Fic: Spike/Dru, pre-season 2
Re-posted from summer_of_spike. I wanted to post these in my own journal for future reference, and for anyone who doesn't follow that community (although you so should).
Title: The Tendency of History to Repeat Itself (1/1)
Author: Cindy (cindergal)
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine, no harm, no foul
Setting: Prague, 1997, just before Spike and Dru arrive in Sunnydale
Summary: Drusilla has a craving. Spike is far too indulgent
A/N: Many thanks to fishsanwitt for the beta. Translations were done to the best of my ability - any mistakes are all mine.
The Tendency of History to Repeat Itself
Spike never cared much for children. No misplaced sentimentality on his part - they were just too much trouble. Unlike most of the adults he fed on - they got that deer-in-the-headlights, this-can't-be-happening look about them and went all conveniently frozen with shock and disbelief - the little ones knew far too well that monsters were real. They screamed and squirmed and kicked and beat at him with their tiny, surprisingly effective fists. All that annoyance for what barely amounted to a snack seemed like far too much effort to Spike.
Dru, on the other hand, was obsessed. Drawn to the wee ones, she was, and it was a right pain in the ass, often as not. But there was something sad and desperate in this infatuation of hers, and it hurt him to see her yearn so, warped as it was, for something she would never have. It was why he gave her Miss Edith and her other dollies, so she could have babies to dote on, and sing her lullabies to. Every once in awhile, though, dollies weren't enough. And tonight, Drusilla had a craving.
"They're calling to us, do you hear them Spike? It's so very sad. They're calling for Mummy and Daddy."
She stood under a streetlight and stared longingly up at the orphanage, a baroque monstrosity which sat off by itself, atop a hill. Used to be a hospital, he supposed, but now it just looked like something out of an old horror movie. How apropos. He had a bad feeling about this, though. The moon was too bright, the building too isolated, and it was far too close to dawn. Spike might love a good brawl, but even he had to admit that Angelus had a point way back when - getting caught didn't hold quite the charm it used to, especially since it became just the two of them. Hard to believe it had been nearly a hundred years since Angelus was afflicted and he and Darla left them - though what did a century mean to someone like him?
His attention was brought back to the present by his beloved's laughter, and when he looked, he saw Drusilla bathed in the golden light of the sodium lamp. She turned to him and smiled, deceptively childlike herself, full of mischief and delight. She clapped her hands together and folded them under her chin.
"Please, Spike. I've been such a good girl. I deserve a treat, don't I? A few sweet little sugarplums on Christmas morning?"
He couldn't help but smile back. She was his world, his damnation, his salvation. He could deny her nothing.
"Deserve a treat, you say? Indeed you do, Princess. Indeed you do."
He should have been paying closer attention. He should have made sure that all the nurses had been accounted for. But he was too busy watching Drusilla as she rocked and cooed and hypnotized each child in turn. "I'll be your mumsie now," she whispered to each of them, and damn if it didn't tug at his heart. So much so that he didn’t even noticed the huge crowd that had gathered outside, until he was nearly struck by the rock one of them tossed through the window. These eastern Europeans still took their vampires seriously, it seemed. Bugger.
"Time to go, petal." He grabbed her arm, but she resisted. And his patience had reached its end. "Drusilla, come on! Two versus the angry mob are not odds I'm much interested in tonight."
"I want to take this one with me." She held a pale, but still breathing, child in her arms.
"No." He pulled on her arm again, and almost fell backward when she pushed him off; he forgot how strong she was sometimes.
Dru stomped one delicate, velvet-clad foot. "I want her! She's my favorite! She sings to me, pretty little songs in my head, like my sisters used to do." Her lip trembled, and pushing the girl's long hair out of her face, Dru began to hum a nursery rhyme.
"Oh, Dru. Give her here, then." He threw the little girl over his shoulder, grabbed Dru's hand and headed for the back door. But the mob was already there, trying to break it down. Dru began a high-pitched whine, and he shushed her as gently as he could. "Gotta think, sweetness. Hush now for a mo', alright?" he said. He peered through a high window, and could barely see the pale stars against a lightening sky.
Spike propped the child up against the wall, as Dru had already lost interest. He felt the girl's eyes upon him as he stroked Drusilla’s hair and tried to suss out what to do.
