Angel wakes, abruptly and with a name slipping from his lips. He sits up and tries to remember, but there is just this feeling that somebody should be there with him, and he touches the sheets next to him, but they are cold. He lies down again, and falls back asleep easily.
He visits Lindsey the next day, but somehow he only looms. He notices their height difference then, as if that was new, and simply growls out a warning before leaving again. Lindsey does not say a word, but he can see the question in his eyes before Angel closes the door. He drives home, feeling off kilter.
He walks through the front door and immediately senses that he is not alone. There is sound coming from within the house, and he follows it. He hangs his coat in the hallway, makes his way through the living room and then turns when nobody is there. He checks the quiet kitchen, before turning and going upstairs. Someone is humming, and he turns towards the sound. He finally finds the bedroom and when he opens the door, he sees Lindsey. Angel must have made a sound, because Lindsey turns and pauses, hands resting on a neat stack of towels next to a heap of unfolded ones. Before Angel can say anything, Lindsey smiles.
“You're home,” he says.
Angel jolts awake. He sits in his bed for a moment, contemplating trying to fall back asleep for a few seconds before he remembers the dream. And Lindsey folding the damn laundry.
“You think thinking about household chores makes you insane?”
“What? Angel, what are you on about.”
Wesley is annoyed, he can tell.
“If you were dreaming about them?”
“I'd say you're probably overworked then. Or trying to fix things during the night. Subconsciously.”
Like that helped. Fixing things. As if things needed fixing. Which they do. Maybe.
The next dream he knows is a dream, because he comes back into the house and Lindsey is sitting in the living room, reading, a glass tumbler of whiskey next to him on the small table. Angel walks over and downs it.
“Hey. Get your own,” Lindsey says without heat.
He doesn't really look up from his book, and Angel watches him. His hair got slightly too long again, one lock falling across his forehead. He is wearing one of his business shirts, top two buttons undone and tie gone, the sleeves rolled up until under his elbows. He is reading a novel, resting his head on his right hand while holding the book with his left. Angel just stays. He watches the rise and fall of Lindsey's chest.
“You're hovering, Angel,” Lindsey says.
He jumps a little at that, and Lindsey looks up at him.
“Do you want dinner? It would be your turn to cook, but I trade you doing the dishes.”
“Yeah. That would be...” He doesn't finish the sentence, because this is all a dream, right. Lindsey is not here and he is not laughing a little under his breath and rolling his eyes and then putting the book away, placing it over the armrest of the chair so he won't lose the page he is on.
“Alright, big guy,” Lindsey says and gets up. “Do you want to eat with me? Or just...”
And Lindsey does not even say it, as if he knows that that's the way Angel prefers it. He only turns and looks at Angel, waiting, as if they did that every night. Angel swallows hard and hopes he won't wake.
“Eating with you sounds great.”
Angel is jittery. He knows he is, he knows the others can tell, so he sulks and tries to stay away so he won't have to answer questions. It's worse on days where he sees Lindsey, actual Lindsey, in his lawyer suit and with that hair and fake smile. He smiles differently, it never quite reaches his eyes, and he tenses when Angel comes in. It is much worse then, and he waits for the lines to blur, waits for Lindsey to look up at him and smile a tiny smile, one that barely lifts the corners of his mouth but lights his eyes nevertheless.
“How was your day,” Angel asks.
Lindsey pulls a face. “Let's not talk about it. One of these days, I'm going to pack my things and leave.”
“Clients, they are called clients, but that doesn't make them any easier to bear. Your day?”
Angel shakes his head.
“I was waiting for it to be over so I could go to bed and sleep.”
There is some truth in that, and Lindsey laughs again.
“Before we do, game of chess?”
“I'll win again.” Angel says, but he really is thinking about something else now.
“Yes, you will, but that's not why I'm still playing,” Lindsey says.
They play three games, and Lindsey holds up well enough.
“Rematch,” Lindsey asks but Angel shakes his head.
“Need to eat something now.”
Lindsey nods and walks into the kitchen. Angel can hear the microwave's ping and Lindsey comes back in with a mug.
“You know, you could always...” Lindsey does not finish the sentence but cocks his head to the side and Angel wakes, gasping for air for some bizarre reason, maybe because he is mirroring the soap opera fakeness of his dreams.
“Your hair is real short. Will you let it grow out again?”
Lindsey stares at him. Angel freezes.
“Oh. Never mind.”
“Are you losing your mind, Angel?”
I might be, Angel thinks, but he growls at Lindsey, giving him his best glare.
“Seriously, my hair?”
“What is wrong with you?”
When he comes closer, Lindsey flinches ever so slightly, closing his eyes for a split second too long and it's all that Angel needs to back off. When Lindsey looks at him again, he seems surprised, but he doesn't say a thing. Angel is grateful for that.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“What? No.” Lindsey looks at him, pausing in mid-motion, the pot of coffee hovering over his mug, not yet pouring.
“Yeah, I just.” He shrugs, and he knows he is still dreaming, because Lindsey's hair is longer and he looks at Angel, open and with a patience Angel knows the real Lindsey does not have. He sighs then.
“This isn't working,” he says. Lindsey pours the coffee next to the cup, jumping up and cursing.
“We need to talk,” Angel says, walking into Lindsey's office.
Lindsey stands up, too quickly for it to be casual, but still slow enough so he doesn't look as if fleeing.
“We don't,” he says, keeping his back to the wall and moving away from Angel, trying to round the room and get the door in closer reach.
“Yes, we do.”
Angel can see the reluctance, and he closes the door. Lindsey seems thrown by this, he only stares, one eye brow raised.
“Come on, I'm not going to...” Angel motions with his hand and damn, even he himself does not know what he means by it. Lindsey takes one step closer, towards him or the door, Angel is not sure.
“What do you want, Angel?” Lindsey clearly is not in the mood for talk.
“Do you dream about me?”
Angel takes a step backwards.
“No,” Lindsey finally says quietly, “Go.”
He knows he will find Lindsey in the bathroom, and he really does not want to go in there. He opens the door nevertheless, expecting rose pedals and mountains of foam and candles, but he only finds Lindsey sitting in the tub, hair wet, and looking at Angel wide eyed before recovering.
“Wanna come in,” he asks and grins. Angel shakes his head and Lindsey huffs and almost pouts. “At least wash my back then.” And Angel complies.
The phone rings and Angel picks it up before anyone else can.
“Did you send me fucking flowers?!”
“No, the tooth fairy. Did you?”
“Uh.” Angel tries to think fast. “No.”
There is a pause on the line and Angel almost thinks Lindsey has hung up. He would break out in a cold sweat if he could.
“Are they poisonous?”
There is some rustling of leaves against leaves. Angel just knows Lindsey is rearranging the roses in the vase that came along with them.
“Is there a poisonous spider hidden in there or something?”
“What? No, they're just flowers.”
“You sent me flowers.”
Angel does not know what to say to that, so he stays quiet and listens to Lindsey breathe.
“They are kinda...”
“Scary, actually.” Lindsey laughs low. “No, they are...”
“So,” he says.
“Yeah. Have to go to a meeting. See you around, I guess.”
Lindsey hangs up, and Angel can't help but smile a little. He's really curious about the dreams he'll have now.