Author ~ OneTwoMany ~ website ~ journal
Title ~ A Few Miles East of Happiness
Rating ~ R
Timeline ~ Spoilers to the end of s4.
Author's notes ~Challenge:
Story written for ~ D. M. Evans
Two requirements ~ Lindsey, Connor
Two restrictions (optional) ~ No Slash, no C/A
Spoiler level ~ Unrestricted
Rating level ~ Unrestricted
A FEW MILES EAST OF HAPPINESS
"Mr McDonald?"
A teenage voice, earnest and cautious, accompanied by a knock on the passenger window. Lindsey turns to see a wide, pale face, smudged slightly through the glass. Leaning over, he pushes open the door to his old pick-up truck.
The kid leans in, the sizzling heat surging past him.
"Yeah, that’s me."
A broad smile. "Hey, I’m Connor."
The kid sticks out a sweaty hand, and Lindsey shakes it reluctantly, gives the boy the once-over. No surprises here. Dark hair, striped T-shirt, heavy boots and a tattered rucksack. Designer post-grunge chaos. He’s every inch the typical student, hitching home for the summer, willing to accept a cheap lift from a near stranger.
Lindsey forces a smile, as welcoming as he can manage. "Great. Hop on in, then."
"Cool," Connor says, and leaps into the seat with far too much grace and energy for these sweltering conditions. It’s only June and the temperatures were already soaring. The whole South feels like it’s melting.
Hell on Earth; and Lindsey can’t help but worry that it’s a taste of what’s to come.
"Definitely not cool." He replies.
"Yeah, well, I mean thanks for giving me a ride. Thought I’d be stuck in Dallas forever."
Another smile. It’s wide, full of teeth and leaks into the kid’s eyes. Strange eyes, dark and brown and a flash of something that sends a quivery tingle down Lindsey’s back. He stomps on the feeling, hard. Two years away from Wolfram and Hart, and still he can’t shake the lingering paranoia and neurosis.
He closes his eyes for a second, takes a breath, reassures himself that it’s okay to have company.
"No trouble," He says finally. "Seeing how we’re both heading for LA."
"Yes, sir."
"’Lindsey’ is fine."
Connor looks uncertain for a moment then nods. "Right. Lindsey then."
And that’s that. Introductions and attempts at niceties over, Lindsey pulls out and into the traffic.
"Nice truck." Connor says enthusiastically.
Lindsey doesn’t think he’s joking, but he’s not quite ready to take that risk. "It’ll get us from A to B."
"I wanted a truck, but Dad said it was impractical in city traffic. And expensive, I guess. So I have The Bomb, which isn’t a bad car but there’s no way it’d get across the whole country…"
Great. A talker.
Lindsey spares a quick glance at his companion. The kid’s got floppy hair and doe-brown eyes; runs his mouth, but still carries solemn intensity that’s oddly familiar. He is glancing around the car and out at the traffic in turn, gaze filled with a keen intensity, even as his mouth works a million miles a minute.
"You from LA?" Connor’s asks finally, apparently having tired of talk about The Bomb.
"Yeah…Worked there for a bit."
Worked there for much too long.
Connor nods, waits as if expecting a reciprocal question, then answers anyway. "It’s my home. At least, my family is there."
Lindsay nods, then pointedly reaches over to flick on the radio. They’ve got one and a half thousands miles of traveling ahead of them. Plenty of time to get to know each other.
Or try not to.
He channel surfs for a bit, finally settles on a mournful country rock ballad. Depressing, but not too bad. Better to sing along in his head than listen to the hum of his conscience.
Having apparently taken the hint, Connor is still silent when Lindsey pulls onto the freeway. A glance, and Lindsey can’t help but notice that he’s still taking in his surrounding with that same steady scrutiny. Almost like he’s looking for something.
Very determinedly, Lindsey decides he doesn’t care what.
***
First stop is Gus’s Roadhouse, off the I-20, where they order steaks and chips and bottomless coffee. Connor eats his food quickly, gaze fixed out the window at the revolving cycle of cars filling up on gas. People flock in and out, lining up to pay as their bored-looking children grab donuts and crisps and enormous bottles of soft drink. It’s familiar, but different. New sights and sounds and smells. Connor takes it all in eagerly.
He’s always been outgoing and sociable, and he longs to talk and chat. But Lindsey’s made it clear that he prefers silence, and Connor’s always been too eager to please, so he has no intention of pissing off his obviously grumpy travel companion. When he finishes eating, Connor nervously plays with his knife and watches the crowds as Lindsey eats with deliberate slowness while flicking through two papers with amazing speed. It’s a pretty funny spectacle.
Connor takes a breath and says, "You taking any of that in?"
Lindsey shrugs, "Skimming. Don’t care for detail. It only encourages me to look between the lines."
