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: Thought I should add something very, very important to these notes. In absolutely NO WAY, even in the slightest, teeniest bit, is Naomi a Mary Sue character. She's just a figment of my imagination…kind of necessary to the story…blah blah blah…but the point is—not a Mary Sue. Glad I got that out. Again, no Mary Sues in the story whatsoever. Yes. As long as we all understand…

Hooray! Feedback! Don't worry about Angel, mes amis. Angelus, too. You'll be seeing some of our happy hero later on in the story…

Disclaimer: Consult previous chapter.

Chapter Three: Responsibility

"Lorne!"

The green host snapped the case shut, completely ignorant of Naomi's demanding tone, and stepped back to survey the room. His private office/bedroom was about ten times less glamorous than his Vegas suite and three times smellier. The old hotel owner had promised it was just mildew—poisonous over a long period of time for humans, but harmless, ostensibly, to Pyleans. Truthfully, he wasn't going to miss the place a whole lot. Among other things.

"Boss," said Naomi, sitting on the edge of the bed. Spike was across the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking bored. "Come on," Naomi growled. "Please talk to me? Boss? Lorne?"

For all her effort, she might as well have spoken in German. Lorne lifted the tiny piece of luggage off the mattress, snatched the long coat beside it and slung it over his shoulder. He turned to leave.

Naomi leapt to her feet before he could move. "Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok Clan!"

He froze.

"That's better." The barmaid stormed over to the door and blocked his way. "Now you listen to me. Tonight has been a nightmare even without the untimely arrival of Spike-o Blonde-o. And now you're just going to leave because some…crazy uppity bitch is trying to kill you?"

"That's 'all-powerful, well-connected' uppity bitch, luv," said Spike pointedly.

"Right. Whatever," she sighed, waving her hands. "Lorne. What about the bar? What about the people who need your readings to predict what color their wedding dress will be? What about me?" She said the last one with a bit of a frustrated whine.

"Oh, really, dandelion, did you think I would forget all about you?" Lorne said with a crooked grin, stretching out his arms. "It's not like I'm on a one-way trip to Albuquerque. You know I'll be back before the cows come home." He paused, with slightly peculiar expression. "Which, strangely enough, would be considered treason to say back in Pylea. At least, it was."

Naomi regarded him sulkily, but stepped into his embrace in a begrudging act of compliance. "Fine. But only on one condition."

They pulled apart, and Lorne placed a hand on his chest, as if swearing an oath. "Anything, button."

Confidence, smug antagonism, came over her and she backed up, clasping her hands behind her in false innocence. "'When the Sun Goes Down'. Sing it. When you come back. Promise me."

"Maracas in hand and flowers in my hair, kitten," Lorne pledged.

Spike snorted, and the host shot him a death-glare. The vampire raised his brow guiltlessly. "Right. It's just…nothin', sorry. Go on."

Naomi turned her head from Lorne, to Spike in a way that suggested an almost sisterly over-protectiveness, likely to the cause of the vampire's bullyboy tactics. "Are all your friends this cute?" she asked Lorne.

"Spike," said the host with the traces of a disgusted frown tugging his lips. "Oh yeah, he's just a regular Paulina Simon," he went on, unfolding the long tan trench coat in his possession and thrusting his arms through the sleeves. He sidestepped to check his image in the mirror as he adjusted the collar of the garment. "Trust me, if you think Spot here has charm, you would just love to meet Angel."

"You know an angel?" said Naomi.

At this, Spike pushed himself away from the wall and turned on Lorne, pointing at the poorly informed barmaid. "Wait, you two have been snogging for what…eight months? And you never told her about Angel?"

"Snog-" Naomi started.

"First of all," Lorne said irately, gesturing between Naomi and himself, as if speaking to a small child. "Platonic. Keep that delightful British expenditure to yourself. And second of all, sunshine, maybe you haven't quite figured this out yet, but…Angel? Not exactly in my diary right now."

But Spike was grinning like a spoiled cherub at Christmastime. "Oh, this is hysterical!" he said, tossing his arms in the air. "'Course I'm thinking we're all on the same page here, but she's not even reading the same bloody book!"

"Okay!" Naomi barked, jumping to her feet angrily. "Just exactly when did we start a book club?"

