Redemption

Summary: Funny thing about you, Angel. It used to be about redemption. LindseyCentric.

Characters: Lindsey, Angel. My first time writing either of them, actually, which made this quite interesting.

Let's be succinct: Disclaimed.

This story has no premise; it's more of a character study than anything. Expect little in the direction of plot. I'm actually on a Wesley binge, but I can't think of anything to write for him right now and hence Lindsey. 'Tis fun. But I really need to write something Wesley, so expect to see me drifting around this fandom for a nice, long time. I'll try to make up for some of the more awful (and how awful) stories I posted in this category before. Wish me luck.

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Angel had no idea how he had survived that final battle. Actually, on second thought, he wasn't sure he had survived. He imagined if he had, there ought to be more pain. Instead, he felt as though he was floating, suspended in some immaterial place that was neither warm nor cold. The torn muscles, ripped skin, bruised flesh and broken bones made no protest, though he knew he had acquired enough wounds to be in absolute agony at this point. He should have been able to feel, acutely, ever burn and cut and ache that covered his body. But there was nothing.

He didn't open his eyes; he was afraid that if he did it would all vanish. If this was death, he supposed he could be content with it, although… a sensation was beginning to pervade his comfortable cocoon, a most unpleasant tingling that was quickly spreading through his limbs. He frowned.

"Well, well," a voice said. "If it isn't the big hero himself."

The familiar, accented voice was enough to jerk him roughly from any chance at rest. His eyes snapped open and were met with darkness, and suddenly he was aware of where he was. He was sprawled out on the covers of his bed back at Wolfram and Hart, distastefully aware that he was not floating anywhere and that his pain was not quite as willing to go ignored (it still didn't hurt as much as his injuries warranted, but he was fine with that). His head rolled to the right, and he gaped as his eyes adjusted inhumanly fast to the dark.

Lindsey was standing in front of the windows, leaning casually against the wall. He had Angel pinned with an icy glare, and he looked very much alive… if one ignored the two holes in his chest that had bloodied his pinstriped shirt. Angel's mind was too fuzzy to correctly process this, and he wondered if all that magic Lindsey had used had managed to extend his life, even in spite of two bullets embedded in a few vital organs. So there he was, faced with a very much alive and furious lawyer-turned-mage, he had signed away his glowing reward, so many friends had died, and for some reason all he wanted to do was start laughing and not stop for days. He was about to give into that desire, too, and surrender to hysteria, but feeling was returning at every second and a few broken ribs were there to give him an admonishing poke at the slightest chuckle. Still, he couldn't help the grin that rose to his face, struck as he was with the incredibly serious humor of the situation. He forced himself into sobriety, reminding himself painfully of the awful battle that had taken place that night.

"What are you doing here, Lindsey?" he asked.

"Got a score to settle with you," the lawyer replied. "You ask for my help, then have some nobody shoot me? Come on, man! That was low, even from you. Pull me outta Wolfram and Hart's carefully designed hell, tell me you need help saving the world, and then execute me afterward? Funny, I thought your style was about second chances and seeing the error in ways."

Angel folded his arms over his chest, surprised he could even move them. He was quite certain at least one had broken in several places. "See, Lindsey, you already got a second chance," he said. "You got more than a second chance. There was the blind lady, and then the evil hand… So this would be, what, your fourth chance? Stop me if I left any out. You had enough chances. You're just evil. Plus I don't like you."

"All right, so, now you just go around killing anyone you don't like? Some champion. Maybe I really changed this time, got into the good fight and all that. Hell, I did come back to have a shot at the Senior Partners. That had to get me a tally in the good column. But maybe 'shot' was the wrong word to use…"

"I couldn't afford a liability like you, Lindsey," Angel interrupted.

"Oh, right. Because I was really more of a threat than your blue girl, huh? Yeah, I can see how the lawyer was more dangerous than the ancient, egotistical god. I mean, hell, my right hand's murderous." He waved the aforementioned appendage loosely in the air.

"You don't get it, Lindsey. You're part of the problem. You were as much of a target as the Circle."

"Never thought you were doing the Partners a favor gettin' rid of me? Never occurred to you that you might need me for the clean up? No? Besides, I'm really not such a bad guy. You've done worse things than I have, and when you had a soul. Let's see… a certain wine cellar comes to mind. You know, come to think of it, where does this whole noble persona come from, anyhow? Seems to me your natural state is-" a shrug- "Angelus. I read your file: you were a drunk as a human, a monster as a vampire, and you weren't all that nice for a while after you got your soul to begin with. Then all of a sudden you're the paradigm of morality. Face it, man. You're, what, two hundred and fifty years old? Most of that leaves you with a questionable résumé."

Angel exaggerated a sigh. "Does this have a point? Did you really come back from the dead just to bore me?"

"Funny thing about you, Angel. It used to be about redemption. Save the damsels in distress, help the helpless, kill the bad guys, make the world a nice place and you get your big honking reward: humanity. It's not about redemption anymore. Way I see it, you're headed the opposite direction these days. Only really moral one on your crew was the green guy, and- oops! You turned him into a murderer! How's that feel, champ? He didn't have a sin on him 'til you made him pull that trigger. You're a real hero." Had the disgusted sarcasm been any more palpable, Angel would have choked in it.

"Are you waiting for an apology, or do you just like to talk?" Angel asked irritably, swinging his legs over the bed frame and sitting up- gingerly, careful not to aggravate his ribs, which were probably the least of his troubles as every inch of him screamed individual protest to movement. "Really thought being dead would have made you less annoying."

Lindsey took two steps forward and held something out to Angel. The vampire stared blankly at the glass, filled with clear liquid, until Lindsey gave it an impatient wave. Angel reached up and took it, mulling over the peculiarity of having a drink with a long-time enemy that had been killed just that night. Lindsey had retreated back to the wall, his own drink in his hand. Angel took a sip and said, "So this is a dream, is it?" even as the tequila and tonic burned its way down his throat to prove him wrong. The awareness in this place was too real for a dream, but it certainly wasn't reality.

The ex-lawyer shrugged. "Think of it as an attack of your conscience if you like. Just thought you should know you're veering way off track. Hmm, and didn't Cordelia tell you the same thing when they sent her? You're gettin' real slow on the uptake."

"Wait. The Powers sent you?"

Lindsey rolled his eyes. "No. Yes. Don't really know. I don't have that link to them your girl had. Just wanted you to feel guilty." He raised his glass.

"You want to toast?"

This earned another glare. "To all the fallen soldiers," Lindsey proclaimed.

All the fallen soldiers. Doyle. Cordelia. Fred. Wesley. All those other unnamed heroes. And, as an afterthought, Angel tacked Lindsey's name onto the end of that particularly morbid list. He raised his glass to meet the toast.

"To redemption."