Above the Shop -- Pilot Street Once bare walls have been artfully painted pale, new-apartment cream, and there are paintings hung, here and there, landscapes in bucolic colours of rich green and gold, pastoral scenes of faraway places, dreams, wonderlands, while wooden floors retain a sweet, deep gloss and dark polish. Curtains carefully shield this studio apartment from the eyes of the outside world, but allow as much winter's sunlight as possible, their sage color gently blending with the simple furniture, a sofa, two chairs, an ottoman and matching tables, lamps and the like. The bedroom area is kept from prying eyes by a discreet dressing screen done in a lacquered wood; it sections off a good span of the apartment, giving the place a bit more depth. In there lies a double bed and dresser, a mirror and bedside table, the space small, but put to good use. There is also a kitchenette and full bath, and the place is neat and clean, well-lit and functional, seeming perhaps spartan, if not for the paintings on the walls, if not for the occasional piece of knick-knack; somehow, it looks lived-in, cared for. Raining outside, how dramatically appropriate. Deimos has been gotten rid of, at least temporarily, the apartment restored to some kind of normality - which is more than can be said for its occupant. Three cracked ribs, severe concussion and a whole *lot* of heavy bruising have landed Lindsey on the couch. His feet are up on the coffee table, his head hurts, he's exhausted and medicated and he looks like he's gone three rounds with Mike Tyson. The prosthetic isn't on, because his arm is bruised and the straps hurt. It would have been a very terse phone call - please come over when you get this message - and the lawyer doesn't know if he hopes Kitty *will* come by, or hopes she won't. Kitty hasn't been much in evidence lately - but it's less than forty-five minutes after the message was left that her voice echoes up from the stairwell. "Lindsey? You home?" That's different: usually she knocks. Hm. That *is* different, and suspicion curls coldly inside Lindsey as he shifts, half-turning in his seat to look at the door. "Yeah. It's open." Not very loud - shouting hurts. No sound of footsteps, but a moment after the door eases open and a young woman slips inside. She's wearing a leather jacket and jeans, all right, but the jacket is new, and rather than a T-shirt she's got on one of her husband's shirts, white and buttoned up and rumpled and rather too large for her. Her hair's soaked, trailing down over her shoulders in tendrils that only *want* to be curls. And she's wearing glasses - didn't take time to put the contacts in. Her eyes widen a little as she gets a look at the couch's occupant. "Shit." But she waits till the door's closed before adding, "What happened?" Wow, she's soaked. Lindsey glances away from Kitty's reaction, not *quite* ashamed. Not quite. "Thanks for coming over. I need advice. Or maybe just for someone to listen." He pats the couch beside him, using the smooth stump of his right arm to do so. Bruises plus looking away plus that kind of beginning equal no talking about this one. Kitty comes around the coffee table to settle in the indicated spot, careful how she lets her weight down - not wanting to jar someone with that much visible bruising. "Looks like you've been having a pretty rough time." The only visible reaction is a slight wince. But then *breathing* hurts that much right now, so it's no big deal really. "Yeah." Lindsey turns his head to look at Kitty, blue eyes foggy and only barely focused. His head is killing him. "Deimos - came home last night, and just - he went crazy." Kitty's seen - more importantly, heard - broken ribs before this. They do not make conversation fun. That last doesn't make conversation fun for /her/, either. "Oh, God." 'Are you all right' is a pointless question just now; she bites it back, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. Looking away again and leaning back very carefully on the couch, Lindsey says, "I'm telling you this because I wanted you to hear it from me." He speaks with a breathless, dogged patience. "I haven't worked out what to do. I don't need judgement, I just need advice. If this goes on much longer I guess he'll kill me." "Yeah," Kitty says quietly. "There are enough people that worry about you around here - this kind of thing could get real distorted, real fast." Her voice is very quiet, not carrying so far as the door. She's /not/ going to be talking about it. "I guess one question is - honestly - /is/ it possible to make him stop. For good." "I don't know. I thought he was human, that's why I took him back. But he's not. He's still...he's nuts, Kitty. Crazy. I don't think I can fix him." Lindsey's tone is miserably unhappy, the attempted flatness failing him. "He was gonna kill himself last night. After. I stopped him." "How do you define human? By biology? Or by the way somebody thinks?" Kitty can't put a hand over his: she's on the side that's missing one, and it'd be too bruised anyhow. She shifts her angle a little, taking off her glasses and folding them in her lap. Now she can look at him directly. "If he really is crazy - /we/ can't fix him. Liam might be able to point us in the right direction, maybe. But it'd take time. And somebody who makes a decent shrink. And making sure he can't hurt anybody in the mean time, especially not either you or himself." There's a pause, broken only by Lindsey's laboured, shallow breathing. "I just...I don't think he can be fixed at