SCRIBES OF ANGEL
FanFic
________________________________
PAYMENT IN PERSON
by Christie
Rating:
NC-17
Content: Angst, Slash, Violence/alternate Angel, Lindsey POV
Spoilers: Reunion
Summary: Lindsey sends Angel a bill. Angel pays in person. Set after
Reunion.
Improv: glow, rain, bound, crave
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon and
David Greenwalt, and belong to Twentieth Century Fox, all rights reserved. This
story is not for profit.
To
Spyke Raven.
*
Lindsey: "I'll send you a bill for the window and the shirt."
Angel: "Yeah, you do that, and after I stop Darla and Dru, I might come
back to pay you in person."
(Excerpted
from Reunion)
*
Sometimes,
his arrogance floors me. Did he think I was kidding? Think I wouldn't actually
make good on my threat? Slippery bastard sent me a bill.
It wasn't hard to find his new apartment. Just a little bit of smooth talking
to his secretary when she stopped at the deli on the corner to pick up dinner
on her way home one night. She liked me. Thought we might go out sometime. I
didn't deny the possibility; it would be a nice, creative way to piss Lindsey
off.
But I've got more important things to worry about right now. Like this bill.
I'm going to pay my counterpart in person. As I promised I would. And I never
back out on a promise. He invited me in right away - again - arrogant, but dumb
as a box of rocks, apparently. Seemed impressed that I'd found his new place.
He wasn't hiding from me though…just the monster he'd created that goes by the
name of Darla.
Haven't forgiven him for that yet - or figured out how I'm gonna pay him back.
Since Darla and Dru didn't fancy him as a midnight snack, he's still got his
coming. We've got this sick and twisted fascination with each other, Lindsey
and I. It goes beyond the hatred. Beyond the insatiable desire that the other
wind up dead. Because secretly, then, there'd be no one to play with, no mind
games to delight in. And life, for either me, or him, whoever lived, would be
fucking boring.
And that's why he invited me in.
*
He's
towering over me, cause I haven't bothered to stand. Why should I? He'll just
push me back down anyway. Eventually. The paper bill smacks me in the cheek as
he whips it at me.
I laugh. Pisses him off, but I can't help it. I sent the bill on purpose,
precisely because he said he'd pay me in person. I don't play mind games with
Angel as a hobby for nothing. Quite simply, it gets me off.
He smells like leather and dryer sheets; an odd combination that is uniquely
Angel. Gave up anything that might identify him as Angelus, the Scourge of
Europe, except the coat. Can't part with the coat. It gives him his
image.
He's more into image than even I am. And that's saying a lot. You'd never hear
him admit it though, and he'd probably bitch slap me if I ever even suggested
it. He likes mocking my 'glass and chrome tower', dark suits and power ties,
writing off business lunches and checking the NASDAQ on my laptop. Would never
entertain the idea that maybe he's as affected as I am - begging for an
identity, a reputation with his dark mysterious broodiness, saving damsels in
distress and billowing off into the night - not expecting so much as a thank
you…no hair on his perfectly gelled head out of place.
It's sad, really. Both of us. Sad. Begging for acceptance in a world that would
accept us, if we thought we deserved it in the least. Maybe that's what draws
us to each other.
Maybe.
Or, it's possibly Angel's idea of me as a torture toy that brings no guilt. He
did get Holland killed, after all. And he doesn't seem to feel bad about that.
And roughing me up seems to bring him endless amounts of pleasure, though he'd
never admit that he's using me as the only human that he can let the demon come
to fore with, without feeling remorse.
And to be perfectly honest with myself, it's not like I have a choice in the
matter. What Angel wants, Angel gets; that has become brutally clear to me over
the past year and a half.
Right now it seems like he wants to tangle over this bill. I let it fall to the
floor because, well, it's not like I was expecting it to be paid. Not in
monetary denominations anyway. He growls at it as it rustles to the carpet, the
vent near the chair I'm sitting in letting forth a breath of warm air and causing
it to scoot into the dark recesses of the La-Z-Boy.
