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Choice and Consequences	By : QueenB Category: Angel the Series > Slash - Male/Male > Angel(us)/Lindsey > Angel(us)/Lindsey Views: 2642 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Angel: The Series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Title: Choice and Consequences
Author: Queen Boadicea
Email: queenboadiceaoftheiceni@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: This belongs to the great and powerful Joss and the usual gang of idi… uh, geniuses. The lyrics in chapter one are from Christian Kane’s song “Crazy in Love.” The lyrics in chapter nine are from Christian Kane’s song “In the Darkness.” Both lyrics are posted here with a few changes.
Spoiler Warning: Angel: The Series, season five, episode “Origins”. I didn’t see any of the season five episodes except “Smile Time” so I’m definitely going off-canon with this story. I’ve gleaned enough from the transcript at buffyworld.com to understand the season arc behind this particular episode. But since this new fanfic of mine is a sequel to “All’s Fair in Love and War” a lot of canon is going to be ignored on my part. Hey, my story, my rules.
Feedback: Do your worst—it can’t compare to my worst ;)

Lindsey picks up the object and eyes it critically. “So I can fill this with water and freeze it?”
The clerk glances at it briefly before turning back to the small screen blaring its sickly light on his pimply face. “Yep. Shouldn’t take more’n an hour or two.” He’s annoyed at Lindsey; the ex-lawyer can tell.
This place isn’t exactly on the beaten path. It still manages to get plenty of customers (especially around Christmas; lonely men go out of their way for whatever solace they can find during that bleakest of holidays) but there are dry spells and the clerk likes to amuse himself during those times by watching the pro football games. He has $50 bucks riding on this one and Lindsey has interrupted him.
“Go on, get it, get it! It’s coming right for you—damn!” He threw up his hands. “Shit! Man, I can’t believe that guy fumbled! What an asshole!” He turns from the set with disgust and eyes the merchandise Lindsey has picked up. “You sure you want that one, dude? It’s our biggest—11 inches. You look kinda on the small side. No offense,” he adds when Lindsey glares. “I meant height and weight, you know, not—”
“I know what you meant,” Lindsey replies. “But this is the one I want. So, how much for the pair of them?” He holds up the flesh-colored dildo, the gelid texture making it flop in his hand. The other item he also intends to buy lies on the counter.
The clerk is about to make a snippy comment about liking ‘em big. But he doesn’t want to lose this sale. “Uh, $29.95 for the dildo and $49.95 for the vibrator.” The pimply-faced clerk rings it up on the register. “That’s $79.90 plus tax.”
“Thanks.” Lindsey forks over the money and picks up the paper bag with his purchases. On the way out, he passes any number of men. Most of them avoid his eyes but one guy, a blond with an earring, pauses in holding up a pair of edible undies and gives him a wink. He smiles tightly at him but doesn’t stop.
He drives slowly through the streets, the anonymous-looking brown package resting on the seat beside him. The car is a humble one but, then, so is the rest of his life.
__________
Lindsey lies on the plain bedspread, clad only in his boxers. It will take a while for the water in the dildo to harden to ice and in the meantime he can think about the path his life has taken.
His singing career is taking off—slowly. He doesn’t have his name in lights like Garth Brooks yet but there have been a few talent contests in which he’d come off quite favorably. He’d been a runner-up in a recent challenge against four other contestants. A sure win would have won him an audience with a talent scout. But the $500 second-prize money had been a nice little boost. When he isn’t singing, there is the occasional odd job during the summers to pad out his savings.
But that is hardly enough to make ends meet. So Lindsey is idly considering taking up the law again. The money had been great and his mental acumen in that arena hasn’t been lost with his defection from Wolfram & Hart. And not all law firms are evil. That is, not actively evil, with demons as clients.
“Yeah, right,” he mutters. If he takes up the law again, how long will it be before he runs up against a W&H client? And that would mean running into Angel again… Not that Angel is in charge of litigation. From what he’s been able to glean since he left Los Angeles for the second time, Angel works strictly in fighting the bad guys the same way he always did—with weapons and fisticuffs. The legal work he leaves up to the paralegals and attorneys.
