Fic: A Dank Place to Drink (Smoke and Mirrors #1)
Title: A Dank Place to Drink
Series: Smoke and Mirrors #1
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Gunn/Lindsey
Spoilers/Timeline: S2, post-Redefinition
Summary: Two guys in a bar, yo. This is how it starts.
*
“So, a guy walks into a bar...”
Sandy blond/brown head lifts, and Gunn’s staring into bleary blue eyes that are angry and bitter, which just makes them seem sad.
“Go away,” Lindsey mutters.
Gunn sits across from him, sets his draft beer on the table and arches a brow. “You haven’t even heard the punch line yet. So, a guy walks into a bar, and he’s got this fake hand, right?”
The bottle of whiskey in Lindsey’s hand slams down on the table hard enough to send beer sloshing over the sides of Gunn’s glass.
“I’m off duty,” Lindsey growls at him, but there’s nothing behind it--he sounds about as tired as Gunn feels. “No evilness going on here. Why don’t you just toddle on back to your own table?”
Gunn snorts a little and leans back. “Think your waitress might disagree about the evilness,” he says, eyes flickering to where the woman in question was holding her apron to the side and trying to wipe off whatever it was that Lindsey threw at her.
Lindsey looks down again, light brown hand reaching out to snag his bottle and tip it to the side, tumbling liquid into his glass. Gunn brings his beer to his lips, takes a long, deep sip that should be refreshing because the beer is chilled, and the glass is like ice in his hands, but it’s like something tepid going down.
Studies the man across from him, slouched in his seat, tie dangling forgotten, suit jacket a puddle on the floor behind him after having falling off the back of his chair. And the face. Damn. All curled lips and lowered brow. Right now, Lindsey is in the middle of setting up a brawl. Gunn knows the signs. Start with the waitress, and whatever fool is stupid enough to not notice the look on your face, and get everyone riled a little at a time. So that one of them will snap and it’ll blow up like no one’s business.
“Lawyer boy,” he says curtly, then waits for Lindsey to look up. “When I’m in the mood for a drink or two? I come here. It’s nice. It’s cheap. It’s *calm*, even. You want a free for all? Take it somewhere else.”
There’s a flicker, a wave of blue from dark to light, a bright alcohol sparkle that is dulled by a reality that even pure grain moonshine can’t forget, and Gunn just can’t look away.
Lindsey’s suit might have looked sharp at six this morning, but right now it’s like a too-big suit some bratty little kid put on for a school dance. There’s something rough around the edges in him--something mean, too--and Gunn wonders if it’s the booze or the situation that’s brought it out, or if Lindsey just covers it up normally. Slicks it down nice and smooth behind his white, white smile and expensive tailored suits.
Doesn’t matter what it is, or where it hides. It’s there, and Gunn knows what it is. Recognizes it because it’s in him, and it’s in everyone he grew up with, everyone he fought with side-by-side in the streets. Whatever kind of lifestyle Lindsey has now, he ain’t always had it.
Lindsey’s glaring at him, and Gunn just tilts his head back, looks down at him and watches that meanness flare into something cruel. Gunn stretches his legs out, crosses his ankles, and keeps looking down. That cruel edge in Lindsey’s eyes settles back to mean, then fades away. Yeah, just like that.
“So, what?” Lindsey says sharply. “We’re going to be drinking buddies? Thanks, but I don’t need one.”
“Me neither,” Gunn replies. “But, you know, I figure if sitting here is going to keep my joint from getting busted up...well, I can take one for the team.”
That sharp edge comes bursting back when Gunn says “team”, but he holds up his hands, watching Lindsey very, very carefully. “I don’t know about you,” he says slowly, deliberately, “but when I go out for a drink, it’s usually to not think about all the shit.”
Lindsey narrows his eyes, then nods shortly. “Fine.”
Gunn brings his beer to his lips again, finishes the last of it, and waves the waitress over. She braces herself, then comes to the table, her smile forced and her back stiff. She’s only in her late twenties, but the pinched features and the poodle perm ages her. Looks like she’s in her mid thirties. Gunn knows she’s got two kids at home, a man that took off when she was still pregnant with the second, and makes three bucks an hour before tips. He’s been needing a drink or two a lot lately.
