nomorekaraoke | Of Watchers and People Persons

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Of Watchers and People Persons

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.

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"You know those'll kill ya," says a level voice from just ahead.

Andrew's leaning against the trunk of a massive tree, hands in the pockets of his coat. He looks ... more weary than anything else. I've had a long and trying day, says that expression, and now there's you.

To be fair, Lorne isn't quite as verdantly green as the last time Andrew saw him... Or rather, the last time Andrew saw him conscious and witty. Compared to the last time, this is an improvement on Lorne's part, even if he still looks somewhat ashy and drawn. It's in the way his suit clashes something horrible with his skin.

Furthermore, Lorne doesn't like that expression, thank you very much. Of course, it's kind of mutual, so there goes that stab at righteous indignation.

"A lot of things will kill you. Coffee for instance? Suffocates the brain. Dehydrates and contracts blood vessels, cells start dying and before you know it, your think tank's got more holes in it than Swiss cheese. Of course, I'm talking actual caffeine abuse, not your average cup a day."

The plastic squeaks unpleasantly, caught between his immobilized arm and his suit.

"Or getting kicked in the heart by overzealous young women with super strength," he concedes, with a maybe-so tilt of the head. "You about recovered from that?"

It’s genuine concern, if a little guarded and detached.

"Just about. I don't know if it's my imagination or..." But Wells doesn't need to know that. He doesn't technically need to know anything, and especially not about Lorne's weaknesses, imagined or otherwise. He can't let things like concern get to him so easily. It's...dangerous. Even if it feels good to hear it, feel it, be the object of it.

"Just about." He offers a small, wry smile, to show he noticed the concern, subtle though it was. To show that perhaps it could be okay to ask about that night. Maybe.

"My shoulder's the big problem, really."

"Sorry to hear it." Still guarded.

"I hope you do realize those Slayers were acting without the Council's knowledge or approval. Both in going after Beth Lehrer and in assaulting you in the course of it."

"I figured it out." He nods, pausing for a moment, deciding how much he can tell, and what. "I didn't want to fight, so I stalled for time. Talked with the leader. Jordie, was it?"

Moving a step or two closer, he tries to ignore the fluffy heap of soft, sugary goodness just one good plastic tear away. Conversation is more important. Social interaction is what he lives and breathes these days, and while his head tells him breaching the gap is absolutely sensational if you want to get people killed in the long run, his heart's not listening. Social interaction is all about encroaching on other people's space, about getting up close and personal, and maybe learn something new in the process.

"It wasn't too difficult to pull her strings, but she was so upset. Poor thing."

"She's been upset a lot longer than anyone here realized. She must have been planning this for over a year." Andrew shakes his head.

And, after a beat, adds "So are you here to give evidence against her and the others, or what?"

He doesn't say anything about people not noticing things; he knows too well just how good you get at hiding that anything's wrong. But the other thing, the question, he has no qualms answering that one.

"No." Shaking his head. "I'm here for Emma."

Andrew blinks, then straightens slowly. "Emma," he repeats. "Emma Baldwin?"

He's heard the name before, oh yes. In close and unwelcome connection with Beth.

"Beth Lehrer. I only ever knew her as Emma." Ducking his head, he focuses for a moment to fumble with his coat lapels, not wanting his temporary handicapability to show too much. All it does is draw attention to the fact there's a demon on the grounds, and he's wounded. An easy mark for over eager Slayers.

A breath of fresh air like nothing else, his ironic bone points out to him.

"I knew it was a fake name, but I didn't care. Still don't."

He stares, and then brings up a hand to press to his eyes as though to stave off an incipient headache.

"You're telling me," he mutters, "that she was using Emma as her fake name? Sweet zombie Jesus on a half-shell."

"Brilliant, isn't it?" says the demon, the hint of a smirk teasing at the corners of his mouth. He's figuring yet another piece of the puzzle out. Emma's the name of the woman. The lawyer who promised Beth she could help with the nightmares.

"You would never have guessed it."

Andrew shakes his head again.

"So you didn't meet her until after the whole business." The whole filthy business, his tone says.

Lorne promptly ignores the tone and what ever it may imply (for the moment). Instead, he looks Wells over with something hesitantly assessing. Again that thing people tend to call a voice at the back of one's head pokes and prods at his attention. Could he be trusted? Could he possibly?

"Funny how you can make just knowing her sound distasteful. I don't blame you, really. You should've seen the look on the guard dog's face when she opened the door to kick me out of the holding cell," he knows it isn't a holding cell, technically, but for all intents and purposes...

"Is it because I'm a demon with a mysterious past, or because everyone assumes she's the very lifeblood of Evil?"

"I've met the lifeblood of Evil," Andrew says shortly. "She doesn't come anywhere close. She was a dupe. Obviously."

"Well," he notes wryly. "Good of you to notice, you little cookie cutter."

"Doesn't make her not guilty."

His face is set, and he's just gonna ignore that nickname completely.

"Somebody told her a pretty story. Nobody held a gun to her head. Or rigged her with a compulsion."

Or a geas -- no.

"Oh, please," he wheezes out a small chuckle. "Like you've never stabbed someone in the back. Everyone does it, sooner or later. Just a matter of who, when and where. I'm just sorry she got involved with W&H."

Right that moment, something tight and coiling and acrid slithers through his voice, though he does everything he can to hide it. "You never recover from that."

(So I've done the backstabbing thing before, okay? I have both been there and done that, and --)

With a jerk of his shoulders, Andrew pushes away from the tree trunk and takes a step toward Lorne.

"Not by running away from it, you don't."

Someone's in a feisty mood today, and it isn't Lorne. He raises his constant frown, but doesn't back off. He isn't ready to quite yet.

"No, of course not. You accomplish so much more by getting yourself killed by a trio of rogue Slayers."

"She's got to face up to what she did."

His voice is steady now, and very hard.

"Not Jordie's way. Not a vengeance killing. But she's going to have to stand trial."

Okay, this is officially cease hostility time.

"I never said anything about not standing trial. I know what she did was wrong, I know she has to pay for what she did. I was simply suggesting that there's nothing wrong with me being there for her. Here. For her sake."

It could be a dare, the way his voice grinds through the words, it could be a warning not to judge him for being her friend.

It could be him not wanting Wells to look to closely.

A long, long beat.

"No," Andrew says finally, low-voiced. "Nothing wrong with that."

"And that everyone makes mistakes they gotta own up to. Okay? I'm not dissing you and yours, I'm just a bitch with an occasional mean streak."

A one-shouldered shrug and a beat later, "I don't really mean half of the bitching. Even less. It's just...she's my-- my friend, you know?"

Quiet: "And this time you want to be there."

Andrew half turns away, looking up at the Academy building; there are lights on in several offices that are usually dark, this time of night.

"What do you think's going to happen to her? After?" Toneless, giving nothing away.

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