sunnydalealum | (no subject)

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Just keep an eye on that card every now and then, he said. You'll know where to go when the time's right.

Beth's entirely aware that probably means it's magic. Which means there's any number of other things it could be doing. Which means she seriously considers not taking it home with her, in case it could be used to track her -- but the only other place she could keep it is at the shelter, and she won't do that. It'd endanger everybody else there, the ones who come in for food, the ones who work there, Peter --

She won't, that's all.

So she sticks it to the fridge with the same magnet Spike left for her back in May, and that's where it is the Monday after Thanksgiving, when she sees that it's changed. There's an address there now, in that same elegant typeface, like it's been there all along.

Aequitas. She's looked it up. Latin for justice.

It's with a certain sense of fatalism that she steps off the bus a block from the address on the card, five days later, and walks toward the building.

(It's also with the same black wig she wore that night, as a sole concession to paranoia.)

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Sing a song. She's been hearing the snatches of song coming from the front of the line as she got closer. And now abruptly she remembers Lorne, a month ago, asking would you at all mind humming a tune for me?

It unnerved her then; weirdly, it's heartening now, like seeing a familiar face in a crowd of strangers.

She gulps, takes a breath, and quavers out a line from the first song to come to mind: "A roomful of people, all waiting on one person's breath..."

There's a moment's pause as she stops, and the big man with his beady little eyes set in his itty bitty skull watches her with unfathomable black eyes. Off to the side, Reep winks at her.

"She's green, Jarv'. Go on, let the lady pass."

And 'Jarv' dutifully steps to the side, sticking the mic in the face of the next hapless person in line.

Reep opens one of the doors, gesturing inside with a grand sweep of his arm; inside, the lights are dimmed as they are outside, save for the warm spots brightening the bar and its tenders, and the soft glow of candlelights, like fireflies in the darkness they're scattered about the room in warm, bulbous candle holders set on tables further in. Some have settled in already, others are being shown to their table of preference, all with smiles and soft gestures from the eye candy dressed as wait staff.

Beyond the glow of the candles, the dance floor, and its assorted, ecstatic chaos.

There is no music. Just the thrum of a heavy bass resonating in every moving thing, living, dead and otherwise.

Beth -- Emma, she reminds herself, her name is Emma -- stumbles a few steps to one side of the door so as not to block anyone coming in, and presses back against the wall, staring around.

It's beautiful.

It's so not what she was expecting when she left her apartment tonight.

And she can't see Lorne anywhe -- wait, no, there he is....

Lorne is making his rounds, which is something he does every last big night. It may not always be this early, but there are a lot of people to get chatting with tonight, and he likes getting started early when that's the case. It always seems to be when the holidays, big and small, come around. Aequitas is a refuge from the constant bombardment of religious cheer and goodwill and fake smiles galore - because you know it has a tendency to surge, especially this time of year.

And, when Lorne throws a party, he makes sure never to outshine his guests. Dressed in a suit so dark purple it might as well be black, a slate gray pin stripe shirt and rich, dark red tie to match, he looks every bit the professional.

The perfectly made up face is all about fun and games, and most of all, style.

He's heading this way.

She swallows, hands closing into nervous fists inside the too-long sleeves of her sweater, and starts forward to meet him.

Heading this way, pausing every now and then to tilt his head down and to the side, the frowny curves between his eyebrows deepening a little in concentration. And then, a gesture or two at the thin air, one word (green, red), and he moves on.

It isn't long before his eyes light on the new-faced, fresh-faced-- No, make that deer in headlights-faced woman by the entrance. Emma. Emma gets the tell-tale warning that a hug is coming; his arms spread wide in the plain ol' good cheer of the perfect host.

"Darling, I thought you'd never get your fine self indoors, you must be freezing!"

"It's not that cold," she says inanely in the second-and-a-half before she's enfolded in the hug, the expensive fabric of his suit smooth against her cheek like a secondary caress.

Her return hug is belated, and uncertain.

"Pish-tosh, 'it's not that cold'." He pulls back with the smile still intact, but no, wait-- There comes that silent focus again, as he turns away just slightly, eyes narrowing.

"Red, Reep. Don't take 'Why God why' for an answer."

