PART 1

SEA CHANGE

Part Two

Some of Lindsey's law professors were younger -- more casual dressers, women as well as men, black as well as white. They tried to be funny and friendly, and it showed up in their hypotheticals: the contentious parties would have names from Star Trek or Cheers, or the criminal cases would be the fallout from popular action movies. ("For which criminal acts does the Terminator have specific as opposed to general intent? Discuss.")

Lindsey was never greatly entertained by these efforts, well-meaning though they might have been. He greatly preferred the older professors -- white, male, clad in three-piece suits even on swelteringly hot days. They represented a certain formality he valued in his professors, if almost nowhere else.

These professors did not try to make their hypotheticals amusing. They made them difficult, to separate the weak from the strong, and Lindsey, ever-strong, appreciated this.

They also did not attempt to show imagination. Parties were named A, B, C and so forth. And the property they clashed over -- the estate they possessed and inherited and trespassed upon and contracted for -- was invariably called by the same name. Blackacre.

Perversely, that name stirred Lindsey's imagination far more than the whimsical hypotheticals ever had or could. Blackacre. It sounded old, Gothic, expensive -- the sort of place that would be surrounded by a cast-iron gate thick with scrollwork, and brambles that twisted into thorns. Like something out of the romantic books his older sisters used to read and leave, dog-eared, on the back porch. Lindsey (done with his exam early, holding onto his bluebook lest the others discover his ability) imagined the path that would lead to Blackacre -- old stones, broken decades back, so that dust and grass showed between the cracks, winding through ancient, shadowy trees to the fortresslike Blackacre. Blackacre -- a name meant to be dry, dull, and impersonal -- was more vivid to Lindsey than any of the funny, familiar hypotheticals ever were. It captured a desire in him he had hardly known was there -- a desire to explore darkness and mystery, a desire to break down barriers.

He did not fully recognize this desire in himself until far later in life, after it had already led him into the belly of Wolfram & Hart. And only now does he realize what he had always wanted to find within Blackacre, who he had always wanted to discover locked up in its attics. At the heart of Blackacre -- wrapped within history and danger and trespass -- that's where Angel was waiting.

Or so it seems to him now, as he lies on Angel's bunk, watching Angel sleep.

Lindsey has heard many bad poets and songwriters wax rhapsodic about watching a lover sleep; Angel is not really his lover yet, but that's not why this scene has relatively few pleasures for Lindsey.

For one, Angel does not breathe slowly in sleep, flutter his eyelids, mumble nonsensical words or do any of the other simple things that lovers find endearing. Angel just lies there like the dead body he is. Also, Angel is lying across Lindsey's arm, the one original he has left, and the solid muscles that were so inviting to look upon and so arousing to touch are now just part of the bulk that has crushed out all feeling from elbow to fingers.

But Lindsey doesn't push Angel away, or try to move. It's still too amazing, too new, that he could be lying here in bed with Angel at all. And besides, if he hopes to get Angel to accept him willingly as his lover, Lindsey will have to be kinder than his usual inclination for a few days, or weeks. Months?

Yes, Lindsey thinks with a faint smile, even months. He is at sea, and he is pursuing his dreams, and after all, he has nothing better to do.

He looks at Angel again, and his eyes narrow as he looks again at the gold chain around Angel's neck, the ring. that is lying on his collarbone. The shape is familiar -- two hands on either side of a crowned heart. A claddagh ring. Lindsey knows it's Irish, thinks there's some symbolism that goes with it; there's something romantic, something that gets reprinted on greeting cards -- but something more, too. Something religious.

Lindsey reaches out with his free hand to touch the ring; perhaps sensing the motion, Angel stirs, then opens his eyes. He registers some surprise when he sees he's not alone, but Lindsey can tell Angel remembers what happened. He's just surprised Lindsey stayed.

"Do vampires get hangovers?" Lindsey asks quietly.

"It's possible," Angel says, without letting on to his own condition. He pushes himself up on his elbows, freeing Lindsey's arm; Lindsey pulls it back, trying not to let his profound relief show.

Slowly clenching and releasing his numbed hand, Lindsey says, "You slept for about ten hours. If that was all sleep -- guess you could've been passed out for part of it. With you, there's not a whole lot of telling."

"It was sleep," Angel says. "Lindsey -- last night --"

Lindsey braces himself; what's Angel gonna say? The worst possibility, in which an outraged Angel attacks him for taking advantage, is already ruled out. Would've done it first thing, if he was going to do it at all. But the game Lindsey's going to play depends almost entirely on what Angel does next: how angry he is, how distant, how lonely.

Because, as much as Lindsey's trying not to think about just how Angel ended up this way, he still hasn't been able to miss the fact that Angel's lonely.

Angel doesn't say anything. His last words just hang there, in the uncomfortable silence of his bunk. He's not going to tell Lindsey to get out, or apologize, or do anything else. Already, the heaviness and distance is back in Angel's eyes; left to his own devices, he'll just get up and tell the captain to fill the pool again. He doesn't care about what happened here between him and Lindsey, just wants to get back to blotting it out of his mind. Whatever "it" is.

"You're not swimming today," Lindsey says. Angel half-turns to look at him; Lindsey props up so that they're face to face. "You're creeping out everyone else on the boat, you know that? You want to fill the hours, you're gonna have to do it some other way."

"I don't think that's your decision to make," Angel says.

"I think maybe it is," Lindsey says. He leans forward -- they're within kissing distance -- and Angel leans back. Good, Lindsey thinks. Finally getting some reaction here. "Listen, I don't know how you ended up like this, and I shouldn't care. But I do. You want to know why?" Without waiting for an answer, Lindsey plows on: "It's because I know at least some part of it is my fault. I give you a lot of shit because of what you did to me -- and don't expect me to stop anytime soon, by the way -- but it goes both ways. And I know it. I know what I did to you."

Angel shakes his head. "This isn't your fault," he says quietly. "This has -- nothing -- to do with you."

So. Not Darla, then. Not the firm at all. Lindsey mentally files this away for future reference. "Maybe," Lindsey says. "The fact is, I owe you. And I'm about tired of owing anyone for anything. I'm tired of just living with what I've done. I want -- I want to make up for some of it, Angel. You understand that, right?"

Angel looks at him, his expression unreadable, and then he nods.

Lindsey tries to hold back his sigh of relief. Playing the redemption card this early in was a calculated risk, but apparently it's going to pay off.

They don't swim.

