One enemy, of many, who knows well/Your heart is luminous/In the watched dark, quivering through locks and caves.
At work, Lindsey spends long hours watching the feral woman in her cage.
In a deep sub-basement, darkened against her gaze, he searches for hints of humanity beyond matted blonde hair and scared blue eyes. He talks to her low and sweet, the tones you'd use to soothe a colicky baby. Sometimes she listens, cocking her head, lips working silently; usually, she ignores him and gnaws at her cuticles.
She crawls and crouches, grunts and mutters, more primate than anything.
At home, he waits endlessly in the dusk of drawn curtains, hoping that the lost boy will show tonight.
He moves so gracefully, it's like he's never known anything but wide open sky and the spring of clover beneath his feet. The contrast is all the sadder and stranger, given that Oz has never left the city, sleeps on concrete more often than not, refuses anything beyond the occasional sweater. And food, always food.
He is human, but might as well be elven. Unfathomable, cloudy green eyes and a tension running through his body that bows and twists him like a birch in a sudden wind.
They both belong to Angel.
Of course that's part of the attraction; Lindsey would never deny that.
Lindsey wants to believe that just by being here, watching, waiting to touch, he's doing better by them than Angel could ever hope to.
He lets himself think too much about that, he could start to worry. Never wanted it to be like this, but the looming do-gooder knows more about him, sees him more clearly, than anyone ever has.
It could be a trap, but he won't know if he doesn't try. What they call a catch-22.