“Another MGD, Paula,” he says pleasantly, meeting her eyes dead on. “And a pitcher of water with two glasses.”
Paula’s smile becomes a little more sincere, and relieved. “Sure thing, Gunn,” she says, neatly swiping his empty glass and striding off to the bar.
Lindsey has retreated to his side of the table in all ways. Might as well be a wall up between him and Gunn. He’s hunched over, one arm stretched out so that he can hold his glass, with his gimp hand resting on his lip, oh-so-neatly hidden from view.
Paula brings the water, the glasses, and sets them down in front of Gunn. He’s been running a tab, and he thinks Lindsey paid for the bottle of whiskey as soon as he got it. He motions for Paula to stay a moment, and pulls a couple of bills out of his pocket.
“Here you go,” he says, holding them out to her. “Know it can’t be a treat dealing with all of us tonight. You’d think there’s a full moon or something.”
Her glance skitters from Gunn over to Lindsey, then around the crowded bar. It’s a rough group tonight. Lot of people trying not to think, and getting belligerent in the process. She takes the bills with a tiny grin, a quick wink, and tucks them in her apron pocket as she walks away.
“You’re a real prince, aren’t you?” Lindsey mutters, the words slurred around the edges.
Gunn shrugs and takes a sip of his beer, then reaches for the water. “Paula’s had a hard time making ends meet,” he says, pouring two glasses of water. He pushes one in Lindsey’s direction and points at the other man. “Drink it. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
“Fuck I will,” Lindsey snaps. “And I don’t need a nursemaid.” His face scrunches up--oh, and there’s that belligerence; Gunn knew it would make an appearance. “And what the hell do you care what I feel like in the morning, huh? Is this some plan to make my life even more fucked up? Because, I think you and yours have done enough of that.”
Very deliberately, Lindsey swings the prosthetic arm up on the table. Gunn sees the motion in his peripheral vision, but keeps his eyes on Lindsey’s and laughs.
“Somehow, I think you’re making your life unlivable enough on your own. Don’t really need anyone else’s help with that.” He lifts a shoulder. “Besides, I already told you; I come here to not think. You might want to try it. Works better than wallowing.”
“Yeah, I’ll take that under advisement,” Lindsey grunts, but he’s staring at Gunn all confused. Like he doesn’t know what the catch is, what the real deal is. Gunn just waits, and doesn’t acknowledge the movement when Lindsey reaches for the water.
Neither one of them says anything for a while, but they look at each other plenty. Sometimes short, quick glances. Other times, long, hard stares. And then there are the times when they both look at each other at the same time, and there’s a thread of intensity that runs between them.
Gunn’s never thought much about Lindsey, really. He’s a lawyer, and that job title pretty much categorizes him in all ways for Gunn--never mind the fact that he works for Wolfram & Hart, which makes him even more evil than a garden variety lawyer. But right now? Now Gunn wonders if Lindsey really is evil, or if he’s just doing a job.
And that fucks with his head. It makes him think that the great big chasm of gray he’s always avoided isn’t as avoidable as he’s always thought. Like he really needs that pointed out again. If there’s one thing he’s really trying not to think about, it’s the grayness that is Angel lately, with his soul still attached while he acts like it isn’t.
Maybe even the grayness in himself, too, because he can’t completely bring himself to think that *everything* Angel has done lately is all bad. Some of it? Well, some of it would have been damn good if Angel wasn’t all half-crazed and shit. Good things, done for the wrong reasons. Gunn wonders if they’re any better than bad things, done for the right reasons. Or maybe they’re the same; just things that get done.
Leans closer, takes a closer look at Lindsey and wonders if he’s reflected in more than just the other man’s eyes, wonders how much closer he’ll have to get to find out.
