(no subject)
For the first time in six years, William Bush didn't feel out of place with his uniform coat draped about his shoulders. Not only did the solid, heavy wool keep out the London damp that had descended upon Tabula Rasa along with the scenery, British naval blue also fit perfectly the cobbled streets, and billowing smokestacks, and smokey pubs that had turned their home from tropical paradise to Victorian urbanity. It wasn't quite the England he remembered - Bush had never much liked London, and the fifty-odd years that separated his own time from the vision created here had wrought significant changes, but it was good enough.
It was especially good enough when it meant that Bush could sit in a worn wooden chair in the corner of a cozy pub, an honest-to-God pint in front if him. Never before had he quite been able to put his finger on why drink on the island never tasted quite right, but now he understood. Larger wasn't the same without the heavy smell of damp wood in the air and a fire at one's back.
The pub was largely filled with the slightly eerie ghosts that populated this imaginary London, people that always seemed perfectly normal until one approached or tried to talk to them, at which point they would flit away or all-out vanish. But there were a few more solid and more recognizable people that Bush could see. One of them was a man who had been on the island nearly as long as he had, if the old sailor wasn't mistaken, a writer for the paper and the owner of the strange little art gallery that Bush had always been wary of. Now, sitting a few tables away with a book and sipping a glass of wine, William was reminded, not for the first time when spotting Anthony Blunt, of a certain class of snotty soldier that he'd never had much time for.
Even as the thought occurred to him, the door opened to emit a gust of air and another slightly-familiar face. The young girl, in cape trimmed with sable and flecked with snow, had a striking look about her that made even the imaginary patrons pause, though Bush knew that were this really London, she would have stood out even more. "Good afternoon, Mr. Blunt," Camilla said to the blond man with the book, who only nodded slightly. She then caught William's eye for a moment and smiled fleetingly with mischief before going to the bar.
William whistled through his teeth and leaned back in his chair. A face like that spelled trouble, no matter the place - or for that matter, the time.
Quickly enough, the three residents of Tabula Rasa returned to their own thoughts, though all three looked up again when the door swept open and banged against the wall in a rush of wind as another person entered the pub.
[William Bush, Anthony Blunt, and Camilla Macaulay are all open for tagging! Please indicate which one you want somewhere in your tag.]
It was especially good enough when it meant that Bush could sit in a worn wooden chair in the corner of a cozy pub, an honest-to-God pint in front if him. Never before had he quite been able to put his finger on why drink on the island never tasted quite right, but now he understood. Larger wasn't the same without the heavy smell of damp wood in the air and a fire at one's back.
The pub was largely filled with the slightly eerie ghosts that populated this imaginary London, people that always seemed perfectly normal until one approached or tried to talk to them, at which point they would flit away or all-out vanish. But there were a few more solid and more recognizable people that Bush could see. One of them was a man who had been on the island nearly as long as he had, if the old sailor wasn't mistaken, a writer for the paper and the owner of the strange little art gallery that Bush had always been wary of. Now, sitting a few tables away with a book and sipping a glass of wine, William was reminded, not for the first time when spotting Anthony Blunt, of a certain class of snotty soldier that he'd never had much time for.
Even as the thought occurred to him, the door opened to emit a gust of air and another slightly-familiar face. The young girl, in cape trimmed with sable and flecked with snow, had a striking look about her that made even the imaginary patrons pause, though Bush knew that were this really London, she would have stood out even more. "Good afternoon, Mr. Blunt," Camilla said to the blond man with the book, who only nodded slightly. She then caught William's eye for a moment and smiled fleetingly with mischief before going to the bar.
William whistled through his teeth and leaned back in his chair. A face like that spelled trouble, no matter the place - or for that matter, the time.
Quickly enough, the three residents of Tabula Rasa returned to their own thoughts, though all three looked up again when the door swept open and banged against the wall in a rush of wind as another person entered the pub.
[William Bush, Anthony Blunt, and Camilla Macaulay are all open for tagging! Please indicate which one you want somewhere in your tag.]