A/N: Because I’ve always wondered whether the ritual from What’s My Line, if completed properly, would really have killed Angel, or just made him weak like Dru or worse. Also, I’m going to assume that there were other books with the ritual/key code in them that are floating around out there in the demon world.

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Chapter 39 - Flashes

1969, New York

“What the bloody hell are you doin’ here?”

Darla ignored Spike. “Where is he?” she asked Dru.

“He’s ill, terribly terribly ill,” she said. “All his blood to heal my burns. Inside and out, all twisted—”

“Where, Dru?”

She pointed to a door.

Darla opened it, and he looked up when she entered, almost panicky. He was thin, skeletal even. He looked like he wanted to back away from her, but his body simply wouldn’t do it.

She had heard snippets of what had happened, descriptions of the two vampires that toted around an insane and now shell-like Angelus. Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore and had come to see for herself. She’d almost felt it as she neared.

Seeing it, she was shocked. For such a member of the Aurelian line to have fallen so far. She couldn’t tell what was a result of the curse, what was the not feeding, and what was whatever they had done between him and Drusilla.

“Angelus,” she said sweetly. “I’ve come to make it better.”

“No,” he said. “No, no, no.”

“Look,” she said, pulling back her collar. “Look how flushed I am.” Darla moved closer. “For you. All for you.”

“It’s dirty. We’re all so dirty—”

“Dammit, Angelus!”

“I don’t want it, any of it.”

“I don’t care! You will drink from me!” Darla slashed her neck with her own nails and climbed on top of him. “I will not leave you to rot in your own filth like this, not with them!”

Knowing the thirst he must be fighting and how irresistible her own blood would be, she forced his mouth open and put her bleeding throat in it.

For a moment, he was motionless beneath her. Then he was involuntarily tasting, his tongue touching over the wounds and his throat constricting as he swallowed. Suddenly his face had shifted and he was hungrily, desperately pulling down her blood, his teeth buried in her flesh and his arms locked around her.
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He felt the blood flowing down his throat. He didn’t want to want it, but oh, want it he did. He wanted it more than anything he’d ever wanted before.

He hadn’t exactly been in the best condition to begin with when Spike had grabbed him. Rats were not so much sustenance, after all. But after every single drop of blood from his body had been ritually poured into Dru, he couldn’t move.

They’d taken him with them. He’d rather been left to die. After all, it’s not like he had been doing much with himself.

Dru had brought him a girl the first night. He’d been sickened.

She’d pouted and looked confused when he wouldn’t drink the girl. Spike, however, had shrugged, said, “your loss, mate,” and killed the girl himself.

The next night, Dru had come back from hunting and tried to get him to drink from her. He wouldn’t, couldn’t. What was the difference that she had killed someone for the blood instead of him doing it?

She’d brought him a dog after that, and though he had felt sorry for it, he’d drained it, as well as the other animals she sometimes came back with. But the blood did nothing to restore him. So he lingered—weakened outside, perpetually suffering within…

Until now.

Drinking sire’s blood was always a singular experience. Usually a nip here and there, during sex and such. But this, this constant flow, as much as he could drink, as if it would never end. He could almost feel the mass returning to his body. He wondered how many people she had killed in order to have this much in her. But suddenly he didn’t care.

There was nothing but the two of them, her blood running down his throat, sweet and thick. All his thoughts were bent on it. After his self imposed starvation, and then his actual starvation, it was ambrosia. It occupied all of him, and he only wanted it. There was nothing but the blood, and it kept coming, drowning out any other thoughts in a sea of red. He simply didn’t care about anything else. He could just be, be one with the blood and nothing else—

And suddenly, something in him snapped.
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Darla felt her neck being torn as he jerked uncontrollably beneath her.

However, she only pulled away when she felt her limit coming, forcing him to let go of her. She would have to feed again immediately, she’d given him so much.

He was staring straight up, a vacant expression on his face.

“Angelus?” she asked. “Angelus?”

Slowly his eyes met hers, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. Definitely.”

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1982, Miami

“Poor Daddy,” Drusilla said, glancing sympathetically at Angelus’s prone form on the sofa.

“Oh please,” Darla said, entering the hotel room and throwing a girl across his lap. “He sits inside all night and day, while we bring him room service.”

“But it must be terribly boring not to hunt. I thought it terribly boring not to hunt.”

Angelus finished draining the girl and threw her to the floor. He pulled Dru onto him. “Oh, but there’s all sorts of fun things we can do lying down.” He gave Darla a look. “Join us?”

“Oh yes, grandmummy, please.”

“Not tonight.” Darla narrowed her eyes. “How much longer, Angelus? It’s been years, and you can barely manage to walk.”

“I was completely fucking drained!” he yelled. “Have you ever been completely drained? Not to mention whatever it pulled out of me and into Dru.”

“I gave you sire’s blood! I still give you sire’s blood, besides what we bring you every night.”

“Well, how about some sire’s blood and some magic words?” he snapped.

“I am not doing the ritual. Then it’ll be me on that bed forever. Besides the fact that we don’t even have a copy of it.”

“I bet it can’t be too hard to track down. I mean, if Spike was able to find it—”

“Find something else. Conversation closed.” She turned to leave once again.

“Hey, aren’t you going to take this out?” he called, pointing to the dead girl.

The door slammed.

Drusilla straddled him, stroking his face. “Poor Daddy gave his blood for me, and now he’s all weak.”

“I didn’t give you my blood,” he spat. “William took my blood.”

