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Grief Comes in the Mourning by Rubywisp Pairing:Xander/Lindsey Rating: R Summary: After. Spoilers: AtS Season Five, up through "You're Welcome". Distribution: My site, list archives. You want it, email me. Disclaimer: Still not mine. Damn shame, that. A/N: For Willa. --- With an unnecessarily long yet satisfying groan, Lindsey settles into the sofa, his fingers already damp from the slippery chill of the beer bottle in his hands. A few minutes, that's all, and then he'll go shower and change. The beer's half gone when he toes his shoes off and pushes them under the coffee table with his feet. Three-quarters; Lindsey takes off his tie and tosses it over the arm of the recliner that he draped his suit coat on before getting the beer out of the fridge. A last few, still blessedly-cold drops, and Lindsey's unbuttoning one more shirt button and loosening his belt as he lays down, head on the arm of the couch. Xander will wake him up when he gets home. He can change then. . He comes to slowly, groggy from sleeping when he shouldn't have. It takes a minute for him to get his bearings, remember why he's got a crick in his neck, why he's on the couch in the first place. When he does, he rises quickly, amused and exasperated. Leaving his clothes scattered, he heads for the bedroom. "Why didn't you wake me up?" Pushing the door open, he heads for the closet in the dark. "Thought you wanted to check out that Asian restaurant with the jazz band?" Lindsey chuckles, shaking his head as he tosses his shirt in the hamper. "Never will convince me that a jazz band without a horn fits the definition, but whatever cranks your-" The words die as Lindsey turns and faces the bed, only then discovering its emptiness. He checks his watch, the clock by the bed, his watch again. They agree, telling him the same thing, what he already knows and doesn't want to hear: Xander is hours and hours late. Without so much as a phone call, for the first time ever. Lindsey runs through the call log on the caller I.D., moves to the living room and pushes the play button on the answering machine even though the thing says there hasn't been anything new since he called home on his way to work that morning to ask Xander to unplug the iron for him. He tries Xander's cell and then Xander's office, getting no response from either. Xander's cell one more time, jabbing the phone off with hands that are starting to feel numb when the voice mail picks up after the first ring yet again. Call waiting means both their phones ring four times before kicking over, even when they're on a call. Xander never has his phone off unless they're both at home. Back to the bedroom, flipping the light on this time, trading trousers for jeans and a t-shirt while he tries to think, tries to figure out where to start looking. Lindsey considers and rejects asking Angel for help half a dozen times while he dresses; he's leaning in favor of 'pride be damned' when he pulls open the closet to look for his boots and notices the long row of empty hangers on Xander's side of the closet. . Empty hangers, mostly-empty drawers... even Xander's Discman and travel-case of favorite CDs is missing, which is the thing that finally sucks the last of the hope of misunderstanding out of Lindsey's chest. Back to the couch with a thump and a curse and another bottle of beer. Lindsey tries to muster up the clarity of mind to do some serious thinking. He can't imagine what's going on, can't believe what all the evidence is pointing to. No matter how hard he tries to inflate whatever tiny irritations the last few weeks and months have brought into something worthy of this, he can't see what could've moved Xander to...leave. Left. Dumped. Abandoned. The words scrape raw trails across Lindsey's brain, leaving him shuddering and gulping at his beer desperately. Not the first time it's happened; not the first time it's hurt. Definitely the first time he never saw it coming. He's not pleased to discover just how much worse that makes it. Turns out there's a limit to just how much Lindsey McDonald wants to know after all. Just past two years living here, living together, and still Xander's got no friends Lindsey can name who he'd be liable to turn to for help with a thing like this. Gunn might've, once upon a time; even warier of Lindsey than Angel was, still he and Xander had managed to carve out some kind of normal-guy-amidst-all-the-crazy understanding. If this had happened a year ago, Lindsey would already be pounding on Gunn's front door, looking for his boyfriend and a shitload of answers. But Gunn's magic-charged, overnight lawyer act meant it was Xander's turn to be leery and skeptical, and the two of them had stopped talking, for the most part, around the same time Gunn started wearing suits and stopped hitting things for the hell of it. Which left the Sunnydale group. Lindsey knows, no matter how much they claim to like him, that every last one of them would put Xander up in a minute if he asked. But