milliways_bar | (no subject)

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*Yesterday, he used the wishing ring.*

*And last night, he bought a bottle of Jack Daniels and systematically got himself drunk. One night, he reassured Jonathan; he'd earned one night.*

*Despite the headache, and despite the odd bad dreams -- being back at Milliways was in there somewhere, and near the end of the night a distant echo of the really bad ones he hasn't had in more than a year -- despite all that, or perhaps because of it, he isn't regretting the one night's drunk. It's out of his system now, and it feels like against all expectation it's cleared his head.*

*Tomorrow night they go to find Angel, he and Jonathan, and find out what happens next.*

*Tonight he's here to find Meg, and find out much the same thing.*

*The front door opens, and in steps Andrew Wells, already looking around.*

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*Due to a series of unfortunate events involving a creator spirit and a Buddhist monkey shaped like a pig, Meg's nice, quiet booth in the corner far away from the door was shattered into several million pieces.

Meg, her coffee, and her history book are therefore now sitting at a table in the middle of the bar.

From which the door is all too easily visible.*

*Andrew sees her.*

*And tries to smile, but it's like his mouth can't remember how.*

*And starts to move, slowly, in her direction.*

*Meg's face is pale and set.

Her hands are knotted tightly around her coffee cup.

At Andrew's attempt at a smile, she smiles back at him - easy, reassuring and false, and her knuckles tense on the cup.*

*He makes it to the table somehow, and sits down across from her.*

Hey.

*It's barely a whisper; even the single word is hard to say.*

Salut, Andrew.

*Meg's eyes don't move from his face.*

...Okay.

Okay we need to talk. And we --

I think we can work this out.

I want to try.

*An exhalation of breath.

(Meg hadn't realized she was holding it.)*

- okay.

*She gestures around at the bar, a little vaguely.*

- here? Or should we go - I dunno, upstairs or what?

*A pause.*

Is here okay?

- yeah, *Meg says, after a beat, and looks down, into her coffee cup.*

Here's okay.

*Aiming for humor:* I mean, we might get crashed in on by a monk or an invisible man or something, but other than that -

...we could go upstairs, if you'd rather.

Or, or outside maybe?

Well, I already got a monkey crashing through my table once tonight - they're probably like lightning, don't strike the same person twice in one night at least, *Meg says, lightly, and shrugs, a little.*

Whatever'll - you know, be most comfortable for you.

*Andrew glances around.*

*The main bar is a little crowded and noisy tonight; and it's a measure of his intent focus, maybe, that he hasn't noticed this until just now.*

-- okay, yeah.

Somewhere quieter.

*Meg hesitates for a long moment, glancing between the stairs and the back door.

Finally, a little wry:* I don't think you getting pneumonia's going to help us, here.

... is it that cold out?

. . . in the way, *Meg says, almost amused,* where there's snow on the ground, oui.

...okay.

Okay your call.

*He doesn't want to go upstairs; that's easy enough to tell.

Meg supposes she can't blame him for that.*

We could, *she suggests, a little hesitantly,* go to one of the buildings outside -

Sounds good.

*He manages to keep from sounding impatient, but ... this is not what they should be discussing.*

*Meg is dead.

She has all the time in the world.*

Eh bien, then, *she says, and her voice is smaller, because she knows what she's about to do to him, even if he doesn't, yet.*

Come on -

*She rises, relinquishing the coffee cup with some reluctance, and heads for the back door.*

*He follows her out, and through the snow -- it's not too deep tonight, which is good because he's wearing sneakers, not boots --*

*and he freezes in his tracks for just a moment, as he sees where she's heading.*

*Meg glances over her shoulder, to see if he's still following.

She half expects him not to be.*

*He's followed her out here once before, since her death. Followed her footprints through the snow.*

*He can follow her this time too.*

*As she reaches the door, Meg pulls it open; holds it for him.*

It's always warm in there, *she says - almost matter-of-factly.*

Sort of the point of the greenhouse. For the plants, and all.

Yeah.

*And if he's shivering, it's probably just from the walk through the snow.*

*No. No, it isn't.*

I was really - well, freaked out to come here, at first, *Meg continues, her tone still quite calm; and releases the handle of the door, letting it fall shut.*

Right after - couldn't even look at it.