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Out of Africa

by spikeNdru

Genre: Gen; Action/Adventure

Pairings: Xander and Ensemble; no pairings yet.

Rating: PG-13

Timeline: Two years post-Chosen

 

Disclaimers: The characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and 20th Century Fox; they aren't currently using

them so I'm borrowing them for awhile.

 

Chapter   1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9  10  11  12  14  15  16  17  18  19  20  21  22  23  24  25

 

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Chapter Thirteen

Rupert Giles smiled as he tossed the keys into the air and caught them for the second time. He enjoyed it so much, he did it for a third and fourth time. His shiny red mid-life crisismobile was somewhere at the bottom of the Sunnydale Crater, and he felt no regret. He'd been temporarily seduced by the flashy newness of the car, but he'd never developed an ongoing relationship with it—not like he had with his Citroën. He'd loved that car, although Buffy and her friends had disparaged it at every opportunity, and felt like he'd lost a close friend when Spike destroyed it. Giles frowned as he wondered if part of his animosity toward Spike stemmed from the fact that Spike had murdered his baby—oh, very well—wrecked his car?

But all was now . . . well, not forgiven, exactly, and certainly not forgotten . . . perhaps 'moot' would be the word? For now he had a new obsession car that completely engaged his interest, as the red convertible never could. In his mind's eye, he could clearly see Buffy roll her eyes and make a comment about boys and their toys. Although he hardly qualified as a boy, he had to admit that, could she see it, she would certainly classify his new car as 'toy-like'. Although, 'new' was probably a misnomer, too.

He'd gone to an estate sale, as a representative of the Council, for the purpose of acquiring the library, if the rumors regarding the esoteric nature of the books were true. They were, and he did acquire the library for the Council, but that's not all he acquired at the sale.

He'd directed the lorry around to the back of the manor to supervise the loading of the books, and then followed on foot to stretch his legs and enjoy the air. He stopped dead when he saw it. It was love at first sight. He'd felt a momentary qualm of dismay as he considered the possibility that the car he already thought of as his little beauty might belong to someone attending the sale, and not be part of the sale itself. That qualm was assuaged when he saw the lot number affixed to the windscreen by a wiper blade. He circled the car as his heart beat faster, and the loading of the books completely slipped his mind.

Giles hurried back into the sale, with the calm certainty that he would overcome any obstacles to the purchase and eventually emerge victorious. No one could possibly stand against him! And so it was—three long hours later, he was the proud owner of the nearly mint condition, British Racing Green, 1961 Triumph TR3A that had won his heart.

He'd made arrangements for an additional lorry to pick up his acquisition, had it looked over by a trusted mechanic, completed the paperwork for licensing and transfer of ownership, and now the perfect opportunity for its inaugural run presented itself.

He'd told Willow that he would contact an old friend in an attempt to obtain information on Quor-Toth, and that's exactly what he proposed to do. How he accomplished his queries was a matter of personal choice, and he chose not to use the telephone. He had rung up Bernard Addison only to inquire if he might visit, and received an unqualified affirmative—hence, this roadtrip to the Cotswolds.

Giles whistled a jaunty tune as he slid into the driver's seat, turned the key, adjusted the choke and laughed with glee as the engine caught and produced a most satisfying rumble. He would, no doubt, be accused of magical thinking if he ever admitted to anyone that the car seemed to be as anxious to be on the road as he was.

“Well, then . . .” Giles murmured. “It will remain our little secret.” He patted the dash, pushed in the clutch, put the transmission into first gear and merrily began his journey to the Cotswolds.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Xander and Dawn had filled one shopping cart with coffee, juices, various fresh fruits, and necessities such as dishwashing liquid, laundry detergent, fabric softener, toilet paper and packaged snacks. The front wheel of the cart tended to wobble and Xander had to use care as he navigated the turns into the aisles so that the full cart didn't escape his control and mow down any innocent shoppers. Dawn blithely moved ahead as she pushed her empty cart toward the frozen food and dairy sections that they had saved for last. They had discussed the shopping on the way to the grocery store and had agreed that they would go with the most nutritious pre-cooked food they could find. Everyone's schedule would become more erratic as the research and preparation continued, and they couldn't count on all five being home for dinner at the same time. Dawn selected some pre-cooked meats, sealed in bags, that could be boiled in minutes, but Xander went directly to the Hot Pockets.

