[Not crying, sorry. He's trying to tame his exasperation and his ire, please hold to resume contact with these baby blues.
Richie does rise to look her in the eye then. If anything, he just looks plain weary. All this horseshit and his hands are tied. Ros isn't even the only one he's impotent to help here. Most everyone he's met is raw about something. Past or present, and none of it is as mundane or minor as the kinds of favors and shit talk you walked your friends through back home. All of their lives were lived in heightened states. We're all dying, baby, and surprise! Most of us aren't going so slow about it either.
He takes her affirmation, and her trust in giving the name ("Ardyn", what kind of dime store bodice ripper bee-ess name is that?) and has to let it go. Punt it aside, play nice, and find something safer to talk about.
But of course, this is Rosalind, and his confidence at her ability to do low key is minimal. Richie sighs and takes a swig of his liquor. It's still tossed back with a touch more force than necessary, pardon him. A humor this sour is hard to shake.]
Oh? And what pray tell would that be? I don't do autographs and I can't fix leaky plumbing. You're not looking to have a pickle jar opened, are you?
[No she can't, but that's neither here nor there. Rosalind glances around, catching the bartender's eye. She'll go get something stronger in a minute, because frankly, she doesn't want to end the night sober.]
But you can walk me home, when we're done here. And you can at least distract me until then. Surely you've a story or six up your sleeve? Or you could simply tell me of home.
[you can rip the fabric of time and space apart but you can't plug a leak? shameful.]
All right, all right, I'll walk ya. [He finishes his drink shunts it to the side, not missing her glance to his coworker. Another one for the road, huh?]
Stories from home? [He tuts.] What would you want to know? My life was pretty plain beans compared to a gal like you.
[There’s that arrogance, though there’s something wry twisted in her smile as she says that.]
Go on. I’ll tell you something of mine, something ordinary, even, if you tell me something of yours. Job? Childhood? A girlfriend? You can’t tell me you don’t have an anecdote or three, I refuse to believe it.
[For that, Ros, you're getting one brow reaching for the sky and a tilted frown.]
Well goodness me! If it's so fantastic, why aren't you starting us off baby? Knock my socks off, go on. If you take the loafers with them I'll buy you drinks for a week.
[Because whoo boy, he's sick of his own story. If he could kindly have whatever cosmic force that spared him in the first place come back and scoop out all the rotten chunks out of his grey brain soup, he'd be whistling Dixie. It doesn't make for lighthearted fare, and he's left too many breadcrumbs around already to trust himself.
So fuck the childhood stuff, then. She's too sharp not to stick a beak in and crack that nut open. Jobs, then.
Richie leads the way back to the bar, where Señor NPC Arnie is whipping up whatever the lady signaled for. He's fishing for the pack of smokes in his shirt pocket, already feeling that twitch in his fingers. The time between bliss, calm, and crave has been shortening again.]
I used to be a D.J. You know what that is?
[Her era is still a murky matter, as is what she might have picked up in her time here since.]
[She'll be more than happy to regale him with a story or three, but that's after he finishes his turn. Truthfully, she isn't even digging for anything particularly outlandish (though she would be fascinated if he brought something up). But she mostly wants to understand this man, because she's realizing she all but poured her heart out to a man she barely knows.]
I don't, no.
[One of the few times she'll admit that, and the second time tonight she's said it. What a record they're setting here.
It's whiskey Rosalind signaled for, because tonight is not a night she wants to face sober. Dorian is rubbing off on her, it seems, but there are worse habits to imitate, she supposes. She could indulge in a cigarette.
Maybe she will anyway, she thinks; he can spare a puff or two on the one he's lighting up.]
Though I'm going to guess it's people-oriented. You're too chatty to be cooped in the back of a shop all day.
What do you mean? I'd have a rip-roaring good time in the back of a shop. All that unsupervised paid time? Ooo-wee, all the things I could get up to when the boss man isn't looking.
It's a radio job. Voice work, as you might figure. I hosted the rock-n-roll segments on a Los Angeles station. Picked the tunes, did interviews, comedy bits. Two bit entertainment, sitting just under the real greats, you know, but it made me just shy of wealthy in a pretty short span of time. [He works a smoke into his mouth and lights up, forgetful for a moment until he sees the drink being slid to her over the wooden grain of the bartop.] Oh. You want one? After your drink?
[Not that she can. Not that he does that now, or has a recording of it. But she imagines he'd be quite good at it, and it'd be interesting to see him in his element, putting those voices to good use (beyond driving her up a wall). Rosalind sips at her drink, shuddering at the sharpness of it.
She's a little surprised when he offers her that. A moment's hesitation, and then she offers him half a smile as she sets the glass down.
If she's going to forget her grief, she might as well go all the way. Nothing better than throwing yourself face-forward into something else, is there?]
