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Absence of Breath
By Bullocks

summary: It doesn't matter that they're demons, some things can still make them feel.
rating: R
author's note: Spike muses on his relationship with his sire. Spike's POV
disclaimer: All characters and unoriginal plotlines and ideas belong to BTVS and ATS.
distribution: If you want it, ask.

----
No one grieves for murderers.

People who do are fools. I know what I am, and the corruption inside of my body runs deep, flowing through my veins and the hollows of my bones. There is a unfathomable, thick, invisible darkness there that treads through my still heart.

That is what fools cry for, so the tears that I shed for Drusilla must be empty.

Her eyes are liquid, deep and smooth as they flash against her white skin, illuminating her cat-like smile. Then she spins, spreading her arms out wide with her fingers pointing out in every direction, and the nail polish glistening in deep shades of crimson and plum.

The feeling that stirs me now is guilt, the thought that I should cry for her. She was pure and is now wicked, unbelievably resigned to evil, a fate that she never chose and yet seems so right for her.

She runs her fingers over my chest and plays with my collarbone, shyly whispering to me about the deaths of her sisters, how she screamed when their brains were dashed out on the gutters of the London streets. Then she shrinks back, and screams in her high-pitched, out of place voice: "All the king's horses, and all the king's men!"

Then lowers her tone to a plaintive wail, balling at her eyes for a second as she presses her body against mine.

"Couldn't put humpty together again," and now she's flashing her eyes at me again and pulling away, while her nails tear gently at my sleeves. She grins lasciviously at me and puts her hands on her hips, swaying back and forth, to and fro with another tune dancing off of her lips.

She's created shades between us, levels of evil that she's grown and I have yet to grasp or posses.

The patience that she has for death has cultivated this rich need in her, this primal urge to taunt her prey, to intertwine her sexual foreplay and childish whims with her bloodlust. I burn for pain and death, while she merely yearns for it, with a secret hunger and sensuous desire that enflames her when the time is right.

When the fear is perfect and the victim's eyes are wide and ditched, and they're sobbing desperately without knowledge of what they're crying for, is what Drusilla wants, because their minds have crumbled so pathetically. The serene perfection of the way that they are lost, broken inside with their entire being so deteriorated that the only thing left is an almost soulless shell-- this is what she desires. That is what breaks her silence and draws her demon out of its silk and lace hide-away.

She pounces.

The force of her body throws me onto the floor, and her slight weight is anchored around my hips, and her arms are pressed on either side of my head. I'm lying limply, letting her play her games as she licks her tongue over her now lifted hands, tasting her bare fingers.

"Now is when they shiver..." she recalls, gaily bending to run her fangs over my jugular vein. "Do you like the way they tremble?"

"I don't wait for trembling." My voice is small and sounds stunted in my head.

Drusilla leans up and grins, amiably swaying from side to side. Another game, watch the way his heart shudders and beats, nearly bursting as it racks against his ribcage and chest, ready to explode with his fear of you.

"Patience," Drusilla says now, dryly pulling off of me with a sneer.

She backs towards the bed, and her mood changes to be incredulously jubilant.

"Is a virtue, mummy always said." She sits down upon the edge of it, with her long skirts swimming over her thighs and spread-out past her ankles.

Her face is a lovely picture, downy white and bathed in black. The ostrich feathers hanging from the sash of her skirt are ebony against the heavy, dark, lace covering her shapely hips. Her bosom is hidden beneath black cotton, and her neck is appropriately buttoned-up, without a shred of skin to see.

There is a superb irony in decency, I think, recalling some sort of literature as my love begins to draw off her long, silk gloves. She meticulously pulls each finger out, admiring the special hands where holes were cut for her nails and fingertips to peak out.

"These gifts from Spike," she says, very slowly, to pointedly draw my attention, as if my princess didn't know how much she already had it. "They're so frivolous." She laughs, deep and throaty as she begins to unbutton her collar and bear her chemise below. "Do you know what an awful sin it is, when you pull the feathers off of angels?"

I can't tell now if she's seeing or just being daft in he lovable, puerile way. Her game goes on with me as she stretches out on the bed. Tempting me...

I'm an easy catch as I climb on top of her, shedding my shirt and beginning to loosen my pants. I pull at the ties across my crotch, immediately wanting her.

She stops my hand with her own slender fingers, pouting.

"That's naughty Spike."

Waiting until you burst for want of death.

She never tortured me this way when she took me, wrapped in her embrace in some cold, icy comfort that I had never known could be so warm and hot.

She reaches up and places her right hand over my face, tracing the lines of my cheekbones, un-reflected in her endless eyes.

"No more walls to fall off of. You're already gone." She says sadly, thinking briefly of the way she could have tortured my flesh.

There's silence, and I watch words play across her expressive face.

Then she grabs me, reaching up suddenly with almost enough force to crush me as she wraps her body around mine and wrestles me down. She shrugs my pants down over my hips, simultaneously removing her body from the comfort of her skirts. I let her fall on top of me, and she catches my neck, pressing her lips softly against it, feeling my body thrust into hers in some distant recess of her mind.

"Bite me, Dru," I say, wanting to feel the completeness that she is, and the wonderful death that she offers her victims, who are clueless as to the perfection that is my master.

Her body shudders as she wraps around me, and she responds eagerly, plunging her teeth into my skin and tasting my blood. Drusilla moans and the sound is familiar from her feasts on all of her other victims, but everything else is different, and the scream that I wish for is gone.

I'm drowning in the thing that I am most thankful for, inside of the gift that she graciously bestowed on me to grant me her eternal love.

The maddening silence of it tears at my head, and I can feel my body lurching with each churn of my hips to send forth the guttural announcement of death, so commonly uttered by man.

But nothing escapes from my chambers, and regret and thankfulness for that fills me. I'm lost in loving her so much, because I want to be her victim and her sin, everything that she couldn't bear to make me all at once.

I'm drowning in the nothing that is eternity, and I can only feel her body hanging onto mine, my only beacon of existence. She's all I want, but I want to be everything that she gives and so much more.

To die and exist in her all at once, to experience the epitome of Drusilla.

She draws away from me, with my dark blood staining her soft, wet lips.

And my body lurches upwards, and nothing passes over the threshold of my throat, as I am left with the touch of her skin, wet and eager against mine.

There is an irony in peace when you are dead.