He’s safe from Angel even if he does take up the law again and he knows it. So that isn’t the real reason he keeps away from the legal profession. He wants his music career to take off and that means no falling back into old habits. It’s just a little harder to hold on to that resolution when Angel is so distant.
Lindsey sighs and rolls over in his bed, the itchy cotton sheets scratching his skin. Would it have been so bad to stay with Angel? Granted, it wouldn’t have been easy to work out the kinks in their relationship with Spike hanging around. But he wouldn’t have let that demon with the bad hair job intimidate him.
Still, leaving had been his idea and Angel’s. He’d wanted to make a go of it on his own and Angel hadn’t wanted to make Lindsey’s life revolve around his undead existence. He’d told Angel he didn’t want any free handouts and he meant it. Those had seemed like really good reasons to leave L.A. at the time. They just don’t hold up so well now that he’d separated himself from the demon he craves so desperately.
Angel had promised he would visit. Okay, he hadn’t exactly promised. But he’d hinted at it. Oklahoma wasn’t so far away, he’d said. Yet he hasn’t called, emailed or even text-messaged Lindsey once since that night. Lindsey had left enough information with him so that even the Senior Partners at W&H could have tracked him down if they’d chosen.
So why hasn’t he called? Had the one-night stand been just that: a once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated experience that he was all too willing to put out of his mind now that the ex-lawyer who’d once plagued his life was conveniently out of the way?
Lindsey frowns. No! Angel had told him that he wasn’t into screwing for kicks any longer, that he’d dreamed of being with Lindsey since their early meetings in Los Angeles when they’d been bitter enemies. He’d gone back to Wolfram & Hart reeking of Lindsey’s scent. Lindsey must have meant more to him to a quick fuck.
That doesn’t necessarily mean Angel wants to take the evening further. Of course, Lindsey can ask Angel to come. He’s just—what? Proud? Shy? Unsure? That’s it; away from Angel, Lindsey looks around at his life and wonders what part the vampire can play in it. He is a struggling musician and Angel is a champion for the Powers That Be. Or was—as head of Wolfram & Hart, Lindsey isn’t sure if Angel is still on the Powers payroll.
Until he gets his life straightened out to his satisfaction, there never can be more between him and the souled vampire than the occasional sexual interlude. Not that Lindsey minds what they’d shared. He simply hopes for more than that in the long run.
Lindsey clucks his tongue in irritation. He’d spent the better part of two years lusting after Angel, obsessing about his dark, angry eyes, his powerful physique. Then he’d finally gotten what he hankered for only to find that he no longer wanted it. No, that isn’t entirely true. He still wants Angel. He just wants—more.
So what the hell is he doing with these damned sex toys? Well, it’s either these or the one-night stands again and he’s sick of getting sex partners whose bodies are not cool enough, not tall enough, not muscular enough, not—not Angel.
He isn’t going to rely on rubber and latex forever, however. Sooner or later, the yearning to feel flesh pressing against his own will get too strong and he’ll pick up a likely partner from somewhere. Even if said person doesn’t have the right body heat.
Lindsey glances at the bedside clock. That guy in the store had said one or two hours. Well, shit, he doesn’t have to wait that long, does he? He doesn’t want a rock hard dick pounding him into the mattress—okay, maybe he does. But for his purposes all he needs is the right temperature.
Lindsey brings back a towel and a bowl full of ice and sets them down beside the bed. The 11-inch dildo is nestled among the cubes like oysters in a salad bed. It is only partially frozen, chilly to the touch, yet still flexible.
After hesitating a moment, he switches off the nightstand light. He’d kept the lights on when making love to the vampire. But now darkness is better; the moment shadows envelope the room, it’s as if Angel is with him, his strapping form moving towards Lindsey in the dark.
He lies down on the mattress again and shimmies out of his boxers. Now completely nude, he dips his hand into the bowl. His right hand, surer and more dexterous, manipulates the rubbery length, teasing the tight ring between his legs. He’s slicked it up a bit with KY jelly but the size still takes some getting used to. There is a bit of resistance; he hasn’t taken it up the ass in the weeks since he’d left L.A. and he’s rather tight.
