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.

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