every time, for not holding on
Drusilla stifled the pain that it caused her when he told her William was gone, but she knew he wasn't directing it at her. She wanted to hold him like he'd held her in that first dream. He was a child at the time, he hadn't listened when she told him she was evil, that she had no would, he'd just held her close and told her that if she was sad, she shouldn't be alone. She could feel his soul, mocking her, joining in with the voices of the stars, but it wasn't talking to her. It was just whispering to her William, telling him all the things he's done that he shouldn't have. It told him he was bad, that he had to fix it, but he never could… never, never, never. It was like her star, telling him conflicting things, to go to Sunnyhell and be the slayer's champion, to stay here and let himself starve. She knew that feeling. She'd lived a couple centuries with that one star that never shut up, constantly telling her that she should have died before he'd killed her family. She could help him. She knew she could. "It's just me, love," she whispered softly, "I can make it stop."
He whimpered, seeing Drusilla there, his soul reminding him that she took it away. She's the one who made it leave. Seduced it out of him, with the way she wound his words and told him he wanted in other worlds. It was something in her eyes, and then his soul had left. Did he love her? Could he even love without a soul. The slayer's words rang mockingly in his ears, "you can't love! You don't even have a soul," but if it wasn't love, what was it? "What was it?" he asked her, looking around and seeing the alley around them, seeing Drusilla. He backed up, against the wall, looking around, begging her not to, but his body didn't respond. He followed the same script, did the same things as he did a century and a quarter ago, screaming on the inside. Did she save him or did she damn him? He watched from his younger eyes as his vision faded and something ethereal, a sphere of light floated up to the sky, he begged it, reaching out to it, trying to be free, but he had no strength, he collapsed from the blood loss.
And I was yours that night
Drusilla knew what it was like to lose reality. She was the most coherent she'd been in her hundred-seventy years as a vampire, and that was because of a dwindling black-market supply of the blood of a certain demon. What a twist, her being close to sane, not close enough that the stars or the pixies went away, not far enough that she didn't still need to burn sometimes to let it out, but close enough to sane that she could tell Spike needed her. Close enough to see that he was slipping, that his soul would kill him from the inside until he burned for the slayer. She could practically smell the ashes in the room. She used to have to kiss him to… oh, god. She was already shaking, best take another vial of that blood now. She opened the bag, trembling as she did. There were only four left, and then she'd have to steal some more money, and go back to the village for a night. The blood was sort of a blue-black, and it tasted bitter, but it worked, and she needed as mush sanity as she could have for this. Then, she also saw the first aid kit she'd stolen, in case the big kitties used their claws. "I'll fix you up, love," she whispered determinedly.
Spike heard her words clearly this time, flinching back. If by fixing him up, she meant taking his pain, then he couldn't. He couldn't. He needed the soul, so that they could forgive, and he wouldn't be a monster any longer. If she only meant his physical wounds, it still wasn't right, because he deserved the hurt. Oh, god. Oh, god. He could remember the nightmare they'd had—no, no, that was rea. Angelus had killed a church full of people, and shown Spike how to kill, and then he'd gone home and shagged Drusilla. Spike was sure it was a nightmare, had been so disgusted when he learned through the little metaphors Drusilla made how Angelus was. Whether or not she wanted it… but he was no better. He could hear Buffy in his ears, screaming, pleading, asking him to remind her again whey she could never love him. He was no better than Drusilla's sire, "no," he choked out, "no—no better."
But I was never right
Drusilla still winced when Spike thought about that. Get as much Lorophage blood into her as you like, the memories of her sire would still hurt. She'd seen the whole thing with the slayer. Made her sick at first, slayer treating her Spike like… like… like those children, she'd known one named Marie, who always seemed to be breaking and hurting anything that they thought was theirs. The slayer had left him for dead after he tried to stop her from going to jail. And then, like that, her Spike had become something else. He was a big bad before, but he'd never been a monster. Not until then, anyways. The slayer had screamed like she did, but she'd fought him off. And then, Drusilla had seen the pain in his eyes as he'd realized what he'd done. He was still William. He hadn't known what he was doing. Not that a soul would care. Souls were like stained-glass saints, they were there to hurt you, rip into you with their claws, innocent, guilty or any shade between. "You're not like him, Spike," she whispered, wincing as the screaming in his mind continued. Normally, four vials would be about a week's worth of blood. She wasn't sure she'd make it through the night.
