by Dolores Labouchere
Spoilers: A vague reference to 'Fool for Love'.
Summary: Darla and Drusilla go on a voyage.
A/N: Inspired by a poem by Simon Armitage (I think). My first attempt at both Dru and Darla — so much thanks to Kate, Sun, Faithtastic and Roz for betaing. Nevertheless, any badness is my fault alone.
"This novel should not be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force." —Dorothy Parker
Copper ecstasy drenched Darla's senses. Suddenly clammy flesh writhed in her grip, the struggles of her prey growing weaker as his pulse grew faint and his death drew near. Ebony pupils grew wide like ink on damp paper, limbs slackened and his soul departed its mortal host. Disengaging from his jugular, Darla pushed the fresh, bloodless sailor's corpse overboard, letting the roar of the ocean against the ship's bows mask the splash. Her face slid back to its human form.
She hated travelling by boat. A finite number of meals on a tin box in the middle of a lot of water. Still, at least disposing of the dead was easier.
And there were other compensations. Dru was never happier than when she could view the sky like a huge gem-studded dome above them, unfettered by geography, seeing whatever she chose to in the cosmos. In the daylight hours Dru was bad-tempered and impatient but as dusk approached she was ever more excitable, like an eager child about to be let loose upon a sweets shop, dragging Darla on deck the moment the sun had set. Night had yet to completely shroud the world in indigo, and in the west the sky was red and gold.
"It's like a blood orange," Dru had said. Appropriate, in a twisted way, that the sun should herald their arrival so. Not that the poor sailor would have known, of course.
In her heavenward transfixion, Dru had barely acknowledged the man's presence, though. Darla looked at the other vampire, lying spread-eagled on the deck, looking up at the silver disc that floated on a cloudless sky.
"We're under the chocolate coin of the moon, grandmother," Dru whispered, a lace-covered hand reaching to grab something, nothing above her. Darla smiled and lay down next to her inamorata, clasping the other hand in hers.
"Hey diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle." Dru said. "There's a cow up there, in the moon. I can hear it bark."
"Cows moo, my love," Darla said, patiently.
"Not all. Some of them bark and some cluck like chickens. They aren't as intelligent," Dru stated sagely.
Darla smiled. "Of course."
Suddenly, in a worried voice Dru whined, "we're like the dish and the spoon; we ran away from the little laughing dog."
The blonde vampire reached across to brush some hair from Drusilla's forehead. "Shh, my pet. Spike will be alright, he'll find us eventually, he always does." Leaning across, she placed a kiss on Dru's soft mouth, and felt the face harden beneath her as Dru tasted the blood still fresh on Darla's lips.
They had left Spike behind in the Old World. He was becoming more and more obsessed with finding another Slayer to kill; killing one such creature in China had given him a bloodlust, an overwhelming obsession that had resulted in the trio being dragged around half the world chasing the callings like dawn chased the sunset. But he never won, sometimes never even got close. And all the time he never realised that Drusilla was spending more time in Darla's bed than his own.
After all, it had been many years since Angelus had left and a lady needs a companion.
And Darla didn't want to share Dru now, not with Spike, not with anyone. So whilst the poet chased his young girls, Darla wanted to take his old girl away. And what better place than America? Land of opportunity, of Eisenhower and jazz music. Darla wanted to have some fun. She'd heard New Orleans was the place to be. She was sure Drusilla would love it.
Spike would return to take back his sire, reclaim his princess from the wicked stepmother. He might take one year or he might take one hundred, but he would come back. Little matter; until then Drusilla belonged only to her. Carpe diem, carpe Dru.
Beneath her, the brunette purred. "I'm hungry."
Darla broke the kiss, smiling into yellow eyes. "Let's go find you a meal, cherie."
A bell pealed mournfully somewhere outside, a clear note amongst a babble of human voices and the shriek of gulls. The boat rocked gently against its mooring.
She lay in the cabin on the bed, Drusilla lapping at her breast like a cat. They were staying below deck until nightfall allowed them safe passage on American soil. But for now Darla imagined they were near a fruit market, so that the bittersweet smell of oranges might herald their arrival here.
- fin -