Milliways

[redintheledger]

Natasha is eighty-three. Old enough to be a grandmother. Old enough to be a great-grandmother, had the mother part had happened at all. Old enough, apparently, to acquire a certain degree of wisdom.

What she is doing at the moment isn't very wise.

She's sitting at the bar in Milliways, studying the bottles stacked up on the shelves. There is some logic: Milliways appeared in her apartment just when she was thinking that she'd really, really love to stop thinking, and it's a bar.

A bar at the end of the universe, where people from all times (like Nataliya Shostakova from 1952, whispers the annoyingly persistent part of her mind that won't let her forget it), so maybe they'd have something that'd get her drunk more easily than vodka.

Unfortunately for Natasha's drive for experimentation, another part of her is pointing out that getting drunk in a strange bar when she is freaked out over her memory is stupid.

But Natasha is eighty-three, and she's very, very tired of being careful when all she wants to do is not think for a few hours.

Comments

[katyafeline]

Katya gasps, and no, it wasn't a little crush. Freddie Mercury was sex on a stick, let's not be vague about it, dayum.

"Really?" There is so much jealousy and longing here. So much.

[redintheledger]

"Really. That man is the most charismatic person I've seen in my life."

Pause.

"Charismatic from the original Ancient Greek, which was sexual grace. And awe-inspiring. And a little terrible. But, he was just..."

She gestures. It's a flaily. But then again, it was Freddie.

[katyafeline]

"He was very, very just." Katya agrees, her accompanying hand gesture expansive and expressive. "You could spend all day just listening to that voice..."

[redintheledger]

"Caaaaaaan anybodyyyyy find meeeee somebody tooooo looooove?" she sings. Her singing voice is much like her speaking - low, throaty - and nothing like Freddie Mercury's at all.

But she's been able to sing along since the song was released, and it shows.

[katyafeline]

Katya needs no further encouragement, she really doesn't. Her pitch is higher than Natasha's, built more for cheerfully happy pop than soulful crooning, but she's never really let that stop her.

"Ooooooh, each morning I get up, I die a little -
Can barely stand on my feet..." She croons, impassioned, to the the neck of the mostly-empty bottle of Atlantean. "Take a look in the mirror and cry - Lord what you're doing to me!"