Fic: Smoke Signals (Smoke and Mirrors #4)
Title: Smoke Signals
Series: Smoke and Mirrors #4
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Gunn/Lindsey
Spoilers/Timeline: Set directly after Epiphany
Note: Thank you to amand_r for the beta.
Summary: Lindsey's all beaten up and Gunn's all confused about what "epiphany" means.
*
Gunn doesn't need the details. He knew all there was to know as soon as he saw Lindsey's truck come through the wall of that house, with Angel at the wheel. Angel and Lindsey are like oil and water. No, worse. Like gas, and a Zippo lighter that doesn't go out until the lid is closed. Except, Angel and Lindsey would rather burn like fools than close the damn lid. And that Zippo? Yeah, doesn't seem to ever run out of butane, no matter how long it's on.
Gunn's not sure which of them he's more frustrated or aggravated with right about now. Wait, no, he does. It's the fool he's looking at right now. The one with blood dripping down his face. The one that looks like he half-fell out of his chair, managed to catch himself, but didn't bother to pick himself all the way back up. Instead, he's clutching to the table in front of him with his one hand.
The stubborn bastard should have gone to a hospital. But, noooo. No, instead he had to come *here*.
"Gunn! I didn't know what else to do..."
He turns his head and reaches out to touch the harried waitress' shoulder. "It's fine, Paula," he says sincerely, squeezing her shoulder and then letting his hand drop when she smiles in relief.
Gunn and Paula are tight acquaintances, since he comes by a couple of times a week for a beer or two. Sometimes Lindsey's there too, but not always. Gunn gave her one of the agency's cards when he found out she walks alone to her car at the end of closing each night.
"Appreciate you calling me, and not the cops." Jerks his head in Lindsey's direction. "When did he get here, and what the hell's he been doing?"
Paula shakes her head, a frown on her face that's a mixture of sympathetic and pissed. "Got here about forty-five minutes ago," she tells Gunn. "And you're looking at what he's been doing. Just...laying there. Mumbling." She raises her brows at Gunn. "Get him out of here. Fast. Bartender said he'd give you five minutes, and that's it."
Gunn presses some cash in Paula's hand as she hurries off. He stays by the door for a moment, and tries to figure out how the hell he's going to get Lindsey out of the bar in five minutes. Because, Lindsey? Stubborn asshole.
Lindsey lifts his head from the table, a cocktail napkin stuck to the blood on his cheek, then slams--oh, hell and *hell*. He slams his *stump* on the battered wood and calls out something about whiskey. In the back of his head, Gunn knows that Lindsey has about zero chance of getting served anything even remotely alcoholic. But in the front of his mind, there's only one thought: no prosthetic. Gunn tosses the idea of a formulating a plan out of his head and strides to the table at the center of the bar.
"Gunn," Lindsey mumbles, his blinking a little funky because there's some blood around his eyes, and it's dried and crusted. "Thought you'd be off kissing Angel's ass."
It makes Gunn hurt to look at him, to watch him try to move, then spasm in pain and draw his stump protectively to his chest. And that last bit? That tells Gunn everything he needs to know about what kind of shape Lindsey's in. Lindsey makes it a point to never, ever draw attention to his missing hand unless it's to make some nasty dig at someone.
Gunn has to take a deep, deep breath. And he has to close his eyes for a second. Because now is not the time for him to go apeshit. Now is the time for getting mule headed lawyers who are beaten the *fuck* up to agree to leave bars. Later Gunn can think about what it means that Angel's had this epiphany, and is supposedly back to his good old self, yet still went ahead and did this to someone.
"Hail, Angel. He who screws everyone over, and always comes out smelling like roses," Lindsey continues. The bitterness in his voice cuts through everything for Gunn.
"Where's your prosthetic?" he asks Lindsey brusquely, bending down to look under the table.
"Four corners of the earth," Lindsey replies angrily. "Bastard smashed it to pieces before he stole my truck."
Gunn stands up straight, and he doesn't let himself react outwardly to that, but inwardly? He's thinking they don't make epiphanies like they used to.
"Get up," he tells Lindsey, hand stretching out to pull the napkin from Lindsey's cheek and drop it on the table. "We've got about ninety seconds before they call the cops."
Lindsey finally jerks himself into a sitting position, and slumps against the back of the chair. "Let them," he bites out. "I'd rather deal with the police than have you pick up where your boss left off." He smiles at Gunn, and it's not pretty. At all. "Some of my blood on your hands. Tribute for your returning god? Screw that."
There are muscles in his body that Gunn never before knew he had, but he knows about them now. Because every single one of them tenses up painfully before he grabs a hold of Lindsey's flannel shirt and jerks the other man to his feet.
Lindsey's eyes darken, and there's no surprise in them. None at all. Gunn brings his face close, keeps his eyes on Lindsey's. The other man is barely struggling. Would probably hurt himself a hell of a lot less if he didn't do it at all. But that's Lindsey. Everything has to be a fight and a struggle, and Gunn is so damn sick of it.
