Lucifer (Constantine) & Lev Andropov (Armageddon) // Bar
He's dressed -- for lack of a better word -- cleanly. His suit and pants are white (even whiter than his pale, pale skin), but the hems of his pant legs are covered in something black, as are his feet. He walks slowly, as though he has all the time in the world (he does). There's a distinct smirk on his features, and in one hand, he flicks a silver Zippo lighter open and shut. His tongue circles his lips, and lazy green eyes rove around the bar. From his sleeves and from his collar, tattoos are visible - dark lines winding up across his skin. He tracks black footsteps on the floor (which the waitrats seem reluctant to approach). Once he's completed his walking tour of the bar, he seats himself in one of the armchairs by the fire, crossing his legs and leaning back against the seat.
The lighter continues to click (open, shut. open, shut.)
And he -- he seems utterly unconcerned, if not entirely amused.
Then, aloud: "Well, how about that."
Colonel Lev Andropov is, in contrast, seated at a table, staring up at the Observation Window with his lips just barely parted. He is still dressed in his space gear, helmet placed on the table in front of him. His legs are stretched out under the table, ankles crossed as his fingers drum almost nervously on the edge of the tabletop. The Window doesn't bother him (he's a cosmonaut -- very little seriously ruffles the man). To the contrary, it fascinates him much in the way that such a phenomenon might fascinate a child determined to go into space as an adult.
And to tell the truth, he loves it here. 18 months in space, by himself, hasn't had the best effect on his sanity. Solitude is fine in bits. Perpetual, extended solitude is a different matter entirely.
(It is the pictures he keeps - the pictures of his wife, his child, his family - that keep him from breaking. He promises himself he will return to them, one day.
He never tries to calculate the odds that it will actually happen.)