Disclaimers: Characters and concept of Angel are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the WB. Original characters and story are property of the author.
Spoilers: City of, Blind Date, To Shanshu in LA, Darling Boy, Darla, and Reunion.
Author's Note: I can't help it. Maybe it's those long lashes, or the baby-blue eyes, but I just can't hate Lindsay. I keep seeing this little boy peeking out and asking for help, the way he was in "Blind Date," especially when he's dealt with Darla. So, here's my idea of his background, thoughts, and what happened after Angel closed those doors on Holland's party. Feedback is welcome, flames will be ignored, and Lindsay-clones should be gift-wrapped before mailing.
The Dying of the Light
© 2000, Grace Macy
They say you should be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it. I learned that lesson young, but I've never quite seemed to get the knack for not wishing.
When I was a kid, I wished we had a different house. I hated that house. Small and cramped, paint peeling, water always cold because Dad couldn't afford the heat. . . Makes sense that I'd wish we lived somewhere else. But then the bank foreclosed, and Dad just stood there with this uncomprehending look on his face. Not that he didn't understand what was happening -- their lawyers were very clear about the details of that, all the unpaid bills, all the loans -- but he didn't understand what it meant. I did. Mom did. We all did. Except for Dad.
When I was in high school, and working my ass off to get straight A's, and be on the athletics teams, and be class president, and date the prom queen, I wished my dad would stop embarrassing me by showing up in those grimy work-clothes. He was a mechanic, and then a handy-man, even a garbage-truck driver at one point. Dad could never hold down a job for too long. Certainly not long enough. God, I hated him. Or maybe I should say I hated the image of him, of the dumb Mick, never getting higher in life, always resorting to drink when it got tough. He never hit us, I'll give him that, but when he got drunk it was like the world went away. That's what I hated. That's what I was afraid of becoming.
So I wished he would stop it. I wished that he would quit showing up at my school to hang out' and spend quality time' with his kids. And then one day he didn't show up, and I hated him for that too. Until I got home and found out he'd taken a tumble off of the scaffolding of the construction job he'd landed. That was the first case' I ever worked -- I made such a scene, such coherent threats against the company for a lawsuit, that they settled. The money from that, plus the tiny insurance policy, was enough to keep my younger brothers and sisters in class til they reached high-school. I think maybe that was what caught Their attention; I made sure it made it into the papers, anyway.
I got into college on a full scholarship. Athletics and academic. But I still worked my ass off. I was used to it . . . and I was afraid that if I stopped, for even a year, even a day, I'd end up like my dad. I stayed with the sports, and stuck to the straight A's, even when it meant I had to kiss up to the teachers or the coach. When I got to my senior year, I wished that something would happen to make me able to get into law-school. I wanted to be able to beat those bastards at their own game, make them pay for all the pain they'd caused my family -- caused me -- when I'd been a kid. And that's when I met the recruiter from Wolfram-Hart. Holland.
He said they'd pay for my law-school education, at least in part, and offered me a job straight out of law-school. It was a better deal than I'd ever imagined I could get. I asked him, joking, what they wanted in return, my soul? He just smiled, laughed like it was really funny, and then handed me the papers to sign. Looking back, I'm surprised he didn't ask me to sign in blood. But then, large sums of money are as binding as blood.
When I was in my last year of law-school, still top of the class, Holland came back and brought one of the senior partners with him. They chatted me up, and I made damn sure I impressed them -- manners, good looks, smarts . . . and ruthlessness. They watched me play some basketball, almost knocking the crap out of one guy to get him out of my way so I could reach the basket. I knew they'd appreciate that; I'd done my homework on Wolfram-Hart. Or at least I thought I had. I didn't realize how much I'd missed until they took me out to a club that specialized in . . . unusual clients. Specifically, demons and vampires.
And that's when they really put the hooks in me. Not threats, although they did make sure to remind me of how much money they had invested in my education, and how completely unlikely it was I would be able to pay them back if I didn't come work for Wolfram-Hart -- especially considering that no other firm would dare hire me if they didn't. No, the hooks they used were the ones they knew were my weaknesses: they'd done their homework, too. They knew about my family's history, about the fixation I had on being successful. And that was it. Success, not money, although that promised to be nice too. And I bought it. I had to; not because of the hold they had over me, but because of the hold I had over myself.
They brought me in slowly, introducing me to different levels of clients, different levels of evil. I have to give them credit for that too: they made sure it was so gradual I didn't even really notice. It became just a matter of business, deals and negotiations, clients and their needs. I started to forget what the clients were, what they represented. Me, good little Catholic school-boy, forgot all his lessons. Mother Superior would be disappointed. But I didn't care.
