(Note: this fanfiction was originally posted on tumblr (DrusillaTheKiller) and reposted here. Please be aware that this story contains depictions of mental illness, hallucinations, trauma/PTSD, abuse, and violence against women which some may find upsetting. Reader discretion is advised.
Thank you for reading; all reviews- positive or negative- are very much appreciated. Enjoy!)
New York, 1977.
"I live for you, Ducks. I died for you. I kill for you. snapped two slayer's necks for you. I exist only to make you happy."
"Your mind's like poetry I could never write, Baby."
"Whip me for every word that isn't worship."
Spike didn't know it, but he was still very much a poet when it came to his Sire, though the imagery had manoeuvred slightly from singing larks and noble ladies to blood-soaked slayers and whiplashes.
Knelt by his lover's bed, he applied kisses to her hand betwixt more mollycoddling.
"Ooh, a little lower."
And of course, what could he do but comply?
Drusilla cooed at him with crazed eyes, basking in his attention; "My sweet William. All mine." she trailed a talon across his face, giggling.
"All yours, Kitten."
Berlin, 1877.
"Little boy, bored with toys, he'll lock dolly away. Alone soon, till next moon, never gets to play." Drusilla was not quite singing and not quite sobbing; she swung between the two like a dilapidated swing in a hurricane.
Angelus carried the seer over his shoulder, whistling.
"Don't let the dark swallow me, daddy, the owls can peck at me there. I won't see." she bawled. "Make them stop, make them stop!"
"Sorry Dru, Darla's feeling fatigued and I think we'd like to have the day to ourselves. Why don't you play in your closet?"
"Not the dark place, no, no, no, no, no. Too long. Too dark. It swallows me all up. Snap snap."
"That's nice, precious."
He wasn't sure if he'd leave her in there for a hour or a day, but he did know that the invention of sound-proof doors and locks were ample ones indeed.
Opening the door like the entrance of oblivion, he tossed the vampiress in the closet nonchalantly, humming as he did so.
Serenity. Resignation. Acceptance.
…None of the aforementioned could be used to describe the manner in which Drusilla keened and wailed and repined. Her arms coiled around Angelus's leg; he shook them off and Drusilla crumpled to the ground, whimpering.
"Not again, Daddy. Please. I'll be ever so good."
A wry smile played on his lips; "You can be ever so good in your closet then."
He began to close the door. Not quick enough. Drusilla leaped up and ran as fast as the situation would allow her, away from the jaws threatening to engulf what was left of her whole.
"Tut tut, Dru." His vampiric visage was the personification of amused. "You know I can run faster angry than you can scared."
New York, 1977.
With dishevelled sheets and shattered objects the only décor, Spike and Drusilla's apartment block looked like a crime scene. And given that they slaughtered the previous occupants along with the landlord, picketed everything of worth inside, and were two days overdue to pay the rent, it actually was. The way Spike perceived it, they'd have to leave New York just after dusk tomorrow, though he knew his baby could live a millennium in a moment within her fevered mentality. He kissed her temple lovingly as she nestled her head deep into his chest, looking for warmth she would never find but felt nonetheless. It took her a moment to realise that she and her lover were on the floor, tangled in one another. Her mouth contorted into a small 'o'.
"Where did the bed go? Did it fly away without us? Has it been naughty? Shall it be punished?"
"Do you want to move back, love?"
"No, I like the floor. I can smell screaming underneath the floorboards. It's very loud if only you'd listen Spike. They're in such pain." She smiled pleasantly.
"I try to listen baby, you know I do. But you've always been a damn bit more perceptive than the rest of us sods."
Drusilla found her boy was always the most poetic when he was trying not to be. Entranced by his words, she trailed a talon down his chest; "Daddy said I could never have any little ones, so my William got me Miss Edith. Daddy said I could never touch a cross again, so my William brought me gloves. Daddy said I could never see sunshine again, so my William drowned his hair and turned it into sunshine. What can't my William get for his princess?" she ruffled his newly bleached hair, slowly working her hands which beheld nothing but the future down his neck and his spine and down to the small of his back…
You couldn't describe Spike's proceeding actions as losing control, because that would imply he had a discernible amount to begin with; he took a unnecessary breathe and kissed Drusilla ravenously, growling as he did so. She returned the kiss with ferocious fervour, laughing, which Spike would've felt more disturbed about if she didn't.
When they finally stopped, his paramour gazed at him as though she was viewing him through stain-glass. She grinned, enchanted.
