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Title: Lack of Artistry
Author: Tania
Rating: barely even PG
Summary: Set early 1860s, When Angelus uses Drusilla's prophecies as a road map, Darla and Drusilla are the ones who end up lost.
Original request: deadsoul820 asked for D &D pre-1880 for whatever reason, the characters should be slaphappy from exhaustion, pants (or lack thereof). Strong language/adult rating is A-OK. No uberchildish Drusilla, or any other character besides the chosen two

"How dare he do this to us!" Darla slammed the door behind her, throwing her riding crop across the room as Drusilla dropped their only trunk onto the floor and collapsed into a chair. "He's abandoned us for the last time."

"All naughty boys must disobey their mummies, Darla," Drusilla said, letting her legs fall against the sides of the chair, giggles filling the small room. "Come now grandmother, we'll have our fun without him."

"Dru, darling," Darla said quietly, her tone that sweet sort of dangerous she had practiced so well, "Angelus has taken our only horse and left us here. We will not be having any fun!"

"Oh how sad for us," Drusilla pouted. "And Miss Edith had promised Paris would be so diverting."

Darla sighed, trying to avoid giving into Drusilla's melancholy. "You're right," she sighed, "Let's get you out of those ridiculous trousers and into something more suitable and see if we can't find a way to get to the city on our own."

"Not tonight Darla. Angelus has gone to see the painter I think, someone to stroke him in red and wrap in canvas."

"I don't want to talk about it," Darla said, walking the short distance across the room and forcing Dru to stand up. "I've had enough of this Manet fellow, not to mention that horrid Baudelaire and his Chinese herbs. All I care about is that we are now stuck here, miles from anything but sheep and wet earth. I'll not be stuck in a…shack," she looked around the room, sneering at the grime covered windows and faded orange curtains, "so Angelus can woo the peasantry into thinking he's a god."

Drusilla lifted her arms over her head, giving Darla full access to the buckles at her waist. "At least daddy was kind enough to leave us the carriage," she said hopefully.

"And what do you suggest? That we strap ourselves to the shaft and act as our own liveryman?" Darla gave a short laugh, "I suppose if you're volunteering for the duty I'll have no choice but to drive you."

"You shant have to be so cross with me," Drusilla said, slapping Darla's hands away and slipping the trousers to her ankles before stepping out of them. "Someday I'll find a prince in need of a protectorate and then we'll see how you treat me."

"Well go on then," Darla said, pulling her dress over her head and crawling onto the lumpy remains of a straw-filled mattress tucked into the darkest corner. "Turn the first shite-covered tanner you come across for all I care. At least then we'll not be forced to endure your constant babbling."

"Oh Darla," she said with a smile, "You really are most unkind."

"I'm a vampire, Drusilla."

They both laughed, Drusilla climbing onto the bed and slipping under the tattered covers beside Darla. "When the sun sets we could find you a poet of your own. We'll make him write of you like they've been writing of daddy for so many centuries. You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"When the sun sets we'll be heading to Paris. We'll find Angelus and make him pay for burning your dresses."

"Please don't make a fuss, Darla." Drusilla wrapped her arm around Darla's waist as she rolled to her side. I was sure we were meant to find a new poet in London."

"Don't be silly, if our boy wants to believe everything that comes from your lips as gospel he'll be the one to pay the consequences. It was unfair of him to blame you."

"They weren't lies," Drusilla whispered.

"Of course not dear," Darla curled her arms around Drusilla, unsure what it was about the quieter moments of the girl's lunacy that made her feel matronly. "Angelus seeks out artistry in the oddest places, we must learn to be more self reliant. I've let myself depend on him for too long now."

"We'll always be a family," Drusilla said in a voice tinged with exhaustion. "And we'll find a new man, one who will please you, and not smell of poppies."

"Yes, of course," Darla agreed, too tired to be intrigued by Drusilla's mid-day prophecies.

"I'm sorry there's no view Darla."

"Family means never having to say you're sorry, Drusilla. Of course, it doesn't mean you never show your children the error of their ways."

"Will there be spankings all around then?"

"Once we catch up to our boy? I'd wager on it," Darla said, petting at Drusilla's hair as they drifted off to sleep, images dancing in their heads of Angelus' backside turning redder than the painter's brush.