(Untitled)

[stilljustandrew]

[Some days after this.]

It's late evening.

Andrew's sitting at a table not far from the bar, with a half-empty glass of scotch at his elbow.

Comments

[presidentpythia]

The woman who walks through the door looks tired, but composed all the same.

Roslin crosses the room to the bar and says,

"Ambrosia, please?"

[stilljustandrew]

He looks up sharply.

It doesn't necessarily mean anything. Lots of worlds have drinks or desserts called 'ambrosia.' He's just, well ... seeing ghosts.

[presidentpythia]

She turns away from the bar with the glass in her hand, and looks around the room as she searches for a free table.

Her glance meets his, and Roslin gives him a polite nod and a slight, yet warm, smile.

[stilljustandrew]

He nods back. Doesn't quite smile.

(There's a look in his eyes that he's not aware of. Something wounded; something lost.)