Title: heliolatry
Rating: trigger warnings for mental illness, violence, blood and gore/squick.
Characters: Spike, Drusilla
Genre: historical/fluff (though looking at the list of trigger warnings, I can understand why this might be surprising).
Summary: what if William had refused Drusilla's offers to sire him?
What do you do when you can't join your beloved in the light? Drag him into the darkness, of course. Drusilla came from a long line of such a ritual; killing with a kiss, murdering in the name of romance, taking the light away from the one you supposedly love, because you should be the only light they need. It wasn't so bad; when shadows obscure your vision, you cannot see the monster you've become.
Usually the perfect candidates would be someone who abhors the light already. Darla- succumbing to sickness as easily as she did to temptation- found the sun's rays all too sharp, the jaws of The Master soft and sweet by comparison. Liam had spent almost all his mortal days sleeping off hangovers anyway, so when he was reborn he barely noticed its absence. As for The Master? Well, he was so ancient that he could've predated the sun itself.
Drusilla had been an exception. She had liked the sun. She still did. It's just the sun wasn't quite so fond of her anymore.
Snow fell like her victims, thick and fast and cold as it hit the cobblestones. Cold enough to kill had she not already been dead. And yet, beneath the gaslight he stood amidst the snow, ripping up pieces of paper with ferocity to rival Angelus ripping up intestines. He was crying, and all of a sudden she was sure she knew him. His mother's lungs were charred angel's wings, fluttering so feebly, so thanklessly. His father was a phantasm, a character he knew only through his imaginings of him. His poetry was bloody awful, but soon he would write his sonnets with the blood of every harsh critic. He was ridiculed. Made a mockery of by perfect perfunctory fools who could not understand his vision, his glory.
Softly; "Do you like the sun?"
He jumped, having only just spotted her.
"I do...When clocks smile down on us. The stars, they speak to me. Always hearing the gossiping of the constellations, the tittering of the cosmos. Too loud, too loud, too loud...And not loud enough. Not loud enough so anyone else can hear their naughty little secrets. But the sun lets me hide from him, no more teapot talk with his guest chained to the dinner table."
Flustered; "I-I don't understand." He stammered, punctuating his protest with a step away from the stranger.
"Does the sun make you happy? Would you miss it, miss it like leaches?"
"I, um...I already miss it, in all honesty. Can't say we get enough of it in this festive season. Now, I must bid you farewell, m-mother's expecting me."
"I've been expecting you since cholera was on the tip of everyone's tongue and horsies drew a different carriage with a different king inside. Since Goldilocks had smallpox and I had a pulse. One of the only star stories I did like...The promise that you'll come to me." She whispered, seemingly in awe of him as she moved closer and closer and closer...
She laid a palm on his chest and William was a deer caught in the headlights. No, a deer caught in a supernova, such was his bedazzlement.
"Do you like night time?"
"I, um—yes. I take no issue with it, at the very least." He answered, somewhat hypnotized.
"Would you like to gobble it up? Make the night your wine, and drink deep of it? Have the universe in your belly and the moon in your eyes? Make the sunshine weep?"
Breathlessly; "Oh, yes. Oh God, yes."
Drusilla revealed her real face. He did not scream; there was no disillusion, only confusion as he curiously peered at her.
She held his hands and leaned in with intent to kiss, intent to bite, intent to kill.
"Wait, stop!"
She withdrew. Nervously; "Have I done something wrong?"
"I cannot agree to this. I, um, I politely decline."
"Because you'd miss the sunshine?"
"N-n-no, but I am late, and Mother is expecting me. And to me, she is the sun. I cannot join you. My deepest apologies, but I simply must refuse to be one of your kind."
A deafening silence. Dru still in demonic countenance.
For a century-long second she merely watched him, silent as a corpse should be.
"...Oh. Would you like to be friends instead, then?"
Her William liked the sun, even if it came in the form of a little old lady, wrinkled and drenched in creeping decrepitude. He liked being alive, enjoyed the heliolatry of humanity. He liked his reflection and his heartbeat and his breath. Drusilla had liked all these things too. Missed them, secretly. So from then on she endeavoured to protect him from any creature who'd want to steal these things from him like they were stolen from her.
Every time the young poet went out after dark, Drusilla promised to lurk in the shadows, to protect him from harm. On Christmas Eve, he went out at the last minute to enjoy the snow-scape of Kensington. A vampire leapt out at him. In a heartbeat she no longer had, Drusilla tore his head off and reduced him to the dust he was worth.
