Title: It Brings Back Memories
Author: Amanda (xFreakx)
Email: xfreakx@hotmail.com
Rating: R (in later chapters at least ;)
Archive: Ask first. If I don't give you my permission... tough. (Oh, who am I kidding? No one's gonna want to archive it anyway. ;)
Disclaimer: I own no characters in this (at least so far.) Hm. Everything belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. Quotes from 'Fool for Love' by Douglas Petrie, used without permission. Sorry. It was necessary. And the song "Lonely Boy" (from which the title is taken, although used horribly out of context) belongs to the Sex Pistols.
Feedback: Pleeeease?

********************
Every time I think of her it brings back memories
I remember how it used to be, oh baby can't you see
Oh baby come and come back to me
I'm a lonely boy
I'm a lonely boy
I'm a lonely boy
I'm a lonely boy
-Lonely Boy, The Sex Pistols

Chapter Two: Awakening
William had moved out of his mother's house several years ago, but he would visit her occasionally. He could not bring himself to tell her about his longtime obsession nor his poetry. He just didn't think she'd understand - Mary was in many ways a very mundane person.

These days, William lived in a small, nondescript flat in a respectable boarding house. It was the sort of place that down-on-their-luck gentlemen resided. William fit the description perfectly, and the landlady was kind and baked biscuits every weekend for the lodgers. He lived as frugally as possible, rarely buying new clothes or fancy foods.

He did attend get-togethers, how ever. There was always the hope of seeing Cecily. Although he didn't realize it, all the love that he had once lavished upon his mother transferred to the unsuspecting girl. And so, he muddled through life, neither working nor lounging and wasting his time.

Throughout the weeks of September he composed his masterpiece. It was never finished; each time he thought that it neared completion he was suddenly torn by an agony of self-doubt. Nothing was good enough for Cecily, nothing that he did. Soon, he would profess his undying love, and soon, she would give him a response... But the poem's words eluded him, dancing just out of reach. He snatched vainly at words and phrases and came away with nothing.

In late September he was invited to a get-together, a small affair. At first William pondered denying the invitation, but when he found out that -she- was going, he accepted. That Saturday, he gathered up his poetry, and walked to the small house where the gathering was held. It was a dreary day, and by the time he got there his jacket was dusted with miniscule rain droplets.

"Good day, sir," the butler said cordially, helping William out of his coat. He nodded to the servant and scanned the room. Cecily wasn't there yet, so he took his place in the corner, away from the main stream of talk and chatter. William perched the reading glasses carefully on his nose, and stole a quill from a near-by desk, putting it to the parchment thoughtfully.

"Luminous... Oh no, no, no. Irradiant's better," he murmured to himself, picking up where he'd left off. The chatter continued unabated and he caught his mind wishing for them all to disappear. Perhaps this was a mistake...

A waiter approached him with a tray of canapés, and paused. "Care for an hors d'oeuvre, sir?" he asked.

Still in his own world, William glanced up absently. "Oh, quickly! I'm the very spirit of vexation. What's another word for 'gleaming'? It's a perfectly perfect word as many words go, but the bother is nothing rhymes, you see..."

The waiter smirked in that quiet way that servants had, not -quite- insubordinate but certainly far from polite. They saw themselves, in many ways, as being better than their "superiors." This man was no exception - he let the odd bloke alone and moved off into the crowds. As he moved, William glanced away from him, and saw-

"Cecily..." At the sight of her the words flowed, and he smiled. Soon, he'd be able to show her how much he cared.

+

He hadn't been able to work on the poem lately, there hadn't been occasion and he hadn't seen Cecily. As he donned his rather rumpled dress clothes, William thought idly about the night ahead: small party, and then afterwards he was going to visit Mary. His father had passed away last year and she was still broken-hearted, even though the man had treated her like dirt.

It angered William, brought rage boiling up from his stomach - but he suppressed it, viciously, and looked at his reflection in the mirror. The glass face was tarnished and a hairline crack ran along its length. He could not afford a new one. "No use getting in a fuss about something you can't fix," he murmured, and brushed a stray strand of hair from his eyes. "Mm. Time to go, I suppose."

