Forget-me-not by Te February 2000 Disclaimers: If they were mine, I'd be busy. Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Spoilers: References to second and third season events. This theoretically takes place between Graduation Day Part 2 and The Freshman. Summary: Drusilla has a moment of clarity. Pairing: Drusilla/Buffy, implied unresolved Buffy/Faith. Ratings Note: NC-17 for some violence, a bit of smut, and imagery and situations some readers will hate. Archival: Sure. Notes/Acknowledgments: To my Linda, for making me see this in the first place, to LaTonya and Misha for fine, patient audiencing, and to Katie for moral support and cliche avoidance. Feedback lusted for at thete1@earthlink.net * Sometimes she forgets. What she can do, that is. She knows she is Drusilla, and that she is fine and precious and rare. Some things are learned by rote, and cannot be unlearned no matter what, so say her little ones in the pretty dresses. But Spike, he never spoke of the other things, the twisty things where she can reach in between the air and grab hold of spirits, and Miss Edith often couldn't be trusted. So she forgets, and she moves as seems proper until she remembers. And when she remembers, it comes with a wash of new color over the world, enough to make her pause mid-motion in whatever she is doing and smile, beatifically, at the moon. Whether it's there or not. One of these times, she comes back to herself quite frozen a bare breath away from a long, pale, trembling throat. Sound returns with sobbing prayer in a young man's rich baritone, scent in the iron and acid pain haze drifting from the fresh stump of his forearm. When she is complete again she lets the boy drop from her grasp and steps over his hunched form and into new, bright dreams. There are no paths onto the Slayer's property. Drusilla knows she would not have gotten into her home, but it is a surprise to find the too-neat rectangle of grass warded and barred against her so thoroughly. It is a barbed wire snarl of a spell, crude but effective. Even the tree Daddy had so loved to lurk in is scrawled with runes. She traces one with her fingertip and feels the ice of it seep through her bones and settle. Her nipples chafe against the lazy old cotton of her frock, but Drusilla resists the urge to hum and sway. It is easier to do when she remembers, and she takes advantage of the gift. She knows it is anything but permanent. Instead, she fades into the shadow of a neighbor's lush hedge, closes her eyes, and lets the pull of the Slayer's scent guide her focus. She needs her body for this, needs it centered properly. Moments pass and a hazy image resolves. A woman's voice murmurs under the sound of too many drums, a knowingly false seduction that makes Drusilla cross. The Slayer is surrounded by clean clean fabric. The Slayer herself seems to be covered in a light sheen of sweat. It is a warm night, and she is mostly still, a barely registerable presence beyond a wall that can do nothing to block simple perception. Drusilla catches a taste of the power the Slayer radiates, and swallows it down. And then she lets her arms unfold from around herself, she opens herself and slowly uncurls her fingers from her fists and tilts her head back and stands. A teasing breeze plays around the hem of her dress, tickling at her ankles. Drusilla does not move or smile. Drusilla *focuses*. One moment, another, and then the first hook of Other bites into the flesh of her fingertips. She lets herself be drawn, tasted, loved and cherished and seared and she is being pulled out straighter. She is becoming a cross of being, and as she is lifted from the ground she lets her feet dangle. She is in both worlds now, a state of being she would stay in permanently if it was allowed, stretched and tugged into ambiguous perfection, still for the changing. But it ends quickly, as always. The core of her, strengthened by this remembering, summons back the tendrils of herself and those bits of Other that are too enamored to free themselves. She is Drusilla, and she is made new. When her feet once again touch the ground the Slayer's signature is solid enough to touch, and Drusilla does just that, wrapping her tingling fingers around the cord of fresh sweet power and tugging, once, gently. And then she smiles, and waits. * Halfway through the arduous process of deciding on a nail polish neither so bright it ruins all possibility of stealth nor so dark it makes her look adolescently angsty, it comes. The little itch at the back of her neck that, the urge to move and do and possibly to kill. She'd never really quantified the vague set of sensations and