milliways_bar | (no subject)

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liz imbrie

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Liz Imbrie inna bar.

Yeah, she's still working on that sketch of the observation window. But this time? It's a litte more abstract. Spikier. More obviously dangerous.

No, she's not in a bad mood. Hitler's annoying Mike, and that seems to have spilled over.

Someone come tell her that nothing that happens in Germany in August 1939 will ever affect her.

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Robinton peers over her shoulder, and arches an eyebrow.

"That's an odd piece. I like it."

She erases a line, trying to soften the effect of an explosion. "It's changed since the last time I worked on it," she admits. "But thank you."

She smiles at Robinton. "It's been far too long. You've been well, I hope?"

"I've been busy."

He settles into a seat next to her.

"There are instruments to learn, people to teach..."

"Busy...can be both good and ill. You enjoy the teaching?"

Belatedly, she waves at the empty bar stool next to her.

"Is that in the bar, or in your home?"

"No, I'm trapped here."

A small, tired smile.

"I've accepted it, and have taken a student. Strange young man."

"Trapped..." Liz shudders.

-- wind outside the windows and the only change is how high the snow is; the ache of cold so intense she can't grip a pencil --

"I've heard there are those who have made their homes here," she says slowly. "But you seem to have a role in your world, do you not?"

She slides her hand along the bar until her finger just touches his; sympathy, nothing more.

His hand remains still and he sighs.

"I do. And without me there..."

A shrug.

"But the Lady will return me when she sees fit. Until then, I help who I can."

She nods. "You are considerably more resigned than I would be."

"If you're -- stuck -- here, would you mind sacrificing an hour to allow me to sketch you?"

See, she does remember her promise.

Robinton smiles, and nods.

"I'd be pleased. Where would you like me to...?"

Liz looks at her paper and grimaces. "I should get some more supplies, really. D'you think Bar would...?"

"I'm sure she would."

He smiles.

"She provided me with a set of pipes. She's a soft spot for art."

"Nice to find someone who does."

"Bar, if you would? A dozen sheets of brown paper and three soft-lead pencils and an eraser? Please?"

When they appear before her, the glee in her eyes is palpable.

"Wonder if I can take these home with me..."

"I'm sure I don't see any obstacles."

He grins, and orders himself a glass of wine.

"Can't hurt to try."

"I think I will," Liz says, "if I don't use them up."

She's already twisted in her seat, slightly, in order to talk to him, and she starts carefully outlining, very roughly, his left hand, fingers curled around the stem of his wineglass.

Robinton smiles, and stills.

He's reclined against the bar, and comfortable enough.

So he'll wait.

It would be too easy to say that her eyes are unfocused, and wrong besides, because they are focused. They're just focused on nothing anyone else can see.

The ghost of a smile, a faint look of recognition.

It's a look he sees frequently, at his Hall.

She catches the smile, and returns it. The light isn't ideal, but it's only the beginning.

She erases and reshades the thumb and the tendon at the first knuckle.

His hands, of course.

By slightly angling his head, he can see her paper, and smiles again.

These are, beyond doubt, the best pencils Liz has worked in in a very long time. They smudge perfectly, and even she is surprised at how quickly she's able to work.

She looks up, when she's mostly satisfied with the wine glass. "D'you have your harp?"

He nods, and bends quickly, pulling it out of the case and setting it on his lap.

"What would you like me to do with it?"

"Just hold it. Play a little, if you want to. Just nothing too --" she tosses a hand toward the observation window, and taps her earlier sketch with the pencil. "Not like that."

He smiled, and played a few tentative notes.

Sweet, slow, and pensive.

"That alright?"

"Peachy." Her voice is already disconnected from her brain, as she bends to again. "Dandy. Abolutely the bee's knees. The cat's pajamas. ~~The wasp's nipples.~~"

And all of that goes straight over Robinton's head, so he blinks and keeps playing.

Well, it's not like Liz was listening.

She doesn't even listen to the music, but the way his fingers are moving provides some very interesting shadows. Right there, and she reaches out and touches his hand. "Don't move," she mumbles, and presses her pencil harder on the page.

His hand freezes, the notes die abruptly, without so much as a tremble.

Hands well trained enough to maintain their pose while Liz draws.

The shadows are lovely, dark and deep, and you can see the strength in those hands.

Liz is good at what she does.

It's only a few minutes before she -- drifts back into herself, and looks up.

"Thank you."

And pushes the several quick studies toward him to see.

He examines them, curiosity written on his face.

"Is that..."

He looks at his hands, and grins.

"They're lovely."

"I just drew what I saw." She shrugs. "I may want to do a few more, but for now, I'm afraid I must dash. Good afternoon, Robinton."

He smiles, and nods.

"Perhaps later. Good afternoon."

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