(no subject)
BtVS/X-Men crossover - Drusilla POV. Pre-Season 1. Drusilla meets Creed in a bar in Europe.
Drusilla spun on one foot, watching her skirts open up around her like an expensive hothouse bloom. Spin, spin, spin! Round a round a rosy, pocket full o' posies, we all fall down! Spike was talking to some men in a corner, and she was bored. Waiting. Waiting like a flower to rise up above winter soil and greet spring sun. She raised her hands above her head like a flower, hands cupped like closed petals, pouting. She didn't know what he wanted to talk to them anyway. This place smelt, and she was bored, and her Spike had said not to go hunting...and she was bored. There wasn't anyone interesting at all!
A soft chuckle drew her attention and Drusilla cocked her head to gaze into the shadows it had come from. A pussycat! He was a great big cat, all yellow and gold, like the lions she'd seen in different zoos. But he looked much happier then those lions, content in a purring sort of way. There was blood all around him, dripping down his mouth and on his hands, crazy mean whispers goading him and flickering all around his head.
Logan. Wolverine. Punk. Runt. Enemy. Friend. Enemy.
The words bit him, nibbling at him to take note. She could read them out of his head. They were fascinating and she watched them glide over each other in sinuous coils, all venomous and mean. Spit, hiss. Like little snakes.
X-Men. Weapon X. Canada.
Canada brought different memories. Snow and peace and open. He was a cold weather creature, bounding through snow and hunting the animals. Sniff, snuff, that's enough. He ate deer and rabbits. She ate men. But he killed men. Their shades would have filled a small country, if they were all there, she could feel them lurking. He didn't even know them all. He didn't remember killing some of them. There were gaps and holes in his head, like a tea strainer. She wondered if she could fill them in, pour magic in until his mind was tiptop, spitspot. So much blood...it leaked through his head, and his victims wailed in unrest. He was hunting tonight. She could see it in the way he looked around, but at the moment he was looking at *her* like he could eat her, yum yum yum. Bye bye Drusilla, Spike's sugar candy princess, right down his mouth like a mouse. But she wasn't a mouse. She decided she'd be a tiger like he was, a lion. Big cat, all prowly and growling. Rawr.
"Yes?" Drusilla asked, fascinated and drifting across to his table. Her skirts whispered across the dirty floor, and her heels went clickity click.
"Hello, frail."
"Hello, tiger. Tiger, tiger, burning bright, watch out! You'll set the night alight." Drusilla sat down as he pulled a chair out for her, glancing back at Spike. He wasn't looking at her, wasn't paying attention to his princess. So she'd play with the tiger instead, and make him growl. She crossed her ankles and placed her hands daintily in her lap, looking at the big gold cat man with curiously mad eyes.
"Poetry. People don't say poetry to me much." He had beer on the table. The mug was empty. "Name o' Creed, darlin'."
"Drusilla."
"Pretty name."
"I think so. Daddy would have changed if he could, but it's *mine*, my name, my very very own name."
He was looking at her with more interest now. "Ya don't say."
"You're American?"
"Canadian."
"Snow and mountains, wolves and hunting, meow." Drusilla fussed with her skirts. "I hunt people, but shh. Spike wouldn't like it if I told you. Drink them down, tasty warm blood. Would you taste like kittens or tigers, Creed?"
He laughed, leaning back in his chair. "Tigers."
"I thought you looked like a tiger."
"They called me El Tigre once...a long time ago." He frowned. "A very long time..."
"Do you know what I am?"
"Besides dead?"
"Clever, clever!" Drusilla laughed, clapping her hands. "Oh, what a *clever* tiger." She let her eyes flash gold. "But don't be too clever, or Mama will spank."
"Really?" he said in a flat voice. She could see his claws dig into the table; ooh, he didn't like that. Drusilla started to get up from her seat.
"No biscuits for a cat that scratches," she warned him. "No milk and saucer of cream for *you*. Go catch your mouse."
"I might just do that..." His eyes were fixed on her, hot and heavy with violent promises and Drusilla almost whimpered. Licked her lips. The eyes were shining like lamps and she was falling...
"Dru! Poodle, c'mere," Spike said, putting an arm around her waist and leading her from the table. The feeling of leashed menace receeded with each step she took. He felt like Daddy, all blessings and pain. Winding her fingers into Spike's coat, she let him coax her away from the smoky bar and the tiger lurking there. Growlsome and fierce.
"I don't want a kitten ever, Spike," she told him seriously. "They grow up all mean and scratchy."
"Alright...how about birds then, pet? Would you like a bird?"
"Oh..." Drusilla thought about it then nodded. "Yes, a bird to sing me to sleep when it's the morning. I'd like that."
"Then that is what you shall have."
