Chapter three of Light Goes Down
Here's chapter 3 of the 1930's Spike/Dru fic. It's behind the cut to spare my f-list.
Chapter Three: The Grey Light at Dusk
“Have you seen the well-to-do
Up on Lenox Avenue?
On that famous thoroughfare
With their noses in the air?
High hats and coloured collars,
White spats and fifteen dollars,
Spending every dime
For a wonderful time!”
-Irving Berlin, Puttin' On the Ritz
It was a little after three in the afternoon when Spike woke up. He was tangled in sheets and blankets and Drusilla; in cotton and eiderdown and silk-smooth skin, and he lay still and content for nearly an hour before restlessness overcame him. He got out of bed, being careful not to wake Dru, and pulled on a pair of trousers before leaving the room.
The house was enormous, practically a mansion, with high ceilings and marble floors. The architecture was graceful, and the now-dead servants had kept the place in good order. The windows were nearly six feet tall and four feet wide, with windowsills large enough to serve as benches. Fortunately, they'd come equipped with velvet curtains that were thick enough to block even the most stubborn of sunbeams. The curtains were a deep green colour and, when drawn, gave the house a gloomy, cavernous effect even at high noon. Drusilla adored them.
Spike was pleased with their latest home. It was several cuts above the typical vampire lair, and infinitely preferable to Darla's habit of staying in expensive hotels, where there were maids to complain about bloodstains and other guests to complain about the screaming. Spike smiled in satisfaction, then turned and headed to the library.
The old couple who'd lived in the house (before he and Dru had entered the picture, courtesy of an overly-trusting butler) had been dedicated bibliophiles. They'd collected everything from leather-bound classics to first editions to penny-dreadfuls; the shelves reached all the way to the ceiling, and every one was full.
Spike picked up the copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover he'd found tucked away on one of the upper shelves the day before. Unlike most of the books in the library, this one was in French rather than German, which was fortunate. Spike's spoken German was adequate, but he was not up for the task of reading a novel written in the language. He found the folded corner that marked the page he'd stopped on yesterday and settled into one of the room's two leather armchairs.
Half an hour later, Drusilla came dancing into the room. Spike put the book aside and watched her, enjoying the way she moved and the dreamy look in her dark eyes, until she stopped and looked over at him.
“I shall be on my own this evening,” she announced, “all alone among the rotting pretties.”
“You're not coming?” Spike frowned. “Why not?”
“The naughty man who took Grandmama's necklace sees things he shouldn't,” she said. “He sees too much, he does; all of the screams in the darkness, and the dead hands scrabbling, scrabbling upwards, seeking life from the pit. I'll not take tea with him, no; nor shall Miss Edith.”
“Then maybe I won't go either,” Spike said, leaning back in his chair.
“You have to go,” Dru scolded him. “Otherwise Grandmama shall be very cross, like a cat with nine tails stretched for strings.”
“Wouldn't want that, would we,” Spike muttered - but he said it to himself, and Dru pretended she hadn't heard him.
****
part two: darla
I had warned Spike to be prompt, so he was of course half an hour late. I'd expected as much, so I had only been waiting in the drawing-room for five minutes. He paused in the doorway as though looking for me, though he'd already given himself away with a quick glance as he rounded the door-jamb.
I will admit that he deserved the admiring glances that were thrown his way. His perfectly-tailored suit set off the lean, muscular lines of his body to admiration, and his razor-sharp good looks were emphasized by his slicked-back hair. The scar on his eyebrow gave his face character; warned that there were dangerous depths beneath his pretty facade, and the mock-delight that swept over his handsome features when he pretended to notice me for the first time would have fooled anyone who hadn't spent twenty years living side by side with him. Drusilla, in all her madness, had chosen her consort well.
He threaded his way gracefully through the crowd to my side and stopped, looking down at me. I refrained from mentioning his rudeness. Angelus had spent twenty years trying to beat the manners of William's mortal life back into Spike. Like so many of Angelus' gestures, it had been futile. A fledgling master vampire cannot be molded like a piece of pottery. They must be subtly guided, for all Angelus' claims of shaping Drusilla into the design he'd chosen. Rather than shaping her, he shattered her, and re-arranged the pieces into a shape that pleased him. It was a beautiful, brutal action, but it was hardly subtle.
“I've been waiting for you for half an hour,” I lied, pretending displeasure. Spike smirked, believing that he'd started our encounter by getting one over on me, and dropped heavily into the chair next to me. I repressed a smile.
“So, what's the plan?” Spike asked. “Are we going to beat this French ponce within an inch of his unlife, then take back your necklace?”
Compared to Spike, Angelus was a master of subtlety.
“No,” I told him, letting my annoyance show in my voice. “De Renault is one of Dracula's favourites. Attacking him directly will lead to a war between the Order of Aurelius and Host Drakul; even you should know that.”
“You know I'm not interested in politics,” he said.
“That's not politics; that's history,” I told him. “The Order and Host Drakul have fought six wars since the Host was founded. Any offense is likely to touch off another one.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Spike said. “Angelus used to yap about that sort of thing. I never listened to him, either. Just tell me what we need to do and we'll do it, yeah? None of the educational side conversation.”
“Fine,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “The plan is this....”
