Title: Want Versus Need
Author: Brenda Antrim
Email: bren@bantrim.net
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.
Spoilers: Incorporates and immediately follows "Darla."

The drive out to the Valley was as long and congested as it always was, even at one in the afternoon. Lindsey maneuvered the Benz confidently through the maze of SUVs, trucks, clunkers and the occasional Jag clogging the 405 and couldn't keep the smile that was lurking from breaking through. Finally things were going right. Lilah's little telekinetic mess-up was over, Darla was settling in nicely, he'd won in court yesterday against staggering odds, and his phantom hand had finally stopped itching all night. Life was looking up.

Or it was, until he opened the door to the Firm's apartment and stepped into a nightmare of shattered glass.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the shadows from stepping in out of the strong sunlight. Something broke under his shoe, and he looked down, then around, to see the previously elegant apartment had been reduced to shambles. Walking slowly, warily over to the mirror on the wall, wondering what had attacked Darla and if she'd managed to fight it off, uncertain of what he'd discover when he found her, he was startled to hear her voice. It was shaky, weak, but composed.

"Hello, Lindsey."

She looked like hell. She was curled up in a chair, head fallen against the side cushion, hands dangling limply in her lap. He stepped toward her and realized in that instant that nothing had attacked Darla.

Nothing except Darla, that was.

Kneeling down in front of her, he took her hands awkwardly in his one, peering down at the wounds on her fingers and wrists. "You're bleedin'." He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. The cuts weren't deep, but they had to sting.

"I guess I am." She sounded faintly surprised. He frowned up at her, then looked back at her cuts, cleaning her skin carefully.

"Something happened." Tell me, his tone invited. She didn't respond as he expected. She seldom did.

"Oh, god, yes. So many things, I remember them all." Her voice was almost sprightly. It sat ill with her generally distraught appearance. "Which one were you thinking of?"

He didn't like the look in her eye. There was an edge of insanity there that made him nervous. "It was too soon." The whole situation had to be traumatic for her. They'd thrown her in too fast, not given her time to adjust. "We shouldn't've sent you to him. We should have waited."

Her hand brushing back his hair startled him, and he looked up at her, caught in her eyes. They were compelling, a warm rich color like properly warmed brandy. He got the same buzz looking into her eyes. She smiled at him dreamily, and leaned a little toward him. He couldn't let go of her hands.

"Lindsey." She sounded whimsical, interested, flirtatious. "You never talk about yourself, Lindsey. Got a girlfriend? A boyfriend?" Her left eyebrow quirked at him and he couldn't say a word. She didn't let it stop her. "Someone special?"

Swallowing to moisten his mouth, he answered before he could allow himself to think, concentrating on binding her wounds, not wanting to hear what he thought she might be asking. "There's no one." And there wasn't. No one he could claim, anyway. No one he really wanted to think about.

Angel didn't count, after all. Did he? No. Of course he didn't. Angel hated him.

She was musing aloud again, and he tuned in to her words. "No, no, there really isn't, is there? You can be with someone a hundred and fifty years, think ya know 'em, still doesn't work out. Angelus. Oh, you should have seen us together." Now she sounded nostalgic. It irritated him a little. She was thinking of Angel, of course. Just not with Lindsey. And not in the present. Memories weren't going to do them any good here. Not in the middle of what looked like a crisis.

"He was a different person then." Lindsey tried to bring her back to reality.

She didn't miss a beat. "And so was I. Now do you know what we've become?" Her eyes were burning into him again. He took the challenge and threw it back to her.

"Enemies." If he knew nothing else, he knew that. She surprised him yet again.

"Much worse." He didn't understand, and she smiled beatifically at him. "Now we're soul-mates." She said the word as if it was the worst possible thing in the world to be. Then she laughed, a breathless and slightly hysterical sound that made him hold even tighter to her hands.

Perhaps, given what they'd been, what Angel was, it was the worst possible thing in the world to be.

It took him over an hour, with only one hand to work with and Darla not being particularly helpful, to get her cleaned and bandaged up. After he'd fetched her shoes, so she wouldn't cut her feet, and called the cleaning service to take care of the mess, he stood in front of her, hand in his pocket, staring down at her face. She stared back up at him, a weird mixture of indifference, challenge and bewilderment in her eyes. He had to get back to work, but he didn't trust her alone here. There was something strange about her, stranger than usual.