Not even when Angel first showed up. He was a challenge, a threat to one of my clients and therefore to me. I didn't even really care about the girl he'd gotten so incensed about. I can't even remember her name. There's got to be something wrong about that, but it's so hard to remember what. That's what scares me sometimes. The things I seem to have forgotten how to feel. I thought I'd gotten closer to feeling them again when that blind bitch was sent after those children, but then . . .
Damn him! What the hell gives him the right to decide whether or not I'm worth saving?! He takes in a Slayer who committed murder, turned against the people who'd trusted her, tried to kill them and him -- he sees the light in her, but he won't give me a chance?! Who the hell does he think he is!?
. . . Funny thing is, Darla was right. It wasn't her I wanted to screw. Not really. But it's not in the way she meant it. I wanted to hurt him, make him pay for that judgement of me. Paying him back for cutting off my hand would have been a bonus. God, I hate him. And I do mean that. The truth is, though, that what really made me hate him -- not just find him a nuisance, an enemy, but truly hate him -- was that night that I went to him for help with the kids.
Strange as it may sound, he was the first person I'd ever told about my family. Even in high-school, in my early years at college, I'd never discussed the details. Wolfram-Hart knew the facts, but they didn't know the emotions, although no doubt they suspected. But the intimacies, the bitterness and anger and despair . . . those I never spoke aloud. Never. I'd had relationships, although not many, and not deep. I'd had friends. But I'd never told any of them even that much about what it had been like growing up in that house. And then I finally open up, tell someone -- tell him . . .
I'd wanted -- needed -- for him to understand. For someone to understand. Why it was so hard, why I'd made these choices, why I was suddenly so deeply ashamed of them, so afraid that I was becoming something far worse than my father had been in my eyes. Afraid I was becoming evil and soulless. I thought that of everyone in the world, everyone in the sordid mess Wolfram-Hart was so capable of creating, he would understand. I didn't expect forgiveness. I didn't even expect sympathy. But I expected at least some understanding.
Instead, he cut me off mid-sentence and just dismissed me!
That was the exact moment. I know it in my bones. That was when hope turned into ashes, when bitterness swallowed me whole. There was no getting out. How could there be, how could I ever have thought that there was? Who would want me outside of Wolfram-Hart? I tried to fight it. I thought . . . hoped . . . that when I put myself in the line of fire, first at Wolfram-Hart and then to physically keep that bitch away from those kids, that maybe he'd see . . .
It's funny, looking back on it now. I wanted him to be proud of me. I looked at him and somehow saw my father, or what my father should have been, even if only in my eyes. Don't ask me why. I don't know. I don't think I want to know, don't want to think about it. But I guess I thought that if I could get the approval of this warrior of the light' then maybe it would be worth it, even if Wolfram-Hart got to me later and made sure any newfound career was short-lived. But that's not how it turned out. Instead, he just turned me away again. Didn't care. Didn't even bother to try.
So when I went back to Wolfram-Hart, it was out of some kind of 'I'll make him see, he'll be sorry' instinct. I still wanted to prove something. I'd walk away from Wolfram-Hart, probably die doing it, and then he'd see that I'd meant what I said. But maybe he'd been right all along. Because when Holland offered me a promotion instead of death, I took it. I remember standing there in shock when he said it, when he told me that all of this -- his office, his power, and more -- could be mine . . . I stood there and strongly considered walking away.
And then I remembered that despite all that I'd tried to do -- the right thing, the good thing -- I'd still been turned away by the Light. I'd been willing to sacrifice myself, and Angel had simply looked at me, like it didn't matter. I didn't matter. Like no matter what I did it would never be enough. And then I went to Wolfram-Hart, and despite everything that I'd done, they still accepted me. I'd betrayed them, deceived them, tried to destroy them in a way, and they still trusted me. They still wanted me. Pride is a powerful thing, especially when it's been wounded. Maybe there was more to it than that, but I won't think about it. I can't.
. . . I thought, when that scythe came swinging down, almost too fast to see, that Angel was going to kill me. All the satisfaction over his pain disappeared from my mind, and all I could think was that this was it. This was death. But he didn't even have the mercy for that. He cut off my hand instead, and just stood there, cold and gloating. And he's supposed to be a champion for Good. Right. Fine. Good can kiss my ass.
So I welcomed Darla. I welcomed the chance to possess something of his, in some way, possess a part of what had made him who he is. And more . . . She needed me. For those first days, especially, when everything was new, confusing, terrifying . . . when the nightmares of Hell and its torments were still living behind her eyes . . .
