Possession
By Shadows of Nightfall
Rating: R/NC-17
Pairing: Buffy/Darla
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon.
Feedback: Gracias.
Distribution: Sure. Just tell me where.
Spoilers: Season 6 of BTVS. Season Three of Angel.
Summary: A lonely, vulnerable Buffy's still reeling from her return from the grave. What better time for an old enemy to return to her life with the intention of exploring what makes this beautiful blonde warrior tick beneath the surface?
Listen as the wind blows from across the great divide
Voices trapped in yearning, memories trapped in time
The night is my companion and solitude my guide
Would I spend forever here and not be satisfied?
And I would be the one to hold you down
Kiss you so hard, I'll take your breath away
And after I'd wipe away the tears
Just close your eyes, dear
- Possession, Sarah McLachlan
Prologue
A whip-like, icy breeze whipped through the unusually chilly night in Sunnydale on this evening as Darla watched her prey from the shadows.
Ever the hunter, a craft she had honed and plied through four centuries of bloodshed and carnage, she had blended herself into the inky blackness of the Ingwood Cemetary—one of many such places that this accursed town boasted—and it was hardly any effort at all. She had learned long ago how not only hunt in the night, to use the darkness around her, but to own it, to bend it and twist it to her will until she could slip into and out of it as easily as one would an old coat.
She wasn't just a vampire, a mere creature of the night, no; she was the night. And nobody, living nor dead, could lay claim to that over her.
Not even the formidable, yet beautiful young predator she observed smashing one of her undead brethren into a nearby tombstone head-first.
The cheap limestone rock crumbled like paper against the full force of the throw as the blonde woman—not a girl, definitely not a girl from the way she carried herself, Darla noted-recovered into a fight stance amlost immediately afterwards as the downed vampire drunkenly stumbled and rolled to his knees, trying to make it to his feet. His feral growl at his attacker lets on his intentions to maim, to hurt, kill…only she seems to shrug it off casually, a know-it-all, infuriating smile on pretty pink lips forming on the blonde's pretty face before she dismissively informs him that he sounds like a poodle. Infuriated, and deeply stupid, the demon charges, only for his prey to effortlessly somersault over his head and flatten him with a high roundhouse kick that could crush a block of hardened wood.
Even Darla had to crack a smile at that one. She a clever little minx, this Buffy Summers.
Witty, beautiful, strong, smart…and tired. So very ,very tired.
Oh yes, Darla could see it.
She had been watching this young beauty, this fearsome, yet stunning warrior for some time now. She could see the exhaustion, the weariness beginning to set in. Oh, she did a convincing enough job to keep that part of her from showing, but she could not hide it from Darla. No, the elder woman—the vampire—saw right through it.
The thing Darla had noticed about humans after a good four centuries of hunting and feeding off of them was one key thing: humans seems to love patterns.
They took comfort in schedules, in the normal, the expected, the daily rhythm of life. She never really understood it, even when she was a human herself, long ago as that was. But people seemed to like a certain predictability to their day.
The Slayer, Darla had noticed, was no different.
She seemed to take much solace in what Darla had observed to become a rather routine schedule: wake up early, make breakfast for the unappreciative little brat of a teenage sister of hers, Dawn or something, head to her mundane job flipping burgers at that second-rate fast food restaurant, go to The Magick Shop to meet with those simpleton friends of hers, work out at the training area in the back room, shower upstairs, change clothes, patrol the cemeteries for vampires, stake said vampires, head home, down a fat-free yogurt cup, shower again, change into her sleeping attire, turn out the lights, stare desolately outside through the window at the cruel, harsh night that she knew lay hidden among the false beauty of the California suburbs, occasionally cry a little, and sleep as she awaited the next day to start all over again.
There was a certain irony to the predictability of Buffy's routine, Darla saw that in retrospect. After all, the young woman's life was so filled with the unpredictability and chaos of the underworld that she probably had her fill of excitement, certainly more than most other humans. The same, she thought with distaste, could probably not be said for the hangers-on that this Buffy Summers had surrounded herself with masquerading as her "Friends" and family. They seemed to get their rocks off on the danger, the rush of action, the adrenaline of life-or-death situations.
The redheaded witch, for example; Darla had been keeping tabs on her, as well, as the most powerful of the Slayer's little groupies. She liked the magicks a little too much, Darla had started to notice with fascination. She clearly was drawn to the power, the excitement, the thrill of this life that she was not afforded when she was that geeky little schoolgirl that she remembered from years ago when their high school still stood. Same with the boy that still hung around them. He disgusted Darla the most; he puffed up his chest around the group to seem like a big, strong man, yet he cowered behind the Slayer at the first sign of trouble. He was a nuisance, nothing more. The other blondes in the group, the ones called Anya and Tara, were basically in the same ilk. While not nearly as annoying as the boy, they both tended to also run and hide behind their little Chosen protector, all of them expecting her to be their fearless leader, their shield maiden whenever the situation arose, yet oblivious to the obvious change in Buffy's demeanor. Willing to buy the fake smiles, the practiced assurances, the phony act that the tiny warrior put on day after day to hide the fact that she was slowly dying on the inside, that she had begun to lose hope, had been fighting with more reckless abandon than ever before.