+

William sighed in dismay as he saw the company in the room, David, Douglas, and Margaret, the Three Musketeers - they stuck together like the legendary heroes, with none of the charm, tact, or intelligence. He couldn't tell them apart - even the woman, in her flouncing dress, reminded him of the other two. They were talking, as he sat, watching Cecily out of the corner of his eye.

She was particularly beautiful, in a white dress with lavender trimmings. Like an angel from the heavens, brought to earth and fluttering 'round the dark parlor.

"I mean to point out that it's something of a mystery, and the police should keep an open mind," said Douglas - or was it David?

William stood, about to go over to her, when one of them addressed him. "Ah, William! Favor us with your opinion. What do you make of this rash of disappearances sweeping through our town? Animals or thieves?"

Impatient, William summoned up his best 'you do not matter' expression, and looked at them from beneath languid eyes. Cecily hovered at the edge of his vision. "I prefer not to think of such a dark, ugly business at all," he said haughtily, "That's what the police are for." He glanced at her again, longingly. "I prefer placing my energies into creating things of beauty." He held the papers in his hand, about to leave again.

They were snatched away. "I see! Well, don't withhold, William."

"Rescue us from a dreary topic." Jackals, both of them; wolves hovering around the wounded prey.

"Careful - the inks are still wet - please, it's not finished-" William pleaded.

"Don't be shy," one of the drones laughed. "'My heart expands / 'tis grown a bulge in it / inspired by your beauty, effulgent.'" Giggles. "Effulgent?"

They broke into mocking laughter. William could feel the flush rising - he noticed Cecily get up, and leave, apparently uncomfortable with the attention he was receiving. William glared and tore his papers from the snotty little... As he walked away, he could hear them still.

"And that's actually one of his better compositions."

"Have you heard? They call him William the Bloody because of his bloody awful poetry."

"It suits him! I'd rather have a rail road spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff!"

William bit his lip. How dare they? How dare they mock his feelings, his work? Enraged, he hurried toward Cecily, who sat on a sofa, staring out the window, a bit dreamy. Her magnificent hair was piled atop her head in a mountain of curls. His mouth went dry as he sat down near her. "Cecily?"

"Oh, leave me alone," she said curtly, turning to him.

He felt that he had to reassure her, comfort her against the words of the Musketeers. "Oh, they're vulgarians. They're not like you or I," he said, pondering touching her hand. Common sense won out and instead he remained still with his knees bent up awkwardly.

"You and I?" Cecily repeated, staring at him. She took a breath, and then continued. "I'm going to ask you a personal question and I demand an honest answer. Do you understand?"

He hardly dared to hope - only nodded his head, heart rising in his chest.

"Your poetry," she said, "It's... they're... not written about me, are they?"

"They're about how I feel," he said, suddenly shy. Where would she go with this?

"Yes, but are they about me?"

"Every syllable," he murmured fervently.

"Oh, god!" she exclaimed.

He bit his lip again. "Oh, I know... it's sudden and... Please..." he said desperately, "If they're no good, they're only words, but... the feeling behind them... I love you, Cecily!" He blinked. He hadn't meant to say that, but now that it was out-

"Please stop!"

"I know I'm a bad poet," he went on, "But I'm a good man, and all I ask is that... that you try to see me-"

"I do see you," she said coldly, "That's the problem. You're nothing to me, William. You're beneath me."

And she walked off, just like that.

William stood stock still for a moment, barely able to breathe. He was numb, he was ice, there was no pain. And then the shock wore off and he gasped - it felt as though his heart had been ripped still beating from his chest. My bleeding heart lies gasping on the floor / desiring only your warm touch to heal / the cold and pain and sorrow more / If only you could see what I feel-no, no more poetry.

He got up, trying to hold back his tears. The poetry had gone from his life; if she couldn't love him than he would, he would, he would stay away from her, he would stay away from the world. Cecily, Cecily, my sweet Cecily. If only. If only. But there was no hope now, none in the world.

He fled the party, deaf to the nervous titters that sounded in his wake.

+

After a brief stop at his flat, William was walking the streets, holding his poetry. He didn't know where he was going, he was walking and trying to escape the pain, as if by running away from it the shock would recede. As he went he ripped pages and pages and reams of poetry, dropping shards of parchment behind him in a soggy tan rain.

