DISCLAIMER: I disclaim.
RATING: Light R.
SUMMARY: Drusilla thinks. Around NFA.
WORDCOUNT: 865
DEDICATION: to Dana, happy birthday!
Vamp Runner-Up at The Dark Awards
BLUEBIRD
by Leni
Drusilla thinks of the little things. Power is such a little thing, ensconced in her
fingertips, never more than an inch by an inch. Her blue eyes are curious when they feel
the glow across her skin, she looks down at herself, never believing she is the glowing
one. But glow she does. And she twirls and swirls and laughs. Light has never been so
pretty before.
She places the small body gently on the floor. It was cold when she found it, dead because
it wasn't as strong. Broken wings, broken neck. Choose your cause,
innie-minnie-meenie-moe. She didn't have a choice in coming here, where else could she go?
They were four and now there's one. Drusilla holds her fingers up and counts to three,
then she bends her ring finger and the middle one. She's the little one left aside. Bad
boys they are, bad bad boys of hers.
She thinks of the little things now. She thinks of smoke drifting away in the morning,
like little wings escaping into the sky. Fly away, she says in a whisper, fly away if you
still dare. And they dare, they all do. They leave her alone and sweet and dark in some
greasy hole in the middle of Panama. And why, she wonders. Because mommy wants to play?
No, that's not it. She knows better and she knows that he knew her better too. Or maybe
she's wrong. But she still glows.
She fingers the little wing at her side, soft strokes following the shape of the feathers.
Poor little bird, she coos in her mind, all alone and little and dead in this hole with
me. She almost takes it in her hand again, thinking of cages and singing and beautiful
birds which always died before they could sing the song she wanted. Bluebird, you're so
lost, wandering away in the snow. Bluebird, tell me now, tell Drusilla that this is now
home.
Home it is, in all its lonely lonesome. She looks around and sees the moon. It's smiling
at her, reminding her that pet, that's the ceiling. She laughs, Spike thought she didn't
understand, but she did. The ceiling just had much more answers than the moon or her
beautiful child could ever have given her. She caresses the bird's beak, wetting her lips
with her tongue and then tightening them, trying to imitate its movement when the little
one was still alive. Her lips move but it isn't right and she slaps the body away from
her. Silly, she thinks, to be dead and not enjoy it. Her finger points to the bundle of
feathers and she talks to it like she used to talk when her Spike was only a baby. Come to
play, she beckons, hide-and-seek you and me.
Except that he doesn't seek her anymore.
She moans and clutches her head, shaking it wildly even when she knows it's the truth. Bad
boys, bad bad boys, she chides the ghosts of her dark stars. You promised, you all
promised and I'm still alone. Then she straightens and tries a smile. Like she used to
smile for Angelus when he had a surprise for her. Maybe there will be another surprise for
her if she opens the door. Blow the candles and make a wish. She wishes for her darlings
to come back where they belong, she just won't say it because told wishes never come true.
Spike should have never wished to dance on the Slayer's grave. Did he dance with her?
Dance of roses, dance of thorns, Drusilla would have danced too if they'd asked pretty
please. Please? He had begged when her Spike never begged but for his Dru. Then he bled on
her but red never covered her skin. Bad Slayer, she hisses, staring at the dead minuscule
body at her feet. Bad Slayer taking my bad boys away. Shoo!
She kicks the bird away. Now she sent it into the dark corner and she can't see it
anymore. Hiding in the dark, you won't leave on me a mark... Drusilla giggles. They can
never escape her. They can change and have silly souls and protest that she isn't theirs
anymore. But they are still hers, she left her fingerprints on their cheeks long ago, she
claimed their essences when they promised her forever. She can make them come if she
really wants, distance doesn't matter when the stars covering her head are the same
greeting the dragon.
Is she worried? Drusilla strokes her own neck like her angel used to do when she was
worried. She kisses her own fingertips like her darling used to kiss her worries away. Is
she worried? Maybe. Perhaps. Does she care? She giggles again. No. Never. She has the
power. She sees beyond their petty dimensions and their petty struggles in them. Power is
what she can call if she really wants to, what her time alone had taught her to enjoy. She
sees dragons and laughs at death as if it were one of those bad jokes.
Knock knock.
Who is it?
If Death knocks at their door, she can always call them from the beyond.
The End
18/06/04
Feedback would be loved
