Like God Made Adam

by Girl With Journal


Pairing: Dru/Warren
Rating: R
Summary: "You like to make things, don't you? I like to make things, too. Oh, what fun we'll have, once I'm finished making you."
A/N: Inspiration from Challenge In A Can, "Drusilla, lost, curtains". Hope you like this itty-bitty ficlet. Sorta weird, but I like it. A thanks to my odd beta Chelle. She's the reason I don't need spell check!


I know it hurts now, my pet, I can taste it in you, your sweet fear and your deep deep hurt. I love you for that. The cold hollow of your heart, just switches and wires, like the girls you make. You like to make things, don't you? I like to make things, too. Oh, what fun we'll have, once I'm finished making you.

I know what you want. I can see it in your eyes.

No, don't close them. Squeezing them so tight that your eyeballs will pop (they sound like grapes, and feel like them, but the taste is bitter) — it won't help. No, stop! Stop, my sweet one, my darling, my little war-bird. Your cheeks are already wet and glistening with the leaking of your eyes — soon it will be too late.

Oh, but you do make such pretty noises. Yes, little sparrow, little wren, chirp for me. Flap your beak and sing your song, for tomorrow there'll be none.

Now look at you try to crawl away: you're like a crab skittering across the sand. Skitter, skitter! We went down to Brighton and ate crabs by the sea, and they tasted of the ocean. Salty. Your taste is salty, too. I taste of dust in dark places, but you'll drink of me like a babe pulling at his mother's teat. You don't believe me, do you? But you should. Your metal girl, she told me it was true. Whispered in her spider's voice, from her web of wires. Her eyes are always open and she sees everything. And so do I.

I saw what you did to your human girl. Flesh and blood (oh yes, you remember the blood) and feelings, but not the ones you wanted. Wouldn't let you hurt her, wouldn't submit. She was a bad girl. So you showed her, didn't you? Taught her proper. My Daddy, he taught me, too. I studied hard (like Cinderella's sisters, we washed the shoes in red), I learned well (and now there's no one left to walk to market). Soon I'll show you. Soon.

No, I mustn't, I shan't. Wouldn't be right to rush. Wouldn't be fair. And we must always be right and fair, so we may get to heaven. Don't you want to live amongst the angels?

(They still live in me.)

But you, you've seen inside where the gears are. Seen the tick tick ticking. You don't believe in such things. You are steel and science, a cold brain for a cold heart. But you must have known, sweetling, that here there be monsters. You're one of them.

It's true. I cannot tell a lie.

And I wouldn't lie to you, my pet. I wouldn't tell you, the pain's all going to stop. It won't. You'll feel it every bit, in the absence of every heartbeat — you'll come to love it. You are to be its instrument — deadly and dark and beautiful. And aren't I beautiful?

My dark knight, he said I was beautiful. But now he's gone away. But you, you'll never leave me, will you?

No. You won't. I'll see to it you won't.

Such pretty sounds you make. Your flesh and blood girl didn't have time to make a sound. That was your mistake. I'll teach you better than that. And you'll learn, or else be punished. I know so many nice punishments. Sometimes I dream them. Dead girls in petticoats, they share my shattered countenance. Oh, oh! I do not think that is a dream, my war-bird. The past bites at me. You shall feel its teeth.

Yes, that's right. You're getting what you wanted; we're both getting what we wanted. You may close your eyes now, if you want; you may lay the coins for Charon. He won't take you. The river Styx is cold and wide, and not for us to cross. The rivers we traverse are warm and red; let me help you on your first journey.

Oh, but I've forgotten: you came to me with wet feet. I like you for your boldness. I shall have no more poets and dreamers: their dreams diverge, and their pens go elsewhere. I need a knight who works with his hands, not his heart. You have good, strong hands (getting cold now, yes, not long); this unvirgin flesh will work for me, will it not? Like your metal girls, work until it breaks.

You're far away now, in the place we don't remember. The womb of our deaths. Is it quiet? Is it peaceful? Are the angels there to greet you, and laugh as they turn you away?

But you wouldn't find angels, would you, dear one? My naughty, wicked boy with your lovely stained skin. There were worse fates waiting for you: I have seen your other death. The stains were lifted (and the new ones, too — bang bang, you shot her down and the ocean turned red) but not the way you wanted. The witch-girl made you scream and she made you beg. Longer and louder than I did. We shall pay her a visit when we're through.

By the witch-girl's hands you would have died helpless and screaming, but I have stopped all that, like a beaver stops the water. (Not that it helps, oh no. The dark waves beat on, and the houses of sticks get washed away. But we keep building, don't we, gnawing away at the wood with our sharp teeth.) I have dammed the river of fate, I have damned your fate, and now together we will make such pretty death. You should thank me.

You will thank me. I will lock you in chains when you wake, and there will be not a drop for you until I have your gratitude and your vow. No more mistakes. No more demons with their straying blue eyes. You will be my yellow-eyed wolf, my loyal dog. Rarf!

Or not. There are always more where you came from. Petty murderers dealing small-time death. Don't think I don't know you, war-bird. I've seen the meat and bone of your insides, and you ran as wetly as the rest. You disgust me. You with your pretty dark hair and dark lips, grunting your pleasure into a plastic cunt. You aren't worthy of me. I should have let you die.

I should kill you now before you wake, tear through your neck with my beaver's teeth. Your blood may still be warm, and I would take more nourishment from it tepid than I ever will from your fingers and your mouth and this—

Part of you is awake already, I see. Hurry up, arms and legs and fingers and toes, join your comrade, and we'll see what can be made of this wasted, wasteful flesh.

I will shape you, little one, I will mold you. You are mine to mend and make, to bend and break, and I can undo you on a whim. Do you hear me now, through your dead ears? I tell you true. Look to your metal bride; her eyelids are rust-stained, but she will bear me witness. I hold your death in my hand, just as I held your life. Will you follow? Will you hail? Your head lulls to the side, your face and neck wet with our joining. I'll take my answer in that.

I can feel the sun rising, breathing warm cat's breath down my neck. It pads over to lick your hand but its tongue is rough. We must hide underground with the rats, down in the dark with the wet, slippery things. The sun-cat is not our friend. You will learn, or you will burn. Pretty fire. Don't touch it, child, it's far too hot for the likes of us…

(But still he slips like ashes through my fingers, ashes and dust. Soon, soon, and even I can't hold tight the air. Already it's too late.)

But that is not your fate, at least today. He was a bad pupil, that one. Not like you. We will walk the earth a while, you and I and the other children of Cain, here in the tunnels and sewers and bowels of the world. You with your soiled hands and soiled soul (gone now; I felt it leave: a little fart, your soul): you'll feel right at home here. You can show me the way, my guide dog, my sheep in wolf's clothing.

You are mine, little war-bird, forever and always.

Come, wake, the sun is rising. Open your eyes and greet your mistress.

- fin -


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