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carlyinrome
TITLE: The Man in the Long Black Coat
RATING: NC-17, sex.
FANDOM: BtVS/AtS
PAIRING: Darla/Angel
GENRE: Angst, dark
IMPROV #18: reckless – false – pallor – spice
SUMMARY: Darla considers her relationship with Angel, and Angelus
DATE: June 8-22, 2001
SPOILERS: "Epiphany"
DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to Joss. The better part of the dialogue belongs to Tim Minear’s “Epiphany” . . . the song is Bob Dylan’s “Man in the Long Black Coat.”
RATING: NC-17, sex.
FANDOM: BtVS/AtS
PAIRING: Darla/Angel
GENRE: Angst, dark
IMPROV #18: reckless – false – pallor – spice
SUMMARY: Darla considers her relationship with Angel, and Angelus
DATE: June 8-22, 2001
SPOILERS: "Epiphany"
DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to Joss. The better part of the dialogue belongs to Tim Minear’s “Epiphany” . . . the song is Bob Dylan’s “Man in the Long Black Coat.”
Crash of lightning.
(crickets are chirpin' the water is high)
She’d slept late, and woke in near total darkness. She squinted her eyes against the strobing, twisted patches of light, scouring the planes of the blotched walls, the flecks of lightning brightened sky filtering in through the large – now nearly empty – doorframes, the shattered remnants of which were littered all over the floor, reflecting the light, too, rain splattered or no.
(there's a soft cotton dress on the line hangin' dry
window's wide open African trees
bent over backwards in a hurricane breeze)
Gone. He’d gone. She thought briefly that the entire encounter might have been a dream, but she could still smell him on the sheets, sweat, semen, blood, slight hint of spice from his aftershave and the light smell of soap.
|| surveyed him with all her senses. Sight: dark eyes, beautiful fresh milk skin. That smile . . . the Devil’s smile, that. Sound: ah. His soft breathing, bit ragged ‘round the edges from drink, gentle I am I am I am of his heartbeat. Gentle, pretty voice, delicious brogue coloring his speech. Touch: he was warm, Christ almighty, so warm . . . not for long, but now, she could feel the frenzy of his heat, on every single bit of her flesh. Smell: ha. Soap. Kitchen herbs . . . liquor. And taste: well, that would come soon enough. ||
She sighed, leaned back against the knotted pillows, blue sheets twisted around her small body. She could hear the claustrophobic drum and whistle of the rain outside, but that was it. Wherever he’d gone to, he was being quiet about it.
(not a word, a goodbye, not even a note)
He was out losing his soul somewhere, she supposed.
(preacher was talkin' there's a sermon he gave he said every man's conscience is vile and depraved you cannot depend on it to be your guide when it's you who must keep it satisfied)
A little murmur, small gasp. She turned toward the direction of the noise, past the curtain billowing in the thunderstorm wind.
Poor little boy. Half naked, all fours, in the rain. Darling child . . .
She stood in one graceful movement, wrapped the sheet about her delicate frame. She moved to the door, stepping over glass and scattered piles of discarded clothing.
He whimpered. “Oh God.” Crying to himself.
“Don’t fight it, my love,” she whispered, coming up behind him, wearing the sheet and a little smile. At the voice, the introduction of her false sympathy for his plight, he snapped his head up, not looking at her, but acknowledging her presence with a gesture.
“Oh God. Oh . . . God.”
“Yes . . . yes, I know. It was the same for me. The soul is gone but it leaves a bitterness. It’ll pass.”
Trembling slightly, he looked up at her, over his shoulder. Very slowly . . . climbed to his feet. Shaky, staggers a step backward, away from her. Stares at her, still, eyes wide.
“What you need is a fresh kill. Hot human blood will wash away the foul memory of it.” Reassuringly, real sympathy this time: “I promise.”