Then he takes a deep breath and pushes harder. The arrow-like head pops into the snug hole and he hisses at the sensation; the dildo’s coolness is greater than what he remembers from Angel. But his own body heat will warm it soon enough.
He begins manipulating it, pushing it in deeper. Belatedly, he grabs up a piece of ice and rubs it around one of his nipples. His eyes drift shut as he summons up the memories of Angel lapping around his chest, biting and licking the tiny points until he thought he’d burst. “Suck ‘em, Angel. That’s right. I like that. Lick ‘em again,” he murmurs, shifting the melting bit of ice to his other nipple.
With his eyes tightly closed, the coolness spreads over his flesh. The vampire is there, his broad frame shifting over his own smaller one. The ice bites at his nubs like pointed teeth. Then he rubs the shrinking piece over his lips and shivers. “Angel,” he whispers, his teeth chattering.
Lindsey worries his lower lip as he thrusts in the dildo faster, harder. The cold has been too much at first but, sure enough, his heat is compensating for it, making the chill more bearable. Now the dildo feels just right and flexing with each thrust like a real dick would do. “More,” he gasps and scoops up more ice. He runs this cube down the divide between his ribs and lets the thin line of water pool in his navel.
He tosses in the bed, hips pumping faster with the fuck from the phantom demon atop him. He grabs his prick and let his frozen fingers clench and unclench around his length, imagining Angel’s mouth around him. Angel hadn’t sucked him that night but he can dream, can’t he? If they ever get back together, Lindsey is going to set aside time to perform every smutty act he’d ever dreamed of with that tepid body.
His back arches, moans puffing past his lips as the dildo is twisted ruthlessly deeper. Now he leaves off stroking his cock to clutch at his throat and digs his fingers into the flesh as hard as he dares. He wheezes, conjuring up Angel’s fierce grip, the bloody fangs snapping at his neck, that hard cock fucking him into the box springs. The sensation of suffocation shoots straight to his groin and Lindsey relaxes his chokehold to press shaking fingers on the wrinkled scar on his neck.
The orgasm rips through him, fire and ice rushing over his body. Lindsey cums hard, shouting Angel’s name, the spasms shaking him while his breath shudders out of his bruised throat. Afterwards, he lies still in the rumpled sheets, gasping until some form of calm comes back. Sucking in one cooling breath after another, he tries to hold on to the fleeting pleasure shimmering through his skin. Then he sits up heavily and reaches for the towel.
The experience has been good but not complete. It’s too much trouble, moving his hands back and forth from his chest to his stomach, cock, throat and neck. Maybe he can buy a strap-on for the vibrator and let it thrum through his ass while a carefully arranged choke collar is wound around his neck…
At the thought, his flaccid cock begins to harden again. His hand moves to it automatically even while he inwardly rejects this new complicated setup. It is simply too much work for a solo orgasm. Plus he runs the risk of getting so hooked on an elaborate ritual that it just might ruin him for regular sex with ordinary people. No, wait; Angel has done that for him already.
Lindsey pauses in wiping himself with the towel. The thought that Angel has spoiled him for anyone but himself is scary and strangely appealing. It is an oddly romantic idea: the thought of the One and Only.
He snatches up his cell phone and then hesitates. What will he say? Small talk is too little for all the frustration and misery he feels every day. Will he demand Angel come to see him? Demand to know why he hasn’t called, like a hysterical girlfriend would do? Lindsey has no real claim on Angel other than one night of hot sex. So what should he say? “Angel, I’m dying to have you fuck me again. When can you come to Oklahoma so we can screw each other crazy?”
Is the vampire as obsessed as he is? Probably not. Maybe he still hungers after that Slayer girl. Angel hadn’t mentioned her at all during his time with Lindsey. But what if he’s gone back to her? What if they’re together? Maybe that’s why the vampire hasn’t called.
Lindsey slowly puts the phone back down. His source within Wolfram & Hart has been feeding him information steadily as per their agreement. If anything had changed in Angel’s social life, he would have been informed. But he hasn’t spoken to the man in three weeks, not since the last vision.
