milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Kaylee didn't go home last night, either.

The room is nice enough, and quiet enough, and when the quiet starts to press in she can go downstairs and sit off somewhere out of sight and listen in. That's what she's doing right now -- sitting at a table by the wall with a cup of black coffee in front of her, and a half-finished bowl of soup that's been pushed aside. She's still holding herself like she thinks she takes up too much space, and she isn't looking up very much, but -- the soup was pretty good, at least what she had of it.

Tugging the sleeves of her shirt down over her hands, she rakes her fingers through her hair, and reaches for her coffee.

(Near the wall: a blossom, and a note.

They didn't make her smile. They did make her cry.)

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This is the longest SARAH has been in Milliways in one stretch, and it's starting to become disconcerting. She'd closed her outer door earlier while she was working on Doctor Stantz's map, and now that she's active again the steel door in Kaylee's vicinity creaks open.

"Is the soup not very enjoyable?" asks no one that Kaylee can see.

Kaylee sits up very straight very fast.

...nobody's around.

SARAH's really going to need to get a sign.

"I'm the door. Really, I promise. About ten meters behind you?"

Kaylee turns around -- very, very slowly --

And blinks.

"Hi. My name is SARAH; what's your name?"

No point in not being friendly. Besides, it probably helps after the whole Magical Talking Door thing.

"Kaylee," she says immediately, still wide-eyed. "I -- "

"What?"

"Self Actuated Residential Automated Habitat," SARAH is quite eager and willing to explain. "...Yes, that does mean I am a house. And not a fat one. Jack Bauer has yet to apologize."

"Houses...ain't fat." Kaylee sounds more confused than anything else. "They're...structure-like."

"Precisely what I explained to him." An appropriate pause for a sigh, if SARAH had a respiratory system. "Men. Would you care to visit? My exterior camera isn't the best."

"Um."

No. She wouldn't. For a multitude of reasons.

"...maybe not just now." Beat. "Thanks, though."

That last is a little hastily said.

"Oh. That's alright. I'll just be over here if you need me."

For absolutely no reason that SARAH can really think of.

A glass of wine sets itself down on the table, moments before someone folds themselves into the booth opposite Kaylee.

"Wow," Crowley says, not unkindly, "who shat in your handbag?"

Kaylee's sudden glance upward is both surprised and uncomprehending.

"You don't look like you're in the best mood," Crowley explains. "What've I missed?"

Kaylee's mouth presses into a line, and she looks down.

"I -- "

"Lost. The baby."

The last is barely audible.

Crowley. looks. mortified.

"Oh, shit," he says without thinking.

And then looks worse.

"Five hundred years from now you're gonna help out a lot," she tells him, dully. She doesn't look up. "Don't worry about it."

"Sorry," he says, cringing. "And - sorry. Fuck. I'm sorry."

"Apologizin' makes it worse." Half a shrug. "Ain't like I don't know there's nothin' to say."

"Well, no," Crowley admits, awkwardly. "But especially not 'who shat in your handbag?'. Er."

"...I don't suppose I could get you to stop sayin' that." Toneless.

"...Yeah," he says.

"I'm - should I just go?"

"Up to you."

She leans her head against the wall, and closes her eyes. "I'm -- "

And swallows.

" -- not exactly the best company just now."

"But I'm just an arsehole, so that works out."

He looks as though he's contemplating reaching out for her hand; eventually, he compromises by brushing his fingers against the back of her knuckles before retreating to the safety of his wineglass.

Her hand moves toward his; it's a sudden, inelegant thing that quickly turns into a tightly curled fist.

"Hey," he says, and though his hands are thin, they're large enough still for his to cover hers almost entirely.

Eyes stinging, mouth flattening into a line --

Tight: "If I cry I'm sorry, but -- can't control it much -- "

"Er. I mean, no - that's okay," Crowley corrects hurriedly, rummaging in his Tonks pocket. "I have - "

He proffers a handkerchief, creased but carefully folded.

(In the corner, embroidered in pale grey, E.F.)

Kaylee shakes her head hurriedly. "No -- the goal -- it's kind of not to -- "

One corner of the handkerchief dangles like a white flag from Crowley's fingertips.

"Why not?" he asks.

"Because I'm sick of it."

She doesn't mean for the words to burst out, exactly.

"I generally imagined it'd be worse to repress it," Crowley reasons with blithe hypocrisy - but he sets the handkerchief down on the table. "Though I wouldn't actually know."

"That ain't so," Kaylee says quietly, withdrawing. "But -- good to know."

No, it's not.

"Well, I don't - my eyes," he explains (badly). "I don't have any tear-ducts. So I don't... know. But if you say it isn't worse to stop yourself crying, then..."

Oh.

Crying. Not --

Oh.

Kaylee wraps her hands around her cup of coffee. Barely audible: "Just -- "

"It's...embarrassin'. And after a while it -- hurts. Your eyes."

"Okay," he says, not entirely convinced, but willing enough to go with Kaylee on this one.

(And if it means she doesn't cry on him... well. It's not that - he's gotten a lot better. But still.)

"Okay."

She bows her head a little further.

...there really isn't much to say.

(She spent most of today --

Well.

It's -- been a bad day.)

Crowley sorts through his options (wondering if there's anything he can do is perhaps the stupidest question possible, and she's probably sick of people asking; she's in Milliways, and can order from a waitrat anything he could offer to fetch; asking about Simon might make her cry again) and soon comes to the same conclusion.

There really isn't much to say.

But that's alright. When your - well, when you spend a lot of time around a bibliophile, keeping silent company comes easy.

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