Uh, yeah. Connor doesn’t quite understand, but he nods and hopes he looks understanding. He likes details, has always noticed everything. Lindsey strikes him as the pedantic type too, but then he often reads people wrong.
Connor’s gaze returns to the room. In the corner, a couple dances to the beat of an old song on a beaten-up jukebox. It’s like something out of a movie; the full cliché. Connor watches intently, realizing with a sigh how much he misses Tracey.
"You got a girlfriend?" He asks suddenly, rather impressed with his own daring.
Lindsey almost chokes on his coffee, looks up to fix Connor with a gaze both threatening and deeply sad. For a moment, Connor fears he has lost his ride, then.
"Nah, no girlfriend. Just…" His breaks, drifts off for a moment, then speaks defiantly. "There’s no one."
The conversation is clearly over, and Connor leaves it at that. He throws the waitress a smile as she clears away their plates, and then pays with loose change. Lindsey doesn’t acknowledge her presence, despite her lascivious look and a thrust of the hip. He throws down a twenty-dollar bill and leaves without comment.
Connor wishes he had that effect on women. Or that he could tip like that.
They climb back into the car in silence, and Lindsey is still in no mood to talk. Connor allows himself to curl up and get some sleep as the flat, monotonous landscape whizzes by the window.
***
"Hey, Connor! Connor! Wake the fuck up!"
One hand on the wheel, Lindsey throws the other across the kid’s chest as he tries to steer the truck off the road. The kid is thrashing and crying like something out of the Exorcist. Why the fuck did he have to get saddled with the talkative crazy?
Connor tenses for a moment, takes a gulping breath and opens his eyes. He is pale as a sheet, pupils dilated and face coated with thick sweat.
"Sorry." He mutters.
"You were acting crazy. What the hell was that?"
"Bad dream."
"No shit?" His pulls off the road, but laves the engine running. Waits for a moment as Connor draws gulping breaths. "You right to keep moving?"
Connor nods, and Lindsey cautiously pulls back out. The road is empty and dark, black beneath the moonless sky. Together with the kid’s bizarre dreams, it’s beginning to scare him more than he’d like to admit. The next town can’t come soon enough.
Still, curiosity and even a little concern get the better of his determined indifference.
"That happen often?" He asks.
He can hear Connor swallow. "Yeah."
"Always like that?"
"No. Or, I don’t think so…" The kid’s voice fades. "Never mind."
And Lindsey doesn’t, because he knows all about nightmares. He turns his attention back to the road.
But then Connor starts again. "I have these dreams, about people. And…and other things. Things I… I’m…I’m sometimes chained. Or beaten. Alone. Hungry. Like, not just for food, although that’s always an issue too, but hungry for everything. I want out of there, but I don’t know where I’d want to go, ‘cause there is no home. And so I’m always looking. And, there’s a man…" He pauses for a moment, voice catching. "An older man, who I think I know. Who I love, despite the pain he causes me. I think I owe him something, but I don’t know what."
Lindsey casts a sidelong glance at the kid. He has turned that intense, scrutinizing gaze back out the window, and Lindsey knows now who he reminds him of. Dismisses the thought quickly as Connor begins to talk again.
"And then, there are the better dreams. Nice, you know, with people who seem kind, who I think want to help me. But I don’t want to listen, because their words are seductive and wrong. One’s a beautiful woman with golden hair and a voice as sweet as cotton candy from the Pier and a laugh like tinkering glass. Sometimes she’s doing horrible things, but never to me, and…and I’m not sure how I feel about that. And then there’s a man. He’s tall and solemn and he says he loves me…. But I know I shouldn’t listen. He makes me so angry." He shakes his head again and almost laughs ". And he’s got the stupidest hair I’ve ever seen. Sticks straight up and everything."
And now it’s Lindsey’s turn to swallow. He grips the wheel and watches his fingers turn bleach-white with the pressure, feels that little tingle in his right hand, the electrical current that constantly reminds that he’s not normal. It’s a feeling he wishes he could leave behind, but wherever he runs it always keeps pace. It’s joined now by the fates whispering in his ear again.
He knew LA would to be a mistake.
"You’re not gonna tell me you’ve got a crippling headache now?" He asks tightly.
"No, not really." Connor sounds slightly confused, and Lindsey lets out a breath of relief. "Kinda…kinda used to it."
Lindsey nods, focuses on driving as the over-stretched air-conditioning hums busily and the miles rush beneath them. He tells himself not to be stupid, but can’t contain the growing sense of unease. Familiarity.
"You said you had family in LA? You going to see them?"
Connor nods. "My folks, yeah."
Folks. Parents. Normal.
"And what do they do?"
"Dad’s a teacher and mom…well, she’s mom. Why?"
Lindsey shrugs. "No reason. Just curious."
He flashes the kid an uneasy smile, but he can’t stamp on the flicker of suspicion deep in his stomach; a spark of knowledge that he’s afraid to let burn.
