Title: Glass Half Full
Summary: Written for Ladyoneill, who requested Angelus and Dru sometime before Spike's turning.
He serves her lemonade as a joke. The waitress had been kind enough to not spill a drop from the pitcher as she fell to the ground. Solid thump, slopping liquid as he wrests the handles from her fingers the second her eyes begin to close.
Drusilla laughed. She laughed in that way that only the insane who get the joke can laugh, short belly laughs followed by shrill giggling that chills even her dead lover. Was this what he had in mind? Heís not sure.
When Darlaís had her fill of him and run off to grovel at the Masterís court, leaving him and Drusilla alone, often without a coin between them, they have to make their own fun. Itís an easy task in London, here in Rome he thinks itís a little harder. Angelus has fond memories of Rome, most of the time. Darla did save him here once, a rare treat to see her entering a room where he is being tortured. Sometimes he wishes she came to his rescue more often.
The way Drusilla squints at the glass of yellow liquid makes him want her all the more. He used to think she was childlike, in the beginning, when she still called out for her mother in her sleep. Now he sees that she was always more woman than anyone guessed. The visions gave her more than just death and mayhem, Angelus thinks that maybe she saw sin as well. Itís not the eye of god, no judgment here, just seeing, maybe even watching. A moving picture. Angelus wouldnít mind having that gift.
Heís had enough of bistro food for one night. His needs now come from the swish of ruffled skirts and snapping buttons. Sheíll protest as always. The words remind him of confession, she speaks in the same tones each time, like he is inconsequential to her pleasure. She recites her vows, he thanks her for her time the same way he had to a dozen Galway lasses a century before. Infinitely different from the nights he and Darla spend together. This can barely be called passion, he wonders if her words are true; maybe he has lost interest in her. No, not just yet he thinks, sliding between her legs once more, twisting and bending her until she moans out his name and wonders what her mother would think.
She laughs again.
Itís time to go back to London, he thinks. Heíll fall mad as her if he doesnít have Darla to share his nights with soon. When her babbling starts to sound like reason he pulls his trousers back over his hips and buttons his coat a little higher than normal, hoping itís enough of a shield to keep her insanity from coming back on him like divine retribution. He casts a glance to the now still waitress curled on the floor, for just a moment he pictures Drusilla, near death on the convent floor and wonders if he shouldnít have left her there to die, but then she pours another glass of lemonade and offers it to him with an innocent smile. He wonít drink it, but heíll share in the joke one more time, just because he loves to hear her laugh.