(no subject)

[sunnydalealum]

February 18, 2007

The nice thing about being able to pass for fully human in this city? You can live anywhere.

Well, anywhere you can afford. But Fitz's day job pays the rent on a nice little one-bedroom in a decent part of town, and his other work is lucrative enough to keep it furnished and stocked (and secured) like someplace much nicer.

He's whistling something under his breath as he steps off the elevator and turns down the hallway.

Comments

[sunnydalealum]

There's a few seconds' unequal struggle at the door before it bursts inward, sending Fitz staggering back into his living room and very nearly stumbling over the coffee table.

His hands are held out in front of him in a gesture that might be warding or might be supplication; he's trying to catch his breath and say something, but it's unlikely to be any more eloquent than that gesture.

[nomorekaraoke]

Times like these, most people would shout, raise their voice, do something to vocalize their agitation. But for Lorne, the exact opposite happens. His voice goes very, very soft, very plain. No nonsense, frou frou nick names, no word games, no nothing.

Stalking closer for every last insult. "You two-timing, conniving, stealing son of a rat. You have the nerve to steal from my guests, and then you try to get around the consequences. Not once, not twice, but three times. You've been telling people about my club, Fitz. You don't get to do that."

[sunnydalealum]

"I," he manages, backing away, "I, wait, no, listen. I never -- I couldn't have, you know that, the geas --"

His knees bump up against the edge of his exquisite leather-upholstered couch, and he very nearly sits down without meaning to.

[nomorekaraoke]

"I have an idea how it went down. Someone asks about one of my patrons, maybe they don't even know where to find them, but you do. You know all sorts of things. It's your life. It's your office, Fitz, and anyone who pays enough gets a guided tour."

Jabbing one long, gloved finger at the stealthie's head, his lips curl from the disgust. "You'd sell your own mother for the right price, why wouldn't you find a way around the geas."

Leaning down, entirely too close to be respecting anyone's private space. "You wouldn't even know the name of it if you hadn't found someone to give it to you."

[sunnydalealum]

"Yeah, okay, so I wanted to know what you did last time!" Half defensive and half defiant, not a good tone to be forced to in a discussion, but his conversational skills are limping badly from the shock and not quite recovered yet. That's scary in itself; he's got to be able to talk himself out of this or he's got no chance. None.

"I found out what it's called, yeah, all of a sudden that's a crime? That doesn't mean I can -- look, I still can't even say your name, all right? And I don't even know where the nnng, where the thing happens anymore."

[nomorekaraoke]

"So you're telling me it's a coincidence Spike and Wells come to you, asking about Joe, and just a few months later they've found me. Angel, Spike, and Wells all turn up one fine night, bringing trouble."

Standing up straight and tall, Lorne takes off his hat. "Why is that, Fitz? Did you tell them about Lord Vayan, or did he just happen to welcome them into his pride of meta-lions on Valentine's?"

[sunnydalealum]

Fitz starts at the sound of Vayan's name -- not badly, not too visibly, but with those red eyes this close to him of course the slightest twitch is magnified, anything visible is too visible, and some small part of him realizes right there that he's dead.

But he can't listen to that feeling. He won't. He's had it before, and it's always been wrong up till now, right? He can still get out of this.

(He's got to believe that.)

"-- Wells came in asking again, okay, yeah. But he knew Vayan's name already and he said he'd met him, and -- I didn't tell him anything to do with your place, not word one, got it?"

The defensiveness is starting to sound more like proper indignation, which is good -- indignation is the province of people who've been wronged, not people who've done wrong. Fitz grasps at that, pulls it closer. "Seriously, are you just here looking for somebody to blame because a couple of nutjob vamps crashed your party?"

[nomorekaraoke]

"Don't!" His hand goes up, one finger this close to wagging in admonition. "You don't know the first thing about Angel, you don't get to talk."

Reaching out for Fitz's neck, perfectly capable and aiming to lift him up by the sorry little excuse for a shirt collar. "I'm gonna ask you something, and I want you to be straight with me. Let's take it nice and slow, hm? What. Did. You. Tell. Him?"

[sunnydalealum]

Fitz shrinks back -- and because habit is habit, he's noting the reaction as an interesting data point even as he does it. The green guy doesn't like to hear anyone insulting Angel the Do-gooder Vampire? Well, well --

"I," he swallows, "I was gonna call you with the tip. I was. Like, this weekend."

And if he'd done it sooner, he'd have been able to charge for the information that he's now going to have to give away for nothing.

"He asked if the big cat had any enemies, right? And you know his stories, everybody knows his stories, he probably tells them to paperboys and traffic cops. I gave Wells the Cliffs Notes version, okay? And that's it, I swear."

[nomorekaraoke]

"We both know how good your word is." He stands back, picks up his hat from where it landed on the lavish coffee table. So many pretty things, so many details fighting for his attention, and one, too heavy load settling over his shoulder. Another one.

"You won't hurt my business again, Fitz. I've made sure of that."

[sunnydalealum]

"...what," he says, "made sure, what's that supposed to mean?"

He's afraid he knows all too well what that's supposed to mean, but no. No, that is not happening.

Not to him.

