Standing on your feet on the floor: that's one perspective of the room. Sitting down is another, subtly different. From a thousand different spots, of course, each with its own view
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Father Mulcahy hums quietly to himself, making his way from the bar to a booth, nose in a book (The book, if one is being specific) and a cup of coffee balanced in his other hand. He sets the mug down on the table and takes a seat in the booth, lifting his wide-brimmed hat off his head and setting it on the table. He glances up as he does so, just to be sure that he doesn't drop his hat in the coffee, and it's then that he realizes that this booth was already occupied. By someone he remembers, no less.
He looks up and over at her, stretched out across the back of the other side of the booth as she is, and he blinks behind the glasses. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you there."
"Ahh," he says, nodding, and he understands, he thinks. Or he at least has an idea. "What is your name?" His face splits in a smile. "I could always call you 'in-Kaylee's-crew,' but it doesn't have much of a ring to it."
She's quiet, and that's alright, too. His smile is small. "Do you mind if I sit here a while?" he asks, tipping his head at the Bible open on the table in front of him.
He looks up and over at her, stretched out across the back of the other side of the booth as she is, and he blinks behind the glasses. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you there."
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"Crew," she says finally.
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Beat.
She looks down. "River."
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Just nods, a little.
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"Okay," she tells the floor, low.
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