Bar -- Caritas -- Pikeman's Circle
        Warmth, light and noise are likely to be the first impressions of
someone entering Caritas. Passing through the old warehouse doors from the
street, it's necessary to take a step down and through metal detectors
before getting to the club proper. The bar runs along the right-hand wall,
glass shelves behind it bearing bottles in various bright colours. The
main space is mostly taken up by tables, placed far enough apart on the
wooden floor to allow some wandering around. The chairs are comfortably
padded, and there are a few booths to the left of the doors for the
benefit of those who would prefer privacy.
        For those who would not, there's always the stage. Curved slightly
and taking up a good quarter of the floor space on its own, the performing
space is only elevated by a couple of feet. Spotlights and footlights
direct plenty of attention to the current incumbent, and microphones are
provided on three different stands for varying heights. Turned to face the
stage is something which at first glance looks like a TV screen, but
coupled with the sound equipment off to one side can only mean one thing.
Karaoke.
        The usual clientele of Caritas is limited to those of...unusual
appearance, and those who don't mind them. Metahumans, demons, whatever
you'd like to call them, this is the place for masks and coats to be cast
aside. There's no need to hide how you look in here - there's bound to be
someone even stranger at the next table.

It's after sunset - but it's not /much/ after sunset. Specifically, it's a
few minutes plus travel time from the University area after sunset.
Kitty's running on a two-hour nap plus a good deal of caffeine; sadly,
this means she's /still/ alert and aware as she slips into Caritas. Alone,
this time. The backpack's much emptier today, but that's because Lockheed
didn't go back home with her last night; he wasn't inclined, and given
that the dragon rarely gives psychics much trouble and shooing him off
involves nothing more than a stern look and having somebody open a door,
she didn't insist. She glances around for staff, pretending that the hand
that's tucked into the pocket of her jacket does /not/ have fingers
crossed. Really.

It is not yet time to open, not anywhere near, and while the door is
unlocked, the place is quiet. Lights are dim, the sound equipment silent.
There *is* music playing, but it's not in the club at all - it filters in
from behind the door to Lorne's living space. Suzanne Vega is singing
about someone named Luka.

At least it's /that/ song. If it'd been "Feather and Bone," Kitty's worry
would've spiked. As it is, she waits outside, patient and quiet, till at
least that one song draws to a close - and /then/ calls. "Hi. You taking
visitors? Or should I come back later?"

Nope, it's just the cheerful upbeat song about domestic abuse. But it has
such a catchy tune. The music does not resume, and after a moment Lorne
says, "Come in, honey." The apartment is tiny, consisting of a bedroom
(walls entirely occupied by row upon row of CDs) and bathroom. The Host
himself is sitting cross-legged on the bed, the remote control of the
little stereo system next to him. He looks - actually pretty much all
right, though there's no smile for Kitty.

He looked /physically/ all right yesterday, too, but Kitty trusts Lorne to
have a reasonably developed sense of self-preservation. She slips in,
reflexively careful of the CD shelves - it's a good thing she doesn't take
up much space. "I'm sorry," is the first thing she says. "I had no idea
anything like that was going to happen. How're you feeling?"

"I'm fine. Little bit of a headache for a while, but that's gone now,
too." Lorne shrugs his shoulders, uncharacteristically short of eloquence
today, and fiddles with the remote for want of anything else to occupy his
hands. "I still don't know what happened."

"Me, neither," Kitty admits. "Still don't know what - or who, I guess -
that was." She hesitates, then tugs her backpack around, unzipping one of
the smaller compartments and fiddling with it before bringing out a small
package wrapped in gold. "Meant to give this to you yesterday." It's
offered over.

Oo, hey. "And it not even my birthday." Lorne does smile, now, reaching to
accept the package. And of course he does that slightly annoying thing of
turning it over and shaking it and generally trying to work out what might
be in it. "Not that I have any idea when my birthday might *be*."