Aaand back to the present. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Um." Beat. "Something with no alcohol in it?"

And she's looking oddly at him. "You're listening to the people singing out front," she guesses tentatively.

"Sure thing. Step into my best buddy's office," he gestures to the lit up bar, and the three-eyed bartender with a friendly - if sharp-toothed - smile.

"Ramon, darling, give my friend something nice and immaculate. The usual for me, pretty please with honey on top."

One Seabreeze for Lorne, a virgin Cosmo for the friend.

And then, only then, does he address the question what sadly lacked a question mark. He does so with a sip, and a scrutinizing look down his inescapable nose.

"Busteeeed. What can I say? Yeah, I am--" Speaking of which, "Greener than me, sweetie."

She takes the glass the bartender gives her, and (with an effort) doesn't stare at his third eye.

Now that she's here, she has no idea at all what to say to him.

The third eye? It winks at her. Seems like Lorne isn't the only cheeky demon fellow in the neighborhood.

But he is one of the more astute ones, even if he once upon a long time ago continuously used to blame himself for not seeing things that are right there. Nowadays, he doesn't even try.

Emma, however, she's right there, as is her rising discomfiture. "How ya been, doll? Halloween seems like eons ago."

"I, I've been okay."

Behind her there's a cascade of silvery laughter as a pair of beautiful androgynes passes by, arms about each other's waists. Her head ducks slightly, the gesture involuntary and unconscious.

"You?"

"Never been better," he nudges her gently, paying no heed at all to her deer like charms. Neither is he taking any note of how very headlightsy vibes his bar is giving off, in relation to his newest house guest of sorts.

"Well, never is such a potent turn of phrase. I've been grand, though."

He takes the opportunity to tap the side of his nose. "All healed up."

That gets a tiny smile.

And enough bravery to say "So you never told me this card was for a club."

(Not enough bravery to say it with any sharpness. Her tone's closer to apologetic, as though it's her fault he didn't mention it.)

The corner of his lips quirks up and down in a crooked little grimace most suitably emoting oops.

"I didn't? I didn't." He reaches out to pat her hand in apology. "Sorry, my doveling."

She tugs at the neck of her sweater. "I'd have dressed nicer, if ... I mean," and there's admiration and envy and embarrassment all mingled in her voice, "everybody here's so ... I don't know. Posh."

It's a word she hasn't heard since leaving England, and it sounds strange in her mouth.

"Oh, honey." He smiles, warmly amused. "From the looks you're getting, half the crowd here is wondering who you are to be so rich and carefree not to bother dolling up, and the other half wants to know where you got the outfit.

"Don't you worry. You fit right in."

She looks at him blankly.

"They think I'm rich because I'm dressed like a thrift store?"

He nods, a touch smug.

"Rich and famous-andwhyhaven'tIheardofher!"

Edited 2008-10-12 20:42 (UTC)

It's ridiculous enough to make her giggle a bit helplessly.

Which makes her wonder what the people watching will make of that, which makes her giggle harder.

Aww, honey bunny. Lorne's smile softens, averting his eyes to watch the crowd. Subvertively, to the side, "Reep, I gotta take a break from the lullabies, I don't need to sleep on the job. You hold the fort, say, lemme take five." The request is purely out of courtesy, Reep knows you don't object when the boss needs a break.

"They're a crazy bunch, but I love them to pieces every last one of them." Tilting his head at the people milling about, and beyond them, the mass of dancing creatures big and small.

She swallows the laughter, takes a sip of the drink.

"You know all of them? Personally?"

"The regulars, yes. The not-so-much ones, I've made it a mission to get to know a bit better."

You know, aside from the rigorous background checks that everyone needs to pass with flying colors before they so much as get a how do you do.

"But one demon can only do so much, you know? I try to talk to everyone I can manage, every time I see them. Even if just a few words, checking they're having a good time."

"They look like they are," she observes, and if there's a wistful note in her voice, she's not aware of it.

Besides, it's true: of the people in their immediate field of vision, from the tall leonine man with his hair (mane?) in a whiplike braid to the cluster of vampires in velvet and leather, everyone does indeed seem to be having a good time.