Expectations

Author's Notes: I'm not trying to give an opinion on the subject of unwanted pregnancy. But she's not exactly poster child for Mom of the Year. So, I wrote this *before* the ep "Offspring" aired... and I only made one or two adjective changes after. I think I like my take on Darla's pregnancy attitude better. Copyright 2001

When she'd finally accepted that Dru was right, crazy but right, again, she'd gone looking for him with a knife. Taken the sewers to the Hyperion, crawled up a ventilation shaft, and approached his bedroom noiselessly in the middle of the day, half- crazy with nauseated rage. Sunlight flooded his room though the open French doors, leaving it as exposed and deadly as the man who slept there.

She'd waited until nightfall, the edges of the knife hilt grinding into the bones of her palm as she squeezed it, then emerged from her hiding place too furious to think about strategy or defense or tactics. Cut his throat, mark his face, make him bleed, castrate him, gut him, bring him to his knees....any and every idea that ran through her head as she waited for him to return. To greet him without games or demands and simply take revenge for her body's betrayal and the terror growing inside of her; too afraid of her obscene condition to trust herself without a weapon, unwilling to risk a moment of dizziness, a second of nausea, an instant of vulnerability.

Except he didn't come back, not that night or the next, and hunger and rage finally drove her back out into the city. She discarded the knife in a dumpster, then wandered through the back-alleys, disbelief and denial rendering her blind to her surroundings, trying to comprehend how this had happened to her.

Dru's eyes had been glowing with almost dreamy delight as she'd watched Darla retch into the toilet. Twilight had settled in an hour earlier, and the neon sign over the freeway had already begun blinking its excruciating rhythm of welcome to passers-by.

The last time they'd been inside the motel, Dru had drained all the blood from her while Angel watched, too weak from trying to save her unsalvageable life to rescue her from Lindsey and Dru. Love and craziness. That's what killed her last time.

"Delicate...." She spat into the bowl, licked the edges of her teeth for the sick rich taste, and spat again. The blood she'd vomited was dark, maroon-black, the color of new bruises. "There's nothing delicate about this, Dru. It's all too *vivid* to be 'delicate.'" She dropped the lid on the toilet and pulled the handle, then pulled herself up to stand swaying over the sink. Hot. It was too damn hot in the room; maybe the air-conditioner had broken. Typical of the place. One more unfixable thing to curse. Like her body, which had become increasingly unreliable of late.

Drusilla had frowned, her brow folding up into the puzzled gaze that always made Darla long to slap her. "Aren't you happy? Mummy always said that it was a blessing. A blessing from the angels."

She turned the faucet for cold water, cupped some in her fingers and drank it, swirling it in her mouth before spitting it out, then splashed it across her face, letting it trickle down the edge of her neck. "Dru, I am not in the mood - not in the least - to hear about your precious Mummy. She's dead. She's been dead a century. We killed her. She died at the hands of vampires, a reality she never imagined before Angelus ripped her apart. So I seriously doubt she had anything helpful to say about why I'm sick." She leaned her face against the mirror, dully noting the coolness against her forehead.

Sorcery. Magic. Wolfram & Hart. A vengeance curse from Lindsey, one last sour good-bye? Leftover weakness from the syphilis that had progressed so much farther, this last time she'd been human? A hex the ex- Watcher or that little Seer of Angel's bought, to keep her away from him?

Craziness, kicking her out of his bed when he almost had the peace and wholeness he always claimed he wanted. Insanity, rejecting the only person he couldn't hurt, the only safety he was ever going to have. Love... letting her live, when he thought he should kill her. Hurting her so he wouldn't have to watch her die again, sending her away when he had to know that she'd always, always come back. After the girl died, after the Slayer was gone, after the Watcher and the ghetto kid were corpses, he'd take her back. She'd just miscalculated. Pushed him too fast, too far; but all she had to do was wait. Centuries couldn't be wiped out by a handful of years and a flickering soul. She had time.

"No, no, no. She knew. Mummy knew. She was a good Mummy, she knew all the songs, and how to braid little girls' hair, and how to serve tea with cream and muffins. You'll have to learn now." Dru came closer, trailed her cold fingertips down Darla's face. "Lullabyes and warm rabbit blood at bedtimes. Patty-cake and socks. Little feet get cold fastest, you know...."

