Who: Lorne Cameron and Gemma Davenport What: She should be used to Scottish guys randomly showing up at her house by now? When: Tuesday Night Where: Gemma's House
Most people, when possessed of a few days off and not much to do, would relax at home, or watch the footie, or maybe find a nice beach somewhere to lay around and sip drinks with little green umbrellas in them. Lorne Cameron was not most people. He packed a bag, trekked to the nearest local Agency office, hopped on the MTN and attempted not to get lost in California while he tracked down the barrister who had been prosecuting and was now shagging his fugitive brother. At the very least, he couldn't say that his life wasn't interesting.
Finding the address he'd tracked down (through his superior deductive skills, and netdetective.com, the preferred tool of would-be-vigilantes who happen to have £15), he stood outside, a dark shadow hanging around the warm, moonlit street. He felt extremely out of place, certain that he stuck out like a sore thumb.
He was also in no hurry to knock on the door and confront the woman, because, as he'd realized about the same moment he'd arrived, he had no idea what he was going to say. There was no particularly good way to explain his presence here. Curiosity? Concern? Both were certainly at play, although if he was honest, curiosity was mostly to blame. That coupled with the notion that he might be able to talk her out of whatever she was doing, whether this was a trap or just the incredibly bad idea it seemed like. Maybe he could threaten her, or bribe her, or just appeal to the better angels of her nature. The last one was the only one Lorne actually had any shot at, without the funds or the glower that certain other people had. Fletcher would probably kill him if he found out, but at least his half-brother would be free and alive long enough to be pissed at him.
A little more than an hour passed as he meandered around the neighborhood, finally coming back to where he'd started. He considered just leaving, but that would be crazy. Not that going ahead with this didn't have its fair share of crazy too. Neither decision made sense, so he hesitated. No one did hesitation and indecision quite like Lorne. He was a master.
...and thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action...
Lorne shook his head, as if he could dislodge both the Dane and the soliloquy. "Oh do shut up."