milliways_bar | (no subject)

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He isn't going to keep carrying around Baby's inert mobile forever. That'd just be morbid.

But he tried keeping it in his room upstairs, and that's worse somehow. It looks like a toy, sitting there. Like nothing that was ever really important.

So he's bringing it downstairs to try to find somewhere better to keep it. Maybe a shrine over the bar, like the memorial for Bernard and Tonks, if Bar herself wouldn't find that too painful. Or maybe in the Security office, in a storage closet there or something, so that if Baby ever -- if she ever does come back --

Right now Andrew's sitting by the fireplace, watching the fish swim in and out of the flames, with a mug of Irish coffee in his hand and a little metallic arachnoid in his lap.

Botherable.

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"Baby's gone."

He pulls the limp mobile into his lap.

"Since that day. She, the cells are working fine, but ..."

"Oh, shit."

He stares at the mobile, then back at Andrew.

"Is it, like, a mechanical thing? 'Cause Dean's pretty good with that stuff--"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. I don't -- I don't think so, it's not -- she isn't a machine. She's magic. And the magic got so disrupted here at the end, and maybe Tim could fix her but he hasn't been back in years, and --"

And I was supposed to take care of her.

"But if the cells are working, and Bar is too again..."

He glances down at the immobile metal spider, and his jaw sets.

"There's got to be a way. There's got to be something."

Like what? he wants to ask, and doesn't.

"If there is," he says, "we'll find it."

It sounds hollow in his own ears.

It rings painfully familiar to him, and he can only hope nothing of it shows on his face.

Surely we - I - can't fail again.

"We will," he says, quietly. "You will. She'll be okay."

Andrew breathes in, and out.

"So," hesitantly, "meanwhile ... how are you guys doing?"

"Been busy," he admits, "but we're doing okay."

"Anything ... serious going on?" Hesitant.

"Yeah, you could say that." Sam sounds a little sour about it.

"Guess it's apocalypses all around these days."

"What kind?" he asks, with both personal and professional interest.

"The kind involving the final cagematch between angels and demons?"

"... wait, actual Plains of Megido apocalypse? Hosts of Heaven versus hosts of Hell? Antichrist walking the earth, rivers and seas boiling ...?"

"Nothing's boiled yet, and Lucifer's still sealed in the Pit," Sam informs him, flatly.

"We're just gonna have to keep it that way."

Faintly: "Actual Lucifer?"

"Looks like it."

Andrew swears weakly, in Quenya.

"... so, like I said," Sam concludes, "we've been busy."

"Yeah." He shakes his head. "Do you guys need any help on this one?"

"I'll let you know if anything comes up."

"Thanks," he says, quietly. "Things have been kinda slow back home, and ... it'd be good to have something to do."

"I can safely say that 'slow' isn't even close to what we've going on, so... yeah," Sam tells him.

"There'll be something."

He nods.

And tries not to think about how badly he failed last time Sam needed his help.

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