If you could see her through my eyes, you wouldn't wonder at all

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

 

*For a few days, Amrita could barely feel her feet touching the ground as she worked her shifts downstairs at the Leaky. She couldn't believe her luck, meeting (or re-meeting) Remus: he'd somehow taken a horrible day and spun it into something good, something hopeful. But it's been awhile since they met—in that very booth right over there, which her eyes keep flashing to worriedly--and she's long since started to doubt that he'll owl at all. The pub's near-empty most days, like much of Diagon Alley, so she's been spending a lot of time brooding and washing out glasses that don't need to be washed out, oscillating wildly between hope and despair and inventing less-and-less plausible reasons for the delay until she's driven herself half-mad with it for no particular reason.

It's foolish, but she can't help it, and tonight's no different. The early promise of the night—patrons, laughter, tips—has turned into achy feet and endless one-more-rounds for the only customer in the place, a regular who's neither charming nor a particularly good tipper. Still, she puts on her best smile for him as she refills his drink again and again. Behind it, her mind helplessly worries at itself like a well-picked bone: maybe he'll owl tomorrow morning. Or the next day. Or never. Best give up now. Oh, don't be ridiculous. Maybe he'll owl tomorrow morning.

This is what's galloping through her head like a centaur on uppers as she smiles prettily at the regular, waiting for last call, or for him to leave, or for her headache to simply kill her—whichever comes first.*

Comments

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*Gently, she extricates her hand from his and manages a smile, somehow: but it's a rather poor showing, all told, not up to her usual standard.*

Oh, I couldn't possibly.

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

Don't be silly. There's this lovely French place. Tiny, practically a closet, right around the corner from here. Excellent steak and a wine selection to die for. The chef doesn't speak a word of English. I've been trying to find a reason to go there again myself, but dining alone in a place like that is--

*He gives her a wry smile.*

You must get proposals like this all the time. But if you would permit the honor, I would love to buy you dinner.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*She does, certainly, but none of them are a bit like this one. And she certainly hasn't accepted any of them. For a brief moment she just stares at him.

She's too emotionally compromised at this point to produce much of a response, but she does manage calm and a certain dazed placidity.*

Well--I--Yes. Yes, I'd like that very much.

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

Are you free tomorrow night?

I am going to die soon, after all.

*It's definitely a joke this time, but he can't help the lingering feeling that he doesn't want to put it off any more than she does, and he is fairly certain she isn't wearing any Dark artifacts to make him feel this way.*

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

*It's the perfect thing to say. She takes one look at him and bursts into a peal of silvery, nervous laughter.*

Tomorrow's fine, actually. After seven.

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

Excellent. I'll meet you here, maybe around the side so all the other patrons don't get terribly jealous.

*He stands and takes her hand. He brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. It's a daring move from a previous century and almost everyone he knows would probably roll their eyes if they could see him do this, here, now, to this girl, but for some reason he thinks it might be the right thing to do.*

Until then, Amrita.

[cellarandmoon.livejournal.com]

Oh--all right.

*She laughs again as he kisses her hand: helplessly, endearingly, but slightly hysterical. She hasn't been treated this way for years, and it's all a bit much for her.*

I've got to clear up anyway, it's...well, it's a bit past last call. Goodbye, Evan.

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

Good night.

*He plucks down his cloak and fastens it around his throat and leaves in a gust of cold air from outside.*