It's the only activity available on the ship they don't try, those first few days; that's the first of many habits Lindsey's hoping to break Angel of. Instead, Lindsey checks out tapes and CDs from the officers; Angel is in no mood for comedies, but he'll watch the heavy dramas and the action flicks -- that is, except one night, when Michelle Yeoh's kicking ass and taking names hits Angel wrong, and he turns off the TV without even asking Lindsey. They're better off with the CDs. There's a large classical selection, which Angel likes, and they can lie there together for hours, not talking, just letting the music flow through the room.

And they do lie together -- when Lindsey left the cabin that first time to grab a quick lunch, he went back to his own room, left behind only a handful of things to claim it as his territory, and basically moved his backpack and himself into Angel's room. Angel was still too numb to protest, although Lindsey did see Angel raise an eyebrow when Lindsey tossed his underwear into a drawer. He hasn't remarked on the fact that Lindsey's moved in, either to protest or to approve. But they lay on the bed together watching movies that entire first day, and when the last one clicked at the end and started rewinding, Lindsey didn't bother asking if it was all right for him to fall asleep in the bed next to Angel.

Angel hasn't fought it. Though there's been no repetition of the first night's events -- Lindsey can still feel Angel's cool kiss every time he lets himself think about it, which is as seldom as possible, which is still fairly often -- apparently they earned Lindsey at least some of the rights of a lover. He is allowed to sleep in Angel's bed, by Angel's side.

Lindsey is not used to this kind of slow-burn buildup to sex. He's kept both sexuality and romance strictly compartmentalized his entire adult life, separating them from the rest of his existence, not to mention from each other as far as possible. Most of his discipline and work has gone into the firm; therefore, Lindsey's sexual history consists mostly of brief affairs, begun and ended quickly, if never impulsively. He sees someone he wants, he weighs the risks and probabilities -- and then he then either goes for it immediately or sets it aside as unworkable. He broke this rule for Darla and paid the price; at this glacial pace, he's seriously bending the rule for Angel.. And if he thought the waiting was killing him for Darla, that was because he didn't have a goddamn clue what it would be like to lie next to Angel at night, to see him coming out of the shower in the morning, wet hair, moist skin, towel only loosely wrapped and low on the hips --

Lindsey still has enough discpline to cut these thoughts off early. Fairly early, anyway. So he's playing a different kind of game these days; he seems to be playing it well. All in all, he's in good position to make his move as soon as the time is right.

Whenever that might be.

But breaking through Angel's misery is going to take a long time, and Lindsey learns the hard way not to push it. The third night, he talks Angel into going on a walk on deck; the ocean is still surreally calm, almost without a wave, and the sky is brilliant with stars, the way it never can be in Los Angeles, with its smog and city lights. It reminds Lindsey a little of Oklahoma, though he tries not to think about that.

They walk along the deck, Angel in his enviable wool coat, Lindsey in his anorak, not talking, just taking in the stars and the silence. Lindsey sees Orange Parka checking them out, realizes that by lunchtime tomorrow the entire ship will believe that The Swimmer and Guitar Guy are an item. Fine by Lindsey; he doubts a bunch of guys who spend almost their entire lives alone together at sea are going to be real shocked, and as for rumor among the passengers -- well, appearances have a way of becoming less deceiving as time goes on.

Angel keeps looking at the horizon, where black water meets black sky, and not at Lindsey.

"Don't you have a mission to get back to?" Lindsey said.

Angel shrugs. "I'll go back."

"When exactly? Because I don't think you're checking yourself into a monastery just for the weekend."

"When I can face it."

That strikes Lindsey as a little odd. "When you can face what?" he says, thinking about walking into Wolfram & Hart every day. "When you can face the fact that the gods in their heavens chose you to be their very special errand boy? That the road you're on leads straight to the Pearly Gates? Yeah, that's gotta be a cross to bear."

No sooner is it out of his mouth than Lindsey wants to cringe. He's supposed to be supportive, or barring that, silent; also, it just occurred to him that the idea of bearing a cross probably carries some very literal and ugly resonance for vampires.

He glances over at Angel, and Angel's mouth is twisted in a grimace. Lindsey's waiting for Angel to lash out -- but Angel's not mad at him.

"When I can face that they chose me," Angel says. His hand moves up to his neck; Lindsey watches his fist clench around the claddagh ring on the chain. The movement seems instinctive, like a primitive clutching a talisman or a totem of something very dear. "When I can face that they let me have all the agony that comes with a soul but deny me the happiness that's supposed to make up for it. When I can face that they make me promises, that they make bargains with me, and they only keep their word if they feel like it. That they torture my best friend, make her see things so we can stop them, but they pick and choose what to make her see. What they'll let me prevent."

Angel's hand tightens even more around the ring, so hard the metal's got to be cutting into his flesh. He doesn't seem to notice it, just stares out at the water as his face contorts in rage. "When I can face the fact that they asked me to sacrifice the thing I wanted most in this world -- the thing she wanted most in this world -- that they asked me to do it to save her, and I did it, I did it to save her, and then they didn't save her -- they just let her --"

They? She? Lindsey can't quite put this together, but he's pretty damn sure it would be a bad time to interrupt.

"When I can deal with the fact that they don't care, and I can give it all up and it can all mean nothing anyway, and when I can finally just let it go --" Angel rips at the chain, breaking it, and throws the ring with all his might into the ocean. One glint of light against the waves, and it's gone forever.

Lindsey looks at Angel, surprised; Angel is staring after the ring with something that goes beyond horror, beyond regret. If Angel could dive into the ocean right now, spend the next fifty years diving back into the water over and over to find that ring and have any chance of doing so, Lindsey is sure he'd do it. Because he has the sense that Angel threw away something more than just a bit of jewelry, and that Angel knows it too.

But the ocean's too vast for that, and even Angel's life is too short. After a moment, Angel turns to go back inside. Lindsey follows him, and as they lie next to each other that night, Lindsey realizes that Angel is even further away, in his mind, than he was before.

So, after this, he doesn't push.

Lindsey begins pulling Angel into some of the rhythms of daily life aboard the ship -- getting him to go to meals, telling him about the various passengers. Some of this is practical -- Lindsey has to eat, and he still isn't certain that he won't come back to the cabin sometime to find his stuff in the hallway and the door locked. Some of it is pure desperation, since after all they must talk about something during all these hours. And some of it is a gamble on Lindsey's part, a guess that Angel will feel obligated to be polite to strangers, more than he does to Lindsey.

This much of the gamble pays off; Louis and Marjorie talk Angel's ear off at virtually every meal. They're almost too friendly, in what Lindsey suspects is an attempt to make the gay couple feel accepted. Angel fits in as best he can, even eats a little of the cook's atrocious macaroni and cheese, which has to be even more tasteless to him than it is to Lindsey. Angel doesn't open up about himself -- Lindsey has never before realized just how good a defense strategy Angel's social cluelessness actually is -- but he asks Louis and Marjorie a lot of questions, and they're happy to answer. And Lindsey feels ridiculously triumphant to be in the officers' mess of a ship somewhere in the South Pacific, looking at photos of grandchildren with a vampire. Angel's curiosity is reawakening; the rest will come soon.

