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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.
We spent the rest of the night dancing. Old fashioned dancing like waltzes and polkas and things. Dru tried to teach me the steps only she wasn't any better at leading than I was at following. Spike lay on the bed, laughing himself silly until Dru made him get up to partner me while she stood back, clapping out the beats and directing our steps. Needless to say, there was more foot-stepping-on and furniture-bumping-into going on than actual dancing, but it was a lot of fun.
As the sun rose, Drusilla became sleepy. She was much more tied to the time of day or night than Spike was, I'd noticed. If the sun was up, she was sleeping, whereas Spike was just as likely to be up and about, if not outside, during the day as the night. Spike and I were still galloping around the room when she sank wearily down on the edge of the bed and raised a limp hand to her forehead, whispering to herself. Spike went to her immediately.
"Bedtime now, poodle?" he asked, kissing her forehead and stroking her hair.
'Mm, yes, sleepy now." She leaned into him, closing her eyes. I busied myself putting the nail polish and things away in the bathroom and straightening the furniture that Spike and I had knocked over or askew.
Spike had retrieved Drusilla's silk nightgown from where it was hidden under the pillows and was carefully unbuttoning the little pearl buttons that ran down the back of her dress. He put the nightgown over her head and only removed her dress when the gown was covering her. He knelt to take off her shoes then turned back the covers of the bed, helping her slide in.
"Shall Sunday and I stay with you, sweetheart?" Spike asked her.
"Not Sunday, just you," was her sleepy reply. Spike frowned and seemed to be thinking about something. I stood helplessly by the door, holding my breath. I didn't know whether to wait for him to lock me up somewhere or just leave. He started to rise from his seat on the edge of the bed, but Dru clutched his arm, pulling him back. He gave me a long considering look and came to a decision.
"Why don't you go back to bed in the other room, Sunday," he said to me quietly, maintaining the calculating eye contact.
I just nodded and left, closing the door softly behind me and letting my breath out with a whoosh. I stood in the hall for a moment, my heart pounding, considering what to do next. If there was ever an opportunity to escape, this was it. If I waited, as soon as Dru was asleep he would be coming to check on me. I'd been lucky tonight, I realized. Things could so very easily have gone badly. If my questions hadn't distracted her, if I hadn't been able to convince her that her fingernails weren't ants, I very likely would be dead. And things could just as easily go bad again tomorrow night or the next night. Having one's life depend on the whims of a madwoman was not a very good long run strategy for survival. I should just go away now, while I could.
I returned to Dru's other bedroom. I picked up the leggings and unrolled them, sliding them on, then put on my socks and the black ankle boots. Going to the laundry room I went through the pockets of all the clothes that had been thrown in there. I came away with about fifty dollars in small bills and change as well as a denim jacket with pockets to put the money in. I did none of this quickly. I suppose I was waiting for Spike to come and stop me but he never emerged from the cell.
Crossing through the main room on my way to the stairs that led outside, my attention was drawn by something sparkling on one of the little tables. It was the chain with rhinestones and alligator clips she had put on me during the going away party. I could see the dark stain of my own blood on the clips' sharp teeth. I dropped it in my pocket as a keepsake, remembering that night.
Pushing aside the plywood panel blocking the door, I squeezed into the deserted street full of early morning sunshine. I blinked at the unaccustomed brightness and, picking a direction at random, went left down the street and away from the abandoned, boarded-up building. Since he couldn't easily follow me into the sunlight, I reckoned my escape was a success. Funny I wasn't happier about that.
I stopped at the first pay phone I came to. I put in the required coins and dialed my home number. I had to stop and think for a minute before remembering what it was. My mother answered the phone - her usual morning rush evident in the breathlessness and impatience of her voice. I couldn't say anything, couldn't think of anything to say. I opened my mouth to say "this is …" and I blanked. For a second I couldn't remember my name, my real name. Finally, as she was saying "who is this?" I just hung up. What was I going to tell her? How could I tell her where I'd been, what had been happening to me? Maybe later, I thought. After I'd had some time to think about what I was going to say to them.
Suddenly hungry, I found a diner and ordered breakfast and some coffee. I also got a pack of cigarettes from the vending machine. After eating I sat there for a long time, drinking coffee and smoking, thinking about things. Customers came and went but the place wasn't busy enough that they needed my table so I was left pretty much alone. I suppose my attitude of distraction and seriousness, not to mention the wounds on my neck and eyebrow, encouraged people to keep their distance.
