power_play
Even when Lindsey was here, even though I could explore the expanse that is Angel’s apartment at my leisure, time moved so slowly. It was as though each moment took an eternity to pass, words spoken through liquid. Annoying.
I wouldn’t be waiting here, I wouldn’t care so much about seeing him, if it weren’t about Connor. Lindsey doesn’t get that, he’s got this paranoia. There’s this equation in his mind wherein Angel Plus Darla Equals Trouble. Which, in fairness to Lindsey, has been true in the past. Consistently. Probably not this time. There are souls to consider, and the fact that I’m not dying. Or dead. There’s nothing that I could ever need from Angel except for answers.
Which I think is what frightens Lindsey the most. If there’s nothing that I need from Angel, then what could I ever need from Lindsey? Angel’s a hero, the protagonist of every storybook. Lindsey’s... not. But what Lindsey doesn’t get is that when it comes to me, Angel’s no hero. He could’ve just brought in that foolish little girl and had her curse me with a soul to match his own - instead, he decided to stake me to prevent me from rising. Which obviously didn’t work out all that well for either of us - or Lindsey. Three strikes, we’re all out.
So here I am, waiting for Angel to defend his decisions to me. To try and satisfactorily give me answers to any of the questions I need to ask. All of which begin with “why.” In my searches I found a daguerrotype of myself, tucked between the pages of some ancient book or other. And I knew that it wasn’t the answer to anything.
Unless the question was posed to Lindsey.
So now I wait, a history of Darla, Angelus, Drusilla and William the Bloody open on my lap. Surprisingly not plagued with guilt as I recall my past exploits. The guilt will come, I’m sure. But not now.
I wouldn’t be waiting here, I wouldn’t care so much about seeing him, if it weren’t about Connor. Lindsey doesn’t get that, he’s got this paranoia. There’s this equation in his mind wherein Angel Plus Darla Equals Trouble. Which, in fairness to Lindsey, has been true in the past. Consistently. Probably not this time. There are souls to consider, and the fact that I’m not dying. Or dead. There’s nothing that I could ever need from Angel except for answers.
Which I think is what frightens Lindsey the most. If there’s nothing that I need from Angel, then what could I ever need from Lindsey? Angel’s a hero, the protagonist of every storybook. Lindsey’s... not. But what Lindsey doesn’t get is that when it comes to me, Angel’s no hero. He could’ve just brought in that foolish little girl and had her curse me with a soul to match his own - instead, he decided to stake me to prevent me from rising. Which obviously didn’t work out all that well for either of us - or Lindsey. Three strikes, we’re all out.
So here I am, waiting for Angel to defend his decisions to me. To try and satisfactorily give me answers to any of the questions I need to ask. All of which begin with “why.” In my searches I found a daguerrotype of myself, tucked between the pages of some ancient book or other. And I knew that it wasn’t the answer to anything.
Unless the question was posed to Lindsey.
So now I wait, a history of Darla, Angelus, Drusilla and William the Bloody open on my lap. Surprisingly not plagued with guilt as I recall my past exploits. The guilt will come, I’m sure. But not now.