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[personal profile] sevendeadlyfun
Pairing: Angel/Darla

Rating: Hard R

Warnings: Angst, mild het sex

A/N: [profile] girlpire  wanted to see an Angel/Darla fic. I like GP. This takes place after the AtS Season 2 episode "Dear Boy". Title taken from the Emily Dickinson poem "Death Is A Dialogue".


God doesn’t want you, but I still do…God doesn’t want you, but I still do…God doesn’t want you, but I still do…

Angel sat in the dark; let Darla’s words roll through him. How long had it been since someone had wanted him? Buffy, maybe? Except Buffy didn’t want him, just needed him, his help, his strength. For the Mission. Capital M Mission, that was what he was there for and yeah it felt good. A purpose finally after a century of wandering, standing as close to the light as he dared and basking in the warmth. Buffy had brought him in from the cold. But she hadn’t wanted him.

Darla wanted him. Darla had wanted him that night, wanted him when no one else did. People wanted things from him, and he gave. He’d given his best and seen it spat on, and even now that he was older and understood that sometimes people took when they themselves had nothing they could give, it still hurt.

God doesn’t want you, but I still do.

His hands shook and he looked at them, not connecting the dots. His hands didn’t shake. So these must be someone else’s hands. Not Angelus, because his hands never shook. Not in fear, not in anger, not in love, not in hate. Were these Liam’s hands than, that sad boy dead so many years? Was he Liam now? He didn’t want to be Liam again.

“You know, I never understood why you chose me,” he smiled ruefully, the idle words hanging in the air.

“I know,” she answered quietly. “How could you understand? You were so young.”

“The young stallion?” The question fell out, and he froze, borrowed blood icing over.

A delicate snort. A whoosh of breath, and the rustle of cloth. He could still feel her ivory gown between his fingers, those ridiculous panniers stiff and wide, holding him away from her body. Darla had loved the French court, and it had taken him years to persuade her to ditch the powdered wig. Her golden hair, cascading down her back or over his face, smelling of wildflowers, had entranced him from the beginning.

A warm hand cupped his cheek and he longed to look up, wanting to see himself reflected in the kaleidoscope hues of her eyes. He wasn’t sure if he would see himself there anymore. She wasn’t his Sire now, and her place in his blood empty and echoing.

A small nudge and his lap cradled her near weightless form. He’d forgotten how small she was in his arms. He’d spun her in the air so many times, like a child, but her hands could rend a body to shreds. One of her many contradictions and how they had drawn him in, silken threads in the tapestry of his life.

“I won’t say you aren’t beautiful,” she whispered into his hair, soothing him with words and kisses, “ because that would be a lie. But if it was only your beauty I wanted, I could have had that and been done with you.”

“Others did. Others have,” he confessed tightly.

“Darling boy,” she sighed, naming him again and making him real. “I know the price of a body. Down to the last farthing, I know what I’m worth. Flesh is a commodity, for humans as well as vampires.”

“Why,” he choked, again the pleading child.

“You already know,” she comforted him placidly.

She threaded her hand through his, and he felt her pulse fluttering under her skin. He brought the blue veined wrist to his lips and held it there, hungry. He didn’t want the blood; he wanted the life, the awareness of it, to seep into him.

“You’re dying,” he told her quietly.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Again. I don’t think I appreciated it the first time around, how messy death can be.”

He did know. She had seen him and wanted him, exactly as he was, to keep forever. Him with her always, a kind of love that wasn’t love. Love can’t be frozen, can’t be held that way. Out of time, he was stuck in that night, his body stubbornly refusing to rot. But, he had changed, shook himself free of that moment.

“I can stop time,” he promised her. “I can make you fly.”

“Shake me loose this mortal coil,” she inquired lightly. “No, you won’t.”

“No,” he nodded, still watching the vein pulse and twitch.

He lifted her, and her head still fit perfectly into the crook of his neck. The scar there, her scar, ached and in a brief flash, he wished his soul gone. His soul had driven them apart, had jarred his inertial state and sent him hurtling forward to a place she couldn’t follow. If it were gone…

“I would still be dying,” she reminded him, a finger on his lips halting the desperate flow of words.

“I could fix that,” he countered grimly.

Laying her down on the bed, there were no more words. The kisses spoke more profoundly than words, the slide of skin held more meaning than speech. Her fingers encircling him, stroking and teasing his hardness, reached inside him as a thousand impassioned speeches never could.

No matter what he wished, he knew his soul was safe. There wasn’t enough happiness here, only sorrow and loss and regret. Pushing deeply into her warmth and feeling her strong inner muscles clench around him, he stilled and let himself feel her.

This was his Maker, and God did not want him. But she did, tenderly, wholly, ardently, want him. She wanted the useless boy, the skillful killer, the regretful man he had become. Wanted him and that thought sent him reeling, his hips snapping in tune with her heart.

He poured himself out for her, driving her higher and higher. She keened, her hot breath wafting over him. He watched her fly, saw the instant when she outran death. That was why. This, this ability to cheat death for even a second, drove them all.

He wrapped himself around her, his large frame failing to protect her. She nuzzled into him, her body lightly sheened with sweat, his semen trickling out between her legs. A tear tracked down his face and he cursed.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

She did know, her memories just as clear as his. The first time, the last time and all the times in between played out in their heads. For once, he didn’t remember the death or destruction he’d wrought by her side. Only the laughter, the sweetness, the happiness he’d known with the only person to really want him.

He looked at her finally, and didn’t see his existence shining in her eyes. Consciously, he shifted, his amber eyes predatory and entreating. She smiled winsomely and trailed a finger over the ridges on his forehead.

“Darling boy,” she murmured. “I don’t mind dying.”
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