Slashed Sonnet Sequence

"A New-Appearing Sight"
Lindsey/Doyle
Longer Ficlet


So there's the occasional vision Doyle doesn't tell anyone about. Angel doesn't need to hear everything, you know? He's been at this a few weeks now, and he can tell when it's the PTB tryin' to get through, and when something's just messing with his head.

That's usually the fault of good Sir Jack Daniels or Lord Johnnie Walker the Red. He gets the same headaches from a vision or a binge, so he indulges in both just as he likes. Long as he's sober enough for the office, Angel doesn't care. Cordy wrinkles up her perfect little nose at the smell of booze, but a man – a half-man – half-demon – well, he's got to do what he's got to do to get by, right?

He's got more discerning with time. Had to. 'Cause along with the visions, he gets the occasional foreseeing dream. A bit like what Angel's ex, the Slayer, might have. He doubts she gets the headaches after, though. Feckin' lucky if she doesn't. Bit harder to tell between a true vision and a boozy nightmare, though.

This what's going on right now, well, he's not sure at all how to classify it. "Damned peculiar" is the best he can do.

Doyle's fairly sure he's in his bed. Looks like it. He bounces a little. Feels like it. Sniffs. *Smells* like it. Jaysus, he might want to wash these sheets or change 'em before they disintegrate.

Then again, his bunkmate of the moment doesn't seem tnd. nd.

Therein lies the rub. He doesn't recall bouncing the mattresses with anyone, though he supposes it's possible – must've hit best out of five pubs the previous night. And they're the ones he *can* remember.

Right, then. Stranger in the bed. Can do, can deal. Half-demon, no need to worry about catchin' or passing on any nasty human diseases.

Trouble is that he can't see them. He's on his right side, facing the window, back to the stranger. All he can hear is breathing, light and even. Might be sleeping still. But, could be they're awake, in which
case a blinded-panic whip-round to see who the hell's there just wouldn't do.

Decisions, decisions.

Bed feels a bit heavy; gravity's pulling him back toward the whoever-it-is. Hmm. Must have got a bit frisky and picked up a colleen with good heavy thighs and breasts fit to drown in. There's a nice thought. He's half a mind to turn about and give that sort of dainty a good-morning kiss.

"Wouldn't mind if you did," a lazy voice drawls behind him.

And oh, *shite*. Doyle freezes. On account of that voice – well, that happens to be male. Very male. Very much so. And amused as hell, to boot.

After a long moment his heart starts to beat again, and he can breathe. So, a man. Still not a problem. His mind's open enough, and it's not like he's never done that before. After Harry, he tried a bit of everything that came his way.

"Hangover?" the voice asks. It's rough as a lion's mane, but molasses-soft and Alabama slow. Warm, languid fingers come up to run through Doyle's hair, massaging gently at the temples. Oh, that feels good.
Maybe a bit too good. Doyle closes his eyes and breathes in, out, in, out. Whatever else this fellow's got, part of it's a magic touch. His head's soreness melts like so much dew under those fingers.

Unfortunately – or probably so – his other head decides to wake and say good morning.

No wonder they ended up in bed together.

Doyle clears his throat, a little embarrassed. Here he is with a stiffy that could likely pound nails, and still no idea of who or –deep gulp – what he might be with. And while he's open-minded, sure, he's old-fashioned enough that he generally prefers to get a name before he gets the goods, so to speak.

"Don't remember a thing, do you?" The voice is still so very entertained by his plight. "And here I thought I'd made the earth move for you. A man ought to recall something like that."

A head pops into view, blessedly human-looking, just long enough for Doyle to get an impression of maple-colored hair and wicked eyes. It disappears and an arm snakes across his middle, pulling him back, and
well, bedamned if his new friend doesn't have a hard-on to match his own. "Always did like wake-up sex," he rumbles. "Best kind. Slow, sweet, lazy."

Warm fingers trail down Doyle's spine and he arches automatically into the touch. They slip between the globes of his arse, making him gasp as he realizes first that he's already good and slicked up, and
second, that this man has no shame whatsoever. That hand is everywhere, sliding up and down, ticking the sensitive skin behind his balls, nuzzling into his pucker and stretching him open. Evil
little hand, it knows what it's doing, and it seems bent on playing Doyle like an Irish fiddle.

"Starting to come back to you now?"

Something's coming, and it had better be him; soon, at that. Doyle gives up on the why and the whenceforth as pretty bleedin' unimportant when the man slips the hand resting on his ribs down to cup his sac, then grip his cock.

"Say my name," the stranger urges as he strokes, slow but speeding up. "Lindsey. Call me Lindsey."

"Lindsey," Doyle chokes out. "For the love of God, Lindsey—"

"Ah-ah, doubt he'd appreciate that." The hand jerks hard on his balls, just enough for a fantastic shot of pleasurepain. "You remember me now, don't you?"

And yeah, how could he have forgotten? Laughing over a few or a dozen shots of Glennfidditch, the good stuff. Lindsey's treat. He had cash in good supply, and he'd said Doyle was paying him back by making him
laugh. Been too long since he'd enjoyed himself that much. Gets a bit fuzzy after that, but Doyle does remember coming back to his place, to the bed, and then... coming, and coming again. Loudly. His
neighbors were banging on the floors, the ceiling, and both adjoining walls.

"Oh, yeah," Lindsey growls playfully. "You know me." He pulls Doyle tighter still. The tip of his erection slides between slick cheeks, teasing. "Wanna go again?"

