turn around, bright eyes
Meg steps out of Milliways and onto the sidewalk in front Marie-Laure and Sylvie's cafe, where thirty days (and all of two minutes) ago she had . . . something. She can't remember what. Hot chocolate, probably, and . . . some kind of pastry.
She stands on the sidewalk for a moment, trying to remember. Trying to remember that it's only the seventh of September. Trying to remember how to be the girl who stepped into Milliways thirty days (and five minutes) ago. She's not sure she can, and oh, but that's almost disturbingly like the phrase she used to describe Dean to Castiel, isn't it?
She might well have just gone on standing there, if it hadn't been for a man walking a trio of dogs, who told her to get out of the way with something less than good grace. Meg apologizes, steps out of the way, and then starts down the street in the opposite direction, despite the fact that she needs to go the other way to get home.
She starts out with a vague notion that she can circle the block, let the man and his dogs get well ahead of her, but once she starts walking, she just . . . keeps walking. She's only about half-aware of her surroundings -- she doesn't walk into people or step out into traffic, but she pays no attention to the buildings on either side of her, couldn't tell you what streets she's been down.
She certainly doesn't look at the sky, so the rain, when it starts, is a complete surprise. There should be a small umbrella in her bag, but no, it's in one of the drawers in Castiel's desk at the end of the universe.
Meg checks to make sure she hasn't left behind her wallet, too, then walks until she finds a taxi and asks the driver to take her home. He's chatty, and while Meg tried to keep up her half of the conversation, it's a losing effort. She is, to borrow a phrase, a little rusty. Like after thirty days (and 113 minutes), she has somehow caught Dean's awkwardness with idle conversation. The driver gives up halfway there. Meg overtips him as an apology.
She lets herself into her apartment. Olivia should be out, she thinks (is it Thursday?), but Carrie might be there or--
"Meg?"
-- or Alain might be sitting on her couch.
"Alain?"
Why is Alain sitting on her couch?
"My God, you're soaked. Come here," he says, pulling the blanket off the arm of the couch and wrapping it around her shoulders. A second later he pulls her into a hug and then just holds her, her cheek against his chest and his chin on top of her head.
It's the first time in thirty days (and 124 minutes) that she's felt like she could breathe properly.
"I was starting to really worry about you. Where have you been?"
"What?" Meg asks, startled. Because he doesn't -- he can't -- know she's been gone.
Can he?
"I was supposed to pick you up an hour and a half ago," he says. "Carrie let me in to wait, but . . . I've never known you to be even five minutes late before, Meg. I thought something had happened to you."
Oh. Oh, that.
"I . . . I just forgot," Meg says. "I'm sorry."
Alain steps back enough to look at her. "You forgot?" he asks. "That's not like you."
"I know," she says. And it's really, really not.
"What's wrong? Please tell me," Alain says. And when Meg doesn't answer, he asks, "Are you sick?"
"No."
"Something with your parents?"
"No. No, they're fine."
"Are you leaving me?"
"What? No. Of course not."
"Then what?"
For one moment, Meg considers putting it off again. She's tired, she's shaken, she's hardly in the best frame of mind for this. But . . . well, anything else she tells him right now is a lie.
"We should sit," she says. "This is going to take a while."
And she has no idea how to start.
Meg looks down at the bracelets and the rubberband around her wrist, and then asks, "What would you say if I told you it had been a month since I saw you yesterday?"
Alain frowns. "This is, ah, like a . . . what's the word? . . . une énigme?"
"Riddle," Meg says. "And no. I mean I've literally lived though thirty days since yesterday."
"How is that possible?"
"I think I'm making a mess out of this. Let me start at the beginning, okay?"
"D'accord."
It takes an hour. She starts with Kim's disappearance and she tells him all of it -- Milliways. Angels and demons, wizards and vampires. Parker and Laura. Baseball and Ambergeldar. Parties and shopping trips to other worlds.
And what she's been doing for the thirty days since yesterday.
She watches his expression go from concerned to skeptical to incredulous and back to concerned. He doesn't say anything until she's done. And then he takes both her hands in both of his. "Ma belle," he says, gently.
"I know," Meg says. "Believe me, I know how it sounds."