“You know, Dawn, when you—well, probably not you, but one of us—when one comes home at one in the morning after patrolling, one would much rather grab a Hot Pocket than heat up—” Xander looked at the selections Dawn had placed in the cart, “—sirloin tips in gravy or turkey medallions in picatta sauce, 'cause one would have to make some kind of noodles in addition to—”

“All right! We'll get the Hot Pockets and—what are these things? Corn dogs?—but we're getting the real food, too.”

“Okay.” Xander grinned and added some Hungry Man dinners, also. “What else do we need?”

“Milk, eggs, bread, cheese, peanut butter, yogurt—”

“Ice cream?”

Dawn nodded and they smiled at each other, finally in accord. “Ice Cream!”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Connor glanced at Faith and then said dryly, “You want to try 'The House of Usher' before it falls, or go with the Carnival Cruise?”

“The house of Usher? No way! I've seen Usher on MTV and in videos, and there's no way you'll ever convince me that he lives in a falling-down dump like that!”

“Oh, right! Usher. Good one, Faith. I really liked how you made a play on The Fall of the House of Usher—the Gothic horror story, and used the alternate meaning of Usher, the R&B singer—”

“Yeah. Whatever. I'm bettin' Lorne lives on the boat.”

“I think you're right.”

Faith started the Jeep, and they drove up to the pond. A tiny dock jutted into the water and acted as a tether for the houseboat.

“Lorne!” Faith yelled. “Lorne! It's Faith and Connor. We need to talk to you.”

“Go 'way.”

“Not gonna do that, Lorne. Come on! We're just here to talk.”

“Where have I heard that before? Just talk—and talking leads to doing. Well, I'm done. I'm retired. Not interested. Go away.”

Faith turned to Connor. “You know Mandy?”

“Oh, god—not Mandy,” Connor groaned.

Faith grinned and linked her arm through his. “Last chance, Lorne—are you gonna come out and talk to us?” she yelled.

“Last chance, or you'll what?”

Faith grinned. “Y' know, I'm glad you asked that. Ready, Connor? Count of three. One, two, three—”

“Oh, Mandy—you came and you saw without taking. Oh, Mandy, you da-da-da stopped me from shaking . . .”

“I remember all my life . . . something something cold as ice . . .”

They both sang as loudly as possible, not necessarily in the same key or even the same verse.

The door of the houseboat was flung open and Lorne appeared, wearing a burgundy satin robe and clutching his head. “Stop! Stop! Please, for the love of god, stop! You can come in.”

Faith smiled victoriously and jumped onto the boat. Connor followed.

“Hey, Lorne, good to see you,” Faith said.

“I wish I could say the same,” Lorne muttered. “What part of 'I'm retired' didn't you understand? And why should I care that Angel's team isn't dead and you're going to find them?”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Giles twisted the dial of the radio until he found a station that promised to play “All vinyl—all the time”. No pristine-quality CDs here. If it hadn't been released as an actual record that came in a cardboard sleeve, with fantastic and innovative cover art and real liner notes, it didn't get played. Just as well the station doesn't feature CDs, Giles thought as he glanced affectionately at his radio. The radio had two knobs—one for on/off and volume and the other to select a station. No bells and whistles, woofers and tweeters or graphic equalizers here . . . the only decisions this 'sound system' required him to make were on or off, soft or loud. Giles chose “on” and “loud” and roared through the countryside with the wind in his hair and his ears, to the satisfying accompaniment of the growl of the engine and Street Fighting Man and Baba O'Riley.