"Wanted…" he gasped softly, "wanted… wanted it to stop," Spike pleaded, his eyes fixating on Drusilla's imploringly, albeit unfocusedly. He looked at her for a long moment like that, begging her with his eyes to hear him. She could see that same plea he'd given her when she made him. He was begging her with his eyes for her to save him. And she could, if he would let her. She would sire him again and hope that it would send the soul away. Maybe then she could save him again. She wondered if that would work a second time. The first time had been… well, his blood had been beautiful, flowing like the sweetest poetry, and when the pain, the screaming subsided, and she let him drink her, that had been… Well, that had been almost… it had been the closest she'd ever come to completion, feeling loved, alive as she did when he drank her.
I thought I could change but there was blood on my hands
She stroked one of the cleansing wipes down one of his cuts. He tended her wounds so well after Prague, all the various tortures Prague had been full of. She'd been wounded inside and outside. They'd had some sort of a demon, or she assumed it was a demon—who fed off of pain, chaos. He'd broken into her mind and then ripped at it. Spike had spent years trying, putting her back together, starving himself, so he could hunt for her and not leave her alone too long. Most of her memories for that were… well, she wasn't quite sure which of them were real, and what was nightmares and delusions, and the pixies toying with her. She could barely see them when she drank her cure. They stopped tormenting her. The taste of ashes, well, that would never go away, but she didn't have to watch it anymore. Drusilla laughed bitterly. She'd never thought she'd be the sane one.
Spike winced when the antiseptic came into contact with his body. He could see it, in his memories, his dark goddess above him, clawing at him. His breathing deepened. He liked this memory. He liked it until there was blood and killing. Often, they'd made love after killing, and he could see lifeless eyes judging him. "No! No, Can't!" he shrieked frantically. Why did they kill all those people? Were they bad? Could he even redeem himself after that, all the lives they took together? No wonder the slayer couldn't love him, evil, soulless thing. Oh, no. He had a soul now, but all it did was burn, he couldn't make the burning stop. Maybe the burning would stop when he deserved it to. Drusilla just kept tending to his wounds as he tried to pull away. He wasn't good. He sobbed softly, seeing all the death. Why was Drusilla here, to take him back? Did she want to bring him back to the shadows? The light burned, but the burn was what he deserved. He couldn't go.
What's left, when you know you can't?
Drusilla ignored him telling her not to, knowing that his conscience would be berating him. He sounded like she did after she was sired, but she didn't feel guilt then. Rage, shame, pain, loss, sure. She never felt a hint of guilt for those scars she'd done nothing to earn, scars she used to try to burn off. Even with the blood in her, she hated them, every one of them. Her sire had a soul now, and he'd deny it to Hell and back, but she would always be marked as his masterpiece. Her body would always be marred by scars that he'd left on her, driving her to the edge of her sanity and throwing her off. Spike had made her feel… feel almost like they weren't there, like she was beautiful. Leaving him had devastated her. Maybe she could bring him back, fix this. Either way, she wanted to make sure she healed him first, make sure that if the sunshine was going to burn him to ash, if she couldn't save him, at least he would only hurt one way.
Spike needed her to stop. He deserved the pain, and she was taking it. She always took the pain, never did like giving it. He assumed when the humans screamed, it reminded her of things she'd be best without remembering. It was one thing they'd done yet. She only tortured them if they'd hurt someone else. Spike remembered the screaming that one man had made, once. He had a cat. Spike remembered holding the poor thing as she shivered and made these absolutely heart-rending whimpers. The man had hurt that kitty badly, and Drusilla had killed him slowly, as Spike alternately helped her and tried to help the cat. Drusilla was justice that night, leaving him in the same state he'd left his cat, on the edge of death. Spike could see the man's accusing eyes as the light in them faded, but the anger, the pain, the accusation never did. Who were they to play god, kill the ones they thought deserved it? "Drusilla," he said softly, "I can't heal, love. I'll heal wrong," He said softly, begging her to stop and just let him suffer.