"It sounds like you really believe everything you just told me."
Actually, Meg only believes parts of it. She believes, for example, that Castiel and Michael are who and what they say they are. The rest of it, however, she knows. But now is probably not the best time to get into that particular semantic point.
"Well, I do."
"Meg, what you're talking about, it's not possible," Alain says, slowly, and like he's trying to reason with a small child. Meg has to tell herself not to get offended by that.
"I know it sounds that way," she says. "But--"
"But what? You're telling me that you . . . that there is a magical bar that follows you around Montreal, and you go there and you talk to angels and wizards and vampires and . . . werewolves."
"Well, that's not quite how I would phrase it, and if any of the people I know are werewolves, I'm not aware of it, but aside from that . . . yes. That's what I'm telling you."
Alain reaches out to lay the back of his hand against her forehead.
"I'm not feverish. I'm not delusional. I'm not hallucinating. I'm not drunk. I'm not high."
"It's real?" he asks.
"Yes."
"All right, then take me there," Alain says.
"What?"
"This bar of yours, this Milliways. Take me there."
"I wish I could," Meg says. "But I don't think it works that way. I don't know what decides who gets to go and who doesn't, but . . . I don't think I can just take you."
"Then bring me something from there. Something that could only have come from there."
Meg's eyes go to the bracelet Laura gave her last Christmas, which has been around her wrist every day since, and which Alain has seen easily a hundred times. "How would you know it really came from there?"
Alain opens his mouth and then closes it again. "I guess I wouldn't. Why did you tell me all of this?"
"Because what I do there affects who I am here. And you should know about those things. That's only fair. To both of us."
Even if it doesn't feel that way right now.
"And have you told anyone else?"
"Just my parents." Alain's eyes widen, slightly, and she doesn't think he was expecting that answer. "Kim knows, of course, but I didn't tell her."
Alain sighs. "I really want to believe you, Meg."
"But you don't?"
"I don't know," he says. "I don't know what to do. I need to think."
"I understand."
And she does. She really, really does.
Alain stands. "You should get some rest," he says, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "I'll call you later, okay?"
"Okay," Meg says.
"Maybe you'll feel better in the morning," he adds.
Meg kind of doubts it.
She stands on the sidewalk for a moment, trying to remember. Trying to remember that it's only the seventh of September. Trying to remember how to be the girl who stepped into Milliways thirty days (and five minutes) ago. She's not sure she can, and oh, but that's almost disturbingly like the phrase she used to describe Dean to Castiel, isn't it?
She might well have just gone on standing there, if it hadn't been for a man walking a trio of dogs, who told her to get out of the way with something less than good grace. Meg apologizes, steps out of the way, and then starts down the street in the opposite direction, despite the fact that she needs to go the other way to get home.
She starts out with a vague notion that she can circle the block, let the man and his dogs get well ahead of her, but once she starts walking, she just . . . keeps walking. She's only about half-aware of her surroundings -- she doesn't walk into people or step out into traffic, but she pays no attention to the buildings on either side of her, couldn't tell you what streets she's been down.
She certainly doesn't look at the sky, so the rain, when it starts, is a complete surprise. There should be a small umbrella in her bag, but no, it's in one of the drawers in Castiel's desk at the end of the universe.
Meg checks to make sure she hasn't left behind her wallet, too, then walks until she finds a taxi and asks the driver to take her home. He's chatty, and while Meg tried to keep up her half of the conversation, it's a losing effort. She is, to borrow a phrase, a little rusty. Like after thirty days (and 113 minutes), she has somehow caught Dean's awkwardness with idle conversation. The driver gives up halfway there. Meg overtips him as an apology.
She lets herself into her apartment. Olivia should be out, she thinks (is it Thursday?), but Carrie might be there or--
"Meg?"
-- or Alain might be sitting on her couch.
"Alain?"
Why is Alain sitting on her couch?
"My God, you're soaked. Come here," he says, pulling the blanket off the arm of the couch and wrapping it around her shoulders. A second later he pulls her into a hug and then just holds her, her cheek against his chest and his chin on top of her head.
It's the first time in thirty days (and 124 minutes) that she's felt like she could breathe properly.