“My William is gone. Punish me instead,” she smiled, wriggling against him. “Or I could punish myself, and you could watch.”

Angelus grinned.

“They were such pretty words, full of evil,” she crooned to herself as she worked on his belt buckle. “Wonderfully wicked words.”

“What?” he asked sharply, Drusilla’s position completely forgotten for the moment.

“They called me back,” she rambled, swaying. “Grand obscenity and black medicine, blood of the sire to rise again.”

“Do you know what you’re saying?”

“I know all my Spike’s words. He used to love words, though most of them I didn’t like, I confess. Strings that danced in my head. But those were such nice words…”

“Dru,” he asked carefully, “do you remember the ritual?”

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“I will kill you for this.”

“Come on now, don’t get like that. Dru and I will feed you and everything.”

Darla struggled against Angelus and their mutual bonds.

“You!” she hissed at Dru. “How could you go along with him? Hitting me over the back of the head while I fucked him, tying me up, committing this betrayal, this—this travesty!”

“Don’t be cross,” Drusilla pleaded. “Angelus asked me, so many times he asked me. I couldn’t let him suffer away. And he was beginning to be cross with me.”

“Honey, you’re sure you remember the words?”

“Oh yes, it’s like poetry.” She held up a dagger. “And I get to cut, just at the pretty part.”
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Ten minutes later, Angelus stood after Dru sliced the ropes, and stooped over the skeletal Darla.

“I hate you,” she breathed.

“It’ll pass.” He straightened up. “Dru, let her drink. It won’t be sire’s blood, but it’ll do. Then get her something else to eat. I’m going out.”

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Thirteen years later, Rome

Angelus stood over the bed where Darla lay. “What would you say if I had some news?”

“What?” she asked flatly.

“I’ve got a plan.”

“And what would that be?”

“I’ve tracked down the Master for you.”

Darla was silent for a moment. Then, “If you tell me you were thinking of this all along, I won’t believe you.”

“Oh, I wasn’t. I was only thinking of me when we did you. But it occurred to me later, and if we can get you better, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t.”

She remained silent.

“Like there haven’t been plenty of times you almost got me killed,” he said, growing angry. “Taking the last horse, leaving the dead bellboy in my room, bolting that door, just having to see the French Revolution, should I go on?”

“He won’t do it.”

“You’re his pet, of course he will.” He grinned. “And if he won’t, well then, we’ll have to persuade him.”

Darla stared at him.

“I bet California’s nice,” he added. “All those blondes.”

-----

August 1997, The Hellmouth

“That Luke guy, not too impressive.” He smiled. “So, how’ve you been? Nice and stuck and all?”

“This is hardly the way to win favor.”

“All that holding court crap never really did it for me, you know?” Angelus shrugged. “Dru, bring her in.”

Drusilla came around the corner, carrying Darla in her arms. Something might have flickered across the Master’s face, but then again, who could tell?

“Cause, see, I think you’ll do what I want. And if you’re inclined not to, well… You don’t seem to really be able to do much, except order minions around. And they’re all gone.” He played with his crossbow. “Not that you had that many to begin with. I guess they tend to ditch you when your grand plan gets you trapped in a hole. And now there’s not even anyone to feed you. Ever.”

At that moment, a small boy suddenly appeared. At first Angelus thought he was there as a snack, before he realized that the kid was also a vampire.

Darla tilted her head against Dru’s shoulder. “Oh, Angelus, he’s kind of cute.”

“Yes,” Drusilla crooned. “We could keep him as a pet. A little doggy.”

“No, no more of the Master’s spawn. Except for Darla here.” Angelus spun around before another word could be spoken and drove a stake through the boy’s heart. He looked back at the Master. “So, what’s it going to be?”
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Darla was strong. She was standing and smiling at him, radiant and evil and powerful once again. The Master was stumbling, falling down the wall as he tried to support himself.

Darla turned to the Master. “I am in your debt,” she was saying, gushing on and on.

Angelus reached under his coat, pulling out a stake that was long and thick from behind his back.

Without a word, he turned and drove it into the Master’s chest, watching in satisfaction as he disintegrated. He stomped on the bones as they hit the ground—huh, bones, he must have really been old—smashing the ribcage and skull in glee.

He turned from the fragments with a wide grin. Before he could speak, Darla slapped him full across the face, sending him spinning into the stone wall.

“You killed him,” she hissed. “You killed the Master!”

“I put him out of his misery. What did you think was going to happen after we did it? His sire was dust centuries ago.”

“He was old! He might have recovered!”

Angelus looked at her.

“You intended to kill him all along,” she realized. “How could you? You killed the oldest of the Aurelian line!”

“Now you’re the oldest!” Drusilla chimed.

“You’re not about to turn all ugly, are you?” Angelus asked.

He suddenly found himself flung across the room as Darla advanced on him. “So help me, Angelus, if I don’t finish you! I’ve got over a century on you, and right now I’ve got the Master’s blood in me! You killed him. How could you?” She stood over him, eyes blazing.

“Oh, don’t kill Daddy! Oh, please.”

Darla fumed, her lips pressed into an almost invisible line. “I’m leaving,” she said simply. “If follow me, I’ll kill you.”

After a moment, Angelus stood, watching Darla as she disappeared around the curve of the rock walls.

“Well, that went well.” He shrugged. “She’ll be back soon enough. C’mon, Dru, let’s find some place to set up shop. I think the Hellmouth is going to suit us.”

“Can we go to a candy shop? There are always such nice little boys in candy shops.”

And the pair went up to the world above.