there's a continent and an ocean and a plane ride that Xander couldn't possibly have booked and made by now. Not since this morning... On what he hopes is a wrong guess, Lindsey picks up the phone again and hits redial. He can't hold back the whoosh of air that escapes him when the last number called proves to be his own office, but the relief turns ashy and bitter in his mouth when he remembers: cell phone. Right. "Shit!" Lindsey sends the phone bouncing across the carpet, vaguely disappointed when it comes to a stop against the breakfast bar with nothing more than a dull, clicking thud. He retrieves it and puts it back in its cradle, then sweeps the laptop automatically off the counter to put it away, shaking his head over Xander's continual refusal to acknowledge that keeping the computer on the counter in the kitchen might not be such a good idea. The realization hits him at the same time the half-hearted chuckle fades; Lindsey slams the computer back on the counter hard enough that he'd be worrying about cracking the case, if he cared about such things anymore. It takes forever to boot up, and Lindsey's talked himself into and out of hope half a dozen times by the time he can start digging. Obviously, Xander's not as clueless about the thing as Lindsey thought. There's nothing left to tell him what Xander may or may not have done with it today, not even a stray file left in the recycle bin. He's rummaged through all of Xander's email twice and is about to shut down when he thinks of the 'sent items' folder; even as he's re-opening Outlook, he's telling himself there's no way Xander would be that careless, not after all the trouble he'd taken to disappear without a trace. But for once, luck is with him. Sort of. Lindsey doesn't recognize the address Xander sent it to, but it doesn't matter. He's got what he needs: American Airlines flight 142, NY to London, arriving 8:15 p.m. Motherfucker. . The drive to the airport takes longer than he expects, the tedious, slow process of waiting in line and making his way to the correct terminal enough to push Lindsey's inflamed nerves to the point of conflagration. The security guards are implacable: no amount of Lindsey's best bullshitting sweet talk or the subsequent frustrated anger can get him any farther, and he's not nearly close enough. He's seriously considering buying a ticket just to get into the passenger waiting area when he sees a telltale dark, rumpled head coming out of some kind of shop or other a ways off down the hall. Lindsey shouts Xander's name once, then twice again while the guard puts his meaty hand on Lindsey's chest and warns him with words that Lindsey doesn't hear. "Xander!" he tries again, and the hand pushing him hard enough that he has to take a couple of steps backward or fall on his ass gets his attention finally. "Look, I just need to-" "No, you look," the guard says, pointing to a nearby sign. "You ain't got a ticket, you ain't getting past this point. Period." Big guy, bigger attitude, but it's not like Lindsey hasn't made a lifetime occupation out of ignoring common sense in favor of getting what he wants. "C'mon, man. It'll just take a second. You can watch me the whole time." Couple of steps forward and there's that hand again, harder than necessary, knocking him off-balance. "Keep your fucking hands off me, already." Lindsey's got more than a couple of wheelbarrows full of anger he's been lugging around for a few hours, and he's just looking for somebody to dump them on. He's getting ready to let Andre the Giant have it and fuck strip-search hell, when a familiar voice lets all the air out of Lindsey's indignation. "You really don't want to get arrested, do you, Lin? I've got a plane to catch, and I seriously doubt Angel would do anything except go down to the jail and mock you through the glass." Lindsey spins like he's been hit. Feels like it too, punch-drunk with confusion and irritation and relief. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" So there's still a sputter or two left in the old balloon. Xander can just fucking deal. Xander does that thing with his eyebrows and one corner of his mouth that reads like a shrug. "Guess you know or you wouldn't be here." "And what? You were gonna call me from Heathrow, maybe?" Xander ducks his head, looks down and away. Doesn't answer. A bitter, derisive chuckle escapes Lindsey. "Emphasis on the 'maybe', huh? Thanks for fucking nothing." He grimaces, pulling his lips tight across his teeth, then steps as close as he can to Xander without crossing Hulk Hogan's invisible line, the need for control keeping his voice low. "Two years, and that's it? You clear out in the middle of the day and leave me to wonder what happened until you decide you can deal with letting me know?" He has to lean back to avoid getting a faceful of forehead when Xander's head shoots up. "It's not like that." "Really? Because it looks just like that from where I'm standing." The detached, analytical part of Lindsey, the part that keeps him thinking even when