milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

gren,
river tam

(no subject)

When River enters the bar, there's an old wool blanket draped over her shoulders, though neither the bar nor Serenity is cold enough to really warrant it. It's worn, a little faded, and has the sort of pattern one might find on the cheap blankets in Western American tourist-tack shops. That's probably exactly where it came from.

She heads for the staff hallway. When she returns, the blanket's gone. (Ennis will find it folded tidily on the floor outside his door. There are four green tea candies tucked inside.)

Next step: to acquire a mug of green tea, and settle down with it on the floor between two barstools, her back resting comfortably against the bar.

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There's someone near where he's sitting, and he looks down at the girl. Sliding off his bar stool, he pushes it out of the way and sits next to her. It might be a little rude to do it without asking but somehow he doesn't think regular etiquette always applies here.

"Your tea is green and mine's blue. It's kind of curious, isn't it?"

He toasts her with his teacup. "Hi. I'm Gren."

"Yellowish," River corrects him absently.

Beat.

She blinks at his tea, startled.

"Then if we mix them together, we'll get real green tea."

It's basic color theory and his mother was an artist; he knows it well. "Do you want to try the blue kind? I haven't touched it yet."

She's startlingly young and startlingly pretty and startlingly frail-looking, but he of all people knows how deceptive looks can be. And he takes no one for granted.

He's a wise man; River's appearance is entirely accurate in some ways, and entirely misleading in others.

She lifts a hand, drifting her fingertips through the steam just above Gren's cup, and glances up at him.

"Green." Hard to tell if that's a question or a statement.

"Camellia sinensis. Modified."

"Callisto Blue. Lightly sweetened." He watches her fingers dance through the steamy condensation, glad to be good with abstract thinking. She reminds him of Moiraine that first night, the way things connected but didn't quite connect.

But that was a different person and a different circumstance.

"Are you a musician?" There's definitely an artistic quality to her and he realizes she still hasn't given him her name, but that's okay. At this place, very few people ever have.

River looks dubious.

That'd be a no. Probably.

That look of hers makes him laugh. "It's not the first time I've been wrong. And... if you're not going to try it, I'll drink it. It's a delicacy where I come from." Raising the cup, he takes a sip.

It's really good.

"Do you have a name?" He has to ask.

"I have tea," she informs him amiably, as if they hadn't already discussed that fact, and smiles a little.

"River."

The name suits her perfectly and he's not even sure why he thinks that. It's just right.

"It's a prettier name than Gren." Except his full name -- which he rarely if ever uses -- is long and lyrical and multiethnic.

"I'm a musician. I play saxophone, or at least I used to." Still do, you. Don't sell yourself short just because you haven't felt like playing in a while.

River's smile now is a little shy, and more real.

"I dance," she says.

Beat.

"Gren. Derivative of green in the English. Etymology's uncertain."

Of course she dances. He knew there was music there somewhere; it's just that it's on the intake instead of the other way around.

"Green? I don't know. It's really Grencia. Grencia Mars Elijah Guo Eckener. Etymology still uncertain, except for the Mars and Elijah and Guo parts." This girl River makes him smile: she's unpredictable but he likes that; there's a certain comfort to that.

He could go on and explain those three names of his, but he has a feeling it will be a lot more interesting if she decides to try.

River listens, and seems to approve.

"Grencia Mars Elijah Guo Eckener," she repeats.

Beat.

With a sudden, cheerful grin, "The nickname is understandable."

For the first time in days and days, a huge smile breaks across his face and Gren laughs out loud.

And then, he nods his acknowledgment.

"You're right about that."

The tea, still hot and sweet and perfect, captures his attention again. "You have a really pretty smile."

River glances at him. Surprised, and a little confused -- she's not offended, just blank.

"Selective contraction of the facial muscles," she tries, after a moment. "It's inherent."

Well, that is the anatomically correct explanation for it. Satisfied, he nods again. "A long time ago I used to smile a lot. At everything. It all seemed so beautiful."

And then a lot of things happened and I died.

"Sometimes, everything still seems so beautiful... but I'm a musician."

As if that explains things.

River ducks her head, sobering. Strands of tangled hair slide over her shoulder to hang over her face.

"Still there," she says softly, to her mug.

River used to smile a lot more, too.

"It's -- underneath the atmospheric turbulance. Scan the cloud cover for harmonics."

Eyes narrowed, he tries to follow her logic or, barring logic, her thought process. It takes him a minute, but finally his face brightens again; he takes another sip of his tea.

"The music is everywhere. It's the heartbeat of the universe."

She doesn't quite speak his language, but she's a lot closer to it than most of the other people he's met here.

River glances at him sidelong, and brightens herself, responding to his smile.

River's face doesn't hide her emotions very well, much of the time; when she smiles, it can transform her small sober face.

She's curious: both a curious person and a curious sort of person. To Gren, she seems like a wise old infant soul and that in itself is kind of a conundrum. He can almost see the neurons firing when she's thinking.

It's refreshing.

"Tell me, River. Tell me a story."

The request isn't one he usually makes, but he'd like to hear one from her. All he has to offer her in a story is music and war and love and betrayal and loneliness. It probably doesn't make for the best casual bar talk.

River looks sharply at him.

Wary, almost, or maybe that's worried. Uncertain, anyway.

"...or don't. That's okay too."

He's not easy, but he can make an exception: it's night, it's a bar at the end of the universe. If she'd rather not talk in words, that's all right with Gren.

His fingertips play inaudible melodies on the side of his teacup.

"Do you live here all the time?"

River doesn't tell stories, is all. Not these days.

She shakes her head a little.

"Outside."

Then, a small smile. "In the black."

Right or wrong, he makes the assumption that refers to space; he's no stranger to people who live among the stars.

"Where I come from, there are no women."

It's a strange but true fact and he's not sure why he chooses to share it with her but the words are out and there's no going back.

"You like it outside?"

River gives him a confused look.

"Factor of the species," she says. "Split the chromosomes -- the probability is roughly equivalent."

She doesn't answer his question, but she ducks her head slightly and smiles down at the floor, and maybe that's its own answer.

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