Whore
by Te
January 2001

Disclaimers: If they were mine, I'd love them forever.

Spoilers: Pretty much all of Angel S2, as it relates to
Darla.

Ratings Note: Call it an R.

Summary: Darla, lessons, love.

Author's Note: Just marking my territory, Kate. <g>

Acknowledgments: To Sheila and Deb and Dawn Sharon for
encouragement, and to Spyke Raven for convincing me Darla
was worth writing about.

*

Darla is, and will always be, a whore.

She knows this, just as well as she once knew the ridges of the
Master's face, and the things to make Angelus weak and foolish.

A woman in need of help from the sort of strong, moral man his
human had always wished he could be. That his demon had always
striven to prove was, essentially, impotent, usually in the most
depraved ways imaginable.

Men to prove himself against, one way or another. He'd laughed in
the Master's face, and sulked for days at not being able to best
him physically. At having his beauty marred.

Beautiful Angelus, always *striving* for the woman he only knew as
his temptress, his sire, his dark Lady.

And oh, that was a laugh. She'd never bothered to tell Angelus of her
history on the old Virginia docks, told herself it was because she was
beyond all that, now. Better than any of the fine gentleman who'd
left muddy boot prints on her coverlet. Stronger, faster, *finer*.
Darla, dear and beloved. The Master had loved her above all others,
placed her higher than her other brothers and sisters.

Allowed her the freedom to roam wherever she would, and bring the
tastes and styles of the very best mortals down to the catacombs, to
take on every affectation she could, and never remind her of her
roots.

She misses him, quite badly sometimes.

More than the visceral lurch of need of vampire for sire -- she'd
made a point of overcoming that well before she'd reached her first
century. Affection was fine, and well-worth using to one's own ends.
Control could not be tolerated. And such things...

All of those things she once believed distanced herself from the
nameless, ageless daughter and granddaughter of whores had just
made it more... *something*. Tangible, perhaps. Self-knowledge buried
beneath the knowledge of her most interesting son -- he would never
escape her father, as she would never escape herself.

It took the disease to drive that home, finally, so many years later.
Rickety hotel room stinking of old, pointless sex. Mattress her
vampire self would've known rife with parasites. And herself... the
paints were more sophisticated in this day and age, the proper clothing
often stylish and passable in other arenas of life, but in the end she
had gone with the least subtle things she owned. Bright red to make
her lips stand out, black slink against her pale, pale skin.

Darla had not taken much advantage of sunshine in her time alive -- it
would be like Christ hanging around Romans after the resurrection, she
supposed... blasphemy always made her smile. She was old enough for it
to mean something, after all. But no, all it came down to was the old
poxy doxy, tarting herself up for the night and hoping for takers, one
way or another.

Her face in the mirror -- grown impossibly, disgustingly familiar --
telling her all she needed to know. A whore, and this time without the
trappings of power and illusion, and no dearest boy to own. Only the
Angel she's underestimated far too many times, and finally the
half-mindless grand-daughter Angelus had been obsessed with.

Granddaughter, mother. Darla sees with new eyes now. Darla has
learned and grown like any twenty-first century girl should.

She has been put back precisely in her place, used and thrown away
and taunted and used again until finally being... chosen. Lindsey never
counted. Younger than young and so proud as to make her tired.

But oh, sweetest Drusilla. Taking the last of Darla's pathetic soul
with her fists and kicks, opening herself to everything from
grandmother and child. So very *sick*, yes, she can still feel echoes
of that. The horror her human self felt at the vision of the girl
gliding in, sadness and outrage and despair... Sweet blood, even the
echoes are impossibly powerful, seductive.

Perhaps something like the Angel-beast -- she likes the childish
description quite a lot -- feels. Her Angelus on the inside, constantly
buffeted by wash after wash of emotion, drugged with them and...
weak.

And that... that feels deeply, deeply important. Dirty and terrible
and so *sexy*, and yes, something for her sire to puzzle over, should
her madness allow it. Something that could make her happy, or drive
her into painful visions of apocalypse... Darla likes to watch
Drusilla move.

The liquid sways and jagged lurches of motion, all over and over and
over... She knows that a part of this, perhaps most of it is the power
of the sire over the newly made, the endless source of fascination
and need for teaching, approval, the affection of the bite...

But Darla knows that it is also, quite simply, herself. And there is
freedom in it, oh, so much freedom in being both dear and owned.

She misses the Master, she wishes he was there to help them, guide
them. His powers were far beyond those of most -- he could have
guided Drusilla's insanity so *well*. Of course, it's not as though
she *can't*. Drusilla the sire is still Drusilla the wayward and
fragile grandchild, responding to the caress *and* the slap with equal
confusion and need. Darla knows the ways, but still how terrible for
them to lack so much...

And yet, this is more than she's had since the Master first showed
her *life*, for of course Angelus had often been little more than her
biddable toy. Lessons learned.

Darla will have to guide Drusilla similarly, and that's simply the way
it is. There are no vampires left worthy of them, and with Angel
around... there isn't much time to train new ones. There will be war,
and there will be blood and hurt and recrimination. Mother and child
will weep, perhaps. And yet there is hope.

So much in the closing of a door, the pulling of a latch. Angel, closed
off so far from his dear soul's emotions as to... slip. Just a little.
Daddy and dearest child, close enough for Drusilla to feel, for even
Darla to sense. Oh, yes, oh, yes, and she rocks and sways on her heels
a little to revel in it, for minutes or hours.

Laughs at herself -- Drusilla must be very close, must feel Darla's
little tumult and wish to soothe.

Wanted to be saved? Oh, yes. Yes.

Strong pale hands slipping around her waist, whisper of long hair
against her own, the nuzzle of soft lips to her cheek.

"Daughter, you dream of such *beautiful* things...." Hands moving over
her, slipping over and under the new, shiny clothes that declare Darla
to the world, and they sway together, Darla leaning back to rest her
head on Drusilla's lean shoulder.

"They're all ours, Mother."

"Yes... and Daddy shall come home, and we shall punish him for being
away for so long."

"Make him hurt."

"Make him weep like a wee, tender babe --"

Drusilla's fangs in her throat, sudden and necessary as the hand
kneading at her sex, the other torturing one breast, blood running
down and down as Drusilla breaks off suckling to hum a lullaby
Darla hasn't heard since Virginia's sweaty heat.

Darla lets herself go to it, slumping and trusting in Drusilla to
pleasure her to her dreams of some half-remembered fellow whore, and
the drunken show they'd given on the bar of some sailors' dive. Of
sneaking into church the next day, all dressed up in Ladies' clothes, to
hear the minister rail and rail about them, and the hellfire awaiting
them.

Darla feels quite cool.

And loved.

End.