Somehow it didn't surprise him that whatever it was turned him on as much as it confused him. She'd been doing that to him since they raised her. Angel had been doing it since they first met. Maybe it was a family trait. Now that he knew Darla, he could see where Angel got it.

Coming to a decision, he reached out his hand and pulled her gently to her feet. She clung to his hand for an instant, her forehead dipping to touch his shoulder, and he wished fiercely that he had both hands again. He wanted to touch her hair, wanted to touch her skin, but didn't want to let go of her hand. Then the moment passed, and she stepped away from him.

"Careful of the glass," he said automatically. She smiled at him over her shoulder, a courtesan's special, spiced with an ounce of what he told himself was real warmth.

"Always taking care of me, Lindsey," she teased him. He liked the sound of his name on her lips, and knew that was why she used it so often. She knew precisely how to wind him around her little finger.

He was content to be wound. For the moment at least. He'd survived this long by being flexible. He'd play the hand he was dealt as long as it lasted. Smiling slightly at her, he ushered her out the door and into his Benz.

The sunlight made her flinch. She turned her face away from his and stared out the window at the traffic as it passed.

"Is there anything you need? While we're out. We could stop and get something. If you need anything." He cursed silently. He made his living with his tongue, but around her it turned to stone. Another family trait she shared with Angel.

"There's nothing you can give me, Lindsey," she said quietly, and he felt his heart close. Then she turned and smiled at him, and the sting faded a little. "You're very sweet, did you know that?"

He could feel his face turning red. Clearing his throat, he tried, "No." It came out a little rusty. She chuckled.

"Hidden talent." Then she leaned her head against the rest and closed her eyes, effectively ending the conversation. The drive south was just as nasty as the drive north had been, and he concentrated on the traffic, ignoring everything else.

Everything else but the sound of her breathing. He couldn't ignore that even if he was dead.

By the time they made it back downtown, he was so hard he was aching. He thought of death, and dust, and the sound the scythe had made as it sliced through his wrist, and ignored the throb he always got when the image of Angel towering over him as he lay on the floor was added to the mix of memories.

Then he thought of Holland, and the Firm's plans, whatever they might entail. The tactile press of a stake pushing into Angel's chest, and the startlement in the dark brown eyes as they turned to dust. The ache faded enough to allow him to walk. He nodded at the guard in the lobby, escorting Darla swiftly into the elevator then through the hall, his maimed arm carefully around her waist.

Once they were in his office, clear of prying eyes, he wasn't sure what to do with her. His body had plenty of ideas, but he seldom allowed his body to overrule his mind. Every time he had it had been a disaster.

"You hungry?" he asked, as it struck him that he didn't know when last she'd eaten. Grabbing the remote, he opened the drapes, letting in the sunshine. She looked at the view, then away, then back as if fascinated. He glanced out the window to see what held her attention. "I can run down the hall and grab some sandwiches from the vending machine if you want. It's not exactly gourmet cuisine, but --"

The sound of the door opening and feeling Darla tense beside him caused Lindsey to turn around. His boss was staring at him. The look in his eyes was completely blank. Lindsey knew that look. It boded ill for someone. Probably himself.

"Lindsey." So many shadings of meaning for a simple name. He nodded in response.

"Holland." Cautiously. His boss turned briefly to Darla.

"Darla. How are you?" Ever the gentleman, in the precious few seconds before he cut out your heart. Or forced you to eat your own liver. Lindsey made sure the shudder he felt went unseen.

"I'm fine, Holland. Good to see you." She sounded like she really meant it. She must have made a fortune when she was human.

"Always a pleasure."

It sounded much more perfunctory coming from Holland. Oh, well, she'd had more centuries to practice. Maybe. The stray thought struck Lindsey that Holland might not be as human as he appeared. Things and people so seldom were at Wolfram and Hart. That shudder was harder to hide.

"Lindsey, a word." It was a command, not a request. "If you'll excuse us," Holland smiled at Darla. She nodded back.

Lindsey moved around her, careful not to brush against her as he left. He certainly didn't need to be sporting an erection while talking to his boss. The man, or whatever he was, never missed anything. As he was shutting the door behind him, he looked over at her reassuringly. "I'll be right outside."

