Influence
It was nearing 3:30 am as Wesley Wyndam-Pryce shrugged his jacket back on, keying the door to his office shut. Another night researching unspeakable demons. Another night pretending this place might do them some good, or at least that they'd be able to do some good in it. The halls of Wolfram & Hart's massive LA branch were all but silent, its tall plate-glass windows dark to project the appearance of normalcy to the world below. Wes's loafers scuffed the carpet quietly as he made his way to the elevator. As it dropped two levels down, somewhere in that perilous limbo between the everyday world and the fiery pit of the home office, the doors opened upon the staff parking lot.
His breath clouded before his face, his footsteps echoing dully in the cavernous space. Wesley always parked his car to the right, only a little ways down from Angel's impressive line of foreign sports cars. As he reached his small black coupe (only a small upgrade, he assured himself), he paused, key in lock.
Three cars down, in a nondescript blue hulk of junk, a man sat behind a steering wheel, eyes straight ahead. Scowling slightly, Wesley moved towards the car and tapped on the window with a knuckle. The window promptly rolled down.
"Wes, 'ol boy. What you been up to?" Wesley was careful not to let his eyes widen in surprise when he heard the faint Southern twang.
"Mr. McDonald. While I assure you that it is a quaint surprise to see you, I must ask what you're doing here?"
"All business, as usual. I should have guessed." Lindsey McDonald answered smoothly, his clear blue eyes searching Wesley's face, "Although I gotta say, I'm liking the scruff." He paused for a moment, the amusement in his eyes darkening. "I'm just checking up on my old stomping grounds, you know, now that I'm back in town and all. Interesting seeing you here."
Wesley let that sink in for a moment. The last time Lindsey left LA, the brunette with the wavy hair and the cupid's bow lips had been in a beat-up pick-up truck on the path to redemption. Fucker. But Wes's spider sense was tingling- it wouldn't be the first time Lindsey McDonald stumbled on the noble path and took a cozy office at the law firm of Evil, Incorporated.
"These are my stomping grounds now, Mr. McDonald." He coughed slightly. "I run the Research and Magic division now."
"Aha. A little walk on the darker side of magics, huh? I guess you got bored with all that do-gooding. Out from under Angel's wing, you know." The car door opened and Lindsey emerged, hands folded across his chest. While he was a few inches shorter than the other Wesley, he'd put on considerable muscle since his last sojourn in LA. The sound of the car door shutting ricoched through the silent parking lot. "I felt bad for you and all, Wes. You were the perfect little bitch-boy-- you couldn't keep your eyes off him."
Wesley's stomach dropped. He bored his dark eyes into Lindsey's. "No more than you could keep your hands off him, I recall."
Lindsay favored him with a devilish grin. "See? More common ground. I guess we're more alike than we'd care to admit."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Wesley answered uncomfortably.
"You wouldn't," Lindsey smirked, "would you?" He paused for a moment. "So, how's Lilah? She still around, being her usual cold bitch of a self, or did they chop off her head by now?" Very simple. Very direct.
In an instant, Wesley's piece was in his hand, plucked from a holster hidden under his jacket, and aimed at Lindsey's forehead. "I think it's time you left," Wesley spat, with a deadly lilt, his eyes cold as stone.
"We trigger-happy now, Wes? This certainly is a new look." Lindsey cocked his head and shot him a questioning look. He put his hands up, one marked by a faint pink scar running right at the wrist. "Testy, testy. I just came to catch up with Angel, that's all. We've got a little business to square away."
Wesley's gun did not waver. "No, I don't think you do. I think that Angel could do without your..." he hesitated a moment, influence." He noticed a few dark marks, tattoos swirling up Lindsey's wrists beneath the cuffs of his crisp linen shirt.
"That depends," Lindsey flashed his teeth. He took a step towards the gun, letting it press into the middle of his forehead, pushing back Wesley's arm until their bodies were firmly pressed together. Wesley could feel Lindsey's hot breath at his neck, the faint scent of whiskey still lingering. "Does my influence threaten you? Are you just trying to be protective? Or is it something else?"
Lindsey reached down to cup Wesley's balls beneath his chinos, and Wesley drew in a sharp breath. "Not getting any lately, are we? He's never going to fall in love with you, you know. That's not what Angel's about-- our boy, he likes it rough." Lindsey's eyes glittered with sarcastic glee. "He'll probably never even fuck you. So I guess the faithful servant routine doesn't exactly pay off."
Wes swallowed thickly. "On the contrary," he said calmly, "I find that it often opens up a world of possibilities."
In a split second, Lindsey found himself slammed flat against the hood of the car, his stomach against its ancient steel frame. Wes was holding him by the throat with one hand and yanking his belt off with the hand still holding the gun-- he could feel its solid barrel against his cock. Stilling his struggles, the presence of the gun made his dick stir in his pants. Lindsey always did get off at the thought of pain. He felt a spit-moistened hand glide down his ass and moments later, he was filled with a solidity of a different kind.
"How's this for liking it rough?" Wesley said into Lindsey's ear, his clipped tone low and menacing. Lindsey groaned and bent over further as Wesley rode him hard, his cock slamming into his tight, muscled ass with a pulse that made him gasp. He reached out, digging his fingers deeply into Wes's thigh. and Wesley responded by tightening his grasp on the smaller man's neck. Their moans echoed in the silence, the sounds of flesh on flesh on steel, machine-like in the deserted lot, like a prostitute and a john with a weekly clandestine appointment.
When Wesley came, he did not cry out. His body shuddered and he gripped Lindsey's waist as he leaned into him, body taut as a spring. Lindsey could feel his heavy breathing against his back, his five 'o clock shadow scraping against the nape of his neck. The lot was silent once more. He flinched as Wesley withdrew.
"Get out of here, Lindsey. Don't come back."
Lindsey turned towards the taller man. His eyes were vacant, to the floor. He'd shown his dominance, and yet there was some small part of his gaze that showed defeat as well. He knew Lindsey was right. And Lindsey knew it, too.
"Yeah, maybe," Lindsey answered, re-belting his pants.
He slid into the seat of his car sorely and drove off, leaving Wesley still standing by the scene of the crime. As he watched Wesley's shoulders slump in his rear view mirror, he allowed himself a small smile. He'd sown the first seeds, weakened the first link, done all that he'd come to do that night. His plan was now in motion. He was back in the game.