"Mulo," the girl whispered.
A chill went through him, and he knelt down before the tiny little thing. "What did you say?" The last thing he should be doing was wasting time this way, but that word ....
She bravely raised her eyes to his. "Mulo. Beng," she uttered. She had barely enough breath left to be heard above the noise of the mob outside.
He *had* heard those words before. Rumania, 1898. Screamed by men, women and children alike. He didn't know much Romany, but he knew those words. Mulo. Beng.
Vampire.
Devil.
This girl wasn't screaming, though. She was ten or eleven, maybe, and she gazed at him calmly, but the heat of anger burned in her black eyes.
"You're a gypsy," he said, with dawning horror. He saw all the children on the ward again in his mind, dark-haired children with big dark eyes. Another window broke, and Drusilla wailed. The girl started speaking again, a long litany of words repeated over and over again, like a prayer.
Or a curse.
"Shut up. Shut up!" He roared at her, fangs descending, ridges coming forward, and she shrank back against the grey brick wall, looking so small and helpless, lost in the plain, white, cotton nightgown which must have beeen three sizes too big.
She was just a little girl, after all.
The last of the windows crashed in and the heavy door fell loudly to the floor. Spike had to fight his way through the crowd, resisting the urge to turn and run back inside as the sky turned pink around him, and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He howled in fury and pain as the broken handle of a shovel was thrust perilously close to his heart. Tearing it out, he turned it on his attacker - and Spike didn't miss. Dru's hand was torn from his at one point, and the mob descended on her like a pack of dogs. When he was finally able to reach her, ten men lay dead at his feet, but Drusilla's dress was drenched with blood. The smell of her blood and the oncoming sunrise filled his head, and all he could do was run for the cover of the forest. His Princess was limp in his arms, head lolling on her slender neck.
He was half a mile into the trees when he finally thought it safe enough to stop and rest, the chanting of the young Gypsy girl ringing in his ears. He had only made out a word here and there.
Kom. Brigaki. Baxt.
Love. Sorrow. Fate.
He gazed down at Drusilla's still form, stroked her cool dry cheek. Had the child been talking about herself or about him? Had it been a prayer she was chanting, or a curse?
He'd never know.
Title: The Tendency of History to Repeat Itself (1/1)
Author: Cindy (cindergal)
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine, no harm, no foul
Setting: Prague, 1997, just before Spike and Dru arrive in Sunnydale
Summary: Drusilla has a craving. Spike is far too indulgent
A/N: Many thanks to fishsanwitt for the beta. Translations were done to the best of my ability - any mistakes are all mine.
The Tendency of History to Repeat Itself
Spike never cared much for children. No misplaced sentimentality on his part - they were just too much trouble. Unlike most of the adults he fed on - they got that deer-in-the-headlights, this-can't-be-happening look about them and went all conveniently frozen with shock and disbelief - the little ones knew far too well that monsters were real. They screamed and squirmed and kicked and beat at him with their tiny, surprisingly effective fists. All that annoyance for what barely amounted to a snack seemed like far too much effort to Spike.
Dru, on the other hand, was obsessed. Drawn to the wee ones, she was, and it was a right pain in the ass, often as not. But there was something sad and desperate in this infatuation of hers, and it hurt him to see her yearn so, warped as it was, for something she would never have. It was why he gave her Miss Edith and her other dollies, so she could have babies to dote on, and sing her lullabies to. Every once in awhile, though, dollies weren't enough. And tonight, Drusilla had a craving.
"They're calling to us, do you hear them Spike? It's so very sad. They're calling for Mummy and Daddy."
She stood under a streetlight and stared longingly up at the orphanage, a baroque monstrosity which sat off by itself, atop a hill. Used to be a hospital, he supposed, but now it just looked like something out of an old horror movie. How apropos. He had a bad feeling about this, though. The moon was too bright, the building too isolated, and it was far too close to dawn. Spike might love a good brawl, but even he had to admit that Angelus had a point way back when - getting caught didn't hold quite the charm it used to, especially since it became just the two of them. Hard to believe it had been nearly a hundred years since Angelus was afflicted and he and Darla left them - though what did a century mean to someone like him?