his blood's boiling fit to steam his brain like a potful of cauliflower notes that the pain and confusion on Xander's face is probably a pretty good reflection of his own. A tiny flicker of curiosity fights its way up out of the need to break things that's currently much too close to overwhelming him. "So tell me what it is like, Xander." At his name, Xander's gaze skitters away somewhere over Lindsey's left shoulder. He shakes his head at nothing in particular, and when he looks at Lindsey again, his eyes are hollow. "It's complicated." "So fucking explain it to me!" He's not a patient man, not at the best of times, and this is so far removed from anything even remotely related to 'best', he's damn close to forgetting what the word means. "Uncomplicate it for me. I deserve that much." 'Demand' is what he means. They both know it. Xander fidgets. "I...I can't." He sketches a shaky wave at the waiting area. "I've got...there's no time. The plane's already here." "I'll buy you another ticket." Short, flat, matter-of-fact. Lindsey wants his answers and is willing to pay for them. "It's eleven hundred dollars!" Xander's aghast; he never has gotten used to Lindsey's willingness to spend the big bucks on him. Liked it, appreciated it, even managed to enjoy it once Lindsey fucked the awkwardness out of him. But accepted it? Not yet, no. Lindsey spares a moment to wish he'd had a little more time to try to change that, but keeps his face impassive, waiting. The big, lips-blown-out sigh tells him he's won before Xander says a word. "Fine. But you-" Another sigh, quick scrape of teeth over Xander's lower lip. "But I want it in my hand before we leave." He won't meet Lindsey's eyes. "Because I'm the untrustworthy one. Gotcha." Lindsey spins and walks away without waiting to see Xander take the hit. Xander catches up with him at the ticket counter, shifting from foot to foot impatiently. Or maybe nervously. Lindsey's not sure he cares at this point; knowing Xander's uncomfortable is enough to soften the sharp edges currently shredding his insides. He'll take it, prick that he is. Xander waits until they're outside, ticket safely stowed in his backpack, before trying to put some spin on that last fastball. "Look, I just meant that I know-" "When's the last time you ate?" Xander stumbles, startled. "What?" "Food. Have you had any, or are you running on sugar and caffeine fumes?" He already knows the answer: Xander's face is pinched and white, exhaustion settling in the lines around his eyes. "I had some soda." Xander shakes his head. "I wasn't...I fell asleep." Lindsey nods and points his keys at the car, pressing the button to unlock the doors. "We'll stop." . They wind up at the hotel before Lindsey realizes that Xander's not going to respond favorably to any of his late-night dinner suggestions. He settles for grabbing a couple of bags of snack food and a six-pack of beer and soda each from the convenience store on the corner, walking to give himself some time to calm down and Xander some time to get his shit together. Neither one of them so much as look at the bags of food he deposits on the dresser next to the TV, but they each crack open a beer. Lindsey slugs half of his down while he pulls off his boots and settles himself in one of the chairs around the table next to the window; Xander looks like he's thinking about taking the other one, but Lindsey cuts him off, uses it to prop up his feet. Xander recoils slightly before starting to pace in front of the bed. A few short trips across the room and he stops, lifts his hands helplessly. "I don't know where to start." Lindsey finishes off his beer, wishes he hadn't left the others so far away, and sets his empty bottle on the table before folding his arms across his chest. "You said complicated, but I can't say as I'm much in the mood for puzzling things out right now. How about: five words or less, you tell me what the fuck it was that made you think packing half your shit and taking off for the other side of the world without so much as a 'fuck off' was a good idea." He can soft-sell with the best of them, but his temper's always been his downfall, and diplomacy and tact aren't words he even recognizes when he's this pissed-off. Fuck it; it's Xander's bed, let him fucking lie in it. But Xander hasn't lived with him and his moods for close to two years for nothing. He doesn't even twitch as he meets Lindsey's eyes with a look that'd normally get him pinned to the bed and kissed till everything was better. A selection not on the menu tonight, but Lindsey's up and out of the chair anyway before Xander even opens his mouth again: "Cordelia's dead." "Jesus, Xander. I'm sorry." Xander lets himself be held, Lindsey too aware that this changes nothing, that Xander's hands are merely resting on his hips and not holding him back. "I'm so sorry." Xander acknowledges this with a nod and a shuddering breath that blows warm against the side of Lindsey's head. "When?" "Last night some time. Angel called just after you left this morning." "God." Lindsey remembers the odd, stilted note in Xander's voice when he'd called about the iron. He'd written it off to Xander running late for work; he's appalled to realize he could miss something so big. "I'm sorry." His head jerks back at Xander's short, bitter snort that feels like a sucker-punch to the solar plexus. "What?" Xander pulls away, looks off to the side. Nothing to see but the ugly bedspread, but Lindsey watches Xander's jaw muscles working and knows it's just about not looking at him. He pushes up in Xander's space, forces Xander to step back. