Square One

Summary: No matter how far you go, you cannot escape your past. The corrupted world Lorne leaves behind comes crashing back. Only, he's through with it. (After Not Fade Away. Mainly Lorne, Spike, and Illyria. Nonslash.)

Notes: I cannot stress enough how much time I spent dwelling over this story. At first, I never wanted to write it. The reasons are unexplainable. But as you can see, mind always comes before matter. Even when you don't want it to.

There are two points to this story: one being the obvious—concluding and hopefully shedding some metaphorical light on the fates of the characters. Two: I just cannot get over the fact that out of 221 pages of Angel fanfiction, only 2 are dedicated to Lorne? Come on! Where's the love? (pun intended) Yeah, you heard me.

This tale is not entirely Lorne-based. I have a handy habit of mixing in everyone's favorite characters in an episode-based approach. Good times.

I accept all comments and CC, but not pointless character bashing and/or flaming. I realize there may be some Angel fans out there who are not happy with Lorne and the turnout of the last episode. For those people, I ask: read and enjoy or do not read at all. But hey, you might be surprised.

Disclaimer: Dear lord, if I owned any rights to these characters, I would have ended the series differently. I take no credit for any of the characters included in the following chapters. Excluding Rhett. And Naomi. And Scott. And…

CONTAINS SPOILERS.

Chapter One: Business

The streets ran with rainwater and demon blood. Spike watched it stream across his skin, flowing out of numerous wounds and he spat some it out, only to have his own blood wash into his mouth and down his lips once more. It was pouring still. Washing away the bits of torn flesh and gore into the grates in the alley, taking away the stench and presence…but not the memory.

"Angel?" he shouted hoarsely, turning in a slow circle. The tip of his stolen sword dragged on the stones as he turned. Severed limbs, heads, punctured bodies and the like…they were everywhere. Some Apocalypse. The rest of the demons were gone, snatched up by whatever unholy hell that had spawned them in the first place. Only behind him, the carcass of the dragon lay scattered in pieces.

Hell. Fred, then Wesley…and now Gunn and Angel? Lorne, too…though Spike could care less the fate of Lindsey, he hoped for their success…at least for green guy. A surge of raw anger overcame him then, thinking that maybe, just maybe…he was the very last one alive. Abandoned in a sea of carnage, for which he was partly at fault for making. Spike tilted his head towards the sky and allowed the heavy raindrops pound into his eyelids, taking long, uneasy breaths.

"It's over."

Spike turned around sharply and caught himself before he could react too happily. There stood Angel, hunched over his own sword, probably twice as bloody and just as relieved to find another survivor of the massacre. The blonde vampire sighed heavily and began to walk, painfully but still walking, to where the other stood.

"Yeah, over…right," he said, looking through the pounding rain at Angel's face. "What about Gunn and Illyria? What the hell happened?"

Angel looked long and ruthlessly at him. He looked so entirely crushed that Spike believed, in that moment, that they truly were all that remained. But a moment later, the older vampire lifted his head.

"Gunn is fine. Illyria…God only knows."

Spike let that absorb, lifting several thousand pounds off his shoulders in the process. "Right. That's good. And Lindsey, have you heard from him?"

Just then, Angel's face split into a painful grimace and he sunk to his knees. Spike dropped his sword and caught him by the shoulders. Angel unsuccessfully tired to shrug him off. "I…Lindsey is dead. I told…I told Lorne-"

Spike released him as if burned by the touch. "Holy…shit…"

"He's not coming back. Lorne," said Angel. "He's gone. He might even be dead. It's my fault…"

"What the hell does that mean?" Spike shot. Suddenly, he threw himself at the other vampire and grabbed him by the lapels, hoisting him to his feet. "What did you do this time, Angel? One last secret, is it? Well I've got loads of time, now that I've got no bloody reason to live. So lets hear it!"

Angel grunted painfully at the treatment of his nearly disemboweled body, but did not fight back. "It's over Spike. I…I have nothing left. I gave it up. It's what the Senior Partners wanted all along. They…"

Realizing that Angels' difficulty to speak may be resulting from his suspension in the air, Spike lowered him roughly to the ground, where Angel slumped on his knees. His head slowly raised to face the vampire standing before him. "The prophecy, the apocalypse, it was all a fake. Fake. They don't even want me. They want…the soul that…was given to me…"

"Shit," was all Spike could say.