***
Lindsey forgets about the bottle of whiskey. Keeps drinking the water and staring at Angel’s little lackey, sprawled across from him like the chair had his goddamn name written on it. Maybe it did. Who the hell knows? Lindsey doesn’t. Not anymore. That not thinking thing Gunn suggested is looking better and better, and Lindsey crunches an ice cube with his back teeth, smiling grimly at the coldness making his teeth scream.
“You might as well be drinking horse piss,” he tells Gunn.
Gunn arches a brow. “Nothing wrong with MGD,” he says with certainty, taking a nice long gulp of it from his glass. “And you’re one to talk; I can smell the fumes from that bottle all the way over here. What the hell is that, turpentine?”
His lips twitch at disgusted look on Gunn’s face. “Close enough,” he admits. “Not really the greatest top shelf in here.”
“You don’t come here for the high end booze,” Gunn tells him. “You come here for a dank place to drink.”
“True enough,” Lindsey agrees, and they fall silent again.
Lindsey stares down at his plastic hand, beached on the table like a whale on the sand. Drains his water down to the ice, which rattles in his glass as he sets it down hard and looks at Gunn.
He’s got to be in just as bad shape as Lindsey himself is. All paths lead back to Angel. And Darla. And Wolfram & Hart. But Gunn looks like it takes no effort at all not to think about it, and Lindsey’s not sure if it’s because Gunn’s really good at hiding it, or if he’s just got a clean and easy take on it. If it’s cut and dried for the street kid who’s always known where he stood.
Lindsey doesn’t think that it’s about where a person stands, though. He knows where he stands, and it hasn’t done him a bit of good lately. Angel’s off the deep end, but not the way Lindsey intended. Darla is so many things that Lindsey can’t even think of her without calling up a dozen different emotions that don’t match up along the edges, and instead just grate against each other like nails on a chalkboard.
Gunn lowers his head, eyes lifted up in an order, a command. Lindsey realizes he’s got his hand wrapped around his glass and is slamming it down, again and again, on the table. Notices his face is drawn tight in a scowl. His body goes slack and still a little at a time, and his mind gets emptier and emptier, under the weight of that light brown gaze.
“How many of those have you had?” Lindsey asks Gunn, only vaguely aware that he’s doing it.
“Three,” Gunn says slowly, narrowing his eyes.
Lindsey reaches in his back pocket, pulls out his wallet and drops a fifty on the table, now entirely aware of what he’s doing.
“I’ve had half a bottle of cheap whiskey,” he says as he stands and tucks his wallet away again. Gunn frowns at him and Lindsey shrugs, runs his hand through his hair. “I need a ride home,” he clarifies.
Dark brows lift in surprise, then lower in consideration, and Lindsey just waits. He has enough cash on him to get a taxi to Las Vegas if he wanted to, and Gunn’s too smart not to realize it.
“Don’t forget your jacket,” Gunn says as he gets to his feet.
It’s typical Los Angeles once they step outside. Bright circles of light that keep their distance from one another, faint haze in the air that’s thick on the way in and lacking on the way out. Gunn jerks his head to the left, and Lindsey follows him down the street, around a corner, and comes to a dead stop when he sees the truck.
“What?” Gunn asks archly, unlocking the passenger side door. “Not classy enough for you?”
Lindsey shakes his head, smiling. “It’s a nice truck.”
Gunn tilts his head to the side, and his lips tilt up at the corners just a little. He opens the door, waving at Lindsey with the hand still holding the keys. “Get in.”
Lindsey does, a lot more easily than Gunn was expecting, if his quick blinks are anything to go by. But Lindsey’s got practice hiking himself up, sliding halfway in, bracing himself on the door jam, then sliding the rest of the way in. It’s instinctual to him, and it’s the only thing that didn’t require an adjustment after he lost his hand.
The interior of the truck is neat, clean, if not in the best of shape. But it’s the original dash, with the original components, and Lindsey can respect that. Really he can.