He shoves the bowl of ice away with his foot, the dildo once again resting forlornly inside. The towel is chucked on to the floor. Lindsey sighs, the sound welling up from deep within, and rolls on to his stomach. Cradling his head on his arms, he prepares for an unsettling night of dreams, haunted by that smooth, sultry voice.
The vision slams into him and he flips over in bed, clutching his skull. Angel had said the visions would grow steadily worse in intensity and time has proven him right. Hot pokers bore into Lindsey’s eyes as the images blare into life.
A boy, slender and oddly familiar, is walking across a driveway. Suddenly the van comes out of nowhere, squealing down the road at well past the speed limit. It hops the curb and slams into the boy, smashing him into the garage door. There is a brief pause as the car backs up but the occupants don’t emerge. Instead, tires spin in the opposite direction and the car speeds off.
Lindsey rubs the heel of his hands over his eyes. The boy’s dead for sure. No way anybody could have survived an impact like that. He’ll be a pasty smear and Lindsey can’t even shut his eyes to blot out the horror.
But—the garage door is dented yet there’s very little blood. And the boy… Lindsey’s eyes widen as he watches the kid slowly get to his feet. His parents come racing out of the house, the mother screaming and reaching for him. The boy waves his hands and tells her he’s all right. The mother hugs him fiercely while the father tells her to back off; he might have internal injuries. The distraught woman pulls back and cries out, “Connor, oh my god. Are you all right?”
“Connor,” Lindsey mutters. He switches on the light and reaches for the notepad on the night table. The house hadn’t really been shown in the vision but he’d had a clear view of the mailbox. It is one of those old-fashioned ones with the family name as well as house number and street name on it. Once he gives this information to the proper source, it won’t be too much difficulty for the chosen few to handle it.
That boy, Connor, is a troubling sight, far more so than any other vision and not just because of the accompanying pain or the reality of the kid’s unwounded state after such a horrific murder attempt. And it was a murder attempt, Lindsey’s sure of that. The van had had tinted windows so he’d had no glimpse of the people inside and it certainly hadn’t been skidding out of control when it hopped on to the curb. It hadn’t even stopped to see if the boy had been injured.
But that isn’t the cause of his unease. This Connor’s eyes, his slight build, remind Lindsey of someone known to him. He just can’t put his finger on it.
Lindsey shrugs it off. It’s a vision and, once he delivers it, it’s no longer his concern. He flips open his cell phone. “Hello? Mr. Gumm? I’ve got another one for you.”
__________
“Uh huh. Connor. Small, light blue eyes, brown hair. You get anything else, like a last name? Oh, Reilly, is it? And you’ve got an address, too? Beautiful.” Francis scribbles down the information as fast as he can. In between words, he sneaks a quick peek through the stall doors. He doesn’t want anybody catching him at this.
Francis Gumm isn’t that great a seer. His visions tend to have only a 40% accuracy. It isn’t that they don’t come true; he just has trouble interpreting them. They have such weird imagery like the time he saw that burning bush with a stentorian voice coming from it. He’d thought that was an apocalyptic vision of the world coming to an end. Turned out it was a real burning bush that a demon had shat on after it consumed one of its meals of human brains. The bush had combusted spontaneously from the acidity in its scat and the loud voice had been the demon’s rumbling roar as it expelled its waste.
It isn’t as if the world hadn’t suffered through apocalyptic signs in the past. The sun being blotted out, fire raining from the sky, demons roaming the streets—if that wasn’t stuff straight out of Revelations, then he didn’t know what was. He could be forgiven for getting a little twitchy about a burning bush.
After that everyone had taken to calling him Frantic Francis. Hey, it hadn’t been his fault the vision was misinterpreted! It wasn’t as if any of the other seers had even glimpsed the bush. At least he should be given credit for pointing the way to the demon before it ate more human gray matter.
But oh no. No one will let him forget it and now he’s stuck with the hated nickname. Until one Mr. Smith began phoning in with his visions.
Francis doesn’t know how this Smith guy heard about him or knew he needed help with his visions. But he isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. So far Smith’s visions have been dead accurate and clear as a bell. No oddball, bizarre images like floating dolls in honey or bouncing panda bears on pogo sticks from this guy. He’s the real deal and his visions have put Francis in good stead with the boss.
