Re: Gotham: Russ & Imogen
The beer wasn't good here. It wasn't bad but it wasn't good or his paycheck would have gone to shit faster than he drank it now. But beer had been part of life since he was ten and his mom's latest had thought it fucking funny and the taste was as acquired as the whiskey. Imogen pulled a face like she'd never learned that one, like sugared vodka was a better taste in the back pocket. Russ laughed, and he shook his head and he handed bills over to the bartender. She'd paid with a song that made him feel like the bar was trying to remember being something bigger, like the people in it were and he didn't know how the hell he felt about that.
"You're a musician." And one drunker than maybe she should be. Russ didn't feel remorse: she was old enough, hell she'd been the one ordering. But she didn't fit in Gotham, all that frayed-white innocence. The smog would yellow it in fucking seconds.
"Where's you on a regular day? You know where the door is?" Because that fuzzy was showing itself, and Russ was familiar with fuzzy enough to know it.