From the shuffling sound, it's not /too/ difficult to tell that it's a box
containing crumpled newspaper padding another, smaller box. This isn't one
of /those/ presents, is it? "It's December," Kitty replies with a little
half-smile. "That seems to be the usual excuse for these things. It can be
your unbirthday, anyway."

"But it's not Christmas. Not that Christmas is a big demon holiday." Lorne
sets to unwrapping the thing, still smiling. Hee, present. "Are there
gonna be smaller and smaller boxes until I find out you've given me a
grain of rice here, honey?"

Kitty reasons back to him, "Not that Christmas is a big me holiday,
either. So, what the heck?" And then Kitty has to laugh. "Oh, come on. I'd
at least make it a /bronzed/ grain of rice. And I don't /think/ you have
this on hand yet, but if you do, we'll find something else." It's a
challenge, darn it! And the second box contains two CDs, tucked closely
against one another: Aaron Rosand playing Sarasate, and a recording of
Sandor Fodor, an eighty-year-old Gypsy violinist. Not music as accessible
as Lorne tends to surround himself with, but beautiful, masters of a
tradition grown increasingly rare.

The smile fades, but only because music is something that Lorne takes very
seriously indeed. The packaging is carelessly tossed aside and he takes
some time to gaze at the CDs, turning them over in his hands, running
fingertips over the plastic. He opens each box to peek in at the disc
itself, too. "No, I don't. I don't have these. And here I didn't get you
anything at all."

Glittering and rainbowy, and taken out of the packaging exactly once -
when Kitty checked them for manufacturing defects before wrapping. "Yeah,
you did," she answers, in reasonable enough tones that don't really
conceal a distinct pleasure. "Your expression just now."

And *that* gets a grin. Lorne looks up at Kitty, scarlet eyes distinctly
amused. "What, I'm here to amuse you now? C'mere, you big sap, you." He
reaches out to her, offering a hug. Take it while you can get it, cuz that
doesn't happen often.

Oh /heck/ yes. And Kitty is naturally, though she keeps it stomped down
into a back corner of her mind as much of the time as she can, a huggy
type of person. Thus, there is hugging (here, you, have a dose of
affection that doesn't require psychic powers to notice), albeit with much
caution for the CDs. And is /she/ grinning? Well - yes. A lot. "That's me,
all right," she agrees. "Besides. I /had/ to get you a present now. I
figure every month that goes by is gonna make it twice as difficult to
find one for you, right?" Witness the walls of the bedroom! Though more
and more efficient ways to /store/ CDs might be a plus. Hmmm.

There, that was a hug, now back off me again, no offense, thank you. Lorne
absently smooths his jacket, then turns his head to look at the walls of
the room. For a moment he looks very much as young as he is, grinning
happily. "Hope so. Though you know what's interesting? We had bands back
home that don't even exist here. I keep worrying that next time I'll touch
down somewhere that never had the Beatles."

None taken - backing off is no problem when the mere existence of the hug
is likely to give Kitty warm fuzzies for weeks. Which is a little
inappropriate, considering Lorne's biology. She shivers at the prospect he
voices, then tips her head to one side, looking distinctly thoughtful.
"Huh. I was gonna say how terrible that'd be, but you know - that'd be
thirty or forty years' worth of almost completely /different/ popular
music to catch up with. It'd still be terrible, but at least there'd be
some faint redeeming feature."

"I admit curiosity. But if my luck holds I'll have a few years at least to
get used to Beacon Harbor before being yanked somewhere else." Lorne looks
back to Kitty again, and cocks his head, watching her. "Is Jack all right?
I don't think I was terribly reassuring."

"Here's hoping for luck holding." Kitty refastens her backpack, keeping it
on her shoulder rather than taking up any /more/ space in the tiny room.
It's a useful thing to be looking at while she tries to phrase an answer,
but the moment she's got it, her eyes go back to Lorne. "I don't think
'all right' is the appropriate phrase, but - he seems still to be
/functional/, which is maintaining a sort-of improvement from a few weeks
back, and whatever /was/ going on there, I think some of what you said -
'you' being appropriately provisional a term there - he needed to hear. So
- reassuring, no, necessary, probably yes."