I think--
[She reaches for the cigarette, plucking it from his lips and putting it to her own. Inhale, exhale, and then she offers it back to him, smoke slipping past her lips.]
--you wouldn't mind sharing this one. Would you?
Edited (hello html my old friend i've come to fight with you again) 2018-03-25 20:40 (UTC)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Richie does rise to look her in the eye then. If anything, he just looks plain weary. All this horseshit and his hands are tied. Ros isn't even the only one he's impotent to help here. Most everyone he's met is raw about something. Past or present, and none of it is as mundane or minor as the kinds of favors and shit talk you walked your friends through back home. All of their lives were lived in heightened states. We're all dying, baby, and surprise! Most of us aren't going so slow about it either.
He takes her affirmation, and her trust in giving the name ("Ardyn", what kind of dime store bodice ripper bee-ess name is that?) and has to let it go. Punt it aside, play nice, and find something safer to talk about.
But of course, this is Rosalind, and his confidence at her ability to do low key is minimal. Richie sighs and takes a swig of his liquor. It's still tossed back with a touch more force than necessary, pardon him. A humor this sour is hard to shake.]
Oh? And what pray tell would that be? I don't do autographs and I can't fix leaky plumbing. You're not looking to have a pickle jar opened, are you?
no subject
[No she can't, but that's neither here nor there. Rosalind glances around, catching the bartender's eye. She'll go get something stronger in a minute, because frankly, she doesn't want to end the night sober.]
But you can walk me home, when we're done here. And you can at least distract me until then. Surely you've a story or six up your sleeve? Or you could simply tell me of home.
no subject
[you can rip the fabric of time and space apart but you can't plug a leak? shameful.]
All right, all right, I'll walk ya. [He finishes his drink shunts it to the side, not missing her glance to his coworker. Another one for the road, huh?]
Stories from home? [He tuts.] What would you want to know? My life was pretty plain beans compared to a gal like you.
no subject
[There’s that arrogance, though there’s something wry twisted in her smile as she says that.]
Go on. I’ll tell you something of mine, something ordinary, even, if you tell me something of yours. Job? Childhood? A girlfriend? You can’t tell me you don’t have an anecdote or three, I refuse to believe it.
no subject
Well goodness me! If it's so fantastic, why aren't you starting us off baby? Knock my socks off, go on. If you take the loafers with them I'll buy you drinks for a week.
[Because whoo boy, he's sick of his own story. If he could kindly have whatever cosmic force that spared him in the first place come back and scoop out all the rotten chunks out of his grey brain soup, he'd be whistling Dixie. It doesn't make for lighthearted fare, and he's left too many breadcrumbs around already to trust himself.
So fuck the childhood stuff, then. She's too sharp not to stick a beak in and crack that nut open. Jobs, then.
Richie leads the way back to the bar, where
Señor NPCArnie is whipping up whatever the lady signaled for. He's fishing for the pack of smokes in his shirt pocket, already feeling that twitch in his fingers. The time between bliss, calm, and crave has been shortening again.]I used to be a D.J. You know what that is?
[Her era is still a murky matter, as is what she might have picked up in her time here since.]
no subject
I don't, no.
[One of the few times she'll admit that, and the second time tonight she's said it. What a record they're setting here.
It's whiskey Rosalind signaled for, because tonight is not a night she wants to face sober. Dorian is rubbing off on her, it seems, but there are worse habits to imitate, she supposes. She could indulge in a cigarette.
Maybe she will anyway, she thinks; he can spare a puff or two on the one he's lighting up.]
Though I'm going to guess it's people-oriented. You're too chatty to be cooped in the back of a shop all day.
no subject
It's a radio job. Voice work, as you might figure. I hosted the rock-n-roll segments on a Los Angeles station. Picked the tunes, did interviews, comedy bits. Two bit entertainment, sitting just under the real greats, you know, but it made me just shy of wealthy in a pretty short span of time. [He works a smoke into his mouth and lights up, forgetful for a moment until he sees the drink being slid to her over the wooden grain of the bartop.] Oh. You want one? After your drink?
no subject
[Not that she can. Not that he does that now, or has a recording of it. But she imagines he'd be quite good at it, and it'd be interesting to see him in his element, putting those voices to good use (beyond driving her up a wall). Rosalind sips at her drink, shuddering at the sharpness of it.
She's a little surprised when he offers her that. A moment's hesitation, and then she offers him half a smile as she sets the glass down.
If she's going to forget her grief, she might as well go all the way. Nothing better than throwing yourself face-forward into something else, is there?]
I think--
[She reaches for the cigarette, plucking it from his lips and putting it to her own. Inhale, exhale, and then she offers it back to him, smoke slipping past her lips.]
--you wouldn't mind sharing this one. Would you?