Beauty Crucified
By She's a Star
Disclaimer: Angel belongs to Joss Whedon.
Author's Note: Odd little abstract thing here. Could take place during any season, I suppose. A time period isn't specified. I'm thinking sometime during season three, 'cause there's underlying hints at the Spike/Buffy relationship.
*
"You know what'll happen," he tells her as she drapes her leg over his lap. Her skin's so pale she seems dead. He wonders how she's been without him; wonders why he hasn't heard from her in so long. Why he can sense traces of death, smell it on her skin. In her blood.
"Well, yeah," she says, the perfect coquette, and bats her eyelashes at him - and suddenly she's the ingénue. Innocent. Before he tore her apart. "If you wanna get technical about it."
"We don't have to-"
"Oh, but we do," she protests; runs her fingers down his face. There's blood on her fingernails. He wonders how it got there. Or maybe it's just polish. Maybe it's all polished over, glossed. He remembers Drusilla biting down on his fingertip, nipping it but drawing blood regardless. 'Pretty,' she had said; her words swayed, jasmine in a darker breeze. 'Like angels crying out, all at once.'
"You do want to, don't you?" she asks, demure. "You said that you'd do anything for me."
"I might tear you apart." He hates what she's asking him to do. Hates that he knows in the end he will always say yes to her. "You remember last time-"
"Of course I remember," she says, and sighs. "La Boheme, wasn't it?"
He nods silently.
"Oh, don't worry, baby," she coos. Swings her other leg around; straddling him. "I've learned to like it rough."
Her hair falls down her back in golden curls. She's wearing a white dress. He doesn't know her anymore. Not like this.
"Buffy, I can't-"
"You left me."
The words chill him, and he's already cold.
"You left me. I didn't want you to go away." She brings her hand to her face, and tears dance down her fingers. Shimmy down the ring. God, maybe she is bound to him.
"I had to," he protests. The voice of reason when reason is as broken as he is. Twisted little whispers of irony. Drusilla is dancing with herself. Run and catch. The lamb's caught in the blackberry patch. She hasn't got anyone to dance with anymore.
She leans close and he thinks maybe he'll drown in her eyes. There's a different kind of hell in them, one he hasn't seen. "It's you," she whispers, her lips barely brushing his.
"What?" Too many questions. One word, one misstep. 'Be careful, sweet Daddy,' Drusilla cautions from behind a veil of lace. 'She'll eat you up.'
"You're the reason." Her curls shine, tarnished gold in the sunlight. Fire sizzling in his veins.
She kisses him, tentatively, presses her hands against his face. They're cold. Keeping back the flame. Her tongue traces words in his mouth.
'She'll eat you up,' Drusilla says. She picks daisies, killing them cleanly as her nails slice through the roots. 'And take your soul for dessert. Mmm.'
He pushes her away. She stumbles but doesn't fall. Saviours never fall from grace, but that can't stop the nursery rhymes swimming in his skull.
"You're the reason I'm like this," she tells him, and draws a cross into the air. Blood spills from it; she giggles delightedly. "If only you had saved one more soul. Sucks, huh?"
He watches her. She's beauty crucified, and he doesn't care anymore.
"Now, there's a nice boy," she says, Drusilla whispering through Buffy's lips. "Open wide. This won't hurt a bit."
Stake through the chest; she cries while she does it; Drusilla singing all the while:
'Ashes | ashes | we all fall--'
His eyes flutter open. He remembers why he doesn't like to sleep.