Drusilla didn't stop. No, she'd come too far to stop. Wanted it to stop…. Stop, stop. The trembling was back with a vengeance as her traitorous mind dredged up things she'd seen. She couldn't differentiate between which was nightmare and which was a vision with the things that flashed through her mind, the screaming. oh, god, the screaming, the slayer, first, she'd watched her love fall for the sunshine, go to dance in the day with the sunshine, dance till he burned and she couldn't save the one thing that had made this life mean anything. She could see him shagging the slayer, letting the slayer take out her anger on him from time to time. She could see Spike finally treating the slayer like she'd treated him. , and oh, god the screaming, because Spike didn't know, and the slayer didn't want it. Drusilla fumbled with her bag, looking for the blood. Two left after this one. She popped the seal, but her trembling hands lost the vial. The blood splattered to the ground, dark clarity wasted. Two more. The second time around, she got it open easy enough and swallowed it easily, feeling the clarity flood back to her, a lot of the pain leaving, not enough of it though that she felt right. Spike's soul, it seemed, would be just as much torment to her.
Spike shook his head, begging up what he assumed was the slayer, "Didn't- didn't want to hurt you," he said softly, imploringly. The slayer, just looked down on him, "you didn't have a soul. It wasn't even real," she said disgustedly. He heard a shattering sound, and felt Drusilla's hands leave his body, and the slayer just kept looking at him. He could see her, before him, hear the way she'd screamed ringing through his ears. He was no better that Angelus in some respects, he reluctantly admitted to himself. Then, Drusilla resumed cleaning his wounds, and he couldn't. He needed it to stop. He didn't deserve her kindness. He needed her to stop. "Dru," he said weakly, before he pushed her off of him. The look of hurt in her eyes but through the delusions, and the angst, and everything, until all that existed was Drusilla and Spike.
When Drusilla felt him push her away, she didn't try to come back, she just laid there, undisguised hurt in her eyes. He'd already chosen to dance in the sunshine, but that he wouldn't even let her help him, maybe he didn't trust him to. She went to get her bag. "You have a soul now. You don't need me." She'd always let him take care of her, even after Prague, when some days she just wanted to scream at him, that she wasn't that fragile, that she wouldn't break if he just… Oh, but she couldn't leave. Why did she have to leave? It was like he was still here in her mind, his thoughts swirling with hers, but she didn't remember blood and death, she remembered making love. She remembered a poet, who'd shown her that it didn't have to hurt, made the nightmares go away, caught the words when her pixies stole them from her. She remembered the William that had seen her scars, knew how she got them, and still somehow held her closer. But if he wasn't that Spike, maybe it was best for her to leave, remember him at his best.
and nothing would ever be the same
Spike got up, wincing when it hit a burn from fighting the man with fire-hands. He walked, limped, really, to Drusilla, the pain he'd seen in her eyes hurt him, but that was a hurt he could fix. He'd loved her for a century and a quarter, and she'd saved him, made him, not only did he owe her this, but he wanted to fix it. He wanted her to finally be happy, though in her life… well, it was never too likely that she would be… if Angelus was alive, odds were he'd find a way to ruin it, or fate, or the world. Even with a soul, knowing what they'd done when they were together, he still felt a twinge of protectiveness rising in him. "Don't go," he said softly, "the spark, it doesn't like it, but I want you to stay," he admitted, hating the conflict between himself and his soul.
Drusilla turned around in surprise, barely understanding his words, she reached into her bag, one last vial of the Lorophage blood. She had a decision to make. "Spike, I can take it away if you let me," she said softly, "but only if you let me. I'm not going to sire you just so you can go back to her," she added, looking up at him for a long moment. He once told her she was his destiny, but now he was pulling away from destiny to burn for the slayer. Drusilla could already see an alternate fate, where another soulful vampire would rise up as a champion and burn to save them. Actually, she'd liked that vision. Now her sire knew what it was like to burn. But she hated the thought of seeing Spike burn, seeing him full of light, and the slayer would look at him and finally say it. Would it be worth his death to Spike to hear those three words from the slayer, when Drusilla could mean them right now? Would the slayer even mean them?