***
The world is whizzing by at an extraordinary pace. McDonalds and Wendys and Texaco. Nameless diners and a couple of hundred other cars. Five radio stations, same crap on each. Connor would ask to play some of his own music, but he’s not sure how Lindsey would feel about that. He knows he’s in another man’s space, an intruder. Besides, his head hurts and the memory of his dreaming is vivid and real. Someone trapped in water, screaming, crying. Betrayal, his, but of whom?
He stretches as best he can.
"Now’s when I tell you I’ve got a headache." He announces with a small, self-conscious smile.
Lindsey snorts. "Yeah, there’s Ibuprofen in the glove compartment."
Connor flips the compartment open, reaches inside to paw through the contents. Maps, a battered book of some kind, various pieces of paper, a sunglasses’ case.
And then his heart freezes as his eyes fix on something he can hardly believe is real.
It’s a crude picture, a mugshot really. A photograph of a tired looking woman with sunken eyes and straggly hair, staring at the camera with a face that bespeaks of weary defiance and encroaching resignation. She’s not beautiful in the picture so much as broken, but he can see the potential that lies underneath.
There’s no doubt. It’s her.
"This woman." He grabs the picture, holds it close, eyes glued to it as his finger traces the detail. "This is the woman in my dreams!"
Lindsey’s gaze turns from the road to the picture.
"Fuck….put it back. Don’t touch it!" The car swerves violently as Lindsey grasps for the small picture. But Connor is quick, too quick. Can’t let it go.
"It’s her…" He can’t stop staring. "Who is she?"
"She’s in a lot of people’s dreams." Lindsey voice is cold. "But not yours. And the question isn’t ‘who is she’ but ‘who was she’? She’s dead."
Connor can feel the words slice through him – a blade to the heart, and a punch to the gut. Not dead. Can’t be dead. Not if she’s real, not when he’s finally found her.
"How long?"
"Couple of years. Or a couple of hundred…"
Connor wonders if he heard the last part right, but he knows he is not thinking straight. It’s all too weird. Much, much too weird. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life. You don’t find pictures of women from your dreams in the glove compartments of a stranger’s truck on the road to El Paso. You don’t find pictures of women in your dreams at all, because they are never real, no matter how vivid. No matter whether they have haunted your dreams for years. Decades. Whispering to you that your life is a lie…
"How?" He asks. "How did she die?"
Lindsey shakes his head. "I don’t know. Not, really. I don’t want to."
He’s lying, maybe. Connor’s not sure. Lindsey’s face is blank, Connor can hear his pulse and heart throbbing rapidly, can see the shallow line of sweat on his brow
Another touch of the photo, and Connor takes a risk. "I…I think I must have known her."
"I very much doubt it."
"How else could she be in my dreams?"
"A good question. Probably one you don’t want an answer to, Connor."
He thinks that, maybe, that’s a threat.
But he does want answers. Oh, how he does! Staring at the picture, he can feel fragments in his mind twisting and turning, sliding into place; can see a woman, this woman, smiling at him with diamond eyes, reaching out to him with a long-fingered hand and honeyed words. She’s teasing him and drawing him too her, this sad, lovely woman. Trying to save him, to keep him away from a woman in white…
Connor pulls himself back to reality, before he can go there. Or such a reality as there is, now that he knows that she’s more than a picture. She’s alive, or she was. And he knew her. He must have.
"She’s got a soft voice, high and…and eerily beautiful." Connor begins slowly, gaze caressing the picture. "Womanly, but girl-like too. Golden hair that falls in waves when she doesn’t take the time to straighten it, perfect skin, like ivory, and a smile that’s alluring and terrifying in turn…"
He looks up to see Lindsey staring at him with huge, shocked eyes. Saucer-plate eyes, as his mom used to call them. There’s maybe water at the edges, but he hides it behind rapid blinking and steadier glare before turning his attention back to the road.
"You’re mistaken, Connor. It can’t be the same woman."
"I don’t think I am."
Lindsey shrugs, and Connor thinks he can see him summon back the expressionless mask. "Think what you want, but just shut the hell up."
Connor clenches his jaw, bites down against a rising anger. "You know something, don’t you? Something about her."
Something that he won’t say. Why won’t he say it.
Connor presses his feet against the floor of the car, tries to get a grip on the temper he can feel unfurling like a waking tiger. Colors dancing behind his eyes as the beast within stretches and roars, sending shivers of something through him – hot, energizing, powerful. He can smell the sweat on Lindsey’s brow, feel the air vibrate as he trembles, hear the pulsing of blood.
He has to talk! Because this is his life, the source of that haunting memory that something isn’t quite right. He has to know. Has to know now!
He releases his anger with a roar, and a slam of his hand against the dashboard.
