Lorne (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nomorekaraoke) wrote2008-12-16 10:35 pm
nomorekaraoke) wrote2008-12-16 10:35 pm
AU: Dawn at Belvedere Castle
At first, there's barely a sound, barely a speck of color among the shadows of the deceptively old structure. Not anything remarkable about the place, except for its location, perhaps. The air is crisp, the ground is slippery, ice covered in snow covered in more ice. Layers upon layers of white fluff and a concussion just waiting to happen should you forget to watch your step.
He's always liked snow. Especially now, when his eyes are closed and his senses are focused outward; every little snowflake is like a peck on the cheek or the ear or the back of his neck. He remembers the first winter on Earth, he kept imagining the snowflakes were fairies - tiny little darlings dancing in the air only to become it if they ever touched you. Evaporating, melting... It's an end he wouldn't wish on anyone.
Slowly, softly, color seeps into the world, between the cracks. Yellow tones, orange and ochre battling against the dark in an eternal war.
It's beautiful. It gives him hope. The world didn't end tonight. It's just begun anew. Turned a new leaf, if you will.
He opens his eyes, the warmth reflecting in the red of his irises. Maybe today, he can turn a new leaf too. Maybe it isn't too late.
Maybe there's hope for him yet.
He's always liked snow. Especially now, when his eyes are closed and his senses are focused outward; every little snowflake is like a peck on the cheek or the ear or the back of his neck. He remembers the first winter on Earth, he kept imagining the snowflakes were fairies - tiny little darlings dancing in the air only to become it if they ever touched you. Evaporating, melting... It's an end he wouldn't wish on anyone.
Slowly, softly, color seeps into the world, between the cracks. Yellow tones, orange and ochre battling against the dark in an eternal war.
It's beautiful. It gives him hope. The world didn't end tonight. It's just begun anew. Turned a new leaf, if you will.
He opens his eyes, the warmth reflecting in the red of his irises. Maybe today, he can turn a new leaf too. Maybe it isn't too late.
Maybe there's hope for him yet.
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He turns to head for the downward path, the gentler slope leading east -- and stops, straightening slowly.
There's just enough pre-dawn light to see the silhouette against the stone wall.
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Running down the vaguely familiar face.
Fuck. Familiar, but he hasn't the faintest idea from where. This could get sticky, and fast.
Slowly, ultra-rapidly in fact, the ever present pressure around his chest tightens; even more so when he knows he's been spotted, because now he can't just stand there anymore. He has to do something.
"...you might want to have that checked."
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He essays a small cheerful smile, the sort that's meant to convey Nothing Wrong Here Whatsoever, Sir.
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He needs to get out of here before the sun really puts him on the spot. "Right. Well, carry on, my brave little tin soldier. I'll just exit stage right, leave ya to it."
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"Uh ... do I have something on my face?"
Half-consciously, he puts up a hand to touch his cheek. And winces as his fingers find the half-healed cut.
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He adjusts his sunglasses, eyes on the horizon; the longer he stays, the longer he hesitates, the more danger he's in. For a moment, he almost feels like some kind of character from Vamp: The Masquerade, keeping up appearances for the greater good of his kind. It's irony, and boy does it taste bitter.
This is the part where he walks away:
He steps out, head ducked against an imagined gust of wind. Here goes, all or nothing.
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And maybe this is a trap, and maybe the best thing he could do would be to pretend not to notice anything --
(And maybe there's something vaguely familiar about the green demon's voice?)
And maybe it's too late for that, because he's already taken an involuntary step back.
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Lorne freezes, eyes widening behind shades and colored lenses that are too small to really hide anything. His heart speeds up, and he wonders if this is what deer feel like, staring down the headlights of Death's very own Greyhound Bus.
It isn't the most graceful of escapes, but if walking just a tad too fast to be technically appropriate is what it takes to get away, then Lorne will take his chances with the icy stone under his feet.
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His mind's running through the types of demon it might be, and that vague familiarity -- is he recognizing the race, or the individual? He's got no way to know --
But right now his leg is really starting to hurt, and the cold wind's picking up and stinging the cut on his face like lemon juice on a paper cut, and getting on home is probably what he should be doing.
(He stands for a few minutes anyway, watching the figure retreat.)
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It's a slippery slope he's on, he can feel it, and it's getting colder by the minute. Got to figure out the when and the where, he's got to. Can't look back, doesn't want to, doesn't want to recognize what it would signify if he did turn back to look.
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Later there's a little down time, and Andrew digs out a demon compendium and starts going through the possible types, narrowing them down.
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He doesn't sleep all day. There was just something about that guy's voice, some strange, familiar but not quality to it, and if there's one thing Lorne's good at it's voices. It's what keeps him up, pacing the width and length of his penthouse; he knows voices. You can change all the rest, but your voice, now, that just doesn't change. Not unless your heart does.
Later that day, he turns on the TV for the background noise it provides; soccer scores galore.
It's a long shot, a veritable leap of stupidity and faith.
A pink note book.
Leather note book with pink paper glued to the back and front with something written on one side and a sketch on the other and it's Beckham, he knows it is (because how could he not know of the guy who more or less started metrosexuality)--
'Gandalf the White... Yoda knows...' All these references, one after the other and people think he never gives it a rest; that's when it hits him like a brick in the head.
"Wolfram and Hart. Wolfram-- Angel's friend."
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Andrew's eyes widen.
Because he's encountered an atypical Pylean demon once before.
"Wolfram and Hart," he whispers to the book. "Angel's friend."