milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The end of February was not a great time for Harry; too many memories of the same time last year, when everything started to go wrong. He's an essentially level-headed person, though, and his funk has more or less subsided.

Maybe more rather than less: he's in the bar with something he hasn't brought out in a long time, his acoustic guitar. He hasn't touched it since the days when he played for Josie; now he's strumming and fiddling with a notebook. It's just possible he's trying to write a song, although if he is it's clearly slow going.

Possibly he's not very good at writing songs. The coffee helps. The coffee helps with everything.

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Charlie gives a listen from his perch at the bar. He doesn't really know much about music, though.

"Not bad."

Harry starts off with a sidelong look, checking for sarcasm. He's not particularly insecure, but this is an area where he's out of his depth. When it appears to be a sincere comment: "Thanks."

"Trying to play anything in particular, or just...what's the word?...noodling?" As ever, Charlie is curious.

"Noodling, I guess," he says. "Trying to work out something original."

"Originality is at a premium, though. Everything comes from something." If you want to make an apple pie from scratch, the saying go, first make an universe. Does the same apply to music?

Harry frowns at that, because it's accurate. His attempts all sound pretty similar to songs he already knows. "I guess so."

"Which doesn't mean you shouldn't try. And it's not like I have any clue how to play. Or compose." Which should stop him from being a critic. But he was once a reporter. Criticism is old habit.

"It's not that hard," he says. "I learned it at camp when I was a kid."

"Ah. That wasn't something I had a chance to go to. Summers were a form of independent study." Streets and fire hydrants and not getting in extra trouble with the nuns.

"I wasn't much of an academic," he says vaguely. "I was always pretty happy to put down the books and pick up a fishing pole, when June came."

"Fishing pole. Let me guess. You're not from the big city." The last fish in the river near Hub City died long before Charlie did.

"Twin Peaks," he says. "Little town up in Washington State."

He had you pegged as a city guy a long way back, Charlie.

"So no reason I should have heard of it. I was from a place called Hub City. Definitely not a small town." Though only a couple of hours from the farm belt.

For a while, Joan just listens. Not talking, not announcing her presence in any way - listening, even standing off to one side with a cup of her own coffee (decaf, which Harry might consider an insult to the beverage itself).

When it appears he's taking a pause in plucking, she moves in.

"You're good."

Even after all this time, it's still fairly easy to make Harry blush. Still, it's certainly happened less as the weeks turned into months. Now he goes red to the tips of his ears again.

"'m pretty rusty," is what he says.

It's not exactly a response she'll tire of getting from him, and her expression reflects that as she takes a seat nearby.

"Even for 'rusty'," she insists. "It's the first time I've seen you pick it up."

He smiles at her, before looking back down at the guitar. He fiddles with the tuning. "I don't break it out that often. I learned in high school."

"Well, it sounds like you've remembered how the basics work."

She's no expert - especially given that her musical talent is mostly restricted to the accordion - but she has an ear for good pitch and tune.

"It's just like riding a bike."

Yeah, he's going to keep on downplaying it. He reaches for his coffee, and discreetly shuffles the notebook with the rudiments of his song for her aside. "I mostly know old campfire songs. Slow ballad things, and silly kid stuff."

"Are those better or worse than Broadway showtunes?" she teases.

"Because those are all the songs I know how to play."

"We could put together a band," he laughs. "With very narrow appeal."

Her smile widens.

"Showtunes and campfire songs," she muses out loud.

"What a pair we make."

His smile is a little crooked. "It works though, huh?"

"It certainly does."

She blows over the surface of her coffee, watching the ripples form before she takes her next sip, and catches a glimpse of his cup.

"Going to be working late tonight?"

"Not particularly," he says. He follows her gaze. Amused: "I think I can handle it."

"Oh, I don't doubt that."

If anything, the past couple of months have been a testament to the fact that he very much can handle it.

He picks up his cup. "If you don't start about the coffee, I won't say anything about the cigarettes."

It's a hollow threat, anyway; that's not an argument he'd like to revisit.

She very nearly begins a pout; those big blue eyes, at any rate, are fixed firmly in his direction.

"I'm getting better."

She's heard enough talk about the potentially negative effects of the habit here in Milliways to make her curious enough to consider.

"I know," he says, conciliatory. He reaches over to squeeze her hand.

She squeezes back and smiles.

"We all do have our vices, I suppose."

Possibly Harry is hurt by the idea of coffee as a vice, but it occurs to him that that probably only proves her point. "You could do a lot worse," he says dryly. It's not quite a joke.

(Too many memories.)

Time to change the subject: "How was work?"

"Oh, there's all this excitement building over the election," she says, lifting her mug again.

"I suppose I shouldn't cheat to find out who wins, should I?"

(We're talking Nixon versus Kennedy, here.)

"I'm surprised you've made it this long," he says, with less levity than you might expect.

That's not the big spoiler for that race, after all.

She shrugs nonchalantly.

"I suppose it doesn't really matter, either way. Although there are rumors circulating that creative is planning to have a party in the office, after hours, to watch the results."

Joan shrugs again.

"I'm not so sure I'll go."

He nods. "You already see a lot of each other."

It's different for him--the sheriff's department are all his friends. He's picked up that Joan doesn't exactly feel that way about many of her co-workers.

"And the after hours parties tend to get out of hand - fast."

She speaks from experience.

"I may be partial to a quieter evening."

He smiles at that. "You're not going to hear me complain."

"Do you want to go out and do something together instead? In your world, maybe?"

A lot easier to explain a stranger in New York than Twin Peaks.

There's certainly not the issue of blending in.

"If you'd like to visit, my world and I would love to have you."

"Well, I just thought it would be nice," he says smiling. "If it wasn't too quiet of an evening."

It weighs on his mind, a little; the issue of explaining her and the tight circuit it makes of their lives.

"I'll see what I can do about arranging something."

Luckily, it's soon enough in advance that she'll be able to work around any reservations that need to be made.

"Something that isn't too quiet."

"I can dance a little, I think," he offers. "If you show me the steps."

He's making sacrifices here.

She chuckles a little at that.

"Well, I promise they wouldn't be hard to learn."

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