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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.
"What the bleedin' buggering hell is going on?" Spike snarled, taking in the scene of Drusilla rolling in the dust of their erstwhile minions and me leaning against the wall, face red with dried blood, blinking up at him blearily.
He didn't wait for an answer but went immediately to Drusilla, gathering her into his arms, holding her hands still to stop her from scratching herself. As he knelt by her side, pressing her head to his chest, stroking her dusty hair; spread around him on the floor like a black cape was an addition to his wardrobe I'd never seen before - a long black leather duster. I giggled weakly, cape - vampire - get it? Fortunately he was too focused on Dru to pay any attention to me.
"Oh Spike," Drusilla was moaning, "The ants came and I killed them and killed them but they kept coming. Can you see them? Crawling all over me?" She convulsed, struggling frantically in his arms, trying to scratch the non-existent insects off her arms and face while he desperately tried to stop her. Her wails grew in pitch and volume as she thrashed. Looking grim, he placed his forearm around her neck and pulled it in towards himself. After a few moments her struggles lessened and soon she was entirely limp, unconscious. He picked her up, stood and strode from the room down the hall towards my cell. I could hear his fading voice whispering endearments to her.
If only I hadn't felt so dizzy and nauseous my escape attempt might have been less of a debacle. I had risen shakily to my feet and was creeping along the wall towards the door through which the minions had come and gone, through which Spike had made his dramatic entrance. The door that must lead to the outside. I was still some yards from it because I'd had to lean on the wall all the way around the room for support rather than cutting straight across, when I heard the cell door shut and his boots ringing on the cement floor of the hall, growing louder as he approached. I put on a desperate, terrified burst of speed and was actually halfway through the open door when he snatched me by my hair, flinging me back across the room, much the way Dru had done. This time, though, I got my hands up in time and was able to prevent a repeat concussion.
I crumpled on the floor, too disappointed and exhausted to be frightened, all I could do was cry weakly.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, you stupid bint?" he snarled. I could only shake my head weakly and refuse to look at him. Grabbing me around the neck, he pulled me upright and clean off the floor, bringing my face up level with his. In my weakened state even a few seconds of this oxygen deprivation was allowing lovely blackness to seep through the cracks. I could feel my eyes rolling up, my muscles going slack as I hung from his fist. I was just about to gratefully succumb when he set me on my feet with a jar that sent my spine poking up through my brain. Or so it felt.
Leaning against the wall, I brought a hand up to my bruised throat and croaked, "Would you just fucking kill me already? I can't stand this anymore. Let me go or kill me, I really don't care which."
"Would do, but Dru made me promise not to. Said you'd helped her kill the ants. How far did you think you'd get in this condition anyway, you dozy cow?"
"Don't care, had to get away, had to stop it somehow. The craziness, the dust, can't be careful anymore, just let me die or sleep. I'm so tired." My voice rasped into silence.
I was sliding back down the wall when he grabbed me again, this time by the shoulders, pinning me upright. He looked me over with a calculating eye. "You're skin and bones. Hasn't she been feeding you at all?"
I laughed, a weak bitter sound even to my own ears, "I think I had three lemon slices the day before yesterday. Guess I won't be coming down with scurvy before starving to death."
"Do you have any idea how irritating you are, girl? Three quarters dead and still with the mouth."
"Gotta have at least one more sensible conversation with someone before I die, even if it's just with myself."
"Honestly don't know how she put up with you all this time."
"I was careful never to say anything sensible."
We just looked at each other for a moment. Then we both started laughing. At that point it was all the same to me - laughing or crying - it was just something to do while I waited for him to kill me for not taking care of Drusilla, for trying to escape. And I just didn't fucking care. I didn't know why he was laughing - he probably didn't know any more than I did what to do, how to react. He'd had quite the homecoming.
'Look, Dru will be out for a while. How about I take you out for some real food and you tell me everything that's been going since I've been gone.
I goggled up at him, "Out? You mean like really out? To someplace outside?" My brain couldn't quite wrap itself around the concept. My whole world had been constrained to these few rooms for forever, it seemed to me. Out was something I'd dreamed of once, dreamed of so vividly that it had momentarily seemed a memory until reality had forced it's way back in.
The reality of Drusilla and her insanity, the minions and their insolence and leering looks, collars and leashes and kicks and slaps and once-upon-a-time stories and dreamy bites and biting hunger and furious thinking and the never silent drive to survive that had driven me to this now of exhaustion and passivity and incredulity and maybe this was the dream and I'd wake up in my bedroom in the 'burbs that was half packed up and empty as I readied myself for college and life in the dorms. Yes, that must be what was happening. This was just a dream and since I didn't seem to be able to wake myself up, I'd float along with it for a while, especially since this dream man was offering to feed me some dream food for which my dream body was starving.
Okay, I know what you're thinking. Spike had been only been gone about two weeks and it had not even been quite a month since that night in the alley behind CBGB's. How much of a wuss was I? I know, I'd thought it myself, telling myself over and over as I ticked off the days that this was nothing, that people had survived, their sanity and scruples intact, for months, even years in captivity and that I'd be damned it I'd let it get to me, make me give up, go crazy, do anything that wasn't smart and strong.
I wish that chronic blood loss and constant fear mixed with heady pleasure and arousing pain sounded like a more convincing excuse, but this is what happened, this is what I was feeling and this is what they brought me to - a shaky delusional mess, ready to accept anything that happened to me out of sheer exhaustion and the inability to cope with any more fear. I just didn't have the energy to care. My will to live, my will to fight just seemed to fade away. Fade away and radiate into the relief of giving up, of letting go and getting on with the damned dream.
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