"If you know something, fucking tell me!"
The car itself trembles.
Lindsey flinches, and then slams the car to a screeching halt.
They’re both breathing heavily as Lindsey turns to glare at him.
"Get out."
Connor works on gripping the armrest, concentrates on a small point of focus on the windshield, tries to calm himself. Breathe. He has learnt that. Calming breaths cool a stormy temper.
"What?" he asks finally, when his thinks he can speak.
"I said, get. Out."
He can feel the anger dying now, that tempest within beginning to dissipate even as the regret begins to creep on in.
"No. We’re in the middle of nowhere."
"Does it look like I give a fuck? Get the hell out of my car."
"No."
"Fuck!" Lindsey throws open the car door and leaps out, then begins to pace up and down the road. He’ehhhhh olls swearing, viciously, worse than any Tarantino movie, and Connor can make out every word. Can hear the chirp of crickets, too, maybe even the soft swish of loose soil as it’s swept along by the searing breeze. He concentrates on the sounds of nature until his heart returns to normal, and until he senses the same in his irate companion.
Finally, Lindsey returns to the car. Climbs in with stiff, angry movements.
"Okay, let’s get going. But shut the fuck up about Darla."
He nods.
Darla.
A name, at least. That’s something.
Connor almost smiles.
***
El Paso. Lindsey had last passed through here on his exit from Los Angeles. Pulled over and found that ridiculous sign on the back of his truck. Never paid a single one of the three speeding tickets he’d collected as a result.
It’d been a good trip, up to here. He’d thought he’d been ready to go home, whatever the hell that meant. Head full of dreams of finding his roots, maybe getting a little legal practice, a couple of acres and a girl that his mother would approve of. But he’d never made Oklahoma City. Gotten drunk, gotten in a punch up, spent the night in the slammer listening to policeman talk in Spanish. He had left town the next day and continued east not north. Had somehow ended up working night calls at the legal aid centre in Nashville while playing clubs. Turns out the evil hand had rather a talent for music, amongst other things best not dwelt upon.
He’d sworn he’d never be back here. But that seems a lifetime ago, and he had never been big with the promise keeping. Now he’s back. Sitting in a bar, where it’s safe and dangerous at once. Safe from pressures, and troubles, safe also from the deceptively happy and now increasingly sullen kid with dark eyes and eerily fast reflexes and a temper that’s rather scary. A screwed up, fucked kid who is bringing back too many memories. He wonders whether it would be evil to leave the kid here. Wouldn’t want to take a step back when trying to leave the evil thing behind, so he figures dumping the kid is probably not an option.
And so it’ll have to be enough to be some place where the eager eyes can’t follow, and ID or not, no one was gonna believe Connor was twenty-one. He can sit here, sipping a too-warm beer and digging half-heartedly at the soggy, greasy chips, safe in the knowledge that his irritating, fascinating companion is stuck in the hotel room. Or at least somewhere where he’s not asking any more god damn questions.
Lindsey only jumps slightly when someone slips into the chair in front of him.
"Hi there, sweetie. You’re looking lonesome." She whispers.
Lindsey looks up at his new companion through drink-blurred eyes. She’s blond, with ivory skin and eyes like emeralds, pretty smile.
"Looking for some company then?"
Her voice is whispery, and he’d swear she bats her eyelids. Been his experience that women didn’t really do that, and he’s certainly not short on experience. But he isn’t in the mood to ask any further questions.
He knows he’ll probably have to pay for this, both literally and figuratively. But she’s beautiful, so beautiful, and he realizes that she looks just like her. Speaks like her too. Soft and inviting, hint of evil. But this one wants him and, yeah, he’s lonely. So, why the hell not?
He crushes a toothpick in his grip.
"Yeah. Company would be good."
She smiles at him with the dazzling attractiveness of a girl in a toothpaste commercial – wide, toothy, too all-American and sweet. It almost breaks the mood.
"Just don’t smile." He says gruffly, throwing money on the table and grabbing her arm. "Got a room?"
She doesn’t, but it’s easy enough to get one. Nightly, hourly, in this end of town no one asks any questions. She recommends the place next door. He slips the acne-laden desk clerk a fifty and it’s theirs for the night.
Lindsey leans against the door, watches as she switches on the bedside lamp. Minimal light is probably good. He doesn’t want to think too much about the carpet and the crinkled, musty sheets. Decides to look instead at his companion. And, God, it’s not just looks that are similar. Same voice, same movements, same smell. He’s probably going mad. Too much of a coincidence that this happens now, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care that he’s paying for it as she slowly undoes the buttons on her blouse.
Lindsey’s no stranger to quick fucks in dark rooms. Never had problems picking up in LA; handsome, charming Lindsey with his thousand buck suit and his condo in Santa Monica. Never took them back there, of course, because that would be private. Personal. They might expect something. Never, took anyone there, except her.
