slashthedrabble - sound prompts - Angel - Lindsey/Angel

Crossposted from slashthedrabble and written for week two of the senses prompt - sound. Obviously Angel/Lindsey fic, slash, introspection, angst. "Corrupter of Words" is courtesy Mr Shakespeare – something the Fool says in "Twelfth Night." Saw it last summer and flashed vividly onto my boy and have been patiently waiting for something to go with it. "When It All Comes Down to Dust" is a lyric from yet another Leonard Cohen song – relevant part quoted at end of story (for those who might be interested).

Title: Corrupter of Words
Fandom: Angel
Pairing: Lindsey/Angel
Prompt: sound
Written for slashthedrabble
Rating: NC17
Word count: 500

CORRUPTER OF WORDS

Lindsey lives by words.

He'd learned to appreciate a well put together story at his momma's knee and he's inherited her talent for spinning tales. He knows it, and he's very good at it, because he practised this talent for years.

As the smallest kid in the playground he quickly discovered fists weren't the only answer – carefully chosen words could disable a bully or bigot just as quickly as a punch to the gut. Growing up he learned guile – why tackle a problem head on when a few whispered words in the right ears, and an entreaty to silence, could achieve what he wanted? He watched and listened, realised people confide in a good listener, so he learned how – becoming a trusted friend, face open, offering a shoulder to cry on, giving sympathetic responses whilst they spilled all their secrets and weaknesses. And he learned charm – stood in front of a mirror, smiling at himself until his jaw ached and he could make it sincere, reaching his eyes, removing the bitter fury and replacing it with warmth.

In court it's his ability to construct a story, to string words together, twisting and shaping them, making them mean what he wants them to mean that's important. This is his skill – to ensure the jury believes his client's innocence.

He spends his days talking – to clients, witnesses, secretaries and juniors, fellow partners, Wolfram and Hart...consultants, and to his bosses. In each of these conversations he has to be aware of every word, every intonation and inflection, to see the ripples and effects of their use. He understands the power of words, he knows they're the most destructive tool he has at his disposal.

Surprising then, under the shadow of night, when he and Angel meet – they don't talk. At least little beyond the use of each other's name and the odd curse.

What exists between them isn't built upon words strung together to make coherent sentences. What exists between them isn't mapped by words at all.

They've invented their own vocabulary for whatever this thing is that binds them together and causes them to meet.

It's born of the jagged sounds of ripped clothing; of angrily snarled curses and the menacing, diaphragm-rattling, animal growl of a demon's anger; of the soft whoosh of air escaping lungs as clenched fists meets vulnerable flesh.

It's built on the dull thud of a body hitting a wall or a car; the tearing sound of wood splintering; the soft metallic swish of a knife being drawn hurriedly from a sheath; the whistle as a blade cuts through the air and the ragged hiss of breath as it connects.

It climaxes in the wet slither of damp skin against skin; the clash of teeth against teeth; the frenetic struggle for breath, followed by a sobbing moan and the whisper of a name, so softly sighed that it could be interpreted as either benediction or curse.

Lindsey lives by words, but he doubts that he'll die by them.


Title: When It All Comes Down To Dust
Fandom: Angel
Pairing: Lindsey/Angel
Prompt: sound
Written for slashthedrabble
Rating: NC17
Word count: 500

WHEN IT ALL COMES DOWN TO DUST

Angel doesn't trust words. He remembers how easy it was to lie.

Vampire senses are different - the demon provides increased sensory input, raising the threshold beyond human comprehension. Angel doesn't believe words unless he's in the same room as the speaker – able to smell and taste them, hear the vibrations of their words on the air. When people lie to him he can hear it in timbre of their voice, the minute cracks and wavers undetectable to human ears, the millisecond hesitation for breath.

Lindsey had lied to him from the moment they met.

In Winters' office Lindsey's soft, husky voice had twined down Angel's spine, slithered into his groin and flexed, igniting a spark he never expected to feel again. Whilst Lindsey made even, measured threats in a voice raked by the claws of Cupid, Angel heard what lay below the words and felt their murmur on the air, a thousand little feather strokes brushing against his hair and pressing into his skin. It was the voice that pulled him close and made him tuck the card back into Lindsey's pocket, to be able to touch him and feel his heartbeat. To smell him up close.

Lindsey only tried to explain himself once, and Angel shut him down because what Lindsey's voice does to him shouldn't be possible. When he listens to Lindsey speak he forgets about saving the world, forgets about the innocents, forgets everything, because the voice fills him, and he wants to believe anything it says.

Lindsey's voice has been marinated in rage, smoke, musk and old oak-ripened whisky. Rubbed raw by loss and bitter Texan winds and warmed by the dying embers of a burnt out fire, in an abandoned farmhouse, after the beggars have gone. It makes him think of cinnamon and sage and the thorniness of sagurro cacti, of sweeping plains and blasted red sandstone. Makes him think of a mustang, running wild, eyes rolling, nostrils flaring redly as the rope finally closes around it's throat.

It's a voice of power and Angel hadn’t even begun to grasp how much power until he heard Lindsey sing. He sings with the voice of a fallen angel, depth and tone sharpened by inhaling the sulphurous brimstone of hell.

He keeps coming back to hear Lindsey say his name, voice curling over every syllable like honey around gravel. Comes back for the fire that ignites every time Lindsey snarls a curse at him - no-one says the word "fuck" as hungrily or knowingly as Lindsey. He keeps coming back to hear Lindsey use hot, dark words that slide like hooks into his gut, eviscerating him when Lindsey's voice breaks on a breathy moan, when he hits the right spot.

The challenge he set himself, from the very first time he heard Lindsey speak, is to wrestle him back from the edge – because if he can save Lindsey then maybe he can save himself.

And if he can't save Lindsey?

Then he'll have to stop him.

Relevant verse from the Story of Isaac by Leonard Cohen:

When it all comes down to dust
I will kill you if I must,
I'll help you if I can
When it all comes down to dust
I will help you if I must,
I will kill you if I can