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Dead Soul
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angst/horror
Pairings: Spike/Drusilla, Spike/Sunday, Drusilla/Sunday, Spike/Drusilla/Sunday
Warnings: BDSM, non-consensual sex, violence, bloodplay, language, f/f slash,
inappropriate humor - all the good stuff
Disclaimers: Story and chapter titles are titles of Blondie songs. (I thought
about being careful with song dates and such but, like Spike, I got bored. Any
anachronisms are either intentional or so the hell what.) The usual disclaimers
for both characters and song titles. The only things I own are the things I
steal from dorm rooms. No, that sweater doesn't make you look fat. It just makes
you look purple
Distribution: Want? Take, have. But please let me know where
Feedback: Keeps the bloodlust in check, mailto:deadsoul820@aol.com
or drop me a comment on my LiveJournal, Dead Soul
Summary: Spike, Drusilla and Sunday in New York City, 1977. Ever wonder where Sunday (BtVS, Season 4, "The Freshman") came from? Why her fashion sense seems familiar, not to mention her attitude? She tells her story.
A day or so after my "impertinence" as Dru called it I had finally gotten all the feeling back in my left hand. Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit, but you get your hand caught in a vise like hers and then tell me you didn't have the worst and longest lasting case of pins and needles you've ever had.
Instead of sending me back to my cell to shower, Drusilla took me into the bathroom that adjoined her bedroom. Sitting me down on the closed toilet lid (what did she need a toilet for, I wondered), she rummaged in the medicine cabinet and pulled out a box. Miss Clairol, color #30S - Flaxen Blonde; the photo on the box showed a model with platinum blonde hair.
She was in one of her silent moods and did the job without a word, but I was surprised by the efficient competence she displayed as she mixed the foul smelling stuff and squirted it over my head, working it well into my long dark brown hair. Although, if she did Spike's hair on a regular basis, I guess she'd had lots of practice. My hair was so long and thick that it took two bottles to completely saturate it. She piled the gloopy mess of hair and dye onto the top of my head and carefully wiped the excess away from my face, around my ears and on my neck. Then she left the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
I sat still as a statue, not wanting to disturb anything, but the dye began to sting and then burn my scalp like fire. I had no way of knowing how long she left me in there, if she'd forgotten me, if the burning I was feeling was going to leave me completely bald and disfigured, but I didn't dare move. Tears were trickling down my face when one of the minions eventually came in and took me to my cell and the shower there. There's no adequate description of the relief I felt as I washed the dye out of my hair and off my scalp.
The image that regarded me from the mirror was unrecognizable. It hadn't come out as white-blond as Spike's; it was a more yellow, less platinum, blonde. I'd always been perfectly happy with my hair, had never, unlike most of my friends, played with the color or even the style of it too much. I preferred to keep it long and dark. But the blonde did seem to suit me. So much so that I've always kept it this way, although I've learned a few tricks to make the dying process a little less painful.
The costume for the evening was that of a Valkyrie, straight from a Wagner opera, complete with breastplate and horned helmet. I felt indescribably silly as I braided my new blonde locks to compliment the outfit, humming "kill da wabbit, kill da wabbit."
When the minion led me into the main room to take my accustomed place at Drusilla's feet, she lifted one of the blond braids and said, "Oh, yeah, much better. Rhine maidens should have golden hair. Rhine geld, wine gold, swimming, sinking under the ice." She leaned her head down next to mine and held one of her burnished black ringlets next to my new blond braid, winding the locks around each other. Then she lost interest in me and continued berating the minions as she had been doing when I first arrived.
It seemed to me that the longer Spike was gone, the less patience she had with the day-to-day running of things and she began giving the minions stranger and stranger orders, orders that it was impossible for them to accomplish. Things like bringing her the actress Sarah Bernhardt to perform for her, or taking an invitation to the Duchess of Windsor to join her for tea. Each time the minion so instructed was unable to accomplish one of these impossible tasks, she would just wave him away and with a mischievous sidelong smile she'd write the minion's name on a scrap of paper in her tiny flourished scrawl. Eventually she had a scrap of paper for each of the minions stuffed into the bodice of her gown. Every so often she'd pull them out and shuffle through them, giggling maniacally.
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