Gone now, the formality out of the way and I'm sort of glad so Angel can get on
with what he came here to do.
*
He just laughed when I threw the bill at him, and I'm kind of pissed that he
knew I'd come here; knew I'd make good on my promise to pay, and was expecting
it with a sick sort of anticipation. I can't help it though - everything in me
says to walk away, to not give him the satisfaction of being right, being able
to anticipate my every move, every sick and twisted desire I have about this
man; in all ways, shapes and forms my enemy.
The invoice blew under the chair he's in, so it's gone now, the wall of reason
as to why I'm here crashed down and I'm left to confront my desire - why am I
really here, and what the hell do I hope to come out of it?
I still hate him, whatever else comes with it is beside the point - so I grab
him by the laurels and hoist him up, holding him several inches from the ground
so he's face to face with me.
Me, the real me, because the demon has come to fore, and the odd excitement in
his eyes as he stares at the ridges and planes of my true face makes my balls
itch and my groin tickle with excitement. The same look in his eyes in the wine
cellar, faced with the threat of Darla and misanthrope rantings of Drusilla, it
was excitement, unadulterated and of the most basic kind.
He's fascinated with the vampires in my family. In delusional love with Darla,
strangely fascinated with the nonsense ramblings of Drusilla, and continuously
nipping at my heels, begging for attention, for play - for me to grab him by
that thick, chestnut colored hair and slam his face into the wall.
Can't figure what kind of trouble he'd get himself into if he ever encountered
Spike.
I can't decide if I want to drop him, or kiss him. So I drop him. Old habits
die hard. He tumbles to the floor like a rag, clearly not expecting the sudden
let-go, letting out a muted 'ungh' as he hits the carpeted floor of his brand
new living room.
He rolls to his side, doesn't make a move to stand, but looks up at me, and the
tiredness is evident in his eyes when he says, "I'm so tired of playing
this game with you, Angel."
See, I hadn't gotten that from him. I thought he was just getting started. And
I'm kind of disappointed, so I let him know. He smiled, that cocky, half-smile
when I say this, and shakes his head.
"Let's just get on with it. I can only dance for so long."
For some reason I think of that movie Clear and Present Danger. "Sorry Mr.
President, I don't dance." It makes me smile, but I don't say anything,
cause I *do* dance, have danced, with Lindsey for so long now. Ever since the
first meeting, when I strode into the boardroom and made dust of Russell
Winters. Put his business card back in his pocket, because I felt inexplicably
bound to him, and walked away.
From that moment, I knew we'd dance, until we came to this: when Lindsey was
tired of dancing and wasn't going to put up a fight anymore; leaving me to
either move or not.
The vampiric visage is gone from my face, I shift back to good old
save-the-world-from-evil-Angel, and feel disappointed.
Is that why I fired Cordelia, Wesley and Gunn? Because I'm bored of being good?
What the hell would the PTB think about that? A former killer working for
redemption can't just *get bored*. It's not allowed.
But I am; bored with shadowy, taciturn guy. Bored with saving the world, being
expected to save lawyer types that cause more evil in the world than actual
evil does. Bored with playing cat and mouse with Lindsey, because right now, I
don't want to chase, I want to catch.
*
The
moment I stand and go to brush out the wrinkles in my pants, he's caught my
hands and is holding them. Tight. I should be surprised, scared, *something*
but I'm not.
I'm…nothing.
Well, getting pretty damn excited, but that's beside the point.
It was how I felt when Darla and Drusilla were feeding on my colleagues in
Holland's wine cellar. I felt…complacent. Other than the erection that tented
my pants, I felt oddly ambivalent.
And that's how I feel now. I wrestle with the idea of telling Angel, but don't.
Why would I tell him anything? It's not like we share feelings. Other than
hatred and anger, of course.
