milliways_bar | (no subject)

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When Sariel walks through the door tonight (it would've led to her quarters, if there hadn't been an interdimensional pub in the way), the first thing she notices is not the hole in the floor, nor the rotting back doorframe. It's the strange, unsettling shimmer to the place.

She freezes. One arm lifts, and is intently gazed at. Hand, wrist, sleeve, not to mention the floor beneath.

"Oh, no. My God."

The first two words are at normal volume. The second are much quieter, though still audible if anyone's near. A couple more might also be heard if you listen, but unless you speak Lucian Kweyol, they might not translate very well. General consternation and dismay probably will, though.

She's almost grateful, once she turns in place, that her still-manifest door refuses to open when she tries it. Given the way she's now glowing, she isn't at all sure going back to the Enterprise would be a good idea if the door worked. Risking contamination of her entire ship by... whatever this is isn't something she has any desire to do.

That doesn't mean she's happy. Oh no.

She eventually ends up at an unoccupied table. We say eventually because the slightly steaming teakettle that's been placed on the table's surface will probably be familiar to anyone who's seen Sariel's room upstairs. It's fair to say, given how normal (if semi-transparent) they look, that the handful of assorted teabags alongside it probably came from there too. It's a passing waitrat, however, who adds a pair of mugs to the setup. Sariel only fills one, but so far, she hasn't taken a sip.

She's looking... well. The bar is all but cracking apart, she's cut off from her ship, the whole room and its contents are glowing, and even though the third is a valid enough reason for the second...

Several descriptors could honestly be applied here, all of them different. Cheerful isn't one of them.

On the bright side, she at least seems inclined to share her tea. The presence of the second mug says as much, if you don't know Sariel herself.

It's the little things.

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John is tired and pale from stress, laptop cluched under his arm. (He's wearing a gun, because fuck it, everything is so screwed up he's way less interested in blending so much as survival if anything else happens. And he can't get outside to his cache.) He's picking his way across the room.

He stops when he catches sight of Sariel's expression. "Hey," he asks, concerned, "are you ok?"

If Sariel were a more blunt person, she might well say that John looks worse than she does just now. As is, she isn't, even though he does... and try following that one without reading it twice over. The passing young man's pale, worn look isn't missed, anyhow. Her answer is almost as serious as her expression. "I... under the circumstances, I suppose so." Dark eyes flick from the surface of the table to the back door, to the crystal over the bar, to the front door and back. As in those circumstances, in other words. Beat. "Thank you." Another beat. "Are you? You look--"

Under the circumstances, the same ones, she doesn't especially need to finish that sentence.

He laughs, quietly, rubbing his eyes with his hand. "Yeah, the same I guess. A bit freaked out, really. They need me at home, and --"

He honestly isn't sure if the bar is going to last much longer, but he doesn't want to say it. "The door's gone, is all."

"I'm John," he says, extending his hand. "America, Earth, 2007."

Oh, but that sounds similar to what's in the back of Sariel's mind, consciously or otherwise. Not that she's the only, not that she's the best, but she has duties. And she has loyalties. And... And maybe they do need her there. Starfleet needs every one of its own.

And she needs, wants, in return, in her way. No maybe about it.

"And me, in my universe," Sariel agrees. Or maybe commiserates. It's hard to tell. "My door is still visible, but doesn't respond," she says. That hand is accepted - and does hers glow, just for the briefest instant, before regaining proper form? "Sariel Rager, Earth's island of Saint Lucia, though currently in deep space. 2370."

Being freaked out goes without saying. So do unspoken - unthought, or at least unacknowledged - suspicions.

That's what John means -- he has a door, but it's not working like one. He's picked up the term, having not realized some people's doors literally disappear.

"Deep space?" He asks, curious, before looking uncertain. "Or, --uh, are you waiting for someone?"

Given the two cups. He doesn't want to take up her time.

Will knows he should go back to Sherwood as everything here seems to get stranger each passing day, it's just hard to leave.

When he sees Sariel, he moves to sit beside her, focusing on the tea and trying not to think of all that's visible and falling apart, "'ow do ye fare, Sariel as we near the End o'Days?"

Sariel slides that second mug toward him almost immediately. It's not just habit; it's decency, and it's quiet comeraderie, and it's just so very Sariel besides. "Hello, Will," she says, and she *is* glad to see him, though her voice is understandably serious all the way through.

"My door is still visible, but it refuses to open." She doesn't call it the end of days, herself. Not out loud. There must be a reason for all of this. There must be some method of reversal or stabilization.

There's no denying the ominous signs all but crowding the place, though.

"Are you--" she doesn't say alright. "--how are you?"

He takes it and wraps his hands around it, looking into the tea,

"I need to return to Sherwood soon but dinna wish to. I'm needed there but canna 'magine na 'avin' a way back 'ere."