I'd forgotten what it was like to be needed. I'd taken care of my siblings, as best I could, but it had been a long time since I'd even spoken to them. But watching her, soothing her, bringing her back into the notion of humanity again . . . I started to like it. And the more I discovered of her tastes, her understanding of human nature, of the world itself, so much deeper than any mortal woman's could ever be, the more I started to like her. And I started to feel something like hope again. I started to care.
It hurt when I realized she was sick. I hadn't known, hadn't even guessed . . . but I should have known that Wolfram-Hart -- that Holland -- had known all along. It was part of their big plan, and I started to realize, then, that the trust I'd thought they had in me wasn't that complete. I was useful to them, more useful than if I'd been dead. That was why I was still alive. That was why I'd been given Darla as my project'. Because they still knew me better than I knew myself, they still knew my weakness: I cared. I should have known better.
Drusilla frightened some part of me when I met her, but it was so deeply buried that I didn't truly feel it. It didn't matter, not once Darla was Turned. Lila made that crack about if I thought that now I'd have a chance with her; I knew better this time. I knew that any chance I'd had went out the window the second I followed directions and brought Drusilla to L.A. So it didn't matter anymore. I had looked down at Darla lying on that cold earth, underneath the stars Drusilla had been singing to, and I'd said goodbye. Not just to the hope of ever having her, but to the hope of having anything. At least, not anything that would make a difference.
I'd looked at her, and I'd suddenly known exactly how my father had felt for so many years. I knew why his eyes had been so empty. I knew why he'd taken that header off the scaffolding, even if he hadn't, consciously, back then. Because nothing would make a difference, nothing would ever truly change.
For a moment, just a moment, when Darla came to the office and her cold hands cradled my face, her unneeded breath blew against my neck, I allowed myself to feel again. Desire, relief, need . . . And then she had flung me through the air like a rag-doll, no true recognition in her eyes or voice or touch. And that little part of me that had still been holding on to the hope of things becoming what I had wished them to be -- that she'd choose to be with me, warm me, help me stay whole -- shattered into a million even smaller pieces.
So now I'm here. Lying in Holland's sleek wine-cellar, listening to the sounds of people dying, and two twistedly-beautiful vampires feeding on their terror and death, and not feeling even a fraction of that fear myself.
It's not just the lethargy from blood-loss, although I know that's probably why I'm calmly having this reverie, waiting my turn, instead of trying to find a way out. It's just that I knew that it was over as soon as Darla and Drusilla walked in. Truth is, I knew it even before that, when Darla threw me across my office. When she asked me why I wasn't afraid, I wasn't surprised to realize that it was the truth. She was, though. Darla's not used to not seeing fear. Neither is Drusilla, but I think some hidden part of her understands. She even understood when Angel backed out of the door, closing it, leaving us to this fate.
And I understood as well. I knew exactly what he was feeling at that moment, that rage that leaves you completely cold, so that you can't even care about what you're so angry at. For the first time, I felt a total camaraderie with him. He'd just made a choice that could damn him as well as us, and he didn't care. Come to think of it, neither did I. I still don't care, not really.
It's getting colder in the room, although some part of my mind knows that it's my temperature and not that of the room that's getting lower. I can just manage to turn my head towards where I hear Darla laugh something to Drusilla. Darla. Beautiful Darla, her golden hair cascading about her vampiric face as she lowers her head to lick one last drop from the throat of a girl I don't know. She was someone's date, probably didn't even know vampires were real until tonight. She certainly looked shocked enough when she came back from the powder room and opened the study doors to find Holland's requested massacre. I wonder if Angel knew there were innocents at this party. I wonder if he would have cared. I wonder if I care.
I must make some sound, because Darla looks up and turns her head towards me. Her gaze falls on me, and she smiles, teeth twisted and blood-stained. She stands and comes over to me, while Drusilla goes over to feed on Lilah. I watch her approach, the pain in my neck distant now. Watch as she kneels next to me, that same small, dainty smile I'd grown to like so much.
She reaches down and lifts me almost gently into her arms, but I can't even appreciate the feel of her against me, holding me. I've lost a little too much blood, I think; I can't feel much of anything anymore. Except a dim wish, deep in the back of my mind, that it not be over yet. I told her that I didn't mind dying, but I'm beginning to, now.
She smiles at me, and strokes a newly-warm hand against my face, brushing back my hair from my forehead. "Lindsay, Lindsay," she murmurs, and then chuckles. "Dear, sweet Lindsay. You cursed me and saved me -- a couple of times. What shall I do with you, hmm?"
I try to stay awake, watch her a little longer, but the darkness is closing in on me. I'm cold, and weak, and tired. So I close my eyes on her smile, almost reluctantly, and let go. As I drift into the velvet darkness, I wonder if I'll receive -- and regret -- that last wish, too.