Darla.
The woman drops her blouse and stands before him in sheer bra and low rise pants. Slender waist, good breasts, golden skin. Lindsey wraps his hands around her slender waist and pulls her to him.
It’s a transaction. Meaningless. Not her, not really. But he’s good at self-deception. He kisses the hollow of her neck, closes his eyes. Decides he’s very glad he doesn’t know this woman’s name.
***
Connor watches from the darkened street as Lindsey strolls through the carpark, hand gripped on the arm of an obvious whore. He searches his feelings, can’t reach a conclusions. It’s another strange facet of his life. He has been brought up liberal, knows he should be accepting, but there’s another voice in his head, in his dreams, speaking in stern tones of seduction and witches and corruption and the fires of hell.
There are other voices, too. Less articulate, just as persuasive. Seductive whispers that beckon him into the dark, promise of the power and invisibility offered by the night. He belongs in the night, just like that woman in Lindsey’s grip. Another monster, base and crude and animalistic. A calling and echo of his past.
Connor shakes his head to free the cobwebs, feels a rising disgust. What the fuck is he thinking? He’s never been one for dark poetry before, never spent time lurking in carparks and staring at hookers, never thought of night as anything but a time for parties and, if he was lucky, sex. Suddenly, he misses Tracey, whose soft hands soothed the agonies of his dreams, kept them from slithering into his consciousness as they are now.
Almost unconsciously, Connor begins to trail behind, moving from vehicle to vehicle. Quiet as a mouse. Or a wolf, he corrects himself. Hunter. It’s always been kind of fun to do this, to reach out with his senses and just feel. Lindsey and the strange, pale woman disappear into the grungy hotel, their heads barely visible above the neon light of the flashing ‘vacant’ sign. A moment’s conversation, and they disappear upstairs.
But there’s something wrong here, he can sense it. Paces slowly after them, covering the tarmac with cautious steps, inhaling and feeling. He can smell Lindsey’s sweat, the odor of travel grime and greasy food. The woman’s heavy perfume.
Only her perfume.
And as Connor begins to creep around the back of the building, he thinks that this is very probably the weirdest road trip ever.***
She begins to undress him with skilled, deliberate movements. Unbuttons his shirt and slips it off his shoulders, runs warms fingers across his chest. Too warm. Should be cool, but he can ignore that when she watches him with such rapt attention, eyes filled with need and desire.
It’s more than enough.
Her lips on his chest, she begins to push his back to the bed. The room is heavy with the scent of desire and passion, and he’d never have thought this was possible. Not with a paid hooker that he hardly knows.
Except he does know her. Or something like her. And this is as close as he’ll ever get.
Lindsey falls onto the sheets, and she straddles him, kisses his chest and the hollow of his neck. Her hands caress his thighs, his straining erection. He jumps and moans, but she swallows the sound with a kiss.
God, what a kiss.
Eyes closed, Lindsey can feel himself flowing into her, body and soul. Danger and passion, temptation and darkness and maybe even death, but he doesn’t care. Because this is good, so good, and she can take what she wants, take away the pain and doubt and memories and fear and just leave this.
His kisses her back hungrily, opens his soul to her, and lets the world fade into a single point of bright, hard desire.
***
Connor hasn’t had a lot of practice scaling drainpipes and fire escapes, but he is more than familiar with how to scale trees and ivy-covered lattice and the difference isn’t too great a stretch. He pulls himself onto the narrow balcony outside the room in no time, and cautiously turns to stare in through the blurry, grimy window.
He’s not sure what to expect, probably should have expected this, but he’s stunned at the sight nonetheless.
Lindsey lies prone on the bed, the naked woman rippling on top of him with a shimmering, liquid grace. Her skin is white in the dim light, and he thinks he can maybe see blue veins running beneath the thin, pale flesh. Lindsey’s hands grip her forearms, leaving depressions in the skin.
It’s erotic and private and for a moment Connor thinks he should leave. Man, he should go, climb down, leave them be. Don’t be a freak, or a peeping tom or the kind of freak who spies on other men having sex.
But he can’t, because there’s something not quite right. He can sense it, feel it in the tingling sensations that trickle down his nerves. Sharp eyes, alert senses, and Connor watches closely. Thinks that Lindsey’s grip on her arms is too strong, that his body is too rigid and unresponsive.
Then the woman breaks the kiss, and Connor’s freezes as she turns to stare at him through the glass. Yellow eyes, with cat-like pupils and a grin filled with teeth like needles. She opens her mouth and screams with possessive fury.
Connor’s not sure what happens next, except that he is through the window, glass shards and bindings giving way instantly, like paper. The woman leaps at him in turn, springing from her haunches with feline grace and power. He ducks, side-steps instinctively, and she slams against a wall. The room shudders. He throws a kick, under her ribs, before she can get back on her feet.