Giles grinned and felt the wind tug at the corners of his mouth. It just doesn't get any better than this! he decided, before a traitorous thought surfaced from the recesses of his mind. Ethan should be here.

No! I'm not ruining this beautiful day with thoughts of Ethan Rayne. He chose his path and got what he deserved. And I bloody well don't miss him! I only thought of him at all because of the music bringing back memories. I don't give a flying fuck if he rots in hell!

The wind turned his joyous grin into a rictus, as the radio blared: Flyin' so high; tryin' to remember—how many cigarettes did I bring along? The youthful ghost-of-Ethan-Rayne-that-was took up residence in the passenger seat, tilted his head, cocked an eyebrow and smirked, “Memory Lane can be the most dangerous destination there is, old man.”

Giles wondered if he had finally gone insane. Adult Ethan wasn't dead . . . was he? Of course not. He was locked up in the Initiative complex in Nevada, where he'd been for . . . what? Five years? Five bloody years? Giles had been furious when he'd agreed to let the Initiative boys take Ethan, and hadn't really given him a thought since. It had never dawned on him that he'd sentenced Ethan to more time for a little mischief than Faith had done for multiple murders. If Angel and Spike and Faith could change and become valued members of society—or, at least the aspect of society composed of demon fighters and world savers—why couldn't Ethan?

Giles would continue to research Quar-Toth as promised, but it couldn't hurt to check up on Ethan also, he decided. Ethan was, after all, a human being, albeit an extremely annoying one. And if the children were planning to break Angel's team out of a mythical dimension, breaking someone out of a secret government facility should be a piece of cake, compared to Quar-Toth.

Giles tried to convince himself to give this idea more thought, but he eventually realized the decision had already been made. It had been made with the first flash of guilt that he had left Ethan to be “rehabilitated” by fanatical soldiers—five years ago. He'd help the Scoobies with their mission and then request their help with his.

Here comes your nineteenth nervous breakdown. . . thundered from the radio.

Oh dear lord. I hope that's not prophetic! Giles thought.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Faith stared at Lorne in shock. The shock rapidly turned into concern.

“What the hell happened to you, Lorne? The last time I saw you, you were holdin' my hand and takin' care of me when I was in the grip of the Orpheus drug. You cared. People mattered to you. An' now we're here to tell you that Angel's crew probably aren't dead—that they've been trapped in an unspeakably harsh hell dimension for over a year and you're tellin' me you don't give a fuck? Who the hell are you and what have you done with Lorne?”

“Lorne's dead. Angel killed him.”

“No!” Connor burst out. “I don't believe that for a minute. Angel wouldn't do that! And besides, I can smell you.”

“I guess when you're living by yourself in the middle of nowhere, it doesn't really matter if you're not always April fresh.”

“That's not what I meant,” Connor explained. “If you were an impostor, you could maybe fool our eyes by using a glamour to look like Lorne, but you can't duplicate someone's signature scent. I can smell you, and you're reading 'Lorne' to me.”

Lorne patted Connor on the shoulder. “I knew what you meant, cupcake.”

Lorne produced a long sigh, and then gave in. “Okay. You found me. Let's go inside and have a drink and you can tell me what you want. I'm not saying I'll help you, but at least I'll listen. You have my word on that. If you give me your word you will never, ever, ever mangle Manilow in my presence again. If, by any remote chance, it becomes necessary at any time for either of you to engage in behavior which could euphemistically be described as 'singing', you—” Lorne pointed to Connor, “—give Kid Rock a try, and you—” Lorne nodded at Faith, “—could possibly manage Joan Jett without inflicting irreparable damage on my eardrums.”

Faith grinned. “Deal. Now, how 'bout that drink?”

Lorne led the way into the cabin of the houseboat. It was a single room, done in bright colors. The walls were tangerine, the curtains peacock blue. A futon was folded into a frame, which acted as a couch, against one wall. Huge pillows in sunny yellow, lime green, grape, magenta and maraschino cherry red were scattered over a carpet of seafoam green.

