Re: Gotham: Russ & Imogen
Right off he was gonna tell her, sleeping anywhere free was a bonus, comfortable or uncomfortable but the words lined up like tumblers in a lock or cards on baize and right, she meant free like history, free that wasn't money but something else. Russ ran the flat of his thumb over the stubble-growth of his own throat, considered it real careful. It meant maybe getting tied down somewhere on account of that bed, and he wasn't a fan of beds that came with ties. He thought briefly, fleetingly of Marina without any fucking comfort at all, and turned his attention back to the kid at his side.
And goddamn. He looked because she was old enough to drink or old enough to con a bartender and that was the same thing. Old enough that that shit should not be public in a bar like this one, and as the case settled on her knees, he picked up the whiskey glass (bartender and he had a deal: he'd keep em coming until he was too drunk to drink anymore) and took a rough swallow, far too fucking quick.
"I'll buy your drink," he told her, without looking at the length of leg again, but this time at the violin in her lap that looked like someone had worked it over good. "But God talk in a bar makes people real fucking uncomfortable." And then startled, the knit-together of blond eyebrows: "Yeah."