Author ~ Girlfromsouth
Title ~ Redux
Rating ~ PG-13
Timeline ~ Spoilers to end of s1.
Author's notes ~ Lots of thanks to Wesleysgirl for the beta.Challenge:
Story written for ~ Fairfax
Two requirements ~ Darla, a flashback to the past
Two restrictions (optional) ~ No Faith
Spoiler level ~ unrestricted
Rating level ~ s5 spoilers
Redux
The heat was terrible. The thick folds of her dress were positively stifling and the corset was making it harder than usual to breathe. Darla fidgeted as best she could; mustn't let people notice, as her mother had always said. Keep your back straight, head high. She wished she'd thought to bring a fan with her tonight.
The small bag she carried was only for show; it was completely empty except for a few small coins and a handkerchief. Hardly worth noticing, or stealing, if it happened to come to that.
It certainly wasn't enough to pay the taxes she owed, not by half.
The dirt crunched under her feet as she walked. It was quite dark and there was no moon; most people had found their way home for the night. A part of her was envious; she had no one to go home to.
Stopping at the door to Miller's Tavern, she took a deep breath and smoothed her hair.
Her hand rested on the door. She thought about going home, simply turning and running because she really didn't want to do this here, now.
But she refused to lose her land. She pushed the door in.
Darla smiled widely at the men in the bar. Drunk, the lot of them, and piss-poor representations of any kind of manhood. Darla repressed a sigh. A chorus of whistles and catcalls exploded in her direction as she came in. With one hand she grabbed her skirts and shifted them to miss the man who had passed out on the floor.
Typically charming, she thought.
The New World wasn't that different from the Old, really.
Oh, well. She wasn't here to find true love. Not that she believed in that anymore, anyway.
No respectable woman would have ever dared to enter. They all knew what she was here for, even if they all had to spend the next half hour pretending they didn't.
It was the way of the world.
With a gasp, Darla wrenched herself awake, sitting bolt upright and panting. The deck chair she was reclining in nearly tipped over from the force of her movement and the glare of the sun blinded her.
Another nightmare, or memory, or whatever those shamans had told her about. She'd never been one to quibble over semantics when they made no real difference.
She was breathing hard, taking air into her chest in great gulps, something she wasn't quite used to again yet. It still felt strange.
It felt like dying, somehow. Not that she really remembered that part.
She looked down; her hands were shaking violently.
The dreams were painful. Her name had changed in all these years, she hadn't been Darla then, but the rest…that was as she remembered it, even if it seemed as though it had all happened to someone else.
She raised her hand to her face, knowing that it looked the same as always. She was still that girl, she thought, the one in her dreams with coiffed hair and false smiles. Nothing had really changed. She had never really changed.
Her nails were still perfectly manicured and painted a delicate shade of pink. She looked at her skin, once so pale, so very pale, and saw the slightest pink tinge to it as well. For a brief, panic-stricken moment, she imagined she was cooking in the sun. She nearly screamed, before the knowledge that she had been this way once before, long ago, returned.
Darla wanted to vomit, if she could remember how. She could do that now. She could do so much and most of her couldn't be bothered to care. It was so very strange.
Lindsey smiled at her as he sat down next to her on a long deck chair. He was holding two glasses of something that positively reeked of alcohol. She hadn't been much of a drinker the first time she was alive.
Well, there was always this lifetime, apparently.
She took the glass and smiled back. It was forced and stiff, but Lindsey didn't notice. Darla wasn't surprised. Lindsey had the fatal flaw most men seemed to develop around her. Stupidity.
He ran his fingers down Darla's leg. She forced herself to stay still and not pull away, and kept smiling. After all, really, she didn't have any other options.
Once a whore, always a whore.
At least he was rich. And powerful, in certain circles, apparently. Good enough for a start.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
It was amazing, the things one remembered. She couldn't remember how to be alive, to live, to breathe without having to think about it, but these things she still knew. She remembered how to drop her eyes artfully, laugh appealingly, and smile a smile that promised worlds more. She knew how to give the appearance of listening intently with great interest when in reality if Lindsey dropped dead in front of her, she would be unfazed.
“So pretty.” The voice wrapped around her in the darkness, oddly comforting.
The man was nondescript, like others before him. She thought perhaps his name was William, but wasn't sure. Darla had found it was better not to know names.
At least this room had a door that locked. She had learned to appreciate the little things these days with everyone so poor and money hard to come by. Crops had failed; she was lucky to be working at all.
“Thank you,” she whispered, brushing her hair from her face with the back of her hand.
He had given her a necklace, this boy. A medallion with a saint's picture emblazoned on it. Said it was to protect her.
St. Jude. She smirked at the memory and wondered if that boy, now long dead, would understand the rich irony of his action. Patron saint of lost causes.
