In Shades of Grey

In Shades of Grey

They’d met by accident.

For a man whose entire life and future had been plotted and planned throughout every waking moment and vibrant dream, it was an uncomfortable and uneasy sensation. That such a chance meeting could spin him so entirely off-kilter and knock his painstakingly crafted and compulsively detailed plans into the dust had left him more than just a mite ticked off.

At first he’d thought it a coincidence, some big, cosmic joke on his behalf, karma, payback. One of those uncharted disasters that sweep you up and twist you inside out, tossing you back down into your life with everything you’d built up around you so unrecognizable and rearranged that all you can do is stare and laugh in disbelief.

Though it was anything but funny.

Over time, if a mere two weeks could be considered such, he’d come to realize that it had to be fate.

Coincidence just couldn’t explain the pure devious brilliance of the timing. That knife-edge moment when things could have fallen either way, the moment he’d felt confident enough in what he’d learned there to finally go back and take on Angel, Mr. fucking CEO of Wolfram and Hart, the hypocritical son of a bitch.

That exact moment, as he was respectfully inclining his head to Sagark, sheathing his sword and turning away with his mind rife with the endless possibilities, he’d heard a muttered curse in English among stilted and jumbled Newari.

Not realizing that in that moment, that split second he’d chosen to glance over towards the now-unfamiliar sound of English, that he’d skewed his entire life, his hopes and dreams, everything he’d wanted the past few years disintegrating before his eyes.

It was galling. Beyond annoying. And everything he’d thought he’d never have, everything precious he’d never dreamed to want because it was too far from his reach.

Didn’t mean he wouldn’t still love to give fate a big ‘fuck you, too’ for screwing with him, but now maybe he’d kiss her feet in gratitude afterwards.

***

The sinking sun fell hot and gleaming along his bare shoulders, breeze coming in from the Himalayas cooling the sheen of sweat covering his skin. Lindsey unwrapped the thick sash from the low waist of his thin, loose cotton pants, bringing it to his face to wipe away the biting sting from his eyes, tasting acrid salt as he licked over dry lips.

Kept one pale blue eye on the tall, lean man trying unsuccessfully to get information from one of the old men who enjoyed standing around and watching him get his ass kicked daily by Sagark. It wasn’t lack of vocabulary or the poor pronunciation that had the wrinkled face of the man impassive and confused like the guy, obviously American, seemed to think.

He watched the tall man rake a frustrated hand through his hair, disheveling the dark strands before gamely trying again, and he couldn’t help wandering over as he used the dark blue material to wipe over his bare chest, leaving it draped over one muscled shoulder. Ambled over in the slow, deliberately circling motion he’d picked up from the years he’d been there, feeling a twinge of amused sympathy for the man.

They’d been like that when he’d first arrived, not cold but coolly aloof and standoffish, wary of outsiders to the point it had taken him months to simply get a word out of them, glittering dark eyes watching his every movement.

He stopped a few feet from the stranger, head tilting as his eyes slid up and down the dusty but leanly muscled body, taking in the worn boots and dirty jeans, sweat-stained long sleeve shirt. Newcomers seemed to think because the air was brisk and cooler the further you climbed into the mountains that the higher you went, the more warmly you had to dress. Not realizing that the thin air and hot sun unshielded by the towering mountains any longer would make each step a test of endurance.

Took in the darkly tanned skin, rough stubble on the man’s face, the tired dark eye, other shielded with a black patch that cut across his swarthy skin. The grim lines around full lips at odds with the creases from years of laughter at the corner of his eye.

“They understand you,” he finally drawled out, English feeling strange on his tongue. Watched the man’s face as he turned in surprise, seeing that dark eye slide over his sweat-slicked, tattooed chest in a way more intimate than mere curiosity over the black glyphs. Arched a brow. So it’s like that, is it?

“They understand what you’re asking,” he clarified as the direct gaze slid up to his face, “They just don’t trust you enough to answer yet.” He grinned, knowing how frustrating it could be, only to be surprised by the man’s lack of annoyance, a black brow quirking as he remarked, “I guess I’ll have to stick around until they do, then.”

And he had.

