A Few Lifetimes
by Patricia R.D.

Darla smells of jasmine and fresh blood, her skin unnaturally warm to Angelus' touch. She had fed before coming to him. Now is his turn. So he lets her take his hand in her and guide him again inside the room, where they dressed in silence, still getting used to the recent events.

When he's ready, he walks to her and adjusts the one good strap of her crimson dress, his fingers hovering near the soft flesh. His lips follow, getting reaquainted with never forgotten tastes and emotions. Darla closes her eyes and almost says no, but her body cries for this, even after what seemed like endless hours of hot pleasure. Soon clothes are ripped away and shed, bodies entwined once again on the bed. His hands caress the curves of her body as she rides into climax, their mouths metting for wild, ravaging kisses.

Some time later, they lay spent and sated, enjoying the silence and their company. This is it, the things they've been waiting for since the filthy soul tainted their relationship forever. The future appears before them, infinite wickness.

Angelus is the first to get up, picking up new clothes and dressing. Darla watches him in silence, accepting a large black sweater as a replacement for her now useless dress. The sweater in black, and it smells of soap and a little hint of blood and scotch. pulls her close for yet another long linguering kiss. Reluctanly, she breaks it off after a few minutes. The night will end soon, and her boy needs a different kind of nourishment.

"Patiente, my sweet," she whispers and he nods. It has taken them a few lifetimes to get to this. Surely a few more hours can be spared.

They leave the hotel together.


CHINA, 1900

The time he had come to her during the Boxer Rebellion, she'd been more than happy to take him back, her amrs and bed missing him so long. But she had known things wouldn't be easier. She needed to know. So she tested him. She wanted blood and killings. And he gave them to her: small, helpless as he took their lives away from them. But not human at all. Darla had shaken her hair and asked for a bigger present, a human offering. So he gave them to her.

But Darla was no stupid. Murderers, rapist and bandits were all he took. She demanded more. She would not take him back fully unless he showed her he was ready to be his own self. The man once know as the Scourge of Europe. Surely he wouldn't let a filthy soul get in his way.

The prey she chose herself: An infant, sole survivor of a tiny massacre Darla had had to perform when Angel had been too coward to do it. She'd grasped the last straws of hope as her fingers cut into the skin of her tiny hands, her voice cold, demanding Angel to prove himself in front of her. She'd be left with a broken window and an even more broken heart.


NEW YORK, 1943

She saw him again once, a blur passing across the street in front of her building. Her undead heart almost beat when she reached the window to look down. There he was, skinnier, more tired, his body wrapped in a coat that had surely seen better decades. Her mouth opened to call his name, almost desperate.

She didn't call for him. Later, she found out where he lived. But everytime she got ready to go there, the memory of the lives he spared went through her heart like a perfectly sharped stake. So she stayed way from him.



There was regret in his eyes. Her last moments lasted only a few seconds, but she could see it. Deep inside, they both knew the truth: It was Darla he loved, not the Slayer. He only wanted because he'd thought she meant pure goodness and redemption. How to tell him there was no black and white, only shades of grey? And yet she knew he had tried to make her happy, but no killing was good enough for her. She needed the bigs ones.

Darla never got to tell him. As she died, so did the memories of decades trying to get back what they once had.


She points to the girl a few steps away from them. Young and pretty, with cherry red lips and leather mary janes. She had a little bit of madonna/whore going on, with emphasis on madonna. She's distracted, all her attention focuses on her tiny dog, a Yorkie, standing next to a large tree, going on its little dog business.


Angelus takes a step forward without waiting for an order. His lover watches with sheer pleasure as he grabs the girls and sinks his fangs into the delicate skin of her neck. Darla can taste the fear in the air, hear the quickening heartbeat slow down and then coming into a sudden halt, see the body falling to the wet grass. It's almost enough to make her come again right there. Temptation is higher when Angelus walks to her and kisses her, his lips full of the coppery familiar taste of a fresh killing. Their fingers entwine and their bodies are pressed closer together. To the casual observer, they're just a random couple, celebrating their love under a streetlight. That is, if they didn't happen to notice the death girl a few feet away from them, and the barking dog.

The pup. Right...

Angelus goes to pick it up. It fits perfectly on his hands, and its tiny heart flutters like a humminbird. The animal knows danger is holding it. For a moment he imagines Cordelia discovering the little body in her bathub, dismembered. He can almost hear her screams, divine simphony. Maybe he could find a way to record it...

A hand on his shoulder brings him back to reality. Darla is looking at him, then at the dog, slowly shaking her head. She's always been so god and guessing what he's thinking.

No more puppies. It's time to give his sire real killings, human bones breaking under his strong hands as she observes in delight. Letting the puppy of the floor and ignoring its hurried getaway to gather the girl's body in his arms. He's gonna take her back to the hotel, carve her flesh with his sharpest knives and extract her heart as the begining of hundreds of late Valentine's Day's presents for his girl. First, this anonymous young thing. Tomorrow, one of his former employees.

With Darla's hand resting safe and sound on his arm, Angelus leads the way back to the Hyperion, eternity ahead of them.


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