Title: Almost Gone
Timeline: Sometime prior to ‘Lovers Walk’ and the scene in South America flashbacked during “Fool For Love.”
A/N: Warning, deals with Spike/Drusilla.
Before anyone else, Drusilla saw it coming.
Spike buried his fangs in the girl’s neck, grinning against her skin as the rich, liquid red flooded his mouth. Warmth spread through his chest as he swallowed it down. The girl thrashed in his arms and he held her tighter, a bolt of fierce joy and lust searing his body. With one hand buried in her golden hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat, and the other wrapped around her waist, he pressed against her body, rubbing his erection against her.
Her struggles weakened as her heartbeat slowed, then finally stopped. Taking one last pull, he withdrew and let her body fall to the ground. He tilted his face up to the night sky and the smells and noises of São Paulo washed over him. Laughing, he swiped at the blood on his chin and sucked it off his thumb.
Movement flashed in the corner of his eye, and he turned to the opening of the alley, uncaring that his demon was still at the forefront. Slipping across the entrance was Drusilla, the yellow light of the street lamp reflecting off the dark waves of her hair. In a flash, Spike was striding towards her. Grabbing her hips with both hands, he pressed her against the wall with a thud, and kissed her hard. His mouth was rough and demanding, and laughter tinkled in the back of her throat as she eagerly returned the kiss.
Spike’s hands roamed from her hips and down her thighs, grasping at her long skirt, tugging the material upwards. Pulling from the kiss, Drusilla pushed him back slightly. “I’m still hungry,” she said with a pout.
Spike instantly yielded, smoothing her skirt back down with lingering hands. Shaking off his demon, he took a step backwards and hooked an arm around her waist. “Then let’s get you something to eat, baby.”
Drusilla glanced at the body sprawled on the ground before allowing Spike to steer her back to the street. A whisper tickled at her ear, and she looked back over her shoulder, blue eyes fixing on the dead girl with the pale skin and corn silk hair. Words streamed out of her, soft and hard to hear.
“What would you like, my goddess?” Spike asked her, voice low, as they turned onto the street. “Something young and spicy and drunk?”
Drusilla’s gaze swept along the street, sliding over the beating hearts and rushing, pulsing founts. The hearts and fountains that had eyes of their own. Eyes that lingered on her a fraction longer than they usually did, as if they could see inside her, see the swirling, black force that animated her.
She barely noticed as Spike stopped and pulled her closer. “What about that one?” Drusilla followed the jut of his chin to see a lovely serving girl weaving among the patrons of an outdoor café. She flit between the tables like a fish through the waters. Stop and swim, stop and swim.
Like the fog rolling back, the whisper suddenly became a voice, loud and solid, and Drusilla realized why all the tiny hearts were watching her own dead one. She stiffened and turned, disentangling herself from her lover’s half embrace. He looked at her, puzzled. “Dru?”
“You were thinking about her,” she spat.
Spike looked at her, brow furrowed with confusion. “What are you – ”
“All these people around you, and you found the one girl with pale skin and yellow hair.” Rage bubbled in her chest. She knew. She knew, even if he didn’t.
“It was just a tourist, Dru!”
“No,” she cried. “You deliberately picked her!”
He flung his arms wide. “And what of it? Who bloody cares if she was white or not? You want me to eat one of the natives?” he asked, jabbing a finger toward the café. “I had a lovely senorita all picked out before you decided to go batty.”
Anger and helplessness swept through her body and into her arms, and she shoved him. He stumbled backwards, looking hurt, but she didn’t care. He was going to leave her. He was going to leave her, and he was almost gone.
Spike watched, anger warring with bewilderment, as Drusilla struggled against herself. Her eyes fell from his, and searched rapidly over the ground, as if looking for answers. Pain was etched clearly across her face, her mouth was stiff, like she didn’t trust it, and her hands clutched at her gown in distress.
Spike stood, oblivious of the crowd watching the arguing, white foreigners with curiosity. He didn’t know whether to speak or to try and touch her. He didn’t think she’d allow either.
Her eyes suddenly flew back up to his. “Why are you thinking about her?” she demanded.
Spike said a quick mental prayer for the patience not to wring her neck. “Her who, Drusilla? The tourist?”
She eyed him hard, her eyes bright with emotion. “The Slayer. Why is she in your head?”
The Slayer. Buffy. “The Slayer!” Spike scoffed. “All of this is over the bloody Slayer?” She didn’t move a muscle. Apparently she was serious. “I don’t give a rat’s arse about the Slayer, Dru. I mean, sure, I would’ve liked to have killed her, or at least maimed her perhaps, but frankly I don’t care anymore. The bint and that whole sodding town can just burn to the ground, for all I care.”
He stepped in close, putting his hands on her shoulders. She was watching him, still and focused, as distrust burned in her eyes. “We got what we came for in Sunnydale. To make you better,” he said fervently, trying to dispel her fears. “All the rest doesn’t matter.”
Giving in, her eyes fell to the ground. He could feel the tension bleed from her body. “I’m tired,” she declared, mournfully. “I want to go to bed now.”
“Of course, ducks,” he said, sliding his arm around her shoulder.
The Slayer, he mused, as they walked back in silence to the apartment they had claimed from its previously breathing owners. Why would she think he still had the Slayer on his brain? Spike’s thoughts drifted. The tiny blonde had glared at him so fiercely across the cop car. Yeah, she gave as good as she got, that one did. Maybe one day he’d have a chance to dance with her again.
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/407566.html