TITLE: Tea with Dru
AUTHOR: Ten
RATING: R
PAIRING: Wes/Dru
=====================================================================
CHAPTER 3
Drusilla's tea time visits quickly became routine. Each day, at about 3:30 p.m., she would appear at his doorway, smiling and pleased to see him, always dressed in tasteful gowns which proper ladies wore in her youth before she was changed. He looked forward to this time with her; she was mostly the only company he had, except for Lilah's annoying attempts to convince him to become a part of Wolfram & Hart. Each day Drusilla brought sunshine and laughter with her, an odd offering from a vampire, and each day Wes offered her an afternoon of tea, music, biscuits, and pleasant conversation.
He never asked how she came to him unscathed by the late day sun, and she never mentioned that he was persona non grata at Angel Investigations. It was a satisfactory arrangement for them both and the pleasant teas added an element of normalcy to their very un-normal lives.
Truth to tell, Wes was becoming more and more enchanted with the elegant vampiress. Drusilla brought out so many emotions in him, many he had not felt in a very long time. He felt protective towards her, yet he was also fascinated by her abilities to "see" as well as her adaptability throughout her complex life and unlife. Angelus had done such horrible things to her, both before and after he turned her, for her to remain close to Angel was a testament to her own strength and forgiveness. Sometimes she even spoke of Angelus himself with affection, as if his tortures and cruelty were signs of his love instead of the machinations of one of the most notorious demons in all history.
*********
Wes awoke trembling in a cold sweat. He had dreamed. He was standing near a cliff which overlooked an ocean, heavy surf pounding relentlessly against a white rock face below him.
It had been an intense dream, the third such dream in so many days, and they were becoming confusing and haunting. This last one had been the most disturbing of all. He was again transported to a different time, a time of ancient ways, what seemed to be about 1800. He'd been a bookseller in a small market in London, owner of a small shop but one which made just enough to provide for himself and his wife. His dream seemed to encompass several days and included their day to day routines, their knowledge of books and languages, their ability to work at the shop in tandem for the betterment of their life together. He remembered and still felt intense love and devotion for his wife, a good woman who adored him as much as he adored her. He remembered her perfect qualities, her quick and quirky wit, her intelligence, her ability to make hard work seem a joy in itself, her limitless devotion to him, as well as his own inability to deny her anything.
The dream took him places he didn't particularly want to go. It felt too real, pulled too many intense emotions to the fore, as if he were remembering something joyous and painful rather than dreaming it. He remembered intimacy, uninhibited exploration of each others' bodies and souls, very uncommon for that time period, a long ago time when women were little more than chattel. And he remembered death. Not his own. Hers. He remembered pain, an inability to breathe, he remembered throwing himself off that cliff and falling into an eternity of night.
As he fell, he remembered her tiny waist, her glorious smile, how she held his love as if it were a precious gift. But the last vision he held as he plunged further into darkness was of her wide-set blue-green eyes.
**********
She was late. Drusilla was usually knocking at his door no later than 3:30, but here it was 3:50 and still she wasn't there. She would never phone, she found that to be annoyingly impersonal. She had sent no other word. Wes was rapidly becoming concerned. He had come to expect her daily visits. They never discussed it, but after the first few times it was simply understood that she would come each day for tea.
He stepped to the window and began to distract himself from his worry by retracing the dreams of the last few nights; the bookseller, the blacksmith, the priest, each had a tie to a girl or woman with those same blue-green eyes. Each dream seemed to have a manifestation of Drusilla, either as his wife, his sister, and once as a small child abandoned on the street. He realized there had been other dreams, but most made little sense and he couldn't grasp them well enough to remember the details. He himself saw through the eyes of a child or a woman or an old man as well as a young man. And each dream seemed to give him a message of love and devotion.
A quiet knock at the door brought him back.
"Forgive me, dear Wesley, Daddy was very cross today and made it difficult to leave. I hope you weren't worried." She flashed him her smile and he immediately relaxed into their easy manner.
"Only now was I becoming concerned." He met her smile with one of his own and ushered her into the flat.
They sat in their usual places at table, sipping their tea, discussing the weather and their health and the English countryside in springtime. Then Wesley made a hard decision. It was time to ask her what he had been wanting to know for quite some time and had never mustered the courage to ask, partly for fear she would be offended, partly for fear he would not like the answer.
"Drusilla?" his voice cracked. She looked at him expectantly. "Drusilla," he repeated, "I've been meaning to ask you something." Her smile broadened. She seemed what he was going to say before he even had it formed into words. "Why do you come here when you know Angel would violently object?"