His breath sounded loud in his own ears as he ran-a warm body stopped his progress and made him drop the sheets into a puddle. He bent, snatched them, and escaped into the alley, the darkness swallowing him. Still weeping, William continued the sad job of destroying years of poems and words, words that he had thought meant something but now knew were worthless. Even more worthless than the time he had spent thinking of her and dreaming of her and wishing she would only see him as he saw her.

"And I wonder," said a honeyed voice, "What possible catastrophe came crashing down from the heavens and brought this dashing stranger to tears?"

Startled, William snapped his head up, looking at the woman through a veil of liquid and running mucous from his nose. She was silhouetted by the alley entrance, but as she stepped forward towards him, she seemed slim and pale and beautiful - as beautiful as Cecily, but as different as night and day. Her dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, and there was an odd gleam in her eye.

"Nothing," he choked out. "I wish to be alone!"

But she kept on, she walked closer to him. "Oh, I see you. A man surrounded by fools, who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory." She paused, and then in a laughing tone, as though sharing a secret joke with him, "That, and burning baby fishes swimming all around your head."

He scrabbled backwards, nervous. Was she some lunatic who had escaped Scotland Yard? The conversation, the disappearances - all of that ran through his head. But what could such a delicate looking young woman have done? She was slender, and didn't look particularly dangerous - but there was still that strange look in her face, on her features.

"That's quite close enough," he said, "I've heard tales of London pickpockets. You'll not be getting my purse, I tell you!"

"Don't need a purse." She beamed beatifically, and William was suddenly very nervous. Just who -was- this woman? She pointed at her head, pointed at her heart. "Your wealth lies here, and here. In the spirit and... imagination," her voice caressed the word, "You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine."

He stared, dumbfounded. This - in a few words, she had crystallized his feeling of discontent, of not belonging with the other young aristocrats. He stared, insatiably curious. "Oh, yes!" he exclaimed, and then remembered his mother, waiting. What would she say if he didn't come home...? "I mean, no, I mean... Mother's expecting me."

She moved forward, and William saw her face clearly. She smiled and undid the collar of his shirt - he stifled a gasp of surprise at her forwardness, but couldn't find the will to move away. "I see what you want," she breathed, "Something glowing and glistening. Something... effulgent."

William blinked at her. "Effulgent..." he whispered. He'd never heard anyone else use the word before - this woman, who he had never seen before in his life, somehow saw into his heart, into his head. He was suddenly aware of the proximity of their bodies, but it was not an uncomfortable one, he did not feel as awkward as he usually did with women.

"Do you want it?" she asked him languidly.

He thought that he had never wanted anything more. "Oh, yes," he said, touching her chest gently. After he did that he was surprised, but not shocked. It felt right, and he finished, "God, yes." He was not sure whether she was offering herself or something grander, something larger. Either way-

She looked down at the ground, for a moment, and he thought that she was having a sudden attack of timidity. He was about to reassure her that he meant no harm when she brought her face up to his again. He gasped in shock, this time, for white fangs had descended over her lower lip. Still, he could not find the will power to pull back, or to ask her, 'What are you?' By then it was too late, and she lunged forward and bit him on the neck.

It was pain. It was pain beyond anything he had ever experienced or ever imagined, fiery and dull at the same time. It felt as though his life was being sucked out through the wound, and he sagged in her arms, unable to stand. "Ow! Ow, ow!" he exclaimed.

"Do not worry, dear," the woman said, and smiled in childish delight. "The hurting is the nicest part, and soon it will be your turn!"

He wanted to say something, but he couldn't speak. She raised a hand and drew her finger sharply across her own neck, and dark blood rose from the wound. "Drink, William," she said, and it did not seem odd that she knew his name, "Drink, and be." She bent his head forward, supporting his weight, and put his mouth to the blood.

Revolted but unable to stop himself, William drank. The taste was quite unlike the salty copper flavor when he bit his own tongue by accident, it was darker, thicker, richer. The woman made a small purring noise in her throat, like a cat - which surprised him, considering she had just slashed her own throat. At this point his thoughts were somewhat disjointed and very confused, things were happening inside of him that had nothing to do with desire.