"If I gave it to them…it would end. That was the deal. They would save Gunn, call off the army…but…they wouldn't believe me…they're angry."

A cold, deadly silence passed in the seconds that followed. Spike's stare drilled right into Angel, as if searching for another layers of lies under his injured façade.

Angel very sluggishly got to his feet, wavering. "They're angry. About Lindsey. Because Lorne…it had to happen, Spike. I had a vision…"

"Oh, here we go," said Spike, sneering.

Angel went on as if Spike had said nothing at all. "I saw Lindsey…in my…no, Cordy's vision, Lindsey…killed Lorne. It's…it's insane. When he finished the Sarhvin, all he did was sing. He sang, and Lorne just…just…"

"Exploded?" taunted Spike, snorting.

The expression on the dark-haired vampire's face tightened and he lowered his gaze. Spike immediately felt incredibly stupid. "Oh."

"The Senior Partners…were going to use Lindsey against me. Against us. That's why I told Lorne to…" Angel shook his head.

Spike stood for a moment in silence. Then, "You turned a karaoke comedian into a killer."

Another lengthy pause. "Lorne…agreed to do it…because he was the only one who could. He was the only one Lindsey wasn't expecting to turn against him…I had no choice. If Lorne hadn't…everything Lindsey knew, the Senior Partners—"

There was nothing that could be said following that, not even for Spike. They stared at each other for a while, coming to a quiet understanding. On Spike's part, he was beginning to suspect that there was something Angel was not sharing.

"They made a deal."

Spike's eyes widened and the age-old suspicion flared. "Another deal, Angel? Gave away something else that doesn't belong to you?"

"I gave them my soul," said Angel.

Silence.

"You-" Spike began.

"In exchange for Gunn's life, and everyone else in LA. You know we wouldn't win the battle alone, Spike. Half the city would probably have died before the demons we didn't kill were stopped."

"But you're not…" Spike pause. He gestured towards him. "I mean, you don't look like-"

"Contract rules. They're actually…willing to wait a human lifetime for my soul. So yeah, no Angelus until I tie up…a lot of loose ends."

"That's a damned mosquito's life compared to them," Spike said. "So…wait. This entire nightmare was all about one measly little soul? I mean, no offense, but…what about me? I have a soul! Don't I get a chance to save the face of humanity?" He hesitated. "Again?"

"Sorry, Spike," said Angel, with a slightly askew grin. "Turns out the fake prophecy was about me. And my soul happens to be…special."

Spike crossed his arms. "That's the biggest load of crap I've ever heard."

"Really? I've heard bigger." Angel grimaced and placed a hand over a large gouge in his right arm. "Uh…I don't know about you, but…with Gunn in the hospital, Wolfram & Hart in ruins and Illyria M.I.A…I'm about ready for a Jack Daniel."

"The big ones," said Spike, using a hand to imitate the action of shaking a large bottle. "Not the little bitty ones."

"Agreed," said Angel. "Just after we stop bleeding."

They left the carnage, the weapons, and the remaining traces of the battle behind the blood-soaked place. Side-by-side, the two vampires with souls traipsed towards the end of the dead alley, and towards the end of the corrupted life. Neither knew how soon the world of agreement would shatter.

Ten months later.

The dusk in New York hung like the suffocating humidity that had wrapped itself around the city for so many weeks. The remnants of an orange sun glowed between the stacks of tall office buildings, concealed from the eyes that rarely saw it. Just as the day was fading out, the tail end of the busiest traffic also became thin and staggered. Downtown was a muggy nest full of assorted breeds: white, black, red, blue, yellow, tan and green.

Friday night at Square One.

It filled up quickly—not surprisingly, considering the popularity of one of the few demon-tolerant karaoke bars in the whole of New York State. The regulars mingled with newcomers easily, while everyone clapped and appreciated the performers on stage, regardless of quality or talent. No one gets booed when the host is watching.

The problem with New York was the tenacity of violence. Not that violence was a problem within the bar itself—Square One was protected with nearly the same wards as Caritas, give or take a rule involving the Deluran clan of Shimagresh demons. But then, there were some laws that could not be legally surpassed. Business was business. Sometimes people would file into the bar for the protection of the wards only, which was unfortunate in terms of profit, but then…Lorne was through with profit.

