Title: Can't Stay Here
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse/Mercyverse/Buffyverse
Pairing: Mercy/Lorne, sort of, Mercy/Metatron (in memory)
Rating: Songfic and R for references to drugs and other objectionable topics
Status: Posted (to my site) 30 July 2002.
Archive: Pretty much here. Other places need to write and ask. Here's how you do that:
Feedback: Kelandris
Series/Sequels: In order, this goes: "Nascent", "Shut Up and Kiss Me", "Have Mercy", "Feather", and "Quartet"; "Dagger"; "Descent"; ren's "Tunnel Vision"; "Light at the End", "Tunnelling Under", and whatever else I come up with in the meantime. The end of the series: "Reconciliation", which occurs on Risa 3,000 years after the events mentioned here. How's *that* for an arc??
Disclaimers: Nothing I write gets me any financial compensation whatsoever. All rights reserved and revert to the production companies of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel the series, View Askew and Kevin Smith. Mercy, how'ver, is my original creation and someday, she'll fly in her own original stories. (May be a while, though--she's a bigger slash freak than *I* am!)
Notes: This is an absolute perversion of Joanne's original intention in posting this song. She wanted a sweet Loki/Bartleby cuddle piece. This is profoundly *not* that.
Summary: Mercy numbs some higher brain functions in order to cope with her current reality. Takes place between two stories I haven't written.
Warnings: Verges on het stuph, more angel torment, though implied, lots of Mercy torment, and some extremely grim history.


"Can't Stay Here"
by Kelandris the Mad


The woman at the bar gestured, two fingers motioning quickly through the smoky air, and the green-skinned bartender shook his head. He filled another glass with crisp gin, ice cubes, and several dashes from a bottle clearly marked with a skull and crossbones. He replaced the small bottle beneath the bar, turning and handing the glass to her. She took her first swallow with obvious pleasure, and he watched, faintly smiling.

"Lady, I have to hand it to you. I've had Venaros demons under the table after the amount of arsenic you've consumed. Who *are* you?"

She barely smiled, her eyes dark. "Someone of absolutely no import," she said softly. The bartender shivered, his eyes widening.

"I usually don't ask this," he said, leaning over the bar slightly. "But I would love to hear you sing. Would you?"

She looked around. She'd gathered long before this that she wasn't in the usual bar. From the moment she'd walked in, and walked through that very entertaining spell barrier, she'd known it was somewhere far from her usual haunts. Of course, she was in LA, after all. Los Angeles was somewhere far from normal to begin with.

*Caritas*, the sign had said out front, subdued and tasteful. The crowd outside, though human or hooded in concealment--so as not to unduly shock, she now realized--hadn't seemed that out of the ordinary for any suburb in London. These days, demons and half-bloods lived anywhere. She knew. It was her job to know, after all.

"Wallis. Mercy Wallis," she said softly.

He bowed over her hand, kissing it lightly with lips an intriguing shade of purple-green.

"I'm your Host," he said, accenting the last word so that she heard the capital distinctly. "But you can call me Lorne."

"Lorne," she said softly, and watched him shiver again.

"Your voice..." he whispered. "It's incredible. Please sing?"

She thought for a moment, drumming her black nails on the table. The lights over the bar briefly glinted on peacock highlights in her dark hair, flashing purple, then green, then blue. Her eyes flashed with deep tones of purple as well, and Lorne's smile widened.

Finally she shrugged.

"Do you have any Sarah McLachlan on that box? We'll have to pitch it fairly low, but if you're adjustable...?"

"And flexible, as well," he said, grinning. "Pardon me. I'll just go set that up. Won't be a moment."

Which is how, five minutes later, she found herself introduced as "Mercy, a traveler from afar you've been waiting to hear," and watched as Lorne's trim figure stepped down from the stage after handing her the mike. How very odd this all was. Was this what she had wanted, when she'd wanted to get away? She listened as the intro to the song counted down musical beats, her eyes closed, then opened her eyes and formed the first note, staring out into the crowd.

"*Spend all your time waiting/For that second chance/For a break that would make it okay,*" she sang. Unbidden, the tormenter sprang to mind, the guardian of her personal hell. Shock of black hair, falling over his eyes. Skin paler than hers, exuding the faintest scent of flowers. Supple, muscled chest, bare of hair or nipples. Damn him.

