milliways_bar | (no subject)

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(A few hours after this.)

The front door to Milliways opens on an early morning somewhere in the woods. Andrew Wells stumbles in, pale and shivering, a second jacket draped around his shoulders over the one he's already wearing; Sam Winchester is a few steps behind him, still outside. Andrew stops just inside the door to lean against the doorjamb, half-closing his eyes.

"Hey. Andrew."

It's quiet, but enough to get him to lift his head and look back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

Sam's face is unreadable. "Thanks for trying. Tell Mac I said I'm sorry, and goodbye."

Andrew's eyes fly wide, and he turns -- but Sam's already swinging the door to, and it shuts in his face before he can reach to stop it.

"Sam!" He pounds a fist against the door, stupidly, uselessly, as though Sam could hear him from the other side -- "Sam!"

[OOC: Sam is not taggable in this thread, but Andrew is. *cheerful* He's also being pretty noisy, so feel free to notice.]

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"Mi mesa es su mesa, mi amigo," he says, taking both drinks and leading the way half a step in front of Andrew. Right on over to his table, in the back.

He follows, increasingly slow, as though the floor is getting too steep to climb.

When they reach the table he folds into a chair, eyes closed.

Lorne says nothing, but pushes the glass close enough for Andrew to reach it. Then, taking his seat beside him rather than in front of him, knowing from experience it's easier to talk to someone if you don't have to face them head-on, he takes a deep breath.

Long green fingers curling around his own glass, he glances at his friend solemnly. "...anything you need, Andy. Just ask for it, I'll do what I can to help."

He shakes his head.

"I'm okay."

"I bet that's what you tell all the boys and girls," Lorne murmurs softly. He knows the feeling: You don't tell your friends if you're hurting, even if they saw the sucker punch in action.

"Go on, 'bro. Have a sip before you turn too cool for school."

He can barely taste the cocoa, but it slides warmly down, soothing his raw throat. And incidentally making him realize just how cold he is.

Another swallow.

The sugar ought to do him some good (Lorne hopes fervently), bring some color back to his face.

Lorne loves goths and emos and scene kids (so flamboyant and creative and sometimes colorful, what's not to love?), but Andrew's none of the above and the shade of pale he's currently sporting does not become him.

He sips his own drink - heavier on the liqueur, thanks Bar - and watches his friend. He tries not to worry, but if we're being honest that ship has sailed a long time ago.

"Thanks."

He looks up to say it, and catches the look of concern on Lorne's face.

You shouldn't have to look at someone like this, who's down and low and blue as they ever come and not know how to help.

Because that's just the thing, you want to help. You'd give your right arm and a leg free of charge just to make it better. You'd punch a girl in the face just to make her talk.

But most of all you just want to give the guy another bear hug until all the boo boos go away.

Lorne settles for a slight nod and an even slighter smile. "No problem. Anytime, anything I can do, you just tell me."

Andrew manages another smile at that, but it isn't much better than his first one.

"I'll be okay," he says, but his teeth start chattering in the middle of the final word.

This isn't happening.

His mind insists, countered by a very insistent skip of his heart. This isn't happening. The look on Andrew's face is getting to be physically painful, and Lorne just knows his tried and true approach of booze and sympathy won't work. Not this time.

"Hey..." He leans in, one hand finding its way to the center of his friend's back. "Yes, you will. Andy, sweetie, I know you. Whatever happened tonight is not your fault. I don't care what you did, because I know--"

Personal experience is backing him up here, and that isn't entirely painless either. He swallows tighter than he technically wants to, and sucks it up. "I know you did everything you could, and I know you did what you thought was right. Not only that, Buster, I bet you went above and beyond. It's what friends are for, and--" some of the fighting spirit evaporates like so much vapor.

"And you're pretty much the living embodiment of that sort of thing. It's your Thing. My Thing is handing out quasi-crappy advice, but you? You're like a vital support structure all on your own."

Andrew's back is cold to the touch, even through the fabric of his shirt and two jackets, and he's still shivering.

He doesn't seem to be paying any attention to that, though; he's blinking at Lorne, confusion coming into his face.

"H-how ... how did you know I was trying t' help?"

He won't tick off the clues one by one, at least not aloud, but between Andrew's general state of mind and body, and the fact the first thing he does when stepping in here is throw himself at the door yelling someone's name...

He knows it's bad.

And Andrew's always willing to help a friend. It's his Thing.

Not to mention he doesn't need to be anagogic to recognize the abject guilt radiating off of Andrew in waves.

"You're a sweetheart. It's what you do, and by the look on your face... You're feeling more than a touch guilty." He doesn't know how to explain.

"Listen, you need to get into some nice, clean clothes. Something warm and fuzzy, preferably. A bath might be good too, come to think of it. You're freezing."

"...maybe."

He looks down at the table, and takes another swallow of cocoa.

He was sort of hoping he got it more than half wrong rather than half right, but there you have it. He's on the right track, and he's still not sure he can help. Actually help. Help as in Big Picture style.

Matter of fact is he's growing less and less sure he can help with the big picture the longer he sits here and looks at his friend. But that doesn't mean he can't help with the individual bits of mosaic.

Like... Like cocoa. Like making sure Andrew's all right in the short term perspective. "Here... Let's get you out of those jackets. You can have mine. It's toasty and warm, I promise."

"Spell backlash," he says to the table.

He swallows, overcome by another wave of sympathy for the angel across the table. Reaching to help Andrew out of the damp jackets, he whispers back. "I'm sorry, peaches."

He mumbles something that might be it's okay as Lorne helps him struggle free of the jackets.

He's shivering harder than ever by the time that's done.

Worry: amping up by the millisecond.

Lorne wraps his own suit jacket over his friend's shoulders, scooting closer to keep one arm snugly around him, both hands rubbing his arms through the fabric.

Andrew leans unconsciously into the encircling arm.

"...that bath might be good."

One treacherous little though crosses his mind the split second before Andrew's voice reaches his ears: even with all the copper and smoke and damp, his hair smells nice underneath it all

"Come on, then. I'll take your cocoa. On three? And a-one and a-two..."

It's an effort, but he manages to get to his feet with Lorne supporting him.

"Thanks."

"What's your room number?"

In a lower voice, for discretion's sake (and for saving Andy a bit of dignity): "Just say the word if your legs want to do like a stack of cards, I'll give you a bipedal lift."

"Um --"

He blanks on the number for a moment, then digs a hand into his pocket.

"'S on the key," he mumbles, handing it across.

"Okay." He pockets the key, steering his friend towards the stairs. Hoping against hope that a bath will go a long way towards making things...if not right, then at least amp up the silver lining.

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