Re: Gotham: Russ & Imogen
Russ blinked non-comprehension beneath sandy eyelashes: away from the desert, the tan was fading and the sun-bleached gold that crawled his jaw and was cropped short was yellowing to something closer to sand than corn. Russ thought of it as pale when he saw it in the mirror spitting toothpaste but pale didn't describe the girl on the stool. That shirt-thing looked like maybe she'd scrubbed the fucking floor with it, but he listened as she told the bartender with the authority of pouring shots herself and his mouth ticked upward at the corner. Lost Girl wasn't a complete lamb.
"Yeah," he said, without looking toward the glass tacky with lettering, because the weather in Gotham was always the same, fucking miserable. He didn't miss acres of desert and red rocks, but the sunshine had gone too. She spoke like something off the TV, clipped off and strange, and Russ hooked one foot around the bar of the stool and watched the violin roll down the pile of shit like it was normal to dump musical instruments in a bar.
Yeah okay, the chick was weird but she could order her own drink fine, and the look of non-comprehension sharpened to vulpine blue squinting over at her as the shot glass knocked against the whiskey, the dregs thickly amber. "I drink that girly shit," he said clearly, warm amusement gritty, "You drink something that doesn't sound like fucking candy." The bartender set down the new order, whiskey glass kissing dirty bar-top. Russ reached across, set the new glass in front of the girl in the dirty camisole.
"This for that," a jerk of his head toward the lone, cloudy shot she called a fucking lemon drop sitting there. "Yeah?"