If I should suddenly start to sing, or stand on my head or anything

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.

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.

The noise is too much. The noise is too much and it's eating its way inside his head and there's nothing he can do to keep it out but to pretend absolutely everything is all right, everything's fine.

He makes it to his office and the private bathroom in the back, cold and clammy and burning up from the inside out. The door slamming behind him is enough to keep the noise out, but the fire keeps bubbling too deep down and he can't keep it in, losing what little he had for breakfast in the big, too bright white sink seemingly suspended in the air below the oversized mirror. It feels like an interrogation room. Standing there, head bowed over the sink and everything from his arms to his legs shaking it feels as though everyone's eyes are on him despite the fact he's alone. Outside, Doc is tending to Seth, and then to everyone else who had the distinct displeasure and lack of fortune to be here, tonight of all nights.

His throat burns. His face burns, and water rushes from the tap to maybe sweep his shame away with the unsightly evidence of it. But it doesn't.

He can't breathe. Gripping the sink tighter, he can't breathe from the way his throat's tightened on the inside like a noose. His face burns. His eyes burn, and his jaw's locked so tight, his teeth clamped down so tight he doesn't even notice when his chin starts trembling. It just does, and already it's too late. It's worse than being sick from the abrupt adrenaline drop; it's darkness, nothingness threatening to swallow him whole; it's losing control, and there's nothing else that scares him so much.

His eyes burn. His face burns, and his silent, trembling sobs do nothing to cool him down. When he covers his face with his big cold hands, he does it for one reason alone.

He can't look himself in the mirror anymore.

At first, there's barely a sound, barely a speck of color among the shadows of the deceptively old structure. Not anything remarkable about the place, except for its location, perhaps. The air is crisp, the ground is slippery, ice covered in snow covered in more ice. Layers upon layers of white fluff and a concussion just waiting to happen should you forget to watch your step.

He's always liked snow. Especially now, when his eyes are closed and his senses are focused outward; every little snowflake is like a peck on the cheek or the ear or the back of his neck. He remembers the first winter on Earth, he kept imagining the snowflakes were fairies - tiny little darlings dancing in the air only to become it if they ever touched you. Evaporating, melting... It's an end he wouldn't wish on anyone.

Slowly, softly, color seeps into the world, between the cracks. Yellow tones, orange and ochre battling against the dark in an eternal war.

It's beautiful. It gives him hope. The world didn't end tonight. It's just begun anew. Turned a new leaf, if you will.

He opens his eyes, the warmth reflecting in the red of his irises. Maybe today, he can turn a new leaf too. Maybe it isn't too late.

Maybe there's hope for him yet.

Ahh, the late October evening air is crisp and sizzling with the bustle and excitement permeating 6th Street. Just an hour or two ago, the streets lay quiet and calm, like before a storm. And what a storm it is. Tonight is the biggest night of the year for Lorne - the only night he can go out with a bang (so to speak), and glam it up without having to worry about mobs and pitch forks and torches and all kinds of peer pressure. He can be lean and green and having a fabulous time. For any other demon with a sense of dignity, Halloween is the be all and ban all of faux pas-es. It's a night where silly wannabes co-mingle. It is just not done.

But Lorne will do it and do it well for every year he can muster. He'll be in his hundreds, old and wrinkly and hunchbacked, and he'll still come here for the big event.

***

And when the darkness has fallen over the city, and the parade lights up the city streets with eerie lights and chilled merriment in equal doses, Lorne dances down the line like it's 1999, all feathered up, glammed up and having a ball.

You never know who you'll bump into, and the best part? You can pop into a coffee shop or a restaurant on the way, get to know someone better anytime you want to. If he should be so lucky tonight, it would be the icing on the cake and the cherry on top.