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" When it comes, it's sharp and clean, but it leaves a ragged, messy hole anyway. "You tried to kill her." "What?" Incredulous. Disbelieving. "What the fuck? Xander, that was four years ago." "So?" Xander juts his chin at Lindsey, wields his belligerence like a broadsword. "You wanted her dead - well, now she is." Even without any telltale magical tingle, Lindsey's starting to wonder if he didn't step into some kind of bizarre alternate dimension when he wasn't paying attention. Maybe he's still asleep on the couch in the living room, and this is all a nightmare that Xander's about to pull him out of with a kiss and a cold beer bottle to his stomach. "That was four years ago," Lindsey repeats. Once was unnecessary, twice is ridiculous. But the obvious isn't sinking in; Xander's eyes are as hard and flat as Lindsey's ever seen them. Lindsey whirls, fists clenching, looking for something to bear the brunt of his frustration. But there's nothing. Nothing but an old fight whirling up again in a hateful tornado of not-making-sense. It's not like they haven't been over this. He says that, his turn to not look at Xander, forehead rolling across the cold metal of the door chain: "It's not like we haven't talked about this. You, me. Me, Cordelia. You, Cordelia, me. I thought we were past it." "I did too." Xander's voice sounds out of tune with what Lindsey has been seeing on his face, a sorrowful note scratching over the top of all the sudden lack of forgiveness. He turns and looks, catching a glimpse of bewilderment before Xander manages to clamp a lid on it. "I don't understand." Lindsey drops his voice, his shoulders, his attitude. He's still angry enough to beat a horse to death one-handed, but he sees a crack in the door, and he'll be damned if he isn't going to do everything he can to wedge a foot in there and pry it open. "I just...I don't get it." Xander drops his weight on the edge of the bed. "I don't either, okay? I mean, I don't think I can explain it. I'm sorry. But I just...I can't do it again. Anymore. Lindsey, I can't." Carefully, Lindsey sits down next to him, close enough that the movement caused by their breathing brushes their shoulders together. "Do what again? What do you think I'm going to do?" He looks at Xander; Xander studies his hands. "I'm not...okay, not a good guy, but I'm not that guy anymore, either. When was the last time I even tried to kill Angel? That's got to count for something." Xander's smile is real, if small, but the look he turns on Lindsey is raw and oozing, like nothing he's ever seen before on Xander's face. Except...no. He has seen it before, and not that long ago. Last summer, weeks' worth of early mornings discussions where Xander laid next to him with the light from the streetlamps fading into dawn as Lindsey listened quietly to story after story of how Xander met Anya, how they fell in love, how they ended it. For a smart guy, he can be pretty fucking stupid sometimes, Lindsey thinks. Anya's dead. Cordelia's dead. Lindsey wonders who else is dead that Xander might've wanted, might've dreamed about, might've loved if given half a chance. "Jesus." He swings around and straddles Xander's lap, catching Xander's face in his hands before he has a chance to recover and pull away. "Xander, listen." Amazingly, he does, looking at Lindsey with the same expectant, trusting look he's worn for everything from their first sexual encounter to the time Lindsey had managed to get him to eat half a plate of eel and rice before the waiter had ruined the whole thing by complimenting Xander on his gastronomical bravery. His chest clenches, and once again he's struck by just how young Xander is, Hellmouth-shadowed childhood aside. "I'm not going anywhere, alright?" Xander tries to flinch from the hole-in-one, but Lindsey's not letting go, not now. They're a pair of stubborn motherfuckers, the two of them, but those extra thirteen years have to work to his advantage some time, and Lindsey picks now. "Only the good die young, baby," he says with what he knows is Xander's favorite cocky grin. "Me, I'm gonna die an unrepentant old bastard, safely in my bed, sleeping the sleep of the satisfied after having fucked you through the mattress one last time." Xander starts to laugh, which is what Lindsey was hoping for. It's thin and broken, but it's a laugh nonetheless, and Lindsey's chuckling back at him as he rolls his head into Lindsey's