It had been a rough night and a bad one; exhausted Spike'd turned in well before midnight in the king-sized water bed in the master suite of the palatial ranch house ten miles outside Dallas he'd commandeered for his Ripe Wicked Plum.

His Ripe Wicked Plum hadn't liked his ending the fun so early, so she'd started by poking him - with the fireplace poker.

Right out of the fire – giggling, she'd prodded him with the red-hot end until he'd thrown it and a lamp at her.

Undeterred Dru persisted; playing with his hair with the electric hand-mixer she'd found in the kitchen below on a long extension cord as the sun started lightening the heavily curtained windows.

Two handfuls of hair plus scalp later, Spike, thoroughly pissed, had not only tossed the other bedside lamp at Drusilla, but thoroughly chastised her over the head with the bedside table it'd rested on before tying her up with the extension cord and locking her in a hall closet with the admonition, "William is tired. William needs his sleep. William will throw you out into the nasty old sun if you don't leave him be because when William needs his sleep, William gets quite cranky, got it luv?"

After sending the remains of the mixer out the window without bothering to open it first, Spike downed a bottle of tequila, worm and all, and climbed back into bed, smarting from both the poker and the mixer.

Sometime after sunrise Spike woke violently when the bed, no, the room erupted around him in a bellowing crash, sending him onto the floor in a stale torrent of water bed water, hooves, horns and Dorito breath, which then scooped him up with a mooing roar before hurling him across the room in a crash of shattering mirrors, art glass, and livestock trophies

Stunned, he tried to get to his feet only to go down again as his assailant danced on him, foul breath clinging to his chill skin in a shower of rock hard hooves and hot wet, messy shit... shit?

Bloody hell, Dru was at it again!

Well, of course she was, Spike could hear Dru's high pitched tittering laugh through the angry bellows of the bull she'd somehow got up the stairs and into the bedroom without awakening him. Spike rolled, the animal missed goring him, only to catch the waist band of Spike's black bikini briefs, tossing him high over its hairy, sweaty back so that Spike flailed and flopped like a line of wash in a hurricane. Unable to get a grip, Spike rode it out as the bull thundered back through the door with him dangling from its horns and into the hall, taking most of the door frame with it until it reached the top of the wide curving staircase, tripped, fell and rolled in a sweaty bellowing tangle of vampire, bull, and hand-woven Navajo stair carpeting to the bottom of the stairs.

Spike lay quietly for a long time before he got around to pulling himself out from beneath the half ton of now dead testosterone-flavored pot roast and broken stair runners.

Naked and bleeding, he began staggering up the back stairs, the front ones being unusable for obvious reasons.

Drusilla giggled coyly down at him from the top, naked but for a lampshade.

Halfway there already, Spike paused, swaying drunkenly, grinning up at her through broken fangs– bloody Hell, foreplay is foreplay, innit?

Anyway, it never pays to keep a lady waiting.