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Fic: The Christmas Eve Waltz, Spike/Drusilla, PG13
by you all know me (ladyoneill)
at December 29th, 2013 (10:56 pm)

Cheers: okay

Only one thing from me today, but I enjoyed writing it amidst a million other things I overcommitted myself to these holidays. *g*

Title: The Christmas Eve Waltz
Author: Laure Alexander
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Spike/Drusilla; referenced Angelus/Drusilla
Warnings: Language, a bit of hinted at sex and whipping.
Disclaimer: Nothing about BtVS belongs to me; it's all Joss; I'm just playing with his characters and making them do naughty things as I have been for nearly sixteen years.
Distribution: Please ask first. Will be at my site Meandering Muse.
Word Count: 1673
Summary: Spike and Drusilla dance together through the years every Christmas Eve.
A/N: For my day at Noel of Spike on LJ; in my universe, Spike is 200 years old and Angelus is truly his sire. See my Alpha Series at the above website for my fanon for them in pretty much every story I write. The Black Rose is a club owned by Spike in the 1920 and 30s in Harlem. This, um, got a little sad at the end.

The country house is ablaze with candle light on Christmas Eve of 1885. William watches indulgently as Drusilla hangs berries and nuts on the tall evergreen in the corner of the drawing room. Sipping from a crystal goblet of blood, he listens to her hum God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen and sway to the sound of her own voice. As the cold doesn't touch her, she wears a beautiful green satin and brocade gown with short lace sleeves and a low back and equally low front. Her bosom is enhanced by the tightness of her corset and sets a stirring in his groin every time she bends over to fetch more decorations from a crate on the floor.

When she turns her back on him, though, he can't help but scowl. Above the lace trimmed back of the dress are the marks of Angelus' whip marring her white skin. They are healing, but he hates each and every one, along with the knowledge that she earned them in their sire's bed only this morning.

He takes another drink, then sets aside the goblet and rises to help her twine ribbons around the branches of the tree. He's not completely taken by this custom, sees no reason to celebrate the birth of a child he no longer believes in, but he is completely taken by Drusilla.

William has no problem acknowledging his devotion for her and when she rises on tip toes to press her lips to his, he drinks in her love for him.

If only he didn't have to share her with Angelus.

"Dance with me."

"There's no music, love."

Smiling, she begins to sing another verse and he takes her in his arms to twirl her around the tree in her favorite dance, the waltz.


Darla wanted to visit China, so on Christmas Eve, 1899, they're in Beijing, feeding on European missionaries and Chinese alike. As it is more and more their custom, Angelus and Darla are fighting again, and Spike tunes them out and sits in his bedroom, watching Drusilla brushing her long, dark hair. She wears only an ivory silk shift and matching robe that slips off one shoulder with each move of the brush in her hand. He listens to her hum Hark The Herald Angels Sing, occasionally breaking into the song for a line or two, and wonders why she always sings and dances to Christmas carols every year at this time.

A few years ago he asked her, but she had no answer, only looked confused, and, hating to see her that way, trying to remember things long lost, he kissed her until she smiled.

He's never asked her again, just indulged her as he does anything she does or wants.

That's why there is a small tree in one corner, an evergreen but not like the ones in England. It's bedecked with her jewels and ribbons and beneath it are the gifts he got her, wrapped in silk scarves.

So lost in his thoughts, he doesn't realize she's standing in front of him, holding out her hand. "Let us dance, my darling William."

He'll indulge her in calling him that old name as well, rising and launching into a fast paced dance that slows to a graceful waltz as he joins her in singing the carol. His love for her nearly chokes him and he doesn't mind.


It's Christmas Eve, 1928 in Harlem, and The Black Rose is bedecked in gold and silver orbs that glitter in the semi-darkness. Star shaped lights twinkle around the pillars, and mistletoe hangs at all the entrances. The orchestra plays jazzed up versions of popular Christmas songs and the bathtub gin flows alongside smuggled rum from the islands.

In the midst of revelers dancing the foxtrot and Charleston to I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day, Drusilla sways at a much slower pace. Eyes closed, but unerringly avoiding the other dancers, she laughs, a tinkling sound that goes both to his heart and his groin. Standing just to the side, leaning against one of the pillars, he drags smoke from his cigarette into his dead lungs, and never lets his eyes drift from her.

Tonight she forgoes the holiday colors for pink. The gown, sleeveless and held up only by jewel encrusted straps, flows over her slender form to just below her knees where it becomes fringe. The bodice is embroidered with darker pink roses and glittering with rhinestones and clear bugle beads. On her feet are silver dance shoes and pale brown silk stockings adorn her legs.

This era's dresses are made for her small bosom, small hips. With her dark hair bobbed in an angle just below her chin and straightened by an iron, she looks too young for this club. But, she's not the only one. Those carefree flappers that dance and smoke and drink and fuck fill his club every night.

