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Title: Payment in Person
Author: Christie
Pairing: A/L
Rating: NC-17
Setting: Just Post-'Reunion'

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."
-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 canât, 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 sicken 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 doesnât 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.

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