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SUMMARY: Spike chases Drusilla down to get her back again.
RATING: PG-13 for violence
DISCLAIMER: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and all of its characters belong to persons greater than myself. This story belongs to me, though. That's a small consolation.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Chelle for supreme coolness, even if I am an impatient twit.
The acrid smell of burned flesh hung in the air, along with a rapidly dissipating haze of smoke. He inhaled it deeply, tasting it on his tongue, and his lips curled back over his white, even teeth in a feral grin. He drew a matte black Zippo from his deep coat pocket, and a cigarette from the other. The thin stream of tobacco smoke danced and mingled intimately with that rising from the body.
His name had been Morgan, or Mortigan, or some other ridiculous thing along those lines. His name didn't really matter, anyway, not now. He'd been a Kailiff demon. Tall, strong, dark skinned, with thick little horns and knobs jutting proudly from his face. Thick lips, irises so dark brown that they appeared black. Better than the last one. Harder to kill, and he'd put up a valiant struggle. But the Kailiff demon hadn't really stood a chance, because he'd taken something that belonged to Spike.
The vampire cocked his head slightly, listening intently to the sounds in the woods surrounding the Kailiff's home. Somewhere to the south -- no, southwest -- a twig snapped, and something rustled through the trees. Spike's eyes, well-adjusted to the black nights of the remote wilderness, caught a flash of white, nude skin, and then it was gone again, the pale face vanishing back into the cover of the forest.
"You can't run forever, Drusilla," Spike called out, directing his voice toward the trees. It echoed, and came back to him as a whispered promise of destruction.
To the southwest, there was more sound, like a deer sprinting away from the frightening sound of his voice.
Spike smiled, tossing his barely-smoked cigarette to the ground; it clattered into the charred remains of the Kailiff's rib cage, slipping through and coming to rest against the a spine half-buried in ash. He slipped off his coat, pulled his t-shirt over his head, kicked off his boots and flung his socks after them. He bounced once, lightly, on the bare balls of his feet, curled and quickly unfurled his fists, and then sprinted toward the treeline where he'd seen her face.
The darkness was deep, and it seemed there were infinite hours still remaining in the night. Somewhere in the cover of the trees, a pale, naked deer fled from the smell of burned flesh, and not far behind her, the wolf pursued.
His breathing was deep and rhythmic, his torso swelling with breath -- inhale, detecting her scent, his mouth open so he could catch it on his tongue, and exhale again -- in perfect synchronization with the swing of his arms and the steady pattern of his feet hitting the forest floor. He moved so swiftly that he barely seemed to touch the ground; his foot would touch down lightly with a rustle of leaves, and he would feel lush, green grass underfoot, or a sharp twig would slice at his skin, but by then he'd be taking another flying step. He vaulted over the roots, plants and boulders that nature placed in his path, dodging the grasping branches of trees and the snaring claws outstretched by the bushes.
The night air was still, but his motion sent it whipping by him, a million cool hands stealing caresses along his bare torso as he passed. He concentrated on the sounds that the night offered up: to the left, the subdued trickle of a stream echoed up the embankment to his ears, and he could hear her splashing through the water, unknowingly headed toward him. He slowed, then stopped; the air's caresses stilled to a cold embrace, and offered a slow, stroking touch when he moved again, stepping carefully up the small rise to the top of the embankment.
He could see his prey below him, and she had stilled, too; she'd come face to face with a deer on the near side of the stream. Both were startled into stillness, their eyes locked on one another, trembling but not daring to flee. Both of them knew what it was to be hunted, but only one possessed the capacity to feel sympathy for the other.
Drusilla lunged forward and caught the deer around the neck, wrenching its head upward, not bothering to kill the animal before sinking her fangs into its vulnerable throat. Her arms wrapped around the creature, crushing its windpipe, preventing it from letting out a cry of alarm that might draw the attention of her pursuer. Her hunger made her messy, and her teeth heedlessly ripped open the tender skin, spilling warm red blood over her chin. It slipped down her neck, ran between her breasts, and continued on downward, dipping into her navel, breaking into separate rivulets to journey over the swell of her belly, staining the hair between her legs, running down her thighs and marking her feet.
The deer jerked three times in her arms, and then was still. A breeze rustled the trees, gently drowning out the sound of the vampire's frantic feeding.
Spike leapt down from the top of the rise, and the soft noise of his landing was masked by the sound of the deer's body tumbling to the ground, released from Drusilla's arms. She stood still for a moment, licking her lips, then spun nimbly on her feet to continue her flight through the woods.
Spike's chest, solid and smooth, blocked her escape. She stepped right into his arms, and gasped in alarm, trying to pull back but already ensnared in his embrace. Her blood-slicked hands pushed at his chest, scratched at his biceps, and dug sharp fingernails into his neck until he trapped her arms, too, pinning them to her sides.
The first time he'd intruded on her new life and killed her lover, they'd argued. The second time had brought a physical fight, and the third, she'd tried to kill him. By the time fate found them, hunter and prey, locked in a deadly embrace in the wilderness, Drusilla had lost many lovers. The time for words had long sinced passed; none were exchanged, then, and arguments were unnecessary.
Their eyes met and locked, just as Drusilla's had done with the deer, and she shivered, frozen by his gaze. He cocked his head, contemplating her, then leaned closer, the tip of his tongue delicately tracing the lines of her lips, licking the blood clean, before he claimed her mouth in a kiss, consuming her.
Then he pulled away, his embrace loosening, setting her free again; he stepped back a pace, his arms releasing their hold on hers. His hands slid around to the front of her body, caressing her blood-stained breasts, then gaining more distance again, one hand trailing three fingers down her chest to just above the dip of her navel, leaving crimson streaks in their wake, then finally pulling away completely. She shivered violently when his touch vanished from her skin, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, her head tipping forward, her eyes staring blankly at the ground.
They stood for long moments that way: Drusilla shuddering and staring at nothing, and Spike only a short distance away, his hands hanging at his sides, watching her downcast head, willing to wait forever.
When Dru raised her head again, a few thick strands of dark hair stuck in the blood on her cheek, and her hands slowly unfurled themselves from her sides, reaching for Spike.
She sank into his embrace as she had done a million times before, her thin arms wrapping around his waist, her face buried in his neck. Her tongue bathed his throat, lapping up the blood that smeared his skin, and he tilted his head up to accept her attentions.
"Welcome home, baby," he whispered, and his voice rumbled through her lips. Drusilla smiled against his jaw, her hands sliding up cradle his cheeks in her palms. Their eyes met again, and he frowned, glancing away, looking over her shoulder at the deer she'd killed. Its eyes were open, staring sightlessly at him.
They were wide, dark, and wild, like Drusilla's, and just as empty.