"Where. Are. We?" Gunn asks clearly.
"The bar," Lindsey spits at him.
Gunn nods. "That's right. And why the hell am I here?"
Lindsey's face draws in, becoming something petulant that Gunn used to see on Alonna before she gave him some smart mouthed answer.
"And so help me," Gunn goes on before Lindsey can say anything. "If you say anything about blood for Angel, I will call the damn cops myself." Lindsey glares at him, and Gunn pulls him a little closer. "Why am I here?"
"How the hell should I know?" Lindsey growls, trying to pull away. "It's always about Angel, though."
Gunn doesn't let him go, but he doesn't struggle back, either. For Lindsey it's always about aggression. About violence and anger. Gunn's been there, and he knows what it's like. He also knows that, at the end of the day? It doesn't get a person anywhere but where Lindsey is right now: bleeding and *still* angry.
"Don't," Gunn says quietly, firmly. "Don't pull stuff in that's never been here, Linds. I mean it. Paula called. That's why I'm here."
Lindsey eyes him suspiciously for a long moment, his expression challenging. Something like a minute goes by, and then Lindsey suddenly looks exhausted. And in serious pain. Gunn lets go of his shirt, then steadies him when he sways.
"Need help getting out of here?" Gunn asks casually.
Lindsey shakes his head, but the motion almost topples him. Gunn snorts in exasperation, then hooks Lindsey's left arm around his shoulders, holds the other man up with an arm across his back. Drags him to the door, and Paula's there to hold it open.
Gunn comes to a stop. "Thanks, Paula," he says. "We owe you."
"No problem, Gunn," she replies. "You take care, Lindsey."
Lindsey rouses himself from his pity party long enough to grunt a thank you to Paula, and Gunn wonders if maybe the rest of this messy night might go a little smoother than the first part of it. He has to change his mind about that when Lindsey leans over and pukes all over the sidewalk, two feet from the bar.
"Concussion," he says after he's done.
"No shit," Gunn sighs. "Any more left to come out?"
"No."
"Right. My truck's across the street. We'll get your ass to the hospital."
Gunn starts to move forward, but Lindsey's not budging. Sure bet what's about to come out of his mouth.
"No hospital."
Too bad Gunn didn't bet anyone. "Right," he says again. "Can we--is it safe to go to your place?" Lindsey tenses and Gunn sighs. "It's not safe, then."
"I don't want to go there," Lindsey whispers. He gestures awkwardly, angrily, at himself with the stump. "Not like this."
He lifts his face up, and Gunn knows what he means. Sees it in the softness that Lindsey can't hide. Lindsey doesn't want to walk back into the memories vulnerable. It's a pride thing, like it usually is with Lindsey. Even with Gunn, too, though he likes to think he has more common sense than the lawyer.
"You don't have to," he assures Lindsey. "We'll swing by a drug store. Grab some stuff. Hit a hotel." Raises a brow at Lindsey and grins. "Notice I said 'hotel' and not 'motel'," he drawls as they start to cross the street. "Means you're paying, so I don't want to hear anything about your wallet conveniently falling out of your pocket, you hear?"
Lindsey makes a sputtering noise, and Gunn chooses to think it's some kind of laughter, rather than a sob. Much easier for him to deal with graveside laughter than crying. Bundles Lindsey into his truck, and he's done enough of this kind of stuff that he doesn't even wince when Lindsey lets out a hissed breath of pain. Not possible to get the other man in without it happening, and Gunn damn well knows it.
He slams the door harder than he intended to, then walks around to the driver's side. Stares through the window at Lindsey's battered form and wonders if this is really how the good guys are supposed to act. Fuck that Lindsey has been a thorn in their side. Fuck that Angel and Lindsey within ten feet of one another are just an explosion waiting to happen. Fuck that Lindsey works for Wolfram & Hart.
Because what Gunn sees in the passenger seat of his truck is...a man who's been beaten to a pulp by Angel. A *human* man. And Angel's more than human. Or less. Whatever. The point is, he's stronger and faster and a hell of a lot older. He's a *champion*. If this is what a champion's supposed to do, then what is it that Gunn should be doing? Leaving Lindsey collapsed on some sticky bar table? Enjoying another victory with the others? Tending wounds on Angel that'll heal in two hours?
His focus pulls back, and he's looking at his reflection in the glass. That's the question, and Gunn realizes it's not about whether or not he's gone gray around the edges. It's about whether or not he's so far down in the trenches that *all* that matters is black or white.
Because in the black and white? Lindsey would be getting manhandled into a squad car right about now while Gunn sat around with Wesley and Cordelia, discussing Angel's latest about-face.
But standing there, Gunn doesn't feel like he's in the gray. Just feels like he's doing the right thing. And he wonders if maybe the right thing isn't always as easy to define as he used to think it was.
