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Written for summer_of_spike. Nine women Spike used to know.

Title: These Were Lies: Cecily
Author: voleuse
Fandom: BtVS
Pairings: William & Cecily, Spike/Dru
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: I will not speak of the undying glory of women.
Notes: Pre-series, "Fool for Love"

The praisers of women in their proud and beautiful poems,
Naming the grave mouth and the hair and the eyes,
Boasted those they loved should be forever remembered:
These were lies.

He remembers the first time Cecily speaks to him.

It's after a dinner party given by one of his mother's friends, and he happens to be standing in the library when she appears in the doorway, rather in a rush.

"Oh." She stops short, her smile fading to courtesy. "I didn't realize anyone was in here."

He blinks, his eyes dazzled by the afterimage of her entrance. "Yes, I was just," he raises the book in his hands, "reading."

She looks over her shoulder, then at the title of the book. "Poetry?"

"I don't often get to indulge." He shuts the book, bows slightly, mindful of appearances. "My apologies if I'm intruding--"

She steps back, gracefully exiting. "No, I'm the one who intruded. Good evening."

Then she's gone, and he closes his eyes. Breathes deep to catch scent of her perfume.


They don't speak again, after that. Not alone, and certainly not so confidentially.

He thinks, however, they formed a connection in that moment, because she smiles at him when their eyes meet. He thinks she is kind, and he knows she is beautiful.

He writes poems for her, so that one day she might know of his esteem.

That she should know is his best hope, and perhaps his only one.


He dies.


It's a week before he remembers Cecily, remembers the disdain in her voice, the indifference in her eyes.

Drusilla curves around him, trails a hand across his shoulders and nips the back of his neck. "Naughty you."

He twists to smile at her. "What do you mean?" There's blood at the corner of her mouth. He rubs it off with his thumb.

"You're thinking about another girl." She pouts. "Is she prettier than me?"

He bares his teeth. "No one compares to you."

She sits up, slides over him. "Then." Licks a slow stripe over his throat. "Let's meet her, shall we? Introduce me properly."

He arches under her, kisses her and revels at it. She writhes, and he groans.

A while later, he replies.


Cecily does not expect their visit.

They waltz on her porch, laughing merrily, as the screams begin.

And he puts her out of his mind.


A/N: Title, summary, and headings taken from Not Marble Nor the Gilded Monuments by Archibald MacLeish.

Crossposted to summer_of_spike. Originally linked here.

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