Fic: A Mirror and Some Smoke (Smoke and Mirrors #6)
Title: A Mirror and Some Smoke
Series: Smoke and Mirrors #6
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Gunn/Lindsey
Spoilers/Timeline: Set directly post-Dead End
Summary: Lindsey's leaving town.
*
It's a white noise type of silence in Gunn's apartment. The buzzing of the fluorescent light from the bathroom. The muted hum of traffic coming up from the street. The loud ass sound of a television coming in through the thin walls from the next apartment.
Gunn likes it. He's a city boy, born and bred. Reared in the concrete jungle, canopied with smog and littered with broken glass. He's used to hearing footsteps running across that glass all night long, lungs coughing on the smog, buildings swaying and settling.
Too much silence makes his skin prickle, sends the hair on his arms upright. Because it's not natural in his jungle--someone else's, maybe, but not his. Too much silence usually means something's hiding somewhere nearby, wanting to tear his throat out.
Next to him on the bed, Lindsey grumbles incoherently before pulling the pillow out from under his head and covering his face with it. Gunn doesn't hear the words this time, but he knows it's just some kind of variation of, "Too damn loud."
Lindsey's a country boy. He's used to different white noise. Muffled footsteps on grass. The occasional twig snapping. Animals calling out to one another. Crickets chirping constantly.
In Lindsey's posh apartment, Gunn can't hear shit from the outside world. The one and only night he spent there, Gunn left the next morning in serious need of a neck massage--his muscles had been bunched up so damn tight for so damn long that they wouldn't release.
Tonight is payback. Gunn's place is way louder than the motels they started meeting at after that first time, and he's hoping it'll give Lindsey an appreciation of what he went through. And make him fork over the cash Gunn had to shell out on that massage. Eighty bucks. An amount that Gunn is pretty sure Lindsey can scrape together from spare change lying around the posh apartment, but which Lindsey refuses to pay out of sheer asshole-ness.
"Get my pants," Lindsey says in that whiskey voice of his, tossing a pillow to the floor in frustration.
Gunn looks at him in surprise. "You leaving? Thought that almighty pride of yours would have you here all night."
"It will," Lindsey confirms. "My wallet is in my pants. Eighty, right?"
There's a smug grin on Gunn's face as he gropes on the floor by his side of the bed, trying to find Lindsey's pants blindly. And doing his best to wrinkle every piece of clothing he comes across, just so he can watch Lindsey leave later looking all rumpled and fucked.
The wallet is leather and softer than butter, and it probably cost Lindsey triple the amount he's pulling out. Gunn doesn't much care. It's not about the money. Though, eighty is damn steep in his opinion, and he thinks now that he could have gotten the same neck massage from Cordy for forty.
Lindsey hands him the bills with the irritated eyes of a competitive man who's lost, and Gunn takes it with the glittering eyes of a competitive man who's won.
"It's like trying to sleep in Grand Central," Lindsey mutters, glaring at nothing in particular, and everything in general.
Gunn sits up as well, legs sliding over the side of the bed and feet hitting the floor. "I'm gonna get something to eat."
"Wore out your reserves?" Lindsey asks with a smirk.
Gunn wants to deny that, but it's the truth. Normally, he'd deny it anyway they've both got enough bullshit in their lives that he can't bring himself to find a place for it here.
"Yeah, guess so," he admits. "But I'm also guessing you're starving right about now, too."
And Lindsey seems to agree with Gunn's thoughts on bullshit; his tan face creases as he smiles drolly. "Have anything worth eating in this place?" he wants to know.
They pad into the kitchen, feet as bare as their bodies, and Lindsey stands in the doorway while Gunn rummages through the refrigerator. Damn, he's been spending so much time at the hotel, he can't remember the last time he stocked up on food.
The cupboards are just as empty. He turns to tell Lindsey that their only options are Count Chocula cereal--without milk--or tuna. But when he catches sight of the other man in the doorway, he stops and stares.