She was definitely lost.
“I'll be just a moment,” Lindsey murmured, rising as the phone rang inside.
Darla held her smile until Lindsey had disappeared again through the sliding glass doors.
Looking down, she saw that her newfound restlessness had caused her nails to draw a series of small scratches over her upper thigh. Three angry gashes bloomed, one slowly oozing blood.
So frustrating. She used to have more control than this.
Darla ran her finger along the welt and wiped the blood off. Turning her finger up, she drew it to her face. A droplet of blood remained on her nail, dark, whole and perfect. She looked at it for a long moment as it glistened in the light. It fascinated her.
Tentatively, she licked her finger. Her lips twitched. The metallic taste of blood was in her mouth, warm and salty. It was familiar. Darla closed her eyes, trying to determine if it tasted different because she was alive, or because she had been dead.
If she thought about it, she didn't really see the difference.
“Do you ever dream, Darla?” The young man's face was earnest, yet simple. She was almost certain his name was William. He couldn't have been more than sixteen.
“Oh, sometimes,” she whispered. A knot gathered in her stomach and pressed painfully against her ribcage. “For all the good it does.”
“What do you dream about?”
Darla pushed herself from the bed, all business as she began to rearrange her skirts and bodice. “Nothing of any interest to you.”
“I'm not sure of that, now,” he said very quietly.
“Well, I am,” Darla snapped.
She was thankful for the darkness that hid her face. She could feel the uncomfortable blush tinting her cheeks. She didn't like to think of these things. Her sister, dead from some kind of plague when they were children, or the miscarriage she'd had after she first started working. The family that haunted her, always.
She wondered as she sat, if Lindsey was ever going to tell her what had become of Drusilla, or Spike, or her Master, any of it. So many families, washed away.
And she was still here. Again.
Darla had never been much of a deep thinker--it went against her nature. She realized she would never know the answers to most of these questions.
Coming up behind her, Lindsey handed her a small bottle. “It's sunscreen,” he said quietly. “You're going to get a bad burn sitting out here.”
“I rather hope so,” she replied. “I think I might like to burn.” Her voice sounded strange in her ears, overly tinny and crazy, like Drusilla's.
“Don't. It hurts more than you think.”
Lindsey spread some of the lotion between the fingers of his good hand and rubbed it into Darla's shoulders. His touch was quick and light, not staying too long in any one place and Darla was grateful that, for once, Lindsey wasn't using an opportunity to inappropriately grope her. She was still a prostitute, but she was a bit out of practice. Especially when she couldn't summarily kill the patrons that annoyed her.
Being human again was quite a drag.
She shook her head when she realized Lindsey was talking. He did that a lot, acted as though because he'd done the spell that had recreated her body they now shared some kind of bond. Fool.
It would be so much easier if he just fucked her. But no, he wanted something else. Something she'd never given anyone except Angelus, and certainly would have no idea how to give him.
“Pardon?” she asked, tilting her head round to look at him.
“What's it like?” he repeated.
“What's what like?” she parroted, not understanding.
“Living forever. Immortality. What does it feel like?”
“Ah,” Darla paused. She knew she couldn't make him understand. The pain, the pleasure, the fear, the sheer joy; it was all too complicated to explain.
“Powerful,” she said, finally. “Untouchable, really. The world falls away, burns away, centuries pass and regimes change…and you know that you won't—that you can't, really, unless you want to.”
She shook her head and flicked her hair from her face. The sun's rays caught her hair and created a golden halo around her face. “It's something very like freedom.”
Lindsey looked envious for a split second as his eyes met hers. Unbidden, Darla's gaze slipped down to the prosthetic limb he wore; a gift from her dear boy. How ugly it was.
He caught her looking and she saw him read her expression. She sniffed and looked away. “I imagine you'd like it.”
His eyes were looking far off into the horizon, into the sun that burned Darla's eyes. “I imagine I would,” he murmured finally and his voice was distant.
“I wouldn't have turned you, though,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
“Why?”
“Because it would have made you happy.”
They sat in silence for a long moment; Darla aimlessly twirled the stirrer in her drink glass and took a long swallow. A searing taste she vaguely remembered as vodka burned a path down her throat.
Lindsey rose and grabbed Darla's arm roughly, pulling her to her feet. “We should go inside,” he mumbled, “Lilah wanted you to give her a call this evening. She wants to talk about Angel.”
“Lilah always wants to talk about Angelus. Here's a tip perhaps you both need to learn. My boy doesn't play well with others; he'll have no interest in your lawyers, no matter what I say, other than as a tasty treat,” Darla responded with a burst of anger, yanking her arm free of his grip. “And I'll thank you to never touch me like that again.”
