milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Sansa comes downstairs, in a long dress of black lambswool. A cloak is slung over one arm - someone's planning to go for a walk after breakfast.

She sits at Bar, orders some porridge and milk, and begins eating. As she eats, she watches the crowd. It's such habit that she doesn't notice anything new until her porridge is almost gone.

Sansa sees the Door.

A startled motion tips her glass of milk, which thunks against the bartop and spills its contents onto the floor.

"Oh." If she can speak, this means this isn't a dream. You can't speak the words you want to in dreams. "Oh."

The Door.

For a time, Sansa sits on her stool, motionless. Then she begins wiping away small, stray tears.

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"That too, yes."

A grin.

"Butcher...might bring back unpleasant memories." Sansa wrinkles her nose.

"...just a bit."

Mal winces.

This is what happens when you speak before thinking, Sansa.

"A dose of home should cure me of brainless slips like that," she says apologetically.

"No, no. That's fine."

"I think I should start preparing for it," Sansa says after a moment of silence.

"When," if, "I come back, we will speak again."

Sansa is still not quite at the hugging stage with Mal.

"We will."

It's a promise.

There's a dip of her head - acknowledgment of a promise made.

To be kept, if the universe wills it.

Sansa then asks for a quill, an inkpot, and paper from bar. She can't count on meeting everyone today, so she has some notes that need to be sent.

Mal gets up, wandering over to the lake door, and slipping out.

She hopes they'll meet again.

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