RATING: NC-17 for sexual situations
SPOILERS: "Angel" season 2, up to and including "Epiphany"
SUMMARY: Exactly what did happen between Angel and Darla that night?
DISTRIBUTION: If you would like to archive this story at your own site, please, ask me first.
The Brink of Despair
By Starcrossed
Angel slowly trudged through the streets of LA, his heart heavy, all of his illusions about good and evil shattered. For the longest time now, he’d been hanging on by a mere thread – to his soul, to his sanity, to his sense of propriety – but his talk with Holland Manners had severed the very tenuous hold he’d had over all of that. The Host had been right when he’d said that Angel needed more tether because he was just about at the end of his.
He walked through the front door of the Hyperion Hotel, his home and once the sight of his ‘business.’ A place once full of laughter, camaraderie, and love among friends. Now, it was an empty shell, merely a place in which he sought shelter from the burning rays of the sun. His friends were gone, thrown out by him, and Angel Investigations was no more. He had risked everything in his quest for vengeance and he’d lost it all.
There was a voice on the answering machine – Kate’s voice – and it sounded full of hopelessness and despair, yet Angel walked right past it, not bothering to pick up the phone. He couldn’t help Kate – he couldn’t help anyone, not even himself.
All he wanted to do was fall into his bed and go to sleep. Maybe when he woke up, this would all turn out to be nothing more than an extended, horrible dream. He’d go downstairs and Cordy would be there, dressed in one of her flashy outfits. She would warm up a mug of blood for him and he’d take a seat on the couch, listening to the good-natured bickering of Wesley and Gunn. Cordy would get a vision or someone would wander in from off of the street, desperate for their help.
As he entered his bedroom, he paused, sensing a presence other than his own. Darla. It was always Darla. It had always been Darla. Everything he had done in recent weeks had been about her. Hell, everything he’d done in the past 248 years had been because of Darla, because she had made him what he was.
“What do you want, Darla?"
When she didn’t answer, he turned around to face her. She stood in the doorway of his bedroom wearing a slinky red dress and matching heels, her expression one of greed and hunger. The hunger wasn’t for blood, though, but for power. He held up the ring, a portal to the netherworld, or so he’d thought until Holland Manners had shown him otherwise. Angel had found out tonight that Hell existed right here on Earth, that the streets of the city were Wolfram and Hart’s home office. There was so much evil here, existing in the hearts of man, that the unscrupulous band of lawyers had no need to seek out darkness from other realms.
He held up the rather plain looking ring.
“Is this what you want?"
Angel released his hold on it, letting the round piece of metal fall to the floor. Darla dove for it, but he grabbed her by the arm before she could reach it, hauling her up and swinging her around, not caring how rough he was being.
“Maybe, what you want, is this…"
He backed her up against a doorjamb and moved the hair out of her eyes, leaning in to kiss her. His voice was whiskey-coated as he ground his hips into hers, his erection almost painful within the tight confines of his pants.
“Or maybe, what you really want, is this…" He crushed his mouth to hers, then, forcing her lips open and pushing his tongue inside, plundering, seeking, tasting. It had been so long and she felt so good in his arms. The smell of her was intoxicating and he drew in a deep, unnecessary breath just so he could fill his nostrils with her scent. She smelled like roses and citrus and desire and he knew that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.
Darla had never been one to give in easily, though, no matter how badly she wanted something. To her, the pursuit was almost as much fun as the capture. She pushed him away, affecting a haughty tone of voice.
“Don’t play games with me, Angelus. What do you want?"
Angel looked at her, his eyes smoldering with desire. “I’m not playing anything – I just want to feel something besides the cold."
He was upon her, again, taking her in his arms and pushing her down onto a table. Then, he was between her legs, rubbing his erection against the cloth of her red dress and kissing her as if to devour her. She helped him out of his jacket and he reached for the hem of her dress, intent on pushing it up out of his way.
Darla began to laugh at that moment and for some reason, that angered him. He grabbed her by the arm and flung her through the closed French doors, breaking them so that the glass shattered all over the carpet of his bedroom.
“Why are you laughing? Don’t you feel the cold?"
He reached a hand down to help her up. “Why are you doing this?" She asked him, as if she were waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Angel took her face in his hands and leaned in for another kiss. “It doesn’t matter, none of it matters…" Then he was pushing her down onto the bed and moving his body over hers. This time when he reached for the hem of her dress, she made no move to stop him. Instead, she began helping him remove his clothing until they were both naked, cold limbs entwined, writhing together and rolling all over the mattress.
He couldn’t get enough of her. It had been so long, too long, since he’d had a woman lying beneath him. Not since that wonderful, yet awful day he’d spent as a human. It hadn’t been Darla in his bed on that day, though, but Buffy - his beautiful, precious Buffy.
Angel’s lips were all over Darla’s face and her neck, his tongue caressing her skin. His hands reached for her full, ripe breasts and he squeezed them, his long fingers seeking out her nipples. Ducking his head, he took one into his mouth, sucking the tiny bud into erection, lightly biting it with his teeth. He felt her buck underneath him and call out his name as her first orgasm washed through her.
