Title: Evil a Lindsey story in the Angelverse
Author: Brenda Antrim
Email: bren@bantrim.net
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: no copyright intended.
Spoilers: For Dead End. I love this show.

Words washed around him and Lindsey let them. As usual, Wolfram and Hart was in the forefront of current affairs -- their latest, a public utility client being sued for price gouging. He offered silent thanks that he lived within LA city limits and didn't have to worry about it, other than getting the client off, of course. Lilah mentioned that litigation would keep them tied up in the courts for years, and he responded that a quick settlement was better PR and cost a hell of a lot less. Then Mr. Reed brought him back to the dull meeting with a thud by asking how Angel was doing.

"Angel? He's up, he's down, he's good, he's bad. He's a barrel of dead monkeys." He couldn't stop the sarcasm lacing his voice. Every time he strapped on his plastic hand, a fresh wave of hatred and loss swept over him. Lilah started babbling, and the majority of his mind tuned out again. The unfortunate thing about his emotional reaction wasn't the existence of the emotions, but the target. His rational self knew that the hatred should be aimed at Angel and the loss at himself. Too often, it felt the other way around. Just went to show how little one could trust emotion.

As expected, in the course of calming the waters Lilah made it blindingly obvious yet again that Angel's consistent target was Lindsey. He gave her a measuring stare and let her ramble. Reed changed the subject and asked about an upcoming meeting with the CFO of a company rightfully fearing lawsuit for poisoning their product and not warning the public until a cancer epidemic claimed enough of their customers that they were forced to pay attention. Lilah ruffled her papers and Lindsey answered automatically, "Thursday, at eleven." Earned him another glare. Could he help it if he had a good memory? He didn't even bother with the stare this time. To his well-hidden relief, Reed brought the meeting to a close before Lindsey expired from boredom.

"Friday we'll be re-evaluating your division. You two can catch me up then. Now, let's get to work."

He didn't get two steps from the table before Lilah blocked him.

"Can you stab me in the back a little deeper? I still have feeling in my legs."

There was a wildness behind the habitual chill in her eyes, and he peered up at her. He might have to do something about her soon. It had been okay when they weren't in head to head competition. They'd been allies of a sort and occasional lovers. But she'd made it clear since their dual promotion that he had a target on his ass and she had a rifle in her hands. Metaphorically if not literally. "Lilah -"

She didn't let him finish the sentence. "They're going to re-evaluate us. You know what that means. They'll promote one and cut the other. Around here, that's a literal cutting."

Her voice shook. He sighed silently. She was letting it get to her. That was a good way to end up dead, or worse, around Wolfram and Hart. "Well, nothing lasts forever." He kept his voice completely calm, as was the look he leveled at her. She glared in return.

"That's deep," she hissed. "Why don't you go f-" Reed interrupted before she could lose her cool and tell him to go fuck himself. Lindsey didn't know whether to laugh or be appalled. She really was dancing on the edge.

Reed asked sweetly, "Lindsey. Join me in my office?" Lindsey smirked at Lilah and sauntered off to join his boss. Lilah watched with deep suspicion as the old man smiled and placed a paternal hand on Lindsey's shoulder. Lindsey ignored her. He was good at that. He'd had a lot of practice.

"You're making great strides in reclaiming what you lost with your actions earlier this year, Lindsey. It's good to see you acting like your old self, on top of things, not allowing yourself to be distracted. I'm sure Holland would be pleased to note how well his protégé has been handling himself." He paused and forced a fatherly expression on his face. It didn't fit very well. "I'd like to give you one word of advice about your attitude toward Angel. Now, I realize what he did to you was … heartless." Lindsey managed not to flinch. "And naturally your attitude toward him would be … complex." He held back a comment that would have further undermined Reed's opinion of his demeanor. "But it's not very professional to air those feelings around your colleagues. People look up to you around here. Which reminds me. I made an appointment for you. It'll take awhile, so I've cleared your schedule."

That came out of left field. "An appointment?"

"Yes." Reed was smiling at him. It was a strange expression to see on that waxy face. "Well, just a … uhm, well, you'll see."

