There was a pretty girl. With sun-blonde hair and eyes like the forest. She had a laugh like butterfly wings, but she rarely ever heard it. Her mouth was like a gentle, soft glade in the woods, though Drusilla would never feel it that way. The way she felt it was harsh and blossoming fire, like a dragon, all biting and vengeance.
But Dru could dream, and when she did, she saw the dapple of the sunlight across her face, her small pink tongue flicking out to drink condensation from the air. Pretty girl.
When they fucked, everything hurt. It burned in Drusilla's head, scratched at her face and tore her eyes. She didn't know what was happening then. Honey-sweet face turned evil, and Dru saw Spike in her eyes, in her mouth. Spike, who would have longed for this moment, who might have ripped them both apart at the seams from jealousy, if he were ever to see them together.
But seeing was not believing. Inside one half of the scorching painful whirlwind, it was all bad. All bad. It reminded Drusilla of kneeling at a chaotic altar, of clutching her white veil to her, of the heaviness of a habit and the skull-breaking explosion of a devilish vision.
It was no good. Drusilla could not stop it; it was like the world, and just was. It existed without her consent, apart from her attempts. She could not kill Buffy, anymore than Buffy could kill her.
But she dreamed...She dreamed of green meadows in the morning coolness, of touching skin that didn't bend or break, of holding a face in her hands that was looking at her. Lips that were pliable and held no ruptured vampire teeth, a voice that would never scold.
In her dreams she called her 'mummy'. She was taken care of, and a rippling warm wet soft gentle sensation poured through her, and she was loved.
Spike tried to end the world. It killed him. Drusilla looked upon his ghost with pity and dawning knowledge. The two did not connect themselves in her mind; she did not want to die. She wanted to change like the little bird eggs that she brought home (the ones that survived).
So she bit when she shouldn't have, when her Buffy-sun-whirlwind was asleep and alone. She tasted blood when she shouldn't have, held her down when it was not time. She fed her own blood back into the loophole, like Angelus had taught her long ago, but she had never mastered until now. She always used to forget and they died, while she tried to remember. But bound by bad timing and a slippery downhill slide, she finished what she had started, and left a cooling blonde body alone in the shade.
The next night her Buffy vampire came to her, and it was not the same. It was cooler, darker, like the shade from the sun, like the freshly turned dirt. When collided, it was like worlds turning, rocks crushing together slowly, grinding against each other, dripping cold water, only to be lapped up by an efficient, eternal tongue.
Drusilla was very pleased. Everything had changed and slowed down, and she had frozen the moment. Dry and cool and wet and firm, all the textures of her Buffy girl had changed.
But still, she dreamed.