But Lindsey had not fully calculated what the return of Angel's curiosity would mean, and he scarcely considers the issue at all until the beginning of their second week in the same cabin, the day of the storm.

The waves begin swelling in the middle of the afternoon, rocking Angel's cabin, sending the few things they didn't have stowed away tumbling around the cabin. Despite Angel's insistence that this is nothing, particularly compared to a certain hurricane in the West Indies in the 1820s, Lindsey is unconvinced and goes abovedecks to ask the officers if they are in danger. He thinks it will help him to see the waves, gauge their size and menace; when Lindsey finally gets abovedecks and glimpses a wall of water twenty feet higher than the ship, he wishes he hadn't seen it.

To Lindsey's amazement and annoyance, the sailors agree with Angel. This is nothing. Lindsey is left to take his fear and his motion sickness back down below.

Angel gives him a look when he stumbles through the door, bracing himself for a moment against the wall. "What did they say?"

"Shut up," Lindsey says, which tells Angel pretty much the whole story. Angel smiles a little, which would either encourage Lindsey or piss him off if he could concentrate on anything besides not throwing up.

Lindsey gets to the bed and clings to it desperately throughout the evening as the ship pitches and rolls. At times he imagines that he is already overboard, clinging to a life raft in the middle of the treacherous ocean. Seasickness apparently holds no sway over vampires; Angel is able to read, watch a video, even walk about the cabin with no visible discomfort and only the slightest signs that he has to struggle for balance.

They don't make conversation until very late, when a sudden drop sends Lindsey's backpack crashing out of the closet. A crinkled sheet of notebook paper falls out.

Angel sees it before Lindsey does; Lindsey notices Angel's reaction first, and only then turns back to see the letter lying on the floor, Angel's broad hand picking it up. Lindsey feels all the muscles in his body clench as Angel offhandedly tosses the backpack in the closet again and unfolds the paper. Angel does not ask for permission to read it. He just does.

Lindsey's father never let his lack of writing skills stop him from sending letters while Lindsey was in school. One a month, maybe two, depending on how good Lindsey had been at dodging his phone calls. So Lindsey's had lovers find notes from his father before. A couple of girls and most of the guys had laughed at the bad spelling and grammar, until Lindsey smoothly changed the subject, hiding his clenched fists. One guy -- Jason, from Kansas, so long ago -- had looked up at him earnestly and told Lindsey that this letter made Jason respect him all the more, now that he had seen where Lindsey came from and how far he'd traveled, and knew just how brave Lindsey really was.

Lindsey could still remember feeling the bone in Jason's jaw snap beneath his fist, the bewildered expression on Jason's face as he stumbled out of the dorm room, clutching his Polo shirt in one hand.

Angel, however, reads the note over slowly, then says, "Your father loves you very much."

Funny, how he hasn't thought of that -- as simply as that -- for so long. And how much he doesn't like thinking about it. "Guess so," Lindsey says. "No accountin' for tastes."

"Will you do what he wants?" Angel says. "Will you go see him?"

Lindsey looks up at Angel, who is standing steady in the center of the room, despite the fact that it feels as though they're being tossed about wildly. Angel's calm goes deeper than his body, too. Now that he's got Lindsey tense, Angel's more relaxed. Some things don't change. "Eventually," Lindsey says. "I'm in no rush. I don't jump on his command anymore."

He figures this comment will either shut Angel up or earn him a lecture; to his surprise, Angel laughs. "What's the joke?" Lindsey asks.

"You are," Angel says without a trace of sarcasm. "You think you're free of your father. Nobody's ever free from his father, Lindsey."

"Not even you," Lindsey says. He knows the bald facts about Angel's parents -- the descriptions of their bodies as recorded by the parish priest, transcribed from church records in a Wolfram & Hart report old enough to have been typed on yellowing paper he pulled from a file. But those are words, only words, and Lindsey's suddenly very curious about what it would really mean -- to kill your father, to live two and a half centuries past that murder, to still have it affect you. He doesn't think, for a moment, that Angel could be talking about anything but the murder.

But then Angel says, "I told myself I'd never have to hear his voice again. And I don't think one day has gone by that I haven't heard it."

"What was he like? Your father?"

"My father -- " Angel is quiet, considering this. He's clearly struggling for the words; Lindsey realizes that nobody's asked Angel this before. He realizes also that he didn't ask for any tactical purpose -- just because he wanted to know. Bad planning. Can't let that happen again -- "My father believed in order. Rules. Cause and effect. Justice and punishment." Then Angel's face softens slightly, and he continues, "He was a good horseman. Loved to ride. He had a tremendous singing voice, even though he never sang anywhere but in church. He wanted to think of himself as a rich man, even though he wasn't one. His favorite meal was roast beef, and he laughed at all my mother's superstitions, and he wouldn't bother learning the names of the barn cats. Just called them all 'cat,' regardless. My first memory of him is of him riding up on his horse -- I don't know where he'd been -- but my mother lifted me up to the window, and I saw him riding up, and I waved, and he smiled and waved back at me. And I felt very grown-up and proud, that my father waved to me from the street."

Angel is quiet for a long while after this speech, which is as much as Lindsey's ever heard Angel say at one time. Lindsey lets him stay quiet, then goes back to the first words. Those are often the most critical. "He believed in order. In rules. And you weren't big on that, were you?"

"My father thought that obedience was the same as love," Angel says. "I thought disobedience was the same as freedom. I was young." He pauses, then adds, "And now I see -- he was too."

Angel hands the letter to Lindsey, and to Lindsey's surprise, his hand is shaking as he takes it from Angel's. If Angel notices, he doesn't let on. But later that night, when the storm has calmed somewhat and Angel has joined Lindsey in the bed, Lindsey lets his hand rest against Angel's back. Angel doesn't pull away.

The waiting is worse, after that.

Lindsey's a patient man, relatively speaking. Being a lawyer demands that of you, even in a firm with methods as unconventional as Wolfram & Hart's. But this, dammit -- this is starting to drive him crazy.

He's losing sleep now; there's no way to fully relax with Angel lying next to him, shirt off, sometimes just in his underwear, not touching Lindsey's body -- but not avoiding him either. If Lindsey puts an arm across one of Angel's shoulders, or lets his leg brush against Angel's -- Angel lets him. It's not exactly the wild erotic response Lindsey might wish for, but it's a step forward, a sign that his game is working.