Lorne did not respond, but reached for the black-brimmed hat that hung from the corner of his closet door and placed it unceremoniously on his head, positioned just so in order to conceal both horns from view. Not much could be done about the rest, but he was counting on the tall lapel of his coat and the fact that it was going on one in the morning to take care of that. Most of the street wanderers would be drunks or fellow demons, anyhow.

Which caused his mind to wonder about nighttime, the smell of fresh air, the feeling of the crisp and cold bite of wintertime on his skin. Just cold in general was something he was beginning to regret experiencing again. Despite its flaws, Square One was warm when it needed to be, and pleasantly air-conditioned during the summer. Now, however, he was taking he first leave since he first holed up here…and that nudged the plug covering some various old feelings.

Cold…it was cold the night the Apocalypse began. Lorne had very little doubt that it was truly over—after all, he knew what the Apocalypse was meant to be, having seen it in the souls of oh-so-many countless people. Watched it terrorizing the streets of L.A. before the Senior Partners rolled down their sleeves and washed their hands of complete human annihilation. Seen it in the eyes of the only man he had ever killed as he died.

And now it was coming in the form of a vengeful woman. Lorne had been—he knew the kind of power Eve had in the palm of her hand now that she had somehow won over the Partners and taken over Wolfram & Hart. If Lady Luck was with him, he might escape fatality for a few weeks at best. Even with Spike's aid, the chances of survival were not looking well for the fun-loving host.

"If it's all right with the missus," said Spike, drawing Lorne from his momentary lapse. "We can get a move on, Green Jeans. Time stands still for no man. Or vampire. Or…demon, really."

"Can't I at least come with you?" Naomi demanded to know.

"No," said both Lorne and Spike simultaneously.

Shaking off the urge to curse the vampire via ancient Pylean customs, Lorne went on. "I need you to hold the fort, dumpling. In the completely unfeasible event something should happen to me, you're the new ruler of the kingdom…if you get my drift."

Naomi cast her eyes to the floor and looked sulky. "Loud and clear," she mumbled.

"Brilliant," Spike interjected, stepping in between the two. "Peaches and cream for everybody. Let's go." He strode to the door and ducked through it, giving the host free rein to follow.

Lorne stood for a second or two, staring hesitantly at the solemn-faced, twenty-three-year-old woman he was about to leave in charge of his whole life during his absence. Then, with not so much as another word of parting, he hung his head slightly, turned, and left the room.

Naomi sat back down on the edge of the bed. The first two minutes of forever had just begun.

Lorne was right. It was cold outside, and not just to the point the body shivered underneath three layers of clothing and your breath froze to your face. It was colder. For some reason, the term 'meat freezer' came to mind, as well as 'black hole' and 'Antarctica'. He immediately regretted his decision to leave Square One.

And Spike wasn't making the matter any more agreeable, either. The vampire's disposition shamed the weather. It made winter in New York seem like a Hawaiian holiday.

"Eve's got connections in every city in every state all over the bloody country," Spike told him as they rounded the corner of the hotel. "Got strict orders to take you to the southern border. Only safe place in the world is-"

"Yeah, Mexico City. Empath demon. Singing vampire. Ring any bells?" Lorne snapped irritably. "Uh, the last time I checked, this alley doesn't lead anywhere. Taco Bell is that way, Dracula," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

Spike stopped long enough to face him, his faced twisted in annoyance. "Excuse me, mate, but by chance have you seen an old pal of mine? Name's Lorne. 'Bout this high, green, got these bitty red horns…"

"All fun and cute, Spike," said Lorne. "But I'm kind of in a hurry to escape the world's most psychotic widow. Right now my senses tell me that you're not hiding the great glass elevator behind those dumpsters."

As Lorne was in no mood to stop and argue in the middle of a frozen alleyway, he went right past the vampire as he spoke. Spike looked up at the sky, as if searching for divine guidance against his newest, unhappy charge, before falling in beside the host. The deeper they ventured into the alley, the darker it got, the less snow stirred around their feet.

"Don't bother," Lorne remarked, getting the impression that Spike was about to rebuke him. "Forgive me for being just a little skeptical, but this time, I'll count my blessings. I mean, at least Angelkins sent you, and not-"

He stopped at that moment, thrown off by the sound of something heavy landing on top of the metal dumpster ahead of him. Lorne jerked his eyes up just in time to watch as the depressingly familiar, lithe form of a woman snatched the edge of the metal bin and swung down to the paved ground below. She landed with perfect grace in the place just before the green-skinned demon.

