[ If he has a particular opinion about Keane's Saloon and what help it may or may not need, Godfrey does not betray it. He smiles warmly, and lowers himself into his seat with care.
Curious this, too, that he already should have a seat. Arthur means nothing by this, of course - how strange would it be, to invite him out only to impassively sit at opposing corners of the place? - but there is nonetheless warmth in being expected. Godfrey has not felt it in some time; the slot he had thought the world kept for him has long since rejected him, and so has the country underneath it. A longing for this, he thinks, must be why he has allowed the lie to take root and prosper for as long as it has. There's shades of it in being called Father, even though the title has rebuked him.
The stool creaks dangerously under him - which fits, he supposes, after some thought. Godfrey self-consciously adjusts his perch. ]
Thank you, my friend, for the invitation. [ There's trepidation welling in him still, yes. But also a certain precipice giddiness which he expects most men have outgrown by now; the sensation of trying new, of perching oneself at the edge of an experience that cannot ever be taken back. ] I'll do what I can to keep myself from embarrassment. This is mine--
[ He takes the glass neck of the bottle nearest to him gently, shifting it nearer with his fingers - before glancing quickly toward Arthur. ]
[If the creak of Godfrey's stool is audible, it just joins the chorus coming from every other strained wooden surface in the bar, Arthur's own seat included. He takes about as much notice of it as the hairline cracks in the shot glasses and the sticky spots on the floorboards-- all part of the decor.
Godfrey's little nervous tics catch his eye instead. Arthur had seen them before, though more often in someone taking a wild horse for a gallop, or a kid about to draw a gun on a bank clerk for the first time-- not a grown man sitting down for a beer. It proves oddly infectious as Arthur's thoughts take the time to catch up with his actions. He's seen disgraced clergymen go to seed before. He even he shared a camp with one, but he wasn't responsible for the reverend's degeneracy. This is a bit more proactive of a step, but--
Arthur chuckles, more at himself. Hell, it's one beer, and there's worse things on his conscience.]
'Course. Not one to stiff a man on a drink.
[He lifts his own bottle and knocks it against Godfrey's with a dull clink. Arthur takes a swig, but sinks it slowly. Keane's was an armpit, but at least the ice box kept the drinks cold enough to be refreshing.]
[ He feels that clink in his fingers and lifts the bottle to his mouth, but holds for a thin moment - his first instinct is to take a perfectly civilized pull from the bottle, but he knows from his flashing periphery how wrong this is already.
The drink Arthur takes is certainly more reserved than those he sees others taking - perhaps for Godfrey's own sensibilities, he can't say. Regardless of what has inspired this more sensible swig, Godfrey appreciates it; he's not sure he would be able to drink half so deeply and with nearly so much fortitude as the other patrons.
Fortified, Godfrey tilts the bottle against his lips. The cold fizz needling his tongue and tender throat startles him, though mildly. There's a bitter freshness, an edge that is hard but not overbearing. And also...
Godfrey lowers the butt of the bottle against the table and, contemplating, licks the roof of his mouth. ]
[Beer always struck him more as a utility than a drink-- a means of cooling off in summer, warming up in winter, or dulling nerves sharpened to a razor's edge. Arthur takes another sip, this time actually considering the taste in a way he hadn't since he was twelve years old.]
S'pose it does. [He furrows his brow.] That good or bad?
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Curious this, too, that he already should have a seat. Arthur means nothing by this, of course - how strange would it be, to invite him out only to impassively sit at opposing corners of the place? - but there is nonetheless warmth in being expected. Godfrey has not felt it in some time; the slot he had thought the world kept for him has long since rejected him, and so has the country underneath it. A longing for this, he thinks, must be why he has allowed the lie to take root and prosper for as long as it has. There's shades of it in being called Father, even though the title has rebuked him.
The stool creaks dangerously under him - which fits, he supposes, after some thought. Godfrey self-consciously adjusts his perch. ]
Thank you, my friend, for the invitation. [ There's trepidation welling in him still, yes. But also a certain precipice giddiness which he expects most men have outgrown by now; the sensation of trying new, of perching oneself at the edge of an experience that cannot ever be taken back. ] I'll do what I can to keep myself from embarrassment. This is mine--
[ He takes the glass neck of the bottle nearest to him gently, shifting it nearer with his fingers - before glancing quickly toward Arthur. ]
-- or so I hope.
no subject
Godfrey's little nervous tics catch his eye instead. Arthur had seen them before, though more often in someone taking a wild horse for a gallop, or a kid about to draw a gun on a bank clerk for the first time-- not a grown man sitting down for a beer. It proves oddly infectious as Arthur's thoughts take the time to catch up with his actions. He's seen disgraced clergymen go to seed before. He even he shared a camp with one, but he wasn't responsible for the reverend's degeneracy. This is a bit more proactive of a step, but--
Arthur chuckles, more at himself. Hell, it's one beer, and there's worse things on his conscience.]
'Course. Not one to stiff a man on a drink.
[He lifts his own bottle and knocks it against Godfrey's with a dull clink. Arthur takes a swig, but sinks it slowly. Keane's was an armpit, but at least the ice box kept the drinks cold enough to be refreshing.]
no subject
The drink Arthur takes is certainly more reserved than those he sees others taking - perhaps for Godfrey's own sensibilities, he can't say. Regardless of what has inspired this more sensible swig, Godfrey appreciates it; he's not sure he would be able to drink half so deeply and with nearly so much fortitude as the other patrons.
Fortified, Godfrey tilts the bottle against his lips. The cold fizz needling his tongue and tender throat startles him, though mildly. There's a bitter freshness, an edge that is hard but not overbearing. And also...
Godfrey lowers the butt of the bottle against the table and, contemplating, licks the roof of his mouth. ]
It tastes like... bread.
[ Somewhat. ]
no subject
[Beer always struck him more as a utility than a drink-- a means of cooling off in summer, warming up in winter, or dulling nerves sharpened to a razor's edge. Arthur takes another sip, this time actually considering the taste in a way he hadn't since he was twelve years old.]
S'pose it does. [He furrows his brow.] That good or bad?