They’re on their way before Lindsey really notices, and he watches Gunn steer, watches both hands shift and slide along the wheel, sees the muscles in Gunn’s leg bunch and release as he brakes or accelerates. There’s an effortlessness to it all that Lindsey remembers from back when he had both hands, and he didn’t have to stop and think about every motion he made so that he didn’t do something stupid like reach for a class with his mock hand.
But it’s more than that. There’s an economy of motion there that Lindsey has never mastered, two handed or one handed. He’s always been known to rifle a hand through his hair, rub the back of his neck, jerk at his tie--something, anything. In motion more often than not, even if the shifting of his shoulders and back isn’t always noticed by anyone else. At the red lights, though, Gunn is still, and not in an unnatural manner.
Lindsey retracts his hand when he realizes he’s running it across the dashboard, along the battered surface that’s shiny with Armor All and impeccably dust free. Takes a breath, rests his hand on his knee and tries to keep it as still as the fake one.
And he thinks he’s doing it, too. Doesn’t remember bringing it to his head and tangling his fingers through his hair, until Gunn’s hand brushes his away, deftly, and then returns to the steering wheel in the space of two seconds.
“Hair’s fine; leave it be,” Gunn says evenly, eyes on the road.
During the last few twists and turns to Lindsey’s apartment, he notices that Gunn’s eyes aren’t nearly as still as the rest of him. They scan and peer the road and the streets restlessly. And fall on Lindsey pretty damn often. He feels like he’s under a microscope with the way Gunn’s gaze bores into him. Turns and meets that gaze, defensive, but finds nothing challenging in them, just something wide and intense.
Gunn coasts to a stop in front of Lindsey’s building, foot on the brake, then gives him that gaze again. Lindsey’s not fidgeting, and he’s not thinking much of anything except what his chances are of getting Gunn to come upstairs. Gets drank up by those shiny brown eyes and figures the chance is pretty good, because Gunn’s still looking a minute later.
“Garage is around the side,” he tells Gunn.
Eyes not moving, Gunn nods his head once, then lifts his foot off the brake.
.End
*
Next Story in Series - White Noise
Series Listing in Memories here.
*
Also got my first ever, "but I don't think either of them are gay, or even bi" response. Only took six hours, too. Huh.
Series: Smoke and Mirrors #1
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Gunn/Lindsey
Spoilers/Timeline: S2, post-Redefinition
Summary: Two guys in a bar, yo. This is how it starts.
*
“So, a guy walks into a bar...”
Sandy blond/brown head lifts, and Gunn’s staring into bleary blue eyes that are angry and bitter, which just makes them seem sad.
“Go away,” Lindsey mutters.
Gunn sits across from him, sets his draft beer on the table and arches a brow. “You haven’t even heard the punch line yet. So, a guy walks into a bar, and he’s got this fake hand, right?”
The bottle of whiskey in Lindsey’s hand slams down on the table hard enough to send beer sloshing over the sides of Gunn’s glass.
“I’m off duty,” Lindsey growls at him, but there’s nothing behind it--he sounds about as tired as Gunn feels. “No evilness going on here. Why don’t you just toddle on back to your own table?”
Gunn snorts a little and leans back. “Think your waitress might disagree about the evilness,” he says, eyes flickering to where the woman in question was holding her apron to the side and trying to wipe off whatever it was that Lindsey threw at her.
Lindsey looks down again, light brown hand reaching out to snag his bottle and tip it to the side, tumbling liquid into his glass. Gunn brings his beer to his lips, takes a long, deep sip that should be refreshing because the beer is chilled, and the glass is like ice in his hands, but it’s like something tepid going down.
Studies the man across from him, slouched in his seat, tie dangling forgotten, suit jacket a puddle on the floor behind him after having falling off the back of his chair. And the face. Damn. All curled lips and lowered brow. Right now, Lindsey is in the middle of setting up a brawl. Gunn knows the signs. Start with the waitress, and whatever fool is stupid enough to not notice the look on your face, and get everyone riled a little at a time. So that one of them will snap and it’ll blow up like no one’s business.
“Lawyer boy,” he says curtly, then waits for Lindsey to look up. “When I’m in the mood for a drink or two? I come here. It’s nice. It’s cheap. It’s *calm*, even. You want a free for all? Take it somewhere else.”