Because it's Lindsey. Lindsey who is a whole lot of things, but who is mostly...just really damn *fine* standing there naked and grinning like he knows everything going through Gunn's head, all of it centered around Lindsey's well-defined chest and blue, blue eyes.
"What do you have, do-gooder?"
He says it casually, but the arch of his eyebrow is smug as all get out. It makes Gunn want to use the month old milk in the 'fridge to fix a bowl of Count Chocula for Lindsey. Just to wipe that arrogant look off his face when the chunky milk hits his tongue.
"Tuna?" Gunn offers instead, holding up the can. "Got some mayo, but no bread."
Lindsey glances down at his newly restored hand, flexes his fingers, and shrugs. "I'm feeling brave tonight."
The can opener is in the drawer by the sink, and Gunn pulls it out and clamps it on the can of tuna. "So, what the hell happened tonight when you and Angel got all Buddy Cop Movie Duo?"
"Usual," Lindsey says dismissively. "Butted heads with him and killed the guy whose hand I have."
Gunn tosses him a look over his shoulder as he drains the water out of the tuna can. "That all? Seems pretty tame for you two."
Lindsey shrugs. "Well, not every night can end with us beating the crap out of each other with sledgehammers."
"Oh, so you save that for special nights, then?"
"Need to have something to look forward to."
Gunn dumps the tuna into a bowl, slaps some may on top and mixes it together, then scoops half of it into another bowl. His forks seem to have hightailed it for better homes while he was out, so they make do with spoons.
They stand in the kitchen and eat, eyes meeting every so often.
Gunn's from the jungle, and it's predator and prey there. They brush shoulders as they pass each other on the street, and Gunn has always thought that everybody was one or the other.
Lindsey's from the country, and it's hunter and hunted there. It's camouflaged guys hidden away in bushes, just waiting patiently for some poor animal to wander into range. And while they wait for the dumb ass animal to come along, they do things like talk about their kids and figure out what to get their mothers for Christmas.
Back when this first started, Gunn used to stare at Lindsey. Not anything specific, but Lindsey as a whole. He'd stare and try to see if they were the same, see if he had somehow shifted from walking through his jungle to crouching in some bushes. That's the reason *why* it started, too. At least for him.
Gunn's putting their empty bowls in the sink when Lindsey finally gets around to giving him a real answer about what happened tonight.
"I'm leaving town tomorrow."
After rinsing out the bowls, Gunn turns back around and folds his arms across his chest. Gunn's not stupid, but he has no problem playing the part once in a while. Asking questions whose answers seem obvious is his preferred method of getting the information he wants.
"Business trip?" he asks Lindsey casually.
Lindsey's lips tilt up, a combination of genuine smile and knowing smirk. "You'd make a damn good lawyer," he drawls, raspy-voiced. His eyes find Gunn's, and lock in while he deliberately shakes his head. "Turning in my notice tomorrow, and leaving for good." He looks around, eyes drawn to the windows that let in the sound. "It's too damn loud here."
That last bit is the key to it all. Country boy was at the point where he was going to have to join the predator and prey mentality of the city, and pick a side for himself. The thing is, Gunn's stared at Lindsey enough to know that the man is made for crouching in the bushes with a rifle on his shoulder, talking about his kids.
Just like Gunn knows now that he's made for prowling through the concrete jungle, keeping the predators from having free reign of the prey. Made for it and still doing it, even if things were crazy for a while.
So it's finally settled, and Gunn drops his arms to his sides and strides towards Lindsey, who walks towards him at the same time. Damn if either of them just stand and wait for the other.
Up close, it's impossible to see the whole, so Gunn skims his gaze from part to part; full lips, pale eyes set against tanning bed tan, crow's feet starting at all the usual creases. And that almost challenging, definitely amused, and kind of needy look that's just all over the boy's face.