***
Showering with Gunn. Not something Lindsey's done before. He really wishes he wasn't about to pass out from pain and stupidity so that he could actually enjoy it. Since he is about to, though, he makes do with leaning back on Gunn's chest and marveling at how Gunn running a washcloth over his ribs doesn't hurt like hell.
Then again, that doesn't really require any marveling at all when Lindsey thinks about it. Gunn has feathered his fingers across Lindsey's flesh as often as he's grabbed at it. Looks down at Gunn's long fingers, one set splayed low on Lindsey's abdomen to hold him up, the other brushing the white washcloth along Lindsey's pecs. Lifts his right arm and stares at the place where his wrist just...stops.
"What did I tell you?" Gunn says into his ear, his voice silky smooth and tumbling over Lindsey like that washcloth on his busted ribs. "Eyes straight ahead. Better yet, just close them. Don't need them right now."
No, Lindsey doesn't really need them. He's not doing anything but being propped up and washed. Like a goddamn baby or something. He tries to pull away, but Gunn's grip at his abdomen tightens in a warning. Nothing else is needed. He knows that if he keeps it up, Gunn will hook a leg around his own and bring him down in the hotel bathtub.
Just like he yanked Lindsey to his feet and forced him to remember that the bar was a neutral zone. Switzerland to their Angel Investigations and Wolfram & Hart.
It's a sad commentary on Lindsey's life that there's no one else he can think of who puts Lindsey's good ahead of *anything* else, much less Lindsey's own self-destructive habits. He laughs bitterly, and there's a breath of air by his ear that is Gunn sighing.
"I don't even want to know what's got you laughing," Gunn tells him in annoyance.
No, he really doesn't. If Gunn knew that he was the only damn person in Lindsey's life recently who didn't have some kind of ulterior motive for being there...well, Lindsey thinks he might have a Gunn-shaped roommate. Which isn't something horrible to consider, but is something that smacks too much of pity and extenuating circumstances--on both sides--for Lindsey to seriously consider.
And actually, considering anything seems like too much work all of a sudden. So he closes his eyes like Gunn instructed, and leans back even more.
There isn't any cooing or murmuring, or anything resembling a soft moment coming from Gunn. There's just annoyance, an unspoken "you should have known better" and a concern that's roughed up by aggravation.
Which is really all that Lindsey deserves for his asinine actions. Confronting Angel like that? Not even close to the smartest thing he's ever done, even if he did have a sledgehammer at the time. Because, when he thinks about it now that it's all been said and done, sledgehammer wielding human versus two hundred and forty-plus year old vampire leaves the vampire on the winning end. So damn obviously that Lindsey wonders how it didn't jump out at him before.
Gunn turns him around, presses his hands against Lindsey's shoulder, and suddenly Lindsey is sitting on the edge of the bathtub.
Searches out Gunn's eyes, and sees something angry and worried in them. Lindsey isn't sure if Gunn's mad at him, but he doesn't think so. If that anger was directed at Lindsey, he'd still be in the bar right now, instead of sitting on cold porcelain with Gunn tilting his head up and washing away the blood that collected. Gunn's easy to know in some ways. Hell, in all ways, actually. Which means that the worry is because Lindsey can't stand up on his own right now. Shit.
"I'm fine," he tells Gunn, brushing the cloth away from his face.
Gunn settles back on his haunches, an amazing feat on the slippery bathtub surface, and regards Lindsey with, at first, an arched brow. But then his face shifts, until Lindsey is facing a man with nothing to hide, with spatters of shower spray raining down on him.
"Just let me, all right?" Gunn says quietly. "Just let me..."
And maybe it isn't so much all about Lindsey as it is about Gunn, too. Lindsey wonders why Gunn's additional motives don't chafe the way others' do. Thinks it's because Gunn doesn't focus on the motives, just on the moment. Is focusing just on Lindsey right now, even if in the back of his mind he's wondering about what brought Lindsey to this moment. What brought Angel to bring Lindsey to this moment. What brought Gunn to helping Lindsey after Angel brought--hell, his head is starting to pound.
Nothing is ever easy and simple. Lindsey's known that for years. But Gunn makes it seem that way, even if he's concurrently wondering why things are so complicated. Gunn makes it appear that the lead up is separate from the climax. Maybe it is. Maybe moments are just circles of smoke, only barely attached to one another by lingering, easily dissipating tendrils of smoke.
Or maybe he's just half out of his mind from pain. That's probably it.
Gunn doesn't wash his hair, and Lindsey's grateful for that. Lets Gunn maneuver him into a standing position, then cooperates with Gunn's prodding nudges to step over the bathtub ledge and onto a bath mat.
Before Lindsey realizes what's happened, he's been dried off, and there's a towel around his waist. Gunn's too.
"Come on, lawyer boy," Gunn drawls, opening the door into the sleeping area.
Patching up Lindsey only takes half an hour, and that's because Gunn knows what the hell he's doing. Slaps some butterfly bandages across a few cuts, leaves others to heal on their own, wraps some industrial strength tape around Lindsey's ribs.
