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j'étais perdue dans mes pensées
August gives way to September, which has always been a month Meg has liked, bringing with it Fall and the new school year, which is still far more the start of the year to Meg than January is. Things start to fall into their new patterns, comings and goings, classes and meetings, rhythms and structures of the next four months.
And Meg finds herself falling into the patterns, easily as she always does, except . . .
Well, it's kind of the mental equivilant of having a hangnail.
She can forget about it for a period of time, it's not enough to keep her from doing other things, and then something catches on it, and she's aware of it again, and it comes into focus, and for a handful of moments, it's all she thinks about.
And then it fades back a little, but she's aware of it again, then, sliding around the edges of her consciousness, even while her focus moves on to other things, until she forgets it again, and then something catches on it, and the whole process starts over again.
And somehow, it's all the more worrying because she doesn't quite know what she's worrying about. All Castiel told her was that he's been given a mission, and that he may be gone for some time.
Beyond that, she doesn't so much know from what he said as she infers from what he didn't say.
1. He didn't say what the mission was -- and she doesn't know and didn't ask if he didn't because he couldn't or because he wouldn't. But she suspects that if it were insignificant, he either wouldn't have mentioned it at all, or would have told her more about it when he did.
2. He didn't tell her not to worry, that he'd be all right. But then, Meg is not entirely sure he would have, even if there is nothing to be worried about. Either way, he didn't.
3. He didn't say what "some time" means, whether it's what she would consider "some time" or what he would consider "some time" and she has no idea what any of that means given the way time works at the end of the universe, anyway.
And
4. He didn't tell her good-bye. Except that he kind of did, and she knows it, and somehow the fact that he didn't actually use the word make it all the more real.
So she waits. And she prays, though she's not entirely sure what she's praying for -- safety or success or something she doesn't know the words for. Still, one of her Sunday School teachers once told her that the important part of praying for someone was thinking of him and God at the same time, so that's what she does, and trusts God to fill in or correct any details she leaves out or gets wrong.
In some ways, the waiting made easier by the fact that no door she's opened in over a week has taken her back to Milliways, not since her bedroom door delivered her there two days (for her) after she and Castiel spoke. She can blame the lack of news on her absence, rather than on his.
But only in some.
On Wednesday night, she sits in a cafe across from Alain, waiting for their dinners, and listening to him tell her about his classes, in French. She's barely even aware that there's music playing, over the noise of the restaurant, she couldn't tell you what the song is or who is singing, until there's one of those odd seconds of quiet that happen in crowded rooms, and she hears a single word of the lyrics.
Ange.
The next thing she's aware of is Alain's saying her name, and the waiter standing next to her chair waiting for her to move her hands off the table so he can set her dinner down. Meg quickly drops her hands to her lap, apologizing.
Alain waits until the waiter has left, if barely, and then leans forward and makes his I'm worried about you switch to English. "What's wrong, Meg?"
She shakes her head. "I was just . . . woolgathering."
Alain considers this answer, frowning, and then says, "I don't understand."
"Oh, right. Um. J'étais perdue dans mes pensées," she offers, as translation.
"Am I that boring?" he asks, lightly.
"No, of course not," she says.
"What were you thinking about, then, ma belle?"
For a second, just a second, she considers telling him.
And it's hardly the first time she's considered it. Really, it's time and past time to tell him. Because she knows what happens when this kind of secret gets kept.
But, then, she also knows what happens when this kind of secret gets told.
So it's easy enough to decide again that the timing is wrong. That you don't have this conversation in a crowded restaurant, any more than you have it with a person who is still recovering from a nearly fatal accident, or with someone you don't know well yet, or . . .
Excuses, yes. But also facts. It's not the right time or place to have this conversation.
So she pulls a smile from somewhere, and shrugs. "This and that," she says, lightly. "I'm sorry, finish your story, please. I promise I'll pay attention this time."
Alain studies her for a moment, still frowning, before he nods.