Boy, even though Lindsey's got a couple years on Gunn. Because there was something in Lindsey's eyes that first night, something Gunn has seen in the eyes of every street kid he brought into his crew: confused, simmering, pointless anger.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a fluttering motion. Knows it's Lindsey flexing his fingers again; he's been doing it ever since he showed up three hours ago.
Gunn feels the corners of his mouth tilt up. "We running out of time?" he asks, bringing a hand up to cup the back of Lindsey's neck.
"Don't have to be in until eleven," Lindsey replies, voice huskier than usual, and he steps closer so that they're pressed together. Then he waits, because it's Gunn who leads the crew, and they know to follow his lead.
Gunn nods slowly and watches Lindsey blink once, twice, three times. "We got time, then," he says, stepping forward and backing Lindsey to the bedroom.
***
There's pathetically little stashed in the back of Lindsey's truck. His guitar, his spare pair of shit kicking boots. Clothing that's denim, regular cotton, or flannel. Everything else was left behind. Everyone else, too. He's not all that concerned. When he thinks about it, he realizes that there's nothing and no one he'll miss.
At a red light in a shady part of town that he has to pass through to get to the freeway, his focus shifts a little until he's no longer looking out of windshield, but at it. Angel was right about the windshield--his truck was one of the first models that had the wraparound variety. Nifty trivia, but what it means practically is that getting it repaired is almost impossible, and Angel's joyride left it desperately in need of repairing.
Lindsey thought he was going to have to leave the truck behind, because not even the guy at the junkyard was able to track down a replacement. The truck was dry docked up until this afternoon, when he stopped by for a last look and saw the shiny new windshield. There's no question about who did it. Gunn, after all, has a truck of his own that he's damn attached to.
He picks up his cell phone and punches in a number. Gunn answers with a short, "Yeah?"
"It's about simplicity," Lindsey says as he hooks a right turn.
There's a pause, then Gunn's voice sounds again. Dry and amused even through the crackling connection. "Didn't we have this conversation once before? You stank of cheap ass moonshine or something, and you could barely stand. There were words that weren't even words coming out your mouth."
Lindsey remembers. Wishes he didn't, because he knows that muddlededexity isn't even a medical term, much less a word. But half a bottle of--hell, he can't remember what he ordered, but whatever it was, half a bottle of it made him slur and ramble incoherently.
"Well, I'm sober now," Lindsey tells Gunn.
"Want a medal or something?" Gunn asks sarcastically.
"Just listen," Lindsey says easily. "I'm trying to tell you something. It's about simplicity."
There's a quick fade out of sound as Gunn's call waiting sounds, and Gunn asks him to hold. When he comes back on the line, there's something very amused in his voice. "Do you know there's a sign on the back of your truck that's going to get you beaten like your name is Rodney King if you get pulled over?"
"Shit," Lindsey mutters, jerking the wheel to the right and double parking. "What, have you got me bugged?"
"Right. Because I really want to hear you wailing along with some country song while you're driving. Nah, one of my boys who worked on the windshield saw you driving."
"Thanks for that," Lindsey says as he climbs out of the truck.
"Man shouldn't be leaving his truck behind."
To hear him say it, it's like sacrilege of some kind, or--fuck. The sign is big. It looks like a kid wrote it. Lindsey's pretty damn impressed he isn't already living up to Gunn's police brutality scenario.
"It's. About. Simplicity," Lindsey says as he tears the sign off and stows it in the flatbed. And he's really trying to remember the simplicity deal, because right now he's a blotchy mess of aggravated, enraged, amused and a bit reminiscent. All because of that damn sign. Asshole.
"Simplicity," Gunn repeats. "So you've said. A lot. Gonna get any farther this time?"
Lindsey grunts and aims a frustrated kick at the rear tire before glaring at the sign and stalking to the cab of the truck. "When things aren't simple, they're not always complicated," he says, turning the key in the ignition. "Sometimes they're just...muddled."
"That a fact?" Gunn drawls. "Sounds like a fortune cookie."
