nomorekaraoke | At Milliways, recovering

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At Milliways, recovering

A new day, a new shot at life, another day of taking it easy and letting himself heal, of taking 'proper' care of himself. Doctor's orders include: No excessive drinking. Excessive sugar intake. Plenty of rest.

So, that's what Lorne's been keeping busy with. It beats thinking about Emma-Beth back home sweet Earth. So, nursing a big cup of thai chicken soup (sweet and savory), Lorne is carefully readjusting to life without his arm caught in a metaphorical noose.

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Andrew does move closer, but mostly because he's lowering his voice.

"If you're happy they didn't decide to kill her or wipe her mind, then yeah. But this ... it isn't gonna be fun for her. For anyone."

"She hates being what she is. She's a pacifist, not a holy warrior. What's not to like about being stripped of the powers you never wanted, and never adjusted to?"

Patting the seat beside him, Lorne arches his eyebrows. "If I'm not getting the whole picture, gimme a push in the right direction. Go on."

He pauses, and then gives a small but heavy sigh and slides onto the offered barstool.

"In the long run maybe she'll be okay. I hope so. But –- well, just for starters, the spell to cut her off from the Slayer line isn't ready yet. Mrs. Harkness and her wiccans are having to write it practically from the ground up. And until it's ready, she's got to stay where she is."

Nodding slowly, he files the information away for further scrutiny at a later date. For now he's much more intrigued to see something...well...something new from the enigma that is Wells. Compassion, worry for someone's else's well being (not quite the same, are they, but close enough to be confused), tact and something a lot like gentility, not to mention his hint of a Spanish savvy and the fact he doesn't seem overly perplexed by Lorne's dropping pop culture snippets into every last chat-a-thon.

"Of course there will be consequences...and I'm thrilled to see that you care enough to twist and turn them over and over in your head, but... What else could you and yours have done that would fit the bill so well?"

"Nothing." That's flat, and heavy. "It was the best compromise we could come up with. And now we're gonna have a lot of people mad at us for going too easy on her, and I'm not sure they're gonna be wrong."

"You spent a lot of time brooding this over. Didn't you." Not quite as flat, but (consciously or not) mimicking Wells's tone of voice. "All of you."

"Yeah."

Blue eyes meet red, and hold steady. "Yeah, we did."

"I've found that," lowering his voice just a touch, averting his eyes only to look up again. "When it comes to the really tough calls, you're never going to be able to please everyone. But someone's got to make them, and then all they can do is stand up for what they did. And tentatively hope for the best, ie hope it doesn't blow up in their face straight away."

"Yeah," he says again, on a sigh.

Beat.

"The other Slayers got sentence passed too," he says, "the ones who assaulted you."

It would seem today is a day for ambiguously good news, and it shows in the way someone's big green schnoz wrinkles up in not likey very much. Sure, judgment needs passing all around, but...they were just hurting. That they went to great lengths to be all sorts of questionable things is another kit and caboodle entirely, and that he planted himself smack dab in the middle of it, well... A demon's gotta do what a demon's gotta do.

"Don't keep me in suspense, pop tart. Bring it on."

"They've all been pulled off their field assignments and sent to the doghouse until further notice. Drudge work at the farm."

"Oooh, ouch." Cringe ahoy, this calls for a swig of hot soup. "Talk about a boot to the ol' keister."

"Not sure it covers 'attempted murder,' but..." He sighs.

And then in a completely different voice, sardonic and contemptuous and faintly accented, says "Oh, please. Do they give out the Nobel Prize for attempted physics?"

"Pfff!"

It isn't the most dignified snort, but hey, who really cares about silly things like that? Not Lorne. Not when he feels all kinds of elated.

And the giggles that sort of end up on the tail end of the snort, while not too manly, are so heartfelt it more than makes up for it.

Don't hate him for picturing Andrew in a vivid mauve afro. Wearing gigantic clown shoes because they're the only kind of shoes that fit.

Andrew's grin is a bit sheepish.

"Sorry. ...Anyway, yeah. There's probably gonna be people mad about that one too." A resigned shrug.

"Why do I get the feeling you wouldn't be in your line of business if you thought you could please everyone at once."

Yes, he's recovered from the giggling. Of course he has, he's suave.

Or not.

"I miss The Simpsons."

"I know, right?" That quickly (if probably temporarily), the heaviness is gone from his manner. "There hasn't been a decent new episode for years. I mean, all props to Groenig, the man's a certifiable genius, but he needs to let the show change or let it die, one or the other."

It's a much better look; a veritably fabulous improvement, and if talking about the most famous cartoon sitcom ever to gain international acclaim is what the doctor ordered, then that's what Lorne's gonna do.

"Uhuh. One of the tell tale signs of a true artist is to know exactly when to stop. Leave everyone wanting more, preferably before you start repeating yourself. But oh," he sighs. "I still remember when every new episode was fresh and full of genius hilarity. Those were the days."

"Definitely," Andrew agrees. "Seasons two through five. Once they had their characters established and were starting to realize what they could do with the format..."

"Constantly having a laugh at their own expense, and everyone else's..."

A beat. "I have a bad, baaad feeling about the upcoming movie."

Dismally: "I don't even know if I'm gonna see it. ...In the theaters, I mean," he adds hastily. "I'll get it on Netflix or something."

"I mean...if I'm gonna sneak in there to park myself in front of a silver screen for hours on end, I want to know that it's worth the money and the potential lynching."

Another beat, seeing as they're so useful, "Of course, if I went with yellow face paint, I could almost pull off a young Burns. Or a neo-seventies meets noir Burns."

"...Noir Burns," says Andrew, sounding positively enchanted by the prospect.

"Though yeah, the kind of movie that people dress up for? Especially as aliens? Way easier for nonstandard types to get in. I remember going to see Episode Three and looking down the line --" He mimes pointing to people. "Demon, demon, guy in costume, demon in costume..."

"You've got to admit I have the nose and chin down." He grins, then, "I bet it was awesome being one of few in the know. I'm just surprised so few don't notice... But, I guess the eye sees what it wants to see, you know? Never mind first impressions, I'm talking even before that. You glance at someone, and you immediately assume it's special effects makeup."

"Seriously. It's amazing how people fool themselves into seeing what they expect to see."

He hears the words come out, and then the short silence they make around themselves, and falters slightly.

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