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sevendeadlyfunPairing: Spike, Drusilla
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He’s not her Boy Nightmare anymore, ready to paint the world in fire and blood to please his Princess. In a small motel room in Vegas, Spike begins to let go.
Original Story: Waiting in the Fog by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
quinara
A/N: Many thanks toanxiety_junkie for the hand-holding. There's nothing like a good friend to talk you down from a remix inspired panic attack - I mean, you still have the panic attack but at least they remind you to take deep breaths and use semi-colons.
Based on the Spike comics with spoilers for the whole series. Some dialogue taken from Issue # 4.
She seems to coalesce from the swirling mass of screams and fire - one more illusion conjured up by Wolfram and Hart to addle his already addled wits. Rooted in disbelief, he lets the chaos ebb and flow around him. Then she leaps, swift and silent, into his arms; her wild hair whips snake-like across his cheek. She’s real and terrible and exactly as he remembers her.
Her mouth finds his, a century of kisses molding their lips to a perfect fit. Like the first time, the last time, and every time in between, all Spike can do is hold on and let her lead him to bloody hell. The smoke, the dust, the frantic screams of Beck and Groo and all of Las Vegas fade into the background as his arms wind around Drusilla’s lithe body.
Death, fire, and Drusilla - all of his weaknesses compressed into one horribly beautiful moment. Even here and now, with a soul, a mission, and a psychic fish, he can’t stop touching her. He’s home.
Eight hours and one very long car ride later, there’s still no place like home. He thinks that any of those other places would do him up a treat. He needs to remember how this going home bit always ends. Maybe he’ll write himself a note.
But he keeps her close. Closer than he’s ready for, not as close as she really wants. Good touch, bad touch –they both leave their marks. Spike has enough marks.
Still, he opens his arms and lets her in. He doesn’t know what else to do. With years and miles and blood between them, he still loves her.
Loves her but isn’t in love with her. He can’t slip back into his old place by her side - doesn’t want to, really. He’s not her Boy Nightmare anymore, ready to paint the world in fire and blood to please his Princess. But her expectations hang heavy in the silence between them.
He reminds himself that he’s changed. Got to live in the now. Her teeth sink playfully into the soft skin of his throat and he remembers that Drusilla doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about the now.
She hasn’t changed - she’s so perfectly herself, secure his arms and his affections. She knows him. Really knows him with the inborn knowledge of the Creator, his creator. Knows his mind and his body. Knows how to get what she needs from him.
In the shabby half-light of the motel room lamp, he watches wordlessly as she undresses. The wrinkled red satin slithers over her hips and puddles like blood at her feet. He listens while she talks, a hundred hundred stories - tale after bloody tale shaking loose half-buried memories of old times and old places. Her hushed voice holds him captive, bringing back the heady rush of their Grand Tour – the one he never got make when he was alive and couldn’t stomach now.
She asks him if he remembers. He nods, the quick jerk of his head sending a shower of sparks flying from the cigarette clenched tightly between his teeth. He remembers well enough - they saw the sights, people-watching from the shadows. Dru positively ate up the local color.
God, he can still smell the thick copper stench of Bavaria – rich hausfraus and their even richer blood, bodies tangled in the fog as it rolled down the mountains. Their travels are a blur of bodies - feasting and fucking in Russia; piles of corpses in China; the press of flesh and faith in Rome.
And London. No matter where they wandered, they always ended up back in London.
Even as the words wriggle under his skin, she shimmies out of his grasp and he’s left clutching at empty air. Hardly the first time, likely not the last. He’s learned not to wait.
He snorts, reaching in his pocket for a fag. He’s a piss poor liar, especially to himself. There’s some part of him that’s always waiting for her.
Spike settles back in the hard motel chair, closing his eyes and inhaling a lungful of rough tobacco smoke. He can hear the wheeze and groan of the rusty motel pipes, the soft spit of water on skin. He’s not proud of how much he wants to join her in the small shower. He thinks Angel might understand.
When he tries to call, nothing happens. Whatever magic’s keeping them trapped in Vegas is blocking the cell signal. No Big Damn Hero to help this time around.
And even if he could get Angel on the line, what would he say?
He drops the phone onto the table. Probably for the best. Angel’d only bollocks the whole thing up with a long windy speech about his soul and the state of his hair and how yes, he had screwed Darla through the mattress that one time but it wasn’t evil because there was a prophecy involved. Everything Angel does involves a bloody prophecy. The Great Forehead can’t even part his hair without consulting at least three ancient scrolls.
He’s on his own.
Her hand trails across the back of his neck and Spike sighs. A hundred years and this is what’s left – he’s tired. Tired and worried and not really in the mood to do the dance they’re about to do.
“She’s getting in the way,” Dru observes softly.
“Wonderful,” Spike mutters. “Let’s do this now. Getting in the way of what, Dru?”
“Of us.”
“Dru, us belongs alongside Turok-Han and decent punk bands on the list of things that just don’t exist anymore.”
It’s a quiet bombshell, but he can see the shockwave ripple across her expressive face. He’s said it so many times before – a foolish boy’s bravado in the face of loneliness. But now, he’s surprised to find that he really means it. He remembers the burn. He just doesn’t feel it anymore.
This isn’t the end. She slips back into his arms again, hands clasped over his stilled heart as if in prayer. She’ll leave soon - the same whirl of screams and fire and death that brought her to him will call her back again. He’ll let her go. He’s let so many things go.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He’s not her Boy Nightmare anymore, ready to paint the world in fire and blood to please his Princess. In a small motel room in Vegas, Spike begins to let go.
