by Cassie

Pairing: Dru/Angelus
Rating: "L-level?" "High, high level." "5." — If I were to give it a letter, it would be "R". Just so's you know.
Summary: "Angelus was all she remembered, and that made his cruelty most dear to her."
Timeline: Way pre-series. You know, post-Dru-vampification but pre-Spike.
A/N: For gwyddfid, who is a wonderful wonderful crazy person.

Angelus was grinning at her, and Drusilla blew out the candles.

She always saw him best in the dark. He was the silhouette enveloping her shadow; ridged, leering countenance above her, around her, in her. Angelus was all she remembered, and that made his cruelty most dear to her. She sometimes wasn't sure about life Before, when there were colours and sunlight and the grass grew up to her ankles in the spring, but there was certainty that Now, and in the Beginning, there was only his shape, his low, taunting words; her affection.

Darla was first. Darla was always first, the shining princess on his melted throne. But Drusilla could be second, when Angel wanted her; the darker monarch, the gypsy hurtling through his muted blackness, but when he grabbed her she would finally stop. When he touched her, the feral cats stopped yowling and the stars stopped talking and Drusilla thought she could see again; and soon all she craved was him. His power and hers; how he took her powers and turned it into the powers she thought she might have had once, the Sight and the Innocence and the Victim.

She doesn't even try to hide from him anymore; she feels a delicious flame of anticipation when she thinks of capture. Before, she would hide in the walls and walk with a myth and dress up in purity. But her Angelus, her lovely torturer, he tore off her masks. She controls her own mask now; he gave her that power.

She's still bound, but it doesn't matter when the playtime grows closer. So she dances, waiting, hugging the punchline to her chest. She is the first child, and he saves her in his hollow thrusts because there's nothing else in the world. He taunts and pulls and it's all she remembers, all she knows, loves. The fear has floated away with her breath, but she still wears his mask.

She used to wait for him in the Beginning, but he wouldn't come and the shriveling roses would call to her; she would wander and listen to their secrets. When he finally came looking for her he'd be cross, but she'd be drowning in the dying flora and they always liked her, told her their secrets on their deathbed, and she knew the buttercups lasted longer than wolfsbane. She tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen. Thought she talked nonsense; and so it must be so — only nonsense, only nothing — and would punish her with fists and legs and reaching strength and Darla would laugh.

Drusilla would just watch and smile, because Darla was never meant to be indestructible.

Darla wasn't here tonight; Drusilla knew that before she blew out the candle and began to see, and quickly, Drusilla understood the song behind her Angelus' grin; the orchestral fullness of it. If she were a musician, she would strum him, yet Drusilla is not a musician. She's not anything; dust in the spiraled winds. Dust, until he claims her, and then she takes form, she becomes.

She's his.

- fin -

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