Xander Harris, as he’d learned the man’s name was -and didn’t that bring a shiver of something down his spine? Because of course he knew that name, anyone who’d worked where he had worked made it a point to know the friends and allies of their enemies in case it was ever needed- had gratefully accepted his invitation to share the small hut of a house he’d been given to stay in while he learned what he could from Sagark.

It wasn’t big, wasn’t much at all but a small, rough hewn table with cushions to sit on, rudimentary kitchen and primitive bath and of course, the bedroom.

Not that they’d fallen right into his bed together that first night, though Lindsey had been all for the idea. No, it had taken two more days of constant contact before they’d given in to the urges and needs of their bodies, rough hands and soft lips stroking over skin, groans and gasps caught between their mouths as they’d ground off against each other like fumbling teenagers, too caught up in human touch to linger.

He left Xander curled up in the thick blankets as he wandered to the small kitchen area, bringing a plate of cold chicken sekuwa back to bed. Settled his shoulder against the younger man’s as they shared the marinated chicken and vegetables, laughing as they tried to keep the cold rice from falling into the sheets.

They finally gave in to just plucking out the chicken pieces and larger chunks of vegetables as they licked the cumin and ginger sauce from each other’s fingers and lips, Lindsey listening as Xander talked. And talked. It was obvious the boy had been away from people he could talk freely to in his own language and though he laughed and flushed after a while, Lindsey kept urging him on.

The stories of the younger man’s life were fascinating to him, each colorful tale of his life in California giving him a deeper respect for the now scarred and roughened man pressed against his side. Xander’d been wary the first two days of discussing his past, using vague phrases that could mean anything, until he’d finally realized that Lindsey’s trainer was more than a little demon and that he probably knew just as much about the darker side of the world than he did.

So Lindsey was told stories of Slayers, keeping silent about the fact that he’d met Faith himself, and witches, werewolves and Watchers… and the normal, awkward and bumbling teenage boy who’d cared about them all. About losing a best friend, an ex-fiancé and lover, losing an eye. About how everything went to hell, literally, and how much things had changed in the past year.

Of his trips through the dangerous and beautiful plains of Africa, sick with grief at the pure desolation and poverty, the wars and loss of innocent lives, the children starving in the streets. Of how he’d lost himself there, giving until he had nothing left to give and almost lost his life to the cruel beauty of the country. About how he’d accepted the trip to far off Nepal in search of a young Slayer to renew himself before trying to fit back into British society.

He heard stories of vampires, of good and evil and the blurred lines between. Of a sacrifice made that still left him guilt ridden and seeing the world in shades of grey instead of the black and white lines he’d seen before Anya and Spike had given him new insights on how even the most corrupt and evil can change.

He’d kept his mouth shut through the stories of Angel and Angelus, the terror and pain, guilt of those times. Listened as Xander talked about how much he didn’t trust the vampire but that he didn’t hate him, not anymore. As he talked about how stupid and useless it was to hate when it was life and the beauty of it that was all that mattered.

And in those moments, those stories of a boy far braver and loyal than he’d thought any man outside of made-up children's fairytales could ever be, Lindsey lost a little of himself. Felt something dark crack inside, the desperate need to prove himself to the fucking bastard vampire slowly draining away.

In the shadows of the Himalayas, curled up with an all too fragile and strangely tough man of a boy, he felt his own bitter wounds start to heal.

He’d finally stalled the flow of words with his mouth, blindly pushing the plate of half-finished food off the bed with a clatter, broad, roughened hands sliding down over the planes of Xander’s chest as they pushed the sheets and blankets down and away.

Groaned as calloused fingers stroked over the broad black glyphs tattooed into his own chest, his lips and teeth scraping and nuzzling up the younger man’s tanned throat, catching on the skin just under his jaw. Tongue laving over harsh stubble.

He brought his mouth back to Xander’s, heavy thigh sliding over the other man’s legs, fingertips softly tracing the strap of the patch. Feeling the younger man’s tension at the touches, not pressuring, just acknowledging its presence.

Gasped and laughed huskily as he was flipped onto his back, Xander’s bigger body pressing him down into the mattress as his laughter dissolved into a moaned curse, legs spreading to let him settle into the cradle of his thighs. It was slower that time, though no less need-filled, hard bodies pressing and rubbing, teeth and nails, fingers leaving marks on darkened skin.