But that's not what's in his eyes now. As he grips my hands so tightly my
knuckles turn white. In his eyes there's fire - almost an Angelus-like glow,
but not…quite. No evil, just determination. The look of someone who has made a
decision and is now going to do something about it.
Like the completion of my thought, he kisses me then. Lips softer than I'd
expected, but insistent, tongue questing into my mouth with fortitude. He
tasted the way I'd expected him to taste, felt the way I'd imagined him to
feel, like rain and terry cloth. He's still rough, even in the intimacy of the
act, his hands gripping mine tightly, posture stiff and straight, like he's
ready to run at any moment; or to crush the life out of me
instantaneously.
My lips work against his, endeavoring to loosen him, because I'm becoming
pretty damn pliant as I relax into the kiss, my mind hazing over as I drink
more of the essence of him in.
He's hot chocolate and peppermint schnapps.
And he does loosen, at least enough to walk, propelling us backward, somehow
knowing which direction the bedroom is in, and managing to steer us fairly
close to the entryway, at least until the bed is in sight. Then I pull away and
turn around, walk with purpose into the dark room, don't bother to turn on a
light, and pray to whatever gods might be listening that he follows me instead
of thinking better of it.
He does follow me, steps quiet but sure, and he's shedding his coat in the
meantime, leaving it a black leather puddle on the floor as he goes. His hands
are working the buttons of his shirt when he stops walking, knees just touching
the edge of the bed. His eyes haven't left me, they're not exactly looking into
my own eyes, but he's looking at me, in places, random patterns as his gaze
flits over every inch of me.
I can't stop myself from wanting him, the want growing to need as his shirt
falls open, revealing a smooth, pale expanse of hard, flawless muscle. So I
step forward, abandoning the plans of ridding myself of my own shirt and take
him into a kiss again, this time my hands clenching his shoulders, his wonderfully
broad, muscled shoulders, and we tumble onto the bed with the sheer force of it
all.
He's coherent enough to break his fall with one hand, for which I'm grateful
because 225 pounds of vampire strength slamming down on me would do nothing for
my endurance right now. I'm already struggling to breathe under the weight of
him, even though he holds part of his weight above me under his own duress. But
he gathers the situation and turns us, not completely over but enough so that
we're both on our sides, kiss never having to be broken by his graceful
movements.
Both chests are heaving, mine of necessity, his of habit, or excitement, or
both. Pale planes of muscles and flesh, reaching out towards each other, then
retreating, only to start all over again. His hands - god, they're huge; did I
not notice this before? - had torn at the buttons of my shirt, releasing them
with snaps of thread and fabric until it hangs loosely off my arms, completely
ruined.
Now his hands are questing lower, only interested in divesting me of my pants,
fumbling with the belt buckle for sheer agonizing moments before finally
freeing it and reaching inside.
Godgodgodgodgod.
Cool palm against my flesh that's on fire. I can't stifle a loud, long groan.
He continues to work me with his hand until I'm practically writhing up off the
bed, pushing against his chest with my hands, my face, anything to push him
away, but keep him close, leave now but don't go, Angel.
Finally, he releases me, I'm only seconds from coming and I can't figure if I'm
annoyed or grateful. He stands and sheds his own pants, and I use the
opportunity to do the same, hoping it will distract me enough to take the boil
in my groin to a dull simmer; at least for the time being.
But the effort is fruitless, since he's back on the bed, tugging at my
painfully hard cock with his mouth, vampire fangs elongating and scratching
against extremely sensitive balls. I can't see anything, though my eyes stay
open, staring into black, dotted with crimson stars as he takes me into his
mouth over and over again, releasing almost completely before diving back down
with fervor. I hear nothing but bottle rockets crashing and popping around my
head, in my ears and through my conscious, but I know I'm moaning, groaning,
screaming, *whatever*, because my mouth is open and my throat is moving.
