*****

There are cracks in the ceiling of his room.

He stares at then when he can't sleep. He's tried counting them, but - counting cracks? Exactly. Not quite. If he's going to do that, he'll do it internally. Counting the cracks in his armor, in his soul and then he'll fall in to brooding mode, again. So, no.

He's making a conscious effort not to brood every second of the day. Maybe just every other second of the day.

But seriously. He's trying to work on that. The brooding.

He's also tried following where they run, the cracks. Tries to find a pattern. But there's no pattern. No method to the madness. Just because a crack starts in the left upper corner does mean it will run left or right or down or up or anywhere at all for that matter. He just can't guess.

Some things you just can't explain. Some things defy all logic and reason.

Take Lindsey for example.

Or not. He'd rather not. He's tired, and he's going home.

He doesn't need to get sidetracked while he's driving. Dying in a car crash after 249 years would really be anti-climatic, especially for him. It would be stupid and pointless - and reckless. Angel doesn't do reckless, which is exactly why Lindsey McDonald is being pushed way in the back of his brain.

He's locking away thoughts of the lawyer in the closet under the stairs. He's placed the key under the false step leading to the basement. He really doesn't need to obsess. It would be so unhealthy.

Look where it got him last time.

He's learned better. Really.

So, he won't think about Lindsey, not at all. No. Definitely not. It would be detrimental to his health. Which is why he better stop drifting over the center divide.

He's just driving. Top down. Wind running through gelled hair and massaging his scalp. Feels the breeze but can't really tell if it's cool or hot. Instead, he inhales deeply. He can't tell the temperature, but he can kind of tell the weather.

He smells rain. Acid. It's coming. He's not surprised. But that's later.

Right now it's just him. Him and his car.

His '67 Plymouth Belvedere. His baby. It is a baby in terms of age anyway. It's WAY younger than he is - thus, a baby.

That's why he won't let Cordelia drive it to pick up her dry cleaning. It's the principle of the thing.

Principles are important. And so is his car,

It's nice to spend time with her - 'her' being his car

Refreshing. The night. The lights. Downtown Los Angeles at four in the morning. No loud tourists. All the partygoers having gone home or passed out in the gutter. Now the City of Angels is just neon lights and blinking signals.

The only people out have a purpose. A reason. There's none of that false energy and enthusiasm, that seems to permeate the city in the early evening and with the midnight crowd.

He pities these people. They enjoy the sites, but they never take the time to really appreciate them. Can't see the forest for the trees. Such a shame. Los Angeles really is a beautiful city; but the people can make it a very unpleasant place to be.

Comes to the intersection of Sunset and Wilshire and decides to take the long route home. After all, no one is waiting for him to come sweeping, dramatically, through the double doors.

Inhales deeply again, he's not close enough to the beach to smell the salt, but maybe he'll take a detour there. It would be nice. To walk in the sand, to feel the granules between his toes. He likes things like that.

The sand is cold at night, but so is he. So, it really doesn't matter. Only, wait.

That last inhalation of un-needed air. He didn't get salt, but he did get spice. Damn.

Lindsey.

How is it possible for the scent of a man to linger in a car that he hasn't spent more than thirty minutes in? And that was ages ago, okay so twenty minutes isn't ages ago, but still. The scent hanging in the air should be gone. Should have evaporated or been blown away. Especially when the scent is in a convertible. Just because he doesn't breathe doesn't mean he doesn't know about air circulation.

Sighs. So fucking typical. Of course he's being tormented. The scent isn't in the car it's in his clothes.

He smells like Lindsey.

Squirms slightly in his seat, and tries to focus on the road. How did those thoughts escape?

Damn.

He's cursed. Of course he's cursed. Idiot.

Darts his eyes around the car and takes in the empty seat beside him. There's still a slight indentation from where the other man sat, and Angel can't even cope when he realizes that he's rubbing the seat unconsciously.

Yanks his hand away like he's strayed into an un-curtained ray of light. It has to stop.

Correction: it can't even get started.

He can't think like this. Can't hope that maybe Lindsey will clean up his act. Just way too much to even hope for. Might as well present the blue-eyed singer with an engraved stake.

Blue. Clear, crystal, sky-blue.

All he could do was stare at them blankly when he dropped the lawyer at his swanky, white apartment, complete with doorman and security gates.

Ridiculously nervous when Lindsey got out the car. Prayed the lawyer would just leave and not look back. Hoped that he would at least say goodbye.

Completely amazed when the younger man turned to him, and said 'thank you.' Because they're 'enemies.' And didn't Lindsey want to 'throw down' with him? How dare he say thank you?

Angel thinks about how grateful he is that he's already dead, because the whole death-pallor thing negated any sort of embarrassed blushing or other discolorations that might have occurred.

Almost cracked a smile. Probably would have scared them both to death. Literally in the human's case.

Almost cracks another smile just thinking about it.

Thinks about his room again, and all the cracks in the ceiling and the walls. In the plaster. In the bathroom. Knows he really shouldn't be surprised. He lives in a hotel that's been around for more than fifty years. Things age. Everything gets older and displays the passage of time.

Everything. Except him.

He doesn't age, but he does have cracks. Just because you can't see them, doesn't mean they're not there.

Has this really nagging suspicion that Lindsey might be another crack. Or perhaps that Lindsey has wormed his way into Angel's life through a crack.

Sighs again. He's brooding. It has to stop. He has to stop.

He's been driving for a while now; he supposes he should go home. He'll save the beach for another night. One where he isn't quite feeling, so, well - broody.

But as a concession, he'll spend sometime in the courtyard.

The sun isn't going to rise anytime soon, and he's a bit hungry. He thinks maybe one or two quarts might help take the edge off.

Maybe they might help him sleep. He'd prefer not to count the cracks this morning.

And yet, he has this sneaking suspicion that when he finally admits to himself that he has been thinking about Lindsey, he's going to wish that the ceiling was all that was cracking.

-finis-