AN: The first, but not chronologically; set in that nebulous time between seasons two and three. Dru's POV, obviously.
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They say I'm sick. They're wrong; it's not a crime (against nature - wrong, demented, messed-up, violation of order) to be a girl(s just wanna have fun, she said, and I'm one, with lots of pretty dresses) who likes (pina coladas. The rain in my head keeps it all wet and soggy and nothing green will grow there. Nothing ever grows. Everything I put in the ground withers away and dies. Good-bye) a little blood every now and (laters, like the candy that gets stuck in my teeth and tastes funny for me but oh-so-sweet when they eat it for me, like a tasty creampuff treat) then.
And is it so wrong to see things? I can't help (I need somebody... nice and juicy and warm for me. I like a hot meal. John was going to be a meal but then they shot him and planted him in the ground and he withered away and died, and didn't grow back for me) it when the vision (she dances across the porch but she's outside. No invitation for her, no tasty creampuffs, naughty girl, you were bad and now you can't show your face, pet, not with the sun shining) comes and leaves me in pain.
My Spike loves me. He says so, says "You're my (dancing) queen, ducks (follow the man around, but he's not their mother, their mummy is all dead and gone for daddy's warm dinner, but then daddy left us alone for the bad, mean girl, the Slayer) you know that, now be a good girl (but I'm not, Miss Edith told me so, I've been bad and so my daddy left me and just Spike is here to help me, dear Spike) and keep quiet." (Quiet like a mouse, that's me, but I can't squeak like a mouse no matter how hard I try, and I haven't got a tail or tiny little pitter-patter feet, or a tiny little heart that beats so fast for such a tiny little amount of blood.)
* * * * *
They say I'm sick. They're wrong; it's not a crime (against nature - wrong, demented, messed-up, violation of order) to be a girl(s just wanna have fun, she said, and I'm one, with lots of pretty dresses) who likes (pina coladas. The rain in my head keeps it all wet and soggy and nothing green will grow there. Nothing ever grows. Everything I put in the ground withers away and dies. Good-bye) a little blood every now and (laters, like the candy that gets stuck in my teeth and tastes funny for me but oh-so-sweet when they eat it for me, like a tasty creampuff treat) then.
And is it so wrong to see things? I can't help (I need somebody... nice and juicy and warm for me. I like a hot meal. John was going to be a meal but then they shot him and planted him in the ground and he withered away and died, and didn't grow back for me) it when the vision (she dances across the porch but she's outside. No invitation for her, no tasty creampuffs, naughty girl, you were bad and now you can't show your face, pet, not with the sun shining) comes and leaves me in pain.
My Spike loves me. He says so, says "You're my (dancing) queen, ducks (follow the man around, but he's not their mother, their mummy is all dead and gone for daddy's warm dinner, but then daddy left us alone for the bad, mean girl, the Slayer) you know that, now be a good girl (but I'm not, Miss Edith told me so, I've been bad and so my daddy left me and just Spike is here to help me, dear Spike) and keep quiet." (Quiet like a mouse, that's me, but I can't squeak like a mouse no matter how hard I try, and I haven't got a tail or tiny little pitter-patter feet, or a tiny little heart that beats so fast for such a tiny little amount of blood.)