His mouth is open too, and his throat is moving, tight around my cock and dear
god I think it's the most unbelievable sensation I've ever experienced in my 27
years. I know this is only going to set me up for a wanting; it probably won't
be an hour after he leaves that I begin to crave this kind of payment in person
from Angel. I hear more explosions roaring against my ears, more stars
appearing before my eyes, and I know I'm coming. Coming so hard and so fast,
there's nothing I can do to slow it down, absolutely no chance in hell to stop
it. And it seems to last forever, but certainly, not long enough.
He uses my own seed to coat his cock, and flips me over without so much as a
word. It's okay though, I'm used to it. He loves this power trip, has never
really known anything else, except maybe a few times being punished with Darla.
Even then, he knew he matched her in strength, and surpassed her in size and
agility, so he probably just told himself he was going along for the ride,
indulging in his Sire's fantasy and allowing her to take the reigns.
I don't mind that Angel takes the reigns, not in this arena.
*
I would
never let Lindsey know it, but just the site of his pale, white ass makes me
want to howl my obsession. He's sated, for now - I give a pretty damn good blow
job if I do say so myself - and doesn't resist when I part those pretty round
cheeks and push inside.
Maybe groans a little bit, but who doesn't groan in that room as I'm sheathed
in hot, pure fiery bliss. It's hard not to get lost in the moment, take him
hard and fast and get this over with; but I don't, because he is human, and if
I break him, I won't get to do this again - at least not for a very long time.
And that would be blasphemy.
Besides, I know it pays to draw it out, makes the pleasure so much sweeter, and
the pain so much richer.
So I rock inside of him, grabbing at the bones in his hips and pushing down to
the mattress, sliding deeper, and deeper still until there is no space, no
sliver of light between us. I freeze, enjoying the heated throbbing at our
connection, until his muscles squeeze me and I'm forced to move. It's either
that or scream like a girl and the latter is not on my list of things to do
today.
Pushing into him, and out, in, and out, it's hard to keep sane. I'm growling
already, and feel my face shifting, changing, then back again, until I can't
stand it any more and allow everything to just *be* as it's meant to be. I am,
after all, a vampire. And much as I try to ignore it, I can’t, and neither can
anyone else. No matter how long I walk among the living, and sleep in their
beds, and drive their cars and wear their clothes, I'm still dead, reborn as
evil.
Soul or no soul, I know that I *love* fucking this man beneath me. Whether or
not I fight Wolfram and Hart or plan to stay out of their way, I will always
come back for Lindsey. Because he's too hot, and too tight, and too agonizingly
*good* not to.
It's too late for chivalry. Once my demon comes to fore, I've abandoned all
ideas of dragging this episode out, as I always have in the past. I fuck him
hard; not as hard as I would another vampire, but hard still, until he's
whimpering and moaning into the bedclothes and my legs are buckling because I'm
about to come.
Then the loud, keening howl, preternatural in sound as it is in strength, and I
explode into him, falling from sheer exhaustion onto his back and staying
there, panting into the back of his neck.
After minutes, he shifts slightly beneath me, doesn't say it but I know I'm
heavy, and he needs to breathe. I can't help but think it might be fun - if I
were ever to be soulless again - to turn him. Then we could really come out and
play.
Let's pretend it shocks and sickens me more than it actually does to have that
thought.
*
He's a
dead weight on top of me, and I don't intend the pun. I have to get him off, or
he'll crush me to death. I think he knows that, but part of me knows he doesn't
care.
And part of me knows he does.
He moves, taking his entire body from the bed and beginning to pull his clothes
back on. I don't move except to turn and pull the covers over myself. I'll
sleep well tonight.
When he's dressed, he doesn’t make any move to stay, or to say anything at all.
It's always this way, we fuck, he walks. Never a word, never even a look of
understanding, or thanks, or hatred, anything. Nothing.
I call after him before he can get to the door of my bedroom.
"Expect another bill - that was a two-hundred dollar shirt."
He only stares at me, eyes inky black, and gives the slightest hint of a smile.
Can't figure what it means, but anticipation charges and crackles across the
room as he gives a slight nod and slips out the door.
END.