Darla turned her head to stare at Dru, eyes widening in shock, and her granddaughter-mother giggled, high and gleeful. And behind the glee in her avid eyes there had been shivering fear, and for two seconds her sing-song voice had been flat and calm. Sane. "It's a miracle, Grandmama."

"Not mine. Not... Not..." She looked down at her stomach and a clammy chill swept over her, making her gag before she got the feeling under control. “Can't. Isn't... I'm dead, and there is just no way...."

"A gift from Angel's soul to you. Or a present from someone else?" Drusilla smiled, clapping her hands. "Miss Edith shall have a sister!" Her face fell into confused, worried lines. "Or perhaps an uncle. Or a niece." She drew away from Darla, then drifted out the bathroom door, humming. "We shall have a baptism for the little one, a baptism of fire. A family again...."

The weight gain was from indulging the last few months, depression assuaged by drinking cocktails bought by men with eyes like Lindsey's. Drinking from them in rooms softer than she'd ever had as a mortal had made it possible to sleep. Bingeing on bums and hookers, killing those who would never be missed, brought comfort when nausea and rage woke her from dreams of Angel's rejection. Vertigo from being thwarted, emotions raging out of control because she'd had him back, her Angelus, her equal partner, her match, and then a streak of lightening and an instant of regret ripped him away. Lethargy from the heat. The goddamn heat, and having to hide from him and the stupid law firm and their pet demons and even the L.A.P.D., still looking for both she and Dru *months* after they should have given up.

Two days alone gave her time to think, just enough to realize the danger. Tell Angel, and fail to kill Angel, and she would be trapped. Doomed. Condemned to see the disaster through to the end--- unacceptable.

And still the question of how haunted her as she wandered down the late-night boulevards. Undead flesh, cool and quiet and still, generating life? A star spontaneously exploding out of empty space was more likely. It was an effect without a cause, like a plague of locusts hatching from rocks in the desert.