But his ability to play the game is draining away. Lindsey is losing his perspective, losing his cool.

He lies awake at night watching Angel, feeling his cock go hard just at the sight of Angel's naked chest. He wants to touch himself so badly on those nights, when he's so hot for Angel it hurts. And he can't help but wonder what Angel would do if he awoke to find Lindsey in the act, pumping into his own fist; in these nighttime musings, Lindsey's mind is so febrile, so overheated, that he can imagine Angel not being dismayed or amused, but instead being turned on, replacing Lindsey's hand with his mouth --

Thus far, Lindsey hasn't tried this fantasy out. He's only jacking off in the shower, though he's doing this often enough that Angel must have caught on by now -- unless he actually is as obtuse as he sometimes acts, a possibility Lindsey hasn't ruled out.

This much of it -- the sexual tension, the pain of waiting -- that's to be expected. It might be more intense than anything Lindsey's experienced before, but so has everything else so far in his relationship with Angel. No, as much as it's killing him, he can handle what's happening with his body.

What's happening on the inside, though, is a hell of a lot scarier.

When he sees that Angel's hurting -- and this is still clear, still hanging on Angel like a shroud -- Lindsey feels an answering pang in his own chest, actual physical pain. Sometimes, when they're lying together in bed, Lindsey's thoughts don't turn instantly to sex; when he wants to reach out and touch Angel, he's thinking only of stroking his hair, or even just holding him. Just holding him close, putting his arms around him, making some of that pain fall away from him --

Lindsey's known this feeling precious few times in his life. His memories of it are only fleeting, because every time he's recognized it, he's run like hell. And when he recognizes it there in the dark, he can feel it closing in on him -- like elevator walls around a claustrophobic, making his pulse race and his sweat go cold. As much as he wants Angel, as close as he can tell he is getting to a place where he might achieve his goal, when Lindsey recognizes this feeling, he wants to run like hell again.

But he's on a ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Where's he going to run to?

Worst of all, he has begun to talk. And not just to fill the hours, not just to draw Angel out. Lindsey is beginning to talk because he wants Angel to hear. To understand. Something in him has begun to wish that Angel would understand, and this can only be because something in him has begun to think that if Angel understood, everything would be different.

Lindsey is close to Angel's body, but he is as far as ever from Angel's soul, and his fresh knowledge of the distance hurts worse than his yearning body on those long nights.

And yet he stays in Angel's cabin, in Angel's bed. And he continues to talk.

"So this guy's standing there in the gym, and he's gotta see how run-down the school is, you know? Those bleachers were more graffiti than wood, at that point. Birds nesting at the top of the gym -- they'd swoop down, during ball games, sometimes."

"Must've been exciting." Angel has that almost-smile on his face, an expression that's fairly new to Lindsey. It's already just about his favorite. He is lying on his side, listening to Lindsey with what appears to be real interest.

"Yeah, if missing a free throw due to a bird shitting on you is exciting." Lindsey's got all their pillows under his head, is lying on his back, the better to have both hands free to gesture. He likes to talk with his hands, now that he can again. It's rainy tonight -- though thankfully not stormy -- and the pattering of the drops on their window is comforting. "But this guy -- he's so slick. His suit costs as much as my dad would make in about three months. And he's not acting like he's some big deal. The guys from the bank, they thought they were some kinda kings. Lording it over you while they're standing there in short-sleeved dress shirts and polyester pants. Not this guy. He had money, but he seemed like he was on the level." Lindsey laughs. "And he was there to tell us how you could overcome poverty or problems or anything else by going to law school. And maybe, someday, if we were lucky, we could find ourselves a law firm as fine as his."

"Wolfram & Hart," Angel says. It's not a question. "And you wanted that suit for yourself."

Once, that comment would have been a taunt from Angel. Now he's just trying to understand, and Lindsey wants him to be clear. "Not the suit. Not just the suit, anyway. It was the way he felt wearing it, you know? Like he was past ever having to worry about that kind of thing, ever again. He was so much better than us he didn't even have to think about being better. At least, that was how it looked to me then."

"He gave you a card," Angel postulates. "Asked you to call them if you needed work."

"Like they leave that much up to chance," Lindsey scoffs. "They go get 'em early at the firm. No, that guy asked the principal about any 'deserving students.' Kids who had brains but no money. So by the end of the day, me and about three other kids get to talk with him in the principal's office."

"What happened to the other kids?"

"Don't know," Lindsey says. "Nothing with the firm, anyway. They didn't fit the profile. But I did. That lawyer wrote me recommendation letters for college scholarships and law school. Got me to rush his fraternity. Checked up on me the whole way."

"Where is he now?"

"Dead," Lindsey says. He doesn't bother explaining -- by firm standards, it's not an especially horrifying story -- and Angel doesn't ask further. "Anyway, I knew from the beginning there was more to it. I mean, I didn't know about vampires or demons or anything -- but I knew there was something they wanted. You just don't get that kind of helping hand in the world, not without there being a price."

"Not often," Angel says quietly.

"But I didn't care. I never in my life felt as good as I did walking home that day. The road out to my house was tarred, and it was hot enough for it to melt, and so I had to walk in the dirt and smell that hot tar, and I remember thinking, the day's gonna come when I never have to do this again. I didn't think anything else mattered."

They are silent together for a while, listening to the rain against the glass. The natural next question for Angel to ask is whether anything else matters to Lindsey now. Lindsey would like to be able to tell him yes -- he's pretty sure the answer is yes -- but there's still that doubt. Still the memory of how good it felt, to look down on Los Angeles from his office, to sit back in his leather chair, to know that he had power.

But even as they lie there, Lindsey realizes that Angel already understands this much -- given his own history, he could not help but understand it. Lindsey is warmed by that, touched in a way that revives the needy-scary feeling that's been welling up inside him these past few days.

He recognizes the emotion, feels the fear, and in his panic and dismay makes a mistake no lawyer should ever make, breaks the most basic of all courtroom rules. He asks a question for no purpose -- a question to which he does not know the answer.

"Why are you here?" Lindsey says. "Why are you going to Sri Lanka?"

There it is, bald and demanding, the question they've been avoiding ever since their first moments together on the ship. Angel sits up abruptly, and Lindsey winces. Angel's about to get out of bed, maybe leave the room, and when he comes back he's going to want Lindsey out of there --

Except that Angel's still just sitting there, thinking. Lindsey realizes, with a start, that Angel's thinking about how to answer. He pushes himself up on his elbows -- not getting too close to Angel, but in a position to meet his eyes, when he's ready.