Okay. It should be wrong to kick women. Especially naked women who are down. But this feels natural, right and oddly, frighteningly familiar. There’s no guilt or hesitation. Connor’s body is humming with heat and strength, angry bubbling beneath the surface and filling his limbs with power. He feels like he could crush iron between his hands, like he wants to squeeze this woman’s evil, freaky head until it pops.
There’s a pounding on the adjoining wall, an angry demand to "keep it down." But Connor ignores it, tries to get a hold on the frightening sensations within him. He glances at Lindsey, who is moving sluggishly, trying to push himself up. He’s safe. But what the hell is going on?
The glance was a costly mistake. Suddenly the woman is on top on him, her too-long fingernails clawing up his chest through the fabric of his T-shirt, teeth-filled mouth snapping, hissing in a manner that’s just not human. He falls, places his foot in her stomach and throws her over his head as he does. She’s light as a rag doll, and he can feel the power rippling through his calf and thigh.
She hits the bedside table with a sickening, wet thud. Doesn’t move again.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Breathing hard, Connor can feel the anger beginning to dissipate now, his limbs starting to quiver. He wonders if he’s hurt her. He didn’t mean to hurt her. God, that couldn’t have really happened.
Rolling over onto his stomach, Connor fixes his eyes on the woman’s body, not quite sure that seeing right because it looks like she’s dissolving into a puddle of reddish-orange goo. He blinks, but the mess is still there.
He manages to drag himself up onto hands and knees, kneels, before vomiting everything he’s ever eaten, then succumbing to the welcoming, numbing relief of unconsciousness.
It’s at least a couple of minutes before Lindsey feels he can move again, and even now it feel like he’s running underwater, in slow motion and against the current. The world is a bit blurry, too, lines smudged around the edges of his vision. It’s a marathon effort to pull himself up and pull on his pants, then half walk, half-crawl his way over to where Connor lies, prone and stone-cold, on the now-stinking carpet.
It’s still not really clear what just happened, except that he was stupid enough to get done by some demon and Connor saved his life in a pretty impressive display of skill. Not a normal boy.
He should have known better than to travel with company.
Tentatively, Lindsey places his hand on Connor’s shoulder. His right hand, the Evil Hand. It tingles slightly at the touch, recognizing a kinship of power. The sensation makes the rest of Lindsey’s skin crawl.
Connor blinks and slowly sits up.
"Take is easy," Lindsey says gently, helping him.
The boy’s large brown eyes are filled with confusion, and then sudden fear. His body tenses. "The woman?" He croaks in a terrified voice.
Lindsey shrugs. "You killed it."
A sudden intake of breath, and perceptible shudder. "Yeah…Fuck. I killed her. Killed."
A roll of his eyes, and Lindsey captures Connor gaze, directs it to the wet goo. "It." He says firmly, patting the boy on the back in a gesture that might pass for comforting. Except that Lindsey doesn’t usually do comforting. "You killed an it, not a she. And you saved my life. So thank you."
Connor is trembling, voice barely audible. "What’s gonna happen to me?"
Hadn’t he heard a word? Probably not.
It’s almost funny, that this strange boy with obvious strength and the smell of pure power clearly hasn’t killed before. That he doesn’t know of demons and vampires and things that go bump in the night. That he is so goddamn, irritatingly ignorant. For a moment, Lindsey even thinks that it’s just not fair, to be so powerful and so clearly innocent, while ordinary Lindsey McDonald can stare at melting bodies and sucking demons and shrug.
Except the kid’s not so innocent anymore. Not at all.
So sue him if that’s vaguely satisfying.
Standing up cautiously, Lindsey begins to look for his shirt. Finds it and pulls it on as he talks.
"Nothing. Nothing happens. We walk downstairs and out that door. Someone comes and cleans up the mess we made and no one is the wiser."
Connor nods, but he’s still frozen, eyes riveted to the soggy patch on the floor.
"Look, Connor." The name sounds strange on his lips. Irish. Like him. Like another man, vampire, whose presence always floats in the back of his mind. Too many damn Irish. "I know this comes as a bit of a shock, and I’m not the best person to offer any help. But, believe me, what you just killed was not human. You didn’t murder anyone." Another pause, this time to pull on his jacket. "Or not anyone that matters."
Because demons don’t matter, or so he keeps telling himself. They’re worthless and valueless and it doesn’t matter if they are wearing the body of another demon that you loved more than life itself. A demon who haunts your dreams and your waking hours.
"What was she?" Connor asks finally.
"Not entirely sure, but I think she’s what’s called a Sucuban demon. Appears as someone close, or trusted and sucks souls out of the pure. No wonder it didn’t like the taste of me." Lindsey can hear the hard edged bitterness in his voice.
Connor’s looks up at him, finally. "Pure, as in…virgins?"
