Tick-tock...

[rogue_lawyer]

Here’s a fun test: try sitting still and not doing a single damn thing for one minute. Just sit and count, slow and proper, one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, right up to 60. Boring, huh? Think you could do it for five minutes? How about 45? There are 60 of those shockingly long minutes in an hour, 24 of those hours in a day, 7 of those days in a

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[rogue_lawyer]

Apparently, the sound of Angel finally snapping is a musically aesthetic ‘ding!’ Good thing I kept my comment about him “chatting me up” to myself. The elevator sways a bit as Angel shoves me against the wall, getting in my face and letting the demon out to play. He runs his tongue over his fangs as he threatens me, like some kind of porno flick gone to the monsters, and all I can do is pant and glare and pray he doesn’t notice that he’s getting me hard with his undead bad cop routine.

Never said I wasn’t a little bit twisted.

“That the best you got, huh? Making faces at me?” I sneer. I’m going to have bruises in the shape of his fingers striping my shoulders, and I don’t even mind. Bite me, kill me … kiss me, I don’t care … just do something … His features smooth back into a human grimace, and I’ll never tell him that this is the face that frightens me more. The one that just might cause me to lose control.

“You haven’t touched anything but that little bitch Eve for months now; I doubt you could handle anything more substantial.”

My laughter sounds manic, even to my own ears. “You offering? Goddamn overgrown mosquito … you’re all talk. You’ve always been all talk.” Empty threats as he smashes down apartment doors and tosses clients out of nineteenth story windows. Empty apologies as he beats a one-handed guy to the ground and steals his truck. “The only real thing you’ve ever done to me,” I growl through clenched teeth, “was when you cut off my hand.”

[_keep_me]

I breathe deep, practically licking the air trying to taste his fear in the small space, and I get the faintest smell of arousal. So, the little lawyer isn’t as cool as he wants to be. Remember Darla. He likes ‘em dead.. He smells so good, and that heat so close is calling. The taunting draws me in, but I still try to hold back. There’s a tiny buzz that I think may be whispering, “this is so wrong,” but I can’t seem to care. His smell reels me in almost as well as the way he shoots off his mouth.

“I think you like the way I make faces at you Lindsey. I think you like it...” I take a step closer. “A lot.” The heat radiating off him and that panting he’s doing are the only things registering at this point. His laugh is just a hum and the sneer and snarling are an invitation. “All talk, Lindsey? I think you’ve got that backwards, boy. I’m not much for talking.” I say, perfectly level and low, predatory instincts kicking into high gear.

“You want to feel something real, Lindsey? Feel this.” I let our hips brush together, and the feel of his erection is like a magnet, and I’m kissing him. Hard, just lips, teeth; a frenzy of texture and taste, and then just as soon as it starts there’s a ding. The elevator. It’s waiting for a button to be pushed. Hamilton. What am I doing? I push him away (as far away as possible for us being attached) even though I feel like all the blood in my body is electricity and surging towards my groin. I jab at the number for my office and lean back and let my head fall against the wall. “Fuck,” just sort of slips out.

[rogue_lawyer]

“You want to feel something real, Lindsey? Feel this.”

Slide of his hips over mine (Oh god, he knows…) and I’m trapped in that funny little moment when you know there’s going to be contact, kissing even, in about a second, and it’s so wrong, and it’s Angel for crying out loud, and goddamn me to hell, but I may have pressed forward, just a little, and then we’re kissing.

And the noise in my brain just stops.

I already knew what this would feel like. He’s shoved me around enough that I know how his body feels, pressed up close and personal against mine. How he can make any hope of escaping a moot point with the force of his hands. The only new sensation is the rough, almost vicious attack of his mouth against mine, and it drive everything over the edge into completely new territory.

Apparently, the sound of Angel coming back to his senses is the same elevator-chime ding. It’s hard to shove someone away from you when you’re chained together, and harder still when aforementioned someone’s stupid hands are clenched around fistfuls of your shirt. I let go of the material like it’s on fire, going slack against the wall and trying not to think. Trying not to breathe.

“Fuck,” comes the quiet sentiment from beside me.

“Pretty much sums it up,” I mumble, forcing myself to stare straight ahead. I won’t look, I won’t look, I won’t glance over to see if he looks just as shell-shocked as I do … oh, good. He does. “That was … new,” I add, trying for nonchalant. If I can gain the upper hand by forcing myself to be cool about this, I’ll be fucking Zen. So goddamn Zen that I’m trembling.

[_keep_me]

I just kissed Lindsey McDonald.

