Disappointment (Ficlet)
China, 1900
So it comes down to this.
It is an odd thing to say about the most vicious killer in Europe, and to be said by a woman who prides herself on deceit, but she has never distrusted Angelus before. They always knew where they were with each other. True, they also specialized in surprises. The turning of Drusilla, for one. The Immortal, for another. But that had been different. That had been part of what being Angelus, and being Darla.
Now she's not sure whether she is Darla any more. Would Darla be reduced to spying, to following her boy unseen like a pathetic housewife seeking evidence her husband is spending his money on gambling and whores? Surely not. But this is what she is doing, ever since sensing something odd in his reaction to Spike and Dru coming towards them reeking of sex and the blood of a Slayer. True, he killed immediately after, broke the neck of a plunderer attacking them. But she knows him, she knows every look and every possible inflection his voice can have, and she knows he's hiding something.
So it has come to this.
A pair of trembling missionaries and their child, so relieved to see another European woman, taking Darla's blonde hair as a sign of her membership in the assembly of future victims. "Here, here," the woman cries, "come here. It is safe. We are protected. God saved us. He sent us an Angel."
For that, she doesn't kill the woman outright. No, she ties her up, and then she makes her watch while she kills the husband, but not before making him beg for his life, kissing her feet, betraying his wife in every way imaginable before Darla grows tired of it and finally rips out his heart. She makes the woman clean her up afterwards, wash her, and the woman does so because there is still the baby. She'll do anything to save the baby. Pathetic.
But the woman isn't the one who is waiting in the shades for Angelus to return, as some Irishwoman in his village would have done if he had remained there, waiting, the baby with her. No, that woman is now with her husband and her God, and her death didn't even make a bit of difference to the fire of disappointment and betrayal that is consuming Darla.
The baby. So easy to kill, babies, but she can't kill this one yet. She should. She shouldn't play games, she should kill the baby now and not talk of any more chances; she should stake Angelus as soon as she sees him for making such a fool out of her. But she doesn't. Instead, she waits, and when the little thing cries, her hand, rising to smother it, stops, stalls, waits. Its eyes focus on her hand, and it grows still. Then, unbelievably, it gurgles as if laughing, and goes to sleep again.
Oh, she should make him slaughter a city to make up for this. But the baby will do.
He enters, at last, and immediately looks guilty when he spots her and speaks her name. Guilty! Oh, he is not Angelus anymore, truly.
"Don't lie to me," she hears herself say, and the horrible thing is, she wants him back, even now. No, she is not Darla any more, either.
The baby lies between them, its skin unblemished and unbroken, the smell of pure blood coursing through its veins almost sickingly sweet. She has no appetite at all. She looks at him, looking at her. A baby, and two beings who do not have names any more.
So it has come to this.
So it comes down to this.
It is an odd thing to say about the most vicious killer in Europe, and to be said by a woman who prides herself on deceit, but she has never distrusted Angelus before. They always knew where they were with each other. True, they also specialized in surprises. The turning of Drusilla, for one. The Immortal, for another. But that had been different. That had been part of what being Angelus, and being Darla.
Now she's not sure whether she is Darla any more. Would Darla be reduced to spying, to following her boy unseen like a pathetic housewife seeking evidence her husband is spending his money on gambling and whores? Surely not. But this is what she is doing, ever since sensing something odd in his reaction to Spike and Dru coming towards them reeking of sex and the blood of a Slayer. True, he killed immediately after, broke the neck of a plunderer attacking them. But she knows him, she knows every look and every possible inflection his voice can have, and she knows he's hiding something.
So it has come to this.
A pair of trembling missionaries and their child, so relieved to see another European woman, taking Darla's blonde hair as a sign of her membership in the assembly of future victims. "Here, here," the woman cries, "come here. It is safe. We are protected. God saved us. He sent us an Angel."
For that, she doesn't kill the woman outright. No, she ties her up, and then she makes her watch while she kills the husband, but not before making him beg for his life, kissing her feet, betraying his wife in every way imaginable before Darla grows tired of it and finally rips out his heart. She makes the woman clean her up afterwards, wash her, and the woman does so because there is still the baby. She'll do anything to save the baby. Pathetic.
But the woman isn't the one who is waiting in the shades for Angelus to return, as some Irishwoman in his village would have done if he had remained there, waiting, the baby with her. No, that woman is now with her husband and her God, and her death didn't even make a bit of difference to the fire of disappointment and betrayal that is consuming Darla.
The baby. So easy to kill, babies, but she can't kill this one yet. She should. She shouldn't play games, she should kill the baby now and not talk of any more chances; she should stake Angelus as soon as she sees him for making such a fool out of her. But she doesn't. Instead, she waits, and when the little thing cries, her hand, rising to smother it, stops, stalls, waits. Its eyes focus on her hand, and it grows still. Then, unbelievably, it gurgles as if laughing, and goes to sleep again.
Oh, she should make him slaughter a city to make up for this. But the baby will do.
He enters, at last, and immediately looks guilty when he spots her and speaks her name. Guilty! Oh, he is not Angelus anymore, truly.
"Don't lie to me," she hears herself say, and the horrible thing is, she wants him back, even now. No, she is not Darla any more, either.
The baby lies between them, its skin unblemished and unbroken, the smell of pure blood coursing through its veins almost sickingly sweet. She has no appetite at all. She looks at him, looking at her. A baby, and two beings who do not have names any more.
So it has come to this.