She simply looked at him. He had no idea how to interpret it, so he didn't try.

Not that he had much time to worry about it. Holland was reaming him out, in his own quietly gut-churning way, as soon as they were alone in the hallway. Lindsey could feel his spine stiffening. There were times when it pissed him off that most of the male world was taller than he was. This was one of them. He reacted by drawing himself up to his full height and firming his jaw. Subordinate but not submissive. He'd done what he had to do, and if Holland ever paused for breath, he'd tell him so.

"I thought we were very clear on this matter. Now that she's made contact, it's not ... prudent to have her on the premises." There was a distinct threat beneath the urbane tone. Lindsey swallowed but kept his composure.

"I know. I just -- I didn't feel I could leave her alone. I think there may be a problem, sir. She seems to be displaying a post-traumatic --" He didn't get the justification finished before Holland interrupted him.

"She's cracking up." He seemed to be talking more to himself than Lindsey.

"No, I wouldn't say that --" Lindsey tried to defend her and Holland interrupted again.

"Oh, she's way ahead of schedule."

That hadn't been what Lindsey'd been expecting. This was expected? This was on a schedule?! He let it sink in, schooling his face to show nothing, frantic thought given away by the slow beat that passed before he answered. "What?"

"We'll have to accelerate matters. But I think we're ready." Holland still seemed to be talking to himself, then snapped back to attention, smiling at Lindsey. The smile had more than its requisite number of teeth in it. "Lindsey, you did the right thing. Good work. Don't let her leave the building." He turned to walk away, leaving Lindsey feeling pole-axed. Then Holland turned back momentarily as a thought struck him. "Oh, and letter openers, staple gun, even ball point pens, anything with a sharp edge -- you may want to remove those sorts of items from your office, just in case."

He stood there, speechless, as his boss walked jauntily down the hallway away from him, practically whistling, he was so pleased with himself. Thoughts were racing through Lindsey's brain. This made no sense. If the plan was for Darla to seduce Angel to the dark side, what good would it do to have her lose her marbles? This was expected? This was, apparently, counted on, another thought that made Lindsey's stomach hurt. They expected her to try to hurt herself? And they were going to use that? Against Angel?

How? The single word echoed through his thoughts as he slowly walked down to the vending machine. Picking turkey and chicken salad at random, he fed the machine dollar bills and stared blankly into the glass, not seeing his own reflection, trying to work through the ramifications of Holland's opaque plan. There had to be a thread of logic in the mass of insanity that this project had become. Holland's thinking patterns, and the senior partners' plans, were often complex to the point where normal humans, and even lawyers trained in triple think, could make no sense of them. This one was giving him a headache to match his stomachache.

He hadn't come any closer to a conclusion by the time he got back to his office. Using his prosthetic hand to bump the door open, both sandwiches clasped in his good hand, he shouldered the door shut and walked in. Darla was standing up against the glass windows, staring out over Los Angeles, lost in thought. The side of his mouth curled into the beginning of a smile. She was luminescent. Knowing her past, knowing her cruelty, all he could see at that moment was her fragility.

"Darla." He tried to call her back from wherever she'd gone.

"Say that again." She sounded confused. Her question made him feel the same way, like the carpet had turned to sand under his feet and he was about to lose his footing. The usual situation he found himself in whenever he talked to her.

Or Angel, for that matter.

He dropped the sandwiches on the desk and tried to answer the question he'd heard in her voice. "I just ... uh, I just said your name. Darla."

"Sounds so odd, doesn't it?"

He thought it sounded lovely. "I don't know what you mean."

"It wasn't my name when I was human." She threw him another glance he couldn't interpret, then stared back out through the glass. "The first time I was human, I mean."

An unexpected spike of tenderness shot through him. How many people had actually cared about this woman, in her life or in her unlife? How many had she allowed to care? Only Angel. Lindsey swallowed. "What was your name?" he asked quietly.

Her answer was pensive. "Hm. I don't remember. I'm not her, whoever she was. I was Darla for so long. Then I wasn't. Then I wasn't anything." Her voice gathered strength, but remained as thoughtful. "I just stopped. He killed me and I was gone." Darla turned away from the view to look over at Lindsey. Her eyes were sharp with concentration, like she was working through a knotty problem. "Then you brought me back."