He laughed lightly, leaving Lindsey bemused. He didn't think he'd ever heard Reed laugh. He must really be coming up in the world to be permitted to witness this much emotion displayed by the man whose nickname, far from the office and seldom spoken aloud, was Dead Man Walking.

Lindsey stared at the card with a mixture of confusion and calculation as he said a pleasant, absent-minded good-bye and left the room. With his peripheral vision he noticed Lilah glaring daggers at him but ignored her to head to his office. He had an hour before he had to go to the medical clinic named on the card, and he had some research to do. He never went into anything blind if there was any way around it.

Forty five minutes later he knew the history of the Fairfield Clinic from its inception to the present day. He had examined profiles of every doctor on its admittedly impressive roster. Its primary purpose seemed to be to provide medical services to the elite of Wolfram and Hart's executive staff. One of the cardiology specialists there had even examined Darla. The memory brought a sharp stab of pain, both to his heart and his stump, and he closed it off before it could distract him. The appointment made no sense to him. As far as he knew, he was perfectly healthy, barring a missing body part and a brain with the tendency to multi-track 24/7. Shrugging, knowing better than to ask any more questions or be late for the appointment, Lindsey put on his suit jacket and headed out into mid-day traffic in downtown LA.

He arrived at the clinic twenty minutes before his appointment time. He looked up at the multi-tiered sandy rose façade for some time before taking a deep breath and heading in. To his surprise, he didn't have to fill out any paperwork. The receptionist had a file already made up on him. When they called his name, he peeked over the nurse's shoulder while she was checking through the chart, and recognized his personal physician's handwriting.

Musing on the lack of confidentiality between a doctor and a patient when that patient worked for Wolfram and Hart, he obediently stepped on the scale, relaxed his arm for the blood pressure cuff and stopped himself from squirming as she stuck the thermometer cup in his ear. At least it was better than the little tabs they used to stick under his tongue. Or the memorable glass thermometers of his childhood. He'd had nightmares for weeks about mercury poisoning when one of his little brothers had bitten through one once.

He was sitting on exam table wondering what the fuck is going on when the doctor came in. The man was disgustingly cheerful.

"Lindsey," he beamed. "I'm Doctor Melman. It's a pleasure to meet you."

His left hand was warmly, if briefly, taken. He offered a lukewarm, "Hi."

Melman leafed through the chart, humming approvingly. "Okay, your basic vitals are good. You've had all the usual childhood diseases, and you're not allergic to any medications." As he was telling the nurse, "Let's start him out with two milligrams of Versed," Lindsey dwelt on the fact that he was one of the few of his siblings to survive those 'usual childhood diseases.' He seldom thought of the losses of his childhood, for good reason. His eyes sharpened as the doctor turned back to him. "It's a little something to relax you before we begin the procedure. Do you have any questions?"

Oh, yeah, he thought, a few, but let's start with the most glaring omission. "One. What the hell is going on?"

Melman appeared somewhat startled. "Your boss didn't tell you?"

Lindsey stared steadily at him. "No." Obviously.

Melman grinned slightly. "They have a funny sense of humor over there."

His internal commentary continuing, Lindsey cracked 'notice me not laughing, doc.' "Yeah. They keep us hopping."

Melman then told him what he already knew. "Your firm is a major source of funding for our clinic. We see most of you for your primary care and whatnot. But there are some other less publicized aspects of our work."

Visions of human experimentation danced in Lindsey's head. "What the hell are they going to do to me?!"

The doctor said instantly, soothingly, "Please, don't -- don't be alarmed. They think the world of you. That's why they moved you to the top of the transplant list."

The world tilted with that one word. Faintly, Lindsey echoed, "Transplant?"

Melman looked smug. "Yes. Your hand. That's why you're here. We're going to give you a new one. Don't look so nervous," he continued as he swabbed Lindsey's upper left arm and reached for a syringe, "it's cause for applause. In just a few hours, you'll be the one doing the applauding."

Lindsey was too busy contemplating having two working hands again to scowl at him for the lousy verbiage. His eyelids started to get heavy. As the doctor left to prep for the surgery the nurse helped him slide off the table and efficiently stripped him down. As she reached for his pants, he made an interrogatory noise, and she mentioned something about operating room safety before denuding him like a baby needing a diaper change. He stood there and let her get on with it, his mind numb with drugs and possibilities. By the time she'd draped him in paper and settled him on the gurney, the world was floating fine if a bit blurry. They could've done any damned thing they wanted to him and he'd've let them.