There’s a flicker, a wave of blue from dark to light, a bright alcohol sparkle that is dulled by a reality that even pure grain moonshine can’t forget, and Gunn just can’t look away.
Lindsey’s suit might have looked sharp at six this morning, but right now it’s like a too-big suit some bratty little kid put on for a school dance. There’s something rough around the edges in him--something mean, too--and Gunn wonders if it’s the booze or the situation that’s brought it out, or if Lindsey just covers it up normally. Slicks it down nice and smooth behind his white, white smile and expensive tailored suits.
Doesn’t matter what it is, or where it hides. It’s there, and Gunn knows what it is. Recognizes it because it’s in him, and it’s in everyone he grew up with, everyone he fought with side-by-side in the streets. Whatever kind of lifestyle Lindsey has now, he ain’t always had it.
Lindsey’s glaring at him, and Gunn just tilts his head back, looks down at him and watches that meanness flare into something cruel. Gunn stretches his legs out, crosses his ankles, and keeps looking down. That cruel edge in Lindsey’s eyes settles back to mean, then fades away. Yeah, just like that.
“So, what?” Lindsey says sharply. “We’re going to be drinking buddies? Thanks, but I don’t need one.”
“Me neither,” Gunn replies. “But, you know, I figure if sitting here is going to keep my joint from getting busted up...well, I can take one for the team.”
That sharp edge comes bursting back when Gunn says “team”, but he holds up his hands, watching Lindsey very, very carefully. “I don’t know about you,” he says slowly, deliberately, “but when I go out for a drink, it’s usually to not think about all the shit.”
Lindsey narrows his eyes, then nods shortly. “Fine.”
Gunn brings his beer to his lips again, finishes the last of it, and waves the waitress over. She braces herself, then comes to the table, her smile forced and her back stiff. She’s only in her late twenties, but the pinched features and the poodle perm ages her. Looks like she’s in her mid thirties. Gunn knows she’s got two kids at home, a man that took off when she was still pregnant with the second, and makes three bucks an hour before tips. He’s been needing a drink or two a lot lately.
“Another MGD, Paula,” he says pleasantly, meeting her eyes dead on. “And a pitcher of water with two glasses.”
Paula’s smile becomes a little more sincere, and relieved. “Sure thing, Gunn,” she says, neatly swiping his empty glass and striding off to the bar.
Lindsey has retreated to his side of the table in all ways. Might as well be a wall up between him and Gunn. He’s hunched over, one arm stretched out so that he can hold his glass, with his gimp hand resting on his lip, oh-so-neatly hidden from view.
Paula brings the water, the glasses, and sets them down in front of Gunn. He’s been running a tab, and he thinks Lindsey paid for the bottle of whiskey as soon as he got it. He motions for Paula to stay a moment, and pulls a couple of bills out of his pocket.
“Here you go,” he says, holding them out to her. “Know it can’t be a treat dealing with all of us tonight. You’d think there’s a full moon or something.”
Her glance skitters from Gunn over to Lindsey, then around the crowded bar. It’s a rough group tonight. Lot of people trying not to think, and getting belligerent in the process. She takes the bills with a tiny grin, a quick wink, and tucks them in her apron pocket as she walks away.
“You’re a real prince, aren’t you?” Lindsey mutters, the words slurred around the edges.
Gunn shrugs and takes a sip of his beer, then reaches for the water. “Paula’s had a hard time making ends meet,” he says, pouring two glasses of water. He pushes one in Lindsey’s direction and points at the other man. “Drink it. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
“Fuck I will,” Lindsey snaps. “And I don’t need a nursemaid.” His face scrunches up--oh, and there’s that belligerence; Gunn knew it would make an appearance. “And what the hell do you care what I feel like in the morning, huh? Is this some plan to make my life even more fucked up? Because, I think you and yours have done enough of that.”
Very deliberately, Lindsey swings the prosthetic arm up on the table. Gunn sees the motion in his peripheral vision, but keeps his eyes on Lindsey’s and laughs.
