Righteous by Hth You are standing on one side of a closed door. On the other side is everything else. Everything you've ever feared. Everything that ever made you cry, made you laugh, made you hard. On the other side is everything that moves you, and you just closed that door. Don't that just beat all, your daddy would say. Don't that just beat all. You're playing with the big bad now, and the view is spectacular. What a city. What a long, long way from Birmingham. Take the phone off the hook. The land sharks will start calling soon enough,and they may call you Mr. MacDonald now instead of by your Christian name, but that's just a courtesy. You still won't have a choice about answering. Just a courtesy. You know there's no such thing. Courtesy is all that matters; you may never, never be safe from traitors and users and long-legged beasties, but at least now no one looks down on you. You're free of that. You're no wheezing, barefoot, barely literate country boy anymore. Respect. Courtesy.You've fought all your life to be called *sir* by people who mean it. After such a long fight, so many losses and even more pyrrhic victories,there's no shame in sliding your hands over the formica top of your new,up-to-the-minute desk. This is something to enjoy. Your desk. Your thirtieth-floor office. Your promotion. Your damnation. Well, virtue hasn't felt very good for a long time, has it? You used to love sitting on the slanted wooden pew at the Church of Christ, singing "How Great Thou Art " and "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God " from memory,trying to match your father's powerful bass in force and fervor. You prayed to Jesus Christ for things like patience, to be able to forgive your enemies, for a more grateful heart. That went away. You don't even remember when. You became unblushingly faithless, trusting in nothing but your own keen mind. And it was exhilirating.The more you took for yourself, ironically enough, the more your prayers were answered. You became patient like an ice age, able to hold yourself in check until the perfect moment for action. You forgave your enemies when first your grades, then your fame, and then your salary out paced theirs. You are grateful now, with all your tainted heart, for this second and even better chance to prove yourself. And the last hymn has long since been sung, and your humanity lies on the other side of that closed door. It hurts just a little, that constant pit in your stomach. You know the fires of Hell will probably hurt a lot more. Righteousness sustains you, as always. This is justice. You were born poor,brilliant, and avaricious. How else could that story ever end? You have what you deserve. Respect. Wealth. Slavery. Hell. You follow the only path that was ever open to you. What could be more righteous? The thorns are right here to prove it. Punishment comes in strange packages. Your vanity was stabbed deep by dark eyes that looked on you without the slightest grace-note of courtesy, with nothing but disdain. He made you feel like a poor man. It hurt. You know you deserved it. You were lost, without faith, strayed from the path. It hurt, but you took it like a man. Was it punishment or reward, the feel of his tongue, delicately lapping poor dead Lee's blood from your cheek? He burned the touch of his fingers along your nipples, down your ribs. He kissed you, and your mouth still knows it. You felt that clearly, even though there's so much you haven't been able to feel in the years since you got wise. You're afraid of him, now more than ever. If he opened that door and walked through it right now, he'd kill you. You might even let him. How long have you been harboring this passion for judgement, without even knowing it? There are so many powerful things in the world. God and his angels are only the beginning. So much power, and none of it has enough respect for a junior trial lawyer named Lindsey MacDonald to hate him. He offers you that much, at least. Angel Almighty, who takes it so far beyond just using you. He tests you, judges you, rewards you accordingly. You'd let him, if he cared enough to kill you. But you'd rather have him for one more night like the last. He fucks you with all his smoldering contempt-shame, and that's familiar. You've had that before.He runs his fingers through your messy hair and kisses the smooth parts of your skin, at the temples, behind the ears, beneath your cheek bones. He tastes the warm inside of your lip, the pads of your fingers, the shell of your ear, the back of your neck. It's sweet and strong like iced tea -- they don't make it in California like they do in the South -- and cold, too. His lukewarm lips. His chest that stays steady while yours heaves desperately. You've never had that.You've never been fool enough to trust yourself alone in the dark to a vampire.You've never had a lover whose tenderness made you afraid for your immortal soul. And now you'll never know which was Angel's final judgement: his hard,compassion less eyes or his searching, trembling lips. The next time you see him,everything will be distorted by this closed door between you. For a few days, you believed there was more than one road open to you. You put yourself on the line. You saved lives. You let attraction turn into something more for once, something a little like desire, or connection. You liked it. You had a crisis of faith. It's behind you now. Don't that just beat all.