stilljustandrew | (no subject)

*Meg takes a breath, and reaches into her tutu -

and pulls out the Pensieve, large and silvery and quite, quite empty. Her arms tremble a bit under the weight of it.*

*Andrew reaches out to steady the other side of the Pensieve, automatically.*

-- okay, did they tell you how to use this?

Not - really?

*Meg frowns down.* I think you - I dunno, you just sort of think at it, or something, it oughtn't to be that complicated -

Here, let's --

*He leans down as though to put down the Pensieve. Meg follows his gesture, and they ease the heavy stone basin to the floor.*

*Andrew sits down on the floor in front of it, cross-legged.*

...okay, try it now.

*Meg drops down to the floor as well in one quick motion, her legs folded under her, and peers down at the Pensieve, her hair falling down almost into the basin. She scowls down at it fiercely.

Nothing happens.*

. . . Zut.

*He frowns at the Pensieve. There was something about this in the books, he can almost remember...*

I think -- I think Dumbledore used a wand, but maybe --

Try, uh ... like, remember when we were all in the Pensieve with Crichton, and he was grabbing the wormhole memories and stuffing them into his head? Try it that way, only, you know, in reverse?

Like - pull them out?

*She frowns, then looks up at him quickly.*

You won't - they won't be visible, will they?

They, uh. Shouldn't be.

I mean, the content won't be visible. They should show up as, you know ... streams of silvery stuff.

Oh.

Okay.

*Slowly, Meg reaches her hands up to her temples, as if she's going to brush her hair out of her eyes, and then pulls them away, her eyes firmly shut and her face set -

and then opens her eyes again, and stares down at the silvery almost-not-quite-liquid that fills her hands.*

*He watches her, tensely.*

Is it--?

*Meg opens her fingers, and the silverish-shining-thought-liquid slips through them, almost-drop by almost-drop, and begins to fill the bowl.

She is quiet for a moment, staring down at it, and then looks up at him.

There is a tiny drop that is slowly making its way, unnoticed, down her left cheek.*

They're -

that's them.

Are they --

are they gone? I mean --

*He sees the tear, and is shaken, and for a moment is not even entirely certain why.*

*Until he realizes that never before has he seen Meg shed tears. Never.*

*Meg lets the last few almost-drops of memory slip through her fingers.*

I still - I still know they happened.

But it's like - it's the memory of a memory, or something you read in a book. It's not like it happened to me.

- do I look different?

You look --

*She does look different, somehow. Younger. Or older. Or ... softer, a little? Or stronger? Something...*

*It takes him a moment to put his finger on it.*

*Her guard is down. And that's something he's never seen either.*

You look ...

*Wind rattles the frozen windowpanes, and there is a pattering on them as of renewed snow.*

... you look like you.

Well. Good to know, that.

*She smiles, a little, and the droplet alters its course around the change in the contours of her face. She doesn't seem to notice it.*

I didn't know, I was worried I might be -

*She shifts position, a little, and sets the Pensieve to wobbling faintly, and bites her lip.*

Oh - I suppose we should put this somewhere safe. Don't want to overset it.

yeah -- uh, the closet?

*With some awkwardness, the two manage to maneuver the heavy thing into the closet. Andrew drapes his trenchcoat over it as an additional protective measure.*

*And then pauses, looking at Meg, who is still shoulder-to-shoulder with him from the effort of putting away the Pensieve.*

*Meg glances back, over and up at him, and a faint red stain tints her cheeks.*

So.

That's - taken care of, then.

yeah.

are you -- I mean, do you --

Do I -?

*A smile flashes across her face, small and quick and faintly breathless - from the effort of putting away the Pensieve, is all. Of course.*

Got to finish your sentences every once in a while -

*His answering grin is almost as quick, and just about as breathless.*

But that's what I have you for.

So that's what you keep me around for - I'd wondered . . .

*His voice takes on the familiar Quoting Something tone.*

"You have a singular useful talent: when I'm with you, I'm happy."

*Meg reaches up a hand and tugs lightly on a lock of his short blonde hair.*

Now that's just weird - you've got just the same talent. We should start a union.

*He laughs a little.*

Or a secret club ...

*Half an hour ago, Meg wouldn't have smiled at that. But now she can, and does.*

No passwords necessary, either.

Right?

...right.

*And if anything could have convinced him that she's okay, really, it was probably that.*

*They're still there on their knees by the closet, not quite touching, but close enough that his breath stirs her hair, close enough that the froth of tulle from her tutu half-surrounds him.*

*It's not snow at the window anymore. It's rain, swirling around the clinging ice, wearing it away.*

*Rather belatedly, Meg leans over his knees to reach for the closet door, and pushes it shut. The door sticks a bit on the covering coat, which is spilling over into the room; Meg shoves the rest of it in and closes the door the rest of the way, then sits back on her knees and looks up at him.

With a bit of a mental start, she realizes that she feels almost shy. Meg Giry. Shy. But then, this isn't quite the same Meg Giry that walked into the room -

Wonders never cease.*

hey.

you okay?

*Slowly:*

Yeah - I think -

More than okay.

*He leans forward, his forehead just touching hers.*

Good.

*Automatically, almost, her arms go up around his neck, and she smiles, quick and bright - a little wry, but not sad.*

About as more-than-okay as I've ever been.

Or maybe will ever be.

And I say thee again: Good.

*His arms go around her. They fit there.*

You deserve to be okay.

*Meg considers answering that.

And instead tilts her head, just a little, so instead of their foreheads it's their lips that are touching.*

*And just for a moment there's the impulse to freeze, the hesitation, the memory of the last time she kissed him in this room, when it wasn't her --*

*But it's her now. He knows it.*

*His eyes close, and he kisses her back.*

*Her arms tighten around him, and she moves even closer, and inside, a tiny part of her is marvelling -

for the first time, there are no shades, no ghosts. None. And it's only Andrew's mouth she feels, and only Andrew's arms around her -*

* -- and it's familiar, the feel of her in his arms and her mouth moving under his, and yet it's for the first time, real for the first time --*

*And, like an echo almost, Meg pulls away a little bit, in order to whisper:*

This counts.

Nothing else really counted.

This counts.

Yes.

*His voice is uneven with his shaken breath. He reaches up to cup her face in his hands.*

This is real. This is real --

*She can feel his every breath, they're so close -*

I - you're going to have to -

I don't remember anything, you'll have to -

*And she leans forward to kiss him again. Because she wants to.*

*The kiss is deeper this time, and longer, and when it breaks off his breath is ragged.*

I --

I don't, I don't know, I'll try --

*Meg takes a breath, her hands wound in his T-shirt -*

I trust you.

...I love you.

*And his fingers twine into her long fair hair, and he kisses her eyes closed.*

*And rain streams down the window like tears of release. Tiny fragments of ice bob in the stream through the rain gutter, miniature icebergs floating with the current, melting, dissolving, returning to the water at last.*

*And this time nobody is watching.*

*Some time later, Andrew asleep, and Meg curled up by his side and in his arms, soon to follow -

and as her eyes close, she whispers, into the line of his neck,*

Ami. Et amant. Et amour.

*before she slips into dreamless sleep.*

[Friend. And lover. And beloved.]