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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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.

"Uhuh," Lorne agrees quietly. "Doesn't just go for demon watching, though."

He'd ask what's up if he didn't think it might be encroaching on Wells's mental space. But he does wonder what just happened.

"Goes for a lot of things."

Yeah, he can tell that didn't go unnoticed. For a moment he considers moving past it, then --

"I grew up in a town built over a Hellmouth," he says. "Lot of people there knew something wasn't right, but never knew what. Lot of them never even knew anything was weird about the place. And supernatural stuff could happen right in front of them, happen to them, and they'd make up some rational explanation for it."

That would explain some of it, all right. "It's the same with Los Angeles. Same, in the sense that I have no idea what it's like where you grew up, but people would behave in a similar fashion. I could roam much more freely there than in NYC. I can't say I miss it, though... I left my LA heart back there, I guess.

"What was it like? Growing up in such a place?"

Andrew's quiet for a moment, mulling over the question.

"Not fun," he says eventually, "but I don't think it would've been fun anywhere. Being on a Hellmouth just made some things kind of ... more literal, is all."

Not fun anywhere. Yeah, Lorne knows all about that. "To finding better places to live and learn?"

He gives a small smile and touches the bartop, and picks up the Irish coffee as it materializes.

"Better places," he echoes, raising the glass.

And Lorne tilts his to touch the rim of the other glass, then takes a sip of hot, spicy goodness. Funny thing is, he's almost starting to like the stuff, even without a tall drink of something hard liquor-y and fruity to wash it down. Speaking of which...

"You know something, Wells? Every time I meet you, I swear I like you a little bit better."

Andrew glances at him over the rim of the glass. "...You know, considering the circumstances we keep meeting under, that’s either unbelievable or inevitable."

"Uhuh? How you figure?" Because, sure he could go either way - Stockholm syndrome, the weird, not-hostage-y variety, or the opposites attract cliché. He's just intrigued.

And curiosity only rarely ever slays the demon.

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