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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.
When I woke up I was alone. I stretched, luxuriating in feeling none of the soreness I was accustomed to from sleeping on the floor, although there was a very pleasant soreness in a certain part of me. Enjoying the moment of privacy in the warmth of the soft bed and warm covers. Free to fart, scratch my ass, whatever I wanted to do without having to worry about anyone else being around. But I couldn't stay there any longer, I really needed to pee and I was very thirsty.
I got out of bed, glad for the rugs covering the cold cement floor and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind me out of habit. She might not have needed it, but thankfully the toilet did work. I thought about that. I mean, blood is liquid and once their bodies had taken from it what they needed, wasn't there some sort of excess to be got rid of? I shrugged. Just another of the many mysteries. I was compiling quite a list of them. I dashed some cold water on my face and drank several handfuls of it. I studied my face in the mirror. The food and sleep had done wonders for me. The purple bruises around my throat had faded a little and the cut in my eyebrow looked to be healing as well. I picked up Dru's hairbrush to try to work some of the knots out of my hair. Going to sleep with it still damp had so not been a good idea. I was picking at a particularly stubborn snag when the door flew open, crashing against the wall and Spike stood there, looking mad, then relieved.
"Oh, there you are. Thought you'd scarpered," he said.
"Where to? I don't have any clothes." I gestured down at my naked body. I seemed to be naked around him more often than clothed and I was getting over the embarrassment of it. He must have been distracted about something because he didn't even bother to leer.
"Dru's asking for you."
"How is she?"
"A little better, got her to eat something, but now she wants you to come brush her hair."
"Just find me something to wear. None of her things will fit me."
"Half a mo'" he said and walked quickly out of the bedroom. I finished brushing my hair then carefully pulled all of the loose blonde hairs from the brush, flushing them down the toilet. I knew that the smallest thing could set Dru off and I didn't want her know I'd been using her hairbrush without permission.
Spike came back and tossed the ubiquitous jeans and black t-shirt at me. I dressed quickly and followed him, barefoot and hairbrush in hand, out of the bedroom, down the hall and to the cell. He unlocked and opened the door. Dru was sitting on the edge of the bed, no longer tied up. She had bloodstains around her mouth that she hadn't bothered to wipe away and the young man that Spike had captured the night before lay dead on the floor. He had two ragged, torn-looking bites on his neck, so I guessed that Spike had had his breakfast, too.
"Dru, honey," Spike said in the gentlest voice I'd ever heard him use. "Here's Sunday to brush your hair, just like you wanted."
"Are you sure it's Sunday?" she asked, not looking up at him or over at me. "Might be another ant." She shuddered.
"Not an ant, love, promise. I checked her out before bringin' her and not an antenna in sight."
"It's really Sunday? You promise? I dreamt that the Slayer had killed it but that can't be right, can it?"
"Slayer wouldn't kill Sunday, she's not a vampire, remember? Besides, I killed the Slayer."
"Did you, my wicked, naughty Spike?"
"Killed her dead, just like I told you I would. Now, do you want Sunday to brush your hair for you?"
Finally she looked at me and listlessly held out her hand. I went to her and knelt at her feet. She looked at Spike and said, "Where's its collar and leash? We can't have it running around loose, can we?"
"Naw, s'all right now, she's housebroken. You are housebroken, aren't you, Sunday?"
I didn't feel it was the right time to protest his terminology so I just nodded and laid my head in Drusilla's lap. She stroked my hair for a moment then tugged on it to indicate I should stand up. She gestured towards her own head so I climbed onto the bed, kneeling up behind her and began, as gently as I could, to untangle some of the worst snarls. She just weaved around, humming tunelessly, swaying to the little song only she could hear.
I finally got her hair all smooth and shiny, gleaming blue-black in the soft light of the candles Spike had brought in. As I had been brushing Dru's hair Spike had been in and out of the cell several times, bringing things in to make the stark room softer, more feminine and comfortable. The aforementioned candles, several of her china dolls, small tables with small, fringed lamps to put on them, velvet-covered pillows for the bed. He also dragged the remains of their meal out of the room. I realized that I had no idea what happened to the bodies of their victims, but I wasn't about to ask. I just added it to the list.
Although her hair was completely free of tangles and beginning to get staticy from all the brushing, I was afraid to stop until told to. Spike finally finished his impromptu decorating and came to sit on the edge of the bed next to Drusilla. She leaned against him and he put an arm around her, stroking her face with his other hand.
"Ready for some more sleep now, precious?" he asked solicitously.
"Sleepy, Spike. Will the ants come if I sleep?"
