nomorekaraoke | Milliways, third strike

Entry tags:

millicanon,
plot

Milliways, third strike

Friday night. Thank goodness it is Friday night and Lorne's got nowhere to be but his dreary little office, and no one to chat up. He's all dressed up and got nowhere to go.

Nowhere but Milliways, and there's nowhere he'd rather be. He walks in like he always does (or, well, almost always), with a bounce in his step and an appreciative glance at everyone around. It's good to be here, among friends. And dear lordy, all the beautiful people, let's not forget about those.

"Bar, darling, fix me up with something good. I'm thinking hard liquor tonight, but something sweet?" Ta dah, Melon Bomb. "Thanks a bunch, love."

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Still a game they play, this, but the compliment certainly facilitates things. He smooths his hands down the contrasting lapels with obvious pride. "Thanks. I have the best tailor, darling. He's never failed me, knows my likes and my complexion to perfection."

But, he ponders as he gives Andrew another appreciative look, if I were to respond in kind, what would I say? Maybe something about his hair - which is just fabulous, fyi. He ends up going a completely different direction.

"Just so we're on the same page, no offense... But how much of this exchange of ours will be making its way to Angel's pretty little ears?"

For maybe half a second he considers lying.

And then he gives a small resigned sigh. "Most of it," he says, "probably. Unless you can convince me I shouldn't."

He leans in closer, casually. "What makes you think I'll tell you anything to begin with? What makes you think you know the right questions?"

"And what makes you think I'm trying to find anything out?" he counters, working hard to make it sound just as casual.

Because that's exactly what he's doing, and if Lorne's aware of that already --

"Maybe I just know people," Lorne shrugs casually, tilting his head down to light up a cigarette behind cupped hands.

"But what do I know," mumbled, low and soft. "I don't know anything about you."

"Yeah, well. I don't know anything about you either."

He takes a breath, and right there he sees a possible line of questioning. Maybe, maybe --

"Except that you used to be solidly in Angel's camp. Then you quit. I figure you had a good reason, and it was either something to do with you or something to do with him."

Looking up and meeting those red eyes: "And if it was something to do with him, then maybe I should know."

"Maybe," he'll give him that much at least. "But I'm not the one you should hear it from. Neither of us are to blame for what happened. Both of us are."

He lifts his head, looking up - to the ceiling, or just the highest shelf of bottles, or even higher perhaps.

"You shouldn't ask me."

"Who should I ask, then? Angel?"

Dubious. (With good reason.)

It prompts something like a grin from the green fellow. "You could try, but he's not exactly Captain Oversharing.

"In any case, our business is our business. You'd better stay out of it."

"D'you wanna know how the conversation went when we got back to HQ that night? It went something like 'So, Angel, what was all that about –-' 'We're not talking about it.'" Andrew's a pretty good mimic when he puts his mind to it, and the flatness of Angel's tone comes through.

Back in his own voice, he adds "Sounds like you two agree on that at least."

"Oh, you are darling." The imitation prompts a surprised chuckle from somewhere deep down in his chest; he can't stop it despite his best efforts. It almost makes him remember the good times, the really good times, and that alone, that teeny little almost sends him down melancholy lane all over again. It's bittersweetness. It's fond remembrance, and most of all, it's remembering the only real family he ever had.

"We were on the same page when I left. Maybe not the same paragraph, but the same page, same book."

"Really." It's a little flat, and not as an imitation of Angel this time.

"Really you're darling, or really you guys were on the same page?" He's making his way through his drink as fast as ever, but not even all the sugar it packs can soften the blow to his ego.

"Really really. Don't assume I'm lying just 'cause you don't know me, sweetheart."

Said the pot to the kettle.

"It's not because I don't know you. It's because people who parted company on the same page don't usually point shotguns at each other's faces next time they meet."

"Okay, one," he holds up one of his long index fingers, locking eyes with Andrew. "You don't know. Two," another finger goes up beside the first. "None of your business, so drop it."

"Fair enough." Andrew shrugs, glances away, and takes another sip of his drink.

"I don't mean to be rude, but..." He shrugs, and orders himself another one of the same.

"No, 'sokay."

This conversation is leaving a bad taste in his mouth, and the combination of rum and Coke and chocolate ice cream can only do so much to counter it.

It's a sentiment that's mirrored by the way Lorne gulps down a none too small portion of his Melon Bomb. But, since they're there...and since Bar will take no nonsense from either of them...

"So, if you don't mind me asking, how long have you been on Team Angel?"

He considers refusing to answer, and decides against it.

"Since a couple months after you stopped. Longer than that, if you count that night, but we didn't join forces with him on an ongoing basis until later."

"I don't. Only reason you collaborated with us was so you could follow whatever agenda it is you do, doesn't matter who you double cross in the process. Wouldn't be surprised if that's why you joined forces with him after the big hit."

Why no, he isn't bitter. He's also very carefully not hostile, or Bar will start sending him angry napkins, or worse. "I take it all you care about is action, am I right?"

Andrew snorts. "Oh, have you ever got the wrong end of the stick. I don't mean the night we came to take Dana, I mean the night we came to stop Wolfram & Hart's demon armies from grinding Angel and Spike and the others into hummous. Once it became clear which side they were really on."

A beat. "But you don't so much do sides, these days."

Sinking realization is a bitch. He wouldn't put it past a stranger to lie him in the face; he does it on a daily basis, sugar coating everything ever... But if there's so much as a modicum of truth to what Wells is telling him, it changes things.

"I never did, really. But we've covered that ground, haven't we." He's down to half his cigarette now, a long column of ashes holding on precariously at the end of it.

"So...how is everyone?"

A blink. "...What, everyone everyone? Only Angel knows how he is, and he's not talking. Gunn's gone all moody, Spike's ... I think Spike's worried, but he's not saying much either. It’s all Brood Central back home right now." His voice goes a touch disconsolate on the last words.

"And Jonathan ... I don't think you ever met Jonathan."

His eyebrows furrow slightly beyond the ever present frown. "Are you telling me Wes left to play happy family with Blue Face? Somehow I don't buy that."

It's something he hasn't wanted to think about, where everyone is, how they're doing, what they are doing with their lives these days... It's something he still doesn't want to think about. Thinking about it means you still care.

"Never met him. He a fellow Watcher?"

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