milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Most of the bar's patrons settle into booths regularly, but not many seek out the spaces underneath. It's comfortable there, though; the table overhead casts everything in shadow, and with the benches to either side it's like a small and tidy cave. Not even very dusty, not with the Oompa Loompas on the job. You can sit on the floor, press your back to the wall, and watch the oblivious feet of a dozen patrons pass by.

River's doing so now.

Her sundress, already dappled in tie-dyed shades of purple, is shadowed to murkiness; her arms and legs seem pale in contrast. Her face is subdued, inward-turned and blank.

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"Problematic, but effective."

There's a large Russian population on Callisto; he's used his knowledge of Russian swearwords more times than he likes to retell.

"But why does that make you sad? It's just language."

"Words."

Half a beat.

"I know."

"You want to tell me about it?"

He's a really good listener. In fact, he's just as good at it dead as he was at it alive, and it's something he can always offer to the people he likes. It might seem as if he makes himself available to everyone, but really, he's picky about who he spends his time with. It's why he's so rarely just sitting around holding court in the bar.

Besides, there's something going on here. It's in the air.

Low, "It's not relevant."

That's probably a no, not really.

He shrugs. "You want a cup of tea instead?"

That's the easier option. No one wants to be pushed if they don't want to talk. Or at least if they don't want to talk in a certain direction.

River looks down at the floor, and then over at Gren. Her eyes don't quite land on his face.

After a minute, a faint half-smile.

"Bar remembers."

"We asked her to so nicely."

This time, he thinks he knows exactly what River's talking about: it's their recipe for tea. He remembers giving Bar the specific instructions on how to brew it.

"Should I get us each a cup, or... and do you want to stay down here under the table to drink it? It's kind of like having a private fortress." All they need are a few blankets to drape over the tabletop and it will be perfect.

Just like the secret hideaways he used to make when he was little and still creative in ways other than musically.

"It's quiet," River says, to the underside of the table.

"Quiet can be its own kind of music."

His nod is a knowing one. Okay, so skip the tea and settle instead for the table-fort. He can do that.

"Can I come under there with you, or do you want me to stand guard out here?"

River studies him for a moment.

And then, finally, a tiny smile.

"You can come."

"There's a toll."

"For a minute, I thought you said there's a troll. That would be a whole different thing, wouldn't it?" It's not a bad attempt at a joke, though.

"What's the entry fee?"

He doesn't have any money, and he hasn't for a while. In fact, he doesn't know how he's going to pay his tab any more. It isn't like he can leave to earn money or anything.

River gives him a funny look for the first.

River's sense of humor is kind of hit-or-miss.

Then, another half-smile.

"Tea."

Of course. Amused, he shakes his head, smiling.

"I'll be right back."

When he returns a few minutes later, it's with two cups of steaming hot tea. Kneeling, he hands one to River and keeps the other for himself. "Toll paid? Can I come in now?"

River retreated back into her silent staring while he was gone. But now, as she takes the cup from him with two careful hands, her face relaxes again, at least somewhat.

"Table," she says.

"Okay."

"Sit up there?" That would be easier for him, he's pretty tall to drink tea underneath the table.

But on the table, under the table, in the closet, out of the closet: those are just trappings. The tea's the thing because it's their blend. They both contributed. They both made it what it is, just like they're both making this conversation what it is.

He likes River. He likes her few words, and how misdirected they are when she does use them. He doesn't know her well, but he likes the way her expressions and her actions say so much more than any words coming out of her mouth. It's a way, he thinks, of living in a state of grace... not that he's ever claimed to do that himself. No, that's something that either comes naturally or it doesn't.

She's got it. She's got it in abundance.

River shrugs.

"Call it a fort."

She lifts the teacup carefully, as if it's made of something fragile and precious, and takes a tiny sip. And her face relaxes, just a little more.

"Or a teacup."

His grin is cheerful; he's already more relaxed than she seems to want to become. Despite being too tall for it, he makes his way into the fort with her.

"It's a good fort. It's also good tea."

River half-smiles into her tea.

"Discovery."

"Maybe more like invention." Crossing his legs, he hunches over so his head doesn't hit the underside of the table.

Then he sips his own tea, finally, and it's better than he remembers. Of course, it's been a long time since he drank it with her and his senses, now that he's dead, tend to color things a little more vividly than when he was alive.

But that's a good thing.

"This tea tastes like a good song."

River cocks her head, and tries another sip.

Reasonably, "No percussion."

"All wind instruments?"

Yeah, that's it.

"No percussion." She's absolutely right and while it's not that he's made a study of food-as-instrumentation, this makes plenty of sense. Music is one language he can speak upside down, in his sleep, with one hand tied behind his back.

He'd rather not be in that situation, though.

"And no brass either."

"It's water," River says sagely.

"Left out the metal."

Simple but brilliant. And that's not even oxymoronic, he thinks, but it is what River happens to be. And confusing but not so hard to be with, really.

It just takes a little bit of patience, and who among them is easy to read?

Maybe just him.

"Traded it for a touch of sweetness and a bit of color and a hint of movement. I think it's a good trade."

The conversation might be unintelligible for anyone else, but he gets it. He gets it and it's refreshing and just a little bit painful, and not for the first time, he wishes he wasn't dead.

River grins, just a little.

"Missed the muscles. You'll have to supply impetus."

He knows that part intimately.

"That's the reed instruments. Clarinet, oboe, bassoon, saxophones." They're not backbone, but they are muscle.

Especially the saxophones.