[nomorekaraoke]

"I made an appointment for you with a friend. She should be here any minute now - asked her to pamper you a bit."


Pampering for its own sake as much as for what's to come. Maybe he can keep on telling himself he's doing this because he has to, because he has a reputation and droves of people depending on him for a myriad of reasons, but he can't shake the guilt. He knows what it's like, to have your memories stolen against your will, but he knows who did it, and at least some of the whyfores. He can't give Fitz that luxury. He simply can't afford it.

"Good bye, Gerald... Have a nice life."

[sunnydalealum]

"Wait," and he isn't even sure what's coming out of his mouth anymore, but that look on Lorne's face is even more terrifying than his earlier fury. "No, wait, look, I didn't, I won't --"

This can't happen. It can't.

"Boss, please --"

[nomorekaraoke]

If there was such a thing as fury in Lorne's ever receding emotional arsenal, that last comment would have sent all his sparks a-flying. What it does do, is send the demon into a fit of righteous indignation. He comes to a stop, blood literally boiling; of all the things he could have said, of all the pathetic attempts to weasel his way out of his own mess--

Eyes burning with resentment, Lorne can't keep his voice down, can't do anything to keep his voice in check.

"Boss?! 'Boss, please'? Please don't do this, Boss, I beg you?! I am not your boss, Fitz! Not even when I was did you have the decency to show me the slightest bit of respect!"

He didn't think it could be physically painful just to talk, to skate the line between yelling and having your voice crack from the strain of trying not to. "You're the single most loathsome thing to cross my path, did you know that? You're the kind of demon that gives everyone else a bad reputation, no matter how hard we try to be good people. You drag the whole community through the dirt, fuck the consequences."

The worst part of it all... Lorne will actually miss the stupid critter. "Fuck everything, as long as you get away reasonably unscathed."

It's time to go. It's time to leave before he changes his mind, chickens out and lets Fitz off the hook again. So, he does. Hat on, he hurries out of the too colorful apartment. Before it's too late.

[sunnydalealum]

He’s leaving.

He’s ... leaving. And whoever it is he sent, she’s not here yet. Maybe he can bribe her. Maybe he can get away before she even gets here –

Fitz drags air into his lungs, trying to convince himself that he doesn’t still taste the cigarette smoke like a lingering curse, and makes his way to the front door. Both locks, the deadbolt, the chain, clack clack thunk rattle, and his little fortress is secure for the moment. Time enough to gather a few things, at least. Maybe even time enough to make a few calls, grease the rails ahead of him, see where he’d do best to head next.

He’s making for his wall safe, wondering whether Chicago is far enough away, deciding probably not, already resigning himself to the possibility of having to go West Coast for at least a little while, when he sees the wizened figure sitting in his leather armchair and all the strength goes out of him at once.

“Oh no,” he whispers, barely feeling himself fold up onto the couch, unable to take his eyes off those bright eyes and that gentle smile. “Oh no, no no no, not you.”

[nomorekaraoke]

"Hush now," the old, huddled woman murmurs, reaching for the plate of cookies she's prepared that sits waiting on the coffee table. Holding it out, her eyes grow smaller as if to balance her growing smile. These bakes goods here, they're her pride and joy. Nothing can distract anyone from this fact, not even the paper thin skin, nor the wrinkled old lips or the slicked back, almost starch white hair.

"Have a cookie, dearie. You'll feel better in no time."

[sunnydalealum]

He never saw her arrive. Nobody ever sees her arrive.

"Is that it?" There's no strength in his voice, any more than in his legs; it's not scorn or disbelief in his tone, just the last exhausted struggles of curiosity on the edge of despair. "Is that how you do it? A cookie?"

[nomorekaraoke]

"No, no, don't be silly," she chuckles merrily, her Irish brogue breaking through her crackling old voice. It's the only characteristic the public at large seems to agree on - maybe no one knows who she is, or where she comes from, but her accent is Irish on occasion.

"They'll make you feel better. Would you like some tea? It's very good."

[sunnydalealum]

It smells good, too. Soothing. Calming. It smells like a promise that everything’s going to be okay now.

Fitz swallows hard. "Listen," he mumbles hopelessly, "I can pay you."

[nomorekaraoke]

"I don't much care for money, and information I get plenty of, just asking for it." She picks out one of the cookies for herself - chocolate chip and cherries are her favorite, and she isn't afraid to show it.

"I'm just here to," delicate nibble. "Clean out your office, I suppose you could call it." She giggles again, a creaky old laughter that just goes to show there isn't a mean bone in her little old body.

[sunnydalealum]

That laughter curls around his heart and smothers the last feeble flicker of resistance. The office is up here, he said to Lorne, tapping his forehead, just minutes ago. Ages ago.

She was here the whole time. He never had a chance.

Fitz lets out a tiny soundless breath of despair; he wants to hide his face, or at least close his eyes, and he can't even do that, can't look away from her face. Except it's not even her face he's seeing anymore, just her eyes, just those two mercilessly bright flecks of rock-crystal blue, trapping his own.

"Do it," he whispers. "Just do it."




At the touch of her withered fingers in his hair, he finds he can close his eyes after all, but it doesn't make any difference.