"*There's always one reason/To feel not good enough/And it's hard at the end of the day...*"

And she was gone, swept into the song, swept into memory, drifting from note to sultry note as, for one brief instant, she surrendered to the pain behind her eyes.

*I need some distraction
oh beautiful release
memory seeps from my veins
let me be empty
and weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight...*

It had been a year. A year of solid avoidance, a year of solid work. First it was mopping up the edges of the New Jersey affair, which had culminated in her getting a taste of what had so poisoned the blond boy, and the Metatron--curses on his holy name--winging her way to a place that was decidedly unsafe.

Then it was that moment of timeless, amnesiac dalliance, for which she suspected they both were still paying, she in terms of emotional distress, he in terms of psychic wounds, wounds which, as an angel, perhaps he could not heal. As happy as that thought made her at times, she wished with all her heart that he hadn't wanted her in the first place. Ever. For any reason.

And then there'd been Vincent. For eight months she'd stayed with him, trying to heal, trying to understand, in the end just trying to survive without trying to kill anyone around her, including herself. It hadn't been easy. Every day, every hour, she wanted to start screaming and never stop. Finally, it had been too dangerous for her to stay, and she'd left the City Below.

*in the arms of an angel
fly away from here
from this dark cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear
you are pulled from the wreckage
of your silent reverie
you're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort there*

So she'd returned home, taken one last intercontinental flight--or so she'd thought. And she'd fallen into a further haze of overwork and over-drinking, which in her case was decidedly unsafe, because however she did it she was on unsteady ground. Drink too much warm, crimson blood, and she'd start longing for the real thing, out of handy mobile dispensaries, and go on yet another rampage. She wasn't emotionally healed from the last one, which, as she now remembered, Metatron, may he shred his pin feathers, had to a certain extent instigated.

Worse was trying to find intoxicants that actually worked. Alcohol had never really affected her the way it affected humans. Oh, she'd get a little tipsy, the conversion of alcohol into base sugar would do that. But the bulk of it didn't poison her bloodstream, it fueled it. So she had to mix it with other things. And she'd tried everything in the past five months. Hashish, X, Nembutol, steroidal inhibitors, a whole host of pain medications, most of which sent her into seizures, and heroin. Plus a smattering of sample patches from a double dozen doctors and dealers, including LSD, DHEA, halcyamide, cyanide, and aspirin. Some of it had caused cellular damage, and her doctor had tried to understand why she was doing it. She'd finally had to leave, promise him she was taking a sabbatical, and return to America to experiment with more arcane substances.

*so tired of the straight line
and everywhere you turn
there's vultures and thieves at your back
and the storm keeps on twisting
you keep on building the lie
that you make up for all that you lack*

She'd crawled from Toronto to Newark, from Orlando to Houston, up to the Rockies, down to the zone still called the Panhandle, and virtually everywhere in between. Anywhere she'd heard of a mage she could track down, anyone she could pay for something she hadn't yet tried, anything that would put the memories at a distance.

The problem was, there were very few mages that she felt she could trust. All of them held dark secrets, even her Giles in Sunnydale, that prevented her from completely sharing her heart. And then when the one spell she had asked an Ontarian 'caster to invoke had gone rogue and eaten its creator, she'd spent two very busy months tracking the half-formed creature down and killing enough bits of it so that the entire thing collapsed, robbed of its driving force for the second time. It was not how she had wanted to spend her time.

But the creature had died in Thousand Oaks, which was a short jaunt from LA, and she thought she'd see the sights again. She hadn't been to LA in fifteen years, not since the '86 show that Marta Luran had ran through the fashion houses at speed.

It hadn't changed that much. Still glittering and decrepit, bright and flawed, shining and bloodspattered. LA, land of dreams and nightmares. Alive in a way she no longer was, and she missed that, or at least, some part of her did.