uncomfortable emotions that Giles insisted were her birthright until Faith. Now she knows exactly what they are, and has a hard time smiling politely whenever Xander makes one of his 'Slayer-sense tingling?' comments. It is what it is, though, so she moves quickly, slipping back into her boots and doing a few reflexive quick stretches. There's a stake in her hand before she reaches the window, but there's nothing there on first glance. On second glance, however, there is Drusilla. The vampire is staring directly up at her from the Jernigans' yard, smiling. Buffy takes a moment to try to shake off the perception shifts, and when she opens her eyes again Dru remains. She seems closer now, despite the fact that Buffy can easily see that the position of her feet has not changed. Another blink and she's closer still. It's a freezeframe effect almost, zooming in with nearly audible *clicks* every time Buffy blinks. She knows witchcraft when she feels it, and wonders if there'll ever come a time when she'll stop trusting Willow... as many times as spells and runes and amulets have saved her life, there's something that feels... wrong about magic to Buffy. There is battle, and slayage, and clean-up. When magic is a player on the field but there are too many variables, too many languages she can't quite learn, too many tricks that could kill her one day. It is only when she finds herself poking at the old wound of Giles' past and darkening present that she becomes consciously aware of the fact that she is clambering with sickening ease down her tree. There's something buzzing within the bark -- nothing like wasps or other insects, more like the not-sound a muted television makes. She remembers coming home to find Willow standing on Xander's shoulders as she drew the hundred different symbols on the treebark. She remembers being irritated by the fact that her mother acted as though the two of them were doing nothing more sinister than building her a soapbox racer or something. She remembers the struggle not to fork the evil eye at the finished work of tree and how she had to unstiffen herself to hug and thank her well-meaning friends. She remembers hating herself for picking up too many of Faith's suspicions simply because they felt comfortable next to her own and Buffy froze her mind with an effort and deliberately threw herself to the ground of her front yard, digging her short nails as deeply as possible into the soil and kicking divots into the air with the effort to give her toes purchase. If she screamed, the only one to hear would be her mother, watching television maybe 30 feet behind and to the left. Buffy shifted, tried to feel if she still had a stake with her. It didn't seem likely, and she remembered one of the times it had been 6 against 2, her and Faith back to back, and, in the end, surrounded by nothing but dust. She remembers two separate times when she'd nearly been killed because she hadn't been able to retrieve her one stake fast enough. She remembers the wet shine on Faith's broad grin, the seemingly huge exhilirated presence of her as she'd spun Buffy around to face the wall. She'd run one slightly calloused finger down from the nape of Buffy's neck to the base of her spine, pausing just slightly beyond the gapping waistband of her jeans. And then Faith had leaned in and whispered of the days before Sunnydale, when no one cared if a vampire Slayer also carried a big, sharp knife tucked... right... there. Just in case. So when Buffy finally realizes that opening her eyes and focusing on Drusilla could help, she's already in the Jernigan's utterly unprotected driveway, frozen in mid-crawl, filthy. Drusilla is still smiling up at her window, and is obscenely tall from this angle. The only thing Buffy can see clearly -- she will not risk trying to blink the haze off her vision -- are the flimsy-looking silk mules on the vampire's feet. "I bet you'd be just as dead if I just *punched* a hole through your heart." "Mmmm... I've been tasting your memories, Slayer-child... you shouldn't keep stopping the show like that, you know." "What did you do to me?" Drusilla finally looks down at her, then crouches. There is a playful light in her eyes, oddly free of the dark leer that other vampires always have. She reaches out, brushes the hair out of Buffy's face very slowly. Each flash of pale skin past her eyes makes her want to roll away, but if she forgets not to blink... her eyes are already burning. "I like you like this, all still and angry, desperate to dream again of your Faith... you only have to close your eyes, pretty girl..." "Christ, can't you just pop a Thorazine or