"How's that feel?" Gunn asks as he cuts the tape with a pair of sewing scissors he liberated from the complimentary sewing kit in the bathroom.
Lindsey takes an experimental breath, decides the binding and pain are at the exact right levels and tells Gunn, "Perfect."
Then Gunn overturns a bottle of ibuprofen and offers Lindsey six of them and a glass of water. Lindsey scoops the pills out of Gunn's hand, sets them on his tongue, then reaches for the glass. They go down harshly, the coating seeped away to something bitter as the pills sat on his tongue, and it takes work to convince them to slide back to his throat.
"Thanks," he says awkwardly, handing the glass back to Gunn, who stands up from his position crouched in front of Lindsey, and sets it on the end table by the bed. "You don't have to stay."
Gunn tilts his head to the side. "I know," he says steadily. "But I want to. That okay with you?" He looks around the suite and grins. "Lot fancier than my digs, that's for sure. Plus--cable. Always a bonus."
Lindsey grins back at him. "Stay as long as you want," he tells Gunn. And he means it. Would leave his credit card on reserve if Gunn asked. Which he won't. Which Lindsey thinks says more about Gunn than words ever could. Which is what Lindsey appreciates the most about Gunn.
And, hell, there goes his head again. Too much thinking is bound to do that, even when Lindsey hasn't just been creamed by the looming, vitamin D deficient caveman that is Angel. And, shit, it's really bright in the room.
"Can we turn off some of the lights?" he asks Gunn gruffly, squinting.
"Yeah. I just needed them to see all the damage. Gimme a sec."
Gunn adjusts his towel around his waist, then moves around the room with a grace that Lindsey can't stop watching. Fluid. Alive. Easy. He turns off all but the bathroom light, which casts the sleeping area in dim shadows.
"You realize you can't sleep, right?" Gunn comments as he walks to the armoire across from the bed and opens the two doors. The television comes into view as Lindsey mumbles that he knows he can't sleep, what with the concussion and all.
Gunn tunes the television in to a comedy channel, then comes back to the bed Lindsey's perched on. Tosses the towel aside, then drapes himself across the bed, head lifted up by two hotel pillows.
There's a lot of the jungle cat in Gunn, from his long limbs, to the easy grace, to the sleepy eyes he turns on Lindsey.
"Appreciate the once over," he says with satisfaction, brown eyes glittering. "Really. It's good for the ego. But you're in no shape. Watch the funny movie and try to stay awake. Look, there's talking animals."
Lindsey turns to the television, and realizes Gunn wasn't joking. Blinks twice and shakes his head. "Jesus, that's creepy. Just...creepy."
"Nah. Not like it used to be. That computer stuff's come a long way." Lindsey turns and looks at him again, and Gunn pats the space next to him. "Move on up. You look uncomfortable down there." A beat. "Also, your head's square in my way."
Lindsey rolls his eyes and begins the process of crawling/dragging himself up the bed. He's breathing heavily by the time he flops down next to Gunn, half on his side, half on his face. The towel is tangled somewhere around his knees, and Gunn jerks it off in one swift motion.
"Patched into the television through that pillow?" Gunn asks with amusement.
Lindsey pulls his good hand out from where it's trapped until his thigh, gives Gunn the finger. "Think I'll stay here for a while," he says, words muffled against the pillowcase.
"Suit yourself. But you're missing some damn good acting by Mr. Tinkles."
"I'm dying from the regret," Lindsey drawls sarcastically.
"And I've got to wonder," Gunn goes on, a know-it-all tone in his voice, "just how long you'll last before your ribs start bitching about you laying on them."
Lindsey's life abides by every one of Murphy's Laws, and everything about tonight lives up to it. The second the last word is out of Gunn's mouth, Lindsey's ribs start screaming at him like a goddamn banshee.
Tries to push himself up, but he's positioned such that he actually needs a hand on his right side to get any leverage. Sinks down against the mattress and decides to just stay where the fuck he is, screaming ribs be damned.
There's a dizzying motion, and he's suddenly sprawled on his back, Gunn looking down at him with amusement.
"Stubborn fool," he pronounces, shaking his head, before sitting up and facing the television again. "Watch the evil kitty."
And really, that's all there is. It takes a moment before it sinks in, but it does sink in.
Get beaten up. Get patched up. Watch the evil kitty.
The 1-2-3s of Gunn, right there, while for Lindsey it's 1-1.25-1.5-1.75-2. With a hell of a lot more in between one and two. Every miniscule thing brought up for examination and inspection before it needs to be. Everything on the table at once, so that Lindsey doesn't even know where to focus first.
But it's like three little smoke circles for Gunn right now, and somewhere down the line there'll be more--so barely connected to the first three that they might as well be their own set. All broken down and easy to see and deal with.
Lindsey's not sure that's something he can do, but for the moment he doesn't have to. All he's got to do is lie back and watch the evil kitty. That's kind of doable right now. In fact, it's about all he can do right now.
