Earth Stood Hard (Drusilla, R)
Title Earth Stood Hard
Characters Drusilla, OMC
Rating R for horror touches and something that's verging on incestuous underage necrophilia, which is fleeting but *still*.
Words 600
Setting AtS season 2, before The Trial
Prompt from Lutamira, who wanted Darla/Dru and kind of got it. Plus Snow Angels, at sb_fag_ends
November 2000 A cold, remote place
Ingleby had found her.
He could tell immediately, though he had never associated Drusilla with snow angels, not in all the research he had done to make this moment possible.
They were quite a creditable attempt, for a woman who, one assumed, had rarely played in the snow. Or perhaps she had, with William the Bloody looking on indulgently, tossing snowballs for his insane mistress.
"Do you like my angels," she asked, solemnly sweet. Ingleby swallowed hard, feeling the tightness of the work-issue vampire-proof suiting clutch at his throat. She couldn't be hungry, not realistically, not in the midst of all this. But then he doubted that Drusilla only killed for food. She might not have sipped from any of them.
"I like them very much," he responded. Best to humour her. But his less wise side added, "One does not, conventionally, leave the person in situ. But they are quite effective." The snow was stained red. Copiously. Drusilla had not fed neatly. "The children are particularly… stirring."
More than one family, he assumed. Or perhaps one of those modern blended affairs. Enough to provide a striking contrast of size, shape and skin tone at least. And seven… eight… nine of them in total, too.
Drusilla was stroking the hair of the smallest boy. "All angels. I don't like real angels. My daddy was an angel, but I liked him better when he wasn't."
It was an opening that the Wolfram and Hart employee could not miss. "Well, Miss… er. Miss Drusilla. Now that you mention it. It is in fact about your family that I have come."
"I don't have a family anymore," she said, sadly. "Grandmamma is dead and gone, and Daddy is no fun at all. And poor little Spike has evil pixies in his head, and can't be a bad boy no more."
"Well, I have some news," said Ingleby, with trepidation. "Rather sad news, do you see? About your… your Grandmamma."
Drusilla's head whipped around so fast he didn't see the move from facing the boy to staring directly into his own eyes. She would move like that when she killed, and a vampire-proof suit left plenty of vulnerable areas still vulnerable. The eyes, for a start. Several of the angels were eyeless, he could see. He tried not to blink more than usual.
"Well, I'm most awfully sorry, but your Grandmamma is no longer dead. She is, in fact, alive." Drusilla gave a small, keening sound. "Really alive. Not undead. And it is killing her. Your, erm, your Daddy has refused to assist. We need your help." What would reach this creature? "We need you to help her to become… immortal."
Drusilla was still caressing the youngest dead boy, petting at the soft, cooling skin. Her face turned a little away, reflective. "I should… I should be her Mummy, should I not? I miss being a Mummy. Mummies give the best kisses," she added, and lowered her mouth to the child's.
Ingleby closed his eyes. If he died now, defences down, at least he wouldn't have had to watch that obscenity beforehand. If he could have blocked his ears, he would have.
It passed. Even the worst things do. And Drusilla's small, cold hand slipped into Ingleby's. "Time to visit Grandmother," she said, happily. As they walked away from the cooling slaughterhouse, she skipped a little.
Twelve hours or more in her company still to come. Alone. Wolfram and Hart did not pay Ingleby enough, he realised. Though if he complained, he could rather too well imagine how he would end up.
Just another snow angel, bloody rags against the cold, indifferent ground.
***
Characters Drusilla, OMC
Rating R for horror touches and something that's verging on incestuous underage necrophilia, which is fleeting but *still*.
Words 600
Setting AtS season 2, before The Trial
Prompt from Lutamira, who wanted Darla/Dru and kind of got it. Plus Snow Angels, at sb_fag_ends
November 2000 A cold, remote place
Ingleby had found her.
He could tell immediately, though he had never associated Drusilla with snow angels, not in all the research he had done to make this moment possible.
They were quite a creditable attempt, for a woman who, one assumed, had rarely played in the snow. Or perhaps she had, with William the Bloody looking on indulgently, tossing snowballs for his insane mistress.
"Do you like my angels," she asked, solemnly sweet. Ingleby swallowed hard, feeling the tightness of the work-issue vampire-proof suiting clutch at his throat. She couldn't be hungry, not realistically, not in the midst of all this. But then he doubted that Drusilla only killed for food. She might not have sipped from any of them.
"I like them very much," he responded. Best to humour her. But his less wise side added, "One does not, conventionally, leave the person in situ. But they are quite effective." The snow was stained red. Copiously. Drusilla had not fed neatly. "The children are particularly… stirring."
More than one family, he assumed. Or perhaps one of those modern blended affairs. Enough to provide a striking contrast of size, shape and skin tone at least. And seven… eight… nine of them in total, too.
Drusilla was stroking the hair of the smallest boy. "All angels. I don't like real angels. My daddy was an angel, but I liked him better when he wasn't."
It was an opening that the Wolfram and Hart employee could not miss. "Well, Miss… er. Miss Drusilla. Now that you mention it. It is in fact about your family that I have come."
"I don't have a family anymore," she said, sadly. "Grandmamma is dead and gone, and Daddy is no fun at all. And poor little Spike has evil pixies in his head, and can't be a bad boy no more."
"Well, I have some news," said Ingleby, with trepidation. "Rather sad news, do you see? About your… your Grandmamma."
Drusilla's head whipped around so fast he didn't see the move from facing the boy to staring directly into his own eyes. She would move like that when she killed, and a vampire-proof suit left plenty of vulnerable areas still vulnerable. The eyes, for a start. Several of the angels were eyeless, he could see. He tried not to blink more than usual.
"Well, I'm most awfully sorry, but your Grandmamma is no longer dead. She is, in fact, alive." Drusilla gave a small, keening sound. "Really alive. Not undead. And it is killing her. Your, erm, your Daddy has refused to assist. We need your help." What would reach this creature? "We need you to help her to become… immortal."
Drusilla was still caressing the youngest dead boy, petting at the soft, cooling skin. Her face turned a little away, reflective. "I should… I should be her Mummy, should I not? I miss being a Mummy. Mummies give the best kisses," she added, and lowered her mouth to the child's.
Ingleby closed his eyes. If he died now, defences down, at least he wouldn't have had to watch that obscenity beforehand. If he could have blocked his ears, he would have.
It passed. Even the worst things do. And Drusilla's small, cold hand slipped into Ingleby's. "Time to visit Grandmother," she said, happily. As they walked away from the cooling slaughterhouse, she skipped a little.
Twelve hours or more in her company still to come. Alone. Wolfram and Hart did not pay Ingleby enough, he realised. Though if he complained, he could rather too well imagine how he would end up.
Just another snow angel, bloody rags against the cold, indifferent ground.
***