She closed the distance between them, moved he hand to touch his face, gently, mother’s petting, lover’s stroking.
|| the first time, on the frozen, upturned ground, headstone instead of headboard, first feed warm warm warm flushing his pale flesh . . . everywhere, warming every inch of his dead flesh. He’d arched his back, coming, closed his eyes . . . she’d stroked his face, quietly, and he’d begged to be held . . . said he was so cold . . . his skin burned at hers, porcelain after all these years, burned at her . . . and he begged to be held because he was cold . . . he’d called her Mother over and over . . . ||
Before she could, he caught her hand by the wrist, freezing the motion. His eyes never left her.
“What? What is it?”
He looks at her, dark eyes locked on her, rain-nurtured pallor darkening them further, making his gaze appear infinite. She could see all the way to his soul, she fancied . . . if he still had one. “You saved me.”
|| you saved me, he’d whispered, laughing, eyes sparkling, holding her tight . . . you saved me, lover . . . Mother . . . I owe you . . . and I’ll pay . . . ||
She decided to humor him. Angelus always liked to play with everything . . . “Yes. But . . . I was going to kill you tonight. Take you out of this world the same way I brought you into it.”
|| he’d fought. It had taken more of her strength than she’d thought to hold him down, to her, against her. It was hard enough keeping him to her when she drank, but to get him to do it . . . he fought then, too, and that surprised her . . . usually they weren’t strong enough, their character wasn’t that pure, determined, but he’d fought . . . ||
“But I didn’t have to. You gave yourself over so completely, Angelus.” She smiled, teased him, stoked his fires gently but purposefully. “I felt you surrender.”
|| in the end, though, he’d submitted . . . they all did . . . ||
He shook his head slightly, almost as if it were a movement he was not aware of. “I gave you everything I had left,” he whispered.
She smiled, knowing and condescending. “Yes.”
“I am . . .” his voice was husky. “So sorry.”
Oh. That kind of game. “You don’t have to be.” Baby. Poor sweet baby.
“But I am.” He slid his hand from her wrist, wrapping his fingers around her palm, lifted her delicate, feminine hand to lay against the side of his face. “I am sorry.”
Sick feeling hit her stomach. Poor . . . sweet . . . baby . . . ? She shook her head slightly. No no no no no. “What?”
He closed his eyes briefly. “I am sorry, Darla,” he murmured solemnly.
She shook her head harder, blonde hair flying about her face. “No . . .”
“You saved me,” he continued in the same quiet, very even tone. “Sorry I couldn’t do the same for you.”
“Let go of me!” she spit, pulling her hand free and taking a step back . . . away from him. Away, away, away. “You still have a soul!”
She ran from him, back to the room, back to the bedroom, stepping recklessly, ignoring the glass, the piles of clothing. She stopped, eyes coming abruptly to the battlefield in the center, the rumpled bed, sheets torn up, blankets piled and twisted.
She turned back to Angel, who’d followed her slowly into the room.
She struggled for reason. “But we . . .”
|| screaming . . . he’d punished her, strapping on a knife and taking her in front of the fireplace, her blood warming him, spilling over her white white hips, pooling around her on the floor, wetting his knees . . . while she screamed, shrieked, yelled angrily, sobbing . . . she didn’t mind the pain, terribly, not really. . . pain was an affirmation, part of life . . . what made her so desperately angry was the fact that he was punishing her, that he was making her FEEL ||
“Yeah,” he murmured, resignedly. He sat down on the edge of the bed, started putting on his shoes.
|| in retaliation for his stint with the knife, she’d strapped him to the bed by his wrists and ankles, naked, writhing on top of the mattress, screaming at her . . . you bitch you fucking undead piece of trash . . . taking a belt – one of his, for the irony – to him until his blood spill equaled hers . . . whorewhorewhorewhorewhorewhorewhore . . . ||
“And you . . .”
|| ruttingruttingrutting in the church, with still human Drusilla wailing in the corner . . . snake in the woodshed snake in the woodshed . . . ||
“I know.”
|| and then the girl, raping her before he did it, during the Siring, then again after, just to see her different reactions, really going at her hard, hymen and blood all over his trousers . . . snake in the woodshed snake in the woodshed snake in the woodshed snake in the woodshed . . . ||
“Then . . . I . . .”
|| jealous, really very jealous that he’d been spending all his energy on the psychic bitch . . . his baby, he mused quietly in that damned irresistible deep throated purr . . . his baby needed him . . . while he was out hunting one night, by himself, sashayed quietly into the room where the girl was sitting, talking to herself . . . giving her sweet kisses, fangs out, face, neck, breasts, soft inner thighs . . . fingers deep within her, tongue . . . making sure the girl’s smell was still all over her when he got home . . . ||
“Three times,” he said dully.
