by Patricia RD
Summary: After the wine cellar, there's only silence.
The raven-haired one dances among the bodies, while her blonde companion wipes the blood from her lips. Fire glows in her eyes as she approaches her (granchilde)sire. It's then when Dru stops dancing and sees it, the fire, the feral smile. And Dru smiles back. Baby wants to play.
Dru laughs even as Darla tackles her, their bodies crashing to the ground beneath them. She giggles wildly as Darla rips away their clothes. Can't stop laughing when small hands grip each side of head and smash it against the floor, telling Dru to shut up.
Why? There's more pain in the noise. Thunders and earthquakes and little children calling for Mommy. Will you call for me now, Grandmummy? When your bed is too big and Daddy won't come home again?
"Shut up! Shut up!" Darla screams. Drusilla won't shut up. Together they roll on in a naked, bloody mess of limbs, laughter and rage, hands findings their way into sensitive spots, fangs tearing into full breasts, letting the flood spill free. Their skin is creamy, soft and yet strong, but it always breaks and the blood runs. Because the blood is pure and pretty and tastes like green apple candy.
Darla's tongue traces patterns with their mingled blood on Drusilla's body, gentleness taking over for a second. Dru is cold and smooth, almost like Daddy. If she can stop laughing, Darla can drift away and pretend everything's alright. All Dru needs is hard flesh between her legs and a harder look in her eyes to be him. No such luck, but this… this will have to do. Just a little flicker of the wrist here, and a discarded piece of clothing pushed inside the brunette's mouth and… there.
Except it's not, no matter how hard Darla pretended. Her climax, fast and powerful, only seems to carve this reality on her heart. She quickly untangles herself from Dru and starts gathering her clothes again, ignoring the gagged and hysterical vampire at her feet. When she acknowledges her, it's with a kick.
"Let's go," she orders, her voice tired. Drusilla pulls a long beige strip from her mouth _a scarf that still tastes of the dead girl that wore it_ and then gets dressed. As they break the door of the basement, Darla gives Lindsey one last look, almost regretting his heartbeat. Maybe he could have been the one, or even the girl. They had the darkness inside of them, almost enough to be Angelus.
Then again, no one can really be Angelus. Not even Angel.
So an eternity of 'let's pretend' is ahead, she thinks as she walks into the night, and it drives her insane. Never mind, she's a strong woman. she can handle a lifetime of insanity.
- fin -