If I should suddenly start to sing, or stand on my head or anything

Some two years ago, in one of the most famous cities in the world and beyond commonly referred to as the big apple, capitals b and a, it was a dark and stormy night.

No.

In truth, there was nothing about that day that prophesied the horrors to come. It was a clear, crisp day and the skies were bluer than a bajillion bluebells all snuggled up together in a bundle. The sun shone brightly, and Lorne's aura did its best to match.

It was a week to end all weeks, following on the tail end of a very busy few months. He had plans. He had business opportunities. He had made deals and signed contracts. He had collected debts and paid a few dues.

Life was good.

Life, as it just so happened, had decided to grant him a few hours' respite from his busy schedule, and there was nowhere else he'd rather be than his favorite Bar away from his own. He dressed for success of a different kind. He groomed himself to perfection, because he had a hunch he might be in for a hugging spree and he didn't want to disappoint. Nothing worse than smelling like the office when you meet old friends. Nothing worse than looking like you just rolled out of bed when you didn't.

Lorne would learn that day that his concept of 'nothing worse' was so far off the mark it wasn't even funny.

That day, when he opened the doors to his closet, he opened up a portal into sheer chaos. He stared into unseen depths; he saw The End, and in its midst...

"...Andrew?"

Andrew and Jonathan, and Bar and that darling AI that Lorne suddenly regretted never really talking to-- and monsters, and shadows, and teeth and fire so hot he could feel it peel his skin away. Heart suddenly stampeding, he lurched to the side and shouted through the doorway. For Andrew (panda bear), for Jonathan (Johnny boy with the cherub cheeks) and Bar, but mostly for the boys to get over here, damn you, NOW before the long hard road comes to a sudden stop, before everything is ripped to shreds get over here! Hey! Over here! Over h--!

He watched as white hot light shot through the Bar at the End of the Universe like nine millimeter rounds through flesh. He watched as one of his best friends in this world and beyond moved as if through a vacuum. Everything seemed to grind to a halt and twist into itself.

Something grabbed him by the horns; an invisible hand took him by the roots of his eyes and twisted. A door slammed shut in his mind: he collapsed on the spot.

When he came to, he was blind. When he came to, he couldn't breathe for how the air tasted like blood and sulfur.

The next day he told Angus he was going on vacation.

When someone asked him why the sudden one-eighty, the burnout white threatened his vision again and he hissed. Lorne never hissed. After that, no one asked him why. Angus made it very clear that No One Ask the boss anything, and Lorne refused to talk anything but business, whether he was in his office or calling in from the other side of the world.

Lorne had hit a wall that stretched on forever, and found no other way to cope than to turn around and walk away.

He had watched the end of life as he knew it, and he couldn't unsee it. Two years on, not even a world of smiling faces could change facts. He'd stood there and watched, and done nothing.

That morning, waking up was the most confusingly lovely thing he'd ever done. It was wonderful, and scary and thrilling at the same time, and it made him feel like something had sucked his heartbeat right up to his chest. It was so wonderful it left him feeling slightly giddy, ever so slightly nauseous with overwhelming excitement.


~*~


He's been smoking all day, walking around the place like he's a very antsy alarm clock just waiting to go off. He'll start screaming soon. If he stops moving, he'll start throwing things around and upset his neighbors, and he'll scream and then he won't know how to stop.

Maybe if he just keeps breathing, he'll be fine. Maybe the smoke will keep him warm enough that he doesn't notice just how empty his too big apartment is. But why stop there? Why not include his whole life into the equation?

Lighting up the last cigarette in his last pack of them, Lorne takes a long, unsteady drag and exhales. Even his breath sounds like death warmed over, and suddenly he's struck by another string of thoughts. His record's stuck on repeat: I don't want to be alone

I don't want to be alone!

I don't want to

He picks up his cell phone off the coffee table, going through his call log and picking out the only number he can trust. And what does he get for it? He gets the answering machine. 'Hi, this is Beth. You know what to do after the beep.'

"Beth, are you there? I didn't know who else to call...but I'm having a really bad day, and I'm not dealing very well, and I just think I need someone to talk to. I didn't know who else to call, I'm sorry if this is totally inappropriate, I just... Call me when you can, all right?"

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life--

Wrong theme song, even though the theme certainly applies. It's a new day in Lorne's life. He quite enjoys dawn, thank you very much. He's found a new place to live - another penthouse in the middle of Youdon'tneedtoknow-ville. And recently, he's been indulging more and more in taking breathers at Milliways.

In short: good times all around.

Walking down a dimly lit street along which he's never walked before, Lorne gets the weirdest sense of déjà vu. He's been in these shoes, walked in them for more miles than he'd care to count, but he's seldom felt as embarrassed as he does now.

Him, ask anyone for a charm to make him seem human? Him. The guy who'll gladly make a pun at his own greenness, but would never give it up for all the money in the world? The demon who flaunts everything he's got, who makes excuses to no one... To think he'd come this far, sink this low, grow so desperate.

But it's a straw he's more than willing to grasp for.

If that Mister Someone is out there in the big, big world, he can't limit his searching to the gloom and doom of nighttime nookie. He can't spend his days locked up somewhere far above the city streets where that dream man could pass on by unnoticed.

He needs added oomph. He needs to be able to go out in the sun. Meet new people, and have a little faith.