Unsure where she was going with this, he contented himself with a simple "yes." His eyes followed her watchfully as she moved slowly toward him.

"What did you bring back, Lindsey? What am I? Did you bring back that girl whose name I can't remember? Or did you bring back something else? That other thing?" She stopped a foot in front of him. He stared at her, mesmerized and confused, caught up in the urgency in her eyes.

"Both." He blinked, like a cat, trying to unwind the maze of her thoughts. "Neither." He shook his head, knowing he was missing what she needed to hear but not knowing how to rectify his error. "You're just you. Whatever that is." He wasn't sure any more. Then she tossed him a curveball and sent his mind directly down into his pants.

"Why haven't you kissed me?" His eyes dropped and all he could see was her mouth. "You've been dying for it, haven't you?"

Yes, he didn't say. "I didn't know if you wanted me to." He could hear the hesitation in his own voice.

"Why should that matter? Do you think I ever hesitated when I wanted something? Life's too short. Believe me, I know. Four hundred years, and still too short."

In that instant, she was completely Darla, no hint of the lost little girl he'd heard when she'd asked who she was. It compelled him forward that final step, closing the space between them. He ran his fingers into her hair, cupping her head in his palm, and licked his lips unconsciously. Leaning forward, he touched her lips gently to his, sucking with a butterfly touch on her lower lip as she drew his upper lip between hers. A single kiss, a second, slightly harder, then a third, gentling again. Her breath was sweet on his face. Her eyes were half-closed.

"Mm." She sounded faintly amused. "That's how humans get what they want, I remember that much."

Lindsey gave her another nibbling kiss, and laughed at himself for feeling breathless. "D'you like it?" He couldn't stop the question.

"It's nice."

They could be talking about the chicken salad, for all the excitement she showed. He smiled faintly. As their mouths almost touched again, she breathed over his mouth, "It's not me you want to screw."

His brain froze. His cock jumped. A mental image of Angel, so close all he could see was dark eyes, so close he could feel the chill radiating off the vampire's skin, flashed through his mind. Lindsey drew back just far enough to see her clearly. Her eyes were open again, all lazy amusement, staring up at him. Through him. He blinked, falling back on habits of a lifetime to cover his turbulent thoughts. "What?" He blinked again, a cautious cat.

"It's him."

In the short pause that followed, Lindsey was absolutely convinced that Darla could read his mind. Oddly enough, he found the thought that she knew he wanted Angel to be even more arousing than the thought of having her. Right there. On his desk. Which was pretty damned arousing all on its own.

"You all think you can use me to get to Angel."

The plural pronoun barely registered. He was nodding yes before his mouth opened to say, "Maybe." He stared down at her for a scant moment, then kissed her again, the gentleness gone in a wave of hunger. He swung her around onto his desk, scattering the contents on the floor, his maimed arm coming up around her back, his good hand buried in her hair, her arms around him, her body beneath his.

He nearly missed the question, buried under the thunder of their combined heart beats.

"What am I?" She sounded desperate. Alone. Confused. Heartbreakingly young. In that instant, he couldn't care less.

"I don't know," he muttered between kisses, bending her further back, burrowing into her. "And I don't care."

She writhed beneath him, twisting her head to the side, mouthing along his jaw then striking as swiftly as a snake, biting him hard on the right side of his neck. The bright pain cut through his passion, and he growled, tearing himself away from her. His hand went to his neck, feeling the burn of blood under the surface, the slight smear of fluid where she'd broken the skin. She hadn't held back. He glared at her, feeling his own hunger in the way he stared, seeing it rebounding back at him beneath her anger.

"Now do you care?" Wild. Darla. Challenging him.

"No!" he growled again, heading back to her, meeting the challenge head-on.

"That's how vampires get what they want. What am I?" The first comment was all Darla, arrogant with it; the second question was lost, bewildered. She was vacillating wildly between what she had been and what she'd become, and her uncertainty was tearing them both apart. He didn't know how to answer, didn't know what to do. His instinct said to hold her, and failing any other alternative, he tried to do just that.

"Darla." He reached out to her. She swayed toward him, staring up into his eyes.

"Is that it? Am I Darla?"

"Yes!" He wanted to kiss her again.

"Careful. Darla would snap you in half." Her voice was feral, then immediately plaintive. "Is that who I am?"