He loves the taste of them.

But, he loves her more.

Stubbing out his cigarette and straightening his white waistcoat and black jacket, Spike strolls towards Drusilla, not sure if he wants to dance with her or take her into his office and shimmy that dress up to her waist and down over her unbound breasts.

He figures there's plenty of time for both.

"May I have this dance?" he murmurs into her ear, and she squeals in delight and turns into his arms, her swaying becoming a waltz. It doesn't fit the music or the atmosphere, but he indulges her and twirls her around the dance floor.

They have waltzed together for over sixty years.

He plans that they will continue to do so for an eternity, no matter what dances modern music spawns.


London, 1942, and Christmas Eve, for once, is quiet. No bombs drop on the city, no blackout sirens wail. A few pubs are open, doing quiet business, and they choose one with a small band. An accordian and piano play Christmas carols, and a female singer croons softly. Drusilla listens avidly to the music as Spike sips his beer and reads to her from the day's news. He knows she's not really paying attention, but she's with him and that's all that matters.

"It's quiet."

"For once."

She tilts her head, listening. "No blood will flow tonight."

Spike shrugs. "We can make some flow on our own, if you want."

Drusilla smiles at him, then rises to her feet and reaches back to pull her with him. "Dance with me."

"To Deck The Halls?" He smiles, bemused, but lets her pull him to the small area in front of the musicians. No one else is dancing, but he doesn't care, just lets her take his hand and flow with him into a waltz. It doesn't fit the music either, but he doesn't care about that either. In the middle of the dance they find themselves under a sprig of mistletoe and he kisses her, ignoring the hoots and cheers from the other patrons.

Time enough to kill them later.


"This is very clever."

At the joy in Drusilla's voice, Spike joins her in front of the television in their small flat in New York City. It's Christmas Eve, 1977, and the world is so very different. Punk and disco compete for the attention of youth, but here on the television is something unique.

At the sight and sound of David Bowie, Ziggie Stardust himself, singing alongside old crooner, Bing Crosby, his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

Laughing, Drusilla claps her hands and sings along with The Little Drummer Boy as Spike drops down to the floor next to her to watch, amazed.

This is truly an age of wonders.

When the duet is finished and the show gives over to commercials, Drusilla switches off the television and stands in white platform boots and green and red plaid bell bottom trousers with a low cut white blouse, then reaches down to pull him up as well. She's disco and he's punk in torn jeans, black boots, torn t-shirt with very rude sayings printed on it, and his hair dyed bright blond.

Still, they go together so well.

Drusilla hums the song Bowie sang, a new one to Spike's ears, and pulls him into her arms. Their Christmas waltz in their tiny flat, finds them eventually tripping into a low table and onto the bed, laughing.

No need for mistletoe, Spike kisses her as, outside their one, dirty window, snow begins to fall.


Christmas Eve, 1997, and they're in the hellhole that is Sunnydale. Spike is bedridden, unable to move any of his body below his waist. He can't even sit by himself. His legs and spine were crushed in the fall of the church.

Bitterly he watches from his bed as Drusilla, wearing crimson and black lace, directs the minions in decorating the tree with stolen ornaments and glittering lights.

He hates everything, especially his sire. While grateful that the ritual worked and Drusilla is strong and healthy, instead of dying, Angelus survived without a scratch and here Spike is broken, a burden on his love.

One of the minions turns on a radio and Christmas music is playing. He hates it all.

Hates it even more when In The Bleak Midwinter comes on and Drusilla starts to waltz alone.

She looks at him only once, sorrow and love on her expressive face, and he has to turn his own away, unable to bear the thought of not being able to share the waltz with her.

A sob sounds and then she's on the bed with him, careful of his broken body, but curling around him.

"I'll fix you, just like you fixed me, my darling Spike, and next Christmas Eve we'll waltz again."

Spike feels his anger and frustration fade just a little and wraps an arm around her shaking shoulders, crooning softly to her along with the song.

Their love is eternal. They will get past this. Next Christmas Eve they'll dance.


Except, they never dance together again.



Posted by: JaniceO (comlodge)
Posted at: December 30th, 2013 09:01 am (UTC)

What a lovely little piece of time travel. I've a special spot for Spike and Drusilla and you've done them so very well here.

Posted by: Rebcake (rebcake)
Posted at: January 1st, 2014 08:38 am (UTC)

*sniff* A lovely waltz through the years, m'dear. I can't pick a favorite, because they all are note-perfect for Spike and Dru, even if the rhythm of the songs isn't strictly for waltzing. They've their own drummer, after all.

Posted by: Butterfly (snogged)
Posted at: January 15th, 2014 02:15 am (UTC)
[ATS] Frangelus

This was a lovely, albeit bittersweet, reflection on their relationship. Nice work!