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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.
Much to my surprise, I woke up again. God, I thought, this passing out shit is for the birds. I cautiously opened one eye, then the other. I was by myself, on a bed, not chained up and dressed. Sort of dressed. I was wearing Spike's torn black t-shirt, smelling of beer and cigarette smoke, and nothing else. From a barred window high on the wall over the bed, I could see daylight. I scrambled to my feet, well I tried to scramble to my feet, but got dizzy and had to sit back down. I was not, I told myself sternly, going to pass out again.
Next to the bed there was a table with a pitcher of orange juice, a glass and a plate with some fruit on it. The juice felt wonderful sliding down my throat - I could feel the nutrients and glucose rushing into my system, tingling through my veins. Thirst momentarily assuaged, I bit into the apple, its juice running down my chin. It tasted unbelievably good. I felt like I hadn't eaten in weeks. I made short work of the rest of the fruit and juice. Now, when I stood, I didn't feel like I would fall over.
Feeling pretty ridiculous, but also realizing how ridiculous I'd feel if the door had been open and I hadn't tried it, I crossed the room to do that. The concrete floor was cold under my bare feet. Of course the door was locked. And so solid that all my jerking and pounding didn't even budge it a fraction of an inch. There was another door along the same wall but when I checked, it only led to a windowless bathroom. I was grateful to know it was there.
I went back to the bed, standing on it, but my head was still a yard away from the small window. Even jumping, I could only see the back of some trashcans that were set out along the curb. As I jumped, I pounded on the window to see if I could break it and call out for help, but it was covered not in glass, but with some thick plexiglass or other transparent plastic material. Even after having drunk the juice and eaten the fruit, my head still wasn't up to all this bouncing around. I sank back down on the bed, thinking furiously.
The last time I'd seen this t-shirt that I was wearing, it had been covered with safety pins. Maybe I could use one to pick the lock on the door. I looked down; all the pins had been removed. Damn. I checked the pitcher, glass and plate thinking that I could use a glass shard as a weapon - nope, all plastic. I looked the room over carefully. The ceiling was a good fifteen feet high, covered with pipes running this way and that. Later, when my head was little clearer, I thought, I would see if I could reach those pipes. Maybe one would be loose and I could use that as a club. I stored the idea away. I was down on my hands and knees checking the bed for loose springs or anything sharp when I heard the door open.
Turning too quickly, I fell over on my ass, t-shirt riding up to flash whoever was at the door. I wasn't at all surprised when he laughed.
"See you've woken up, love," Spike said. At least I remembered his name from last night. And the other one's name was Dru. But she wasn't there with him. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt again, but this one, while also black, said "The Ramones" and still had its sleeves. His white-blond hair was rumpled and curling, as if he'd just woken up.
Before I could get up and lunge for the door, he closed it behind him, making a show of locking it and putting the key in his pocket. The bastard.
I opened my mouth to say, I don't know what, something pathetic and useless, I'm sure, like "Let me go and I won't tell anyone," or "What do you want from me?" I knew what they wanted from me - they were vampires and I was just brimming with tasty blood - apparently tastier blood that most and has promising not to tell ever worked for anyone?
He cut me off, "These are the rules. Don't try to escape, don't make a fuss and we'll leave you alive - for now anyway. Who knows, Dru might get bored and let you go. Can never tell with her. She also might get mad and kill you anytime, best thing to do is be as quiet as possible and hope she forgets about you. I don't much care either way. Be a treat to have your blood available to round off an evening's hunting, have on hand when I'm feeling peckish, but nothing I can't live without." He looked at me as if expecting me to say something. I didn't so he cocked an eyebrow, collected the pitcher, glass and plate from the table as I shrank away, and left. I heard the locking mechanism of the door engaging solidly.
It wasn't that I didn't have anything to say, it was just that I knew that nothing I said would matter and, since it didn't appear that they were going to kill me immediately, I thought it might be better to pretend to play their game for a while. To save my breath for cooling my porridge, or rather, for screaming bloody murder when there was someone around to hear and help.
I've always been kind of cool that way - I never go off half-cocked. Instead, I have a tendency to hang back and watch events unfold. Most times, things will take care of themselves, or a better time to act will present itself. That attitude has gotten me out of more than one jam. I wasn't sure if it would pay off now, but having hysterics certainly wasn't going to help.
I picked myself off the floor and went to the little bathroom. The juice, having done its job, was anxious to leave my body. I snapped on the light and thought about glass light bulbs, but the fixture was too high to reach and enclosed in a metal cage. There was a sink, a toilet and a narrow shower stall without a door or curtain. Nothing but a showerhead, two taps and a drain sunk in the floor. There was a roll of toilet paper on the back of the toilet tank next to a worn but clean towel. On top of the towel were a small bottle of shampoo, a bar of soap, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste.
As I sat to use the toilet I ran a hand through my hair. Or rather, I tried to. It was stiff with hairspray and solid with tangles. I wiped a finger under my eye and looked at the running eyeliner I'd wiped away. I could also see the smudgy remains of the big black X the bouncer last night had stamped on my hand. The shower was looking awfully damn good. I stripped off the t-shirt and stepped in. The water, once I got the hang of the knobs, was wonderfully warm and the shampoo he'd left smelled good. But the thing about showers and bathing in general is, they leave you time to think while you're going through the mechanics of getting clean.
For the first time since this had all started I thought of my family and friends. They must be terribly worried. Or at least my family would be, god knows if any of my friends were even awake yet or able to think past their hangovers. My mom would be calling their moms who would be waking up their daughters to see if any of them knew where I was or why I hadn't come home last night. They might have already called the police. I realized I had no idea what time it was. Tears began to trickle down my face, mixing with the warm water and before I knew it I was sobbing for all I was worth. Or had been worth. Now, it seemed I was only worth the taste of my blood.
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