shoulder and lets himself be held for real this time, complete with his own arms tight around Lindsey's waist. The tears are completely unexpected. Lindsey's never seen Xander cry. Doesn't think anyone has probably, not since he was a little kid at least. He doesn't have a single fucking clue what to do except sit there on Xander's lap, holding and being held and being quiet while Xander soaks his shirt just as quietly. It's hardly a dam bursting, for all that Lindsey's always known Xander's got more grief and frustrated anger splashing around inside of him than he'll ever let on. It's actually more like the extra steam being let out of a pressure cooker. By the time Lindsey's decided to hell with being awkward and started smoothing away the moisture running down the side of Xander's face, it's already tapering off into nothing more than the occasional sniffle. "I'm sorry I'm such a fucking idiot." Xander heels the remaining tears out of his eyes. Lindsey can't help but smile at the embarrassed look Xander throws him. "It's alright. God knows we've all had our turn at it." There are a few stray drops at the corner of Xander's mouth; he thumbs them away gently. When Xander's only reaction is to lean into the touch, Lindsey dares to follow up with a couple of soft kisses that quickly grow hot and needy in between Xander's continuing apologies and Lindsey's repeated assurances. Only a temporary reprieve, but Lindsey takes it, takes what he can get with hands and mouth and raw, murmured words, storing every touch away for when he won't have it anymore. And damned if that doesn't break his fucking heart, and he can admit it now. For now, with Xander undressing him with sweet desperation, rolling back and spreading his legs for Lindsey to fit between, their cocks gliding and catching against each other. The pressure building, heating him up from the inside out until he's gasping through the burning in his lungs, watching Xander writhing in a full-body flush underneath him as he wrings the orgasms right out of them with unbalanced, jerky twists of his hips. Xander insists on tucking Lindsey into himself, wrapping around Lindsey till they're a tangle of interlocked legs and arms bent at odd angles, falling asleep almost before Lindsey realizes Xander's not going to move him again. He doesn't think he'll be able to sleep anytime soon, not knowing what's racing down the tracks at him only a few short hours away, but it'll do. Next thing he knows, he's opening his eyes to the click of the bathroom doorknob, rubbing the sleep away to find Xander watching him with a grin as he towels his hair dry. Lindsey sucks in a breath against the sinking in his stomach and turns to check the time, surprised at what he finds. "You missed your plane," he says, his brain as thick as his voice. "Yeah, I know." Xander waves one hand in a wide, looping motion, then shrugs. "I woke up earlier, but..." Lindsey rubs his eyes again. Can't stop staring. He's too slow, not awake, can't figure out what Xander's diffident half-smile is telling him. Trying to tell him. One more time: "You missed your plane." "I can...I'll pay you back. I mean-" Xander drops his head, twists the towel in his hands until Lindsey thinks he might be about to give himself rope burn with it. "I don't want to go. Lindsey. I was just... being stupid. I didn't think. I just freaked. I'm so fucking sorry. I don't want to go. Not really." Once again, Lindsey's up and in Xander's space before the words are completely out. He runs his hands up and down Xander's arms, ducks his head and makes Xander look at him. Quick, hard kiss to the mouth. "And the next time you freak out?" "I won't." Xander shakes his head, eyes wide, expression pained. "I won't, I swear." "Don't go making promises you can't keep." Lindsey softens the warning with his hands, up and over Xander's shoulders to work at the tension already building in his jaw. Xander shakes his head again. "I won't," he insists. Or starts to: "Okay, maybe I will. But next time I promise I won't-" He pauses and his gaze turns inward as he weighs what he's about to give up. After what feels like a long, long, too-long moment, Xander nods. "I won't run away. I'm not saying I'm never going to be stupid again-" "And we're back to promises you couldn't keep anyway," Lindsey murmurs, grinning as he digs his fingers into the clenching on Xander's neck. "Asshole." But Xander leans down and kisses him, slowly and deeply, till Lindsey's skin is prickly and taut and begging, every inch of it. He can feel the worry and fear dropping away with every brush of Xander's lips. "So. Are we good?" Xander asks some moments later, looking like he's lost some unwanted baggage of his own. His neck's gone soft again, but other parts of him are most definitely not. Still. Lindsey pulls back far enough that Xander has to look him in the eye. "I'm good. You?" "Yeah, I'm good." Xander grins. It's wide and bright and wicked, and Lindsey's stomach flips over at the rightness of it. "Or so I've been told." --- End