"Things can seem complicated," Lindsey lectures as he starts driving again. "But that's just because the distractions seem like more than distractions. They're not, though. They're just smoke, and once you clear it out, you see that it's simple--that it never stopped being simple. It's a moment of clarity."
Lindsey doesn't get a reply other than silence. Which is fine, because he knows Gunn gets it. Gets it beyond just understanding it. Gunn's a simple man. Not dumb, or uncomplicated, just simple. He rarely gets distracted by the smoke. Stands perfectly still and sees that moment of clarity around writhing tendrils of smoke. Lindsey, on the other hand, has spent too damn long recently wandering through the haze and trying to grope blindly for that moment.
Angel's probably congratulating himself on showing Lindsey the path, and Lindsey doesn't really care that Angel's taking credit for something he had nothing to do with. In actuality, Angel was the smoke. Angel and Darla and Wolfram & Hart. But Gunn is the take-charge guy at the bar who opens the door for a bit to air out the place, and the credit is his.
A few more turns and Lindsey's coming up on the onramp for the freeway.
"So what you're saying is, it's about clarity," Gunn says eventually.
Lindsey's grinning, and he can't help it. He's got a phone held to his ear with one hand, and is steering with the other. His windshield isn't cracked down the center and threatening to crumble to pieces any second, and Gunn is being Gunn.
"No," he counters. "It's about simplicity."
"Which takes you to clarity," Gunn replies matter-of-factly.
"You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"
"Sweet talker," Gunns says insinuatingly.
Lindsey laughs, and it's a little rusty but he remembers how to do it. He pulls onto the freeway and rolls his shoulders. Almost free. "I'd better ditch the phone. It's company issue," he tells Gunn.
"Take care of that truck," he hears Gunn say. "Had to use all my contacts to track down that windshield for you. Won't be able to get another."
Lindsey doesn't realize he's flexing his fingers until he accidentally hits a button on the phone. "I'll take care of it," he says, then tosses the phone out of the open window before anything else can be said.
.End
Next Story in Series - Roadside Attractions
Series Listing in Memories here.
Series: Smoke and Mirrors #6
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Gunn/Lindsey
Spoilers/Timeline: Set directly post-Dead End
Summary: Lindsey's leaving town.
*
It's a white noise type of silence in Gunn's apartment. The buzzing of the fluorescent light from the bathroom. The muted hum of traffic coming up from the street. The loud ass sound of a television coming in through the thin walls from the next apartment.
Gunn likes it. He's a city boy, born and bred. Reared in the concrete jungle, canopied with smog and littered with broken glass. He's used to hearing footsteps running across that glass all night long, lungs coughing on the smog, buildings swaying and settling.
Too much silence makes his skin prickle, sends the hair on his arms upright. Because it's not natural in his jungle--someone else's, maybe, but not his. Too much silence usually means something's hiding somewhere nearby, wanting to tear his throat out.
Next to him on the bed, Lindsey grumbles incoherently before pulling the pillow out from under his head and covering his face with it. Gunn doesn't hear the words this time, but he knows it's just some kind of variation of, "Too damn loud."
Lindsey's a country boy. He's used to different white noise. Muffled footsteps on grass. The occasional twig snapping. Animals calling out to one another. Crickets chirping constantly.
In Lindsey's posh apartment, Gunn can't hear shit from the outside world. The one and only night he spent there, Gunn left the next morning in serious need of a neck massage--his muscles had been bunched up so damn tight for so damn long that they wouldn't release.
Tonight is payback. Gunn's place is way louder than the motels they started meeting at after that first time, and he's hoping it'll give Lindsey an appreciation of what he went through. And make him fork over the cash Gunn had to shell out on that massage. Eighty bucks. An amount that Gunn is pretty sure Lindsey can scrape together from spare change lying around the posh apartment, but which Lindsey refuses to pay out of sheer asshole-ness.
"Get my pants," Lindsey says in that whiskey voice of his, tossing a pillow to the floor in frustration.
