Spike had called it therapy. Something about a hedgehog trying to find a…something. Angel wasn’t exactly sure how pushing little buttons, drinking cases of beer and occasionally threatening to strangle people with the cords was therapy, but then it was Spike.
Angel wasn’t exactly sure why visions of Spike playing videogames ran through his head the second Lindsey’s hand grasped around his cock either, but there they were, full 64 bit color pictures racing through his mind. For a moment he was glad Lindsey wasn’t the sort of lover to ask what someone was thinking. Angel was certain Lindsey didn’t really give a fuck what he was thinking.
Thrusting into Lindsey’s hand and returning wet, hungry kisses from time to time, Angel wondered if Lindsey had to do any therapy after his hand was reattached. He imagined not, since he had seen him at Caritas that very night, guitar in hand, ready to fight as always.
To fight for a while at least.
That night had been the same as every other they spent together. Fight, rescue, fight, fuck, kiss, suck, sweat, forget to breath, fall asleep covered in come and usually some blood. It didn’t matter. The next morning it was always the same, forgotten. Until the next time, when there’s a rescue to be made, a fight to be won, energy to be released.
Maybe this was Lindsey’s therapy, squeeze, pull, bite until they were both spent and asleep. Or maybe Lindsey looked for electronic treasures too. Angel would never know.