Summary: After the series finale of Angel, Lindsey goes to the safest place he knows to lick his wounds, both physical and emotional. "McDonald Boys" verse, pre-Leverage.
The title is from the song Christian Kane sang on Fame L.A. "All I Wanna Do." The lyrics are from that song and "A Teardrop," another Fame song.
This story features the mention of a pairing that may be slightly controversial, although it's completely canon. I know, I know, I promised no pairings, but I had this idea, and I want to use it in other stories in this verse (prequels), as a character motivation thing, so that's why this is the way it is. I've hinted at it before, but not quite this explicitly. You'll see what I mean when you read it. And it's canon, so…anyway…
I've been sitting on this for a while, but since it's Valentine's Day, here's a story about heartbreak. Aren't I a ray of sunshine today? Anyway, hearts and kisses, everyone! Thank you for following me!
Hold On to the Memory of You
Eliot slows as he approaches the door of his apartment. He can hear the muffled strains of a mournful melody through the wood.
And all I wanna do is hold on to the memory of you.
And all I wanna do is talk to that someone I knew.
Straight from my heart, tangled in blues.
I tell myself I'm not missin' you.
He sighs. Dammit, Lindsey. What the hell am I gonna do with you? On the bright side, he reflects, at least they're past the suicidal wrist-slitting stage and have moved on to drunkenly singing depressing songs about heartbreak.
His brother had shown up at his door three months ago, half dead from shock by the look of it, although luckily the wounds were superficial. Still, bullet wounds - to the chest, damn idiot, protection magic be damned - and the state of his torn-up hands wasn't much better. And there had been that item in the news about a lawyer being found murdered in a motel room in L.A. That had been worrying, at least until Lindsey's phone call telling him to stop giving himself ulcers because he was fine, just fine, even though he was far from it, judging from his state when he'd gotten here.
Lindsey had collapsed in Eliot's bed and remained curled up under the covers, unmoving, until he'd woken up screaming and clutching at his chest as if trying to keep his heart from cracking its way out of his ribs and flying away. After Eliot had calmed him down and reassured him that no one was carving into him (the hell?), he'd curled up and gone right back to fretful, unrestful sleep, until the nightmares had started up again.
This had gone on for about thirty hours before Eliot's patience ran out and he started interrogating his twin brother about what exactly had gone down and why the hell he's so frickin' traumatized (and shot. He'd wanted to know who the hell shot Lindsey so he could go break their faces for them. And what the hell happened to all those protection tattoos he'd had the last time Eliot had seen him? He'd wanted to know that, too).
The story had come out, little by little, haltingly, a trickle here, a dropped word there, over the next few days. From what Eliot could make out in the beginning, someone had betrayed his brother, and it had hurt.
(And he had paced and growled and threatened because no one shoots his baby [twelve whole minutes younger] brother. And then he'd stopped and stayed because Lindsey had curled up into a ball again, and the tight grip on Eliot's shirt said, Don't leave me. Not you too.)
Gradually, he'd learned about a woman, who, from what Lindsey let slip in his rare moments of lucidity, had died recently, not by Lindsey's hand, but because of him. Eliot reads between the lines and comes to the conclusion that Lindsey had cared about her, maybe even loved her.
That revelation had been a bit startling. Lindsey doesn't really do relationships. He had never made the time for them in his busy schedule between meetings and trials and climbing the corporate ladder (and trying to get revenge on his fanged arch-nemesis).
When Lindsey falls, he falls hard. And it's usually Eliot who gets to pick up the pieces. (He remembers the aftermath of the vampire Darla. He shudders; the phone call Lindsey had made to him that night had been…awful and awkward at the same time on top of being heavily alcohol-stimulated. And tearful. It had been horribly tearful. But then again, Lindsey's always been there for him…)
This, though? This is nothing compared to that.
Eliot sighs again and shifts the paper bags of groceries in his arms so he can unlock his door.
"I'm home," he announces unnecessarily to the scruffy, smelly brother currently camping out on his couch with their dad's old guitar in his hands (two hands again, and hadn't that been a surprise).
"I'll still think of you. I'll think of you," croons Lindsey, and hiccups. "Didja bring more booze?" he asks, head lolling against the back of the sofa.
"No," Eliot says sternly. "You want more, you can get it yourself. Get some fresh air that way too."
"Wan' fresh air, I'll open the window," Lindsey slurs and kicks petulantly at an empty liquor bottle at his feet, making it roll over and clink against another one.
Eliot huffs and walks over to pick up the bottles. "I ain't your babysitter, Lindsey. You wanna stay here, you pick up after yourself."
