Re: Gotham: Russ & Imogen
She didn't drink like a little girl. He'd figured she'd choke on the first sip, maybe splutter some and go back to sugared-liquor, the bite taken away by the sharp lemon. But she didn't. Grudging respect built itself up beneath the surface, sweetened by the taste of sugar still in the back of his mouth. She drank like she thought what was in the glass would bite her, but she carried on going, and yeah, OK, maybe she had balls on her.
"I don't know about God," he didn't, there hadn't been room for kids like him in Sunday schools and churches, he'd gone along with kids who had combed-down hair damp from the sink and moms who held hands and tugged them into line. He and his little sister, they'd played on the swings when no one else was around to shove them off to take their turn. God was empty playgrounds, as far as Russ was concerned.
His hand enveloped hers, blunt-dirty nails folded around pale skin, and she had callouses he assigned to the violin at her feet. "Russ."