*it don't make no difference
escaping one last time
it's easier to believe in this sweet madness, oh
this glorious sadness that brings me to my knees*

So she'd spent some time here, haunting the pleasure houses she could find that catered discreetly to her sort, not that she was her sort, and spending the rest of her time either sleeping, plagued by disturbing dreams, or walking the night corridors, running down half-glimpsed truths and fabulists' envisionings, searching for that one perfect cure. And between one thing and another, she'd run across Caritas. The name had appealed to her Latinate self.

*in the arms of an angel
fly away from here
from this dark cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear
you are pulled from the wreckage
of your silent reverie*

She looked out into the crowd, standing from the stool. The crowd was hushed, and more impressed than she thought they would have been. She hadn't sung in years; perhaps she still had a well-trained voice. She caught the eyes of Lorne, and was surprised to find him crying.

*you're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort there
you're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort here...*

And, as the song ended, she handed the mike to the programmer, who blinked his third eye rapidly as she descended to the small table where the Host sat.

"Tell me. What is it?" she asked softly.

He sniffed, shaking his head, and sighed.

"I should have told you. Most people know. I...My people have certain abilities. Some are great hunters and trackers. Some can instantly know when lies are being told. One or two were born with a fairly good fashion sense. I got the ability to know people, know what they need to do or need to hear, when I hear them sing. That's why this is a *karaoke* bar."

"Ah," she said. "It becomes clear."

"More than. I had no idea the Celestials could feel that strongly."

"Oh, believe me," she said darkly. "I'm sure he's not the only one."

"But he does care for you, as twisted as that sounds."

She said nothing, her eyes going cold and dark again. He grimaced, watching her.

"You're gonna be tough," he said. "All right...Care to accompany me back to my rooms?"

"Much as that should sound like a line, it doesn't." She cocked her head, looking at him. "Why not?"

"Because before you sang, I was contemplating luring you back for *aperitifs* and companionship. Now...I can't do that. But I would like you to have something I keep back there."

She thought for a moment. All these endless days, and nothing but pain and more steps on the journey. It never ended. She couldn't see it ending. And yet, this emerald fellow held endings in his eyes. For whom?

She smiled, barely, nodding her head. "I am intrigued. Lead on."

He rose from the table, slipping between patrons of a thousand different skins. Demon bars had one thing over their mortal counterparts--they were decidedly more interesting. Even when fights broke out and the floor was spattered with green and gold and red and blue, they were still more interesting. She followed him, as if she were tied to his back by a twelve-inch string, and soon, they were walking through a side door into a spartan, yet ornate suite of rooms, crisp and modern with an Oriental touch.

"Lovely," she said softly, glancing around.

"Thank you," he replied. He walked to a wall chest, opening it with a key he pulled down from the shelf above it. He opened the small case, took out a narrow, stoppered vial, and turned.

"Please," he said, gesturing with his free hand. "Do sit down."

She sat in a Mediterranean chair upholstered in a deep gold. He pulled over an ottoman, sitting cross-legged on it.

"You're by far the most fascinating person I've met this year," he said, looking at her. His red eyes were still gleaming with tear-glitter. "And that says something. Did you know that?"

Mercy shook her head. "Should I be flattered?"

"Or amused...This," he said, his voice darkening, "is Lethe."

"Lethe," she replied, matching his tone. "From the waters of the river, or just a name?"

"Probably a little of both," he said. He lifted the vial, and light struck off mica glints inside, swirling through grey and silver murk. He stared at it a moment longer, then curled his long, green fingers over the bottle, concealing it from view.

"You have to be sure," he said. "You have to be certain. Even knowing that, I don't know if it will work. It wasn't designed with your unique...physiology in mind."

Her eyes widened slightly. "And how much of me did you read, Lorne?"

He sighed. "It's not like a book, where we start at chapter one with the hero and the dog and move to chapter two, where the dog runs away. It's more like, watching a handful of greeting cards scattered in the air. Some you see clearly; some you just get a picture of; some you just get a few pithy lines of prose. I know some of your history, not all of it."

"Not many people know even that," she said.

"I know, and I'd like to think I'm the trustable sort. I have a feeling you'd know if I wasn't, anyway, and frankly, there's a sword on the wall over there if you really have a problem with the situation."

She followed the direction he was pointing, seeing the curve of a *ninja-to* on the wall over his bed. She shivered.