Gunn looks at him in surprise. "You leaving? Thought that almighty pride of yours would have you here all night."
"It will," Lindsey confirms. "My wallet is in my pants. Eighty, right?"
There's a smug grin on Gunn's face as he gropes on the floor by his side of the bed, trying to find Lindsey's pants blindly. And doing his best to wrinkle every piece of clothing he comes across, just so he can watch Lindsey leave later looking all rumpled and fucked.
The wallet is leather and softer than butter, and it probably cost Lindsey triple the amount he's pulling out. Gunn doesn't much care. It's not about the money. Though, eighty is damn steep in his opinion, and he thinks now that he could have gotten the same neck massage from Cordy for forty.
Lindsey hands him the bills with the irritated eyes of a competitive man who's lost, and Gunn takes it with the glittering eyes of a competitive man who's won.
"It's like trying to sleep in Grand Central," Lindsey mutters, glaring at nothing in particular, and everything in general.
Gunn sits up as well, legs sliding over the side of the bed and feet hitting the floor. "I'm gonna get something to eat."
"Wore out your reserves?" Lindsey asks with a smirk.
Gunn wants to deny that, but it's the truth. Normally, he'd deny it anyway they've both got enough bullshit in their lives that he can't bring himself to find a place for it here.
"Yeah, guess so," he admits. "But I'm also guessing you're starving right about now, too."
And Lindsey seems to agree with Gunn's thoughts on bullshit; his tan face creases as he smiles drolly. "Have anything worth eating in this place?" he wants to know.
They pad into the kitchen, feet as bare as their bodies, and Lindsey stands in the doorway while Gunn rummages through the refrigerator. Damn, he's been spending so much time at the hotel, he can't remember the last time he stocked up on food.
The cupboards are just as empty. He turns to tell Lindsey that their only options are Count Chocula cereal--without milk--or tuna. But when he catches sight of the other man in the doorway, he stops and stares.
Because it's Lindsey. Lindsey who is a whole lot of things, but who is mostly...just really damn *fine* standing there naked and grinning like he knows everything going through Gunn's head, all of it centered around Lindsey's well-defined chest and blue, blue eyes.
"What do you have, do-gooder?"
He says it casually, but the arch of his eyebrow is smug as all get out. It makes Gunn want to use the month old milk in the 'fridge to fix a bowl of Count Chocula for Lindsey. Just to wipe that arrogant look off his face when the chunky milk hits his tongue.
"Tuna?" Gunn offers instead, holding up the can. "Got some mayo, but no bread."
Lindsey glances down at his newly restored hand, flexes his fingers, and shrugs. "I'm feeling brave tonight."
The can opener is in the drawer by the sink, and Gunn pulls it out and clamps it on the can of tuna. "So, what the hell happened tonight when you and Angel got all Buddy Cop Movie Duo?"
"Usual," Lindsey says dismissively. "Butted heads with him and killed the guy whose hand I have."
Gunn tosses him a look over his shoulder as he drains the water out of the tuna can. "That all? Seems pretty tame for you two."
Lindsey shrugs. "Well, not every night can end with us beating the crap out of each other with sledgehammers."
"Oh, so you save that for special nights, then?"
"Need to have something to look forward to."
Gunn dumps the tuna into a bowl, slaps some may on top and mixes it together, then scoops half of it into another bowl. His forks seem to have hightailed it for better homes while he was out, so they make do with spoons.
They stand in the kitchen and eat, eyes meeting every so often.
Gunn's from the jungle, and it's predator and prey there. They brush shoulders as they pass each other on the street, and Gunn has always thought that everybody was one or the other.
Lindsey's from the country, and it's hunter and hunted there. It's camouflaged guys hidden away in bushes, just waiting patiently for some poor animal to wander into range. And while they wait for the dumb ass animal to come along, they do things like talk about their kids and figure out what to get their mothers for Christmas.