The ride to the operating room was surreal, but not as surreal as the operation itself. Lights floated above him, faces wove in and out of his field of vision, and sounds seemed to come from nowhere. The world was more pleasantly fuzzy than he could remember it being since he'd been in a drug haze after he lost his hand. The stray thought made him focus on his arm.

It was gone!

He didn't panic. He didn't even giggle, although he really, really wanted to. He did look around for Angel. Body part went missing, gotta find the big guy with the rotten attitude who cleaned up nice. Stifling another giggle, he heard random words float down from the goggle-eyed demon with the blue hat he tentatively identified as Melman. When had he grown the little pair of binocular eyes?

"Let's get the soft tissue ready for incision. Connecting the extensors. You're doing great, Lindsey."

Oh, that was nice to know. He tried to say thanks, but his mouth wouldn't work. There was a tube under his nose. It tickled.

"Where's the Pockla? Release the tourniquet. I'm waiting on the Pockla."

Pookie was coming to the surgery? Cool. He wondered if Garfield would, too. And if the cat would bring lasagna. He was getting a slight case of the munchies. Maybe they'd put a little pot in his shot. He smothered another inappropriate giggle. It had been too long since he'd cut loose with a little inappropriate behavior. He'd have to see about that, when he could move again and his body wasn't mimicking melted Jell-O.

A woman's voice chimed in. Ah, variety. He was getting kind of tired of Melman anyway. "Here it comes."

There was a shushing sound, a sub-vocal hum, and the hair on the back of Lindsey's neck stood up, anesthesia be damned. There was magick in the air. He could smell it. His eyes sharpened in an automatic defensive reflex, ridiculous as it was since he couldn't do anything to help himself. A tall, vague red outline loomed over the doctor's shoulder and impossibly long gnarled hands reached out toward Lindsey's helpless body. He could feel himself cowering away internally even as none of his muscles so much as twitched.

A burning scent, sulfur and sandalwood incense, caught his sinuses. For the first time since the shot, he could feel something through the numbness. A cold sensation swept up his arm and into his shoulder, then down into his chest, followed immediately by a rush of heat that soon settled into a comforting warmth. Then the numbness seeped back in. Icy hot, his mind supplied, and he flashed on a pulled calf muscle in the gym. Not exactly in the same category, but the feeling was weirdly alike.

The doctor's voice broke rudely into his reverie. "Okay, let's get him to post-op."

Another nausea-inducing ride back to a nice, quiet room, and he stared at the holes in the ceiling tile until they stopped dancing with one another. After an hour or so, the blonde came back in and helped him sit up. Lindsey proved to her satisfaction that he could, indeed, walk and pee, before she allowed him to get dressed. Then a nondescript man wearing the understated livery of a Wolfram and Hart driver guided him back to the front office. He was handed a bag with a bottle of pills in it and signed off on three pages of post-operation instructions. Finally, he was allowed to escape.

Lindsey spent the drive back to his apartment staring at his new hand. He was afraid to move it. They hadn't put any bandages on it, and there was a thin red scar around his forearm where the new limb had been joined to his arm. It tingled slightly from residual magick all the way down through his bones. It itched a little.

He didn't scratch. Didn't know what might happen if he did and didn't want to risk it.

Back at his apartment, he shook off the driver with a smile of thanks and leaned against the back wall of the elevator, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. It had been a wild day. The after-affects of surgery were starting to get to him, and the itch was mutating into an ache. Once inside, he marveled at the ease with which he unlocked the door, handled his coat and locked the door behind himself, an ease he had missed like hell since losing his hand. He stripped off as he walked to the bedroom. Tracking sideways into the bathroom long enough to brush his teeth and pop a Percocet, he climbed into bed naked and buried his face in the pillow.

He was whole again. It didn't feel as weird as he had the feeling it should.

The drugs and the day caught up with him, and he was asleep before he knew it. His dreams were cloudy, drenched in the color of blood and the smell of sulfur. He woke at his normal time, a few minutes before the alarm went off, with a residual headache and an itch at his groin.