“Somehow, I think you’re making your life unlivable enough on your own. Don’t really need anyone else’s help with that.” He lifts a shoulder. “Besides, I already told you; I come here to not think. You might want to try it. Works better than wallowing.”
“Yeah, I’ll take that under advisement,” Lindsey grunts, but he’s staring at Gunn all confused. Like he doesn’t know what the catch is, what the real deal is. Gunn just waits, and doesn’t acknowledge the movement when Lindsey reaches for the water.
Neither one of them says anything for a while, but they look at each other plenty. Sometimes short, quick glances. Other times, long, hard stares. And then there are the times when they both look at each other at the same time, and there’s a thread of intensity that runs between them.
Gunn’s never thought much about Lindsey, really. He’s a lawyer, and that job title pretty much categorizes him in all ways for Gunn--never mind the fact that he works for Wolfram & Hart, which makes him even more evil than a garden variety lawyer. But right now? Now Gunn wonders if Lindsey really is evil, or if he’s just doing a job.
And that fucks with his head. It makes him think that the great big chasm of gray he’s always avoided isn’t as avoidable as he’s always thought. Like he really needs that pointed out again. If there’s one thing he’s really trying not to think about, it’s the grayness that is Angel lately, with his soul still attached while he acts like it isn’t.
Maybe even the grayness in himself, too, because he can’t completely bring himself to think that *everything* Angel has done lately is all bad. Some of it? Well, some of it would have been damn good if Angel wasn’t all half-crazed and shit. Good things, done for the wrong reasons. Gunn wonders if they’re any better than bad things, done for the right reasons. Or maybe they’re the same; just things that get done.
Leans closer, takes a closer look at Lindsey and wonders if he’s reflected in more than just the other man’s eyes, wonders how much closer he’ll have to get to find out.
***
Lindsey forgets about the bottle of whiskey. Keeps drinking the water and staring at Angel’s little lackey, sprawled across from him like the chair had his goddamn name written on it. Maybe it did. Who the hell knows? Lindsey doesn’t. Not anymore. That not thinking thing Gunn suggested is looking better and better, and Lindsey crunches an ice cube with his back teeth, smiling grimly at the coldness making his teeth scream.
“You might as well be drinking horse piss,” he tells Gunn.
Gunn arches a brow. “Nothing wrong with MGD,” he says with certainty, taking a nice long gulp of it from his glass. “And you’re one to talk; I can smell the fumes from that bottle all the way over here. What the hell is that, turpentine?”
His lips twitch at disgusted look on Gunn’s face. “Close enough,” he admits. “Not really the greatest top shelf in here.”
“You don’t come here for the high end booze,” Gunn tells him. “You come here for a dank place to drink.”
“True enough,” Lindsey agrees, and they fall silent again.
Lindsey stares down at his plastic hand, beached on the table like a whale on the sand. Drains his water down to the ice, which rattles in his glass as he sets it down hard and looks at Gunn.
He’s got to be in just as bad shape as Lindsey himself is. All paths lead back to Angel. And Darla. And Wolfram & Hart. But Gunn looks like it takes no effort at all not to think about it, and Lindsey’s not sure if it’s because Gunn’s really good at hiding it, or if he’s just got a clean and easy take on it. If it’s cut and dried for the street kid who’s always known where he stood.
Lindsey doesn’t think that it’s about where a person stands, though. He knows where he stands, and it hasn’t done him a bit of good lately. Angel’s off the deep end, but not the way Lindsey intended. Darla is so many things that Lindsey can’t even think of her without calling up a dozen different emotions that don’t match up along the edges, and instead just grate against each other like nails on a chalkboard.
Gunn lowers his head, eyes lifted up in an order, a command. Lindsey realizes he’s got his hand wrapped around his glass and is slamming it down, again and again, on the table. Notices his face is drawn tight in a scowl. His body goes slack and still a little at a time, and his mind gets emptier and emptier, under the weight of that light brown gaze.