.End
Next Story in Series - Miasma
Series Listing in Memories here.
Series: Smoke and Mirrors #4
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Gunn/Lindsey
Spoilers/Timeline: Set directly after Epiphany
Note: Thank you to amand_r for the beta.
Summary: Lindsey's all beaten up and Gunn's all confused about what "epiphany" means.
*
Gunn doesn't need the details. He knew all there was to know as soon as he saw Lindsey's truck come through the wall of that house, with Angel at the wheel. Angel and Lindsey are like oil and water. No, worse. Like gas, and a Zippo lighter that doesn't go out until the lid is closed. Except, Angel and Lindsey would rather burn like fools than close the damn lid. And that Zippo? Yeah, doesn't seem to ever run out of butane, no matter how long it's on.
Gunn's not sure which of them he's more frustrated or aggravated with right about now. Wait, no, he does. It's the fool he's looking at right now. The one with blood dripping down his face. The one that looks like he half-fell out of his chair, managed to catch himself, but didn't bother to pick himself all the way back up. Instead, he's clutching to the table in front of him with his one hand.
The stubborn bastard should have gone to a hospital. But, noooo. No, instead he had to come *here*.
"Gunn! I didn't know what else to do..."
He turns his head and reaches out to touch the harried waitress' shoulder. "It's fine, Paula," he says sincerely, squeezing her shoulder and then letting his hand drop when she smiles in relief.
Gunn and Paula are tight acquaintances, since he comes by a couple of times a week for a beer or two. Sometimes Lindsey's there too, but not always. Gunn gave her one of the agency's cards when he found out she walks alone to her car at the end of closing each night.
"Appreciate you calling me, and not the cops." Jerks his head in Lindsey's direction. "When did he get here, and what the hell's he been doing?"
Paula shakes her head, a frown on her face that's a mixture of sympathetic and pissed. "Got here about forty-five minutes ago," she tells Gunn. "And you're looking at what he's been doing. Just...laying there. Mumbling." She raises her brows at Gunn. "Get him out of here. Fast. Bartender said he'd give you five minutes, and that's it."
Gunn presses some cash in Paula's hand as she hurries off. He stays by the door for a moment, and tries to figure out how the hell he's going to get Lindsey out of the bar in five minutes. Because, Lindsey? Stubborn asshole.
Lindsey lifts his head from the table, a cocktail napkin stuck to the blood on his cheek, then slams--oh, hell and *hell*. He slams his *stump* on the battered wood and calls out something about whiskey. In the back of his head, Gunn knows that Lindsey has about zero chance of getting served anything even remotely alcoholic. But in the front of his mind, there's only one thought: no prosthetic. Gunn tosses the idea of a formulating a plan out of his head and strides to the table at the center of the bar.
"Gunn," Lindsey mumbles, his blinking a little funky because there's some blood around his eyes, and it's dried and crusted. "Thought you'd be off kissing Angel's ass."
It makes Gunn hurt to look at him, to watch him try to move, then spasm in pain and draw his stump protectively to his chest. And that last bit? That tells Gunn everything he needs to know about what kind of shape Lindsey's in. Lindsey makes it a point to never, ever draw attention to his missing hand unless it's to make some nasty dig at someone.
Gunn has to take a deep, deep breath. And he has to close his eyes for a second. Because now is not the time for him to go apeshit. Now is the time for getting mule headed lawyers who are beaten the *fuck* up to agree to leave bars. Later Gunn can think about what it means that Angel's had this epiphany, and is supposedly back to his good old self, yet still went ahead and did this to someone.
"Hail, Angel. He who screws everyone over, and always comes out smelling like roses," Lindsey continues. The bitterness in his voice cuts through everything for Gunn.
"Where's your prosthetic?" he asks Lindsey brusquely, bending down to look under the table.
"Four corners of the earth," Lindsey replies angrily. "Bastard smashed it to pieces before he stole my truck."
Gunn stands up straight, and he doesn't let himself react outwardly to that, but inwardly? He's thinking they don't make epiphanies like they used to.
"Get up," he tells Lindsey, hand stretching out to pull the napkin from Lindsey's cheek and drop it on the table. "We've got about ninety seconds before they call the cops."
Lindsey finally jerks himself into a sitting position, and slumps against the back of the chair. "Let them," he bites out. "I'd rather deal with the police than have you pick up where your boss left off." He smiles at Gunn, and it's not pretty. At all. "Some of my blood on your hands. Tribute for your returning god? Screw that."
There are muscles in his body that Gunn never before knew he had, but he knows about them now. Because every single one of them tenses up painfully before he grabs a hold of Lindsey's flannel shirt and jerks the other man to his feet.
Lindsey's eyes darken, and there's no surprise in them. None at all. Gunn brings his face close, keeps his eyes on Lindsey's. The other man is barely struggling. Would probably hurt himself a hell of a lot less if he didn't do it at all. But that's Lindsey. Everything has to be a fight and a struggle, and Gunn is so damn sick of it.
