(Untitled)

[stilljustandrew]

[Out of Milliways: Not all of wisdom brings joy.]

*Out under the strange stars, a lone figure staggers along the lakeshore. His unsteadiness can be partly explained by half-empty bottle clutched loosely in one hand, but only partly; anyone close enough to see his face -- not that there is anybody, at the moment -- would be able to tell that

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[precocioustilda]

All right, so Tilda's out for a walk-- don't ask why; she does that-- and...

...

...Oh dear.

Very, very tentatively: "Andrew?"

[stilljustandrew]

*His head turns at the sound of his name, and he stops shouting.*

*Doesn't say anything, though.*

[precocioustilda]

'Are you all right?' would be a really, really stupid question.

So the one she asks instead is: "Want a hug?"

There'll be another one along in a minute.

[stilljustandrew]

*He pauses, and sits heavily on a nearby stone.*

...yeah.

[precocioustilda]

Then he gets one.

She even puts her bag down first.

And the next question: "Who's Q and do I need to kick his butt for you?"

Matilda Wormwood has a highly practical approach to comfort. Hugs, asskicking, and waffles. Order to be determined on a case-by-case basis. Optionally, in extreme cases, hot chocolate.

This is looking like a hot chocolate moment.

[stilljustandrew]

*When she puts down her bag, he realizes he should probably put down the bottle. This gives him two hands free to return the hug.*

*If she didn't see it before, she can feel it now: he's shaking.*

*His voice is muffled.* Don't. Just ... never mind about him.

[precocioustilda]

"Okay."

Steps one and two complete. The presence of the bottle suggests that delicious foodstuffs may not be terribly welcome, so she'll hold off on steps three and four for the moment.

And instead, as mentioned: hugs. She's good at them. It comes with the whole seven-year-old bit, really.

[stilljustandrew]

I needed a hug.

Oh god, I needed to be hugged.

*He sounds like he's crying. There is a very good reason for that.*

[precocioustilda]

"That's what I'm here for," Tilda says firmly, leaning her head against his and giving his shoulders a squeeze.

And not mentioning the crying, because sometimes boys are funny about these things.

But if she hears a sniffle, there will be a handkerchief produced.

[stilljustandrew]

*He lets go, and draws back a little, and blinks at her in the dimness.*

...what're you doin' out here anyway?

[precocioustilda]

There's a little bit of a smile when she lets go of him and answers, "Walking. And amateur astronomy."

C'mon, like Matilda can go five minutes without doing something academic.

[stilljustandrew]

Amateur astronomy, *he repeats, with a tiny wobbly trace of a smile.*

Nita took me to th'moon last week.

[precocioustilda]

She remembers Nita.

Taking a seat on a rock (there's enough of them that she hardly has to take a step to find a good one), she says, "Sounds like the sort of thing she'd do."

[stilljustandrew]

*He nods, and looks away.*

It was so cool.

*He sounds miserable about it.*

[precocioustilda]

The distance between them is short enough that patting him on the shoulder requires no leaning.

Tilda can't think of anything to say that doesn't sound incredibly silly-- so she doesn't say anything at all.

[stilljustandrew]

*There's a long moment of silence.*

I made a mistake.