"I darn well hope it was helpful, honey, because I don't have the least
recollection of anything I apparently said. Though Elian tells me it
sounded like nonsense to him. And before you try, I don't think I *want*
to remember, so please don't tell me." Lorne puts on a good front, but he
was very badly frightened, and he has no desire to revisit whatever the
hell it was. "Oh, and tell Kate to ease off on him. Whatever's up there,
it isn't his fault."

"No problem," Kitty says with a more fervent agreement. "I'd be pretty
happy to be able to forget it myself. And I'll tell Kate - I think I've
got an idea of a tack to take that'd make her actually be /able/ to ease
off instead of going into flailing panic again." Not particularly
accusatory toward Kate, either - someplace between coming into Caritas
yesterday and coming in today she apparently tripped over a clue. Well.
Several. Some of which she's not telling Lorne by his request. "The poor
kids," she adds absently, nevermind that they're both older than she and
Lorne are.

Hmm. It does seem like Kitty's developed a clue. Interesting. Lorne
stifles curiosity, which isn't very difficult. He really *doesn't* want to
know. "It'll work out. I hope. Did you impress upon them that last night
wasn't a typical example of my behaviour, sweetie?"

Because Lorne's a clever guy, all in all. And survival-oriented. "Didn't
really have to," Kitty admits. "The horrified 'did I do that?' look on
Jack's face when /he/ came out of it kind of did it for me."

"I'm sure he's a charming fellow when he's not consumed heart and soul by
something he can't have," Lorne says, mildly. And that's the closest he'll
come to telling Kitty what little he got from Jack's impromptu bout of
singing.

Which is good, because it's not actually breaking confidence if you're
telling somebody something they already more or less knew, right? Kitty's
expression goes to that wry look again, and she just nods. "More or less.
Hope you'll get to meet him when things are saner and the 'charming' part
actually shows through more."

Meet him. Hrm. Lorne takes on a thoughtful expression and looks down at
the new CD cases for a moment, before returning that sharp scarlet gaze to
Kitty. "This is a sanctuary," he says, carefully. Meaning the club proper,
and on a deeper level, meaning his bedroom. "Like I say - I'm sure he's a
charming fellow. But I don't want a repeat of last night. I won't say he
*can't* come here again." Pause. And, unspoken, the end to that - but I'd
really like to.

Careful answer in return. "That was why I said 'hope.' If I'd known last
night was going to go like that -" The hesitation isn't lying; it's just
taking time to be sure that what she says really is the truth. "I
wouldn't've brought him here. Might not've made any difference, since I
wasn't the only one who suggested it, but /I/ wouldn't've. The one halfway
good thing that came out of that is that now we've got a guess as to
what's going on. And if I get anything to say about it, nothing more
touching that is going to come here till we've got the entire situation
welded into a safe, sealed in a bank vault, /and/ dropped in the Marianas
Trench." Kitty'd straightened up during that last, and now that it's said,
she sags a little again. "Not that I actually, y'know, think I'll /get/
much to say about it. But I'll do whatever I can."

The speech is listened to, and at the end, Lorne tilts his head and grins
fondly at Kitty. Not all that much shorter than she, even though he's
sitting down. "Are you protecting me, crumbcake?" Amused.

This time the blush has /nothing/ to do with pet names. "Sorry," Kitty
says more sheepishly. "Habit."

"Oh, no no. You misunderstand, I have no objections whatsoever." Lorne
watches Kitty, still smiling, still fond. She just keeps on confirming her
place in his affections. "Just so long as it doesn't cost me information I
actually need, I'm happy to be protected by anyone who wants to spend the
energy."

"Well, in /that/ case -" There's another grin, even if a little one, and
Kitty adds, "Do my best. Including on the 'not costing you information you
actually need' count."