Angel's not looking at Lindsey; he's looking inward, thinking less now about how he will say whatever it is he wants to say than about the truth of it. Grief is shadowing his face again -- not muted, as it was when he boarded the ship, but raw and naked now.

Slowly, Angel says, his voice a whisper, "She's dead."

Lindsey stares at him. After a moment's hesitation, he says, "Cordelia? Cordelia's dead?"

"What? No. God, no." Angel's horror at the idea, his relief that it is not true, jerks him back to the here and now. "Cordelia's fine."

"Darla." He ought to have expected this. It ought to hurt more than it does.

"No -- not as far as I know -- no." Angel sighs. "Buffy. Buffy's dead."

Buffy. Lindsey never met her. He read about her in the files -- Summers, Buffy Anne. The Slayer. Born 1981, Died 1997, revived. Now the creepy Files and Records woman in the firm basement is adding, Died 2001. Angel's lover. Angel's love. The one and only time Lindsey ever gave the girl any thought was during a spirited debate as to whether kidnapping her as a form of coercing Angel would be feasible. After some review of what she'd done to most of her enemies, they'd decided, probably not.

But she was the one who had given Angel perfect happiness, the one Angel had loved -- deeply enough that, two years after they'd parted company, he could still be torn apart by her death. "I'm sorry," Lindsey says, and it is actually true.

"She died saving the world," Angel says. "I knew -- I mean, I always knew, even before I met her -- that was how it was going to end. That if I wasn't staked in some fight, I'd have to lose her someday. But she was so strong, Lindsey. So damn good at it. It was stupid to think she could just keep on winning forever, but if you'd ever seen her -- you would've believed it too."

"You still loved her," Lindsey says.

Angel nods, but his expression is distant again. "I used to imagine dying for her. Before our big battles, I always pictured it -- the sword coming at her, or the spell, or the fire. Whatever it was, it was always something I could step in front of. Something that could happen to me instead of her -- but in the end, it was something that only she could have done. Something in her blood. And I should've known that all along."

"That's what's eating you. That you couldn't die for her."

"No," Angel says. He pauses, then whispers, "It's that I didn't want to."

Those words tear something out of Angel; he grimaces and covers his face with one of his hands. "Oh, God," he says.

"Hey," Lindsey says. "Hey, it's okay." He takes Angel's other hand in his -- no calculation, no desire, just pure instinct.

The touch seems to calm Angel slightly; his hand is shaking as he takes it down from his face, but he can speak again. "I mean, I would have died for her. I would have, if I could have," he says. "But there was a time when -- I couldn't imagine living without her, Lindsey. I didn't have to be with her -- I just had to know that she was somewhere in the world. Living the life she deserved. I always knew I'd lose Buffy, and I always thought that when she died, I'd die too. Because there was nothing to live for, without her."

"It's okay." Lindsey's stroking Angel's hair now, touching another person for no reason but comfort, something he hasn't done since he was a teenager and Tom and Kristie were tiny enough to want to be cuddled after they'd skinned their knees.

"And when I heard that Buffy was dead -- it hurt so much, Lindsey, it hurt so damn much, but I didn't want to die. I didn't want to walk away from my mission. I didn't want to leave my friends. I wasn't sorry that I hadn't died with her."

Lindsey understands now, at last. "You lost what you thought was your whole world. And then you found out you still had something left to lose."

"And that's the hell of it."

"So you left anyway?"

"Just for a while. Not long. Not very long, anyway." Angel emphasizes this by shaking his head, and the protesting reveals to Lindsey that Angel had considered going away for good -- leaving human friends he now knows he has to lose, others he will have to hurt for as he's hurting now. But Lindsey believes what Angel's said. "What are you doing, then?"

"Giving myself time to feel the pain. And getting far enough away from my friends so that they don't have to deal with me losing it again."

Lindsey remembers opening his apartment door to see Darla, burned skin hanging off her in strips, tears in her eyes. He still thinks the tears in her eyes were real. All this silence, this journey across the world -- it's all Angel's way of not letting that happen once more.

Slowly, Lindsey says, "Do you want to talk about Buffy?"

He's almost completely certain that Angel will say no. And Angel does stare at him at first, as though -- after two weeks of sleeping in the same bed and one night of abortive foreplay -- Lindsey's finally crossed the line.

But Angel relaxes, lies back in the bed. He holds out one hand, and Lindsey surrenders one of the pillows. Angel balls it behind his head and starts to talk. Lindsey lies next to him for hours, listening to stories about the Master, about the Mayor, about the Sisterhood of Jhe. He hears about a slow dance at the prom, and a Christmas when it snowed, and the real meaning of the ring that Angel threw overboard.

As Angel talks, Lindsey holds him, strokes his hair, lets his body express what will never be said in words. They are both letting go, holding nothing back, for the first and possibly the only time together.

Lindsey falls asleep with his head on Angel's shoulder, listening to a tale about a battle at an ice rink, and a girl who took off her glove to touch a vampire's face. The last thing he does before drifting off is touch his own fingertips to Angel's cheek.

He wakes up with Angel's arms around him, Angel's body curled against him. And Lindsey's eyes open very wide as he realizes that Angel is hard, his erection pressing against Lindsey's thigh.

"Angel?" he whispers.

"Yeah," Angel says. Lindsey moves back just far enough to see Angel's face. He is watching Lindsey very carefully -- there's a little of the old distance there, something almost predatory, which is exciting as hell. But Angel doesn't make his move; what he's guarded about doesn't seem to have much to do with the fact that their bodies are laced together beneath the sheets.

Lindsey rolls over on his side so that they're face to face; this means breaking some of the contact between their bodies, but he has a feeling that's only a temporary loss. His heart is thumping crazily, and he knows his breathing has sped up. Angel's got to have registered all this, but his dark eyes are unreadable. The rain is still pattering against their window, staccato and inconstant.

Angel says, "When did you stop playing me?"

So Angel knew all along. Lindsey breathes out, surprised that what he's feeling is relief. "I don't know," he confesses. "Wasn't any one day, any one thing. I was messing with your head, and then I wasn't." Angel nods, accepting this. Some of the scary distance in his eyes is gone as he relaxes. Lindsey asks, "How come you didn't throw me out on my ass?"

"It was good to be near someone. If I'd been alone this whole time -- I don't know."

"Rethinking the monastery?" Lindsey cocks one eyebrow as he says this, rests his hand against Angel's chest.

"No," Angel says, though he covers Lindsey's hand with his own, one simple motion that gives Lindsey a hard-on and a head rush. "Just the journey. It wouldn't have been good, if you hadn't been here."

"I can make it better than this," Lindsey suggests.