"Illyria," he said, posing a sickly smile. "How…how nice to see you."

"Your statement lacks the emotion that merits sincerity," she replied coldly. "But I accept your greeting."

"Now she," said Spike, putting up a defensive hand in front of him, as though expecting the host to blame him for Illyria's company as well. "She was all Angel's idea. "

"I was unable to adapt to the customs of this world without further guidance. Prior to his decease, Wesley affirmed that you, the Angel's clown, would suit well to replace his counseling," said Illyria, stone-faced.

Spike backed away, raising his brow. "She's all yours, mate."

"M-me?" the host nearly choked, and for the moment, stood with his mouth agape in dazed wonder. "But why…I mean, ah," he added quickly, catching onto the sharp, death-promising glare Illyria shot him. "Whatever the uh…the great glorious, ancient goddess commands, but uh…geez, talk about a bolt from the blue."

"Yeah, those will happen quite often from here on in," Spike mentioned helpfully.

Illyria regarded her new 'tutor' with a steely gaze. "Your instruction will suffice until I regain my powers. Until then, I will make certain you remain alive long enough to fulfill your purpose to me."

"Thanks a bunch," Lorne said sullenly. "Just praising whatever ungodly powers put you on my side, my beloved Queen of the Blue Hue."

But Illyria, as attentive was her nature, was no longer listening to him. Her clear, cerulean eyes were trained on the air just above Lorne's shoulder, staring at nothing in particular at all. Then, with no warning, she whirled around and paced in the opposite direction. Blinking back his confusion, Lorne made as though to follow her, but stopped short. "Hey-"

"Wait a-" Spike interrupted. "Illyria! Stay. Heel," he said, pointing at the ground with mock strictness.

She did not turn around. Instead, she halted just ten yards beyond the dumpster. Wordlessly, she thrust her hand in what seemed to be a pile of discarded cardboard and bits of useless junk and grabbed something—a something that let out a surprised, high-pitched yelp. Illyria lifted the kicking, protesting woman out of her scanty hideout.

"Fetch?" Spike suggested.

Illyria ignored him completely, proceeding to carry her target back to the astonished vampire and empathic demon.

The woman with auburn hair made unhappy sigh/grunt as she was callously deposited on the ground before them. When she looked up through the dislodged wisps of golden-red hair, Lorne's eyes widened with recognition. "Bethany?"

"Yes?" the woman groaned, rubbing her sore arm.

"But…what…I don't un...why-" Lorne sputtered.

"What's not to understand?" Bethany snapped. "I was eavesdropping. Your guard dog found me. So if you don't mind, I would rather you just killed me and got it over with. The suspense is kind of nauseating."

Lorne stared at the young woman with unveiled confusion as she stood with her eyes squinted shut, her hands clenched at her sides like the 'usual' victim awaiting their execution. It was Illyria who broke the silence.

"Her abuse of our private intercourse must not be unpunished." Her head jerked towards Lorne. "Tell me, clown, how a human would proceed from here."

"Well, first of all, dollface, the 'clown' thing…" The host faltered, aware of the extremely thin line he was trampling on. "…it kind of confuses one of my unintelligent standards."

For a moment, she did not move. Then, "Your attempt at indulging me is primitive in itself. For that reason alone will I refer to you by your meaningless name."

"Great," Lorne concluded nervously. "Now about the, uh…prisoner…yeah, she's an acquaintance of mine. I'll let her, uh…transgression slide this time."

Illyria blinked, registering this. "She is an associate. Your law requires those of social recognition to be excused from the consequences of committing minor crimes."

"Uh, something like that," said Lorne quickly, too distracted by Beth's unusual presence to put much though into it. He turned to the trembling young woman. "Beth, darling, sugar, song bomb, baby, no one wants to kill you. Actually, make that no one here who isn't an ancient demon of supreme reign and destruction."

Bethany glanced anxiously towards Illyria and Lorne regretted mentioning that part immediately. He sighed. "What are you doing out here?"

"I already told you," she replied smoothly. "I was eavesdropping. Spying. Actually, I kind of hung around outside for a few hours, trying to decide whether or not I should go in and apologize…or just go home and take an aspirin."

After a pause, she winced slightly. "Which reminds me…uh…sorry…"

"So over it, sweet cheeks," Lorne assured her. "You aren't the first to toss me across a room because the Powers the Be and their terrible temper."