My mind’s still racing, repeating every second on a loop of taste, touch and smell.

*He* leaned into it. *He* grabbed my shirt. Grabbed it so tight and pulled just enough I thought it was going to rip. My brain’s devouring the details, saving them for later even though I just want to forget. I want to remember that this never happened, and not keep going over and over the details so that I can’t forget.

I just kissed Lindsey McDonald.

I am not a teenager who can’t keep his hands to himself. I’ve had a few years to practice a little self-control. Self-denial. I know how to do that. But Lindsey...Fuck. It’s an effort not to run my hands over my face and show just how weird this is. There may be aftershocks running through me still. Hard to tell with Lindsey trembling next to me.

Lindsey’s trembling?

“That was … new.” He says it so casually, I’m having a hard time believing him. What with the trembling and grabbing my shirt and all.

“Mmm,” is all that comes out. A non-committal noise of agreement, maybe. I won’t look at him, but my eyes drift down to where our wrists are cuffed together. Our fingers so close they could be touching if they wanted to. But we don’t want them to. This isn’t how things work with us. The kiss was a fluke.

I straighten my shirt, or try to with Lindsey’s arm flopping around, and pretend to gain some sort of composure. Hamilton doesn’t need to know about this. One more weapon for his arsenal. I look over at Lindsey and he’s rumpled, too. I turn so my back’s to the doors and smooth the fabric across his shoulders briskly but my fingers don’t move as briskly as I’d like, unfortunately. “Don’t want it to look like we haven’t been treating you well, harassing you.” Right. Because Wolfram and Hart cares about how they treat people. And that thought brings me back to Hamilton who’s probably waiting in the office, just looking for a reason to strike.

[rogue_lawyer]

I tense automatically as he jerks my cuffed hand towards him, but it’s only to tug out the wrinkles my fingers have left in his precious shirt. Bastard. My thoughts go hyper-paranoid, and suddenly I’m convinced he did that just to throw me. Never mind the less-than-disgusted hum he made in answer to my remark, or the sideways look he just snuck as I studied the patterns in the carpet. He knew what that would do to me, and he’d done it out of spite. Or something. It’s the only logical explanation.

Not so logical is the way he turns and starts to damn near pet me as he straightens my own shirt. I shoot a startled glance up at him before I can remember why I was looking at the floor to begin with, the ever-intense look on his face making my already racing heart give a thump I’ll bet he can hear. “Don’t want it to look like we haven’t been treating you well, harassing you.”

Words. I can deal with words. They make a hell of a lot more sense than the confusingly nuanced realm of touch. “You’ve been harassing me since I met you,” I point out dryly. Perfectly natural motion to run my tongue over my lower lip, but the taste of his mouth still there brings my sarcasm to a stuttering halt. “And, uh, no sledgehammers, no missing limbs. I think this could be chalked up as a slow day for us.” Gravity returns to a normal state as the elevator slides to a halt, the doors opening with a muted whoosh. Thank Christ. Maybe there’ll actually be some breathing room in the hallway.

“This doesn’t change anything,” I mutter as I’m marched down the hallway towards Angel’s office, “I still hate you, I still know a hell of a lot more about the Senior Partners and the Liaisons than you … and if you sell me out to Hamilton, I’m not lifting a ghostly finger to help your sorry ass out when the contract brings me back. We clear here?” The paranoid state of mind is back with a vengeance, and I can’t help but remember that Judas turned biblical back-stabber with a kiss.

Then again, if I'm Jesus Christ, Angel's the next American Idol.

[_keep_me]

Lindsey is looking at me like I just spat on him. I scowl. Can't take anything at face value. Always has to be a plot with him. I'm practically rolling my eyes when he starts in on how much I've harrassed him, but the flash of his tongue and my mind's crawling back to the kiss, my body ready to do it again. No. He *hates* you and you returned the favor easily enough before.

"I think this could be chalked up as a slow day for us."

"Hmm. Yeah, slow. Guess we'll have to see about that." Wonder what fast would be like. I let out a huff, mostly at myself. As the doors open, I drag him along to my office, taking perfectly normal strides...and thoroughly enjoying making Lindsey work to keep up.

I have my hand on the door knob as he lauches into the requisite threat, and let it open before walking inside.

"Oh, crystal clear, Lindsey, but this conversation isn't over. And don't forget, you're going back to your cell, so there will be another elevator ride to look forward to." I try not to let the smirk escape into an evil grin, but then I'm smelling Wes, and blood, and Hamilton.

[rogue_lawyer]

Continued over yonder...