Impossibly large, mournful eyes look up at him. "You're kickin' me out?" The lower lip trembles a little.
Eliot sets the bottles in his hands on the table and crosses his arms. "I ain't kickin' you out, Linds," he says gently, so as not to upset his extremely inebriated and depressed brother, "I'm saying that maybe it's time to move on." Careful, careful…
Lindsey scoffs. "Move on?" He tilts his head back against the sofa's cushions and heaves a sigh. "Where would I go? I got nowhere to be," he says listlessly, "Got no one, no purpose. Got nothing. I'm an insignificant speck crushed on the wheel of destiny. Nobody cares about me."
Eliot sits down. "Yeah, sure," he agrees sarcastically, "You got nothin'. I'm such a big hunka nothing you got here, alright. That's not what I meant, and you know it."
His brother's head turns towards him slowly. Hazy eyes focus on him blearily. "I loved her," he finally says, softly, "I loved her. I love her." The stubbled jaw clenches and wet eyes close to hide the naked vulnerability shining out of them.
Eliot silently watches his brother's face crumble with his next words and feels his own heart ache.
"It's my fault," Lindsey gasps out, curling almost into a fetal position over the guitar still in his lap, "She stayed b'cause of me. An' the building collapsed and she's still there, unnerneath all that rubble, and I tried to dig her out, I tried El, I tried, but she's still in there, I couldn't find her…" He takes a shuddering breath, unable to go on.
Eliot reaches out and puts a hand on the shaking back. Well, that explains the scraped-up, scabbed-over hands and broken nails. "You didn't know that it would happen. She coulda run, couldn't she? Maybe she did."
The unwashed head shakes vehemently. "She's dead. She's dead b'cause of me. I told her to run if anything happened. But I knew she wouldn't. B'cause she loved me. No one's ever loved me back like that before. Gave up immortality for me. Like a fairy tale. But no happ'ly ever after. I killed her."
Immortal, huh? That's a new piece of information that hasn't come up before. What is it with his brother and immortals?
Eliot wishes he knew what to do for Lindsey, he really does. The only way he's been able to help so far is to take care of Lindsey's physical needs as best he can (as far as Lindsey will let him, anyway, the stubborn, drunk bastard who won't eat, won't sleep, won't bathe, just drinks). He's not great at the emotional stuff, the comforting thing. They don't really do that. Usually, it's enough to just hear each other's voices, feel the other's presence. Usually.
This, though, the death of the woman his brother had loved, this is difficult. Eliot has no point of reference on this. The only time he had ever let his heart be seriously broken had been years ago, and he can pick up the phone and call her if he ever has the inclination or reason to do so (which is probably none and never). He's never had to deal with a dead girlfriend before. (Well, there was that time in Germany, but that hadn't been anything more than a brief fling.)
So he scoots over and pulls his brother close, the way they used to when they were kids and one of them (usually Lindsey, but occasionally Eliot) needed something more than just a look or a word. When Eliot has him safely settled against his shoulder, Lindsey allows himself to break down completely, clutching tight fistfuls of Eliot's shirt.
Just them. In front of the rest of the world, they'll show nothing but unbreakable, impenetrable, unshakable, smooth, solid masks, but when they're alone, when it's just the two of them, they're not afraid of showing their vulnerabilities. Each of them knows that the other will never use his weaknesses against him, ever. They'd rather die than betray that trust.
Eliot rubs Lindsey's back, trying to exude comfort. The guitar's headstock digs into his side, but he doesn't care.
"It's gonna be okay," he says gently, "I know it don't look it now, but it will, okay? I promise."
"Don't know that," Lindsey gasps, "Can't know that. Nothing is certain."
Eliot resists the urge to roll his eyes. Philosophical Lindsey, he can deal with. "If nothing is certain, then you don't know if it won't be okay, now do ya?"
"Odds are against it," Lindsey says adamantly, pulling away and swiping at his flushed and tearstained face. "My life is full of empty promises and false words. I'm poison."
Okay, better, if only marginally. Marginally is not all better, however. Eliot pinches the bridge of his nose. "Have I ever broken a promise to you?" he counters. "I promise things will be better later, okay?" He heartily hopes that Lindsey is drunk enough to take the bait.
It's a close call. Lindsey blinks a little at him, and tilts his head, as if either gauging his sincerity or trying to make the spinning image of Eliot tilt back upright. (It's probably the latter; Lindsey's the liar of the two.)
