Papa's Got a Brand New...Bling (Late July 2008)

[nomorekaraoke]

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life--

Wrong theme song, even though the theme certainly applies. It's a new day in Lorne's life. He quite enjoys dawn, thank you very much. He's found a new place to live - another penthouse in the middle of Youdon'tneedtoknow-ville. And recently, he's been indulging more and more in taking breathers at Milliways.

In short: good times all around.

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[nomorekaraoke]

Alas, with nothing left of the wonderful, creamy, flavour-popping goodness but the very tasty waffle cone, Lorne starts breaking off bite sized pieces to munch and crunch on.

"Hm?" Omnomnom, what song?

[stilljustandrew]

Andrew bites off a piece of his own cone along with some of the ice cream, munches, swallows.

"The ice-cream-and-cake dance. It's your fault," he accuses amiably. "You had to go and start humming it."

[nomorekaraoke]

"Huh?" He blinks, completely nonplussed and taken aback and reeling with the implications of him humming for the first time in years. Since when did he hum anything at all since Los Angeles, and how come he didn't notice?

[stilljustandrew]

He glances at him, a touch uncertainly. "Humming? You know, right before you threatened to do the dance?"

Something about Lorne's expression stops him from teasing any further.

[nomorekaraoke]

"I, I," he starts to stammer. "I haven't... That's not--"



Just within earshot, there's a girl with a guitar, singing her heart out on the street corner. Her fingers strum the guitar strings with confidence, and at first he can't place the song. The chords remind him too much of I'm the Only One by Melissa Etheridge (and wouldn't that be ironic) before something just clicks into place and he can hear the words.

--skies gonna open
People gonna pray and crawl
It's gonna rain down fire
It's gonna burn us all



His waffle cone falls to the ground.

[stilljustandrew]

"What -- Lorne?"

Andrew reaches to grab his upper arm, leaning in to try to catch his gaze; concern and alarm flicker over his face.

"What is it?"

[nomorekaraoke]

Every breath he takes drags nausea into his gut - his glamoured face is going an impressive shade of queasy green with hints of bloodless pallor - and all he can hear is Lindsey's voice echoing in his head. The smokiest, most soulful voice he's ever heard, and isn't that ironic too; the voice and face of an angel, working for Wolfram & Hart.

Lorne stumbles backwards. He can't talk right now, or he'll throw up all over someone's shoes. He shakes his head, stumbling away.

[stilljustandrew]

"Lorne. Lorne --"

There's no park bench anywhere nearby, but there's a residential building with a few wide concrete stairs leading up to its front door; he tugs on Lorne's arm, trying to draw him in that direction.

"Come on. Come on, you need to sit down."

[nomorekaraoke]

Somewhere far, far away, there's the sound of a gunshot. Someone whimpers, and the smells of iron and gunpowder mingle too far up his nose, covering the roof of his mouth.

His knees shake, but there's really no choice in the matter of where he's going. Andrew's there, and making perfect sense (or he suspects he does, he can't really hear a word he's saying, but he sounds reassuring), and he's a steady, comfortingly familiar presence. "That, that song, she... How did she...?"

[stilljustandrew]

"Sit." Andrew's guiding him down, half pushing him into place, crouching in front of him. "Breathe. Put your head down. Breathe."

[nomorekaraoke]

One voice in his head insists that putting your head down only makes sense if you're human, or at least if you have a cardiovascular system along the same lines. Another voice is astonished, incredulous and accusatory at the same time. 'A flunkie?'

He shakes his head, covering his face with his hands. He can't deal with this right now. He can't deal with this ever, and not in broad daylight, not with someone there to see it.

[stilljustandrew]

"Shh," Andrew's voice is saying, somewhere very far away, concern deepening to something near frantic. "Lorne, it's okay. It's okay. Breathe."

[nomorekaraoke]

Okay?

"Okay?" It comes out sharper than intended, cracked and crackling, and he wrenches his hands away from his face to stare at Andrew. The despair in his eyes has nothing to do with the ring on his thumb. "It's not okay! I can't get it out of my head!"

[stilljustandrew]

Andrew blinks at him. "...the song?"

It can't be that, but they were just talking about --

[nomorekaraoke]

He shakes his head, looking away. The nausea is dissipating, leaving behind a vacuum in his chest that's so much worse than the thought of being sick. His dark eyebrows twist upwards from the bridge of his nose, his face crumbling further into despair.

"I have to go."

[stilljustandrew]

"What? No," and the look on his face takes a sharp turn from worried to stricken. "You just, you had a dizzy spell or something, you need to rest for a minute --"

[nomorekaraoke]

His jaw works silently. The tears welling up in his eyes turn his eyelashes into liquid black as that damned song keeps repeating in his head. Images flash by, one after the other, of Lindsey, and Angel, and all the seemingly insignificant things that led up to that one night when everything changed for the worse. And how could he possibly tell Andrew about any of that? How could he even think it was a good idea to go out here, into the real world and make shiny new friends? The mere notion is preposterous.

"You didn't hear it," he whispers, his voice tinted by mirthless laughter. "You didn't hear her singing. Over there, at the-- At the street corner up ahead."

It makes much more sense now. Sometimes he forgets that humans can't hear that well. But that doesn't stop the gnawing pain threatening to swallow him whole. He tries to stand up, and doesn't quite make it.

[stilljustandrew]

Singing, what -- ?

He glances over his shoulder. At this distance he can see the streetsinger, but not really hear her over the sounds of traffic and passersby.

"No," he says softly. "I didn't hear it."

What was it? he doesn't ask.

[nomorekaraoke]

How does he even begin to worm his way out of this? His breath catches in his chest, and he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. He just wants to go home.

"I can't talk about it. I'm sorry.."

[stilljustandrew]

"It's okay. It's okay, you don't have to."

Andrew rests a hand on his shoulder, only half aware of making the gesture; he's still leaning down, trying to see into Lorne's face, trying to catch his gaze.

"You don't have to."

[nomorekaraoke]

Doesn't matter how hard he tries to wipe his face, twin tears still fall when he lowers his hands with a self-deprecating twist of his lips. Clearing his throat, "...I haven't heard that song in years. Not since Caritas."

[stilljustandrew]

Oh.

Very low: "Brought back memories?"

[nomorekaraoke]

He nods, swallowing tightly. Doesn't say bad ones, because, obvious much?

The hand on his shoulder is like a warm blanket - comforting and tempting after so long without something like it.

[stilljustandrew]

Painful ones, clearly. Either because they're bad, or because they're good and forever gone.

Slowly, Andrew turns and sits down on the step next to Lorne, still canted sideways to watch his face.

[nomorekaraoke]

As he wipes his face again, wondering for the nth time why now and why here, an edge of frustration enters into the line of questions. It's not enough to send his despair dissipating.

Despite himself, he soaks up the warmth of where their knees almost touch. He doesn't look at Andrew when he next opens his mouth. "Why are you being so nice to me?"