Original Story: Waiting in the Fog by
quinaraA/N: Many thanks to
anxiety_junkie for the hand-holding. There's nothing like a good friend to talk you down from a remix inspired panic attack - I mean, you still have the panic attack but at least they remind you to take deep breaths and use semi-colons. Based on the Spike comics with spoilers for the whole series. Some dialogue taken from Issue # 4.
She seems to coalesce from the swirling mass of screams and fire - one more illusion conjured up by Wolfram and Hart to addle his already addled wits. Rooted in disbelief, he lets the chaos ebb and flow around him. Then she leaps, swift and silent, into his arms; her wild hair whips snake-like across his cheek. She’s real and terrible and exactly as he remembers her.
Her mouth finds his, a century of kisses molding their lips to a perfect fit. Like the first time, the last time, and every time in between, all Spike can do is hold on and let her lead him to bloody hell. The smoke, the dust, the frantic screams of Beck and Groo and all of Las Vegas fade into the background as his arms wind around Drusilla’s lithe body.
Death, fire, and Drusilla - all of his weaknesses compressed into one horribly beautiful moment. Even here and now, with a soul, a mission, and a psychic fish, he can’t stop touching her. He’s home.
Eight hours and one very long car ride later, there’s still no place like home. He thinks that any of those other places would do him up a treat. He needs to remember how this going home bit always ends. Maybe he’ll write himself a note.
But he keeps her close. Closer than he’s ready for, not as close as she really wants. Good touch, bad touch –they both leave their marks. Spike has enough marks.
Still, he opens his arms and lets her in. He doesn’t know what else to do. With years and miles and blood between them, he still loves her.
Loves her but isn’t in love with her. He can’t slip back into his old place by her side - doesn’t want to, really. He’s not her Boy Nightmare anymore, ready to paint the world in fire and blood to please his Princess. But her expectations hang heavy in the silence between them.
He reminds himself that he’s changed. Got to live in the now. Her teeth sink playfully into the soft skin of his throat and he remembers that Drusilla doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about the now.
She hasn’t changed - she’s so perfectly herself, secure his arms and his affections. She knows him. Really knows him with the inborn knowledge of the Creator, his creator. Knows his mind and his body. Knows how to get what she needs from him.
In the shabby half-light of the motel room lamp, he watches wordlessly as she undresses. The wrinkled red satin slithers over her hips and puddles like blood at her feet. He listens while she talks, a hundred hundred stories - tale after bloody tale shaking loose half-buried memories of old times and old places. Her hushed voice holds him captive, bringing back the heady rush of their Grand Tour – the one he never got make when he was alive and couldn’t stomach now.
She asks him if he remembers. He nods, the quick jerk of his head sending a shower of sparks flying from the cigarette clenched tightly between his teeth. He remembers well enough - they saw the sights, people-watching from the shadows. Dru positively ate up the local color.
God, he can still smell the thick copper stench of Bavaria – rich hausfraus and their even richer blood, bodies tangled in the fog as it rolled down the mountains. Their travels are a blur of bodies - feasting and fucking in Russia; piles of corpses in China; the press of flesh and faith in Rome.
And London. No matter where they wandered, they always ended up back in London.
Even as the words wriggle under his skin, she shimmies out of his grasp and he’s left clutching at empty air. Hardly the first time, likely not the last. He’s learned not to wait.
He snorts, reaching in his pocket for a fag. He’s a piss poor liar, especially to himself. There’s some part of him that’s always waiting for her.
Spike settles back in the hard motel chair, closing his eyes and inhaling a lungful of rough tobacco smoke. He can hear the wheeze and groan of the rusty motel pipes, the soft spit of water on skin. He’s not proud of how much he wants to join her in the small shower. He thinks Angel might understand.
When he tries to call, nothing happens. Whatever magic’s keeping them trapped in Vegas is blocking the cell signal. No Big Damn Hero to help this time around.
And even if he could get Angel on the line, what would he say?
He drops the phone onto the table. Probably for the best. Angel’d only bollocks the whole thing up with a long windy speech about his soul and the state of his hair and how yes, he had screwed Darla through the mattress that one time but it wasn’t evil because there was a prophecy involved. Everything Angel does involves a bloody prophecy. The Great Forehead can’t even part his hair without consulting at least three ancient scrolls.
He’s on his own.
Her hand trails across the back of his neck and Spike sighs. A hundred years and this is what’s left – he’s tired. Tired and worried and not really in the mood to do the dance they’re about to do.
“She’s getting in the way,” Dru observes softly.
“Wonderful,” Spike mutters. “Let’s do this now. Getting in the way of what, Dru?”
“Of us.”
“Dru, us belongs alongside Turok-Han and decent punk bands on the list of things that just don’t exist anymore.”
It’s a quiet bombshell, but he can see the shockwave ripple across her expressive face. He’s said it so many times before – a foolish boy’s bravado in the face of loneliness. But now, he’s surprised to find that he really means it. He remembers the burn. He just doesn’t feel it anymore.
This isn’t the end. She slips back into his arms again, hands clasped over his stilled heart as if in prayer. She’ll leave soon - the same whirl of screams and fire and death that brought her to him will call her back again. He’ll let her go. He’s let so many things go.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2011-05-08 09:07 pm (UTC)I love that sentence. so. freaking. much.
no subject
on 2011-05-09 01:06 am (UTC)no subject
on 2011-07-18 02:18 am (UTC)