He kissed a trail down her body with his cool mouth and tongue, not stopping until he reached the triangle of hair between her legs. Parting her with one hand, his tongue delved into that nest of curls, seeking out her clit. She entwined her fingers in his dark, silky hair, tugging on it none too gently. Her hips were bucking beneath his face and she was begging him for another release. He took his time, though, teasing her, bringing her to the brink, then pulling back until she finally wrapped her legs around his head, encasing his face between her thighs.
She came, again, loudly screaming his name and cursing him. Before she had a chance to recover, he was moving his body over hers, the head of his cock at her entrance. Then he was inside of her and he had to fight the urge to come right away. Grabbing the base of his cock, he squeezed, staving off his orgasm. Darla wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him in as far as he could go. Her arms wound their way around his neck and she pulled him down for a hot, hungry kiss, biting his bottom lip and sucking on the blood that flowed from it.
Angel braced a hand on either side of her body and began thrusting, slow at first, until she began squeezing him with her inner muscles.
“Fuck me, Angelus, fuck me hard!"
And he did. His hands sought out her ass and cupped it, pulling her flush against him, his fingertips digging into the soft flesh. He supported himself on his knees as he pounded into her, fast and furious, suddenly wanting to fuck her into oblivion. As he felt his own climax approaching, he reached between their conjoined bodies and sought out her clit, twisting it rather painfully between his thumb and forefinger causing her to scream out in pleasure and clamp down on him.
Angel threw his head back, roaring as he came. He thrust into her a few more times before collapsing on top of her. That was the last thing he remembered.
Sometime later, he awoke with a terrible pain in his chest. Glancing at the figure lying next to him, he felt his heart leap into his throat. What in god’s name had he done? He clutched his chest as he moved off of the bed, frantically searching for his discarded clothing. He managed to pull his pants on before stumbling through the open French doors that led out to the balcony, trying to shrug into his shirt.
It was raining. A thunderstorm was raging outside, just like that night. This was just like the night he’d spent with Buffy, the night he’d lost his soul due to one moment of perfect happiness. It was like god dammed déjà vu. It had rained that night, too, and he’d hastily pulled clothing on upon waking up to a searing pain in his chest. He’d stumbled outside, knowing what was happening and wanting to get as far away from Buffy as possible in an effort to save her.
Angel fell to his hands and knees, silently praying to the powers that be not to do this to him, again. He knew he’d been walking a fine line between good and evil, lately, and that he probably had no right to ask the powers for anything, but he was willing to beg, if that’s what it took. There was no way he could revert to Angelus, again, just no fucking way.
Darla woke up, then, and wrapped the bed sheet around her naked body before coming to stand in the open doorway.
“Don’t fight it, my love…it will only hurt for a minute…"
As he was down there on the ground, waiting for the awful, inevitable change, he realized something. It wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t going to lose his soul. What had occurred with Darla wasn’t perfect happiness, far from it. He rose to his feet turning to face her.
“You saved me…"
She kept babbling on about the pain, about him needing a fresh kill to make him feel better, oblivious to the fact that his soul was still intact. After a few minutes of him just standing there, saying nothing, realization finally dawned upon her and her mouth gaped open in disbelief.
“You still have a soul!"
She ran back inside and he followed, sitting down on the bed to finish getting dressed. Darla stood there, clad only in a sheet, staring at him and gesturing wildly towards the rumpled bed.
“But we…"
“Yeah."
“And you…"
“I know."
“Then I…"
“Three times."
She moved around the foot of the bed to stand in front of him.
“You can’t tell me that wasn’t perfect. Not only have I been around for 400 years, but I used to do this professionally. THAT WAS PERFECT!"
She reached for his hand, then, in an effort to pull him back into the bed. “We’ll go again…"
Angel pulled loose from her grip.
“We can’t. You know we can’t."
He fixed her with a steady gaze.
“It *was* perfect, Darla – perfect despair."
She’d raged against him, then, not wanting to believe him. She accused him of planning the whole thing, of it all being a trick. He had told her to get dressed and get out and he’d turned to go. During their conversation, Kate’s voice on the answering machine had come back to him and he knew he had to get to her, to save her before it was too late.
Darla picked up a sharp, pointed piece of the shattered doorframe and moved in behind him to stake him. Angel had anticipated her move, though and turned, capturing her wrist in his hand, causing her to drop her weapon.
“You gave me a gift, tonight, so now I’m giving you one – get dressed and get out. Next time I see you, I *will* have to kill you."
He’d left her standing there. There was nothing he could do for Darla, not anymore. She was what she was – a vampire – and one of these days he was going to have to kill her. Not tonight, though. Tonight, there was someone out there who he *could* help. That was his mission in life, after all – to help the helpless.
Funny how he’d lost sight of that these past few weeks. He’d allowed Darla to get to him and because of that, he’d fallen far from grace. Not so very far that he couldn’t make his way back, though, at least he hoped not.
Angel had been to the brink of despair.
Now, there was no where left to go but up.
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