"No, love. I've made sure that no ants can get in. Nasty little buggers shan't get near my princess." He looked up at me and gestured with his head that I should get off the bed now. I carefully climbed around Dru and down off the bed. I took the opportunity to go into the bathroom and brush my teeth, which were feeling a little furry.
When I came out, Spike was tucking Drusilla into bed. As I watched, she held out her hands and he fastened the cuffs to them. Going to the foot of the bed, he also cuffed her ankles then arranged the covers carefully over her feet. He gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead then took my arm to lead me from the room.
Out in the hall, after locking the door, he leaned against the wall and sighed. He didn't seem as encouraged by her calm behavior as I thought he would be. He dug his cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket and lit one, handing it to me before lighting another for himself.
"She seems a lot better. Why did you tie her up again?" I asked.
"Makes her feel more secure when she's like this. It's not over yet, she's still talkin' about the ants. This was just a little break in the action. She'll have a couple more bad turns before this is all over and she's ready to travel."
"Is it always ants?"
"Naw, sometimes it's rats, or germs, sometimes it's cherubs. Never any telling what's gonna set her off, although I'm glad it's not cherubs this time, what with all the putti in Rome." He pushed himself off the wall and walked down the hall. I trailed after him into the main room. He sat with a flump in the leather club chair and I sat on the couch.
My cigarette had burned down to the filter but I didn't see an ashtray. "Spike?" I said. He looked up and I held the butt up to indicate that I didn't know what to do with it.
"Oh, just drop it and step on it. Won't be here too much longer, doesn't matter if the rugs get holes in 'em."
We sat in silence for a few minutes. I was getting hungry, but I tried to ignore the feeling. I had no idea what he was thinking. Probably trying to figure out how to get rid of me without upsetting Dru. Feeding and guarding me was probably the last thing he thought he should be doing now. The smartest thing for me to do, I figured, was to be as little trouble as possible. I picked at the fraying threads around a hole in the knee of the jeans I was wearing. He glanced at me and I stilled my hand.
"Should probably find you some clothes of your own," he said. "Can't wear mine forever. Come with me."
He led me to the utility room where there were a washer and dryer and a huge jumbled pile of clothes. "Pick out some things," he said, "and wash them. While you're at it, wash what you're wearing and here, wash these too." He stripped off his own clothes, hopping to get his boots off before taking off his jeans. If I was becoming more used to my own nudity around him, his still took my breath away. I looked away, blushing I'm sure, as he shoved his dirty clothes into my arms and left the room, carrying his boots. He shut the door and locked it.
I tossed his things in the washer and turned to the huge pile of clothes in the corner. Men's, women's, large, small, cheap, expensive, casual, dressy - there were all kinds of things there. I dug out a pair of black lycra pants that would come to just below the knee on me, a shorter black lace skirt with a blue satin underskirt, a black satin camisole with black lace and black jewel-necked sweater with pearl buttons. Next to the pile of clothes was an equally chaotic pile of shoes. It took me forever to find two that matched and would fit me. I finally found a pair of black ankle boots that would work. I wondered offhandedly what had become of the Nikes I'd been wearing when he brought me here - I didn't find them in the pile.
I took off Spike's jeans and t-shirt and threw them into the washing machine along with the clothes I'd pulled out of the pile. Poking through the pile again I found a large flannel shirt that wasn't too whiffy. I put that on while I waited for my new outfit to get clean.
Damn, I thought, I hate when I have all this time with nothing to do but think. I tried not to, I tried to keep my mind blank, to just concentrate on the sloshing of the washer but the thoughts would keep creeping in. Remembering everything that happened, worrying about what was going to happen, wondering about my lack of feeling for the man, boy really, whom Spike and Drusilla had killed. His body had lain there on the floor of the cell while I was brushing Dru's hair and I hadn't given it a second thought beyond idly wondering at what point it would begin to smell. Surely my concern for my own survival shouldn't blunt my feelings to this extent.
While it might not be very smart to act on such feelings, surely I ought to at least be having them. It seemed to me that some part of me had gone missing - the part that was able to care about other people, the part that was able to empathize with them. I felt like I'd had a soul lobotomy. Did feeling guilty about not feeling guilty count as feeling guilty?
I'd wonder about this for a while then find myself remembering all the pleasure I'd felt since I ran into Spike outside CBGB's. Starting with the amazing sex in the alley and culminating with the amazing sex in the diner bathroom. The washer finished its last cycle and I pulled the wet clothes out and threw them into the dryer. Too bad denim takes so long to dry. I wanted to go find Spike and see if I could start something. I'd made my decision. Even if I had another chance to escape, I wouldn't. I was going to stay and do the dark. Live for the thrill.
I passed the time it took the dryer to finish imagining what I'd do to him, working up the courage to make the first move.
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