Spike looked at her for a long moment, his hand running through his pale hair, which had broken into little curls, from not having gelled it for days. His soul hurt, but he had to keep fighting. He couldn't go back to it, but seeing Drusilla, he wanted to. He wanted to fall into her arms and stop being strong, trying to become someone he wasn't sure he could be after what had happened in Sunnydale. Everything was wrong now, and he didn't want it to be wrong, but he knew it was, to go back, to fall into her arms and forget that he wasn't good. He knew he couldn't hurt Drusilla, he hadn't even without a soul, but no, that was a lie. She'd come to him burned and looking for something a reason, and he'd given her hope, and then snuffed it out. Like a flame, he'd stoked the fire, and then poured ice water on it. Bad Spike. Oddly, his soul didn't care. It told him she didn't feel his betrayal because she didn't have a soul, but he knew the fire was there. He knew that they'd been in love as vampires. Why couldn't his soul know?
Still I know that I'm to blame…
Drusilla looked at the indecision, the confusion in Spike's eyes. He was lost right now, but she could make it clearer. She reached into her bag and handed him the vial of blood, smiling a little, "this has been making me sane. You need to understand what you're doing," she explained, breaking the seal on the vial and passing it to him. He looked at it dubiously, as if there was something amiss with the blood, sniffing it. "Lorophage blood. It'll make you coherent," she explained, feeling herself starting to slip again, as Spike drank the last of her cure. If he stayed, she wouldn't have to use it to pretend. She had moments where, with him, it all fell away, and she didn't feel broken. That was better than the numbing the blood did. It pushed things away, but staying with him, loving Spike made it better, made it go away. Spike wasn't a respite, he was home.
Spike drank the blood, feeling something rushing through him. That was better already. He could . He could never fix what he'd done there, but maybe… Maybe getting a soul wasn't the right way to try. Maybe he needed to leave, try to do good elsewhere. And Drusilla, well, perhaps Drusilla was here because she needed him, because, like he'd said before, she was his destiny. He'd wronged her too, given her hope and then tried to kill her, just after she'd been burned by her sire. Maybe he'd start by making things right for her. He loved her, and Spike knew he always would, and despite that his soul didn't care because she didn't have a soul, he did. Drusilla had been through a lot. He could take away what pain her could, try to help her forget. He'd done it for a century and a quarter, almost… It was just short when she left. Maybe he could fix things for her and then from there, see. What was wrong with his soul that it didn't care? And why hadn't she taken a vial of the blood for herself. He could see her hands shaking, like the blood was starting to flood out of her system, the pain was returning. "Love, why don't you…?" he trailed off, motioning to the bag.
And in this gift you gave to me
Drusilla felt a surge of something when he called her 'love', his voice already a lot more coherent. Lorophage blood was a miracle, but not one she had much more of. She wanted, just once while she was sane, she wanted to kiss him while she was clear, and taste only Spike and no ashes. She did, pulling him close, tasting Lorophage blood, Spike's blood, and cigarettes. She'd always loved the blood of her Spike, "there's not enough time," she told him bitterly, knowing she was slipping, "the hands on the clock are little traitors and I wanted to trap these moments," oh, god, it was starting already! "I wanted you to have it. I wasn't meant to be the sane one in this—whatever this is," she added, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She knew what was going to happen, she could feel his soul like a slap in the face, and taste his ashes in her mouth, like they would travel down her throat and finally bloody do it already.
Spike heard the urgency in her voice, the familiar, metaphoric way she spoke. She was sane and he had a soul, they weren't the same, but she was still giving him the last vestige of her newly found sanity. Only Drusilla ever could, and something about that, that she'd rather see him happy than herself, it just pushed him off the edge. He pulled her close and kissed her one more time, his lips finding hers in that dance they'd mastered so well. His hands threaded into her midnight hair, and he just savoured this, being so wrapped up in Drusilla, in being hers. Soul or no soul, he was hers, and he knew, barring the time he'd almost staked her, and that… he wasn't going to do that to her, again. He'd been packed to leave with her in case she ever came back, and he'd drank for weeks and weeks, cursing himself for ruining it. Now, he finally had a chance.
Always there to set me free
She broke the kiss for a long moment, looking up at him, a haunted look in her blue eyes. "Spike. If I'm going to… I can't take it. Can't. I need you to do one last thing," she took a deep breath and bared the side of her neck that had the scars her sire left with her. Last time she'd run out of blood, she'd tried to burn them off, and come damned close. She knew the next time she tried to get rid of them, she would succeed, probably because dawn was close, and she didn't trust herself not to taste her own ashes, dance in a more literal sunshine. "I need you to sire me," she begged, hoping the plea wouldn't alarm him. She wanted him to claim her, take her back from Angelus. "You don't have to stay after, if you want to get back to the sunshine, but they're killing me." She didn't meet his eyes, not wanting to seem weak. She'd wanted to beg him for this since she'd sired him, but she hadn't dared. She'd never dared, first out of fear of Angelus, then because she didn't want to seem weak.