Somewhat stunned; "T-t-thank you, Drusilla. You are very kind indeed."
"He makes pretty dust, all full of shattered dreams and eels."
"...Quite."
Skipping alongside him; "There are lots of naughty little leeches this time of night. Need spankings, they do. Grr..."
"You're a rather curious creature, aren't you? There's sweetness to your savagery. My Guardian Angel."
Beaming; "Oh no, Sweet Willy. Your Guardian Demon."
She carried on protecting him for the next two years, snapping the necks of any creature that dared try and touch his. Her excuse to her sires was that she would murder him all in due time, that this was but a myriad of mind games to mess with him.
"Oh yes Daddy, I absolutely have to leave roses by his door. They have thorns on them that could cut his pretty porcelain hands. Snip snip."
"But Grandmummy, the moon whispers that I simply must attend the ball with him tonight. I'll be dressed so lovely that he'll have a seizure. All part of my wicked games, it is...Run and catch, run and catch, Run and catch!"
"But those witches had to be fed a feast of their own entrails, Daddy, no one gets to kill Willy but me."
Hell knows how they fell for it, but it worked. William regarded her as an odd commodity, but a welcomed one, inviting her into his home and even introducing her to his Mother. He explained to her that this 'woman' had saved his life, though he wisely left out the part where she kept his assailant's eyeballs as trophy.
For Christmas 1881 William brought Drusilla a black diamond necklace. Dru brought him a bottle of pinot noir and a human skull, unable to understand why he screamed so loudly upon receiving his present. She should've known he preferred white wine.
By December 1882 William became a target almost as precarious as the Slayer herself, the seer's love for him having a body count of twenty four. Twenty four times she saved his life, unsure of why he didn't just go out before dark, though she adored him too much to question it.
It got to the point where demons cowered when they saw the timid bookworm strolling along, where they trembled at the sight of him. Nothing had attacked him for weeks at that point, and his Guardian Demon walked with him out of attachment more so than necessity.
Until one day five vampires lunged at him at once.
Drusilla was very badly injured, but she was also very badly in love, so she carried on fighting.
Horrified; "Drusilla, stop! Run away, stop!"
But she wouldn't. She clawed at them until every last one was dust engulfed by snow. Maybe God loved her after all, because she could've, would've, should've really been defeated. But she survived. Survived to suffer with veins clawed open like tinsel across her wrists. Survived to have her white dress bloodied like Saint Nicholas's robes. Survived to whimper and cringe in pain.
"Dru..." Gasped William, quickly coming to her aid.
Weakly; "Maybe you should start going for walks in the sunshine." She suggested gently, before fainting in his arms.
The poet carried her into his house, laying her to rest in his bed. Mother was gone now, and the pain was such that he wished he'd let Dru bite him that fateful night two years ago. But Drusilla was still here, and he had to look after her now.
For the next few days he tended to her every need, her drifting in and out of consciousness, babbling nonsense sometimes (which wasn't very worrying, she did that anyway), and acting almost entirely lucid at other times (which was equally unprecedented and worrying). She talked about her family, her visions, how she wished someone would've protected her like she protected him. Her words were poetry, William realized. Much better than any he could ever write.
"Willy?" She croaked on Christmas Eve.
"Yes, Pet?"
"My family wants to paint the world red. We're going to Sicily soon, going to dollies out of kings and queens. "
Solemnly; "You're leaving, aren't you?"
"I must, Sweet Willy. But don't worry, he'll let me return one day. When there are boxes full of fairies and metal birds in the sky."
"So...A very long time away, I presume."
"You'll be sleeping under the daisy patch by then. Unless you wanted me to—"
"I can't. I'm sorry, Drusilla. I'm s-so sorry." He whispered, shaking as he kissed her hand. He then attempted to relight the gas lamp in their room, a flickering flame which he tried in vain to restore.
"It's okay, my dark prince. I'd never have chosen it either..."
"When are you leaving, Drusilla?"
"When you make broken dolly good as new again, I'll find them- they'll find me- and we'll slither away. Hiss hiss. And I'm already getting better, ever so much I am...Little lamb should run away tomorrow night."
"May you do one last thing for me, if it's not too i-indecorous to ask?"
She nodded.
"Will you spend one last week with me? Until New Year. You're my Guardian Angel, Drusilla, I care not whether you or anyone else thinks otherwise. You are an angel, even if the Bible disagrees. You're my sun. And I shall miss you so dearly."
He reached out her hand to him; "I would love to."
What do you do when you can't join your beloved in the darkness? Hold her hand and bring her into the light, of course.