something?" "Such big, big blue eyes... I know why Daddy wanted to watch you suffer, I do. You took him away from us and filled his head with sunlight he could never touch... you made him weak." Buffy searches for a way out, unable to pull her conscious attention away from Drusilla, even though at this point she knows the woman could do anything she wanted to with Buffy. She knows she can move, and that's a start, so she stops trying to grind her bare knees into the pavement for just long enough to try to pull backwards. But the moment she actually lifts her knee from the ground she is helplessly crawl-marching the last few feet to Drusilla, who stops petting her and stands again. Buffy can't stop moving, though -- her body continues to march even though she's pressed against Drusilla from belly to foot, face pressed against dusty-smelling fabric, hands reaching out, grasping and releasing. Trying to speak just leaves her with a mouthful of dress, and the scrape, scrape, scrape of the pavement under her knees is relentless. She feels Drusilla's hand tangle itself lightly in her hair. "Shhh, shhh... dream for me..." And when Buffy can almost hear the sound of cotton against her eyes she finally lets them close and remembers the way Faith never touched her the way she was supposed to know Buffy wanted to be touched and the way she'd finally gotten bored enough to go back to the tried and true and the clear, delicious relief of the dead body at their feet because it had to stop then, it had to -- And she remembers the way she could still smell Faith on the leather pants she'd pulled on that night, and remembers remembering the night Faith had left them there, just pulled them out of a battered plastic bag from a grocery store, threw them onto Buffy's bed, and said: "For whenever you feel like leaving pastel behind... they're too small for me now, anyway." And she remembers Faith's little shrug that she knew meant so much more than what was actually said, and she remembers not answering any of it. And she remembers wishing she were a vampire if only so that the blood on Faith's knife could have meaning. When Buffy opens her eyes again she is still pressed against Drusilla. No one has come, no cars have even slowed at the sight of one dirty woman on her knees to another. On her knees with her arms wrapped around thighs she could feel the shape of, the cold of, through the fabric of the dress. She's breathing heavily and suddenly the only thing behind her eyes is white white white and the bruised, unconscious thing that used to be Faith and she remembers how the petals of the flowers she brought had felt so greasy between her fingertips and the way Angel had left, everybody left, and she wants to scream and she isn't sure why she can't but she knows, she does know and she tears her eyes open and tries to breathe. "What the hell do you want from me?" And the sound of her own voice is low and far too hoarse. "How do you wish me to answer that question?" The words are wrong, but the voice... she looks up and there's Faith, slightly olive in moonlight, smirking. Whole. Awake. There's something Buffy's supposed to remember about this, about what this means, but Faith is still there. Faith is waiting, and there's nothing else now. No other dead bodies, no Angel, no Mayor, no knives, just the two of them, and Faith in nothing but a plain white hospital gown. Her skin feels so cold... Buffy tries on a laugh and finds it easier than she expected. "Jesus, Faith, I know you've been out of commission for a while but I don't think you need to have your butt flapping in the breeze to attract a date... you better come in with me, I'll find you something to wear." Come in, just come in, please don't walk away... Faith only smiles, so gently... She looks happy, at peace just the way she had when she'd told Buffy how to kill the Mayor. It's all right, it's really all right. She's heading for the door, Faith's hand in her own when Faith refuses to budge. Cold rush of panic and fifty different apologies and pleas gather in Buffy's throat. She can *feel* Faith slipping away, and she knows she knows this time it will be permanent but when she whirls around to beg, Faith is only smiling ruefully, gesturing with her free hand at Buffy's open window. "Could we... could we avoid your mother for a while? I...I wasn't supposed to leave the hospital." The relief makes Buffy's laugh a little too short, too loud, and she squeezes Faith's hand tighter within her own. "Yeah, I just bet. Window it is. Are you sure you're OK to climb?" The only answer she gets in return was another smile. Faith is right behind her as she climbs, and Buffy knows that if the tree were wide enough the other girl would be racing with her. She remembers when they would spar, and Faith would ride her hard. 