by She's a Star
Disclaimer:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon.Author's Note:
I think 'when overcome with writers block, write odd Dru drabbles!' may just be my new mantra. I have lots of fun writing her. (Don't know if I'm any good at it, but . . . ah well!) This is set sometime after Angel loses his soul in season two. And I also was horribly bad and stole a Buffy episode title - a bit cheesy, but I couldn't resist, as the nursery rhyme it comes from just fit this story perfectly. So . . . without further ado . . .She knows she is a very naughty girl.
For Spike looks so sad now, crushed and crippled as the angels fell, smothered by air lightly scented with holy water. Purity has the foulest stench of all, she thinks.
The stars favour her tonight, calling, singing their tiny songs. She contemplates answering them - it's glorious, of course, the faint little voices, irreversibly lost in darkness. Ooh, she does adore the darkness.
She wants to dance. Outside, under the stars, serenaded by songs most cannot hear. Some think she's been caught by madness, its claws sinking slowly into her flesh - it tickles - but she knows. Simply knows.
Before, she had always danced with Spike, but he is hardly fit for dancing anymore.
And Angel, oh, so cruel and tantalizingly dark; she shivers, lovely lovely, as the sky whispers its secrets. He is her king, her God, and so much better than the one she'd used to praise, who never listened, never answered even when her family's blood was spilt (stains like wine, everywhere, can't be lost, not these stains) and she thought perhaps the tears should drown her alive. He created her, he is the reason she cannot breathe, and now she tastes his desire in the air (familiar, the same, like blood and wine, funny, how prettily they match).
Lust and love, such valiant soldiers, and she sees it in two different sets of eyes. Watches delightedly. Waits for the blood to spill, rain, pour like droplets, sheets, from a black sky.
But she loves Spike, of course, and in the end when the prince and princess kiss (eternal, happily ever after, forever) and ride off into the sunset it will always be him. And yet it's such a delightfully wicked game, feels like silk and sandpaper under her fingertips, such marvelous fun, and she can't bring herself to give it up just yet. Because Spike will always love her, and Angel might not always want her, and she knows it should be savored, like strawberries or tea cakes. (Miss Edith speaks out of turn. She's a bad example, and will have no cakes today. Maybe she won't have them, because she is bad, wicked, naughty, and when she was good she was very very good and when she was bad she was horrid.)
"Do you remember, when we used to dance?" she asks Spike, and tries, tries so very hard to ignore the stars.
--when she was good she was very very good--
"'Course I remember, pet." Spike reaches for her hand. "Don't worry. I'll be out of this damned chair soon enough, and then we can dance again, all right?"
"Or," Angel says, and his voice is evil, singing to her, and perhaps she shan't resist. "We could dance right now."
Spike's eyes are dark, storm clouds mussing up skies, and she looks forward to the thunder and the downpour.
"Why, Angel," she says, and giggles, "I'd love to."
For Drusilla needs her dancing.
She lets go of Spike's hand (his grip is so tight forever chains and oh, how he doesn't want her to leave him), preparing to step out into the night.
--and when she was bad she was horrid.