Square One

Summary: No matter how far you go, you cannot escape your past. The corrupted world they tried to leave behind comes crashing back...Post Not Fade Away. Mainly Lorne and Spike centric, nonslash.

Notes: Well, the traffic isn't as jammy as I'd hope, but that's okay…maybe after this chapter, I'll convince people that reading my fanfiction won't poison them. Hehe. Anyway, thanks for the reviews PuddlesToGrowOn and SinodaBear.

Oh, by the way…I realize there's more than 2 Lorne fanfics…I mentioned in my last chapter that only two pages out of 221 were more or less dedicated to him. Not a lot in the grand scheme of things…anyway, thanks again. On with the show…

Disclaimer: Consult previous chapter.

Chapter Two: Winter's Eve

It was roughly eleven o'clock that same night, and Lorne was staring incredulously at the spot he had oh-so-objectionably collided with some hours ago. He was sitting on a stool, nursing a brand new goose egg between his horns with an ice pack. He was bruised, but otherwise uninjured. He had experience with the…experience of flying across the room, after all.

The clinking of glasses drew his somewhat disoriented attention to Naomi, who had crept up on him from behind the counter. She leaned against the shelves behind her and crossed her arms. "I hope you bought insurance on those wards."

Lorne rolled his eyes and dropped the icepack on the bar. "Couldn't resist feasting on the pathetic little remainder of self-esteem left in my achy-breaky heart?"

Naomi feigned thoughtfulness. "Hmmm…no."

"When in Rome…" Lorne heaved a sigh. "Did our telekinetic princess say anything?"

"No," she said again. "Besides 'oh my God, oh my god, I'm so sorry' before running out the door? No. Why? Oh, did you want her number? Because I could have-"

Lorne picked up the icepack and threw it at her apathetically. It bounced harmlessly off of the invisible barrier that the wards tendered. Naomi shook her head, grinning, and went back to rearranging the glasses and bottles that had been displaced, but were relatively unbroken.

"Yeah, well, eat your heart out Evel Knievel," said Lorne, gently prodding his head with two fingers. "Last time I was konked during a reading, the world was eating its last French fry, if you know what I mean. I wonder if-"

His voice trailed off mid-sentence. When Naomi looked up, she saw the host was gazing off into the midst of the crowded tables with a mildly shaken expression. She raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "Boss…?"

Not that Lorne staring off into space for no apparent reason was uncommon. Naomi had worked here at Square One since the very beginning, since spring, and she had learned a few costly, key facts about her new employer. One: he was deeply troubled. Not in the semi-psychotic, go nuts with arsenal in blazing, fiery rage kind of way, but…sad. She had her fair share of characters in the past, and Lorne was no exception. The fascia he put on for business, show and general merriness was but a shell and the real Lorne, someone she had no doubt had once existed without the shell, was hidden way, way below the surface. No doubt the cheery, green host had done something he wished would not have happened.

But then, in New York, everyone had done something they regretted.

Lorne was, indeed, lost in translation. Somewhere, among the mixture of faces strange and foreign, he'd seen the uncomfortably familiar visage of someone he loved…but knew was dead. That meant only one thing.

Illyria.

Alive. More or less.

But the connections went wild in his mind. Illyria? Illyria meant Wesley, and Wesley meant Angel. And if Angel were here—

Lorne leapt from his seat, accidentally knocking over his Sea Breeze. Naomi's hand whipped out to try to catch it before it rolled off the edge, but failed. The glass shattered on the ground.

"Hey! I just finished cleaning up three bucketfuls of broken glass! Three, Lorne!" she criticized, slapping the wet rag she was cleaning with down on the countertop angrily. Seeing his furled brow, she sighed. "What's wrong?"

His hand went up to signify for her to wait, and he quickly strode away from the bar without taking his eyes off the back of a certain head. A head with long brown hair, streaked with blue, attached to the unmistakable maroon leather body of the ancient one. A Banshai demon screeched when he stepped on her tail, but he went straight through without hesitating once.

When he was just fifteen feet or so from reaching her, she stepped forward and slipped into the crowd. Lorne broke into a sprint, but stumbled over someone's extended foot. When he looked up, there was not even a trace of her to be seen. He advanced cautiously, unknowing to the strange glares his customers were giving him. No Illyria. Not anywhere. And certainly no Wesley.

Lorne swore in Pylean, a feat he had not done since…well, Pylea. That was all he needed. A crazed, uncontrollable ancient demon under Angel's influence on the—

"And so you're back, from outer space," sang a distinctively British voice from behind. "I just walked in here, to find you with that sad look upon your face…"

Lorne's eyes widened as he twisted around to face a very recognizable, platinum blonde vampire. Spike stood with arms outstretched and a sarcastic, inane grin on his face.

For a torrent of seconds, Lorne blinked at the vampire, as though not fully understanding his presence. Spike dropped his arms to his sides and made a helpless gesture. "What? I track you down for three weeks and this is the 'hello' I get?"

Lorne stood with the very essence of forlornness stretched across his face. "Where's Angel?"

Spike's mouth opened in mock affront, and shook his head sadly. "Hello, Spike. Nice to see you alive and well. How's the bloody weather?"

