Unravel
There are many things which Drusilla does not understand, although she'd prefer to think of these ungraspable concepts as the mysteries of the universe rather than a flaw in her own logic.
She does not understand why Angel-monster set her and grandmum-daughter on fire, and she does not understand why Darla left Drusilla alone, stinking and rotting in the sewers of the City of Angels, to continue stalking the naughty lawyers who brought her back in a box. She does not understand why the bad gypsies took Daddy from them in the first place.
But he's back now, and that's all that matters.
Drusilla had been huddling in those sewers for a thousand years, so far away from the stars and the moon and the lovely night-blooming jasmines, when Darla reappeared with Angelus. Drusilla knew she could not trust everything she saw, cursed as she was, a foul devil-child, but still she could not help herself. As she reached a hand tentatively towards the vision in gore-flecked beauty, the fair damsel reunited with her dark knight, grandmum-daughter chuckled and said, "Yes, Dru, it's really him."
"How?"
Darla raised one perfect eyebrow and said, "I fucked the soul right out of him."
So they went back to the Hellmouth, la boca del infierno, to reclaim the last member of their family.
Drusilla knew that she alone could not have recaptured her poor lost poet, head full of electrical wires and blonde temptresses. She saw it etched on his face when she stepped out of the shadows in his crypt: he was hers no longer. It wasn't until Angelus joined her, held his hand out to Spike, that she understood what it would take to bring him back to them.
Drusilla saw into Spike that night, saw how lost he'd been. She saw something inside of him break when he saw Angelus again.
That was two moon whispers ago. Now, she can still smell the blood of the Slayer which coats the walls of the crypt, burrowing into every nook and cranny. There are entrails and eyeballs of other humans decorating their house, but the Slayer's blood is the strongest. Drusilla can still remember the night Angelus ripped her to pieces, let Spike lap at the leftovers, then took him there, right atop her broken body. Oh, how the little girl's dead eyes had glared up accusingly as Angelus slammed into Spike, over and over and over again, desecrating her corpse in the sweetest of ways.
A great crashing sound draws Drusilla downstairs. Darla's gone out for the hunt, couldn't wait to sink her teeth into pretty children, so that leaves the boys. She finds them on the floor, white arms scrabbling against the grey cement like slithering snakes. Spike straddles Angelus briefly before Angelus flips them both over, grinding their hips together and bending over to sink his teeth into Spike's neck.
Drusilla watches, rucks up her own dress and allows her hand to mimic Angelus, thrusting and rocking and eliciting howls of pleasure and pain. Spike is almost in tears from Angelus's punishing kisses. Spike's hands grasp Angelus's shoulders, fingernails digging in and forming rivulets of blood, and the beauty of it all is sending shockwaves straight through Drusilla, from head to tip-toes.
When it's almost too much to stand, Angelus shudders, cries out, and holds Spike close before pushing him away so roughly that he goes skidding across the room, landing against a wall with a funny little splat.
Spike looks up at him for a moment, head muzzy and eyes open so wide that anyone could fall inside them and never get out. Drusilla can see everything laid out on his face in that moment. He needs Angelus, craves him as she craves blood, innocence, and the taste of ripe pomegranates in a mouth that could still appreciate them.
Drusilla does not understand everything, but she does understand one thing that Spike never will.
Spike was broken by Angelus long ago, and only Angelus could put him back together again, if he wanted to. Spike is still waiting for Angelus to fix him.
But he never will.