He is still called Frantic Francis sometimes. But that happens less and less often as time goes by and almost never to his face. There are always exceptions, of course...
Francis hears footsteps approaching the bathroom door. Hurriedly, he sticks his pad away and splays back on the toilet seat. The key to Francis’ success lies with not letting anybody else know about his outside source. One hint of suspicion that he’s feeding Mr. Angel somebody else’s visions and he can kiss his newfound reputation as being among the top ten seers and his paycheck goodbye.
The door swings open and he can hear a pair of shoes step briskly into the room. He cautiously leans an eye towards the stall door slit only to encounter a green eye staring back at him. He jerks back and hears a high-pitched voice purr, “Frantic Francis, is that you?”
“Hello, Eugene,” he mutters. The fat man prefers to be called Gene like Gene Kelly. But if he can’t call Francis by the proper name, Francis isn’t going to call him by his. “As you can see, this stall’s occupied.”
“Oops. My bad,” Eugene giggles. “Are you having another vision?”
“What makes you say that?” Francis asks. Has the hateful Eugene guessed his secret? Eugene had been the top seer at Wolfram & Hart, having crystal clear, frequent visions that never failed to come true. He doesn’t knock bones, burn nasty incense, sacrifice goats, consult sheep entrails or behead chickens like some of the others did, which is a vast relief to the other non-psychic workers who get the heebie jeebies from that kind of thing. No, he channels some dead guy named Alcestro, a name Francis suspects is a fancy-sounding pseudonym for a common name like Marvin or Burt.
There isn’t anything wrong with channeling dead people. Francis just doesn’t get why this spook is so accurate or why Eugene has to go rubbing it into the other seers’ faces when he does well.
The other seers hate his guts but Eugene was Numero Uno and so they kept any snipes to themselves. They can’t murder their rival—which was how Wolfram & Hart had worked under the old regime—so they strove to stay on his good side and picked on anyone else he chose as a target to prevent Eugene from turning on them. Up until a few weeks ago, Francis had been the perfect patsy.
Eugene doesn’t come straight out and say he thinks Francis’s visions are doctored or fakes. But he’s certain something is up and he’s taken to sniffing around Francis in an effort to catch him. Now Eugene is asking about his vision and Francis is wary.
“Oh, you always seem to have your visions in the bathrooms these days. It’s so bizarre not to mention creepy in a ‘perverted old man waiting to expose himself to small girls’ creepy.”
“There aren’t any girls around here, Eugene. Oh, wait. Do you count?” Francis says, smirking.
“Ha ha! You’re such a wit these days, Frantic. I guess success will give anybody confidence. I just think it’s odd that whenever you have a vision, you’ve spent time in the bathroom first. Are you giving out the visions with your urine or reading signs in your poop?”
Francis grinds his teeth. “I don’t have the visions in the bathroom. If you must know, they sometimes leave me a bit dizzy. Coming into the bathroom afterwards helps cool me off and clear my head.”
“Ooh, nifty. I have to try that. Sometimes Alcestro yells so loudly it gives me a migraine. I don’t think he has the proper control of his voice.” The voice pauses as if waiting for Francis to give a comment. “Oh well. See you around, Frantic.”
“Back at you, Eugene.” Francis listens to the taps being run while Eugene hums off key. Checking to see that the notepad is safely tucked deep into one pocket, he opens the door and nonchalantly leaves the bathroom. He doesn’t have to look behind him to realize Eugene is on his heels.
He really doesn’t want the other man following him when he makes this report to Mr. Angel. But there’s no way to shake him unless he’s willing to resort to physical force. The idea is appealing but he doubts Mr. Angel would appreciate fisticuffs in his hallways. It might give the clients a bad impression.
Francis endures the endless elevator ride with his nemesis along for the trip. Eugene is uncharacteristically silent and Francis finds this even more disturbing than the man’s usual prattle. What is Eugene up to? Has Alcestro somehow uncovered the fraud and tipped off the overweight jerkoff? Is this the day Eugene spills the beans to his employer?
