Authors note: Have you ever wondered where Miss Edith- Drusilla's favourite doll- came from? Crossing both centuries and continents, this makes a couple of theories about just how her companion came about. It shall consist of five short one-shots, and is really just guesswork. All are Drusilla-centric, but the rest of the Fanged Four (Darla, Angelus and Spike) will make at least one appearance each as well. Rated M.
TRIGGER WARNING: A lot of these one shots deal with dark subject matter, including depictions of abuse ( verbal, physical and psychological), mental illness, violence, murder, gore and implications of sexual abuse/assault which some may find triggering or discomforting. Please be aware that I do not promote nor do I condone any elements of violence or abuse portrayed in this fic. As I hope everyone reading is aware, none of this stuff is ever ok and Angelus really isn't intended as a role model here.
Thank you very much for reading, I hope you enjoy. All reviews- positive or negative- are much appreciated. I've never wrote a Drusilla-centric fic before so I totally understand if it sucks and I'm really sorry if it does. All criticism welcome. Thank you! :)
The Origins of Miss Edith. Theory 1; London, 1860.
"Yes, yes, yes I've had some lovely times here Daddy. This is where my Grandmum- my other Grandmum- used to play the harpsichord while little Anne would dance. And this is where uncle baked cookies and bread and sugar and over there my cousin Georgie would bring me daffodils and this is where you took my mummy and snapped her neck."
Drusilla flitted around like a spluttering flame, doused in dream-like memories and alit with wonder. She danced from the kitchen of the abandoned house to the bedrooms to the living room (where no one appeared to be living) to the hall.
"I see." Angelus stalked behind her. "Sounds like you were a spoilt little trollop. Now show me what happened to your father."
His childe giggled manically and kissed him on the nose. "You're my father, daddy. You smell of elderflower and despair."
"I meant your other father."
"But you know daddy." She pleaded, burying her face in his chest.
Angelus gripped her jugular in his hands, both parties apparently forgetting that it was impossible to choke her; "Remind me."
Docile, Drusilla obediently scampered to the cellar door. "Here daddy. You smashed his head with a wine bottle. It made such pretty colours…So much red…"
"And what did you do then Drusilla?" A smirk was surfacing on his angelic features, gorgeous even in demonic countenance. Her sire. Her beautiful, perfect, lovely, feral, vicious, repellent sire.
"I cried like a silly little baby and I ruined my best dress like an animal. Woof." She recited, redder than her father's blood.
"That you did."
"I'm sorry daddy…"
"You stunk Drusilla. Worse than your rotting father."
"My other daddy doesn't talk to me anymore. He speaks with his smell; I can still smell it now. He's ashamed of me…" She babbled.
"Who wouldn't be?"
"My poet won't be. He'll write the lyrics to other daddy's screams and be my sunshine."
Angelus sighed. The one drawback to having an irredeemably insane, completely dependent masterpiece was that she was irredeemably insane and completely dependent. Her ridiculous ramblings were starting to bore him. He flung open a velvet curtain, himself sheltered by shadows.
Sunlight poured onto Drusilla's body. The bullying light pummelled into the young vampiress, sizzling her flesh with its angry glare. The howl from Drusilla's throat was both the most human and inhuman thing Angelus had ever heard. She skitted into the corner of the room, bawling, keening, sobbing.
"In case you haven't noticed Dru, you don't have much fun with sunshine. The sunshine doesn't want you."
He waited for some pretty words for her ugly thoughts. All he heard was whining.
"Alright Dru, looks like we're done here. Tomorrow night; I'll take you to the church you became mine in. You can describe exactly what happened. Or maybe do a demonstration."
…
"Hurry up Dru, there's some shaded alleys we can leave through. If you're a good girl I'll protect you from that nasty sun. Get up." He demanded impatiently.
"Little boy, bored of toys, he'll lock dolly away. Alone soon, till next moon, never gets to play." She chanted in a sing-song voice between sobs.
"Get up now."
"Daddy!" she moaned.
At the end of an exceedingly short tether, Angelus picked up the nearest object and flung it at her. It was a china doll adorned in a scarlet dress, blonde curls flying every which way. An audible thump! Narrated the climax of her tears. Reduced to softly weeping, she reached out to see what had hit her. Miss Edith. One of little Anne's toys, before Drusilla became a toy herself.
"Daddy…" Her lip quivered as she held the ravaged remnant of her life.
She leaped up in the shade and kissed him on the lips.
"You gave Miss Edith to me! I can have her, yes? You're the best daddy ever. You spoil me so. I must be made of butterflies with no wings. You ripped them off." Such a sentence could only be accompanied by a disconcerting grin.
He grunted; "When did I say you could have the thing?"
"Oh please let me have her!" She begged, draping herself around the demon excitedly. "I'll be church-girl good. I'll be your slave. Promise."
"Bit late for that Dru."
"I won't try and run away again. No cotton-wool kingdom for me anymore. I'll be yours forever and ever. Just let me have Miss Edith. Please."
He took an unnecessary breath of annoyance. "I don't see why not. But you have to be good or I'm taking her away."
She whispered in his ear like a schoolgirl telling a secret; "I'll be your slave."
"You know what slaves do, Drusilla?" His smile was suggestive. "They get on their knees and worship."
She laughed then and it became clear to her that she wanted to stab her sire, stab him through the heart and set him on fire and make him bleed and bleed and bleed.
She loved her daddy.