“I said, I'll thank you to let me pass!” Her voice sounded painfully high-pitched in her ears. She hadn't meant to sound so shrill. She pressed her fingers into her skirts, where she felt the knife concealed in her garters. She was dirty and tired and just wanted to go home. ”Please, sir,” she said softly, changing tactics. “My child is at home without its mother, you must let me by!” She lied easily, forcing her eyes wide. Her voice dripped sincerity.
The man, scruffy and dirty, did not move. His eyes were small and bloodshot; there were undetermined sores across his forehead and torso. His clothes were in tatters and rags—a beggar, or worse.
He leered at her, his eyes blatantly raking over her body.
“Oh, I know your kind,” he hissed, his words slurring together. “I know what you're here for. I know what you want. You won't get another cent out of me!”
Darla thought frantically that he was clearly mad.
She backed away slowly. Too slowly.
The man sprang at her quicker than she had thought him capable of doing. His hands pushed her into the alley wall roughly; Darla felt a sudden, sharp jolt of pain run along her spine.
She struggled violently; her fists pushed against his chest. She opened her mouth to scream, knowing no one would hear her, knowing that no one would care anyway. People weren't so very interested when bad things happened to whores.
Grubby fingers locked over her mouth, and she found herself barely able to breathe, let alone scream. Colors swam behind her eyes and she fought to stay conscious.
Darla knew he was going to violate her, knew she couldn't stop it, knew no one would care if she reported him. She hated him, wished him dead, and prayed she could do something, anything to punish him or fight back.
She couldn't. But she stayed conscious and she didn't scream or cry. Darla was especially proud of that.
The man threw her into the street when he was done with her, along with a handful of coins. Payment for services rendered. Laughter rang in Darla's ears as her fingers scrabbled for the bits of money and to hold the shards of her dress together. Hatred such as she had never known coursed through her, followed closely by shame.
When she suddenly became ill a few months later, she thought of the man in the alley often. Darla wanted to kill him, to feel his very flesh tear from his body under her tiny hands, but she lacked the strength to leave the bed. It was all his fault.
“Why won't you let me help you?” Lindsey said in an oddly quiet voice. “I want to help you. I want to…Darla, please.” He touched her arm lightly. “I'd like us to be friends.”
Snarling, Darla pushed past him, threw open the sliding doors and walked inside the apartment.
“I didn't mean to upset you,” Lindsey said contritely, as he followed her. “I'm sorry.”
Darla said nothing, only sat on the couch and stared at the carpet.
Lindsey sat next to her and covered her fingers with his. “I am,” he repeated.
“Fine,” Darla answered slowly. She still did not look at him and her voice was hollow. The sounds of the ocean rang in her ears and she felt very, very old.
“I just…” Lindsey blushed, which Darla noticed out of the corner of her eye though she refrained from remarking upon it. “You're so sad,” he said gently. “You always look like you're thinking about something that makes you…ache somewhere. I know—what that feels like. I'd like to make it stop.”
His hand had moved as he spoke and now brushed feather-light over her cheek. Darla leaped to her feet and crossed the room to stand in front of an ornate mirror.
She spent a long moment staring into it, as though memorizing her face. Over all the centuries she'd forgotten certain particulars of her features. Her hand clawed at her throat. She felt trapped, like she was choking.
Darla felt Lindsey looking at her--his eyes were practically little daggers in her back. She turned, face desperate, and met his gaze.
Swiftly, he crossed the room to her in three long strides, and before she knew what was happening, his arms were around her. Her face was pressed into his neck and her arms went round his waist as her shoulders began to shake.
Lindsey's fingers tilted Darla's chin up and his face dipped down to hers. His mouth brushed over hers in a kiss that was gentle and tender and completely surprising.
She wasn't ready for this.
She bit her lip, and then kissed him again, savagely; knowing that he tasted her blood and hoping it covered the salt of her tears.
Darla thought about survival. This was the life she knew. She was going to be fine.
She pushed Lindsey backward onto the sofa, straddling him and looking at him with cold eyes. Leaning close, she blew hot breath into his ear and licked his collarbone
“You want me?” she hissed, her voice a growl.
Lindsey nodded, though his answer was obvious. His fingers were on already on her thighs and she felt his growing erection hardening beneath her.
“Fine. Okay.” She shook her head, as though she was clearing it. “I'm going to fuck you before you get the chance to fuck me,” she said determinedly.
Lindsey's mouth dropped open.
Darla grinned wickedly, feeling more like herself than she had in a long time. “And you're going to like it,” she purred. “More than you thought you ever would.”
Lindsey looked at her, appraising some new aspect of her personality he apparently had never seen before. There was something that looked like fear in his eyes, and Darla felt powerful. Stronger. Better.
He nodded brusquely before speaking. “Not perfect, but it's a start.”
Their bodies crashed together again and there were no more words.