Angel disentangles his hand from Lindsey's, brings it up to Lindsey's cheek, a mirror of the touch Lindsey gave him before falling asleep. The touch is gentle, desiring, everything Lindsey's ever wanted from Angel and would never have dared to ask for. And it all seems like a miracle, like a daydream's triumph over reality, until Angel whispers, "Is this what you want?"

It's not what he says. It's how he says it. Angel is looking at Lindsey with physical need, with gratitude, even with liking -- but whatever this is that's been born within Lindsey the past few days, this deeper feeling that's got him scared and exhilarated all at once -- that's not there. Angel wants Lindsey, and he knows Lindsey wants him, and he is willing to indulge their mutual need. That's all it is, for him; he thinks that's all it is for Lindsey, too.

Lindsey hugs Angel, only to give himself a moment to hide his face. Angel returns the embrace, running one of his hands through Lindsey's hair; there's real tenderness in his touch, and that makes it all the worse. So close, Lindsey thinks. So close and so far.

Of course it was stupid to expect more from Angel -- especially here and now. Angel may be getting over Buffy's death a hell of a lot faster than he'd thought possible, but the grief's still too new. And for everything he and Angel have talked about, there are a thousand things they haven't; there's still too much blame, too many unacknowledged sins between them. Lindsey let himself forget that, for a while.

As Angel's hands slide down Lindsey's back -- pulling them closer together, asking permission -- Lindsey knows he's got two options. One, he can just go ahead with this. Take what Angel's offering, understand that it's the closest he's ever likely to get. Two, he can tell the truth. He can admit what he's feeling to Angel, admit it to himself, and play this game out for real, for the only stakes that will ever matter.

"Lindsey?" Angel's voice is soft against his ear.

"Yes," Lindsey says. "Yes. I want this. I want you."

Lindsey's always been a pragmatist.

Angel's hands, big and square, are on either side of Lindsey's face, bringing their mouths close. The kiss is inevitable, has been for a while now, but they take it slow, so slow, savoring that last moment of anticipation. Lindsey opens his mouth slightly as their lips finally touch, warm against cool.

They kiss again, then again, getting deeper and wetter with each kiss. Lindsey feels Angel's tongue push slowly into his mouth, opens his lips wider to take him in. He can still remember their first kisses on that night that seems so long ago now -- at the time, he thought them arousing. Now they seem cold and pale, and the strongest memory Lindsey has of them is of the taste of that terrible scotch. Those kisses can't compare at all to this -- to Angel kissing him with real hunger, real desire, because in this moment he wants Lindsey as badly as Lindsey wants him.

Lindsey begins moving against Angel languidly, letting Angel feel just how hard Lindsey is for him. Angel responds by pulling Lindsey even closer, making sure that their cocks rub against each other every time Lindsey moves. Just this sensation -- cloaked as it is by the cotton of their shorts -- is enough to make Lindsey want to take things a lot faster.

He pushes Angel away and gets on his knees just long enough to pull his t-shirt off; it's still over his head when he feels Angel's lips on his breastbone, just above his heart. Lindsey gasps, throws the shirt away, lowers his hands to Angel's shoulders. He lets his left hand -- the original -- trace the outline of Angel's tattoo as Angel kisses his way down his chest, brushing his tongue against a nipple, into his navel, down toward the waistband of his boxers.

As Angel hooks his fingers onto the legs of the boxer shorts, preparing to pull them away, Lindsey braces himself against Angel's body. He rubs his fingers against the tattoo, fixating on it as a way of keeping himself from coming right here and now, like a teenage boy, so excited at being seen, at just the idea of sex, that his body's already losing control. "This tattoo," he rasps, as Angel peels his underwear down, as he feels his cock spring free. "What is this?"

"A gryphon," Angel says against the curve of Lindsey's pelvic bone.

"So -- what's that mean? Why did you -- why'd you get this?"

"Does it matter?" Angel is tracing his fingertips up Lindsey's inner thighs.

"Nope. But it -- it beats thinking about baseball scores." Angel laughs quietly; he doesn't answer Lindsey's question.

Lindsey expects Angel to start going down on him any second now, which is why it's a surprise to be pushed back down on the bed. Then again, he thinks it's good that Angel's got the will to slow this down. If it were up to Lindsey alone, this would be over way the hell too quickly.

Angel starts kissing Lindsey's body -- everywhere, all over, lavishing as much time and attention on unusual places (beneath his arms, his knees) as he does on the erogenous zones (the earlobes, the nipples). It's the simplest foreplay of all, all the more arousing and maddening for being so gentle and slow. As Angel works his way south, Lindsey thrusts up with his hips, begging without words for Angel's lips on his cock. Angel chuckles -- a low, rumbling sound, not unlike the deep humming of the ship's engine -- but he doesn't do what Lindsey wants. Instead, he cups one of his big hands around Lindsey's balls, fondling them with a firm, practiced touch, and Lindsey screws his eyes shut so Angel won't see them roll back.

Lindsey moves one hand to the back of Angel's neck, trying to guide him again; Angel's still having none of it. Instead, he keeps creating slow trails of sensation all along Lindsey's body with his fingertips and tongue -- flips Lindsey over on his stomach to give the same treatment to his back and his ass. Lindsey splays his legs out beneath Angel, feels Angel's thighs between his, knows that he will have to wait for this too. But it's okay. Let Angel set the pace. Let Angel do what he wants. He's gonna trust Angel tonight, the way he hasn't trusted anyone or anything in years.

Angel turns Lindsey over again and they kiss, slow, devouring kisses now. Angel's body is still cool, of course, and when Lindsey touches him, there's no pulse to race in response. But Angel's breathing has become faster -- it may only be a force of habit, but it mirrors his growing need for Lindsey the same way it would in a living man. Lindsey savors the sound of Angel gasping as Lindsey reaches in his boxers, takes Angel's cock in his hand, ever so gently rolls the foreskin back, rubs his thumb across the tip. Angel copies the move, clasping Lindsey in his hand again; for a few minutes they lie together just like this, mouths against each other, cocks in each other's hands, thrusting and caressing in the same deliberate tempo, perfect mirror images of one another.

Lindsey's so lost in the moment that he's almost startled when Angel pulls away. But it's just for a moment -- just long enough for him to tug off his own boxers and push Lindsey back down onto the bed.

And Lindsey gasps as Angel takes his cock into his mouth.

His mouth is cold -- Lindsey had anticipated that -- but he hadn't realized how damn good it would feel. The contrast of his own flushed, heated skin and Angel's pool-water-cool mouth is amazing; it sets every nerve ending on fire, makes Lindsey push himself in even farther, trying to find the depths of that coolness.