"Where. Are. We?" Gunn asks clearly.
"The bar," Lindsey spits at him.
Gunn nods. "That's right. And why the hell am I here?"
Lindsey's face draws in, becoming something petulant that Gunn used to see on Alonna before she gave him some smart mouthed answer.
"And so help me," Gunn goes on before Lindsey can say anything. "If you say anything about blood for Angel, I will call the damn cops myself." Lindsey glares at him, and Gunn pulls him a little closer. "Why am I here?"
"How the hell should I know?" Lindsey growls, trying to pull away. "It's always about Angel, though."
Gunn doesn't let him go, but he doesn't struggle back, either. For Lindsey it's always about aggression. About violence and anger. Gunn's been there, and he knows what it's like. He also knows that, at the end of the day? It doesn't get a person anywhere but where Lindsey is right now: bleeding and *still* angry.
"Don't," Gunn says quietly, firmly. "Don't pull stuff in that's never been here, Linds. I mean it. Paula called. That's why I'm here."
Lindsey eyes him suspiciously for a long moment, his expression challenging. Something like a minute goes by, and then Lindsey suddenly looks exhausted. And in serious pain. Gunn lets go of his shirt, then steadies him when he sways.
"Need help getting out of here?" Gunn asks casually.
Lindsey shakes his head, but the motion almost topples him. Gunn snorts in exasperation, then hooks Lindsey's left arm around his shoulders, holds the other man up with an arm across his back. Drags him to the door, and Paula's there to hold it open.
Gunn comes to a stop. "Thanks, Paula," he says. "We owe you."
"No problem, Gunn," she replies. "You take care, Lindsey."
Lindsey rouses himself from his pity party long enough to grunt a thank you to Paula, and Gunn wonders if maybe the rest of this messy night might go a little smoother than the first part of it. He has to change his mind about that when Lindsey leans over and pukes all over the sidewalk, two feet from the bar.
"Concussion," he says after he's done.
"No shit," Gunn sighs. "Any more left to come out?"
"No."
"Right. My truck's across the street. We'll get your ass to the hospital."
Gunn starts to move forward, but Lindsey's not budging. Sure bet what's about to come out of his mouth.
"No hospital."
Too bad Gunn didn't bet anyone. "Right," he says again. "Can we--is it safe to go to your place?" Lindsey tenses and Gunn sighs. "It's not safe, then."
"I don't want to go there," Lindsey whispers. He gestures awkwardly, angrily, at himself with the stump. "Not like this."
He lifts his face up, and Gunn knows what he means. Sees it in the softness that Lindsey can't hide. Lindsey doesn't want to walk back into the memories vulnerable. It's a pride thing, like it usually is with Lindsey. Even with Gunn, too, though he likes to think he has more common sense than the lawyer.
"You don't have to," he assures Lindsey. "We'll swing by a drug store. Grab some stuff. Hit a hotel." Raises a brow at Lindsey and grins. "Notice I said 'hotel' and not 'motel'," he drawls as they start to cross the street. "Means you're paying, so I don't want to hear anything about your wallet conveniently falling out of your pocket, you hear?"
Lindsey makes a sputtering noise, and Gunn chooses to think it's some kind of laughter, rather than a sob. Much easier for him to deal with graveside laughter than crying. Bundles Lindsey into his truck, and he's done enough of this kind of stuff that he doesn't even wince when Lindsey lets out a hissed breath of pain. Not possible to get the other man in without it happening, and Gunn damn well knows it.
He slams the door harder than he intended to, then walks around to the driver's side. Stares through the window at Lindsey's battered form and wonders if this is really how the good guys are supposed to act. Fuck that Lindsey has been a thorn in their side. Fuck that Angel and Lindsey within ten feet of one another are just an explosion waiting to happen. Fuck that Lindsey works for Wolfram & Hart.
Because what Gunn sees in the passenger seat of his truck is...a man who's been beaten to a pulp by Angel. A *human* man. And Angel's more than human. Or less. Whatever. The point is, he's stronger and faster and a hell of a lot older. He's a *champion*. If this is what a champion's supposed to do, then what is it that Gunn should be doing? Leaving Lindsey collapsed on some sticky bar table? Enjoying another victory with the others? Tending wounds on Angel that'll heal in two hours?
His focus pulls back, and he's looking at his reflection in the glass. That's the question, and Gunn realizes it's not about whether or not he's gone gray around the edges. It's about whether or not he's so far down in the trenches that *all* that matters is black or white.
Because in the black and white? Lindsey would be getting manhandled into a squad car right about now while Gunn sat around with Wesley and Cordelia, discussing Angel's latest about-face.
But standing there, Gunn doesn't feel like he's in the gray. Just feels like he's doing the right thing. And he wonders if maybe the right thing isn't always as easy to define as he used to think it was.