	The Last Time I Saw You has moved to... http://www.fangedfour.com/lasttime You will be redirected in 10 seconds. Fanfiction by Author Title Rating/Pairing Title: Expectations Author: Christina Kamnikar Rating:R Summary: Darla finds that being a little bit pregnant is like being a little bit undead. Feedback: KikiMariposa@prodigy.net Author's Notes: I'm not trying to give an opinion on the subject of unwanted pregnancy. But she's not exactly poster child for Mom of the Year. So, I wrote this before the ep "Offspring" aired... and I only made one or two adjective changes after. I think I like my take on Darla's pregnancy attitude better. Copyright 2001 Thanks to the Horsechicks for reading and eep'ing. Warning: General ickiness warnings apply. This is Darla we're talking about, here. When she'd finally accepted that Dru was right, crazy but right, again, she'd gone looking for him with a knife. Taken the sewers to the Hyperion, crawled up a ventilation shaft, and approached his bedroom noiselessly in the middle of the day, half- crazy with nauseated rage. Sunlight flooded his room though the open French doors, leaving it as exposed and deadly as the man who slept there. She'd waited until nightfall, the edges of the knife hilt grinding into the bones of her palm as she squeezed it, then emerged from her hiding place too furious to think about strategy or defense or tactics. Cut his throat, mark his face, make him bleed, castrate him, gut him, bring him to his knees....any and every idea that ran through her head as she waited for him to return. To greet him without games or demands and simply take revenge for her body's betrayal and the terror growing inside of her; too afraid of her obscene condition to trust herself without a weapon, unwilling to risk a moment of dizziness, a second of nausea, an instant of vulnerability. Except he didn't come back, not that night or the next, and hunger and rage finally drove her back out into the city. She discarded the knife in a dumpster, then wandered through the back-alleys, disbelief and denial rendering her blind to her surroundings, trying to comprehend how this had happened to her. "Grandmama has a delicate condition." Dru's eyes had been glowing with almost dreamy delight as she'd watched Darla retch into the toilet. Twilight had settled in an hour earlier, and the neon sign over the freeway had already begun blinking its excruciating rhythm of welcome to passers-by. The last time they'd been inside the motel, Dru had drained all the blood from her while Angel watched, too weak from trying to save her unsalvageable life to rescue her from Lindsey and Dru. Love and craziness. That's what killed her last time. It felt like it was killing her again. "Delicate...." She spat into the bowl, licked the edges of her teeth for the sick rich taste, and spat again. The blood she'd vomited was dark, maroon-black, the color of new bruises. "There's nothing delicate about this, Dru. It's all too vivid to be 'delicate.'" She dropped the lid on the toilet and pulled the handle, then pulled herself up to stand swaying over the sink. Hot. It was too damn hot in the room; maybe the air-conditioner had broken. Typical of the place. One more unfixable thing to curse. Like her body, which had become increasingly unreliable of late. Drusilla had frowned, her brow folding up into the puzzled gaze that always made Darla long to slap her. "Aren't you happy? Mummy always said that it was a blessing. A blessing from the angels." She turned the faucet for cold water, cupped some in her fingers and drank it, swirling it in her mouth before spitting it out, then splashed it across her face, letting it trickle down the edge of her neck. "Dru, I am not in the mood - not in the least - to hear about your precious Mummy. She's dead. She's been dead a century. We killed her. She died at the hands of vampires, a reality she never imagined before Angelus ripped her apart. So I seriously doubt she had anything helpful to say about why I'm sick." She leaned her face against the mirror, dully noting the coolness against her forehead. Sorcery. Magic. Wolfram & Hart. A vengeance curse from Lindsey, one last sour good-bye? Leftover weakness from the syphilis that had progressed so much farther, this last time she'd been human? A hex the ex- Watcher or that little Seer of Angel's bought, to keep her away from him? Craziness, kicking her out of his bed when he almost had the peace and wholeness he always claimed he wanted. Insanity, rejecting the only person he couldn't hurt, the only safety he was ever going to have. Love... letting her live, when he thought he should kill her. Hurting her so he wouldn't have to watch her die again, sending her away when he had to know that she'd always, always come back. After the girl died, after the Slayer was gone, after the Watcher and the ghetto kid were corpses, he'd take her back. She'd just miscalculated. Pushed him too fast, too far; but all she had to do was wait. Centuries couldn't be wiped out by a handful of years and a flickering soul. She had time. If she wasn't dying right now. "No, no, no. She knew. Mummy knew. She was a good Mummy, she knew all the songs, and how to braid little girls' hair, and how to serve tea with cream and muffins. You'll have to learn now." Dru came closer, trailed her cold fingertips down Darla's face. "Lullabyes and warm rabbit blood at bedtimes. Patty-cake and socks. Little feet get cold fastest, you know...." Darla turned her head to stare at Dru, eyes widening in shock, and her granddaughter-mother giggled, high and gleeful. And behind the glee in her avid eyes there had been shivering fear, and for two seconds her sing-song voice had been flat and calm. Sane. "It's a miracle, Grandmama." "No." She shook her head slowly, the pounding across her temples almost like a heartbeat. "No. Not. Possible." "A dream come true!" "Not mine. Not... Not..." She looked down at her stomach and a clammy chill swept over her, making her gag before she got the feeling under control. “Can't. Isn't... I'm dead, and there is just no way...." "A gift from Angel's soul to you. Or a present from someone else?" Drusilla smiled, clapping her hands. "Miss Edith shall have a sister!" Her face fell into confused, worried lines. "Or perhaps an uncle. Or a niece." She drew away from Darla, then drifted out the bathroom door, humming. "We shall have a baptism for the little one, a baptism of fire. A family again...." Not. Happening. The weight gain was from indulging the last few months, depression assuaged by drinking cocktails bought by men with eyes like Lindsey's. Drinking from them in rooms softer than she'd ever had as a mortal had made it possible to sleep. Bingeing on bums and hookers, killing those who would never be missed, brought comfort when nausea and rage woke her from dreams of Angel's rejection. Vertigo from being thwarted, emotions raging out of control because she'd had him back, her Angelus, her equal partner, her match, and then a streak of lightening and an instant of regret ripped him away. Lethargy from the heat. The goddamn heat, and having to hide from him and the stupid law firm and their pet demons and even the L.A.P.D., still looking for both she and Dru months after they should have given up. No. No. No. No. No. Denial could only take her so far. Fury took her farther, back to the room where they'd created a nightmare. Two days alone gave her time to think, just enough to realize the danger. Tell Angel, and fail to kill Angel, and she would be trapped. Doomed. Condemned to see the disaster through to the end--- unacceptable. And still the question of how haunted her as she wandered down the late-night boulevards. Undead flesh, cool and quiet and still, generating life? A star spontaneously exploding out of empty space was more likely. It was an effect without a cause, like a plague of locusts hatching from rocks in the desert. web hosting • domain names web design • online games