Angel can take him deep, too. He begins sucking, slowly, gently, taking his time. As Lindsey writhes beneath him, Angel wraps his tongue around Lindsey's cock, then moves his head ever so slightly, letting the motion do the work for him.

Lindsey's head is thrown back, and he starts thrusting -- thrusting deep, the way he would if he were fucking Angel, not just his mouth. Most people can't take this, but Angel seems to like it. He groans, a deep, satisfied sound, and the vibration ripples through Lindsey's cock.

"Oh, Jesus," Lindsey says through clenched teeth. "I'm gonna --"

Angel hears him, starts sucking harder, creates a whirlpool of sensation and pleasure right there, right at the head, and Lindsey feels his muscles tense and his mind blank and now, oh God, oh damn, right now --

Lindsey shouts out as he comes, feels his own wet heat in Angel's mouth. He keeps thrusting as he rides it out, feels wave after wave of it. Angel keeps sucking, swallowing Lindsey down, drinking from his body.

Finally, Lindsey goes limp; he feels himself sinking back further into the mattress, and in his post-orgasmic haze it feels to him as though he might disappear into it, just be folded up in fabric and foam and never come out. Angel lightly kisses Lindsey's softening cock one last time, then pulls himself up next to Lindsey on the bed. Lindsey realizes he must have a stupid smile on his face, because Angel is laughing quietly as he kisses his forehead. "Good?"

"Like you don't know that," Lindsey drawls. "False modesty is so unbecoming."

"Mmm." Angel kisses his throat, right where he'd bite. Lindsey slides one lazy arm around Angel's back; the chill of Angel's body is even more noticeable now that Lindsey's fever-hot, covered in a sheen of sweat. But the contrast works.

As he pulls Angel close again, he feels Angel's cock, so hard it feels like steel pressed into his stomach. Lindsey kisses Angel, slow and wet, then murmurs into his mouth, "When are you gonna fuck me?"

"Soon," Angel promises, his voice rougher than it was just a moment ago.

"Now," Lindsey insists, taking Angel into his hand and gripping him with force. Angel gasps as Lindsey whispers, "Do it now."

Angel pushes Lindsey onto his stomach, rolls on top of him; his hands are strong against Lindsey's back, pressing him down. Angel slides one knee between Lindsey's thighs, and Lindsey's glad to help, spreading his legs out as far as he can. He'd rather be on his hands and knees -- he could take Angel harder then -- but he'll do this however Angel wants to do it, he'll do whatever Angel wants, just so long as Angel takes him and does it soon.

Hoarsely, Angel says, "What can we -- where --"

"Top drawer," Lindsey gasps. Thank God for planning ahead; Angel finds the vaseline, right where Lindsey planted it, in about two seconds, and it's only another second before Lindsey feels Angel's fingers sliding into him, cool and slick.

Angel works him with skill and speed. Lindsey tries to relax into the movement, to relish the sensation of Angel's fingers moving inside him, stroking that one place inside that's making him erect again, stiff against the sheets. He feels himself opening up, getting ready for Angel.

Angel's being careful with him, but Lindsey's tired of careful, and he pushes back against Angel's hand, taking those fingers in deeper. "Now," he repeats. "Do it, just do it."

"Do what?" Angel's moving to take him even as he asks; Lindsey can feel the head of Angel's cock brushing against his ass. "Let me hear you say it."

"Goddammit, Angel, fuck me --"

And then Angel pushes inside him. Lindsey cries out as Angel's cock splits him apart; he's big, he's so damn big, and he's already so deep inside Lindsey, and he feels like he's being torn apart. But the pleasure's so much better than the pain -- the feeling of Angel, thick and long and hard, moving into him.

Angel's hands are clenched around Lindsey's arms, and his fingers are digging into the skin as he begins to thrust. He's taking his time with Lindsey, taking it slow, building a rhythm that matches Lindsey's own breathing. Lindsey tries to get used to the sensation; it's been a long time since he let a man take him like this. He'd forgotten how good it feels, having someone inside you. The way the movement starts to make you go hot and dizzy, the way that place far inside you starts to blaze, the way you find yourself cursing into the pillow, saying words that don't make a damn bit of sense, except that they're dirty, and they're secret, and so they must have something to do with the fact that you're getting fucked.

But this is better than any memory, because this is Angel inside him. Lindsey pushes back against Angel, gets him in even deeper, makes him pick up the pace. Angel responds, starts going faster, thrusting harder. Lindsey groans -- he's so open for Angel now, and he's getting pounded down against the mattress, and his cock is hard again, rubbing against the sheets, and goddammit he's going to come again if Angel will just keep going keep going keep going --

The world goes black and Lindsey's heart skips and his body goes tight as he comes again, yelling it out, not giving a damn if it echoes over the whole ship. Angel thrusts into him again, again, once more, and then his body tenses, locks up, one long band of muscle and sinew as Angel's orgasm takes him..

Then Angel collapses atop Lindsey's back. He is heavy, so solid Lindsey thinks he can't breathe, but he can't imagine asking Angel to move. Their bodies are still locked together, and Angel's face is against the back of his neck, and he's twining his fingers with Lindsey's as they lie there together. The only sounds are the rain and Lindsey's ragged breaths.

Lindsey doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry. He's just lived his fantasy, just made love to Angel. But now that he's gotten what he wanted, he wants so much more. He's destined to spend his whole life as that poor kid in cutoffs, pressing his nose to the window, never able to go inside and buy.

But as Angel lifts Lindsey's right hand to his lips -- as he kisses the faint white line where the new hand was attached, where the old one was severed, the only apology he's ever gonna get -- Lindsey thinks that he might not have everything he wants, but what he has is still pretty damn good.

The next day, the ship makes its first stop -- Kyoto, Japan. Lindsey is eager both to do some of the exploring he's dreamed about and to avoid acting clingy, so he bids a sleepy Angel farewell very early in the morning before going out to spend a day ashore.

Surprisingly, though, he doesn't get as much of a thrill from the experience as he would've thought. Sure, everyone's Asian, but there's plenty of areas of L.A. where that's true. Signs are in Japanese, but there's little need for him to employ the Japanese-English phrasebook he'd brought along. Everyone speaks English, at least enough to help Lindsey out. He has a feeling he could stay here for weeks without breaking the dictionary's binding.

What's more, he realizes now that he didn't want a change of surroundings. He wanted to have something else to think about, some way of escaping the worn grooves in his mind that his thoughts have fallen into this past year. But it doesn't work. Lindsey can walk past a Shinto temple and still feel the weight of Darla's dead body across his lap as they drove away from her shabby little hotel room. He can eat sashimi and still hear Holland's voice, superior and knowing, echoing inside. He can watch the ships in the bay, great freighters and little boats with square sails, and still smell the hot tar on the road to his father's house.

