Two serial killers walk into a bar …
Two serial killers meet in a bar, or maybe in the alley behind a bar, or on the sidewalk leading up to a bar.
It doesn’t matter how they get there, what matters is that there are two of them, two of a kind, younger looking than their years, until you see their eyes. Old eyes, old souls. How old, you ask? Don’t.
So there’s two of them, and they both look like something they’re not. Angel looks, and sees uncertainty, reserve, something that reminds him of Will, God help him (as if God ever would). The boy’s a graduate student, at least that’s what he says, but there’s something off about him. Angel buys him a drink anyway, because if the two of them sit here together, no one else will bother them and really, that’s all either of them wants for now. Methos looks, and sees dark hair and dark eyes and the weight of the world, MacLeod all over again, but this one doesn’t recognize him. Good.
They drink and they talk. Angel is surprised how much this youngster knows about, well everything, but he’s a student, after all – the novelty hasn’t worn off for him yet. Just wait, Angel thinks to himself, and suddenly feels all of his years. Methos, for his part, hides a smile. They’re hotly debating the merits of the Medici rule when he finally twigs to the other’s nature, but there’s no time to contemplate the possibilities. The warning buzz brushes the edge of his consciousness, then bursts into the room with a rough-looking man whose hand is already under his coat.
Methos is quick, through the service-way and into the alley before he realizes that Angel is there in the shadows behind him. But the rough-looking one is quick, too, standing at the head of the alley, sword drawn. There’s no way back and no way out, and again there is no time. Methos draws his sword.
And then it’s over, and he’s on his knees in the dirt of the alley, shaking with an unwanted quickening and hoping like hell that the vampire is gone, or will be before Methos starts puking his guts up. The rough-looking man was an evil son of a bitch.
Angel steps forward, cautious. He kicks up the sword dropped by the loser, holds it point down as he approaches the headless corpse cooling on the ground.
“Was he human?” Angel asks. He’s not sure he cares.
“No.” Methos reflects that strictly speaking, that’s not a lie. He hauls himself up. He wipes his sword on the dead man’s coat, and in a blink it’s hidden away again.
“The body – ” Angel begins.
“Help me with it, will you?” And that’s how Angel finds himself in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, hiding a corpse with a (not so young) man he met in a bar.
Later, when they’re back in the middle of somewhere and heading for a different bar, Methos pulls the vampire into a different alley and lets him feel the buzz of the quickening coursing over his skin. He knows this is stupid, they’ve just met for fuck’s sake, but really, what can the vampire do to him?
Quite a lot as it turns out. Angel knows (or guesses) by now that this one isn’t human either, strictly speaking, but they have no quarrel. At least Angel hopes they don’t, because it’s been a while since he’s been with a man and this one is … well.
There’s a rhythm to this, the slow approach, the gradual touch. Methos doesn’t like his rough too rough (except for Mac, and only sometimes then), and Angel’s had enough of that to last him for a while, besides. So it’s slow and easy, until it’s not – Methos with his back to the wall and Angel pressed up in front of him, hands down, fingertip to fingertip and Methos shivers because he’s actually cold, and Angel’s no help there.
Then Angel bows his head and nuzzles Methos’s neck, brushes soft lips along the tendons and grazes with blunt teeth again and again until Methos is practically shoving his neck into Angel’s mouth. He lets his fangs down then, and slices oh-so-carefully into the skin. Blue fire dances under his tongue, and he pulls back sharply. But he’s not burned.
Angel in game-face is beautiful and terrifying (if you can still feel terror after all this time) and Methos’s mouth is open, gasping, his hands pulling and tugging, working up under Angel’s shirt and it’s the heat of his hands that draws Angel back to him. Angel sets his fangs against taught, smooth skin and bites down.
Too many sensations rise at once – the arch of the body under (over) his, the pulse of lust, tearing skin and cold blue fire, and over it all, the earthy gush of rich blood. Angel swallows convulsively, once and again, moves his mouth to Methos’s ear and huffs out, “What are you?”
Methos’s hand, beautiful strong fingers, strokes the side of Angel’s face. “Does it matter?” And clearly it doesn’t because Angel’s mouth is back at his throat, tearing open newly healed skin, and now the shiver is something else entirely, bodies pressed together, hot and hard.
Then it’s far too late to think of the niceties (like the mess this is going to be), when Angel has him pinned against the wall, holding him by his spread legs and rocking into him just there, when the gush of blood slows and the last desperate pull of Angel’s mouth fires every nerve into a violent release, and he can feel the pulse of climax roll through the layers of bloody, come-soaked clothing between them. And in the after, holding each other up, it occurs to both of them that sometimes you could want to live forever.