Right as William thought that this must look very odd to any passerby, he blacked out.

+

When William's eyes opened, he felt groggy and disconnected from the events of the previous night. It must, he thought, have all been a dream. Then, when he woke up enough to notice his surroundings, he realized that he was lying on a stone slab in a dingy basement with the... The woman was sitting on a chair, staring at the wall.

"Um, Miss?" he said, as he sat up, feeling nervously at his neck, half-expecting to find a gaping wound. To his shock, the skin was healed smoothly over.

She looked over to him, and fixed an absent dark gaze upon his face. "Sometimes I'm sad for no reason," she said, "Like today; when I know that the little children are playing in the meadows of Yorkshire."

"Ah," William said, vaguely, "Could you, ah, perhaps explain - what happened to me?" He opened and closed his hand, making a fist. He felt different - stronger. More powerful. There was no pain, nothing like what he had experienced yesterday. Standing, he started to walk towards the stairs.

"Oh, no!" the woman exclaimed, "You can't do that. The sun's face will burn you."

He turned, and glared at her. "Look, I'd like an explanation! I -demand- an explanation!"

"You'll get one, soon enough," she said, and moved towards him, putting William in mind of nothing so much as a pantheress who had already tasted a kill and had the feel of blood in her mouth. "William - you are changed. You are no longer a man."

"That's absurd," he said angrily, "You're insane."

"Yes," she said, and smiled nastily, "But I'm right."

"If I'm not a man," he said, deciding to humor her, afraid that she was correct, "Than what am I?"

"You're like me."

"Fuck your riddles!" he screamed, "I want a straight answer!" Surprised at his own rage, he felt his face shifting, as hers had done. Nervously, William ran a finger over the now-sharp, extended canines.

"Now you see?" the woman said. "You're one of us."

"Who-who are you?"

"I," she said dramatically, "am Drusilla."

+

It was night again. It had taken Drusilla a long time to explain to him what he was, and why. At first there had been rage and then there was denial, and then there was a profound sense of relief that he -was- something, instead of an aimless spectator in life. He had a purpose, now, and he did not have to conform to the norms of society. He knew he had never been like the other men his age...

He and Drusilla walked slowly down the street, and William enjoyed the heightened sense that his new condition brought him. He realized, of course, that Dru - as she told him to call her - was completely insane, but there was, as with Hamlet, a method to her madness. Sometimes.

"You had an easy time of it," she told him. "You should be glad it was I who sired you. The others would not have been so kind."

"Others?" William asked nervously.

"Oh, yes," said Dru, blithely. "Angelus and Darla. You will meet them soon enough."

"Ah," William said, mulling that over. He was not as scared, now, not now that the rage had been released from its pent up knot in his stomach.

"Don't worry, love," she said, "I'm sure they'll appreciate your fishies."

A man walking by suddenly paused, and glanced at them. "Is that-is that William Cooper?"

"Yes..." William said guardedly, "Good evening, George," he greeted the young aristocrat who showed up at all the same parties and gatherings.

"Hm, this -is- a sight, William the Bloody Awful with a girl?" He leered at Dru. "What sort of low doxy is she, then, and how much are you paying?"

"You go too far," William said quietly. Perhaps, even yesterday, he would have dithered and backed away, afraid of the anger that he felt. He could tell that, next to him, Drusilla was tensed in anticipation of something. There was an odd jumpy feeling in his stomach, as though his body was aware of what he was about to do before cluing in his brain.

"Oh, no!" George laughed, "Please, please, William, don't quote poetry at me! Mercy!"

"Terribly sorry, chap," William said, and felt the fangs move down. He leaned forward, and grinned, enjoying the shocked look on George's face. "Unfortunately, you don't deserve it."

The man tried to run, but William grabbed him by the shoulders, leaned forward, hesitating only for a second, and bit. A strange sensation, as George struggled, the blood flowing down his mouth and throat. William had thought that it would be disgusting, that he would have to force himself to do this, but in retrospect it was no more disgusting than, say, eating a piece of rare meat.