So he is tired and discouraged when he comes back to the cabin at nightfall, and it therefore hits him all the harder to see that Angel is packing up his bag. "What are you doing?" he says.

"This is my stop, Lindsey," Angel says. "This is where I leave the ship. We talked about this that first night."

They did, didn't they? He'd let himself forget -- stupid. Worse than stupid. Like letting a statute of limitations pass. "Slipped my mind," he says, as casual as he can manage, which isn't much. "Guess I oughta get my stuff back to my own place."

"Probably be a good idea." Angel smiles at him, a crooked, awkward smile that doesn't help Lindsey much as he stuffs his belongings back into the still-new backpack. They work together in silence, but the tension's thick in the air. Lindsey gets done first -- he's not packing with care, just cramming it all in there -- and as he rises, Angel says, "Lindsey --"

"I'm not into the long goodbyes thing," Lindsey says. In truth, he'd like to end it better than this; he pauses, considers. "I'm going down to my own cabin, okay? Come down there when you're done."

This buys Lindsey a few moments to himself, a few moments to gather himself together. He knew it wasn't going to last. He's gladder than ever that he didn't tell the truth last night, that he took what he could get; turns out it was his last chance.

But he's mad at Angel all the same. Angel doesn't love him, wouldn't ever love him, and he used Lindsey for his own comfort, and he didn't ask if Lindsey wanted more.

Then again, Lindsey knew all this going in. He set out to use Angel a hell of a lot more surely than Angel's used him. He could have avoided all this if he'd just told the truth last night; he's not sure what else Angel would've done, but he's pretty sure he wouldn't have continued their lovemaking. Lindsey wanted to avoid the consequences of that honesty, so now he has to accept the consequences of the lie. That's something he's getting better at: accepting consequences.

Lindsey has time to calm down, time to unpack, even time to spend a few quality minutes looking in the Japanese-English phrasebook before there's a knock on the door. "Come in," he says. His voice is steady, and he's proud of that.

Angel enters hesitantly, but when Lindsey smiles at him, he relaxes. "We should've talked about this before," Angel says.

"It's okay," Lindsey says. "We had other stuff to talk about."

"I'm glad you were here," Angel says.

"So am I. That you were here, I mean."

"If you ever need anything -- if Wolfram & Hart give you trouble --"

"They won't." Lindsey gets up from the desk. "I wasn't kidding about not doing the long goodbyes thing."

He walks up to Angel and embraces him for what he knows will be the last time. Angel's arms are strong and solid around him as they hug one another, and Lindsey tries to imagine what it might have been like, if only they hadn't been the people they are. But he can't envision any other paths that would have led the two of them together, and so this is what he has to be grateful for.

Lindsey pats Angel on the back, a swift, brotherly pat, signaling the end of the hug. He wonders if Angel will stoop to kiss him goodbye; he doesn't. Angel just smiles, shoulders his bag, and goes out the door.

Fluttering on his shoulder is a yellow post-it note which reads, in the best Japanese script Lindsey could muster, "I disrespect the authority of the police." Not bad for ten minutes with a Japanese-English phrasebook, all things considered. And it helps Lindsey smile a little as Angel shuts the door behind him, walking out of his life forever.

Lindsey puts off unpacking that evening; he still doesn't want to feel settled in this cabin, though now it is for very different reasons. If only he'd dragged Angel down here just once -- if he could remember talking to Angel in this room, or making love to Angel in this bed -- well, it would feel more like home than just about any other place Lindsey's known in far too long.

He is alone at dinner, and when Louis and Marjorie ask where Angel is, Lindsey has to tell the truth; after all, they're eventually gonna catch on to the fact that one of the ship's 12 passengers is missing. Marjorie's face crinkles up in sympathy. "Oh, I hate to see him go," she says. "It did seem like the two of you had hit it off."

"He's got his road," Lindsey says. "I've got mine." He says it to cut the topic short, which it does, but as he thinks about it, it's as good a way of explaining matters as any.

Louis and Marjorie make harmless chit-chat as they all finish up, and Marjorie makes Lindsey promise to join them tomorrow for a walking tour. Lindsey agrees, mostly to stop them worrying about him. If he's bright and chipper tomorrow, they'll calm down, write off the Affair of Guitar Guy and The Swimmer as a shipboard fling and let it go.

But, down deep, he knows he agreed partly because of the reason she offered: He needs distraction from what's happened, a way of blocking out what's happened. Even wandering around tourist traps with retirees and helping them figure out their new digital cameras is better than the likely alternative -- lying curled up on his bunk, wishing like hell that Angel was still there. Or, worse yet, imagining him running in from abovedecks, wrapped in a blanket to shield himself from the sun, come back to find Lindsey and tell him --

Lindsey shakes his head, pushes it out of his mind. As he gets back to his cabin, he goes straight to his backpack and starts settling in for real. It's something to do.

Shoes go in the cabinet, lest they go flying around and kicking Lindsey in the head during a storm. His books go in the bedstand drawer. He starts to put his underwear in the drawer that corresponds to the one he used in Angel's cabin, then thinks better of it and chooses another. His guitar stayed here all along -- he might've gone soft with Angel there, but he was never so goddamned sappy that he considered singing for the guy. However, Lindsey thinks he might be playing a few country tunes this evening.

Wasn't he trying to get away from painful memories? And now he's created all new ones --

He came on this trip to get away from it all. And instead he's brought it all rushing back. Your past doesn't catch up with you, Lindsey thinks. It is you. And you keep on creating more past every second you're alive.

Slowly, deliberately, he reaches into the backpack's front pocket and pulls out the crinkled sheet of paper. Lindsey sits down on his bed and rereads his father's letter; for the first time, he doesn't feel guilt or shame. He hears the words in his mind, in his own voice: Your father loves you very much.

No matter what Lindsey becomes in the future, he will remain the man who walked away from his family, who joined Wolfram & Hart with his eyes wide open, who killed a woman he wanted to hurt a man who didn't want him. Lindsey's known this all along -- but now, at last, he can face it. Because he will also always be the man who comforted his little brothers and sisters when they were hurt, who left Wolfram & Hart of his own free will. The man who made love to Angel last night.

It will be hot in Oklahoma. The tar will be melting, making the path to his house sticky and thick. Lindsey isn't looking forward to walking that road, but he knows he's ready to face everything he'll find at the end.

THE END

Want to take your own freighter journey? Visit: Want to skip the journey and just send feedback? Email Yahtzee63@aol.com

| Fiction Search | Home Page | Back |