Shameless, he is. Of course he wants to go again. What gormless eejit wouldn't? He wriggles a little, back against that very nice pressure, and relishes the little indrawn breath that Lindsey gives. So, not
Mr. Totally-in-Control, then. Good to know.

"Lindsey," he breathes. "Come on, man. Do it. Go ahead and –"

Hang on a mo.

Lindsey...

Name sounds familiar, beyond the immediate connections. He frowns even as the pressure increases, Lindsey lining up the head of his cock with his hole and heading straight for glory. "You wouldn't happen to be a lawyer, would you?"

Lindsey snorts. "You really wanna talk right now?"

No, of course he doesn't, but neither is he gonna let this go. Angel mentioned a fellow named Lindsey McDonald, who just happened to work for Wolfram & Hart. Headed up defense for that vamp who'd tried
snacking on the Princess.

Couldn't be. Could it?

"You don't wanna think about bad things right now." Lindsey slides in just about an inch. Doyle arches and mewls like a wild creature. "Just think about me, baby." Slow, slow slide, deeper still. "Knock, knock. Let me in."

"Wait," Doyle gasps. "Wait – aww, Jaysus –"

Lindsey pushes and is seated to the root, rough hair and tight balls resting against Doyle's arse. He can't nearly think, let alone sort this out, but he has to know. "Am I awake? Are you a dream – a vision? Or are you real?"

"Don't I feel real?" Lindsey draws back, thrusts hard, and hits Doyle's sweet spot hard enough that he sees fireworks crackle behind his eyes. "This is real as it gets."

"Yeah, but that don't mean much." Doyle's fingers claw into the mattress. "Just tell me."

"Shush, now." Lindsey's delving deep inside him, knocking his prostate six ways to Sunday and leaving him breathless. "Quiet for me now, baby." He tugs on Doyle's straining erection, strips it ruthlessly. "On second thought..." A warm mouth suckles the back of his neck, then nips. "Let me hear you scream."

He gets that wish right enough. Doyle hollers and writhes around the rod splitting him apart, coming hard enough that it splasheshis his chest and onto those sorry sheets. Definitely need washing now, he
thinks muzzily, before the spasms of Lindsey's orgasm and a hot wash deep inside send him back into the void.

He comes around to the feel of soft strokes on his chest. "Awful good, isn't it?" Lindsey murmurs behind his ear. "You could have all of this you want. I'd be happy of it."

Dazed, Doyle shakes his head. What's he...? Nah. Nothing comes for free. "The price tag?"

"Isn't one, baby." Nuzzle. "Just come with me when I go. That's all. Have me day, night, whenever you want it, just crook your finger and I'll come running."

Can't be real. Things like this don't happen to Doyle. Trouble is, it feels awfully real. So real that it's leaking out of him.

Fingers tipped with rough callus tweak at his nipples. "Just think about it. Doesn't have to be today. I'll be back."

"Will you, then?"

Pathetic, but Doyle can't just let him go, no more than he can get over this lump in his throat and the feeling that he's standing at a crossroads, that he'd better know damn well which direction he's pointed in before he sets off. It's just been so long, that's all. Fantastic sex and something like affection. He could get addicted to
this awfully fast. Het wat wants to be... sure.

"Course I will. Every chance I get." Lindsey kisses him, soft, at the nape of the neck, then nestles his head in behind Doyle's. "Go on back to sleep, now. We've got a little time before the clock goes off."

Sleep... sounds even better... than lying awake and thinking... and how can he help it, enveloped in Lindsey's warm arms, breathing soft on the back of his neck... and...

Doyle's gone.

~

The alarm clock shrills.

Doyle's eyes shoot open for the second time that morning. He rockets straight up, gasping for air.

He's alone.

Hell! A dream? Had to bee ote other side of the bed's cold. Sheets are too rucked up from his own tossing to tell if another has lain there. But there is a pool of his own drying spunk near his hip, and more on his belly. Face a little crimson, he slides a finger between his arse cheeks and finds only dry skin.

Saints have mercy. A wet dream. A bleedin' wet dream.

Doyle collapses back into the dirty sheets, breathing as if he's just run a race. Lord. Just an ordinary sex dream that got him over-excited. Not a vision, too low for that, too personal. Just a dream. Good thing, too. Something like that happening for real, who knew what he'd do?

Lindsey. The name chills him to the bone now he's properly awake. A real dirty piece of work, that one. He feels a bit sick to his stomach, and decides his subconscious is getting seedier than a Galway train station.

Ugh.

He hits the snooze button and smashes his face into the pillow. Only his own scent there.

Good.

No, feckin' great.

Lindsey McDonald. Jaysus.

~

Lindsey straightens his tie and gives himself one last glance in his office washroom mirror. He's pleased enough with his appearance. Nothing left but a bit of whisker-burn and whiskey-voice, and only Lilah will be bitch enough to comment if she notices. Holland might pick up on it, but he'll just be pleased things are going according to plan.

After all, it was his idea.

His supplies, too, or at least made to his order. Nice concoction the lab boys came up with, letting him slip into Doyle's dreams like that. He pockets the plastic baggie full of crushed magickal herbs and gives it a pat. Have to remember that, probably come in handy sometime down the road as well as now.

Step one in bringing Angel down – getting the seer on their side – going just fine, thank you. His face softens a little, hardens a little at the more-than-pleasant memory of the previous night. Hell, on his own he might have gone after the Irish charmer without any prompting from higher-ups.

The promotion he'll get when they win is just extra motivation.

Sweet icing on a whiskey-soaked cake.

* * *

For those who might be interested...

Sonnet #7

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from highmost pitch, with weary care,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way:
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon
Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.