His left hand was draped over his head, and his hand was asleep. He peered blearily at it, flexing his fingers to get rid of the pins and needles. His other hand squeezed reflexively and he stilled. His fingers, fingers he hadn't had the day before, were wrapped around his cock. Not moving, just holding it. Comfortable. A little warm. Half-hard and enjoying the feeling. He gave it a few seconds thought before deciding against jerking off. His curiosity was getting the better of him.

Drawing his hand slowly away from his crotch, he pulled his arm out from under the blanket, a habit left over from the nights when his stump would ache from the cool night air. Holding his new hand a few inches from his face, he examined it intently. It felt natural. However they'd done it, they'd done a hell of a good job. He curled his fingers into a fist then relaxed them again, twisted his wrist, flexed the muscles in his forearm for the sheer joy of feeling them move under the skin. The novelty would no doubt wear off, but until it did, the simple movements were literally better than sex.

The alarm clicked and the weather report droned out. Lindsey reached out as he did every morning, grinning internally as he pressed the button with a finger and cut off the announcer's voice.

It was going to take awhile for this novelty to wear off.

His morning routine seldom varied, but there was a freshness to it that made him ridiculously aware of every move he made. Since he'd lost his hand to Angel's scythe, he'd felt unbalanced. Awkward. Clumsy. Holding his hands under the faucet to catch water and splash it on his face, he reveled in the efficiency of movement he'd missed for the past several months. Opening the closet to choose a tie, he mused that he could go back to a regular tie rack now, since he didn't need to waste an entire Saturday afternoon knotting the damned things again. Glancing down in the corner and pausing as he did every morning, he looked at his guitar.

Grinned.

Flexed his new picking hand.

Took his guitar from its resting place against the coats in the back and wandered back into his bedroom. He could be a little late. He didn't have any meetings until eleven, and he already had some ideas for that one. Then he perched on the side of the bed and strummed his new fingers across the strings.

Winced.

Spent the next several minutes tuning the guitar. He hadn't done more than look at it for a long time. Hadn't even been able to listen to the kind of music he used to make, believing that he'd never make it again. Tchaikovsky had been his best friend during the months he'd been crippled. Lots of sweeping, complicated music without words. No temptation.

He gave in to that temptation now. His hands moved over the strings and the music moved through him. Muscles held tensed for months slowly relaxed as he lost himself in the melody. Music filled his mind and traveled down to the soles of his feet. It was the only time his brain stopped ticking over, the only thing he could completely surrender to, the only time he was completely at peace. He'd missed it.

He hadn't realized how much he'd needed it until he couldn't have it. His grin softened and turned rueful. Wasn't that the way it always was? He sang softly, a few lines to a song he'd been working on before the entire Darla fiasco. Something simple. Something true.

So little of his life could be thus described.

An hour later he forced himself to stop, replacing the guitar gently in the closet and pulling a jacket from a hanger. His sore fingertips tingled, keeping the smile on his lips.

He was more jovial at work than he'd been in months, unsurprisingly. His charm was turned on full power, and everyone from the security guard to Nathan Reed responded. Irv Kraigle, the CFO of the chocolate company who'd been poisoning their clients until they got caught and who were now looking to Wolfram and Hart to save their collective asses, beamed at him.

Lilah, joining the small gathering a minute later, was not beaming. She looked like she might throw up, although she covered it quickly. She was a professional, he had to give her that. Reed showed Kraigle to his office, and Lindsey moved to follow. Lilah stopped him and pulled him aside.

There was ice in her whisper as she hissed at him. "That's an expensive operation. The Shaman alone's, what, a quarter mill? I guess they like you." Her smile was painfully bright and as sharp-edged as a sword. It matched the slightly manic gleam in her eye. "They really, really like you!"

Lindsey's reply was equally low-voiced, and while he kept his pleasant expression, his eyes were hard. "Client's waiting."

She didn't take the hint. "I know you think you've got this thing in the bag -"

He didn't have time for this crap. "I don’t think anything, Lilah," he cut in. She looked at him incredulously.

"Oh, you're the one in pain here? Ugh." She gave an inelegant snort. "I can't believe they chose you over me."