***
Author's Notes: As always, my thanks to debris4spike for beta-help. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Feedback? Is love.
Chapter Three: The Grey Light at Dusk
“Have you seen the well-to-do
Up on Lenox Avenue?
On that famous thoroughfare
With their noses in the air?
High hats and coloured collars,
White spats and fifteen dollars,
Spending every dime
For a wonderful time!”
-Irving Berlin, Puttin' On the Ritz
It was a little after three in the afternoon when Spike woke up. He was tangled in sheets and blankets and Drusilla; in cotton and eiderdown and silk-smooth skin, and he lay still and content for nearly an hour before restlessness overcame him. He got out of bed, being careful not to wake Dru, and pulled on a pair of trousers before leaving the room.
The house was enormous, practically a mansion, with high ceilings and marble floors. The architecture was graceful, and the now-dead servants had kept the place in good order. The windows were nearly six feet tall and four feet wide, with windowsills large enough to serve as benches. Fortunately, they'd come equipped with velvet curtains that were thick enough to block even the most stubborn of sunbeams. The curtains were a deep green colour and, when drawn, gave the house a gloomy, cavernous effect even at high noon. Drusilla adored them.
Spike was pleased with their latest home. It was several cuts above the typical vampire lair, and infinitely preferable to Darla's habit of staying in expensive hotels, where there were maids to complain about bloodstains and other guests to complain about the screaming. Spike smiled in satisfaction, then turned and headed to the library.
The old couple who'd lived in the house (before he and Dru had entered the picture, courtesy of an overly-trusting butler) had been dedicated bibliophiles. They'd collected everything from leather-bound classics to first editions to penny-dreadfuls; the shelves reached all the way to the ceiling, and every one was full.
Spike picked up the copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover he'd found tucked away on one of the upper shelves the day before. Unlike most of the books in the library, this one was in French rather than German, which was fortunate. Spike's spoken German was adequate, but he was not up for the task of reading a novel written in the language. He found the folded corner that marked the page he'd stopped on yesterday and settled into one of the room's two leather armchairs.
Half an hour later, Drusilla came dancing into the room. Spike put the book aside and watched her, enjoying the way she moved and the dreamy look in her dark eyes, until she stopped and looked over at him.
“I shall be on my own this evening,” she announced, “all alone among the rotting pretties.”
“You're not coming?” Spike frowned. “Why not?”
“The naughty man who took Grandmama's necklace sees things he shouldn't,” she said. “He sees too much, he does; all of the screams in the darkness, and the dead hands scrabbling, scrabbling upwards, seeking life from the pit. I'll not take tea with him, no; nor shall Miss Edith.”
“Then maybe I won't go either,” Spike said, leaning back in his chair.
“You have to go,” Dru scolded him. “Otherwise Grandmama shall be very cross, like a cat with nine tails stretched for strings.”
“Wouldn't want that, would we,” Spike muttered - but he said it to himself, and Dru pretended she hadn't heard him.
****
part two: darla
I had warned Spike to be prompt, so he was of course half an hour late. I'd expected as much, so I had only been waiting in the drawing-room for five minutes. He paused in the doorway as though looking for me, though he'd already given himself away with a quick glance as he rounded the door-jamb.
I will admit that he deserved the admiring glances that were thrown his way. His perfectly-tailored suit set off the lean, muscular lines of his body to admiration, and his razor-sharp good looks were emphasized by his slicked-back hair. The scar on his eyebrow gave his face character; warned that there were dangerous depths beneath his pretty facade, and the mock-delight that swept over his handsome features when he pretended to notice me for the first time would have fooled anyone who hadn't spent twenty years living side by side with him. Drusilla, in all her madness, had chosen her consort well.
He threaded his way gracefully through the crowd to my side and stopped, looking down at me. I refrained from mentioning his rudeness. Angelus had spent twenty years trying to beat the manners of William's mortal life back into Spike. Like so many of Angelus' gestures, it had been futile. A fledgling master vampire cannot be molded like a piece of pottery. They must be subtly guided, for all Angelus' claims of shaping Drusilla into the design he'd chosen. Rather than shaping her, he shattered her, and re-arranged the pieces into a shape that pleased him. It was a beautiful, brutal action, but it was hardly subtle.
“I've been waiting for you for half an hour,” I lied, pretending displeasure. Spike smirked, believing that he'd started our encounter by getting one over on me, and dropped heavily into the chair next to me. I repressed a smile.
“So, what's the plan?” Spike asked. “Are we going to beat this French ponce within an inch of his unlife, then take back your necklace?”
Compared to Spike, Angelus was a master of subtlety.
“No,” I told him, letting my annoyance show in my voice. “De Renault is one of Dracula's favourites. Attacking him directly will lead to a war between the Order of Aurelius and Host Drakul; even you should know that.”
“You know I'm not interested in politics,” he said.
“That's not politics; that's history,” I told him. “The Order and Host Drakul have fought six wars since the Host was founded. Any offense is likely to touch off another one.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Spike said. “Angelus used to yap about that sort of thing. I never listened to him, either. Just tell me what we need to do and we'll do it, yeah? None of the educational side conversation.”
“Fine,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “The plan is this....”
***
Author's Notes: As always, my thanks to debris4spike for beta-help. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Feedback? Is love.