This wasn't the same diner Spike had brought me to the night of his return, but it was similar enough to remind me vividly of that night. I blushed as I remembered fucking him in the bathroom and what the other patrons must have heard. I also got a little aroused as that memory led to another and another and I knew that never again would I find someone who could make me come like he could. Wasn't the excitement worth the danger? I wondered. Didn't that amount of pleasure come with a price and wasn't it worth it all the same?
What would it be like if I just turned up at home? What would I tell them? How could I bear the fussing and tears and recriminations and questions, questions, questions? It was too late to escape to college, the semester too far progressed and would they let me get away, anyway? My parents had always been overprotective and this would send them into hyperdrive anxiety. I'd barely been able to talk them into letting me live in the dorms in the first place; they'd wanted me to commute from home. After what I had experienced, how could I survive in that stifling environment ever again? I'd be driven away again soon enough and wouldn't it be kinder to all involved to just not go back at all? To let them imagine the worst, grieve and then get on with their lives?
Oh don't look at me that way - I know how it sounds. Of course, it wasn't kinder, I knew that. I knew what I was doing was talking myself into returning to Spike and Dru. So it didn't really matter if the reasoning wouldn't bear much scrutiny. Rationalizing doing something you want to do or not doing something you don't want to do has its own kind of illogical logic. As soon as I had this realization, I knew what I was going to do. Spike might beat me for leaving when he'd told me to go to bed, but I wouldn't mind that much. I'd be where I wanted to be and would no longer be tempted to escape again. Would no longer feel like I ought to want to escape.
I left a generous tip for the waitress, stuffed the cigarette pack into my pocket and exited the diner. A whole morning of freedom and here I was heading back to my prison with a song, a Ramones song even, in my heart and on my lips.
I stopped at a little bodega and picked up some non-perishable food and a carton of smokes - Spike's brand. I also got my own lighter. If I was going back there, I wasn't going to be bumming his all the time. And what were a few carcinogens to someone who was more likely to be dead tomorrow night from exsanguination as fifty years from now from lung cancer.
My heart and my steps were lighter and tripping as I returned, slid past the plywood and ran back down the stairs. Spike was sitting in the leather chair, uncharacteristically not smoking. He looked up as I came in and said, "Back then, are you? Don't suppose you got any fags while you were out."
Okay. I'd expected anger or relief or pissiness from him, but a request for homosexuals? As non sequiturs went, this was fairly Dadaist.
"Don't stand there looking gobsmacked, girl. I mean smokes, cigs." He held his empty hand to his mouth in demonstration.
"Oh!" understanding dawned. "Cigarettes. Although with you two, one can never tell." I dug into the bag I was carrying, pulled out the carton and tossed it to him. "Don't keep them all for yourself, though. I want some. How's Dru doing?"
"Asleep. Didn't want to be tied up, either, so that's an improvement. Oughtta be ready to travel any day now."
I didn't feel that this was the right time to ask if they were going to take me with them so I set the bag on the floor and went over to him. He had just taken out a pack of the cigarettes I had bought. After hitting the top of the pack against the heel of his hand a few times to pack the tobacco, he tore off the cellophane, pulled one out and put it in his mouth. Before he could get his own lighter out of his pocket, I whipped my new one out and lit his smoke. "Got my own," I said. "Won't have to steal yours anymore."
He smiled at the reminder and patted his leg. I sat on his lap, leaned against his chest, snuggled my head into the crook of his neck and watched him smoke, happy to be back.
"You do know I'm going to have to punish you for leaving," he said after a few minutes
"You promise?"
He laughed and said, "Yes I promise. Your punishment will be me not spanking you."
"Meanie!"
"But I might do it just for fun." His free arm circled me and he poked a hand into my jacket pocket. He pulled out the rhinestone chain and dangled it in front of my eyes. "Might use this, too. Gotta teach you a lesson about stealing."
I snorted, "Everything in this place is stolen. My clothes are stolen, the money I bought the cigarettes with is stolen…"
"Yes, where exactly did you get the money for those? You didn't go into my room, did you?"
"Your room? I'm not even sure which one it is. I got it out of the pockets of the clothes in the laundry room."
"Aren't you the clever girl?"
"Well, I thought so. Is that how you get your money? Off the people you eat?"
"Now that would be telling."
"Nope, can't give away all your secrets, now can you. Gotta be all mysterious, big bad creature of the night."
"Think I liked you better when you were all scared and quiet-like. Known you were such a Sally Smartarse I'dve left you in that alley, dry as a bone."
"I love you, too, Miss Clairol #30S." I said, rumpling his hair and trying to sound facetious, praying he wouldn't hear the sincerity.
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