Back when this first started, Gunn used to stare at Lindsey. Not anything specific, but Lindsey as a whole. He'd stare and try to see if they were the same, see if he had somehow shifted from walking through his jungle to crouching in some bushes. That's the reason *why* it started, too. At least for him.
Gunn's putting their empty bowls in the sink when Lindsey finally gets around to giving him a real answer about what happened tonight.
"I'm leaving town tomorrow."
After rinsing out the bowls, Gunn turns back around and folds his arms across his chest. Gunn's not stupid, but he has no problem playing the part once in a while. Asking questions whose answers seem obvious is his preferred method of getting the information he wants.
"Business trip?" he asks Lindsey casually.
Lindsey's lips tilt up, a combination of genuine smile and knowing smirk. "You'd make a damn good lawyer," he drawls, raspy-voiced. His eyes find Gunn's, and lock in while he deliberately shakes his head. "Turning in my notice tomorrow, and leaving for good." He looks around, eyes drawn to the windows that let in the sound. "It's too damn loud here."
That last bit is the key to it all. Country boy was at the point where he was going to have to join the predator and prey mentality of the city, and pick a side for himself. The thing is, Gunn's stared at Lindsey enough to know that the man is made for crouching in the bushes with a rifle on his shoulder, talking about his kids.
Just like Gunn knows now that he's made for prowling through the concrete jungle, keeping the predators from having free reign of the prey. Made for it and still doing it, even if things were crazy for a while.
So it's finally settled, and Gunn drops his arms to his sides and strides towards Lindsey, who walks towards him at the same time. Damn if either of them just stand and wait for the other.
Up close, it's impossible to see the whole, so Gunn skims his gaze from part to part; full lips, pale eyes set against tanning bed tan, crow's feet starting at all the usual creases. And that almost challenging, definitely amused, and kind of needy look that's just all over the boy's face.
Boy, even though Lindsey's got a couple years on Gunn. Because there was something in Lindsey's eyes that first night, something Gunn has seen in the eyes of every street kid he brought into his crew: confused, simmering, pointless anger.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a fluttering motion. Knows it's Lindsey flexing his fingers again; he's been doing it ever since he showed up three hours ago.
Gunn feels the corners of his mouth tilt up. "We running out of time?" he asks, bringing a hand up to cup the back of Lindsey's neck.
"Don't have to be in until eleven," Lindsey replies, voice huskier than usual, and he steps closer so that they're pressed together. Then he waits, because it's Gunn who leads the crew, and they know to follow his lead.
Gunn nods slowly and watches Lindsey blink once, twice, three times. "We got time, then," he says, stepping forward and backing Lindsey to the bedroom.
***
There's pathetically little stashed in the back of Lindsey's truck. His guitar, his spare pair of shit kicking boots. Clothing that's denim, regular cotton, or flannel. Everything else was left behind. Everyone else, too. He's not all that concerned. When he thinks about it, he realizes that there's nothing and no one he'll miss.
At a red light in a shady part of town that he has to pass through to get to the freeway, his focus shifts a little until he's no longer looking out of windshield, but at it. Angel was right about the windshield--his truck was one of the first models that had the wraparound variety. Nifty trivia, but what it means practically is that getting it repaired is almost impossible, and Angel's joyride left it desperately in need of repairing.
Lindsey thought he was going to have to leave the truck behind, because not even the guy at the junkyard was able to track down a replacement. The truck was dry docked up until this afternoon, when he stopped by for a last look and saw the shiny new windshield. There's no question about who did it. Gunn, after all, has a truck of his own that he's damn attached to.
He picks up his cell phone and punches in a number. Gunn answers with a short, "Yeah?"
"It's about simplicity," Lindsey says as he hooks a right turn.
There's a pause, then Gunn's voice sounds again. Dry and amused even through the crackling connection. "Didn't we have this conversation once before? You stank of cheap ass moonshine or something, and you could barely stand. There were words that weren't even words coming out your mouth."
