Last Rites

Even if the bullets have shredded a couple of major organs - and they have - there's plenty of time between a man's next-to-last breath and his last. Eons, really. Time out of mind, as the Ancient Romans said, or was that the Greeks? For-fucking-ever, anyway.

Kermit shot him; Lindsey still can't get his head around that one. A lackey, and not even a first-string lackey like Spike or Wesley. Hell, even Gunn or the thing that took over Fred's body would have been preferable. The only way it could have been worse would be if Cordelia had been the one to finish him off.

So, yeah - Lindsey's got time to be pissed. Having spent five years hating Angel and trying to turn the bastard into something that could be Swiffer-ed off the hardwoods, he feels like he's justified in a little sore loserness. But it isn't just that. If Angel had managed to keep his big, blocky feet planted in the square marked "enemy," anger would be it. But, no. Oh, no. Angel had to offer Lindsey more. Salvation. Redemption. It had been tempting, once upon a time, but the life of a White Hat just couldn't compete with the perks of Evil, Incorporated. And, really, Lindsey had long ago admitted to himself that he just wasn't good. Not totally evil, but certainly not good.

In his final moments, he's at peace with that truth. He's already been to Hell, or something damn close, so dying doesn't hold much fear. He just wishes he could see Angel again before he shuffles off this mortal coil. He'd like to say a few things. Get in a couple of zingers about how Angel's a coward and a cold-blooded murderer. The sort of things that would make Angel's eyes go blank and make him get that vaguely constipated look on his face that meant he was feeling guilty.

Angel'd gotten that same look on his face the first time he'd fucked Lindsey, and also the last time he had, two days prior, right there in his office at Wolfram and Hart, with Lindsey draped over the $12,000 sofa, his harsh groans bouncing off the glass walls and his blood slowly seeping into the leather. Of course, the guilty face had only come out following the angry face and the fuck face. Lindsey had gotten a glimpse of the first, but the latter was just a guess, since Lindsey's own face had been smashed into a hard little throw pillow that left stitch marks on his cheek.

Angel fucked like a vampire. He might have kept the human face and lived like a man, but when the chips were down and the finely tailored trousers hit the floor, Angel was a demon. Lindsey knew, because Lindsey had fucked Darla and lived. Barely. Angel and Darla together must have been like the gates of Hell cracking open to let the fire flow, and Lindsey thought fleetingly, and not for the first time, about how much he would have liked to get between those two.

Instead of the last minute happy of making Angel go all cow-eyed, Lindsey gets a green face that shows a sadness he can barely understand, and it makes him angry. Hell, Lorne had liked him, back in the days of Caritas. He'd always welcomed Lindsey to his stage, had given him readings and Seabreezes and complimented his voice. There's not much of that guy left anymore. Lorne's got the look of a guy who's faced himself in the mirror and not recognized the face staring back, and Lindsey can't say he doesn't know the feeling.

Lorne's turning to go, and that, too, pisses Lindsey off. Not only is he getting taken down by a third-tier lackey, he's getting left to die alone. If he could talk anymore, he'd say something. Something cold and full of venom, some final words to hurry old Lorne along on the road to ruin, though he's made a good start without Lindsey's help. If he could speak, he'd have something good to say, something cutting and topical and memorable. Something...important. He thinks that he'd have plenty to say if it were Angel walking away, because there are whole dictionaries full of words he never got to say to Angel. It's too bad he's out of time.

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