Fic: But So Did I (Spike/Dru)
Title: But So Did I
Author: Ersatz Fiction
Parring: Spike/Dru
Word count:724
Rating: PG13 for one bad word
Spoilers: Becoming part 2,Chosen (and ALL that entails)
Summery: She plays the triangle.
AN: Written as a gift forevangelin1202 in the whedonland fic giving challenge. Title taken from the Ladytron song "He Took Her To The Movies". Whole story inspired by that one off line in Becoming part 2. All spelling mistakes, tense confusion and odd narrative choices are mine.
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New York 1976
"What about this one, love?” Spike held up a black and sliver electric guitar. Drusilla didn’t bother looking up from the tambourines.
"That one is ill luck. Stolen and sold to buy more smack. What about--" she pointed to one high on the wall to a red and black one, "That one."
"That one looked like its seen better days, Dru. I want something flashy, something that screams ‘I’m a rock star, suck my cock,’ not ‘I’m going to write bad songs about the one pretty girl I can't have.’"
Dru didn't say anything, distracted, as she was by a set of bongos sheath in goatskin that had been used in dark rituals. "Close your eyes and pick, I would like to go eat."
"I didn’t say anything about spending five hours in that on shop so you could pick up one sodding dress did I? We are going to stay here until I find what I want," he growled. She shivered. "Growl again, Spike."
Spike laughed. "When we're done we can go back to the nest and play rock star and groupie."
"Yes, please." Spike stalked over to kiss Dru for a few moments before letting her go. "Go on, find something you like. I don't want to spend all night in here ether."
Drusilla pirouetted, twirling down the packed ceiling high with various instruments. She brushes her fingers angst the keys of a keyboard: sold by and sad man who lost his lover. A candy colored drum set was set up in the back. Faint light from the back door flickers off the symbols, like twinkle fairy lights. The back door swings on a light breeze, the broken screaming like dying mice. Above the symbols the fairy lights catch--
"It found me."
"What?" Spike called out.
"It sounds like the heaven’s weeping, I will hear it and not feel alone." She unwound it from the drum set and laid it in her palm.
A sliver triangle. Holding it up by the string, she tapped it with the wand tied to the other end of the string. The clear high note filled the silence of the store.
"Fleeting like mayflies," she whispered.
"Dru! I found one!" She tapped the triangle with ever step to the front of the store. Spike was holding a black electric guitar by the neck.
"This screams Spike, Slayer of Riffs, doesn’t it?"
"Oh yes, my sweet. Look what I found." She tapped her triangle twice.
He smiled at her. "Very fitting, ducks. Lets go grab someone to take back to the nest and we'll have a little concert. Then," he slipped his hand behind her head and kissed her hard, "We can play rock star and groupie."
"Can I be the rock star?" He laughed, taking her arm like a gentlemen and leading her out into the night.
"Anything you want, my love."
Sunnydale, May 2003
A dark red 1959 Cadillac convertible smashes though the temporary orange roadblocks put up by the state of California. They fly across the road, one of them rolling to the side of the road, hitting the sign that proclaims "Sunnydale: ten miles".
The top is down; it is a warm night, the moon fat and low in the sky. With each mile, the crater where the town of Sunnydale use to stand looms larger. Several yards from the edge, various tents and vans block the highway that use to lead directly to Main Street.
The Cadillac turns off the road; sand and rocks kick up behind it. Some miles from the highway, the car stops. The door opens and a women, dressed in black, steps out into dust. Her boots make no sound as she walks to the very edge of the crater, looking out over the expanse.
In her palm: a triangle. She lets it go, and it falls, only to be brought short from the ground by a red braided rope. She raises her arm high and strikes the triangle over and over.
By the time the last ringing note ends, the moon has rolled far across the sky. She takes a black handkerchief and wipes her damp cheeks before wrapping it around the triangle. Letting her hand go limp, it falls to the ground and she does nothing to stop it.