Mr. Angel isn’t in his office however and the two men are directed towards the meeting room. Mr. Angel usually holds conferences there with the important members of his own personal staff: Mr. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, Charles Gunn, the green-skinned Pylean demon Lorne and Winifred Burkle. However, the only one with him now is Mr. Wyndham-Pryce.
The two men are poring over some papers. At least, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce is. Mr. Angel is alternately casting brief glances at the ancient scrolls piled haphazardly on the table and looking out the window. He looks bored and perks up considerably when Francis and Eugene enter. “Yes? Something I can help you with, Mr. Gumm?”
Francis doesn’t want to spill this in front of Eugene. But Mr. Angel is the boss. Maybe he’ll be willing to send Eugene packing. “It’s rather personal, Mr. Angel,” Francis ventures.
“Francis has had another vision, Mr. Angel. It’s just too exciting,” Eugene chimes in. Francis’s eye twitches.
The ex-Watcher brightens at this news. “Ah. Well, we all know the accuracy of your visions, Mr. Gumm. Is this latest one urgent?”
Mr. Angel adds, “And by that he means, immediate, life-threatening, involving demons?”
Francis hesitates and then murmurs, “Uh no. N-none of the above. It’s about a car accident—I think.”
The room is silent as all the others stare at him. Francis can feel himself wilting under Angel’s blank stare. The seconds tick by interminably then Eugene shrugs. “I suppose I should be going then. Alcestro usually doesn’t get busy until later in the afternoon, early evenings. Ta, you two!” His small surprisingly delicate hands flutter a goodbye in the air and he saunters out.
Francis swallows and gathers his nerve in both hands. “Mr. Angel, I really think this is important. A van hit a young man sometime this morning. It plowed into him at 50, 60 miles an hour and smashed him into a garage door.”
Wesley loses interest and turns back to his scrolls. “Then isn’t that something for the police? Why would you get a vision about a murder, however grisly?”
“Yeah, about that. See, there was no murder,” Francis replied.
The vampire raises an eyebrow. “There wasn’t?”
“N-no. That’s the weird thing. The young man wasn’t killed. In fact, he wasn’t even hurt. He dented the garage door behind him when the van ran into him. But he got up immediately afterwards. It was as if he was completely unaffected by the impact.”
Mr. Wyndham-Pryce leans forward, his wavering attention brought back by this revelation. “That is unusual. So this young man is a demon of some sort,” he muses.
“I’m not sure. I only got a name and address.” He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out his notepad. “His name is Connor Reilly and he lives at—”
Angel stands up suddenly, the movement startling the seer. “Forget about it, Mr. Gumm.”
The other man is equally surprised. “Angel? Wait a minute—”
“I said forget it. That goes for you, too, Wesley.”
Francis stammers, “W-what? But my vision—”
“Mr. Gumm, you’ve had, shall we say, spotty success with your visions in the past, right?” Francis nods reluctantly. “Well, did you see any demons in this vision?”
“No.”
“The boy was all right? He lived? No massive injuries or internal damage?”
“None that I could see. But still—”
“Then I really don’t see that this case concerns us. If the boy or the family doesn’t come asking for our help, then it’s not our business. I’m sure this prediction is accurate—”
“Not prediction,” Francis interjects. “I’m pretty sure this has already happened.”
“Have you checked the papers, radio or Internet?” Angel asks. When Francis shakes his head reluctantly, the vampire replies, “Maybe you should. For all you know, this happened last week or won’t happen until the future. Either way, the boy seems to be in no danger. This isn’t our problem.”
“But if I had a vision about it, then it must mean something,” Francis insists.
“Let it go, Mr. Gumm.” The vampire’s voice becomes steely with an undercurrent of menace. Francis swallows nervously. The vampire’s dark brown eyes have darkened almost to black and bore into his own until Francis shivers and decides maybe this vision isn’t that important after all.
Suddenly he’s not so much worried about his job as he is about his own skin. He hunches his shoulder and slinks from the room. “Maybe I should have taken up another job skill,” he mutters when the door has shut behind him. “But there’s no financial future in lepidoptery.”
__________
Lindsey can’t stop being haunted by those bright blue eyes. Passionate dreams of Angel have been replaced by thoughts of that young man with the curiously invulnerable skin. These aren’t erotic fantasies nor are they his prophetic revelations. But they’re troubling and leave him cranky and irritable in the morning.
