Beneath The Skin
By lilacmelodies
Author's Note: I apologise in advance for my lack of characterisation skills when it comes to Spike. He's a hard one to nail – er, not literally. : ) Anyway, this one-shot takes place sometime during Spike and Buffy's relationship, pre-Seeing Red. I felt it inevitable that Spike would still have some feelings for Drusilla. No matter how intense his love for Buffy was, he loved Drusilla unconditionally for decades, and that's not something that's going to go away easily. Feedback – including constructive criticism – is more than welcome.
'I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it.'
– Spike, Lover's Walk
Used to be so much easier than this, didn't it?
Blood trickling down his throat, tasting sweeter than truth or charity ever could. His teeth slicing through pale flesh – funny, how much rougher human skin feels than you'd think it would. Blood and scars, blood and scars all over the fucking place.
It's like a dream now; one so wonderfully warped and twisted that you can't quite bear to lose it in your memory. Drusilla, drenching him with the blackness of her eyes and giggling as he tells her bedtime stories of death and torture. Making a fucking mockery of that ridiculous white frock of hers. She used to dress like such an elegant little lady – quite bloody ironic when you think about it. He remembers watching her wipe the blood from her satin shoe with a handkerchief.
They come here every night, Spike, he remembers her murmuring to him, though he can't quite conjure up her face in his mind. They look like angels but I think they're something even worse. I try to rip their wings off but they're too quick for me. Won't you kill them for me, Spike?
Perhaps that'd been when he'd loved her most – back then, when she'd been such a fragile little thing. Weird as hell, when you think about it; he'd never invested much interest in fragile things before. He remembered running a finger down her cold, white face and wondering when she'd turned into this porcelain doll laid out before him.
He missed watching her sinking her fangs into some poor sod and guzzling 'til she was almost sick on the adrenaline. 'Cos, let's face it, there was no one who could make vampirism look quite as fun as old Dru did.
Things were never quite the same after that, were they? After he made her 'all better.' Scarlet dresses instead of white ones; a glint in her eye that he wasn't quite sure had been there before.
And, of course, the whole fucking Angel Thing had been something of a downer.
Still, he'd tried, hadn't he? Tried too hard. Harder than he should have. He took her away but it made no difference. It was never the same. Couldn't ever be the same. Because he'd betrayed her new god, hadn't he? That was how she saw him, how she saw Angel. Dru had always had a thing for her gods, she had.
And then it was over, and there was still this wild, crimson obsession pulsing through his veins, and nowhere for him to channel it.
And then came The Chip.
God, how he hates The Chip. It's like a schoolmistress, he thinks, with its pathetic little rulebook and its hiss-buzz-fizz as it punishes him. He can't hear it, but he can feel it. Oh, yes, he can definitely feel it. Feel the metal lodged in his brain; feel the electricity crackling beneath his skin.
He wonders what's going to drive him insane fastest – chip or Slayer. He doesn't know where the Slayer gets off, anyway, thinking she has the right to drive him insane. Christ knows he never gave her permission.
He's no idea how this happened, you see. All he knows is that she, with her blazing eyes and voice like splinters, has somehow seeped into his veins. Her hands are cold against his skin but her breath's like fire. There's nothing quite so satisfying in this world as feeling her rough, bitten lips soften.
He doesn't know what the hell he wants, now. He wants Buffy's mouth to slam against his. He wants Drusilla's black nails to find the back of his neck, and he wants her to smile. He wants all of this and yet he wants none of it. He wants them both – he just can't decide who he wants more.
He needs to choose whether he wants blood or electricity running through his veins.