Darla and her former coven, the infamous Whirlwind of Angelus, Spike and Drusilla, had long ago deduced that deep down, while these Slayers were powerful, agile, fast, lethal and rarely ever tired on the battlefield, behind those deadly layers were just…girls. Scared, stressed, and terrified young girls rushed by destiny into a life of horror, bloodshed and death that consumed every step they took. And because of that darkness, they secretly longed to escape it. Longed to be free of the responsibility of their calling - the crushing weight of their destiny that robbed them of a normal life, of friends, love, family and opportunity - for good. Deep down, every Slayer, the girl who dealt death for a living, secretly longed for death themselves. A silent desire for final escape.
Every Slayer had a death wish.
Yet Darla could tell that this Slayer was different. Summers was an anomaly in the ancient equation of death and re-Calling that ran for millenniums unbroken. Buffy chose to have family, chose to have friends, chose to have lovers, and it was those tethers that still bound her to the living world, to the light. That much Darla had deduced years ago when she and this nubile young fighter had first crossed paths. There was a spark, a fire, in those deep sea green eyes of hers, a mischievousness in that ever-confident smile of hers that fascinated Darla, even in the heat of battle. But it was genuine, it came from a place deep within her, and because of that, Buffy Summers glowed, even shined, as a beacon in this world of darkness and death in which she battled.
That was no longer there now, Darla could see that. Guess returning from the grave twice will do that do you, Darla mused.
Oh, yes, she had heard all about that. How brave little Buffy Summers gave her life to save the world from the hell goddess Glory, only to return from the grave a few months later, plucked from the peace and tranquility of heaven by her unsuspecting friends. Getting that information wasn't easy; it took time, patience and a lot of money to bribe demons with eyes and ears capable of sneaking past the mystical safeguards her friends erected around the Slayer's normal hangouts. Darla thanked them properly by slitting their throats later, of course; after all, what good was secret information if she left the source alive to blab it all over the underworld? Besides, while she was wealthy thanks to the money she looted over the course of her centuries, that certainly didn't mean she liked spending money if she could get it back later on. She knew the old saying about money and trees.
But that bit of information did a lot to explain the fake "I'm okay, I'm still Buffy Summers, the All-American Slayer Next Door" act that Buffy was putting on for those around her.
That was all it was, an act.
It was forced, acted, faked. Slipped on as easily as one would don a mask to a masquerade ball. Hell, Darla could see the tired little blonde practice that plastic smile in the mirror of her room at night, when she thought nobody was looking, while Darla watched cloaked in the inky shadows of the trees across the street, watching as the small, lonely beauty tried to coax a smile upon the tired features of her pretty face. Tried to plaster it on like it was as easy as lipstick. It was sloppy at first, but Darla had watched her get very good at slipping on that protective mask in the daytime. Hiding what she really felt, denying what was really going on, running away from who she really was…hell, the only time Darla ever saw Buffy show anything real, when she wasn't crying herself to sleep at night. She could see the ancient, lethal power slipping out of her, see the snarl on her pretty little mouth, watch the feral spark in her eyes as she pounced on demons with the ease of a tigress stalking a stray gazelle. Watched her smile grow as she toyed with her prey before a stake to the heart or the swipe of her sword ended the fight.
From the shadows in the distance, night after night, Darla watched the Slayer, and in those moments, Darla had never seen another girl…no, woman…look more beautiful. She watched as The Slayer shed that fake Girl Next Door façade and became uncaged, unleashed in her natural state as a warrior, a killer, the Queen of the Night, the huntress, a predator, untamed, unconquered, unrelenting. That gorgeous body, toned to the peak of physical perfection, bending, stretching, twisting with each blow, the curves of her generous chest springing slightly with each punch that could crush a car door like tin, her pert, perfect butt bouncing invitingly through her jeans—or, on nights where Darla was lucky enough, spandex workout pants-with each kick that could with ease shatter a skull as if it was a rotted melon. Her golden hair tied in a bun, sun-kissed skin glistening with sweat as she fought. She was powerful, but beautiful, wild and deadly as a jungle flower.