Lindsey remembers. Wishes he didn't, because he knows that muddlededexity isn't even a medical term, much less a word. But half a bottle of--hell, he can't remember what he ordered, but whatever it was, half a bottle of it made him slur and ramble incoherently.
"Well, I'm sober now," Lindsey tells Gunn.
"Want a medal or something?" Gunn asks sarcastically.
"Just listen," Lindsey says easily. "I'm trying to tell you something. It's about simplicity."
There's a quick fade out of sound as Gunn's call waiting sounds, and Gunn asks him to hold. When he comes back on the line, there's something very amused in his voice. "Do you know there's a sign on the back of your truck that's going to get you beaten like your name is Rodney King if you get pulled over?"
"Shit," Lindsey mutters, jerking the wheel to the right and double parking. "What, have you got me bugged?"
"Right. Because I really want to hear you wailing along with some country song while you're driving. Nah, one of my boys who worked on the windshield saw you driving."
"Thanks for that," Lindsey says as he climbs out of the truck.
"Man shouldn't be leaving his truck behind."
To hear him say it, it's like sacrilege of some kind, or--fuck. The sign is big. It looks like a kid wrote it. Lindsey's pretty damn impressed he isn't already living up to Gunn's police brutality scenario.
"It's. About. Simplicity," Lindsey says as he tears the sign off and stows it in the flatbed. And he's really trying to remember the simplicity deal, because right now he's a blotchy mess of aggravated, enraged, amused and a bit reminiscent. All because of that damn sign. Asshole.
"Simplicity," Gunn repeats. "So you've said. A lot. Gonna get any farther this time?"
Lindsey grunts and aims a frustrated kick at the rear tire before glaring at the sign and stalking to the cab of the truck. "When things aren't simple, they're not always complicated," he says, turning the key in the ignition. "Sometimes they're just...muddled."
"That a fact?" Gunn drawls. "Sounds like a fortune cookie."
"Things can seem complicated," Lindsey lectures as he starts driving again. "But that's just because the distractions seem like more than distractions. They're not, though. They're just smoke, and once you clear it out, you see that it's simple--that it never stopped being simple. It's a moment of clarity."
Lindsey doesn't get a reply other than silence. Which is fine, because he knows Gunn gets it. Gets it beyond just understanding it. Gunn's a simple man. Not dumb, or uncomplicated, just simple. He rarely gets distracted by the smoke. Stands perfectly still and sees that moment of clarity around writhing tendrils of smoke. Lindsey, on the other hand, has spent too damn long recently wandering through the haze and trying to grope blindly for that moment.
Angel's probably congratulating himself on showing Lindsey the path, and Lindsey doesn't really care that Angel's taking credit for something he had nothing to do with. In actuality, Angel was the smoke. Angel and Darla and Wolfram & Hart. But Gunn is the take-charge guy at the bar who opens the door for a bit to air out the place, and the credit is his.
A few more turns and Lindsey's coming up on the onramp for the freeway.
"So what you're saying is, it's about clarity," Gunn says eventually.
Lindsey's grinning, and he can't help it. He's got a phone held to his ear with one hand, and is steering with the other. His windshield isn't cracked down the center and threatening to crumble to pieces any second, and Gunn is being Gunn.
"No," he counters. "It's about simplicity."
"Which takes you to clarity," Gunn replies matter-of-factly.
"You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"
"Sweet talker," Gunns says insinuatingly.
Lindsey laughs, and it's a little rusty but he remembers how to do it. He pulls onto the freeway and rolls his shoulders. Almost free. "I'd better ditch the phone. It's company issue," he tells Gunn.
"Take care of that truck," he hears Gunn say. "Had to use all my contacts to track down that windshield for you. Won't be able to get another."
Lindsey doesn't realize he's flexing his fingers until he accidentally hits a button on the phone. "I'll take care of it," he says, then tosses the phone out of the open window before anything else can be said.
.End
Next Story in Series - Roadside Attractions
Series Listing in Memories here.