all. I think about getting him put away, and then - he's only still here because of me." The lawyer opens his eyes and looks to Kitty. "I can't abandon him, but I don't think I can kill him. It's not his fault." Brown eyes meet blue, but Kitty's braced for the impact this time. She's quiet, all the same, for a few seconds. "How long are you willing to take care of him?" she asks, quietly. And then, "How long /can/ you?" "Next time, one of us is gonna die." A flat statement, and something terribly bleak and cold has settled in behind those blue eyes. Lindsey's voice holds remarkably steady as he concludes, "I don't want it to be me." The silence stretches out after that statement. It's not Lindsey's eyes Kitty's searching. It's the air around them, the silence itself. Listening, maybe, for footsteps on the stairs. Or for the sound of wings. "I don't want it to be you, either," she says finally. Too many options. Too many of them she doesn't want to think about. "Look at me, Kitty. It ain't enough I'm dying from this stupid power, I need my boyfriend to kick me around? I don't want to be this guy." Domestic Abuse Victim #3482. Lindsey reaches up to rub the corner of his eye, very carefully, with a thumb. The movement hurts, but what doesn't? "I need to tell him. And then maybe I'll need - I don't want him to be hurt. I love him." "You need to get what you're thinking straightened out, first." Kitty half-reaches toward him, then just sets her hand down on the cushions by his leg. "If you tell him. Will he go after you again?" While you're already this hurt? "Don't know what he'll do." Lindsey is bleakly honest, misery almost a comfort. "I don't want to act in haste, here, is all. Gotta - gotta be rational. Maybe I can get him some help." Familiar things /are/ comfortable, aren't they. "D'you know where he is now? Or what he's doing?" Simple things. Practicalities. "He's sposed to be coming back here later. I dunno where he's gone. Don't you go after him or nothin, that's not why I called you." Lindsey shifts, trying to get comfortable when such a thing is pretty much impossible. It's possible! - with much, much better painkillers than Lindsey's got at the moment, and a head therefore completely dissociated from the body it belongs to. "I know." Which is different from 'I won't,' but only because Kitty likes to keep her options open, not because she has plans to go after Deimos. "I just ... was hoping the answer was going to be something besides 'asleep in the bathroom' or something. Thanks." "And on top of this, my fuckin dad won't stop calling my phone." Lindsey sighs, leaning his head back and closing his eyes again. I want better painkillers. Bring on the heroin. Show me a prescription and I might just backslide enough to go steal you some. Kitty winces. "I'm telling you. The best thing about being an immigrant? Not having to worry about family." She lets out a quiet breath. "Look. Do me one favor? If you talk to him about this - make sure there's somebody close enough by to lend a hand if you wind up needing one. You're /not/ in shape to take any more damage." "Y'know," Lindsey says, his words slurred just a little into that Oklahoma accent, "despite current appearances, I'm pretty smart." In other words - duh. "Sorry. I'm used to people who slow down a lot more when they get head injuries." Little curve of Kitty's mouth as she glances up to him. "Yeah. I'm getting used to it, I guess." Headache. Sides ache. Everywhere aches. Lindsey prods at a tooth with his tongue and winces. God damn. "I, uh. I won't do anything hasty. Please don't spread this around?" Kitty shakes her head, which is sort of confirmation. "I won't. I /don't/ promise not to talk to Deimos - but chances are pretty low that I'll run into him. And if I do, I won't go flinging accusations or anything equally stupid. D'you need anything? Prescriptions filled? Food you don't have to cook?" "I would like it," Lindsey says carefully, "if you didn't talk to him. Because he's about two wrong words away from throwin himself off the Point and I don't want that. Not yet." Kitty leans her head toward him a little further. "I won't /start/ any conversations on it. If he gets it into his head to talk to /me/, I'm not gonna push him away. Okay?" A short pause, and Lindsey nods, still not going to any effort to look at Kitty. "Okay. I could use some Vicodin if you can get hold of some. This stuff they prescribed is nowhere." Kitty gives a quick little nod. "I'll see what I can do." Really shouldn't raid the hospital again, but there are so very many pharmacies. No, bad Kitty. But it's /Lindsey/. "Thanks. Thanks, Kitty." For more than just the offer of drug-related crime. Lindsey finds half a smile from somewhere. "Thanks for coming by." Kitty judges for a moment, then leans over and - /very/ carefully - brushes lips against a relatively uninjured spot on Lindsey's cheek. It's less of a kiss than a little-old-auntie peck, even. "You take care of yourself. If nobody answers, I'll leave the meds on the coffee table, okay? Don't wanna drop 'em in the mailbox." "Okay." Right, because she can go through stuff. Must come in very handy. "Seeya soon, Kitty." Lindsey doesn't flinch from the kiss, appreciating it more than he can say. "Let us know how things go?" And get some rest. A lot of it. Kitty eases up from the couch carefully, letting the springs readjust without too much of a jar. Time to go figure out where a not-twenty-four-hour pharmacy is. At least it'll keep her busy enough not to start fretting for a while.