When she begged him, something broke inside Spike. She was trusting him with this, he knew how much he could break her, and his soul told him that he didn't care, but he did. He'd tried to kill her, and she was openly giving him a chance to make this right. To make her his. HE looked into her eyes, "I'll make you a deal, princess. I'll sire you if—" he took a deep breath, willing himself to have the strength, the impulse decision, rash though it was, he was certain was the right one. "If you make me yours again," he told her, sending a mental apology to all those he'd hurt. Humans could die, their suffering was short, a century if they were lucky—or, unlucky, depending on how you saw things. Drusilla would live forever, and he wouldn't let forever be a giant tragedy for the first woman he'd loved, his dark goddess, the woman who made him. Once, she was even his wife, before he pushed her away. He put her hand over the mark she'd left on his neck a century ago, sighing at the contact. He'd made up his mind, decided that he would be hers, give her a reason. For all that had changed, nothing had. He was still her Spike.
And loving you will take me home,
To say that his response had surprised Drusilla would be an understatement. She had expected she would have trouble convincing him that it was alright, that she wanted it. She kissed him deeply. "Yes," she said softly, letting her face shift and stroking a hand down his cheekbone, feeling like it was all coming back together, and the screaming of the stars and the giggling of the pixies became a hum in the background as his face shifted, and she felt his fangs prick her lip as they kissed, and then travel to her scars. She gasped as he trailed kisses to that infernal spot on her neck. A gasp became a whimper, as images rushed back to her, of her sire above her. This would hurt, but she was safe. She knew it, there was no snake to be found, and Spike's eyes were like home, not arrows. She could live in those eyes, she just had to stay in reality. "Do it, love!" she begged him, the pain all falling away as his fangs pierced her scars.
And you would never be alone
Spike had felt her tense when he first kissed her scars, and he knew why, what they were a sign of. He'd known that it wasn't going to work, and was ready to pull away apologetically when she told him to do it. Spike had taken a couple seconds deliberation, not certain of what to do, what she wanted, and then let his fangs slip gently within her scars, moaning at her taste. He'd only tasted her once, when he was sired. Other than that, he hadn't dared ask. He blood tasted like he imagined the stars would when they were the brightest, the way love should be. She shone. But it was when he heard her sounds, felt her pull him closer, that he was certain this was right, more than right, sod his soul, sod Sunnyhell, this was where he belonged.
Drusilla cried out in pleasure as she felt her life draining into her love's fangs, hands clawing at his shirtless form, pulling him closer, until she wasn't quite certain where the lines were. The lines were hazy, and she didn't want them ever to clear. If she could take this moment and trap it, she would have something perfect, and she'd be able to keep it forever, but he wanted her to sire him, make him hers again, her Spike. She arched into him, calling by his name as her cries grew louder, William. He released her neck, and she didn't hesitate before she kissed his scars, humming as her fangs sunk once again into the flesh, and she watched a slightly more spotted birdie flying away. The birdie wasn't white, but he wasn't a crow, because her William would still have the soul of a poet, no matter how many lives he took. He was meant for this, to bash and slash and bleed like beautiful poetry. And she noticed, as she drank him, that she couldn't taste ashes on him any more.
Nothing could compare to the bliss
Spike cried out her name as she drank, loving the way she held him close, as if he was her air, and she didn't want to choke any longer. It was time for it all to end, all the pain. He felt his own soul, something he'd almost died for an hour ago, flying away, and bid it depart. He was a good man without it, as long as they were together. Where the trouble came in was when he tried to be someone else, to redeem himself like a certain brooding vampire in Los Angeles. What was redemption worth when it hurt the one you loved? And maybe, this was all worth it in the end, the pain, losing who he was to get here. Drusilla found him, the slayer got a real champion, the one she was in love with all along, he reckoned. It was a fairytale ending.
Of our happy ending… this is where we kiss…
Drusilla removed her fangs, and slashed her finger down her lower lip, smirking as Spike mirrored the action, sealing it all with one bloody, beautiful, passionate kiss.