"No…" Lindsey shudders for a moment, then. "Yeah. Yeah, pure like that."
"Who’s shape did she take for you?"
Lindsey doesn’t answer, and after a brief moment Connor nods. "Oh."
"Yeah. So fucking stupid."
But Connor’s not interested in his personal failings. "This is like the X-Files." He whispers.
"Get use to it."
In the distance, sirens blare. Connor jerks again, too fast for a human, then cocks his head in a manner that truly resembles an inquisitive dog.
Lindsey pulls out his wallet, leaves a couple of bucks on the table. Whoever cleans up this shit deserves a massive tip.
"Speaking of X-Files, what the fuck are you?"
Connor turns to look at him now, finally. His eyes are filled with fear, and his voice is tight. "Me?" I’m nothing, just Connor."
Right. But Lindsey has no time for this, especially when the kid probably really is clueless. First time for everything.
He beckons at the window. "You do that often then?"
The kids shrugs. "No…I mean, yeah. It’s just something…something I can sometimes do. Move fast, hit things hard. I…I dunno why."
A moment of indecision, then Lindsey catches Connor’s arm and pulls him toward the door, a position not dissimilar to the way he’d grabbed the hooker. "I think maybe I do. Let’s get outta here and talk."
***
A new hotel, somewhat classier, but then it would hardly have been possible to have found someplace worse. Twin beds with dull olive bedspreads and thin pillows, a desk and bedside table with a lamp that occasionally flickers. The vague smell of smoke and industrial cleaner. Connor’s sitting on the edge of the bed, stiff and wary as Lindsey flips through a series of files he’d pulled from a crate in the back of the truck. Connor decides that Lindsey is definitely the type who is always prepared. Can even imagine him as a boy scout, putting on a show of decency even if not entirely participating in spirit.
They’d left El Paso behind, traveled for a couple of hours to a smaller place. Anonymous. Connor is still surprised that the cops aren’t following, almost expects them to burst in at any moment. Strange thing is, he thinks he could probably get away if they did. He can still feel the power flowing through his limbs, revels in the knowledge of his heightened everything. It makes him feel strangely free, to think that he’s now seen his first demon dissolve into shag-pile carpet, while Lindsey shrugged it off like it was an everyday occurrence. If he’s mad, he’s finally got company. There’s no need to deny what’s always lurked within him anymore.
Still, Connor tries to think of a time he’d killed before. The dreams don’t count, even though he has killed plenty of things in those. Strange, monstrous things mainly, much worse than the Succu-whatever he killed tonight. But he’s also got memories of a pretty young girl, dressed in white, crying as he drags her and begging him to stop. He never dwells on what that means. But real life, every day, he’s sure he’s never killed anything more than a spider. Hell, he’s even been one of the kids to refuse to dissect a rat in biology class, although that was mainly to impress Tracey.
Thinking back, he’d actually wanted to cut into it quite a lot.
But, whatever his intentions, his hands had been clean.
Until tonight.
Unbidden, a question pops into his mind, and he asks it before he can think better. "Do you think demons go to heaven? If they’re good demons? Or do they always just end up in hell?"
For a long moment, Lindsey ignores him. When he finally answers, he ignores the question.
"You want to tell me how long you’ve been able to move like that?" He asks instead.
Lindsey doesn’t even look up to talk, still searching through papers Connor doesn’t understand. Papers with answers to questions he has never even dared to ask. His past, catalogued in paper. It’s overwhelming and creepy and he’s still not sure whether to be angry or rather impressed. Settles for the moment on ‘bewildered’. He turns his gaze back to the dull, brown carpet. There are strange stains on it, and he decides he probably doesn’t want to think too hard about them, either.
"I dunno, I just…Like I said, sometimes I can do that shit. Move fast and sense stuff. It can be useful in gym class." Connor tries for a hesitant smile at that, but Lindsey isn’t watching and probably doesn’t get the joke.
Instead, Lindsey pulls a photograph out of the papers and throws it to him.
"Recognize this man?"
Connor catches the spinning paper, turns it over. And, oh yes, he recognises the man. Dark hair and piecing eyes, heavy brow and strong nose. It’s the man from his dreams in perfect replica, or as perfect as can be captured by a security camera at fifty feet. He closes his eyes against the wave of relief. Real. It’s all real. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes.
"Yes." His voice trembles a little. "I recognize him."
"I think that maybe you’re related. Somewhere." Lindsey drops his head into one hand, rubs his forehead viciously. "God, it must have been generations ago."
"Why?" Conner stares at the picture. The relief and delight are beginning to fade beneath the rising weirdness and a sudden, insidious sliver of fear.
"Why do I think you’re related to him? You want me to be honest here? Because, frankly, you’re a freak and so is he. He and…and her."