But The Slayer was getting sloppier, Darla could see that. Taking more risks. Letting the fights drag out much longer than needed to, when it was obvious to her hidden admirer that she could have ended them long before. It was as if she felt she could stick her head into the lion's mouth a little deeper each time and still expect to pull out before the jaws clamped down on her pretty little head. But it wasn't out of arrogance, Darla knew Buffy was too smart, too seasoned a warrior for that. Summers wasn't testing her limits or overestimating her might the way she had seen other foolish Slayers do in the past.
No, this was intentional. It was as if she was testing how far she could slip into the darkness before it could swallow her, how deep into Death's embrace she could slip into before it gave her one last, fatal kiss.
In short, Buffy Summers was fighting like a woman with a death wish.
Darla watched while Buffy, growing bored, finally finished off her unworthy undead opponent with a decisive stake through the chest, dust and ashes exploding everywhere as she wafted away the dust. Weary, bored and yet somewhat satisfied, she sat on a nearby tombstone, a gentle breeze of wind blowing through the graveyard brushing back a stray lock of blonde hair from her glistening forehead, the incandescent glow of the moonlight bouncing off her golden skin as she stared innocently up into the night sky, leaving her looking radiant, a rose growing in the darkest of gardens. A light shining in the dark.
As she watched the younger woman, barely 21 years old now, the centuries-old Darla felt something stirring within her. What was it about this little blonde with the sharp wit, pretty green eyes and the nasty high-kick that drew people in? What was it about her that made Angel, her former lover, one of the fiercest creatures to ever walk the earth, so weak-kneed and good around her, made him change for her love? What was it about this one that made Spike, the Slayer of Slayers and a vicious vampire in his own right, act like a simpering puppy just for a scrap of her affection? Darla's beauty was potent, she had used that as her weapon to lead men into her arms—and her fangs—for decades, and yet this former cheerleader, this petite little thing glowed in a fascinating way that left Darla curious, left her wondering what it would be like to be closer to her than these damned shadows obscuring her from sight would allow. What it would be like to have this deadly beauty in her arms, to inhale her scent even closer, to taste those pretty pink lips, to have her hands exploring, gliding, teasing every plane of that perfect, tanned and toned body of hers. Yet at the rate Buffy Summers was going, she might be back in the grave before Darla got the chance to see.
And for many reasons, not just business, but personal as well, that was something that Darla could not allow.
It was as if at that moment, Buffy became self-aware, her gaze turning sharply from the stars in the night sky towards Darla's direction. If Darla's heart could still beat, it would have certainly skipped. She was strong, the centuries of aged power afforded her that, even after her recent….resurrection…at her GrandChilde Drusilla's hands months ago. Yet strong as she was, she was not so confident she could beat this Slayer, even if she did fight like a woman with one foot in the grave. As Buffy slowly stood up, stake in hand, wary eyes cautiously eyeing the giant shrubbery next to the mausoleum where Darla hid, the vampiress instinctively crouched, careful not to make a sound, yet ready to spring into action if a fight — or flight — was needed. The moments seemed to drag on forever as Buffy continued to stare into the darkness shrouding Darla, green eyes scanning for a foe, steady hands ready to receive one…
…until, at last, the Slayer's shoulders relax, dismissively turning on the heels of her sneakers and walking back up the hill, giving Darla a generous view of that perfect, heart-shaped bottom being hugged by those tight, stretchy black spandex workout pants of hers as she slowly walked away ,the breeze brushing the hood of her simple gray sweater to the side. God, this Slayer was so delectable, Darla thought to herself, lust flickering in her chest like a lamp light.
It was then that Darla came to a decision: she was done waiting. She had stayed in the shadows for weeks, patiently waiting, quietly observing her sexy little rival, learning everything there was to know about her prey. She had waited long enough. Tonight, she would observe her one last time. Tomorrow, however, Buffy Summers would no longer be so close and yet so far; no, she would be up close and personal with Buffy Summers. It would be a shame to let such beauty, such grace be taken from the world again, as the girl was obviously on a one-way path to the grave again.
No, it was time to make The Slayer an offer. Oh, Buffy might not see it right away, Darla mused as a wry smile spread across her dark red lips. She would not understand it at first, certainly not due to the means of which Darla had intended for her to listen through. But she would, in time, see that what Darla was offering her was not death, but life. Not damnation, but salvation. Liberty from the bondage that this mundane, smothering life of hers was binding her with, stealing her potential, siphoning off her will to live.
And when she accepted that truth, Darla smiled with anticipation as she watched The Slayer standing atop that hill, unafraid, undaunted, ever the heroine…that was when Buffy Summers, The Vampire Slayer, would belong to her. Body and soul. Heart and mind. Forever.
They said that Buffy Summers was unconquerable. She had beaten vampires, demons and even a god. That she had no weaknesses. That she could not be beaten. That no demon or vampire was a match for her.
Darla chuckled darkly. Don't worry, my sweet. And sleep well tonight. For tomorrow night, I'll put that theory to the test.
TBC