TITLE: Little Fingers
AUTHOR: Jana Kay
EMAIL: jana_kay17@yahoo.com.au
DISCLAIMER: All characters named here belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the WB and 20th Century Fox. No profit being made, I'm just playing.
RATING: a soft R for elements of **F/F SLASH**. You've been warned.
SPOILERS: S2 Angel
SUMMARY: Despite her own evil, Drusilla's still haunted.

*****

It's always night when Dru remembers, little fingers, little hands, dancing through her mind and drawing pictures, waving at her in hate and malice. pain. love. sorrow.

And she hides as best she can, burrowing down deep as her Dark Angel comes towards her, his strides long and sure and his smile cruel and hurtful, nun's blood coating her hands and clothes as snakes and worms eat her from the inside, wriggling around and biting and biting, pulling little Dru away and leaving an empty shell behind.

And it's always the same as his big teeth slip into the paleness of her neck, the same faces flashing behind her closed lids as all her blood leaves her in big Daddy sized gulps, and they're all screaming out in pain. death. anger. shouting her name over and over again while she scratches and scratches in a frenzy, trying to get the voices to stop and go away, making herself bleed to find a Peace that never comes.

And when the firm wrist is pushed in front of her hazy eyes, more thick blood drip-dripping down onto her clothes to mingle with Sister Mary's and Sister Shauna's and Sister Claribel's and so many other Sisters that she killed just by being there, she wants to stop herself but she can't because she's just so thirsty now that all her blood's gone.

Her throat is dry and the Fallen Angel's blood is cool and tasty as it slides down the back of her throat, and she can't help but crave more as she gulps eagerly, sucking furiously at the opening he uses to bind her to him wickedly, even as the ice crystal tears running down her cheeks make her face numb with grief and death and cold and the Pretty Lady in the background laughs and laughs.

Dirty gypsies gave her Daddy a soul so he's gone now, but the Pretty Lady is still here.

Grandmother is her name, and when Daddy was around, Grandmother always ignored her. Even when he wasn't around, she was still pushed to the side, her little Spike taking Daddy's place, and Princess was left all alone outside in the rain because nobody wanted to play with her. Princess had to make up games to play herself and they were never as much fun with nobody to share them with.

But come nights her Angel was always back home, so Grandmother took Daddy and she had her little Spike, her Baby, back to take care of her when the memories came again.

And he was always so sweet and tender, his eyes all aglow with love for her as he'd hold her hand softly, his thumb rubbing back and forth over her white, white skin, and push her hair back from her face as she shook and cried and moaned, trying not to think of the hateful Daddy that chased her through the broken pews in the convent that she can still smell if she concentrates hard enough, air stained with the stench of fear and copper blood and death. sex. pleasure. pain, when she knew, she *knew* that her Daddy loved her.

Took care of her. Needed her.

But not as much as he needed Grandmother.

And because she always took her Daddy, her Angel away, Drusilla didn't always like Grandmother. Especially not when the memories came and she saw her laughing face peering out at her in the darkness just before Princess closed her eyes, or her face scrunched up in ecstasy as Daddy pleasured her on the ground in front of Princess and Princess cried and shook in mournful fear, or the small, beautific smile on her face when she told Daddy to kill her.

But she still loves her.

And nights alone with the memories are the hardest when there's no one there to hold her, love her, tell her it will all be okay. Make the nasty pictures leave her mind and run away for another day until they come back and ensnare her in their crimson web again.

So when the naughty humans came to her and asked her to make a new Baby, to make Grandmother whole again, she said Yes.

She bound Grandmother to her as she had Spike, and marveled at the fact that some bonds can be remade, but never, ever broken.

Now Darla is her Daughter and her Grandmother, and it's sometimes difficult to tell which is the Mother anymore, because they both have claws as sharp as each other and teeth stained with the same amount of blood.

And now it's Darla who holds her at night as the hateful memories come again that make her want to tear out her eyeballs and throw them away. Princess doesn't need eyes. She can still see even if they're gone.

But it's unfair that nobody told her there's a difference between her Spike and her Darla, because even though they both held her while she cried, when she opened her eyes after it was over in the beginning, the bright blue that stared back at her had never haunted her, never done her wrong, while the bright blue that looks back now still laughs wickedly in her mind, taunting Princess, saying hateful things, telling Daddy to kill them all, Mummy and little Anne and big, strong Peter who was so warm and cuddly and always used to give her hugs. who gave her Miss Edith.

And every night she hates her new Baby a little more, only to have Darla growl and knock her down. kiss her. make Princess' clothes disappear with a few swipes of claws that match her own.

And then they roll together, white on marble white and bodies slick with arousal and excitement, kissing. nibbling. licking. biting. savaging. hating //because she knows Baby hates her too for taking finally found Peace away from her// loving //because some bonds can be remade but never. ever broken, and blood is the strongest call of all// making her forget again until the next night, when the memories come back.

Little fingers, little hands .... dark eyes, dark hair .... blue eyes, blonde hair .... hate. love. fear ...

Blood.


End.