nomorekaraoke | 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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He nods, both disappointed and relieved at the clarification; not having a resurrected or de-ascended Cordy around means he can't lose her again. It's a horrible thought, but it's his, and he can't escape it.

"So you found yourself another pawn of the Powers'..."

Andrew smiles crookedly. "A bishop, maybe."

Or a knight -– no, that's Angel. The Champion.

"Nah. We're all pawns. Even if we don't actively play the game, we're all pawns. That or cannon fodder for the Powers."

Why no, he isn't bitter.

Let's put it this way: the Skip is definitely not off his block yet.

A sidelong look.

"That why you decided to get out of the game?"

"I'm not a Champion, never was, not even back home. I'm not even a useful sidekick, so... If all I'm good for is being fucked over by the Powers, then I'm just not gonna stay involved."

He keeps his eyes on where they're going. The gates just keep coming closer - he isn't quite sure if he's relieved or quite the opposite. Leaving Beth behind isn't something he's ready to do, but leaving all the animosity and distrust behind is a weight off his shoulders and nothing but.

A long pause, then Andrew shrugs and looks away.

"Can't argue with that, I guess."

He mimics the shrug in silent agreement of the notion - it's a noncommittal sort of acknowledgment, and it feels fitting somehow that it so perfectly mirrors Wells's words.

He knows everything out of his mouth is being scrutinized and analyzed, and that it will all get back to Angel. It'll seep through the walls of his HQ...wherever it is these days. He wonders if he's okay.

"I guess you know what I used to do...back in LA? What my niche was?"

"Some. You mean when you worked with Angel, or before that?"

They’re nearing the gates. Andrew slows his pace, just a little.

Well... One thing remains the same, at least. Wells will tolerate him if he gets something out of it, will even try to extend their weird conversation. He supposes it was the same, back in Los Angeles.

It's probably the same in New York, with all those other people, too.

But Lorne slows down as well, to match his acquaintance-of-sorts. "I used to read people's souls. Hearts. Auras, call it what you want.

"I don't do that sort of thing anymore."

He turns to look at Lorne, visibly confused.

"You don't? Not even with the ..." He waves a hand. "People were singing, to get into your club. I thought...."

And Lorne looks back, surprising himself with how calm he feels. Shaking his head, "It isn't the same. It's like... You go to someone's house, invited for a cup of coffee out in the garden. You never go into their home, but you get something out of it. You get to see the person, get to know them at least a little bit."

He quirks his lips into something a lot like a smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Or like one of the bartenders calls it, it's my non-invasive procedure."

"Huh." He's studying Lorne now. Trying to figure this out.

"How come you're telling me this?"

"Sometimes you get this look on your face. As if you're trying to figure out if I can read your mind..." He knows that look; doesn't blame the people who sport it, because goodness knows he's suspicious around empaths and mind readers alike.

"I can't. And if I could, you know what? I don't think I would. I love gossip just as much as the next demon, but... I love privacy too. My own and everyone else's."

Andrew nods.

"But your own's got to come first," he says quietly. "I get that."

He's so close to coming to a halt he's barely moving, but for every step Wells takes, he follows suit. "I'd like to think I'm not too eccentric in that regard."

Says the demon wearing a subdued yet colorful suit and scarf combo while holding a bag of mini marshmallows. Eccentric in all other regards, much?

"Probably not, no."

Drag their feet as they will, they've reached the gate. Andrew nods to the sentries on duty, puts his hand on the palm lock, and waits as the gate swings open.

(The sentries are Slayers, of course, each armed with one of the working Scythe replicas. And they're both watching Lorne, one with wary suspicion, one with something closer to curiosity. Neither with outright hostility; Andrew's presence may have something to do with that)

"Thanks for the walkie talkie, gorgeous. I'll see you when I see you."

And with that said (not to mention everything else), Lorne takes his leave of the Slayers' School of Rockin' with a wave and a smile. His car's waiting just a little bit up the road, complete with tinted windows and all the luxuries a demon like him could ever want.

The car's been under covert surveillance since he first parked, and been scanned magically at least twice.

Andrew watches as the car starts up, waits for it to pull away, and then turns to head back to the building.

It's going to be a long night.

Of Watchers and People Persons

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