Chapter Text
Memories of Scotland
author: Lucinda
rating: pg 13
main characters: Darla, Connor MacCleod
disclaimer: I do not own Darla or anyone else from Buffy/Angel, and I do not own Connor or anyone else from the Highlander movie.
distribution: Twisting, Paula, TNL - anyone else ask.
note: set considerably before either Buffy or Angel starts, after Connor has discovered that he's immortal, and after his wife had died (see Highlander the Movie).
note 2: Uses TQC Object group #1
.mos.mos.mos.mos.
Darla gazed over the city, the view from this balcony simply amazing. Buildings towered, nearly blocking the sky, and lights glittered everywhere, reflecting off glass and steel. By night, New York was a city wrought of shadow and captured stars, grander and more terrible than anything she'd ever imagined in her long ago mortal days. This apartment had a splendid view, high enough that none of the noise and crowd of the streets was noticeable.
Perhaps she should offer a word of thanks to her host for the evening? Glancing at the man who'd offered her a drink, thinking that he could lure her to this apartment and keep her as a captive trophy, she smiled. The handcuffs and duct tape in his coat pocket had indeed proven most useful, but not quite the way that he'd intended. Maybe it would have been more enjoyable to kill him while he screamed and begged, but that might attract too much attention. The fear when he'd realized that his prey was far more deadly than he had ever imagined... it had been delicious.
She could feel the bond faintly, a sign that one of her relatives were in the area. Considering that she'd met the various powerful vampires that claimed territory here, and knew that the pull wasn't coming from any of them or their courts, there was only one person that it could be. Her Angelus, once her favorite childe, now cursed with a soul by those Gypsies. With the soul, he'd changed so much... She felt a pang of sorrow over his loss. It also reminded her of some of the other losses that she'd felt over the centuries.
Her greatest loss had not been something so terrible as a Gypsy curse, but a matter of timing. She'd found someone, strong, handsome... a Highland warrior from Scotland, full of the old traditions and of life, vitality, and an intensity that would have been delicious. Actually, he had been delicious, like fine aged wine. Nibbling just a bit on her lip, she let her mind turn back to Scotland, three hundred years ago.
She'd been in a small city in Scotland, playing the part of a not so unhappy widow. The role let her tease and flirt a bit while still maintaining a thin cover of respectability. People would simply assume that she wanted another husband. It opened so many delicious opportunities to her...
He'd been in the market, haggling over something, possibly a new kilt. His brown hair had fallen in waves just past his shoulders, and she could see the strong muscles of his legs, making her lick her lips and wonder just what was under his kilt. He'd had the accent of the Highlands, and the rolling sound of it had just been delightful. She'd sauntered closer, wanting to get a better look at this delightful specimen of the Scottish Highland man.
The market had still been crowded, even after dark, and it was relatively simple to pretend that someone had bumped her, causing her to half fall against him. Mmmm, the muscles had been splendid under his shirt, linen, washed so often that it was almost as thin as silk. "Oh! I am so sorry about that... The market is a bit crowded."
He'd reached out with his hands, helping her regain her balance as he'd looked at her, his brown eyes twinkling as he smiled at her. "I don't mind that much when a lovely lass like yourself gets bumped into me. There are far worse things that can happen to a man."
In that moment, she'd decided that she wanted him. Wanted to have him, to feel those muscles rippling naked beneath her hands, wanted to see those eyes gone black with passion, wanted to taste him, touch him, claim him as her own. She just wasn't certain if she wanted an affair, or to make him into a Childe and keep him forever. She'd smiled, using a carefully practiced trick to make her eyes a soft, charming blue, the sort of look that convinced men that she was sweet and helpless. "I'm so glad that you aren't upset. I'm Darla Whitmore."
"Connor MacCleod, of the Clan MacCleod." He'd smiled, kissing her fingers in a show of far more manners than rumor had led her to expect from a kilt wearing highlander. "And I'm delighted to meet such a lovely woman."
There had been a flicker of pain in his eyes, the sort of pain that came from loss. Perhaps he'd recently had and lost his own lovely woman? Hmm... that might complicate things a bit. "I assure you, the pleasure is mine."
It had taken her a while to lure him in. To charm him enough that he came to her house, that she could seduce him into her bed. Perhaps it was easier because she didn't ask for promises of love, only assurances that she was a 'bonny fair lass'. And it was well worth the delay. He looked every inch the handsome strapping warrior, with delightful muscles, and a few scars. She even managed to sneak in a few careful sips, tasting just a little of his blood. It was powerful, strong and rich and filled with vitality.
That was the deciding factor. How could she let someone so delicious, someone that took so much delight in life go? How could she let the ravages of time claim him, dragging him down into death? Even if he might want to die, want to rejoin his cherished Heather, she was a selfish woman, and wanted him for herself. Connor would be a splendid childe, she was certain of it.
Darla began making her plans, wanting everything to be just right when she turned him. But fate took the chance away from her. There was a riot in the market, and among the people killed was Connor. Apparently, the fighting had spooked a team of horses, and they'd trampled numerous people, among them Connor. He'd been crushed, and they'd already taken him to a pauper's grave. If the wagon hadn't killed him, being buried a few hours ago definitely would have finished the job.
She'd been furious, and in her rage, she'd slaughtered almost a dozen people that night before packing up her things and leaving the city. The loss of him had hurt, and the potential that he'd carried had stung. She didn't want to be returning to that town any time soon.
Darla shook her head, not wanting to become melancholy with memories. That sort of emotional self-indulgence bred weakness, and weakness soon led to death. She couldn't afford to be weak.
Picking up her blue leather jacket, she popped a cube of bubble gum into her mouth. It helped her blend a bit better, without leaving the same clinging scent that cigarettes produced. It also helped convince people that she was breathing, must be breathing. Darla walked out of the apartment, to vanish once more into the night.
end Memories of Scotland.