“How many of those have you had?” Lindsey asks Gunn, only vaguely aware that he’s doing it.
“Three,” Gunn says slowly, narrowing his eyes.
Lindsey reaches in his back pocket, pulls out his wallet and drops a fifty on the table, now entirely aware of what he’s doing.
“I’ve had half a bottle of cheap whiskey,” he says as he stands and tucks his wallet away again. Gunn frowns at him and Lindsey shrugs, runs his hand through his hair. “I need a ride home,” he clarifies.
Dark brows lift in surprise, then lower in consideration, and Lindsey just waits. He has enough cash on him to get a taxi to Las Vegas if he wanted to, and Gunn’s too smart not to realize it.
“Don’t forget your jacket,” Gunn says as he gets to his feet.
It’s typical Los Angeles once they step outside. Bright circles of light that keep their distance from one another, faint haze in the air that’s thick on the way in and lacking on the way out. Gunn jerks his head to the left, and Lindsey follows him down the street, around a corner, and comes to a dead stop when he sees the truck.
“What?” Gunn asks archly, unlocking the passenger side door. “Not classy enough for you?”
Lindsey shakes his head, smiling. “It’s a nice truck.”
Gunn tilts his head to the side, and his lips tilt up at the corners just a little. He opens the door, waving at Lindsey with the hand still holding the keys. “Get in.”
Lindsey does, a lot more easily than Gunn was expecting, if his quick blinks are anything to go by. But Lindsey’s got practice hiking himself up, sliding halfway in, bracing himself on the door jam, then sliding the rest of the way in. It’s instinctual to him, and it’s the only thing that didn’t require an adjustment after he lost his hand.
The interior of the truck is neat, clean, if not in the best of shape. But it’s the original dash, with the original components, and Lindsey can respect that. Really he can.
They’re on their way before Lindsey really notices, and he watches Gunn steer, watches both hands shift and slide along the wheel, sees the muscles in Gunn’s leg bunch and release as he brakes or accelerates. There’s an effortlessness to it all that Lindsey remembers from back when he had both hands, and he didn’t have to stop and think about every motion he made so that he didn’t do something stupid like reach for a class with his mock hand.
But it’s more than that. There’s an economy of motion there that Lindsey has never mastered, two handed or one handed. He’s always been known to rifle a hand through his hair, rub the back of his neck, jerk at his tie--something, anything. In motion more often than not, even if the shifting of his shoulders and back isn’t always noticed by anyone else. At the red lights, though, Gunn is still, and not in an unnatural manner.
Lindsey retracts his hand when he realizes he’s running it across the dashboard, along the battered surface that’s shiny with Armor All and impeccably dust free. Takes a breath, rests his hand on his knee and tries to keep it as still as the fake one.
And he thinks he’s doing it, too. Doesn’t remember bringing it to his head and tangling his fingers through his hair, until Gunn’s hand brushes his away, deftly, and then returns to the steering wheel in the space of two seconds.
“Hair’s fine; leave it be,” Gunn says evenly, eyes on the road.
During the last few twists and turns to Lindsey’s apartment, he notices that Gunn’s eyes aren’t nearly as still as the rest of him. They scan and peer the road and the streets restlessly. And fall on Lindsey pretty damn often. He feels like he’s under a microscope with the way Gunn’s gaze bores into him. Turns and meets that gaze, defensive, but finds nothing challenging in them, just something wide and intense.
Gunn coasts to a stop in front of Lindsey’s building, foot on the brake, then gives him that gaze again. Lindsey’s not fidgeting, and he’s not thinking much of anything except what his chances are of getting Gunn to come upstairs. Gets drank up by those shiny brown eyes and figures the chance is pretty good, because Gunn’s still looking a minute later.
“Garage is around the side,” he tells Gunn.
Eyes not moving, Gunn nods his head once, then lifts his foot off the brake.
.End
*
Next Story in Series - White Noise
Series Listing in Memories here.
*
Also got my first ever, "but I don't think either of them are gay, or even bi" response. Only took six hours, too. Huh.