"I was starting to really worry about you. Where have you been?"
"What?" Meg asks, startled. Because he doesn't -- he can't -- know she's been gone.
Can he?
"I was supposed to pick you up an hour and a half ago," he says. "Carrie let me in to wait, but . . . I've never known you to be even five minutes late before, Meg. I thought something had happened to you."
Oh. Oh, that.
"I . . . I just forgot," Meg says. "I'm sorry."
Alain steps back enough to look at her. "You forgot?" he asks. "That's not like you."
"I know," she says. And it's really, really not.
"What's wrong? Please tell me," Alain says. And when Meg doesn't answer, he asks, "Are you sick?"
"No."
"Something with your parents?"
"No. No, they're fine."
"Are you leaving me?"
"What? No. Of course not."
"Then what?"
For one moment, Meg considers putting it off again. She's tired, she's shaken, she's hardly in the best frame of mind for this. But . . . well, anything else she tells him right now is a lie.
"We should sit," she says. "This is going to take a while."
And she has no idea how to start.
Meg looks down at the bracelets and the rubberband around her wrist, and then asks, "What would you say if I told you it had been a month since I saw you yesterday?"
Alain frowns. "This is, ah, like a . . . what's the word? . . . une énigme?"
"Riddle," Meg says. "And no. I mean I've literally lived though thirty days since yesterday."
"How is that possible?"
"I think I'm making a mess out of this. Let me start at the beginning, okay?"
"D'accord."
It takes an hour. She starts with Kim's disappearance and she tells him all of it -- Milliways. Angels and demons, wizards and vampires. Parker and Laura. Baseball and Ambergeldar. Parties and shopping trips to other worlds.
And what she's been doing for the thirty days since yesterday.
She watches his expression go from concerned to skeptical to incredulous and back to concerned. He doesn't say anything until she's done. And then he takes both her hands in both of his. "Ma belle," he says, gently.
"I know," Meg says. "Believe me, I know how it sounds."
"It sounds like you really believe everything you just told me."
Actually, Meg only believes parts of it. She believes, for example, that Castiel and Michael are who and what they say they are. The rest of it, however, she knows. But now is probably not the best time to get into that particular semantic point.
"Well, I do."
"Meg, what you're talking about, it's not possible," Alain says, slowly, and like he's trying to reason with a small child. Meg has to tell herself not to get offended by that.
"I know it sounds that way," she says. "But--"
"But what? You're telling me that you . . . that there is a magical bar that follows you around Montreal, and you go there and you talk to angels and wizards and vampires and . . . werewolves."
"Well, that's not quite how I would phrase it, and if any of the people I know are werewolves, I'm not aware of it, but aside from that . . . yes. That's what I'm telling you."
Alain reaches out to lay the back of his hand against her forehead.
"I'm not feverish. I'm not delusional. I'm not hallucinating. I'm not drunk. I'm not high."
"It's real?" he asks.
"Yes."
"All right, then take me there," Alain says.
"What?"
"This bar of yours, this Milliways. Take me there."
"I wish I could," Meg says. "But I don't think it works that way. I don't know what decides who gets to go and who doesn't, but . . . I don't think I can just take you."
"Then bring me something from there. Something that could only have come from there."
Meg's eyes go to the bracelet Laura gave her last Christmas, which has been around her wrist every day since, and which Alain has seen easily a hundred times. "How would you know it really came from there?"
Alain opens his mouth and then closes it again. "I guess I wouldn't. Why did you tell me all of this?"
"Because what I do there affects who I am here. And you should know about those things. That's only fair. To both of us."
Even if it doesn't feel that way right now.
"And have you told anyone else?"
"Just my parents." Alain's eyes widen, slightly, and she doesn't think he was expecting that answer. "Kim knows, of course, but I didn't tell her."
Alain sighs. "I really want to believe you, Meg."
"But you don't?"
"I don't know," he says. "I don't know what to do. I need to think."
"I understand."
And she does. She really, really does.
Alain stands. "You should get some rest," he says, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "I'll call you later, okay?"
"Okay," Meg says.
"Maybe you'll feel better in the morning," he adds.
Meg kind of doubts it.