He was only half-listening to the Helglian on stage, horrendously murdering the lyrics to Don McClean's "American Pie". The Sea Breeze lay cradled in his fingers like the weight of the world. He had been standing like this for nearly an hour, leaning against the wall beside the stage.

New York was different. In New York, no one knew him. Of course, his employees knew him, but how they truly know? It had only been eight months since he'd bought the slightly-more-than-regular-size basement of an old hotel and converted it into what it was today—another sanctuary, another place to feel safe in.

Safe. Was that why he hadn't stepped outside ever since?

The Helglian's song ended; a few scattered persons clapped politely as they awaited the next performer. Oblivious to his ill repute, the abnormally hairy demon came lumbering offstage to meet the green-skinned host.

"Margyris, my one and only Helglian friend," Lorne greeted with a slight tilt of his head. "What can I say? Less street-stalking. Trust me, one more lamp post in the dark, and you're bound to become the next stuffed exhibit in the local museum."

The Helglian nodded, eager to take any advice at all from the Pylean. He let out a confused growl, however, when the host turned around to leave. Angrily, he spoke his concerns aloud in his own language, causing Lorne to turn again.

"Well, I'm sorry, Chewbacca," he said with a tinge of offense. "There's nothing else there. But if you want some personal advice, I'd lay back a little on the human flesh. Bad for the image, not to mention the breath."

Margyris grunted neutrally, unhappy but unwilling to argue. With the ghost of a shrug, the Helglian sauntered back towards the bar, where some form of tonic or another awaited him.

Lorne considered the glass in his hand for a moment, unable to determine how long it had been empty. There was time to refill it. The next performance was just that; no psychic readings or troubled souls involved. He journeyed towards the counter and placed the glass down, where a delicate hand immediately swooped it up.

"You can't please them all," said the barmaid, a youthful though rather pleasant brunette with exceptionally bright eyes. She proceeded to refill the barren glass. "Can you please stop trying? It's depressing me."

"Sorry, butterfly," said Lorne, leaning on the bar. "Gave that up sometime around last spring. How's the crowd looking? If it's any worse than last Friday, don't tell me. Just put that in a bigger glass."

The barmaid gave a small, thin-lipped smile as she wordlessly bent behind the counter to locate something. She stood up again and placed a glass easily twice the size of the one she had been mixing on the bar. Lorne made a beaten sound of protest.

"I don't know, boss," she said, drumming her fingers on the wooden surface. "If it weren't for your 'no weapons, no brawling' policy, the people who are actually buying drinks would have a little extra elbow room." She handed him his Sea Breeze.

Lorne took the glass with no sign that he had registered her opinion. He took a long swig of the drink before setting it back down on the counter. "Not just a policy, twitterbug. Ground rules. I don't think 'elbow room' is mentioned under the definition of sanctuary, anyway."

"Really?" she snorted. "What version of Websters are you using?"

Before Lorne had a chance to reply, he felt someone nudge him on the shoulder. One of his employees, a man with short-cropped hair gestured towards the stage. "Newbie's up, boss. Hey, Naomi."

"Hey, creep," the barmaid replied dispassionately.

But 'creep' was too busy staring at the newest performer on the stage with a slightly crazed grin. "Hey," he whispered to Lorne. "Tell me if I'm anywhere in her near future, will you? I mean…damn."

"Scott, I sincerely doubt you're anywhere in your own near future," Naomi taunted him, once again cutting off the host before he had a chance to speak. Her eyes darted towards the young woman on the stage malevolently. "Besides, she's not that attractive."

Scott snorted in spite of her. "Don't be jealous, baby doll…"

"I'm not jealous!" she snapped. "And don't call me 'baby doll'. Get back to work!"

Lorne, who was in mid-sip with his Sea Breeze, set the glass down again. He pointed at Naomi with a sweeping of his eyes. "You're jealous, grasshopper" he remarked.

Her mouth dropped open in a wide 'O' of barely restrained fury. Scott sniggered as the green host stood up, but shut up abruptly when Lorne stuck a finger in his face.

"Back to work, baby doll," said Lorne, and stepped around the pale-faced employee with the sentiment of a demon. Or, at least, a different kind of demon.

Scott's stuttering words of protest were drowned out by the barmaid's manic laughter. Lorne ignored them both and approached the stage, examining its single occupant for the first time. It was a young woman, late twenties, shy and nervous; standing just in front of the microphone stand with the look of pure innocence. As far as attraction went…yeah, sure, toss a few bouquets of flowers and a sash at her and she could be Miss New York, but so what?