She stalked away into the office. He gave an inaudible sigh and followed her, his shining mood of the morning tarnished once again by reality. His mind was only partly on the meeting, but it was more than enough to follow the action. Most of his thoughts were centered on the future. He had to make some decisions, and crunch time was coming soon. He had to be prepared. He hated getting caught off-guard. When he did, he made decisions based on emotion, and they usually came back to bite him in the ass.

Lilah's voice chattered on about jury tampering, via bribery or enchantment, and he broke in before she could dig them any deeper into that particular hole. She really had to learn to read their clients better. This one couldn't handle direct admission of illegality. He spun a tale of a spurious offshoot company that would take the fall for the deadly tins, then go bankrupt before anyone could sue them. Kraigle beamed again. Lilah nodded and went along for the ride.

Kraigle congratulated him on his legal brilliance and asked him if he was getting it all down. Before Lindsey could allow his tongue to run with the obvious and tell Kraigle he didn't need to write it down since it was his own idea, he glanced down at the pad.

Nearly peed his four hundred dollar wool-blend trousers.

He hadn't realized he'd been doodling. He didn't doodle. Subconscious scribbling could be used against a man, and at Wolfram and Hart that use was often worse than fatal. But he'd apparently been doodling since he sat down, and he really didn't like what his subconscious was throwing up at him. Especially since he had the sneaking suspicion it didn't come from his subconscious.

His id had no reason to be scrawling KILL all over a yellow pad.

He gulped, his throat dry, and felt his eyes bulge a little as he stared down at his 'notes.' 'Kill' was written in block capitals, some re-traced for emphasis, at odd angles all over the page. He stared at his brand new hand.

His hand was talking to him. He didn't like what it was saying.

His entire mind tuned out of the meeting as he stared at the frightening graffiti littering his note pad. Swallowing a few times, he realized just how close he was to losing his breakfast, and cleared his throat with some difficulty. Uttering a strangled, "I have to go," he made a break for the door. Behind him, he heard Irv asking if everything was all right, and Lilah chirpily reassuring him.

The slightly hysterical thought struck him that sure, everything was fine, discounting the fact that he was now apparently the proud possessor of a homicidal hand. He made his way single-mindedly to his office, closing and locking the door, stifling a wild chuckle at the thought that he was locking himself in the room with evil incarnate in his own right hand, so what good would locks do?

At that thought, he half-ran directly into the washroom and knelt in front of the toilet, barely getting the lid up before he was throwing up. He stayed there until his stomach finally calmed down, then shakily washed his face, brushed his teeth and combed his hair.

With his right hand.

He stared into the mirror for a moment, then dropped the comb in the sink and dropped back to his knees to throw up again. Twenty minutes later he returned to his grooming ritual, regaining a measure of his composure as he combed his hair.

With his left hand.

Eventually he was able to leave the washroom. Sitting at his desk, he stared blankly at the folders scattered atop his desktop for an hour or so before giving work up as a bad deal. It wasn't quite three in the afternoon when he gathered his jacket and briefcase and headed down to the parking garage. The fleeting thought struck that this would be a good time for Angel to come after him again. It would be an interesting match-up, Angel versus The Evil Hand. He shook off the thought, smiling vacantly at the guard as he accelerated out of the garage. He had no memory of the drive home once he got there, staring around the underground garage of his apartment building like he'd never seen it before.

One of these days he was going to remember that any blessing he received was bound to be mixed at best, and typically it'd be a curse in disguise. Before he got all excited about it.

By the time he got his front door locked behind him, his stomach was rebelling again. He made it to the bathroom just in time to throw up. Resting his aching head against the cool porcelain, he sighed. Nothing left to come up, but he was still trying, and his stomach was tied in knots.

Anger started to build in the pit of his stomach, overcoming some of the cramps. He splashed water on his face again, brushed his teeth for the fifth time that day, and wandered out to stand in the middle of his living room. He glanced over at the bar but decided against a drink. Didn't dare lose control. Didn't want to give the Evil Hand a chance to turn on him. God only knew what it might do.

Rolling his shoulders to ease out some of the tension, he muttered "Fuck it," and went to the closet for his guitar. It took some time, but eventually he relaxed back into the music. Feeling calmer than he had since the morning meeting after picking strings until his fingers ached, he set the guitar aside and went into the kitchen.




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