'Move your ass, B...' Playfully... the word strikes a vague chord and Buffy pauses. "What's the matter, B? Gotten soft since I've been out of the game?" And it's so close to right Buffy forgets why she paused in the first place and hoists herself into her room. Faith is just behind her and the back of Buffy's neck tingles in the anticipation of the single breath that will leave her in goosebumps. Instead, the other girl wraps her arms around Buffy and pulls her close. "I dreamed..." Buffy swallows, wonders if she's supposed to lean back into the touch. "What... did you dream?" "That you wanted me to touch you." Buffy thinks she'll say more, that she'll have time to get ready for this, but Faith just buries her face in Buffy's neck and moves her hands up under her thin shirt. Buffy's bra is in shreds in seconds. "Hey, that's Vict --!" Faith tweaks both of her nipples at once, and Buffy remembers the way she'd had to beg before Angel would use that kind of force, Slayer or no. Yes, this is exactly the way it would have been, should have been, one strong confident hand snaking it's way down her chest, popping open her jean shorts with ease and practice and God she's so ready for this. Waves of heat radiating out from everywhere Faith's cool palms have been and Buffy leans back into the other girl's grip. Closes her eyes and moans and lets a dozen hazy half-remembered fantasies flash by behind her eyes. And then Faith pushes her across the room onto her bed, onto sheets tangled and warm for no reason but the California summer. Buffy lays back where Faith has thrown her and waits. Faith straddles her waist, pushes her palms against Buffy's abdomen and strokes her, up and down and in circles. Faith watches unwaveringly, seeming to take in every shift, every moan. Buffy can feel her hips grinding up into air with every slight change in the way the other girl touches her, and wonders what it looks like. If she looks as needy as she suddenly feels. Faith doesn't say a word either way, just attacks Buffy's mouth with her own, diving and stabbing and biting at it but never staying still long enough for Buffy to catch it, hold onto it and all the while Faith's hands are in motion. Buffy arches when short sharp nails dig in hard just beneath her breast, groans when Faith rakes them down leaving five distinct hot trails. Faith's mouth follows, and she laps and sucks at the marks, making Buffy hurt a little and beg the other girl to touch her somewhere else, anywhere -- A tug at her shorts and Buffy's thrusts up, nearly pitching Faith off. In the end, both her shorts and panties are in an obscene little tangle around her ankles. Before she can decide whether or not she wants to keep them there, Faith brushes her thumb over Buffy's clit in a quick arc that makes her bite her lip to keep from moaning too loud. The thumb only stays long enough to tease before slipping down to her cunt. Fast circles around her opening and then in in in, fast and a little brutal. Not enough and too much at the same time. Buffy pushes down on Faith's hand as fast as she can, grinding herself against the elusive knobs of knuckle, fingertip. But she slips out and down where Buffy isn't ready for her. "Faith --" And then it's in, burning and strange and wrong somehow, a wave of sensation within that makes her think she's about to embarass herself and Buffy can feel her cheeks flushing. She opens her mouth to protest more coherently and then Faith's whole body moves above her. A fall of thick, dark hair obscures the other girl's pale face and then she's between Buffy's thighs and there's no more teasing. The immediate suction is raw and shocking and spikes through her hard. She arches again, squeezes the other girl helplessly with her thighs but the long, soft hair is just one more incredible sensation and she splays herself wide again, needing more. Faith releases her for half a heartbeat, which just lets Buffy feel the thumb working in her ass as more than just an odd additional sensation again. The burn and pull of it makes her curious, and she twists herself down a little and gasps. She still isn't sure whether or not it feels good, but it's too large a feeling to give up and it's Faith, Faith doing this, fucking her, making her a virgin all over again and taking it away. "Oh, Faith, please..." And the mouth returns, rough tongue strokes and nibbles and wet sounds loud in her bedroom and this is what she wanted, hot and real and necessary for living, breathing