It was Bethany's turn to be completely mystified. "You know about the Powers…?"

"Yes, we all know about the Powers," said Spike, cutting short their interlude. He swaggered forward as though he were a bored spectator offering a poor excuse to run off. "Let's say we all discuss the little protégé in the car, shall we?"

"Car?" said Lorne.

"Figured since Eve's got an arm in the tank of legalities, we can't attach ourselves," Spike explained. He was clearly unhappy about the circumstances. "No license plates, no cell phones, public surveillance, credit cards," he listed, counting off each item with a finger.

"Wait, wait, wait…hold on," Lorne said and stepped closer to the vampire. "You said 'car'. If no attachments means no plates, how…?"

"Easy," Spike snorted. "Hired a driver. The shady kind; only takes cash, doesn't ask a lot of bloody stupid questions."

Lorne exchanged glances with Bethany, who had by this time ceased shaking in fear and was an active listener in the debate. Her expression portrayed her doubt of the vampire's tactics, which was mutual for the host, to say the least.

Lorne sighed. "You came all the way to New York using pocket money?"

"Problem with that?" said Spike.

"No," the host replied slowly. "Spike, I do hope you realize that all New York airports don't take straight cash without proper credentials. Which, need I say…is a profound attachment, my good vampire."

Spike deadpanned. "What?"

"That's okay."

Both demons, ancient and Pylean, and vampire, turned their heads to Bethany, who was observing them with an odd, feeble smile. She hugged her arms around herself tightly, her eyes darting from one questioning face to the other before she spoke. "I have credit cards. And cash. If you're running from someone, I can help."

"And just who the bloody hell told you we were running from someone?" Spike challenged.

"Uh, hello?" she said in a 'what-kind-of-moron-do-you-take-me-for' kind of way. "Eavesdropping? Besides, you're not the only ones who had to disappear at some point in their lives."

"Care to run that by again, sweetheart?" said Lorne, almost painfully. "I mean, it's not that we're not grateful…because we are, but I think the whole question that's floating on our minds is…why?"

"Again," she said. "You're not the only ones who…need to disappear at some point in your lives. I must have tried at least a dozen times. This country just isn't for me." She paused while they continued to stare, wordlessly. "If it helps, I know how to speak four different languages, including Spanish."

"What do you mean, 'if it helps'?" said Spike. He advanced on her almost threateningly.

"I'm going with you."

"No." Unexpectedly, it was Illyria who objected first. Her cold gaze was fixed unwaveringly on the young woman's face. "The cooperation of a human will merely obstruct our progression. I am against this course of action."

"I second that motion," said Spike.

Lorne looked uneasily between the vampire and the human woman who was, obviously, expecting him to take sides with her. And it was clear by his expression what his standpoint would be. Spike rolled his eyes.

"You must be joking," he said irritably.

"Well, Goldilocks," said Lorne with a short laugh. He moved to Bethany's side and slung an arm around her shoulder protectively. She, with a smug grin in return, crossed her arms over her chest, as though she had just won some unforeseen battle. The host chuckled. "It's two against two." Seeing the vampire's dead expression, he extended his free arm in protest. "Oh, come on. Where's the harm in letting her tag along?"

"Bullocks. Since when does her vote count?" the vampire retorted.

"Um, since I became your only safe option out of this country?" Bethany cut in. "Listen, I'm a pro at this. Believe me, I won't slow you down. I'm a lot more useful than I look."

Then came a moment of stifling decision. Spike fidgeted, keeping his innermost thoughts to himself but making it very apparent that he was against the idea. At least, against it morally. He would never express the real reason why he didn't want the girl to join their little pilgrimage. No doubt that same reason harbored somewhere beneath Lorne's multiple layers of good character. Neither was blind. Bethany's certain likeness to a certain lost someone made the verdict all the more difficult to make.

Slowly, Spike stopped moving about and lifted his eyes to meet Lorne's gaze. "She's your responsibility."

"Okay, Angel," Lorne said off-handedly. He gestured with a jerk of his head towards the street, which he aimed at Bethany. Then he proceeded to move off in that direction.

"Right, very grown-up," Spike muttered. "Let's go, Blue Thunder."

At the edge of a cold alley, on the side of St. Catherine's Street, a small, beat-up Lincoln pulled up to the curb. Four bodies piled in. The car shuddered, as if complaining under the extra added weight, and rattled as it slunk away from the warm glow of the Square One sign.