His head was spinning. She pulled away and turned back toward the window, staring bleakly out across the city once again. Lindsey tried to reach her with his words, since he'd failed with his touch.

"I understand what you're going through." He didn't, really, but he was trying.

"No. Nobody understands." Darla immediately caught him in the lie. "Nobody can understand. I can feel this body dying, Lindsey." She turned back to him, and he ached for her, for her pain and for her need. "I can feel it decaying, moment by moment. It's being eaten away by this thing inside of it. It's a cancer, this soul!"

He reached out to her with his hand, and she stared at it, then at him. Wrapping her arms around her midriff, she turned her back to him and stared back out over the sun-swept buildings and bustling, oblivious people below.

"What can I do?" he asked quietly, coming up behind her, stopping a careful three inches away, staring at her reflection in the glass over her shoulder. "What do you need?"

"I want the pain to stop, Lindsey. Can you do that?" Her eyes met his in the glass. "No, of course you can't." She answered her own question, not giving him time to reply. "After all, if you'd wanted that, you wouldn't have raised me as a human, would you?" Breaking the connection between them, she drew herself up, completely Darla now, no hint of the bewildered human girl buried beneath the weight of a soul carrying four hundred years worth of sin. "You have work to do, Lindsey, I'm sure. Don't worry about me. I'm fine."

His hand dropped away, and he turned back to his desk. The sandwiches mocked him. "You hungry?" he asked automatically, seventeen years of Southern hospitality, poor as they'd been, drilled into him, not letting him allow anything to go to waste. Behind him, she laughed.

It was a sweet sound.

Lindsey glanced over his shoulder. She was looking at him again, with approval this time. He grinned, not quite sure what had changed, but willing to go with the flow. As always. "Turkey or chicken salad?"

"I've always had a taste for things that taste like chicken," she teased, and he gave her a questioning look. She laughed again, to herself this time, and waved him out of the way, reaching for the sandwich containers, pushing the turkey on rye over toward him.

"I'm fine, Lindsey. Do your work." Taking the sandwich, she turned her back to him, curling up on the couch, staring off into the distance.

He bit his lip, knowing she was far from fine, not having a clue what to do about it. Then he looked down at the brief he had to file by five o'clock that evening, glanced over at the desk clock reading two eighteen, and did what he did best -- prioritized emergencies.

Settling in for a solid two hours of legal magic, he was aware of her every second of the rest of the afternoon. He didn't look around once. When she needed him -- when, not if, he told himself -- she would ask him. Until then he'd do the only thing he knew to do. Give her time, give her space, and make damned sure all sharp objects stayed far out of reach.

By the time he left for court, Darla was sleeping, curled up in a ball like an exhausted child. He stood over her for a long time, no sound in the office but the tick of the clock on his desk and her deep, relaxed breathing, and watched the shadows her lashes cast on her cheeks. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to fuck her. He wanted to take away her pain. He wanted to take Angel away from her. He wanted to win.

The last thought was the one that stayed with him through the darkening of the day as he fought his way back through traffic to the Firm. There were too many ramifications to the tangle of relationships between himself and Darla, himself and Angel, Angel and Darla. Too many plans from too many interested parties, too many angles to cover, too many possibilities.

Opening the door to his office, the one possibility he should have considered since she'd first said that no one could understand her reared up and slapped him across the face.

Angel. Of course. Cursed for over a hundred years with a soul. Who could understand her torment, if not he? Lindsey heard tears in her voice.

"It's been four centuries since I've had to be afraid of anything, and now I'm sick with it ... Angel."

It was a self-evident question, but he found himself asking it anyway. "Darla ... what are you doin'?" He was upset, he could hear it in the accent thickening his voice even more than he could feel it. Mostly he just felt numb.

She said quietly, painfully, into the telephone, "Help me."

Asking Angel. Not him. Lindsey walked cautiously forward. "Just put down the phone. Hang up the phone. It's okay." She turned to face him, clutching the telephone to her chest, and his breath caught at the glimmer of light tracing the tear tracks on her cheeks. "It's okay. Alright? Just put it down."

From behind him came the unwelcome intrusion of an unknown guard's voice. "Mr. McDonald, is everything all right?"