After breakfast he retires to his living room, his most beloved possession cradled in his arms. He strums the strings idly as he struggles to form the song into an acceptable shape. His latest effort isn’t coming together as easily as he’d like; the lyrics need work.
“I glance into the mirror
And you’re not standing beside me.
But, baby, I close my eyes
And suddenly there you are.
You sway into the darkness
And I feel your love inside me.
Yet the feel of your skin eludes me
Distant as an evening star.”
He opens his eyes and grimaces. The lyrics are both explicit and way too cutesy. No wonder he can’t summon up the music to accompany them. This stuff is garbage and not up to his usual standards.
His fingers run over the strings again as he sighs in frustration. He doesn’t get why it should be so difficult. This latest song is about Angel, as many of his recent love songs are. The lines about brunette hair, dark eyes and/or the absence from mirrors and polished surfaces form a recurring theme in his lyrics and usually bring forth his strongest music, fueled both by passion and frustration. Someday, if he ever makes it big, people are going to speculate on the identity of the love object in his lyrics just the same way scholars debate furiously over the mysterious “dark lady” of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
If only Angel were a more permanent fixture in his life, Lindsey would be willing to come clean about his sexual preferences. But would Angel accept coupling his name with Lindsey’s own? Angel might have no objection to being known as gay or even bisexual; Lindsey has read enough of Angelus’s files to know his sexual conquests included victims of both genders.
Would it make things easier for Lindsey? Probably not. Country music is the final frontier where gay artists are concerned. In the American public mind, male country singers are like cowboys—an image of strong, virile, straight masculinity. Nobody wants to associate them with fairies and queer boys. And this is Oklahoma. No way Lindsey’s swinging for the home team will win him any favors in the music business.
He decides to forget about the new effort for a moment and comfort himself by singing one of his old favorites.
“Angels are dancing in my head again
And it keeps my walking pace a little faster than
What it used to be
‘Cause he found me
Now there’s dancing in my head
Am I crazy?
Well, yes, I am
I don’t think that it seems really all that strange
When I’m skipping down the road singin’ his name
But if you could see him walk across a crowded room
Then you would understand why I go insane
The way he glistens in the moonlight
The way he outshines the star brighter than any sun
Well angels are singing in my head again
And I don’t mind saying that sometimes I understand
I’m writing this lullaby
The coyotes cry
Well, they’re singing in my head
Am I crazy?
Well, yes, I am
And I don’t think that it seems really all that strange
When I’m outside doing cartwheels in the rain
But if you could see him walk across a crowded room
Then would understand why I go insane
The way he glistens in the moonlight
The way he outshines the star brighter than any sun
Oh, then I tell you man well, yeah
Well, I just can’t get enough
‘Cause I’m
Crazy in Love
And I don’t think that it seems really all that strange
When I’m skipping down the road singin’ his name
But if you could see him walk across a crowded room
Then you would understand why I go insane
Yeah
Well, angels are laughing in my head again
I can see them laughing but I just don’t give a damn
‘Cause see it’s you and me
Well, he ought to be
And there’s angels in his head
Am I in love?
Yes, I am
C’mon!
Woo!”
These are the lyrics he sings for himself. Naturally, Lindsey changes the masculine pronouns when he sings it to a live audience. But here, in the privacy of his home, he can sing and say what he wants, whom he truly wants and to hell with what anybody else thinks.
“FUCK!” God, it’s another vision. Now the pain is even more excruciating, causing him to spasm and grab for the back of the sofa. His guitar slides from his lap and he has just enough time to catch it before it hits the floor. Barely able to stand upright, he leans it against the sofa edge, out of danger. He falls back onto the couch, clutching his head futilely against the torture.
It’s the same vision from last night. The only difference is the perspective. Before, it was as if he were seeing from the viewpoint of a bystander across the street. Now he sees the action from inside the house as if he were standing behind the parents watching from the living room.
Connor leaves the house, walking towards the mailbox. As he reaches it, the van comes tearing up the street. From this position, it’s even clearer how premeditated the whole act is. Without veering in the slightest it bumps over the curb and heads straight for the unaware boy. Connor looks up just in time to see the van’s grill barrel into him and crush him into the garage.
