Rude Awakening
If there's one thing you can never get enough of, it's the kind of dream that leaves you perplexed as opposed to terrified, that has your dream self go 'what the fudge' with a smile, that leaves your rational side going along for the ride because it isn't all that weird. It seems almost real, or as if it could be.
The thoughts of the evening before follows Lorne in his sleep, sending his brain working over drive with that teeny tiny little think tank that wasn't even barely worth mentioning. But it's a string of thoughts he holds on to, even in his dreams. Would things be different if he'd been born to a Human mother? Would he be different? Would he fit in, not fitting in, no matter where he went except Pylea, where he never fit in, and wouldn't, as a 'cow'?
Morning comes like most mornings do after one too many Gee n' Tees - he never could hold his gin, poor fellow - with the Mother of Migraines. And he does know a thing or fifty about Mothers. And Migraines. Neither are something you look forward to, first thing in the morning.
His tongue feels like a desert crawled in and claimed it and his throat as its nest. Moving is quite obviously out of the question, because even attempting to open his eyes is a definite no-no. A no-nodon'tyouevengothere.
But eventually, after sleeping another few half hours after another, two things come to mind. Bubble bath awesome. Brushing teeth even awesomer.
Robe on, he slouches and drags his feet, shushing at the paintings and sentient statues and armor displays all the way to the closest bathroom. First, brush teeth. Done. Clean mouth awesome. Throbbing head and chest not awesome. Nausea not helping.
But even in the blissful semi dark of the bathroom, Lorne notices something strange. He looks up, meeting his reflection in the mirror, who promptly makes a quip.
"Looks like the Blue Fairy got the wrong address, luv."
Lorne takes one, good, squinty-eyed look at himself, and does what all real men do in such situations.
He faints.
The thoughts of the evening before follows Lorne in his sleep, sending his brain working over drive with that teeny tiny little think tank that wasn't even barely worth mentioning. But it's a string of thoughts he holds on to, even in his dreams. Would things be different if he'd been born to a Human mother? Would he be different? Would he fit in, not fitting in, no matter where he went except Pylea, where he never fit in, and wouldn't, as a 'cow'?
Morning comes like most mornings do after one too many Gee n' Tees - he never could hold his gin, poor fellow - with the Mother of Migraines. And he does know a thing or fifty about Mothers. And Migraines. Neither are something you look forward to, first thing in the morning.
His tongue feels like a desert crawled in and claimed it and his throat as its nest. Moving is quite obviously out of the question, because even attempting to open his eyes is a definite no-no. A no-nodon'tyouevengothere.
But eventually, after sleeping another few half hours after another, two things come to mind. Bubble bath awesome. Brushing teeth even awesomer.
Robe on, he slouches and drags his feet, shushing at the paintings and sentient statues and armor displays all the way to the closest bathroom. First, brush teeth. Done. Clean mouth awesome. Throbbing head and chest not awesome. Nausea not helping.
But even in the blissful semi dark of the bathroom, Lorne notices something strange. He looks up, meeting his reflection in the mirror, who promptly makes a quip.
"Looks like the Blue Fairy got the wrong address, luv."
Lorne takes one, good, squinty-eyed look at himself, and does what all real men do in such situations.
He faints.