He didn't have time for this. "Yes," he answered curtly, not bothering to look. "We're fine." Or we will be, if she'll just talk to me, and not to Angel.

The guard didn't get the message. "Mr. Manners said you might need some help with her."

Damn Holland! Lindsey spared a glare for the interloper at the door. "No," he said simply. "Leave." It was an order. He looked back at Darla. The expression on her face made his heart hurt.

"I have to go to him, Lindsey."

"Don't say that." Please. I had to go to him once, too, and it nearly killed me to leave. Don't go through that. Not with him. Stay with me. He put the pleas he couldn't articulate into his eyes, hoping she would read them.

"He's the only one." She was oblivious to his pain, caught too firmly in the grip of her own. "He can help me."

"No, I can help you, too." He desperately wanted her to believe it. He desperately wanted to believe it himself.

"No." She shook her head, still clutching the telephone to her breast, tears slowly dripping from the corners of her eyes. "No, you can't. You don't have it in you. I'm sorry."

"Why don't we all take a walk down to Mr. Manners' office?" The fucking guard just wouldn't go away and Lindsey couldn't take the distraction.

"I can handle this, alright? Go!" His attention split between Darla and the idiot guard, Lindsey felt his control of the situation, slight as it had been, slipping away.

"She's not leaving the building."

Pompous asshole. That was it. Lindsey lost his temper. Glaring at the guard, he roared, "I SAID GO!"

That moment of looking away was all it took for Darla to break. There was the suggestion of movement in his peripheral vision, then a tremendous clout against the side of his head, and he staggered, eyes blurring from pain-tears. He realized that she'd hit him with the base of the telephone at the same instant that he saw the guard lurch toward her, and saw her reach for the gun in the man's holster, and knew everything had truly gone to hell in a hand-basket.

Too late.

Always a step behind. A day late and a dollar short.

Ignoring his mother's voice nagging at the back of his memory along with the headache threatening to send him to his knees, Lindsey did what he did best and worked through the pain. Gathering Darla's shaking form in front of him, he swept her out the door, eyes searching for armed response, knowing that a gunshot on the premises of Wolfram and Hart brought immediate and deadly reaction.

Unless, of course, it was at a senior associate's direction. This one hadn't been.

"C'mon. Let's go. You've got to come with me." He was urging her with his voice even as he guided her with his body. Where the hell they were going to go, he didn't know.

As they ran, hand in hand, along the back hall to the service elevator, the pain finally cleared enough for him to work out the bare bones of a plan. Once in the elevator, he dropped her hand and rummaged in his pocket for his keys. He took a deep breath and willed his voice to be steady.

Darla was cringing in the corner, eyes huge and wild. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her body, and she looked like a strong wind would shatter her. He hoped like hell she'd be able to follow his instructions. It might be their only chance. Pressing the keys into her shaking hand, he waited until her fingers wrapped around the key-ring then cupped her chin in his hand. Raising her face until she could look in his eyes, he spoke to her as calmly as he could.

"It's going to be okay, alright? But you have to do as I tell you. You don't want them to catch you." He waited for her nod, uncertain as it was, before he continued, hoping she was understanding his words. "There's a silver Mercedes on the B level of the parking garage just below the building. I want you to take it, and go to this address." He tugged a business card out of his jacket pocket, scrabbling for a pen in the breast pocket. The numbers were scraggly but legible. "It's a friend's house." It was a bolt hole, and he didn't think the Firm knew about it, but it should be safe long enough for him to meet her there. By then, all bets were off. "Go there, stay there tonight, alright? I'll see you there tomorrow morning, and we'll go from there." He pressed the card into her other hand, then touched her cheek gently. Darla looked out of her eyes, and she looked immeasurably old. He bit his lip again. "It's gonna be okay."

In a split second, Darla disappeared and the scared little girl showed up again. She nodded, and he pushed her gently out the elevator door into the basement access corridor.

"Go on, now, go on," he urged, trying to put as much reassurance in his voice as he could muster. "It'll be okay."

She didn't look like she believed him, but she left. He watched her go, then punched the button for the third floor, and went to judge the response and calm the waters.

To his surprise and suspicion, there wasn't much choppy water to calm. No guards, human or otherwise, apprehended him as he walked through the halls toward the main elevator bank. No alarms were going off. This wasn't right.




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