“You’re not evil,” she said stupidly, voice a little shrill. “I . . . I don’t understand. Was I . . . was it . . . not good?” she considered, laughed bitterly. “Well, I don’t accept that. You cannot tell me that wasn’t perfect. Not only have I been around for four hundred years, but I used to do this professionally. And that was perfect.”
|| it was. He knew that. Much as he liked having her all to himself, if he couldn’t, he liked to watch ||
Angry, she grabbed his arm, made a vain and desperate attempt to drag him back to bed. “We’ll go again.”
|| again again again come darling we’ll go again ||
He pulled free from her, got up, backed away. “No.” Stronger: “No. We can’t. You know we can’t. We’re finished.”
“Finished? Why? What, because you suddenly decide? You know an hour ago you wanted this. You weren’t tricked into anything. I didn’t seduce you. You wanted it!”
“Yeah. And it was perfect, Darla.” His face darkened a little. “It was perfect despair.”
She just stared at him.
“And you were the reason,” he continued, no longer looking at his Sire. “You’ve always been the reason. You were the thing that made me what I am, and . . . I thought . . . if I could save you . . .” he sighed a little, realizing himself. “I’d somehow . . . save myself, but . . . but I was wrong. And when I failed . . .”
“Stop it!”
“When I failed,” he continued, as though she’d not spoken. “You saved me. And I have to thank you for that. There is nothing I can do for you now, Darla. I can’t even hate you.”
She smiled a bitter, contemptuous smile. “You knew this would happen, didn’t you? You made me trust you!” she screamed, angry nearly to the point of tears. “You made me believe.”
He turned to go. “We’re done. Let yourself out.”
She hurried after him, desperately snatching up a sliver of wood. “Where are you going?”
He turned just in time to catch her wrist on the downswing. He didn’t even glance at her stake. “You did me a favor tonight. Now I’m gonna do one for you. Get dressed and get out. Because the next time I see you, I will have to kill you.”
He turned and walked out. Darla stared after him.
(she give her heart to the man in the long black coat)
(crickets are chirpin' the water is high)
She’d slept late, and woke in near total darkness. She squinted her eyes against the strobing, twisted patches of light, scouring the planes of the blotched walls, the flecks of lightning brightened sky filtering in through the large – now nearly empty – doorframes, the shattered remnants of which were littered all over the floor, reflecting the light, too, rain splattered or no.
(there's a soft cotton dress on the line hangin' dry
window's wide open African trees
bent over backwards in a hurricane breeze)
Gone. He’d gone. She thought briefly that the entire encounter might have been a dream, but she could still smell him on the sheets, sweat, semen, blood, slight hint of spice from his aftershave and the light smell of soap.
|| surveyed him with all her senses. Sight: dark eyes, beautiful fresh milk skin. That smile . . . the Devil’s smile, that. Sound: ah. His soft breathing, bit ragged ‘round the edges from drink, gentle I am I am I am of his heartbeat. Gentle, pretty voice, delicious brogue coloring his speech. Touch: he was warm, Christ almighty, so warm . . . not for long, but now, she could feel the frenzy of his heat, on every single bit of her flesh. Smell: ha. Soap. Kitchen herbs . . . liquor. And taste: well, that would come soon enough. ||
She sighed, leaned back against the knotted pillows, blue sheets twisted around her small body. She could hear the claustrophobic drum and whistle of the rain outside, but that was it. Wherever he’d gone to, he was being quiet about it.
(not a word, a goodbye, not even a note)
He was out losing his soul somewhere, she supposed.
