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captainryan wrote in milliways_bar
Scowling, thoughtful looking man sitting at a table with his back to a wall. On it is a half-empty pint and an open sketchbook. In his left hand is a pencil.

It's a distraction. Only it isn't working as well as it's supposed to, seeing as how there's nothing on the page. Help him out?

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River is carrying a single comm pad when she returns from the Library. Usually this signifies that she's gathered so much information, she can't carry it all in one trip.

She stops at the bar and picks up two pints of Guinness, thanking Bar softly before turning to follow his scent to his table.

Hello, my love. "A sketch pad, hmm?"

He kicks out the chair next to him for her to sit in. The pad is pulled a little closer, in case of potential spills.

"Aye," he answers, taking a pull of his current glass. "Nothing to see."

"Yet," she answers, setting their pints down carefully. She waggles the pad at him as she sits.

You are a very lucky man, you know.

She nudges the toe of his boot with her own.

He plucks it back from her just as quickly, one brow arched.

Am I?

She stole his notebook. But she also brought him beer.

He opts not to poke back just yet.

You are indeed.

She replaces his empty sketchbook with the comm pad, which contains all her notes on the murder investigation, including the crime scene photos and her copy of the autopsy report.

Her foot retreats and she sits quietly on the far side of the table, sipping her pint and waiting for him to skim the contents.

Edited at 2009-07-24 04:31 am (UTC)

It takes a while. He probably looks at the photos a little longer than he should but he makes up for it with his speed at skimming the rest of it.

There's a distinct thread of relief in his scent, though it's still tempered by wariness. It doesn't seem he killed the boy, but he still may have nibbled.

It seems I am.

Thank you.

he pokes her foot back.

The relief scent is matched by one of cool confidence, tinged with a hint of curiosity. You're welcome.

She gives him a long considering look across the table, blinking every so often.

He finishes his first pint before he gives her a faintly curious look back, blinking.

I'm going to continue assisting them. And I suggested to Claire that she should arrange a memorial. In the hopes that someone of interest might show their face. He should know the name from the notes. I'd need your help for that.

She taps her finger along side her nose. Beneath the table, her foot shifts slightly, her knee brushing against his.

He looks thoughtful, still watching her.

Fair enough. He leans his knee into hers, happy just for the contact. Any particular scent we're hoping to catch?

She returns the pressure, her eyes flickering with that smile she only ever smiles for him.
yours, my love.
I don't know. Does guilt have a scent?

He raises both eyebrows a bit.

You're expecting guilt from a body mangled like that?

He was thinking pride or smugness.

"Richard," she cocks her head a little to the side. Her hand slides the fresh pint across to him, using the movement to cover her consternation. She returns his notebook as well, collecting the comm pad and thumbing it off.

You told me to ask for your help, and I'm asking.

Consternation? Well, all right, he supposes that remark was a little cold.

He's frowning now.

I am. It's a valid point. That many different wounds... People who would feel guilty would have reported it, not done more damage to a corpse.

Perhaps not guilt, then. But something...

She leans forward on her elbows, hands fretting with her pint.

I believe the body was tampered with, multiple times, post-mortem. And as gruesome as that is, it doesn't concern me as much the person who actually ended his life. That is the person I'm hunting.

He can scent the moment the epiphany hits her. She's hunting now. With all the resolve and intent of a wolf on the trail of her prey. This isn't just an inquiry, it's a hunt.

My puppy's growing up. He's smiling faintly at her, more than a hint of pride in his scent.

All right? He asks a moment later, suddenly worried though it's completely unfounded.

There's the briefest flash of teeth and then she's mock glaring at him. I do hate it when you call me that.

There is a flush of determination in her scent, and no small amount of love.

Damn it all. Have you eaten?

No, he admits, tapping his notebook. His still blank notebook. He frowns at it.

I thought I'd try the liquid beer diet.

That does get a head tilt. She looks down to the notebook and back to his face.


There's a cautious note of concern. He could be having her on, but then again, he could be serious. Even after almost six months, he's still hard to read on occasion.

I was trying to distract myself from the theory I may have killed someone without meaning to. I suppose that now that's unlikely, I could stop.

He's still frowning, though. He's already got the notebook out and he's a shade too stubborn to put it away with nothing to show for it.

He doesn't say anything about the diet.

Oh. She's close enough she can lightly touch the back of his wrist. Well, stay right here. I'll be right back.

She leaves the comm pad on the table, and stalks off towards the bar, growling at a passing wait rat that skitters out of her way. She returns after a moment with a large plate full of steak, cut into strips and lightly seared. It smells delicious and she snags one halfway back.

Good thing speaking canine is easy with one's mouth full. Here. This should help.

You disapprove of a liquid diet?

He's already snagged a bit of meat so he obviously wasn't too keen on the idea himself.

The book has a faint rough sketch on its page now.

She kicks the chair closer to him, setting the plate within easy reach. He gets a shoulder bump as she sits.

Not at all. I just know my Wolf.

She leans forward to see what it is he's drawing.

Nothing impressive. He's good at approximations but drawing is by no means his forte. It's a rough wolf's head slowly appearing, though it's more scribbles right now.

He's hoping for inspiration. It's been far too long since he designed something new.

He eats a few more strips as she looks it over. He should bring a treat out to Dam, he thinks, poor dog being stuck outside making sure no one else wanders into the den.

She blinks at the drawing, trying to connect the image to what possibly might be going through his head. Her gaze searches his face. Something for the forge, perhaps.

"Designing something specific? Or just sketching?"

Sometimes, when she's thinking too hard, she slips into English.

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