Meg picks up her fork, focuses on Alain, and tries to ignore the hangnail.
And the fact that, when Alain resumed his story, he did so in English.
And Meg finds herself falling into the patterns, easily as she always does, except . . .
Well, it's kind of the mental equivilant of having a hangnail.
She can forget about it for a period of time, it's not enough to keep her from doing other things, and then something catches on it, and she's aware of it again, and it comes into focus, and for a handful of moments, it's all she thinks about.
And then it fades back a little, but she's aware of it again, then, sliding around the edges of her consciousness, even while her focus moves on to other things, until she forgets it again, and then something catches on it, and the whole process starts over again.
And somehow, it's all the more worrying because she doesn't quite know what she's worrying about. All Castiel told her was that he's been given a mission, and that he may be gone for some time.
Beyond that, she doesn't so much know from what he said as she infers from what he didn't say.
1. He didn't say what the mission was -- and she doesn't know and didn't ask if he didn't because he couldn't or because he wouldn't. But she suspects that if it were insignificant, he either wouldn't have mentioned it at all, or would have told her more about it when he did.
2. He didn't tell her not to worry, that he'd be all right. But then, Meg is not entirely sure he would have, even if there is nothing to be worried about. Either way, he didn't.
3. He didn't say what "some time" means, whether it's what she would consider "some time" or what he would consider "some time" and she has no idea what any of that means given the way time works at the end of the universe, anyway.
And
4. He didn't tell her good-bye. Except that he kind of did, and she knows it, and somehow the fact that he didn't actually use the word make it all the more real.
So she waits. And she prays, though she's not entirely sure what she's praying for -- safety or success or something she doesn't know the words for. Still, one of her Sunday School teachers once told her that the important part of praying for someone was thinking of him and God at the same time, so that's what she does, and trusts God to fill in or correct any details she leaves out or gets wrong.
In some ways, the waiting made easier by the fact that no door she's opened in over a week has taken her back to Milliways, not since her bedroom door delivered her there two days (for her) after she and Castiel spoke. She can blame the lack of news on her absence, rather than on his.
But only in some.
On Wednesday night, she sits in a cafe across from Alain, waiting for their dinners, and listening to him tell her about his classes, in French. She's barely even aware that there's music playing, over the noise of the restaurant, she couldn't tell you what the song is or who is singing, until there's one of those odd seconds of quiet that happen in crowded rooms, and she hears a single word of the lyrics.
Ange.
The next thing she's aware of is Alain's saying her name, and the waiter standing next to her chair waiting for her to move her hands off the table so he can set her dinner down. Meg quickly drops her hands to her lap, apologizing.
Alain waits until the waiter has left, if barely, and then leans forward and makes his I'm worried about you switch to English. "What's wrong, Meg?"
She shakes her head. "I was just . . . woolgathering."
Alain considers this answer, frowning, and then says, "I don't understand."
"Oh, right. Um. J'étais perdue dans mes pensées," she offers, as translation.
"Am I that boring?" he asks, lightly.
"No, of course not," she says.
"What were you thinking about, then, ma belle?"
For a second, just a second, she considers telling him.
And it's hardly the first time she's considered it. Really, it's time and past time to tell him. Because she knows what happens when this kind of secret gets kept.
But, then, she also knows what happens when this kind of secret gets told.
So it's easy enough to decide again that the timing is wrong. That you don't have this conversation in a crowded restaurant, any more than you have it with a person who is still recovering from a nearly fatal accident, or with someone you don't know well yet, or . . .
Excuses, yes. But also facts. It's not the right time or place to have this conversation.
So she pulls a smile from somewhere, and shrugs. "This and that," she says, lightly. "I'm sorry, finish your story, please. I promise I'll pay attention this time."
Alain studies her for a moment, still frowning, before he nods.
Meg picks up her fork, focuses on Alain, and tries to ignore the hangnail.
And the fact that, when Alain resumed his story, he did so in English.