She looked at him patiently, as if she were waiting for him to understand it on his own. When it was not forthcoming, she spoke up. "Because I believe you, sweet Wesley. The birds told me you were hiding from Daddy and to be careful, but they did not have to tell me that you were taking the baby away to a safe place where he would never be hurt. You would never allow a boy to be hurt or killed by his own father." He looked puzzled, but she continued, "Besides, I know your heart too well, it speaks to me itself." She seemed to be listening to the air as if it were telling her the secrets in Wesley's heart.
He still seemed confused. "But ... but why, Drusilla? Why would you believe me when the other do not?"
Her expression was calm and comforting, "Can you not feel it? Have you not dreamed it?" Her eyes took that far away, marginal sanity focus to them, as if she were counting the stars or seeing something in the air which no one else could see. "It is there in your dreams at night, it's in your thoughts even now."
A crease formed between Wes's eyes, his mind conflicted, his understanding just out of reach. What was she talking about? Dreams? The dreams he'd been having which seemed to be of her in one form or another? He turned his quizical expression towards her, as if he were reaching for something and couldn't quite touch it. She took a step toward him and touched his cheek with her delicate hand, her eyes meeting his and remaining there.
Wesley's mind went awash in brilliant white then settled into a dark, distantly familiar scene ... a cobblestone road, old gaslamps, and a tall man with a tight grip on his shoulder, pinching into the muscle, hurting him. They were walking briskly and his short legs had difficulty keeping up as he was all but dragged along, the wet street making him slip across the uneven stones. The man muttered words Wes couldn't really hear, but he could remember ... words like worthless, bothersome, sniveling, evil, disappointment. The last one was the deepest cut, and Wes could actually feel the tears stinging his boyish eyes.
A figure stepped out of the alleyway ahead, a slim silhouette dressed in odd clothing and a cape. Before young Wes could even get a clear picture of who it was, his father's hand left his shoulder as the older man was torn away from the boy. The boy froze in his tracks, not sure whether to run or to scream or to try to help his father. It was too late. The shadowy figure pushed the man's head to the side and buried it's face into his neck as death screams tore the air. Within moments his father's lifeless body had been tossed to the ground and the figure began to slowly approach him.
"There's a good lad." A voice seemed to sing to him, cooing comfortingly as it approached. He was terrified, yet something inside him was grateful to this mysterious savior. "There, there. It's late, go home now. He won't be hurting you any more." The figure bent down and a gentle hand touched his cheek, as a pale face with stunning eyes emerged from the shadows ... the blue-green eyes of Drusilla.
=================================================
TBC
AUTHOR: Ten
RATING: R
PAIRING: Wes/Dru
=====================================================================
CHAPTER 3
Drusilla's tea time visits quickly became routine. Each day, at about 3:30 p.m., she would appear at his doorway, smiling and pleased to see him, always dressed in tasteful gowns which proper ladies wore in her youth before she was changed. He looked forward to this time with her; she was mostly the only company he had, except for Lilah's annoying attempts to convince him to become a part of Wolfram & Hart. Each day Drusilla brought sunshine and laughter with her, an odd offering from a vampire, and each day Wes offered her an afternoon of tea, music, biscuits, and pleasant conversation.
He never asked how she came to him unscathed by the late day sun, and she never mentioned that he was persona non grata at Angel Investigations. It was a satisfactory arrangement for them both and the pleasant teas added an element of normalcy to their very un-normal lives.
Truth to tell, Wes was becoming more and more enchanted with the elegant vampiress. Drusilla brought out so many emotions in him, many he had not felt in a very long time. He felt protective towards her, yet he was also fascinated by her abilities to "see" as well as her adaptability throughout her complex life and unlife. Angelus had done such horrible things to her, both before and after he turned her, for her to remain close to Angel was a testament to her own strength and forgiveness. Sometimes she even spoke of Angelus himself with affection, as if his tortures and cruelty were signs of his love instead of the machinations of one of the most notorious demons in all history.
*********
Wes awoke trembling in a cold sweat. He had dreamed. He was standing near a cliff which overlooked an ocean, heavy surf pounding relentlessly against a white rock face below him.
It had been an intense dream, the third such dream in so many days, and they were becoming confusing and haunting. This last one had been the most disturbing of all. He was again transported to a different time, a time of ancient ways, what seemed to be about 1800. He'd been a bookseller in a small market in London, owner of a small shop but one which made just enough to provide for himself and his wife. His dream seemed to encompass several days and included their day to day routines, their knowledge of books and languages, their ability to work at the shop in tandem for the betterment of their life together. He remembered and still felt intense love and devotion for his wife, a good woman who adored him as much as he adored her. He remembered her perfect qualities, her quick and quirky wit, her intelligence, her ability to make hard work seem a joy in itself, her limitless devotion to him, as well as his own inability to deny her anything.