and thank God she left the stereo on -- Her orgasm lashes her before she's ready, making her buck and whimper over and over into her own sweaty palm. It's another shock when Faith abruptly pulls out. Sudden loss making her muscles contract involuntarily, pulling out out another moan. Faith is already moving by the time Buffy opens her eyes, crawling past her on the bed before settling in. * Drusilla lets one curiously hot hand tangle in Buffy's hair and stares hard at the mirror. The ghost of who the Slayer wants her to be looks back, and Drusilla can almost see her icy little smile, sharp and nasty. She smiles back at the apparition and takes a tighter hold. A moan from just beside her thigh, sleepy and sated as a baby's gurgle. Another time, another Drusilla would coo in Buffy's ear, slick her with her mother's fat and have her again, and again. She plunges two fingers inside herself at the thought, tugging on Buffy's hair with every thrust. She can feel the girl breathing beside her, shifting a little at the minor pain. "Faith..." Drusilla twists hard enough to make Buffy yelp, turns and locks her thighs around the girl's head before she can protest. The first lap comes slow, tentative. The next is consciously bolder, but Drusilla knows the girl has noticed her cold. She holds Buffy still as she kneels above her, then settles over her face, grinding against chin, mouth, hard little teeth. A muffled grunt from beneath and Drusilla peels through layers of false memory and husks her voice. "Please... I need you so bad..." A shuddering moan this time and Buffy begins lapping furiously. Drusilla can feel wetness on her thighs, warm and watery. Tears, spit... she grinds harder, brings her other hand to her mouth and laps away as many traces of the Slayer as she can. The taste reminds her of sweet rot of the sort the mortals call ripening, not-quite-cloying but maddening just the same. She feels her face change as she licks, as Buffy licks, and moves her cool, cool fingers down to where she is the hottest. Brushes the girl's eyelashes with her knuckles and twists her own clit, back and forth, back and forth. Rocking with it, pushing back the velvet moonlight that threatens to steal the *here* of her moment. She growls and fights it, stealing bits of bright power from Buffy, swallowing and spitting it back at the velvet, watching it burn. The girl slows beneath her, obviously flagging but continuing to clutch at Drusilla's thighs. Sharp short nails digging in, raising welts... Drusilla rocks faster, grinds down harder. Each brief upthrust is greeted with a short gasp for air and an attempt to buck that only makes it necessary for Drusilla to keep moving, keep going long after she's come, intoxicated by the way her hips roll and snap easily, the way bone and muscle shift for her and only her... She isn't prepared for being thrown off, but it takes Buffy time to get most of her air back. Drusilla pins her again before she can move and watches Buffy's eyes fly open, still unfocused, confused but struggling to adjust. Drusilla runs her tongue over one light brown eyebrow before kneeling up again. "See me." The recognition is immediate, but Drusilla is prepared this time, savoring the thrashing against sensitized flesh. When Buffy stops struggling, Drusilla doesn't hold back her moan of disappointment. Movement is necessary, this is necessary, right and needful and necessary. "You have me inside you now, Slayer. You swallowed me all in. Good girls get rewards..." Buffy spits in her face, just too far off the mark for Drusilla to take it in, too. "You're nothing but a rapist!" "I'll be with you forever now. Can you feel me? I can feel me, rushing through your busy busy little veins. When I close my eyes I can see all of you. And I can..." A small twist of herself that is no longer solely her and Buffy barks out a short yell which cycles back through Drusilla as a ghostly pain where there had been nothing before. She rides it out with Buffy, locking in on the girl's gaze, letting her mouth pull wide and wide in a grin. And when it is done she moves off Buffy entirely, then stands still, arms wide. The lunge is immediate and vicious, but by the time they reach the floor Buffy is once again pliant in her arms. "Faith... oh God, please don't leave. You don't have to leave yet, she's gone, all gone, it's just us, like we planned. Remember?" Touch and kinship. Loneliness. Drusilla smiles and wriggles out from under. She can sense Buffy's mother lingering at the bottom of the stairs, waiting, waiting... Slow, careful kiss to Buffy's forehead. "Don't worry, Buffy... I'll never leave you again." End.