"I can't imagine it either," Sariel admits. It's quiet, but it's audible. "Not after--after everything that's happened here."

A little bird - a lost memory - a half-dozen costumes - bad nights - celebrations - two brawls - at least one dance - a wake - a reunion - a violation - prayers - songs

Captain Kirk. Valerie. Yrael. Tanya. Lucy. Harding. Ben. Seymour. River. Demeter. Teller. Will himself. Gene.

"At the moment, I'm grateful my door still exists, but if it refuses to open..." Her problem, from one angle, is the opposite of Will's.

She doesn't like to think about what she'd do if it did open. This doesn't stop her thinking about it, though.

"Aye, but e'en if it's there when do ye choose to leave,"

That's what Will doesn't know what to do as he's needed in Sherwood but it's hard to think of going. He's been changed by Milliways in ways he never expected.

"And when do you choose to stay," she agrees. Pause. "I owe so much to so many here. To Milliways itself." Half a beat, if that. "But at the same time, my own world... needs me."

There's no such thing as an expendable crewman.

The look she casts toward her door is almost guilty. Both hands are wrapped around her own mug, now.

"Aye, isna an easy choice an wish I didna 'ave to think 'bout it,"

Either way he ends up hurting and worrying for a place he can't be.

"So do I," Sariel admits, quietly.

She wonders if that reaction isn't unbecoming an officer. Acting on it, she's sure, would be far more so. Not that Will can know this.

Her tea is giving off lavender-scented steam. Some things don't change.

Will reaches out to squeeze her hand, "Just 'ave to 'ope for a way through."

The only way out is--

That's a horrible phrase, sometimes.

Sariel's hand closes on Will's and squeezes in reply. Not overly hard; she's not out to break his fingers. But there's a certain deft strength in her grip, and no mistake.

She's not looking at him.

It's not what Will would choose for but he's holding onto any hope he can find.

He squeezes her hand in return, they'll find a way through. They're survived too much not to.

Too right, they have.

"If I'm able to leave," Sariel says, and her voice comes out more matter-of-fact than she expects, "I'm going to take a few things I've been given here with me." Half a beat. Three quarters. "If it's true that carrying an object from the bar can act as a--" she will not say homing beacon. "--tracking device, making it easier to find Milliways from another universe..."

Three notes. Three feathers. A pendant in the shape of an oak.

The candles are staying where they are. Some part of her is definite on that already.

That's not desperate. Not truly. But it's also more than garden variety hopeful.

And maybe it helps.

"Aye, if there's a way back, we'll find it. I'll stay as long as I can. If I can fight for Milliways, I will,"

That's what he knows how to do and so he will do it.

"And I will, if I'm able."

If she's here. If she can help.

Do the right thing.

"I'm going to try to go back, at least--" she doesn't finish that sentence. "But I'll also try to find a working door back to the bar, if I'm able to."

You don't just walk out on disaster. Not if you're Starfleet, and not if you're Sariel. You help.

You do. the. right. thing.

Even if the possibilities--and there are more than a few, here--knot your insides like an ancient clothesline.

But that doesn't matter. You help. You'll never do any less.

Not if you're Starfleet. Especially not if you're Sariel.

"Aye, ye'll do what ye can. I trust ye, Sariel, an 'ope to see ye beyond this place,"

Wherever and whenever that may be.

That gets to her.

my first duty

She's trying not to be too obvious about showing it, but that

he's my friend

hits home, say true.

takes one to know one

"We'll both do what we can." She sounds certain of that. She is. Her trust is unspoken, but to someone who knows her

and they're so alike, in some ways

it's clear.

Beat. One and a half, one and three quarters, two-- "And Will?"

Sariel's not overly demonstrative as a rule. She's not truly standoffish, but she doesn't touch so easily as some others, shipmates included. Her grace is a streamlined thing, generally.

This time, though?

This time it might be the end of the bloody world, at least in this corner of spacetime, and Sariel's young and aching and saying (it isn't goodbye, yet) to her arguably closest friend in the bar.

This time she reaches out to hug him first.

Will's glad of the hug and gathers her close, sometimes you just need to be close to someone who understands.

Too right, you do.

Takes one to know one, say true and say sorry.

And say thankya, too.

Sariel does, eventually, try her door again. It does eventually work. And she does, when she uses it--and she does use it, but not for the last time if she has any say--carry a few things with her. There's caution, and then there's having a heart, and Sariel's got no shortage of either heart or mind. Never will, either.

Three notes; one in French, two in English. Three feathers. ; blue, green, orange. Two origami figures; a black and yellow koi, a bird in similar colors to the feathers themselves. A pendant in the shape of an oak tree.

She has the original photographs, up to and including what Tyler wrote on the back of one, in her quarters aboard ship.

She won't refuse to accept an obvious ending, if one absolutely can't be avoided. But if it can?

She's not bold. But she'll fight, then. Oh yes.

The candles stay where they are.

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