The dream took him places he didn't particularly want to go. It felt too real, pulled too many intense emotions to the fore, as if he were remembering something joyous and painful rather than dreaming it. He remembered intimacy, uninhibited exploration of each others' bodies and souls, very uncommon for that time period, a long ago time when women were little more than chattel. And he remembered death. Not his own. Hers. He remembered pain, an inability to breathe, he remembered throwing himself off that cliff and falling into an eternity of night.
As he fell, he remembered her tiny waist, her glorious smile, how she held his love as if it were a precious gift. But the last vision he held as he plunged further into darkness was of her wide-set blue-green eyes.
**********
She was late. Drusilla was usually knocking at his door no later than 3:30, but here it was 3:50 and still she wasn't there. She would never phone, she found that to be annoyingly impersonal. She had sent no other word. Wes was rapidly becoming concerned. He had come to expect her daily visits. They never discussed it, but after the first few times it was simply understood that she would come each day for tea.
He stepped to the window and began to distract himself from his worry by retracing the dreams of the last few nights; the bookseller, the blacksmith, the priest, each had a tie to a girl or woman with those same blue-green eyes. Each dream seemed to have a manifestation of Drusilla, either as his wife, his sister, and once as a small child abandoned on the street. He realized there had been other dreams, but most made little sense and he couldn't grasp them well enough to remember the details. He himself saw through the eyes of a child or a woman or an old man as well as a young man. And each dream seemed to give him a message of love and devotion.
A quiet knock at the door brought him back.
"Forgive me, dear Wesley, Daddy was very cross today and made it difficult to leave. I hope you weren't worried." She flashed him her smile and he immediately relaxed into their easy manner.
"Only now was I becoming concerned." He met her smile with one of his own and ushered her into the flat.
They sat in their usual places at table, sipping their tea, discussing the weather and their health and the English countryside in springtime. Then Wesley made a hard decision. It was time to ask her what he had been wanting to know for quite some time and had never mustered the courage to ask, partly for fear she would be offended, partly for fear he would not like the answer.
"Drusilla?" his voice cracked. She looked at him expectantly. "Drusilla," he repeated, "I've been meaning to ask you something." Her smile broadened. She seemed what he was going to say before he even had it formed into words. "Why do you come here when you know Angel would violently object?"
She looked at him patiently, as if she were waiting for him to understand it on his own. When it was not forthcoming, she spoke up. "Because I believe you, sweet Wesley. The birds told me you were hiding from Daddy and to be careful, but they did not have to tell me that you were taking the baby away to a safe place where he would never be hurt. You would never allow a boy to be hurt or killed by his own father." He looked puzzled, but she continued, "Besides, I know your heart too well, it speaks to me itself." She seemed to be listening to the air as if it were telling her the secrets in Wesley's heart.
He still seemed confused. "But ... but why, Drusilla? Why would you believe me when the other do not?"
Her expression was calm and comforting, "Can you not feel it? Have you not dreamed it?" Her eyes took that far away, marginal sanity focus to them, as if she were counting the stars or seeing something in the air which no one else could see. "It is there in your dreams at night, it's in your thoughts even now."
A crease formed between Wes's eyes, his mind conflicted, his understanding just out of reach. What was she talking about? Dreams? The dreams he'd been having which seemed to be of her in one form or another? He turned his quizical expression towards her, as if he were reaching for something and couldn't quite touch it. She took a step toward him and touched his cheek with her delicate hand, her eyes meeting his and remaining there.
Wesley's mind went awash in brilliant white then settled into a dark, distantly familiar scene ... a cobblestone road, old gaslamps, and a tall man with a tight grip on his shoulder, pinching into the muscle, hurting him. They were walking briskly and his short legs had difficulty keeping up as he was all but dragged along, the wet street making him slip across the uneven stones. The man muttered words Wes couldn't really hear, but he could remember ... words like worthless, bothersome, sniveling, evil, disappointment. The last one was the deepest cut, and Wes could actually feel the tears stinging his boyish eyes.
A figure stepped out of the alleyway ahead, a slim silhouette dressed in odd clothing and a cape. Before young Wes could even get a clear picture of who it was, his father's hand left his shoulder as the older man was torn away from the boy. The boy froze in his tracks, not sure whether to run or to scream or to try to help his father. It was too late. The shadowy figure pushed the man's head to the side and buried it's face into his neck as death screams tore the air. Within moments his father's lifeless body had been tossed to the ground and the figure began to slowly approach him.
"There's a good lad." A voice seemed to sing to him, cooing comfortingly as it approached. He was terrified, yet something inside him was grateful to this mysterious savior. "There, there. It's late, go home now. He won't be hurting you any more." The figure bent down and a gentle hand touched his cheek, as a pale face with stunning eyes emerged from the shadows ... the blue-green eyes of Drusilla.
=================================================
TBC