Summary: Drusilla liked the taste of children, their freckles tiny sparks of sunshine burning against her tongue.
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: PG for violence, no sexual content
Original story: The Tendency of History to Repeat Itself , by cindergal
Notes: Prague, 1997, just before Spike and Dru arrive in Sunnydale
Drusilla looked at the lovely building; all the pain and death of a hospital, but now filled with delicious little ones. The sign announced in Czech that here were all the babies who'd lost their mums and daddies, just waiting for her to find them. 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?" she whispered into his ear, adding a tiny kitten lick for emphasis.
He sighed, but gave in, her perfect prince. "Deserve a treat, you say? Indeed you do, Princess. Indeed you do."
Drusilla twirled in delight, then stopped; confused. She'd seen the ending to this story. There were men with pitchforks, and fire, and it hurt. She tried to skip forward in her head, but she remained stubbornly in the present. No matter how she twisted or twitched her head, she couldn't get past the burning and the pain part.
Spike wrapped his arms around her. She tried to explain. "The mushrooms are all nasty, love. We can chew and chew and chew, and they will," she mimed a cloud floating off into the sky, "until we're all gone."
Spike rolled his eyes at her. She ignored her silly boy; he never listened to her warnings, but soon he would be so very cross when the stones flew like bats in the sky.
No matter, he would take care of her, this time. She tried to enjoy all her lovely little presents, all wrapped up in a big building on a hill, with the moonlight streaming over and tasting like lemonade.
Dru liked the taste of children, their freckles tiny sparks of sunshine burning against her tongue. Too often grown-ups would freeze in shock and stay far to still for her to bother playing with. But children kicked, and screamed, and hit with their tiny hard fists, because they believed in monsters. The best part of the littlest ones, though, was the way their tender little minds scampered into hers and let her fill them all up.
Sometimes, she brought them all the way in. It made her sad, though, when it didn't work. Not once had she found a one that could see like she could, past and present and future stirring and bubbling, mushrooms in a stew. Drusilla didn't like mushrooms. It wasn't fair that she had to eat them all up, with no one to share them with.
Today though, was a day for presents and games. Not one little morsel got invited all the way into Drusilla's mind, instead; they lingered on the front step while she told them all the rules this game had. She liked the games where she was their mummy best of all. "I'll be your mumsie now," she would whisper to them, and they would settle so softly against her, hair tickling her nose as she kissed them goodnight. Then her teeth came out, snap snap snap and the dolly's all broken.
There were so many, and so small that they would hardly fill her up at all, boys and girls and tiny tiny babies. Her eye caught on long dark hair, cinnamon bark covering a special treat.
The little Romany girl would taste of licorice, Drusilla heard the stars sing. Licorice, and pansies, and striped wagon sides. The Romanies who hurt Daddy hadn't tasted nearly so nice, with their powders and vials and nasty old leather aftertaste. Her Spike was whinging at her again, but she focused on the pressing issue. "I want her! She's my favorite! She sings to me, pretty little songs in my head, like my sisters used to do." Dru began to sing back, hey, ho, nonny oh, the rat's got the cat and we've got to go.
Pretty little gyspy, skin so soft and ready to pop like a grape when she was bitten into. Angelus told her that her sisters had tasted of lemon tarts; maybe this one would as well.
Dru swayed with the sound of pounding, rocking faster as the sounds got closer and closer. Spike wanted to leave. He shouldn’t have invited all those people to their special party! They were ruining it. She watched a rock fly towards them. It looked like Grandmum's kettle, all black and heavy. It clattered against the wall next to her, making an ugly thumping noise as it rolled down. Dru hummed and hummed to try to drown it out.
Spike took her special dolly and off they went. But the door was all broken, the nasty people making loud noises and rattling the door.
Her Spike showed the pretty child his face, all bumpy and growly. It made Drusilla want to clap her hands every single time. Except the times that hadn't come yet, in the times where he was all gone to the taste of ashes and she didn't have her Spike anymore. But those visions weren't strong yet, and when it happened, she could stir the pot, push the mushrooms back down again.
The door came falling toward her. Her little gypsy girl was chant chant chanting, "Kom. Brigaki. Baxt." That wasn't of the living or the dead, now was it? This little one, Dru realized too late, she could stir the mushrooms up. Stir and stir and change the stew altogether. Dru dropped Spike's hand. This was too important to miss.
Love, and betrayal, and fate, all brewing and boiling, and this little one with a ladle in her hand. Drusilla would taste them all sooner or later; the pretty gypsy child needn't bother with curses when god or the devil had gotten there first.
The bad part was coming soon, fire and pain and being weak for so very long. Drusilla locked her eyes on the girl, still chanting her hateful gypsy spells. "Be in me," she said, and the child came rushing in. Dru smiled, showing her beautiful teeth, and pushed her headfirst into the stewpot.
Oh, the next part was the burning part, and that was her very least favorite. A rock came hurling by, and Drusilla danced into its path. She followed her little friend into the stew.