Fic: Detour

Author: Mae

Feedback at: azryal@mediaone.net

Fandom: Angel the Series

Pairing: Lindsey McDonald/The Host-Lorne

Rating: Strong R

Status: Was originally posted to the Buffy Angel Improv List. First in a series, but can stand alone.

Archive: If you like it, take it. I've already admitted I'm a slut.

Feedback: Would be lovely.

Series: Travelers

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy own. I am making no money.

Notes: It's my first time on this list...but you don't have to be gentle..<wink>

Warning: No specific spoilers...kind of general for "Dead End".

Summary: Season 2, episode "Dead End"...before Lindsey leaves LA, he makes a detour.

I see the big, green army bag over his shoulder and the guitar case in his hand. His clothes may be different, but his face is still beautiful, his bearing still regal, even after everything he’s been through. He’s tired, a little depressed, but there’s something around the edges of his aura that I haven’t seen in a long, long time. Hope.

"Well, cowboy. Guess you’ve had enough of the wild, wild west?" I ask him, smiling my best ‘put on a happy face’ smile.

"Yeah, you could say that," he answers, gazing steadily up at me.

Whew! His eyes could set off sticks of dynamite with the sparks they’re shooting. Hot and bright, they smile while his lips don’t. I expect him to say more, to complain about why he’s leaving, what he’s leaving

behind. He says nothing, just looks into my face like he’s trying to read my aura.

"So, dare I hope for a song this evening? Important journeys like the one you’re starting should have at least a map, if not an itinerary," I say, starting to feel a little… restless…under his scrutiny.

"No. No song. My time is important."

Blunt…well, I guess he’s done his double-talk routine long enough.

"So, what brings you here, then? I hope you aren’t expecting one for the road, because I’m not about drinking and driving," I say, getting a little snippy.

He drops the bag, right in the middle of the club. Then he gently leans the guitar case against it. Stepping forward, he puts his boots in between my feet, in an apparent attempt to get as close to me as possible. "I can leave now, or I can leave in the morning. Your choice," he tells me, reaching up and placing his hands on my face. He pulls me down to him, stretching up on tiptoes to meet me halfway with his open, eager mouth. I vaguely hear the collective gasp of the patrons as they view this little scene; even the sap on stage has quit singing. I think for a second that maybe I should stop this, but his sweet, wicked tongue is tracing my teeth and so I relent, putting an arm around his waist to help him stay close. When I suck on that teasing

bit of flesh and muscle, he moans and melts into me.

So much for getting the books done tonight.

Spread out on my bed, wearing only jeans and a sad smile, he tells me that he’s sorry he didn’t figure this out sooner. That he had had blinders on and was stupid and self-absorbed. He was sorry he had to leave. I quiet him with another of our long, wet kisses, and pop the buttons of his fly.

"You’ll be back," I whisper, loving the feel of him pushing up against my abdomen.

"Promise?" he breathes back, his fingers digging into the backs of my arms.

"Promise," I answer, taking his mouth once more.

Riding me, sweating as he lifts and lowers with championship, blue-ribbon skill, he begs, "Tell me again. Tell me I’ll be back, tell me you see it. Please, tell me!"

I bring him back down to me and roll, sinking into him slow and deep. He pants and quivers, making little impatient noises in his throat, but I’m still for the moment. I watch the colors around him, swirling bits that change and merge with every breath he takes. His music, the singing-moaning he is doing for me, for what I’m doing to him, tells me all I need to know.

"Oh, yeah, I see it," I rasp, strained by my immobility.

He arches his back, pushing down his hips so that I connect with that special nerve I’ve only ever found in human males, cries out my name and comes. I hold him until the trembling stops, then pull away to turn him onto his stomach. When I re-enter him to continue onto my climax, he grabs my hands to wrap around his chest, keeping me close to him. I come with my nose buried in the soft hair behind his ear, listening to his muffled groans as my very hot, alien seed is released in him. It’s a pleasure in itself, and its intensity sends him into another, quieter orgasm that has his hips wriggling beneath my pelvis.

So divinely packaged, this one, with such a precious broken gift inside. Broken, but not irreparable. I look down on his profile while he sleeps, silently wishing him luck and sparrow-speed in finding the lost pieces of his soul. Because when he finds them all, he’s coming back to me to help put them together again.

END