Then she screamed.
She did not stop screaming.
"Dru? Dru, princess, what's wrong?"
"Not the dark room, daddy, please not the dark room!"
"I-I'll put a light on!"
The brunette howled. It was both the most human and inhuman sound William had ever heard from her mouth; "Ow! Daddy, no! You're hurting me, you're hurting me! Little rabbit I am. Don't run to be naughty, run to be safe. Wolf is always faster. I…I don't like the closet." She snivelled brokenly.
"My poor baby." He picked her up and carried her to the bed, her descent onto the mattress narrated by a soft 'thud'. "I didn't mean to upset you, Dru. I…You seemed so happy a second ago."
As if a response, Drusilla began to claw at her neck; "Can't just put your toys in a treasure chest when you get bored of them, daddy. I've been such a good girl…"
"Oh Bloody hell." Spike muttered, voice thick with concern, holding her hands to prevent any further harm, persevering even as she scratched and struggled against him. "Nobody's gonna put you in a treasure chest. I'll never let anyone hurt you and live. Please, its not worth hurting yourself over. You're having a fright, yeah? But you're alright, I promise."
"I haven't been alright in a long time." She choked out, as though someone was throttling her. As if it was possible to throttle her.
Berlin, 1877.
Angelus suspended her by the nape of her neck, letting her dangle above him like a swinging pendulum in one of his timepieces.
He sighed condescendingly; "When you ran Dru, you knew it would end the same way as if you didn't. You've just changed the middle."
Struggling, his childe whined with wet, anguished eyes, vermin caught in a snare.
Then she laughed.
She did not stop laughing.
Unamused, the older vampire hit her against a pillar.
Alas, it had the adverse effect.
"Oh William…" she mewled joyously. "Such a god boy…"
"Forgotten my name, have you now Dru? That's fine; you need only know me as master." Snarled Angelus.
With wonder akin to a small child, her eyes began to water with unadulterated glee as she gazed at her sire; "Did you kill her for me? That slayer riding in the belly of a big, metal snake, you killed her for me…I'm a princess…Where did the bed go? Every princess needs her bed, silly Willy."
"Guess I really did drive you insane."
"No, no, I change my mind. I like it on the floor. I like you everywhere. You look at a pretty disaster and magic it into art. Ooh, a little lower."
"You want to be a little lower, precious? Okay."
Angelus dropped her.
New York, 1977.
"I'm falling, I'm falling!" Drusilla weeped into the pillow. "Marble has always hated me, but it quite fancies wearing my insides. Red hat. Jealous harpy!"
"Shh, Darling. You're in bed. A nice, warm, soft bed. No bleedin' marble anywhere." Spike had seen her have these kind of incidents before. Darla's modus operandi when dealing with "this" was to ignore her. Angelus's; to mock her. Spike's to try and comfort her, be her anchor to reality if he could. Yet, he knew that ultimately, he could only help her so much.
He caressed her shaking hands. "This'll run its course princess. I promise."
Drusilla gaped at him in horror; "Why do you love seeing me suffer? Am I your ragdoll? Is that what I exist for? Dance for you while the heavens bleed?"
"…No, Drusilla, of course not…I'm sorry I make you feel like that. All I ever wanted was to make you happy."
"You're the worst daddy in the world! I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU! Tired of being a dolly…Tired of you…"
"…Would you like me to give you some space, sweet? Would that make you feel better?" His voice was uncharacteristically soft.
She dry-heaved out more hateful curses and rants, vomiting up syllables as they came to her.
"…I get the picture Dru. I'll be five minutes. Hopefully you'll feel better then. I'm sorry for upsetting you, baby." He pecked her cheek and Spike got smaller and smaller until Drusilla couldn't see him at all.
"Spike? …No. Don't leave. Don't leave me alone in here." She croaked.
Spike didn't hear her.
Berlin, 1877.
Drusilla stroked the bloodied marble, eyes closed in contentment; "Such a lovely bed, Spike. Won't you come join me? "
"Spike now is it? Have you been making up people to play with again?"
"Your hands are so soft…Oh…You're leaving. Leaving with the pixies. But I was going to share all the stars with you…"
Angelus rolled his eyes; this had become tedious. Slinging her body over his shoulder once more, he strolled leisurely to the closet and dumped her with violent indifference. She'd have to share the small space with the mop and bucket.
"Daddy? …No. Don't leave. Don't leave me alone in here."
Angelus heard. He shut the door.