"There has been enough of death in my life, of late," she whispered. He leaned forward, putting the vial down and taking her hands. The contact was shocking, in a way, pulling her out of the drowning well of memories once more.

"I know, Mercy," he said. He squeezed her hands lightly in reassurance. "Believe me, I'm not hip on the whole death idea either. I've faced it too many times myself...or sent people I cared about to theirs."

One corner of her mouth twitched as she looked at him.

"Every prophet must play Cassandra, from time to time."

"Precisely."

She looked down at the bottle, held curled between their linked hands.

"Well," she said thoughtfully. "Thanks are in order?"

"Oh, don't thank me yet. We don't know if it's going to kill you or not, now do we?"

"And you seriously think that is a possibility? That I might die of this?" Her nod indicated the bottle, but Lorne's eyes grew darker still.

"No, actually," he whispered. "I think you're going to die of the broken heart you're carefully carting around, and this may be your only hope. If it doesn't work, I think..."

He swallowed, looking at their hands. Finally he shrugged.

"I think you'll find a way to find out just how easy suicide for you really is."

She looked at their conjoined hands, thinking. Wondering. When she looked up, dark fluid rimmed her purple eyes.

"Mayhap I'll heal the broken heart, without the aid of your offering."

"Maybe. Maybe not," he said, releasing one of her hands to lift the vial again. "With this...I don't know what it would do to you, but in normal humans, and vampires, and at least six of the demon types, it erases memories. It doesn't leave you awake in a world you never made; it's more subtle than that. You'll take it one day, and the next day, your pain will be that much easier to bear, and the week from that, it will be a distant ringing chime, and a month from that, you won't be able to remember why you were upset in the first place. And if you've lost a few ancillary memories along the way...well. Most don't mind."

"But I might. I am only what my memories make me, Lorne."

"I know that. But...lady, you only think you know how bad it gets."

She shivered when she heard that, and watched him shake his head.

"I know. I hate being the bearer of bad news. But take it anyway. And take this," he said, pressing the vial into her hands.

She looked down at the glittering murk in the small tube. She held deliverance. At a high price, to be sure, but deliverance from her dark longing, from her painful recollections, was perhaps something she'd pay a high price for, at this point.

She folded her long fingers around the tube, looking up.

"And how much will this cost me?" she asked.

"More than you think," he whispered. Then he stood, shrugging as he rubbed the back of his neck. "But I'm not going to charge you for this. If you want to sing here again--if you remember the bar exists--then come back. That's my only fee."

"That sounds...far too reasonable," she said, her eyes narrowing. He took her hands, raising her to her feet, then kissed first one hand, then the other, his hands curling briefly around the tube she still held.

"My dear lady, believe me, it's only reasonable if you think it's a gift. I don't think it is. But I think you're down to this, or some arcane form of annihilation that may succeed in killing you. I think you're far too close to the latter as it is."

"Ah," she whispered, and turned to leave. He stopped her, holding her shoulders.

"Don't get me wrong. I'd love to see you again," he said softly. "But only if you don't remember what's driving you to self-destruct. Or find a way to come to terms with it. There's still happiness in the world. I'm hoping you'll find your way to it, in time."

She swallowed, fighting for self-control, and he sighed.

"Mercy...if I had less self-restraint--"

"Lorne, there's a problem," said a grey-skinned man, poking his head into the back rooms.

"And always when you least expect it," Lorne retorted, grimacing. With another sigh, he led her back into the bar proper, and during the ensuing light show of two K'dazzi joining in sparkling union, she walked slowly up the stairs, holding onto one thin and glittering thread of hope. She stepped into the first cab she found.

"L.A.X., please," she said softly, blinking. She needed to be home.

*You're in the arms of the angel,* she heard her voice sing. *May you find some comfort here...*

She sank into the cushions in the back of the cab, struggling not to weep.


END
(Song is Sarah McLachlan's "Angel")
*****************
Kelandris the Mad
ten steps away from here I'll find tomorrow


If you wanna go back, go back. If you wanna read the next one, read the next one. If you wanna go somewhere else...hey, I ain't stoppin' you.

Or if you want, write me.