AU: Dawn at Belvedere Castle

[nomorekaraoke]

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.

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[nomorekaraoke]

He peers closer, feeling relatively certain his features can't be seen yet, or they would be having a completely different conversation. Not running blood. Coagulated blood. It's slightly more reassuring than a fresh head wound. His mind must be playing games with him.

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."

[stilljustandrew]

He looks a little unnerved at the closer scrutiny.

"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.

[nomorekaraoke]

More conversation. "Yeah. That's what I'm talking about."

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.

[stilljustandrew]

The thing is: away from the wall, the color of the guy's skin becomes more apparent.

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.

[nomorekaraoke]

Maybe, neither of them can truly pretend or put on an affected kind of ignorance at this point.

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.

[stilljustandrew]

Andrew's not about to say a word or make a move to stop him.

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.)

[nomorekaraoke]

Ant Anthony Tony Toots...no.

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.

[stilljustandrew]

*Back at HQ he gets Jonathan to do a quick healing spell for his cut cheek and his ankle, and drinks heavily sugared herbal tea while giving Angel the full report on cleaning out the Ixwal nest, and then falls down across his bed to sleep for nine hours.

Later there's a little down time, and Andrew digs out a demon compendium and starts going through the possible types, narrowing them down.

[nomorekaraoke]

Morning comes much too soon after Lorne's squirreled himself up, up and away from the crowds in his very private, very secret little nest. He keeps the lights down for no other reason than paranoia getting the better of him. You never know who's watching, never know who might see through the invisibility glamor cast on the upper half of his apartment building...

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."

[stilljustandrew]

Not a chaos demon, not even one with antlers filed down to be able to pass among humans; their protective slime would have frozen in last night's cold, possibly fatally. Not a Lyathfir; they're built small, barely Jonathan's height, with arms long enough to brush the ground. Not a Pylean; they wear their hair long and dress in leather and metal armor and talk like Conan the Barbarian --

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."