(preacher was talkin' there's a sermon he gave he said every man's conscience is vile and depraved you cannot depend on it to be your guide when it's you who must keep it satisfied)
A little murmur, small gasp. She turned toward the direction of the noise, past the curtain billowing in the thunderstorm wind.
Poor little boy. Half naked, all fours, in the rain. Darling child . . .
She stood in one graceful movement, wrapped the sheet about her delicate frame. She moved to the door, stepping over glass and scattered piles of discarded clothing.
He whimpered. “Oh God.” Crying to himself.
“Don’t fight it, my love,” she whispered, coming up behind him, wearing the sheet and a little smile. At the voice, the introduction of her false sympathy for his plight, he snapped his head up, not looking at her, but acknowledging her presence with a gesture.
“Oh God. Oh . . . God.”
“Yes . . . yes, I know. It was the same for me. The soul is gone but it leaves a bitterness. It’ll pass.”
Trembling slightly, he looked up at her, over his shoulder. Very slowly . . . climbed to his feet. Shaky, staggers a step backward, away from her. Stares at her, still, eyes wide.
“What you need is a fresh kill. Hot human blood will wash away the foul memory of it.” Reassuringly, real sympathy this time: “I promise.”
She closed the distance between them, moved he hand to touch his face, gently, mother’s petting, lover’s stroking.
|| the first time, on the frozen, upturned ground, headstone instead of headboard, first feed warm warm warm flushing his pale flesh . . . everywhere, warming every inch of his dead flesh. He’d arched his back, coming, closed his eyes . . . she’d stroked his face, quietly, and he’d begged to be held . . . said he was so cold . . . his skin burned at hers, porcelain after all these years, burned at her . . . and he begged to be held because he was cold . . . he’d called her Mother over and over . . . ||
Before she could, he caught her hand by the wrist, freezing the motion. His eyes never left her.
“What? What is it?”
He looks at her, dark eyes locked on her, rain-nurtured pallor darkening them further, making his gaze appear infinite. She could see all the way to his soul, she fancied . . . if he still had one. “You saved me.”
|| you saved me, he’d whispered, laughing, eyes sparkling, holding her tight . . . you saved me, lover . . . Mother . . . I owe you . . . and I’ll pay . . . ||
She decided to humor him. Angelus always liked to play with everything . . . “Yes. But . . . I was going to kill you tonight. Take you out of this world the same way I brought you into it.”
|| he’d fought. It had taken more of her strength than she’d thought to hold him down, to her, against her. It was hard enough keeping him to her when she drank, but to get him to do it . . . he fought then, too, and that surprised her . . . usually they weren’t strong enough, their character wasn’t that pure, determined, but he’d fought . . . ||
“But I didn’t have to. You gave yourself over so completely, Angelus.” She smiled, teased him, stoked his fires gently but purposefully. “I felt you surrender.”
|| in the end, though, he’d submitted . . . they all did . . . ||
He shook his head slightly, almost as if it were a movement he was not aware of. “I gave you everything I had left,” he whispered.
She smiled, knowing and condescending. “Yes.”
“I am . . .” his voice was husky. “So sorry.”
Oh. That kind of game. “You don’t have to be.” Baby. Poor sweet baby.
“But I am.” He slid his hand from her wrist, wrapping his fingers around her palm, lifted her delicate, feminine hand to lay against the side of his face. “I am sorry.”
Sick feeling hit her stomach. Poor . . . sweet . . . baby . . . ? She shook her head slightly. No no no no no. “What?”
He closed his eyes briefly. “I am sorry, Darla,” he murmured solemnly.
She shook her head harder, blonde hair flying about her face. “No . . .”
“You saved me,” he continued in the same quiet, very even tone. “Sorry I couldn’t do the same for you.”
“Let go of me!” she spit, pulling her hand free and taking a step back . . . away from him. Away, away, away. “You still have a soul!”
She ran from him, back to the room, back to the bedroom, stepping recklessly, ignoring the glass, the piles of clothing. She stopped, eyes coming abruptly to the battlefield in the center, the rumpled bed, sheets torn up, blankets piled and twisted.
