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Darla entered the old man’s room as she did every night, her formal dress falling to her feet as she sauntered across the cold wood floor in her costume. He silently watched her, his eyes exploring every inch of her body. It was their ritual - his thrills, her lucrative game.
The man was practically a fossil, too old to put a hand on her, but Darla didn’t miss the physical aspect of her job. The world overflowed with both humans and vampires she could fuck any time she wanted, and besides, there was nothing remarkable about being the nameless prostitute some man paid for a quick fuck after a fight with his wife, but entertaining this old man made her feel like she mattered. She didn’t love him, didn’t even care if he lived or died, but knowing that in the end of his life, he chose her over everyone else gave a purpose and an intensity to her work that she never knew she desired.
She held absolute power over this man, her passive client. He watched as she did anything she pleased, no questions asked. The maid’s uniform was his favorite of her many costumes. His eyes sparkled each time she wore it, but he'd gladly watch her pull a book from his shelf and read it to him.
As the days passed, she grew increasingly fond of their game, always working to bring it to new, unexplored heights, careful not to tax his poor old heart with anything too scandalous, especially not her true identity. He never saw her fangs, never saw her murder like the monster she was. With him, she was neither human nor vampire. She was a work of fiction, a work of art. She could be anything she wanted to be. Her identity changed with her every whim.
Darla knew nothing of him, and he knew nothing of her. Maybe he was merely the rich old human he appeared to be, or perhaps he was a demon in disguise. She didn't want to learn the truth about him any more than he wanted to learn the truth about her. The fantasy was their mutual withdrawal from reality.
She savored every moment of their game, every day bringing them closer to the inevitable, closer to the day she found herself looking at his cold, lifeless body. When that day came, she was tempted to give him the kiss she never gave him during his life, but that wasn't their relationship. She simply gathered her belongings and walked back to her darling boy.
Angelus demanded to know where she had been and what she had been doing every night. His jealous rhetoric was tiring, not worth her time. Darla simply rolled her eyes, brushing away his questions with a flash of her overflowing purse. She knew he would assume she spent three months fucking and murdering strangers in alleyways for gold coins, never knowing the power and creativity that coursed through her like fresh blood without ever needing to touch a man.