***
Showering with Gunn. Not something Lindsey's done before. He really wishes he wasn't about to pass out from pain and stupidity so that he could actually enjoy it. Since he is about to, though, he makes do with leaning back on Gunn's chest and marveling at how Gunn running a washcloth over his ribs doesn't hurt like hell.
Then again, that doesn't really require any marveling at all when Lindsey thinks about it. Gunn has feathered his fingers across Lindsey's flesh as often as he's grabbed at it. Looks down at Gunn's long fingers, one set splayed low on Lindsey's abdomen to hold him up, the other brushing the white washcloth along Lindsey's pecs. Lifts his right arm and stares at the place where his wrist just...stops.
"What did I tell you?" Gunn says into his ear, his voice silky smooth and tumbling over Lindsey like that washcloth on his busted ribs. "Eyes straight ahead. Better yet, just close them. Don't need them right now."
No, Lindsey doesn't really need them. He's not doing anything but being propped up and washed. Like a goddamn baby or something. He tries to pull away, but Gunn's grip at his abdomen tightens in a warning. Nothing else is needed. He knows that if he keeps it up, Gunn will hook a leg around his own and bring him down in the hotel bathtub.
Just like he yanked Lindsey to his feet and forced him to remember that the bar was a neutral zone. Switzerland to their Angel Investigations and Wolfram & Hart.
It's a sad commentary on Lindsey's life that there's no one else he can think of who puts Lindsey's good ahead of *anything* else, much less Lindsey's own self-destructive habits. He laughs bitterly, and there's a breath of air by his ear that is Gunn sighing.
"I don't even want to know what's got you laughing," Gunn tells him in annoyance.
No, he really doesn't. If Gunn knew that he was the only damn person in Lindsey's life recently who didn't have some kind of ulterior motive for being there...well, Lindsey thinks he might have a Gunn-shaped roommate. Which isn't something horrible to consider, but is something that smacks too much of pity and extenuating circumstances--on both sides--for Lindsey to seriously consider.
And actually, considering anything seems like too much work all of a sudden. So he closes his eyes like Gunn instructed, and leans back even more.
There isn't any cooing or murmuring, or anything resembling a soft moment coming from Gunn. There's just annoyance, an unspoken "you should have known better" and a concern that's roughed up by aggravation.
Which is really all that Lindsey deserves for his asinine actions. Confronting Angel like that? Not even close to the smartest thing he's ever done, even if he did have a sledgehammer at the time. Because, when he thinks about it now that it's all been said and done, sledgehammer wielding human versus two hundred and forty-plus year old vampire leaves the vampire on the winning end. So damn obviously that Lindsey wonders how it didn't jump out at him before.
Gunn turns him around, presses his hands against Lindsey's shoulder, and suddenly Lindsey is sitting on the edge of the bathtub.
Searches out Gunn's eyes, and sees something angry and worried in them. Lindsey isn't sure if Gunn's mad at him, but he doesn't think so. If that anger was directed at Lindsey, he'd still be in the bar right now, instead of sitting on cold porcelain with Gunn tilting his head up and washing away the blood that collected. Gunn's easy to know in some ways. Hell, in all ways, actually. Which means that the worry is because Lindsey can't stand up on his own right now. Shit.
"I'm fine," he tells Gunn, brushing the cloth away from his face.
Gunn settles back on his haunches, an amazing feat on the slippery bathtub surface, and regards Lindsey with, at first, an arched brow. But then his face shifts, until Lindsey is facing a man with nothing to hide, with spatters of shower spray raining down on him.
"Just let me, all right?" Gunn says quietly. "Just let me..."
And maybe it isn't so much all about Lindsey as it is about Gunn, too. Lindsey wonders why Gunn's additional motives don't chafe the way others' do. Thinks it's because Gunn doesn't focus on the motives, just on the moment. Is focusing just on Lindsey right now, even if in the back of his mind he's wondering about what brought Lindsey to this moment. What brought Angel to bring Lindsey to this moment. What brought Gunn to helping Lindsey after Angel brought--hell, his head is starting to pound.
Nothing is ever easy and simple. Lindsey's known that for years. But Gunn makes it seem that way, even if he's concurrently wondering why things are so complicated. Gunn makes it appear that the lead up is separate from the climax. Maybe it is. Maybe moments are just circles of smoke, only barely attached to one another by lingering, easily dissipating tendrils of smoke.
Or maybe he's just half out of his mind from pain. That's probably it.
Gunn doesn't wash his hair, and Lindsey's grateful for that. Lets Gunn maneuver him into a standing position, then cooperates with Gunn's prodding nudges to step over the bathtub ledge and onto a bath mat.
Before Lindsey realizes what's happened, he's been dried off, and there's a towel around his waist. Gunn's too.
"Come on, lawyer boy," Gunn drawls, opening the door into the sleeping area.
Patching up Lindsey only takes half an hour, and that's because Gunn knows what the hell he's doing. Slaps some butterfly bandages across a few cuts, leaves others to heal on their own, wraps some industrial strength tape around Lindsey's ribs.