You gotta have faith. He walks up to the house, all the way up to the door, lifts his hand to the doorbell-- And presses it.

This is it.

A new day, a new shot at life, another day of taking it easy and letting himself heal, of taking 'proper' care of himself. Doctor's orders include: No excessive drinking. Excessive sugar intake. Plenty of rest.

So, that's what Lorne's been keeping busy with. It beats thinking about Emma-Beth back home sweet Earth. So, nursing a big cup of thai chicken soup (sweet and savory), Lorne is carefully readjusting to life without his arm caught in a metaphorical noose.

Seeing Emma--

Let's start over.

Seeing Beth was probably one of the hardest things he's done in the past year, but he doesn't regret coming here. He doesn't care about the looks he gets from everyone, nor about the whispers or the tension so thick you could cut with something suitably sharp... And yet, it's getting to him despite his best efforts; he needs air, he needs open spaces, and more than anything, he needs a mini marshmallow.

Or twelve of them. Badly.

Only problem is, once he's outside, there's this thing... getting the bag out of his (very manly and stylish) traveling suitcase is one thing. Getting it open (without using his teeth, thank you very much) is kind of difficult if you've only got full use of one of your arms. In short, life sucks on all levels today. Why can't Deathwoks have sharp claws like every other demon? Or fangs. Actual fangs would be nice.

He is not going to use his teeth for this. Not gonna happen.


His problems, so huge, aren't they. So huge even his narration jumps on the sarcasm wagon.

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."

It ain't easy being green... Kermit got it right in one fell swoop of a song, and Lorne couldn't agree more. Pouring himself another drink by the liquor cabinet, he tries so hard not to think about the past few days. The past week or so, since Valentine's.

Chatting with Justin just opened up an entire bunch of floodgates inside, and the only way he knows how to close them back up tight is to drown himself in gin. Some things are just too personal, too raw for you to ever want to acknowledge them, and he came way, way too close yesterday.

If at first he was afraid, petrified, at the thought of letting someone close, anyone at all... When you have a dream in a bottle telling you exactly how wonderful it could be if you just had a little faith and stopped keeping everyone at arm's length--

He swallows his drink, fixes himself a new one. Just G, no T tonight.

It could be wonderful. It could be grand. It could be everything he's ever needed or wanted, everything he'd decided wasn't for him. He could find someone - not just anyone - who got that same look in their eye when thinking of him, like Justin did, describing the man he loves.

He's just too bitter. He's too self conscious and sullied by his past choices, damaged goods that no one would want. But if someone did want him...

He shakes his head, arguing the silent monologue raging through his mind to keep his heart out of this, to leave well enough alone. He doesn't want anyone. He doesn't need anyone. People who care about him only ever get hurt in the end, and he can't take that anymore. He's fresh out of band aids.

He's fresh out of everything you'd ever want in a guy. All that's left is his wit, and that bores everyone out of their skull sooner or later. Eventually. It's just a matter of time before they see through the charm and the jokes to the green and red shell full of nothing at all.

He's nothing. So why should he want something so bad it hurts, just anything to fill him up and make him substantial again. Something good. Someone good.

Someone good is out there, just waiting for him to come along, just waiting for him to have his third time's a charm, dream come true moment, and it's all in vain.

There will never be a third time.

He made sure of that months ago.

When human children grow up, they learn a few basic truths from their loved ones. Don't talk to strangers - a notion they seem to harbor deep in their darkest recesses even as very small children. Don't go out after dark. Always be good, or your bad deeds will come back to haunt you.

When Lord Vayan was a very young cub, he learned another set of basic truths. Praise Ahm. Family and home before yourself. Trust in the Will and the Word.

On this night of nights, almost exactly when the clock strikes twelve, all the lights go out in Central Park. The air grows heavy over the turtle pond, and within seconds it is covered in a thick layer of mist. Layer upon layer, the wisps of gray dance in the air as if to an otherworldly tune, and through it comes a small procession. At the very front, two flag bearers lead the way, their yellow eyes gleaming in the dark. They need no light to guide them on this night, their master has laid out their path in plain speech on many nights prior. He moves in their midst, tallest of them all, his eyes burning brightest, for he sees all things that they cannot. He knows the Word, and his Will is theirs to honor.

They move from pond to earth, the mist lingering, clinging to their bare feet and paws as they move through the park - beyond the castle - to their intended destination.

With poise and determination, they move as one to the statue of the King known as Jagiello.

"A King's honor, for the path set in motion," they murmur as one; their Master says nothing. Their chant is his boon. "For the door to open. For the Reunion.

"Ahm willing!" The flag bearers exclaim into the darkness, and their equals respond.


"Ahm's will be done!"

Being the most important night of the year, and the very last one, this is a night where no expenses have been spared. Lorne wouldn't have it any other way.

The preparations have been going strong for well over a day, and that's not counting the planning and booking stages. No, tonight is the night of nights. Nothing is allowed to go wrong.

No one gets in if they don't have a ticket and their personal card - no one gets in even with these very vital requirements if they don't pass the obligatory screening. Everything will be fine. He's gone to quite some lengths to make sure everything is creme de la creme, cream of the crop and top notch all around.

It's what he's known for.

~

But, right this moment, there are more important things on his plate. He's meeting and greeting the newbs. His brand new, wet behind the ears employees.