And the tiger went home alone, alone. The tiger went home alone.
Drusilla spun on one foot, watching her skirts open up around her like an expensive hothouse bloom. Spin, spin, spin! Round a round a rosy, pocket full o' posies, we all fall down! Spike was talking to some men in a corner, and she was bored. Waiting. Waiting like a flower to rise up above winter soil and greet spring sun. She raised her hands above her head like a flower, hands cupped like closed petals, pouting. She didn't know what he wanted to talk to them anyway. This place smelt, and she was bored, and her Spike had said not to go hunting...and she was bored. There wasn't anyone interesting at all!
A soft chuckle drew her attention and Drusilla cocked her head to gaze into the shadows it had come from. A pussycat! He was a great big cat, all yellow and gold, like the lions she'd seen in different zoos. But he looked much happier then those lions, content in a purring sort of way. There was blood all around him, dripping down his mouth and on his hands, crazy mean whispers goading him and flickering all around his head.
Logan. Wolverine. Punk. Runt. Enemy. Friend. Enemy.
The words bit him, nibbling at him to take note. She could read them out of his head. They were fascinating and she watched them glide over each other in sinuous coils, all venomous and mean. Spit, hiss. Like little snakes.
X-Men. Weapon X. Canada.
Canada brought different memories. Snow and peace and open. He was a cold weather creature, bounding through snow and hunting the animals. Sniff, snuff, that's enough. He ate deer and rabbits. She ate men. But he killed men. Their shades would have filled a small country, if they were all there, she could feel them lurking. He didn't even know them all. He didn't remember killing some of them. There were gaps and holes in his head, like a tea strainer. She wondered if she could fill them in, pour magic in until his mind was tiptop, spitspot. So much blood...it leaked through his head, and his victims wailed in unrest. He was hunting tonight. She could see it in the way he looked around, but at the moment he was looking at *her* like he could eat her, yum yum yum. Bye bye Drusilla, Spike's sugar candy princess, right down his mouth like a mouse. But she wasn't a mouse. She decided she'd be a tiger like he was, a lion. Big cat, all prowly and growling. Rawr.
"Yes?" Drusilla asked, fascinated and drifting across to his table. Her skirts whispered across the dirty floor, and her heels went clickity click.
"Hello, frail."
"Hello, tiger. Tiger, tiger, burning bright, watch out! You'll set the night alight." Drusilla sat down as he pulled a chair out for her, glancing back at Spike. He wasn't looking at her, wasn't paying attention to his princess. So she'd play with the tiger instead, and make him growl. She crossed her ankles and placed her hands daintily in her lap, looking at the big gold cat man with curiously mad eyes.
"Poetry. People don't say poetry to me much." He had beer on the table. The mug was empty. "Name o' Creed, darlin'."
"Drusilla."
"Pretty name."
"I think so. Daddy would have changed if he could, but it's *mine*, my name, my very very own name."
He was looking at her with more interest now. "Ya don't say."
"You're American?"
"Canadian."
"Snow and mountains, wolves and hunting, meow." Drusilla fussed with her skirts. "I hunt people, but shh. Spike wouldn't like it if I told you. Drink them down, tasty warm blood. Would you taste like kittens or tigers, Creed?"
He laughed, leaning back in his chair. "Tigers."
"I thought you looked like a tiger."
"They called me El Tigre once...a long time ago." He frowned. "A very long time..."
"Do you know what I am?"
"Besides dead?"
"Clever, clever!" Drusilla laughed, clapping her hands. "Oh, what a *clever* tiger." She let her eyes flash gold. "But don't be too clever, or Mama will spank."
"Really?" he said in a flat voice. She could see his claws dig into the table; ooh, he didn't like that. Drusilla started to get up from her seat.
"No biscuits for a cat that scratches," she warned him. "No milk and saucer of cream for *you*. Go catch your mouse."
"I might just do that..." His eyes were fixed on her, hot and heavy with violent promises and Drusilla almost whimpered. Licked her lips. The eyes were shining like lamps and she was falling...
"Dru! Poodle, c'mere," Spike said, putting an arm around her waist and leading her from the table. The feeling of leashed menace receeded with each step she took. He felt like Daddy, all blessings and pain. Winding her fingers into Spike's coat, she let him coax her away from the smoky bar and the tiger lurking there. Growlsome and fierce.
"I don't want a kitten ever, Spike," she told him seriously. "They grow up all mean and scratchy."
"Alright...how about birds then, pet? Would you like a bird?"
"Oh..." Drusilla thought about it then nodded. "Yes, a bird to sing me to sleep when it's the morning. I'd like that."
"Then that is what you shall have."
And the tiger went home alone, alone. The tiger went home alone.