But why did she look so familiar?

Light auburn hair, bordering strawberry blonde; blue eyes, plain beige blouse and nothing remarkable to speak of. It was quite clear why Scott would be so infatuated, but there was still that nagging sense of familiarity. Lorne frowned briefly. Had he seen her in someone's future before?

Lorne brushed these meaningless questions away and quickly bounced onto the stage, grabbing the microphone from the stand. The blonde jumped a little, startled, but the host was already standing at the front of the stage, addressing the audience.

"I don't know about you, folks, but I'm just green with envy at the incredible bravery this young bundle sunshine is showing tonight," he said, trying to put the old effort and style to work. It was difficult, somehow. It always would be. "Isn't she simply precious? Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to…" He offered the mike to the blushing woman.

Her face seemed to blanche a little as she leaned forward timidly into the mike. "Um, B-Bethany…Gibson."

"Well, Bethany, I have a feeling you'll steal the show tonight. I can already tell you've stolen the hearts of many handsome faces in the audience. Stop blushing, Torabek. I can see you," the host went on. The audience chuckled. "So Beth…can I call you Beth? This is your little moonbeam we're talking about. Why don't you tell us something about you?"

She seemed very taken aback when he placed the microphone in her hands and she nearly dropped it. Lorne gave her an appraising look before he exited stage right, circling around to join the audience and their tables. Bethany seemed to follow him with her eyes until he stood just at the foot of the stage, his arms crossed expectantly.

The mike squealed slightly as she cleared her throat. Her free hand was unconsciously wringing the edge of her blouse as she spoke. "I…I'm originally from LA. I don't want to waste your time or anything…I don't even know what I sound like. I've never sung before."

The bar was eerily quiet. Not silent, mind, but quiet.

"I shouldn't be here…not really," Bethany went on. Her gaze was fixed on the ground. "But you all know what it's like…when you have to know."

There were some murmurings of agreement, and there was event he detection of some uneasiness from some of the tables. Lorne had the feeling that more than a few pairs of eyes were now on him. He tried to shrug the feeling off. It didn't help.

Bethany inhaled sharply, apparently in the façade to appear optimistic. "So…so I guess, in the spirit of the holidays, I'll sing a Christmas carol." After a pause, she sighed. "Here goes…"

As was his norm with all first-time singers, Lorne found himself shutting out the rest of the noise around him to focus on the sound her voice only. He wasn't sure what he was expecting. Mostly, the odds with human women her age dealt with family qualms, marriage, stress at work, psychotic demon stalkers, the question of terminal illness, and on. The accompanying music began to play. With the precision of a surgeon, he locked his red eyes on her face just as she prepared to bare her soul.

Bethany closed her eyes and sang. "Oh come, all ye fai-"

An unseen explosion erupted in the space between her place and Lorne, a sheer ripple of nothing but raw power that struck him at full force. It picked him up and sent him flying across the tabletops, before he crashed into the wall above the bar. He, along with many shattered bottles and bits and pieces of shelf fell limply to the floor.

Shocked screams and growls of surprise followed thereafter. Bethany, with a look of sickened horror, dropped the mike and stood up. "I…I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, I shouldn't have-"

No one was paying any attention to her. Those who were not too drunk to disregard the event were either rushing to the back of the bar, or arguing in panicked tones. A surge of immense regret welled up in her throat. She rushed forward, shoved her way through the swarm of bodies and fled out the door. In her flight, she forgot to pick up her jacket, which lay folded over the edge of her previously occupied chair.

Naomi was bent over the unconscious form of the host, cradling his head. "Would someone give me a hand here, please?" she shouted over the clamor.

Scott and another bartender, a trainee, rushed over to her. Their shoes crushed the shards of glass underfoot as they each slung one of Lorne's arms around their shoulders and hoisted him off the floor.

Naomi sighed as she watched the green-skinned host being hauled away, before picking up a cloth and beginning to wipe up the worst of the mess. "So much for ground rules."

AN: Hope you enjoyed this teaser thingy. Next chapter if for your Spike…people…lovers. Does anyone recognize Bethany? Come on. I know she was only in one episode…26, 'Untouched'…remember? She was good. She had potential. Anyway. Review if you got 'em.