"How's that feel?" Gunn asks as he cuts the tape with a pair of sewing scissors he liberated from the complimentary sewing kit in the bathroom.
Lindsey takes an experimental breath, decides the binding and pain are at the exact right levels and tells Gunn, "Perfect."
Then Gunn overturns a bottle of ibuprofen and offers Lindsey six of them and a glass of water. Lindsey scoops the pills out of Gunn's hand, sets them on his tongue, then reaches for the glass. They go down harshly, the coating seeped away to something bitter as the pills sat on his tongue, and it takes work to convince them to slide back to his throat.
"Thanks," he says awkwardly, handing the glass back to Gunn, who stands up from his position crouched in front of Lindsey, and sets it on the end table by the bed. "You don't have to stay."
Gunn tilts his head to the side. "I know," he says steadily. "But I want to. That okay with you?" He looks around the suite and grins. "Lot fancier than my digs, that's for sure. Plus--cable. Always a bonus."
Lindsey grins back at him. "Stay as long as you want," he tells Gunn. And he means it. Would leave his credit card on reserve if Gunn asked. Which he won't. Which Lindsey thinks says more about Gunn than words ever could. Which is what Lindsey appreciates the most about Gunn.
And, hell, there goes his head again. Too much thinking is bound to do that, even when Lindsey hasn't just been creamed by the looming, vitamin D deficient caveman that is Angel. And, shit, it's really bright in the room.
"Can we turn off some of the lights?" he asks Gunn gruffly, squinting.
"Yeah. I just needed them to see all the damage. Gimme a sec."
Gunn adjusts his towel around his waist, then moves around the room with a grace that Lindsey can't stop watching. Fluid. Alive. Easy. He turns off all but the bathroom light, which casts the sleeping area in dim shadows.
"You realize you can't sleep, right?" Gunn comments as he walks to the armoire across from the bed and opens the two doors. The television comes into view as Lindsey mumbles that he knows he can't sleep, what with the concussion and all.
Gunn tunes the television in to a comedy channel, then comes back to the bed Lindsey's perched on. Tosses the towel aside, then drapes himself across the bed, head lifted up by two hotel pillows.
There's a lot of the jungle cat in Gunn, from his long limbs, to the easy grace, to the sleepy eyes he turns on Lindsey.
"Appreciate the once over," he says with satisfaction, brown eyes glittering. "Really. It's good for the ego. But you're in no shape. Watch the funny movie and try to stay awake. Look, there's talking animals."
Lindsey turns to the television, and realizes Gunn wasn't joking. Blinks twice and shakes his head. "Jesus, that's creepy. Just...creepy."
"Nah. Not like it used to be. That computer stuff's come a long way." Lindsey turns and looks at him again, and Gunn pats the space next to him. "Move on up. You look uncomfortable down there." A beat. "Also, your head's square in my way."
Lindsey rolls his eyes and begins the process of crawling/dragging himself up the bed. He's breathing heavily by the time he flops down next to Gunn, half on his side, half on his face. The towel is tangled somewhere around his knees, and Gunn jerks it off in one swift motion.
"Patched into the television through that pillow?" Gunn asks with amusement.
Lindsey pulls his good hand out from where it's trapped until his thigh, gives Gunn the finger. "Think I'll stay here for a while," he says, words muffled against the pillowcase.
"Suit yourself. But you're missing some damn good acting by Mr. Tinkles."
"I'm dying from the regret," Lindsey drawls sarcastically.
"And I've got to wonder," Gunn goes on, a know-it-all tone in his voice, "just how long you'll last before your ribs start bitching about you laying on them."
Lindsey's life abides by every one of Murphy's Laws, and everything about tonight lives up to it. The second the last word is out of Gunn's mouth, Lindsey's ribs start screaming at him like a goddamn banshee.
Tries to push himself up, but he's positioned such that he actually needs a hand on his right side to get any leverage. Sinks down against the mattress and decides to just stay where the fuck he is, screaming ribs be damned.
There's a dizzying motion, and he's suddenly sprawled on his back, Gunn looking down at him with amusement.
"Stubborn fool," he pronounces, shaking his head, before sitting up and facing the television again. "Watch the evil kitty."
And really, that's all there is. It takes a moment before it sinks in, but it does sink in.
Get beaten up. Get patched up. Watch the evil kitty.
The 1-2-3s of Gunn, right there, while for Lindsey it's 1-1.25-1.5-1.75-2. With a hell of a lot more in between one and two. Every miniscule thing brought up for examination and inspection before it needs to be. Everything on the table at once, so that Lindsey doesn't even know where to focus first.
But it's like three little smoke circles for Gunn right now, and somewhere down the line there'll be more--so barely connected to the first three that they might as well be their own set. All broken down and easy to see and deal with.
Lindsey's not sure that's something he can do, but for the moment he doesn't have to. All he's got to do is lie back and watch the evil kitty. That's kind of doable right now. In fact, it's about all he can do right now.
.End
Next Story in Series - Miasma
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