But the host was in no mood for Spikes idleness. He stepped right into the soul-equipped vampire's face and spoke slowly, unsympathetically. "Where is Angel?"

"In Cabo, drinking margaritas" said Spike, leaning away from Lorne's sudden proximity. His face scrunched with revulsion. "Apparently, you had the same idea."

Truthfully, Lorne already had an idea where Angel was, and for that matter, Gunn. Very typical of Spike, to use any means other than long-winded explanations to put his situation into perspective. This being, of course, the first time he had ever actually heard the vampire sing, it was clear that the reason for his sudden appearance was pretty important. Lorne didn't need empathic abilities to grasp that.

"But hey, don't let my bearing of the big, bad news ruin the party," said Spike, gesturing widely with his arms at the surrounding crowd who were, in fact, staring on in silence at the spectacle. "I'll just be borrowing your host for a moment, if you don't mind. Carry on."

Lorne looked intensely at Spike, ignorant of the bar occupants as they turned back to their drinks and former conversations. "That's, ah…really funny, Spike, because I was just about to grade your personal little pop quiz that you just made me cram," he said with a plastic smile.

"Oh, jolly," drawled the vampire sarcastically. "And?"

"Leave now," the host said coldly, the phony, cheerful expression on his face melting. He stepped around Spike and started for the bar

Spike whirled around and stalked after him. "Wes is dead."

The green-skinned demon stopped short at the counter and hung his head. Spike could not see his expression, but there was the inclination that he had not picked up on that news while reading the vampire.

"Boss, is this man bothering you?" said Naomi, folding her arms across her chest. She gave Spike a disapproving glare, one that would turn any non-vampire into a pile of gooey nerves.

"Just telling it like it is," Spike said defensively, placing himself on a stool beside the brooding host. "It was a nice funeral, though. Too bad you missed it. Wes probably would've-"

"Okay, seriously Lorne-" Naomi cut the vampire off, pointing her finger at him threateningly. "Just give me the word. With or without the wards, I can stake this guy."

Lorne lifted his head, fingertips touching the bridge of his nose as though a migraine had seized upon him. "I'll have to take a rain check on that offer, twitterbug. Boy Wonder here has more lives than a litter of kittens."

"Now you're confusing me with Angel, mate," objected Spike. "And that's treading on dangerous territory."

"I told Angel to leave me alone," said the host.

"Again," said Spike, pointing deliberately at himself. "Not Angel."

Lorne rolled his eyes, snatched his Sea Breeze from the counter and spun around. Spike was instantly on his feet again, tailing the host as he tried to escape. A young girl sneered at him when he nearly ran her over in his haste. Aggravated by Lorne's behavior and now, the manners of the empath's guests, the vampire dodged around her and caught up with his quarry.

"All right, so there's a slight chance Angel might have pointed me towards New York," he said, growing ever the more impatient knowing Lorne was ignoring him. "I felt like I owed him. Bloody strange feeling, really."

"What, because Mr. Too-High-And-Mighty-To-Tell-Best-Friend-Lorne-About-Soon-Impending-Death sweetened the deal with the Devils On High by selling his soul to end the reign of fire and blood in Los Angeles?" Lorne paused to add for emphasis. "Call me crazy, but…still not seeing how this involves me."

Spike closed his eyes and tilted his head back with frustration. "Do I have to spell it out for you? I don't know any more bloody songs!"

"Right," said the Pylean flatly. "And I suppose now you're going to tell me that Angelwings himself isn't standing outside, waiting for you to drag me out by the horns to rejoin his crusade of death and slaughter."

"Why is it so hard for anyone to believe that I can operate on a fully functional brain without Angel around?" Spike demanded to the sky, gesturing widely with his arms. "I'm a grown-up vampire now. Saved the world on my own and everything."

The bar was noisily going about the multiple businesses at hand, ignorant of the vampire and demon who stood face-to-face in a momentary battle of wits. Lorne sighed. "Look, your aura is kicking the crap out of my motivation to stay sane," he put blindly. "You're not aware of it yet, Sancho, but your intentions aren't picking daisies for the local clinic for blind kiddies."

"Brilliant," said Spike. "Do go on, I haven't had my ego shredded in weeks."

"Oh, come on, pancake," Lorne said raucously. "This whole shammoo smells like Bob Seger's retirement plans. You came here to make me leave my little retirement haven, which, by the way, is working out rather well on my part, and there is nothing on this pretty green planet you can say or do to make me-"

"Eve," said Spike.

Lorne blinked and looked somewhat confused. "Say again?"

"Eve," the vampire said again, as if betraying some dire secret. "Remember her? Snippy little office bimbo who shacked up with the big guy Halloween?"

"Yeah, I remember who Eve is," said Lorne sternly. He narrowed his crimson eyes. "What about her?"

Spike hesitated for once, which did not improve the suspenseful suspicion that was now manifesting in the back of Lorne's mind.

"Eve," said the vampire at last. "Proud new Chief Executive Officer of Wolfram and Hart, LA. Former wife of Senior Partner's lapdog, Lindsey. You might recall him."

Lorne suddenly lost his grip on his Sea Breeze, which shattered on the floor.

With a confident tilt of his head, Spike locked eyes with the host. "Eve wants you dead, mate," he said.