Fin
Author: Ersatz Fiction
Parring: Spike/Dru
Word count:724
Rating: PG13 for one bad word
Spoilers: Becoming part 2,Chosen (and ALL that entails)
Summery: She plays the triangle.
AN: Written as a gift forevangelin1202 in the whedonland fic giving challenge. Title taken from the Ladytron song "He Took Her To The Movies". Whole story inspired by that one off line in Becoming part 2. All spelling mistakes, tense confusion and odd narrative choices are mine.
-----------
New York 1976
"What about this one, love?” Spike held up a black and sliver electric guitar. Drusilla didn’t bother looking up from the tambourines.
"That one is ill luck. Stolen and sold to buy more smack. What about--" she pointed to one high on the wall to a red and black one, "That one."
"That one looked like its seen better days, Dru. I want something flashy, something that screams ‘I’m a rock star, suck my cock,’ not ‘I’m going to write bad songs about the one pretty girl I can't have.’"
Dru didn't say anything, distracted, as she was by a set of bongos sheath in goatskin that had been used in dark rituals. "Close your eyes and pick, I would like to go eat."
"I didn’t say anything about spending five hours in that on shop so you could pick up one sodding dress did I? We are going to stay here until I find what I want," he growled. She shivered. "Growl again, Spike."
Spike laughed. "When we're done we can go back to the nest and play rock star and groupie."
"Yes, please." Spike stalked over to kiss Dru for a few moments before letting her go. "Go on, find something you like. I don't want to spend all night in here ether."
Drusilla pirouetted, twirling down the packed ceiling high with various instruments. She brushes her fingers angst the keys of a keyboard: sold by and sad man who lost his lover. A candy colored drum set was set up in the back. Faint light from the back door flickers off the symbols, like twinkle fairy lights. The back door swings on a light breeze, the broken screaming like dying mice. Above the symbols the fairy lights catch--
"It found me."
"What?" Spike called out.
"It sounds like the heaven’s weeping, I will hear it and not feel alone." She unwound it from the drum set and laid it in her palm.
A sliver triangle. Holding it up by the string, she tapped it with the wand tied to the other end of the string. The clear high note filled the silence of the store.
"Fleeting like mayflies," she whispered.
"Dru! I found one!" She tapped the triangle with ever step to the front of the store. Spike was holding a black electric guitar by the neck.
"This screams Spike, Slayer of Riffs, doesn’t it?"
"Oh yes, my sweet. Look what I found." She tapped her triangle twice.
He smiled at her. "Very fitting, ducks. Lets go grab someone to take back to the nest and we'll have a little concert. Then," he slipped his hand behind her head and kissed her hard, "We can play rock star and groupie."
"Can I be the rock star?" He laughed, taking her arm like a gentlemen and leading her out into the night.
"Anything you want, my love."
Sunnydale, May 2003
A dark red 1959 Cadillac convertible smashes though the temporary orange roadblocks put up by the state of California. They fly across the road, one of them rolling to the side of the road, hitting the sign that proclaims "Sunnydale: ten miles".
The top is down; it is a warm night, the moon fat and low in the sky. With each mile, the crater where the town of Sunnydale use to stand looms larger. Several yards from the edge, various tents and vans block the highway that use to lead directly to Main Street.
The Cadillac turns off the road; sand and rocks kick up behind it. Some miles from the highway, the car stops. The door opens and a women, dressed in black, steps out into dust. Her boots make no sound as she walks to the very edge of the crater, looking out over the expanse.
In her palm: a triangle. She lets it go, and it falls, only to be brought short from the ground by a red braided rope. She raises her arm high and strikes the triangle over and over.
By the time the last ringing note ends, the moon has rolled far across the sky. She takes a black handkerchief and wipes her damp cheeks before wrapping it around the triangle. Letting her hand go limp, it falls to the ground and she does nothing to stop it.
Fin