The words should probably hurt. Maybe they’re even intended too. But for Connor, in that moment, it’s a validation. Relief. Confirmation that it’s not in his head, he’s not delusional and crazy. There is something about him that is different, something real and powerful that plagues his dreams.
"It’s possible we’re more closely related, I don’t know much about my family…" he says cautiously.
Lindsey shakes his head. "This man doesn’t have any living family, Connor. Hasn’t for years."
"Are they dead?"
A short, sharp laugh. "Hell, yes. Very dead."
Connor stars at the photograph in his hand. "But this man is alive."
"In a manner of speaking."
Connor stares at the photograph. It’s as if the fuzzy, pixilated image speaks to him. It certainly stirs voices in his head, a rush of confused images. Pain and longing and hatred and love and suddenly it’s all too much. Too much, too soon, and he slams down hard on his feelings.
"You have to take me to him." He says finally. It’s an order, spoken in deadly seriousness.
Lindsey sighs deeply. "You’re best staying away."
"No. Not if I’m related to him. Or even if I’m not. I…I have to know. Please."
Lindsey fiddles with the edge of a file, and Connor realizes with some degree of fear that he’s not quite sure what he’ll do if Lindsey refuses. Not sure he would even want to control the unfurling tiger within him. Afraid he might let it free.
"Are you happy, Connor?" Lindsey asks finally.
"What?"
"Happy? Content? Are you happy with your life the way it is?"
Happy. Connor turns the word over in his mind. Funny sounding, maybe meaningless. Is he? He used to think he was. Good school, lots of friends, a family who loves him – and God does he love them - a pretty girl with sparkling eyes and lips that taste like honey. He has got everything, and he should be happy. And yet he has always stood apart, like he has been looking for something.
The photograph in his hand, the battered one in the glove compartment, they feel like tickets home.
"No." He says finally. "No, I’m not."
Lindsey nods, then stands and stretches. "Okay, then. Get some sleep. We can continue toward LA tomorrow. I’ll take you to him."
A breath of relief, and Connor knows that he’s smiling like an idiot as Lindsey heads toward the bathroom. He lies back on the bed, letting his finger still trace the lines of the photograph.
"And Connor?" Lindsey pauses at the door.
"Yeah"
"Demons go to hell. But to them, it’s not a punishment. Remember that. And remember that you asked me to do this."
***
Los Angeles. City of Angels.
Home to Wolfram and Hart. Attorneys at Law, and very possibly the devil incarnate.
Lindsey pulls the truck into a space out front of the building. Amazing that, a parking space free at midday in Downtown LA. Probably just another coincidence-that-isn’t, part of the twisted plot machinations that have drawn him back here with this strange, bewildered boy who has Angel’s eyes and Darla’s grace.
It’s the same as ever. Polished glass, crisp, clean architecture, a sparkling symbol of power and seductive, modernist decadence.
Connor stares at the building for a long time, apparently in shock, then turns back to Lindsey.
"He’s a lawyer?" He asks in disbelief.
"No, he just works with them. Or at least, apparently he does now"
"Cool."
Lindsey almost smiles. "No, definitely not cool."
Connor pauses for a moment, then smiles broadly and leans down to pull his bag from beneath his legs and into his lap. Another glance to the tower, then back at Lindsey "So, you coming?"
Is he?
For a long moment, Lindsey can only stare at the sign and tap his fingers against the steering wheel. He has come all this way, looking for something, and now he’s really not sure what. So easy, it would be, to go back into the fold. And why not, when everyone else has sold out? When Angel himself has signed in blood on the dotted line. He could walk in those doors, hand over everything he has, the files, the boy. Move back in his thirtieth floor office and his designer suits.
Stop watching things from the outside, like a starving leper staring in.
Have a future.
Be someone again.
A long sigh and Lindsey smiles back. His first genuine smile in as long as he can remember.
"You know, Connor, for a long time, I was actually tempted to go back. Traveled all this way to do just that, I think. But now I’m here…well, fuck it. I’d rather go surfing."
Reaching across, he pushes open Connor’s door. It’s an invitation to leave.
"It was nice to meet you. Thanks for saving by life."
A flash of disappointment across Connor’s face, and it almost stirs something in Connor’s heart. Huh, someone who might actually miss him. But the kid hides it fast.
"Thank you, too, Lindsey. For taking me here."
He can’t contain a laugh at that. "We’ll see."
Lindsey watches as Connor climbs out of the car and into the searing heat, then pulls on his backpack. A moment of indecision, and Connor pauses, shuffling his feet nervously and glancing from the truck back to the building and back.
Shaking his head, Lindsey takes the initiative. Time to get the hell out of here before the sparkling offers become too much.
"See ya, Connor." He flashes the kid a final smile, then reaches over and grasps the handle of the door, starting to pull it shut.
"Say ‘hi’ to Angel for me. And tell him Lindsey sent you."