nomorekaraoke | 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 here and there, ice covered in sludge losing the war against the patches of green grass spreading all around.

He's always liked spring. Especially now, when his eyes are closed and his senses are focused outward; every little hint of it is like a peck on the cheek or the ear or the back of his neck - there's a certain smell to the air, a green scent that resonates within him. He remembers the first spring on Earth, and the winter that came before it. 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. But spring... Spring is hope. Spring is being born again.

Slowly, softly, color seeps into the world between the cracks. Yellow tones, orange and ocher 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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The back of his neck prickles as he leans against the railing and folds his arms, slowly turning his head as though to take in the entire view: the Turtle Pond below them, the Great Lawn stretching beyond it, the just-budding trees beyond that. Hoping he won't appear to be focusing too intently on one particular piece of that view.

"How about you," he asks, "you come here a lot?"

"Every morning." He ducks his head briefly, as though it will hide the secret shock of hearing himself admit it (even if it's a modified sliver of truth), then leans his arms on the cold stone railing. "I like watching the dawn...watch everything come alive. You know?"

He doesn't really care if he does. It's just making small talk. It's stalling, but he isn't sure for what.

"Yeah ... dawn is usually Nature's way of telling me it's bedtime."

The Pylean's pose, his tone, they're almost companionable. And that sends the shivers right up Andrew's spine, even though he's not getting any real sense of being played with; even though he'd swear the demon's as unnerved by the chance meeting as he is.

The statue of Jagiello is surrounded by trees. If they were in full leaf, he wouldn't be able to see a thing; as it is, the little plaza is faintly visible through a grey scrim of branches.

It's habit, pure and simple. It's a front, a mask, but no less genuine than any other day, or for any other stranger. It's his last line of defense.

"Me too. Not that I sleep, usually." His tone is casual, maybe even skirting glib, and that's a lie in and of itself. Everything about him is a lie. "But... Maybe we should leave it at that. You do whatever it is you came here to do, and I'll-- I'll get out of your goldilocks."

He won't stay around when neither of them feels welcome to, albeit for different reasons.

"'Preciate it, but, uh, I'm pretty much about to mosey on home anyway."

It’s no good; either he can't see anything or there's nothing to see. He turns away from the railing, stuffs hands into pockets, and takes a step or two backwards. Toward the stairs down to the Shakespeare Gardens and the west side of the Park. "You go ahead and, um, finish watching the sunrise or whatever. I'm out."

With a not quite mock-salute, Lorne goes back to doing just that for another two, three minutes before heading home. He'll take the mother of all detours on the way, just to make sure he isn't being tailed.

He won't be coming back here for a while. Not for the foreseeable future. Not anytime soon.

At the bottom of the stepped path, Andrew has to stop and lean against a lamppost to catch his breath. His heart is triphammering, and it's not from the minimal exertion of the walk.

As he starts walking again, one hand comes out of his pocket with his cellphone, flipping it open and thumbing one speed-dial button with the unthinking ease of long practice. On the other end of the line, four buzzes and then the voicemail message.

"Angel? Just leaving the Park. I ran into your old friend with the nightclub. Make sure I still remember that when I get in, okay?"

Probably excessive paranoia on his part, but ...

Yeah.

Dawn at Belvedere Castle - Déjà vu

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