The baby looks like her, and that is his undoing.
Wesley shows up at his door, sweating and ten pounds skinnier than Lindsey remembers him. The look in his eyes is equal parts crazy and murderous, which would be more impressive to someone who hasn't seen and done all that Lindsey has.
"Take him," Wesley says, gritting the words out so hard that it takes Lindsey a moment to work out that it's a plea and not an order. "You must. I can't... just take the child."
"Why should I do a damn thing you ask me to?" Lindsey rattles his glass of ice, the remains of whiskey pale amber in the bottom of it. He's genuinely curious what manner of damnation would bring this man to his doorstep. He is sure that Wes would sooner slit his own throat than ask Lindsey for a favor, and yet here he is, asking. Begging, point of fact.
"I have no other choice." The truth of that admission is as bare as the baby's face as Wes steps forward, pressing into the light that spills from the open door. "I cannot take him back."
Lindsey smirks, takes the last sip of watery booze, but he looks and that seals his fate. The face of the child is clearly hers, everything from her eyes to to delicate shape of her nose and the rose petal pink of her lips. He nearly chokes on that swallow of whiskey-water and in that moment of hesitation, Wesley makes his move.
The glass shatters on the doorstep as Lindsey reaches out to take the bundle of blanket wrapped child that is shoved into his arms. Self-preservation may have been his primary instinct for so many years he can't count them, but the thought of harm coming to her child, to Darla's baby boy, is too much for him to bear. He grips the baby awkwardly, the span of time since he held a sibling huge and gaping in that second before his body remembers what to do.
There's a gasp, a squeal, as if the baby knows he has come close to falling and shattering like that glass. His arms wave, flail, then settle as Lindsey brings him in close. A hiccup, then a sigh and the baby settles just that fast.
"Hey,"Lindsey murmurs, looking down at the downy fuzz on the baby's head. "Hey now..."
When he glances up again, there is no sign of Wesley. Only the faint echo of a car's engine already fading into the distance gives any hint of how he's made his escape. There is a raggedy looking bag on the step, stuffed with what Lindsey knows will be bottles, diapers, tiny little scraps of clothing. He frowns, tensing as the realization washes over him. He's run for his life and his life has tracked him down and settled in with seven pounds of reminder of what he never could have had.
The baby squirms then and lets out a cry. Lindsey's quick to move this time, cheek to the top of the baby's head as he leans down to hook the handle of the bag with one hand. His other pats the tiny back softly and he starts to hum.
Stranger things have happened to him than this, he muses as he closes the door with one foot. Stranger things than starting his day under a car changing oil in some deadbeat town and ending with a baby on his shoulder, warm and soft and smelling of a woman he loved in a lifetime he ran away from.