"Promise?" he finally asks. Big blue eyes blink at Eliot, and for a moment, he's transported back to their childhood, when they were both innocent and naïve enough to believe in miracles.
Eliot smiles softly. "Promise," he says, and cups his hand around the back of his brother's neck, providing what comfort he can with that warm touch. "So that song you were playing," he says to change the subject, "What's it called?"
Lindsey returns his attention to the guitar. He strums a few chords before replying. "I call it 'All I Wanna Do.' Y'like it?"
"Yeah, it's good. Pretty." And completely depressing.
"Writin' another one. 'S called 'A Teardrop.'"
"Oh," Eliot oohs encouragingly, "That's…" Gloomy? Sad? "…nice."
"El?" Lindsey raises his unkempt head.
"Yeah?" Now what?
"I'mma throw up."
"Shit!" At that, Eliot scrambles to get the trash can in front of Lindsey's face before he can puke on his…
"Oops. 'M sorry. 'M sorry."
Eliot sighs and pats his brother's back. "It's okay." He grimaces as he moves his vomit-covered boot gingerly and wiggles his toes. At least it's on his boot and not inside it.
"Don' feel good. I'm drunk. Very, very drunk." Lindsey says it as if he has just made a startling discovery. "I'm ini- inebra- inebriated."
"I know." Eliot heaves another sigh and rubs circles on Lindsey's back.
"El?"
"Gonna throw up again? Do it in the trash can this time." He very pointedly places it right under his brother's face.
"Thanks," Lindsey says gratefully, then promptly horks into the waiting receptacle.
"Anytime, Linny, anytime."
"Would you give up immortality for me?" asks Lindsey into the trash can, his voice slightly muffled by the plastic receptacle. "Never thought anyone would. But she did."
"You know I would," Eliot replies soothingly, "Ain't gonna be beat out by no girl."
"Wa'n't just any girl," Lindsey slurs, "She was It. It. With a capi'lize' 'I'. Woulda settled down again for her. Woulda gone on the run with her. Waddevah she wanted. Woulda done it."
Eliot makes vaguely comforting sounds and pats his brother's back. The vomit can stays in front of Lindsey's face, just in case.
"Y'know, I fell in love with her 'cause she was manipulatin' me. But I liked it. Di'n't care. 'Cause I was playin' her too, and she knew it. An' then we just stopped an' then we were on the same side, us against the world. Ain't that somethin'?"
"Yeah," Eliot agrees amicably, "Sure. Means there's somethin' wrong with your head," he mutters under his breath.
"Yeah." Lindsey blows a raspberry and rubs his forehead. "Helicopter. In my brain. Chop-chop-chop." He makes another pbbbbt! sound.
Eliot sighs and stands up to put his brother to bed now that he's done throwing up. "Beddy-bye time, Linds. Come on."
"Nuh," Lindsey pouts childishly and picks the guitar back up again. "Wanna sing."
Eliot groans as his brother starts playing yet another depressing song.
Midnight's makin' her way
Through a lonely motel.
"Oh, for cryin' out loud," he grumbles, all his patience gone, gone, gone. He grabs the guitar out of Lindsey's hands and forcibly lugs him into the spare bedroom.
Even after he closes the door, he can hear the drunken singing.
A teardrop
That's all it ever is.
Eliot runs his fingers through his hair in a frustrated movement and groans. Dammit, Lindsey, he thinks yet again, What the hell am I gonna do with you?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Review Replies for anon reviews (mostly Lev/Angel fics since I'm trying to stay in your reading zones because that's where you're more likely to see these):
Bron: (For "Brothers at Odds and In Arms") – Evil hand? Really? I actually have a really vague idea for a fic with Eliot and the Evil Hand that MUST be titled "The Hand Job." I wonder if the site would delete a fic like that, since another story I had was deleted for having "bitch' in the title (it was an allusion!). Anyway, thanks! (For "Coffee Break") – Penguins do not have ears on the outside of their heads, but I think the hat would stay on alright, lol! Penguins, I know, right? What is going on in Poesie's head? (For "The Chestnut Colt") – Aww, thank you! Poor J.T. :( Thank you!
Drjones: (For "Coffee Break") – Squee, huh? Squeefulness is good. :D Thanks! (For "Baby Blues") – Baby powder clogs up the baby's butt? Like the skin, or like…the hole/s? Really? Huh. Thanks for the head's up! I'll be sure to keep that in mind if I ever have a kid (although at this point, it's looking quite unlikely). Thank you!
Kaitibell: (For "Baby Blues") – Aw, thanks! I'm glad I've got imaginary diaper-changing down. ;D