George stopped struggling, finally, and William held the body away from him, examining it. "Hm," he said, then glanced over at Drusilla, who clapped her hands together, like a child.

"Oh, bravo," she said lightly.

"Needs salt," William informed her, and dropped the pile of still warm meat that was until very recently named George.

Drusilla giggled, and waved her hand airily. "Come, William. We do not want the mean men to find us, because they do not like bodies."

He felt strangely brash and confident as he held out an arm to Drusilla. "Milady?"

She curtsied and smiled. "Milord."

William fought back a grin as he took her arm. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps being a vampire would not be bad at all - Drusilla was a balm to the heart wounded by Cecily. As for -that- bitch, she'd soon be sorry that she ever treated him like that - they'd all be sorry for the laughs, for the slights. For now, however, there was Drusilla who, if not a living, breathing girl, certainly understood him.

After all, thought William, he wasn't living or breathing either - he wasn't so prejudiced any more.

They swept from the scene of the murder, arm in arm.

+

"Before I meet the others-"

"Yes?"

They were walking through the city, enjoying the night. It was somewhere around three o' clock, to judge by the church bells, but William had never felt less tired in his entire life. "Before I go, I-I want to say good-bye to Mother." He had purposely led the way so that they were now in front of the back entrance to Mary's house.

"I said good-bye to my mother, too. But when I said it she was dripping purple." Drusilla said, looking up at him. She added, "How sweet of you. But I am your mother now, not that woman."

"One moment, Drusilla," he told her, and went towards the door.

"You'll have some a problem there, William," she told him.

"What?"

"We can't enter a home without an invitation."

"Piffle," he told her airily, "I can get an invitation to my own mother's home. Go get something to eat, I'll be out soon."

Drusilla waved her hand in a circular motion, and vanished into the shadows. William instinctively went to draw a deep breath, and then remembered that he couldn't breath. Amused, he smiled and knocked vehemently on the door. The hollow sound echoed in the gloomy street. "Hallo!" he called, "Hallo, open up in there!"

He stood there, jacketless but comfortable, and waited until his mother's one servant, Porter, opened the door. The man was wearing a nightshirt and an absurd night-cap which flopped over his face. "Master William?" he said, surprised. "What are you doing about at this hour?"

"Please, I need to see Mother."

"Hmph," Porter said, disapproving tone in his voice, as though not believing the hours young people were holding these days, and then shook his head. "Well don't just stand there, boy, come in."

William grinned. "Thank you." He stepped inside, feeling as though he were seeing the back room, with its worn chairs and foot-stools, for the first time in his life. He looked at the warm fire, appreciatively.

"Master William, I do not think it a wise idea for you to interrupt the Mistress' sleep-"

"Look, man," William growled, "I'll do what I want and when I want to do it."

Porter stepped back, surprised at the tone in William's voice. William walked quickly past him and up the stairs.

+

"Mother?"

His mother stirred on the bed, and sat up, covers and quilt clutched around her skeletal frame. "William? My William? What are you doing here so late?"

"I've come to say goodbye." He looked at her, surprised that he'd ever had such affectionate feelings for the weak thing on the bed in front of him.

"Wha-what?" she stammered. "Goodbye? William, I don't-"

"I've changed, Mother. And you are no longer a part of my life."

She was crying now, quietly. Little sobs that heaved her wrinkled chest upward. "You're just like your father. Just like him. But why? Why?"

Grinning, William shifted into the vampire face. "I told you - I've changed!"

She screamed shrilly and moved backwards, gripping tightly onto the blankets. "William, what happened to you? Oh, my god! Help! Help!"

He could hear Porter running up from downstairs, and bowed cockily to her, still in what Drusilla had called a game-face. "Terribly sorry to leave you on such a bad note," he commented, "But I'm sure you'll get over it, mm? Go out, maybe meet a nice man."

As he walked out the door Porter appeared, face white. "Stay away from her, monster!"

William bared his fangs in amusement. "Don't worry, Porter, I'm leaving."

The man, fearful, cowered against the wall as he strode outside. Drusilla was waiting, daintily wiping the blood from her face with a lace handkerchief.

William spat at the steps of the house. "Good riddance."