Bogwitch (bogwitch) wrote,

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Ficlet! Ill Met by Lamplight

This is for mommanerd's Death of a Salesman Mini-Ficathon, where a Sales Rep must be offed.

I did some Spike/Drusilla. This is completely unbetaed, and I think my fastest ficlet ever.

Ill Met by Lamplight by Bogwitch

“What are you then?” The woman coos. “Spike said I could have you for my birthday.”

“I’m a… a Salesman,” Eddie is prostate on the floor, Spike’s boot is pressed hard on his back, pinning him down to the loose, gritty gravel that’s cutting into his cheek. His blood is pooling beneath him, soaking into his suit from injures he’s in too much pain to account for individually. He tries to move and get a good look at the young English couple who’ve attacked him on the way to his car, but the man just applies more force and Eddie fears for his spine. It’s late, he’s been working after-hours and he just wants to get home to his wife, but these punks won’t let him go.

“What do you sell?” she leans down curiously. “Pretty posies for the maids going dancing?”

Eddie splutters. No words can form on the little breath he can get into his lungs. His wallet is theirs already; they don’t need to kill him, but he knows this is where his life will end.

“Dru,” the young man waves her away, “we don’t need his life story.”

She pouts, her face a porcelain doll of innocence until you look in her eyes. “You said we could play a bit.”

The pressure on Eddie’s back is released as Spike goes to her and holds her face his hands, kissing her gently on the forehead. “And we shall, sweet, we shall.”

Eddie takes the opportunity to try to run. A tremendous blow to his chest stops him before he can crawl two feet, as Spike kicks his prey so hard that Eddie is tossed like a football into the goal of the chain link fence. He bounces off and slumps in a heap. His sternum’s shattered and he can’t take in air. The dry rasp of his breath is his death rattle. He’s dying.

“I think you’ve broken Dolly!” Dru giggles. “Naughty. He hasn’t come to tea yet.”

Through his pain, Eddie can see the childlike woman lose interest. Instead she pulls open his briefcase. Spike takes a sheaf of paper from her and rifles through it, looking for who knew what.

“Boring!” The man sneers and tosses the paper carelessly into the air. A document worth millions is whisked away on the wind, now worthless in the dirt. When he turns back to the dying man there’s something wrong with his face. “Come on, pet. Leave that. You’re missing the best bit.”

She swings into his arms with an unnatural grace and suddenly they lose all interest in him, it’s obvious that Spike is enchanted by this gothic beauty, as he picks her up and dances with her in the harsh light of the sodium lamp.

The last thing Eddie sees in this life is not the sad faces of his children or the sterile ceiling above a hospital bed, but two undead lovers, bound by time and death and blood, embraced in death’s parody of an exquisite kiss.


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