A pause as Xander slid off him, leaving his head spinning. Stumbling over to his duffle and pulling out a foil packet and lube unashamedly, stalling Lindsey’s teasing words in his throat as he remembered the look on his face as he talked about the disease-rife country, the hopelessness in children’s eyes, the oppressive acceptance of early, painful death.

Accepted him back onto his body with pulling hands and wrapping legs, arch of his foot caressing the back of Xander’s calf as he sucked and bit at his mouth, sliding a hand up into the shaggy dark hair as the other petted and stroked down the muscled back. Trailing fingertips along the dip of his spine.

Thick, hard, but gentle, fingers pressed down under his balls as Xander shifted his weight, leaving Lindsey gasping and arching, helping the slick, questing digits slide further down to where he wanted, needed them. Moaned and spread his thighs wider, foot digging into the back of Xander’s leg as the younger man carefully slid a finger in, then two, twisting and stroking inside of him.

He could feel his pulse throbbing deep in the side of his neck, lips parted and flushed as he groaned and pressed his head back into the mattress, Xander’s fingers fucking him slow and hot, drawing the air from his lungs. Neither could handle much more, though, and it wasn’t moments later that those fingers withdrew and he heard a soft ripping sound, a couple more shifts and the heavy blunt pressure burning hot against him.

Lindsey’s eyes fluttered, neck and back arching as he pressed down against the slow, steady intrusion, matching gasps catching in their throats.

Been awhile since he’d done that but Xander was slow, gentle as his hands stroked over Lindsey’s hips, thighs, mouth never leaving his skin as it traveled almost lazily along his bent back neck, the curve of his jaw, mouth. Words finally stilling between them, spoken silently in soft or needy touches, broken sounds as the pace slowly built.

Bodies rocking together, against each other, slipping into counter-rhythm now and again with harsh grunting moans, tanned skin turning white in the grips of fingers, feet, thighs, from the imprints of teeth. Flushing red from bites and scratches, scraped raw with roughly stubbled cheeks and chins.

Pleasure cresting and convulsing in a startled rush, leaving them panting for air, slick with sweat and tangled up in each other, eyes heavy, bodies wrung out and sated.

The next week passed quickly, every glance, touch or word passing between them tethering him tighter in invisible strands to the boy, tugging and pulling at him until even a smile could grip his chest so tightly he had to pause to remember how to breathe. It wasn’t long before he found himself opening up, revealing things he’d never told a soul because they were things he considered weak. His own childhood, in much more detail than that one aborted attempt to reason with Angel.

The pain and determination, stubbornness that had led him to where he’d been. Leaving nothing back, more grateful than ever that Xander could see him in the shades of grey he did rather than the black and white he saw himself in. Leaving himself raw and open, more than halfway expecting him to turn away in disgust as he revealed that he'd already known who Xander was the moment he’d heard his name, told him all the things he’d done.

But he’d just shrugged, tugging him in closer and sliding his fingers through the long hair Lindsey’d grown out in his years in Nepal, saying with a crooked grin that he’d recognized his name, too. That Cordelia and Wes hadn’t completely cut ties with Sunnydale the way Angel had, had kept everyone up to date on their lives.

But thanks for telling him the truth.

He’d groaned and shoved at the younger man’s shoulders, lips twitching as Xander laughed and pulled him in close for a kiss. Things weren’t perfect, they saw the world too differently for that, but it was as close as Lindsey’d ever came to perfection.

But the next week had passed even quicker, leaving him reeling and clutching to every stolen moment, almost snarling at the old man who finally admitted that it was his granddaughter that Xander was searching for. A quiet, tiny girl with large, old eyes.

Resenting the fact that he caved so easily on letting her travel to England and see the world, get away from the darkness of her past there.

Because tomorrow, Xander would be traveling back down the mountain with her, through the rough and barren countryside. Back to his life, his friends. The family they’d become to him.

Back to England and the niche he planned to carve for himself there.

Back to the real world and leaving Nepal and its people far behind him.

And Lindsey?

He was petrified, more scared of that than anything he’d ever faced, demons, the Partners, Lilah with a run in her hose and murder in her eyes. Because he had finally realized that fighting for love was terrifying, while fighting in hate was as natural as breathing. And he’d never gone for the easy way out. So Lindsey?

Was tossing aside his plans and going back with him.