She turned back to Angel, who’d followed her slowly into the room.
She struggled for reason. “But we . . .”
|| screaming . . . he’d punished her, strapping on a knife and taking her in front of the fireplace, her blood warming him, spilling over her white white hips, pooling around her on the floor, wetting his knees . . . while she screamed, shrieked, yelled angrily, sobbing . . . she didn’t mind the pain, terribly, not really. . . pain was an affirmation, part of life . . . what made her so desperately angry was the fact that he was punishing her, that he was making her FEEL ||
“Yeah,” he murmured, resignedly. He sat down on the edge of the bed, started putting on his shoes.
|| in retaliation for his stint with the knife, she’d strapped him to the bed by his wrists and ankles, naked, writhing on top of the mattress, screaming at her . . . you bitch you fucking undead piece of trash . . . taking a belt – one of his, for the irony – to him until his blood spill equaled hers . . . whorewhorewhorewhorewhorewhorewhore . . . ||
“And you . . .”
|| ruttingruttingrutting in the church, with still human Drusilla wailing in the corner . . . snake in the woodshed snake in the woodshed . . . ||
“I know.”
|| and then the girl, raping her before he did it, during the Siring, then again after, just to see her different reactions, really going at her hard, hymen and blood all over his trousers . . . snake in the woodshed snake in the woodshed snake in the woodshed snake in the woodshed . . . ||
“Then . . . I . . .”
|| jealous, really very jealous that he’d been spending all his energy on the psychic bitch . . . his baby, he mused quietly in that damned irresistible deep throated purr . . . his baby needed him . . . while he was out hunting one night, by himself, sashayed quietly into the room where the girl was sitting, talking to herself . . . giving her sweet kisses, fangs out, face, neck, breasts, soft inner thighs . . . fingers deep within her, tongue . . . making sure the girl’s smell was still all over her when he got home . . . ||
“Three times,” he said dully.
“You’re not evil,” she said stupidly, voice a little shrill. “I . . . I don’t understand. Was I . . . was it . . . not good?” she considered, laughed bitterly. “Well, I don’t accept that. You cannot tell me that wasn’t perfect. Not only have I been around for four hundred years, but I used to do this professionally. And that was perfect.”
|| it was. He knew that. Much as he liked having her all to himself, if he couldn’t, he liked to watch ||
Angry, she grabbed his arm, made a vain and desperate attempt to drag him back to bed. “We’ll go again.”
|| again again again come darling we’ll go again ||
He pulled free from her, got up, backed away. “No.” Stronger: “No. We can’t. You know we can’t. We’re finished.”
“Finished? Why? What, because you suddenly decide? You know an hour ago you wanted this. You weren’t tricked into anything. I didn’t seduce you. You wanted it!”
“Yeah. And it was perfect, Darla.” His face darkened a little. “It was perfect despair.”
She just stared at him.
“And you were the reason,” he continued, no longer looking at his Sire. “You’ve always been the reason. You were the thing that made me what I am, and . . . I thought . . . if I could save you . . .” he sighed a little, realizing himself. “I’d somehow . . . save myself, but . . . but I was wrong. And when I failed . . .”
“Stop it!”
“When I failed,” he continued, as though she’d not spoken. “You saved me. And I have to thank you for that. There is nothing I can do for you now, Darla. I can’t even hate you.”
She smiled a bitter, contemptuous smile. “You knew this would happen, didn’t you? You made me trust you!” she screamed, angry nearly to the point of tears. “You made me believe.”
He turned to go. “We’re done. Let yourself out.”
She hurried after him, desperately snatching up a sliver of wood. “Where are you going?”
He turned just in time to catch her wrist on the downswing. He didn’t even glance at her stake. “You did me a favor tonight. Now I’m gonna do one for you. Get dressed and get out. Because the next time I see you, I will have to kill you.”
He turned and walked out. Darla stared after him.
(she give her heart to the man in the long black coat)