“What can I get you?” Lorne asked as he moved to the wet bar and automatically began to freshen his Sea Breeze.

“Um, a Coke?” Faith requested.

“Orange juice, if you have it,” Connor replied.

Lorne poured their beverages and sat down on the futon couch. Faith and Connor glanced at each other and then each selected an over-sized pillow in lieu of any other available seating. Connor stretched out on the floor and propped his head on his hand. Faith sat on her pillow, brought her knees up, rested her chin on her knees and wrapped her arms around her shins.

“Okay, Lorne, spill,” she said. “What's got you all depressed and who put that bug up your ass? You can't bullshit us. Something bad happened to you, and I think you need to get it off your chest, 'cause whatever it is, it's eatin' you alive. I know a little something about guilt, and its only good if it helps you change. Wallowing in it doesn't do shit for anybody.”

“You know, snickerdoodle, I left Pylea because there wasn't any music there. There wasn't any joy. I was an embarrassment to my family, and if you ever met my mother, you'd know that's really saying something. When I got to LA, I discovered that the love of music wasn't the only gift I was given—I was somehow able to set beings on their correct paths. When they sang, I knew things about them. I could read their hearts. And I'm not talkin' cardiologist here, sweet cheeks—I'm talkin' soul. So I opened a little club called Caritas. It was a sanctuary for anyone who came with an open heart and a problem, or just to enjoy the music. I was happy. I'd found my place in this lonely old world, and I did my little bit to help.

“And then I met Angel—the vampire with soul. Aretha-level soul, only it's unfortunate for anyone who's ever heard him sing that he didn't also get her pipes. I was just a little cheese, but Angel . . . he was the whole Gorgonzola.”

Lorne got up and went to the bar and mixed another pitcher of Sea Breezes. He filled his glass, took a long drink, and then topped off his glass before he sat down again.

“Angel had a mission,” Lorne continued. “A direct line to The Powers That Be. He was a bona fide Champion—they all were, in their own ways. Angel, Cordy, Gunn, Wesley and sweet little Fredikins. So I hitched my star to Angel's wagon. Biggest mistake I ever made.”

Lorne took another drink and then rolled the glass around and around in his large hands. Connor and Faith remained silent, allowing Lorne to tell the story at his own pace.

“Looking back on things, it seems like I was the catalyst that set things in motion in some way. I don't know how, but it seems like when I joined up with our intrepid little band, everything started to go horribly wrong.” Lorne made a disgusted sound. “It's too bad I couldn't read my own destiny. Maybe things would've been different, and I could've saved myself a world of bad. But no . . . when Holtz blew up my club—and I'd just redecorated after the previous incident, too—I saw it as a sign. Angel invited me to move into the hotel and, to tell you the truth, I just didn't have the heart to rebuild Caritas again.

“Cordy and Wes and Gunn had all carved out places for themselves on Angel's team, and I thought I could, too. I was wrong.”

With the shambled gait of an old man, Lorne made his way to the bar and poured another drink. His voice was nearly a whisper as he continued, as if he were talking to himself and no longer cared if Faith and Connor were listening or not.

“They're all gone now. Cordy and Wes and Fred are all dead. I loved them all, and they're gone. Probably Charles, too. Bluebird and the Fang Boys are in another dimension somewhere, and who's to say the world isn't a better place without them?”

Faith got to her feet and stood with her hands on her hips, looking down at Lorne.

“Who's to say? I say! That's who.”

“Oh, Faithy,” Lorne said sadly. “Angel took a despondent murderer and made a caring person out of you. I admire your loyalty to him, and wish you the best of luck. My situation's a little bit different. You see, in my case, Angel took a caring person and made a despondent murderer out of me. I can't help you find them. I can't even find myself anymore.”

Lorne drained his glass as Faith and Connor stared at each other in shock.

 

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Continue to  Chapter Fourteen

 

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