His attention was brought back to the present by his beloved's laughter, and when he looked, he saw Drusilla bathed in the golden light of the sodium lamp. She turned to him and smiled, deceptively childlike herself, full of mischief and delight. She clapped her hands together and folded them under her chin.
"Please, Spike. I've been such a good girl. I deserve a treat, don't I? A few sweet little sugarplums on Christmas morning?"
He couldn't help but smile back. She was his world, his damnation, his salvation. He could deny her nothing.
"Deserve a treat, you say? Indeed you do, Princess. Indeed you do."
He should have been paying closer attention. He should have made sure that all the nurses had been accounted for. But he was too busy watching Drusilla as she rocked and cooed and hypnotized each child in turn. "I'll be your mumsie now," she whispered to each of them, and damn if it didn't tug at his heart. So much so that he didn’t even noticed the huge crowd that had gathered outside, until he was nearly struck by the rock one of them tossed through the window. These eastern Europeans still took their vampires seriously, it seemed. Bugger.
"Time to go, petal." He grabbed her arm, but she resisted. And his patience had reached its end. "Drusilla, come on! Two versus the angry mob are not odds I'm much interested in tonight."
"I want to take this one with me." She held a pale, but still breathing, child in her arms.
"No." He pulled on her arm again, and almost fell backward when she pushed him off; he forgot how strong she was sometimes.
Dru stomped one delicate, velvet-clad foot. "I want her! She's my favorite! She sings to me, pretty little songs in my head, like my sisters used to do." Her lip trembled, and pushing the girl's long hair out of her face, Dru began to hum a nursery rhyme.
"Oh, Dru. Give her here, then." He threw the little girl over his shoulder, grabbed Dru's hand and headed for the back door. But the mob was already there, trying to break it down. Dru began a high-pitched whine, and he shushed her as gently as he could. "Gotta think, sweetness. Hush now for a mo', alright?" he said. He peered through a high window, and could barely see the pale stars against a lightening sky.
Spike propped the child up against the wall, as Dru had already lost interest. He felt the girl's eyes upon him as he stroked Drusilla’s hair and tried to suss out what to do.
"Mulo," the girl whispered.
A chill went through him, and he knelt down before the tiny little thing. "What did you say?" The last thing he should be doing was wasting time this way, but that word ....
She bravely raised her eyes to his. "Mulo. Beng," she uttered. She had barely enough breath left to be heard above the noise of the mob outside.
He *had* heard those words before. Rumania, 1898. Screamed by men, women and children alike. He didn't know much Romany, but he knew those words. Mulo. Beng.
Vampire.
Devil.
This girl wasn't screaming, though. She was ten or eleven, maybe, and she gazed at him calmly, but the heat of anger burned in her black eyes.
"You're a gypsy," he said, with dawning horror. He saw all the children on the ward again in his mind, dark-haired children with big dark eyes. Another window broke, and Drusilla wailed. The girl started speaking again, a long litany of words repeated over and over again, like a prayer.
Or a curse.
"Shut up. Shut up!" He roared at her, fangs descending, ridges coming forward, and she shrank back against the grey brick wall, looking so small and helpless, lost in the plain, white, cotton nightgown which must have beeen three sizes too big.
She was just a little girl, after all.
The last of the windows crashed in and the heavy door fell loudly to the floor. Spike had to fight his way through the crowd, resisting the urge to turn and run back inside as the sky turned pink around him, and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He howled in fury and pain as the broken handle of a shovel was thrust perilously close to his heart. Tearing it out, he turned it on his attacker - and Spike didn't miss. Dru's hand was torn from his at one point, and the mob descended on her like a pack of dogs. When he was finally able to reach her, ten men lay dead at his feet, but Drusilla's dress was drenched with blood. The smell of her blood and the oncoming sunrise filled his head, and all he could do was run for the cover of the forest. His Princess was limp in his arms, head lolling on her slender neck.
He was half a mile into the trees when he finally thought it safe enough to stop and rest, the chanting of the young Gypsy girl ringing in his ears. He had only made out a word here and there.
Kom. Brigaki. Baxt.
Love. Sorrow. Fate.
He gazed down at Drusilla's still form, stroked her cool dry cheek. Had the child been talking about herself or about him? Had it been a prayer she was chanting, or a curse?
He'd never know.