“CONNOR!” Now Lindsey hears the mother’s scream of disbelief and anguish, jarringly loud given the pain already slamming through his skull. He follows, invisible as always in his role of silent spectator, as the mother tears out of the house in a dead run towards the dazed young man picking himself off the asphalt.
Lindsey watches as she alternates between clutching at Connor and checking him for injuries. Again the father tells her to get off before looking over his son frowningly. “Connor? A-are you okay, son?” He’s shaken but he’s hiding it well.
“I’m not hurt, mom, really. I’m fine.” Connor sounds irritated and wondering, both at once. He runs his shaking hands over the front of his T-shirt. It’s ragged and torn from the impact and there are major tears and rips in his jeans. But there are no signs of blood or ripped skin from within the tears.
His mother shakes her head even as she observes the lack of damage to her son. “T-that can’t be, Connor. We saw the accident from the house.”
“That wasn’t an accident,” Mr. Reilly grinds out. Now his worry over his son is being replaced with righteous anger. Mrs. Reilly and Connor look up, startled at his grim tone.
“N-not an accident? But—who’d want to hurt Connor?” she asks.
“I don’t know. But you saw it, Colleen. The van ran right into him. It ran down our boy and the driver didn’t even get out to check and see if he was alright! I’m calling the cops!” Mr. Reilly turns back towards the house, angry strides carrying him away from his wife and son.
“And an ambulance!” Mrs. Reilly calls after him.
“Mom, I swear I’m fine.”
“I’ll feel a lot better about that after we have you checked out.” Mrs. Reilly reaches for her son again as the vision fades out…
Lindsey stays on the couch for a moment longer. The air is filled with the sound of his harsh panting before he drags himself, groaning, from the couch towards the bathroom. He doesn’t even try to think about what just happened until he’s swallowed four pills and splashed his face with cold water.
Toweling himself off, he surveys his face in the mirror. His lower lip is slack and trembling. The long hair hangs limply over a haggard countenance, the eyes red with tears, the entire visage etched with the harsh lines of a heroin junkie. The pills have yet to kick in and he sits down gingerly on the toilet seat, trying not to jar his head with abrupt moves.
What the fuck is going on? He’s never had a vision repeat itself and this one doesn’t seem all that crucial. It’s already happened and Connor was fine. But the situation isn’t. Again the weirdness of the boy’s lack of injury is clear. Connor isn’t an ordinary mortal. So what is he? Is that a mystery that needs clearing up? Is that why he’s been hit with the same migraine-picture twice?
He picks up his cell phone and dials Francis’s number with shaking fingers. “Francis? C’mon, you second-rate seer, pick up the damned phone,” he growls when there’s no immediate answer. He clicks it shuts and frowns. This is the first time the seer hasn’t answered his phone calls and it’s an additional worry atop the increasing agony from the visions.
“To hell with it,” he mutters. Maybe the repeat performance is telling him it’s time to stop funneling these images through an intermediary. It looks like he’ll have to go back to L.A. himself and find out why this problem hasn’t been resolved.
Ignoring an inner voice that says this is just an excuse to get back to Angel, Lindsey begins packing. He hesitates when he touches his guitar. He has no idea how long he’ll be in Los Angeles this time; it might take days or weeks to resolve the crisis this vision represents. His guitar is a personal item and this trip is strictly professional in nature. It has no business going with him.
He lets his fingers splay across the strings. The instrument has provided countless moments of solace for him. She was there during his early years as a paralegal student before being snatched up by Wolfram & Hart. He had played her to relieve the tension when the guilt from his cases at the law firm got to be overwhelming. She had soothed his frazzled nerves until Angel cut off his right hand. And he’d fallen back on her with a vengeance once his new hand had been in place and he’d had to use her to earn his living.
Maybe there will be an opportunity to introduce Angel to another of Lindsey’s talents. Angel has never heard him play except once and he’d made no comment since they were too busy chasing down the operation behind Lindsey’s nifty new body part.
Lindsey smiles and packs the guitar into its traveling case.

TBC
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Choice and Consequences