milliways_bar | (no subject)

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When the door shows up for Beckett for the second day in a row, it comes as a bit of a surprise to her, but she heads toward the bar without hesitation, hoping to at least get a cup of decaf out of the deal.

Instead of a cup, a napkin appears in front of her. She reads it with a frown.

"Really?"

Another napkin appears. Beckett reads that one, too.

"Alright," she finally agrees, shoulders sagging in surrender, and slides under the bar to set everything up.

"Just so you know, I'm not very good at--" A third napkin appears and interrupts her. "Fine. But you're going to have to help me."

The specials board immediately changes to a list with Bar's handwriting:

HAPPY HOUR

Cop Car
E Pluribus Unum
Holly Golightly

Beer, wine and other mixed drinks available upon request.

Beckett's eyes read over the list and she makes a face.

"Funny."

A fourth napkin appears: this one with just a smiling face drawn on.

[tiny first time bartender tag: kate beckett]

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One demigod approaching the bar; he's all cleaned up after a long day in the forge, but the scent of smoke clings to his suit, as always.

"Which of those do you think would be the strongest?" he asks.

Beckett quickly considers, looking through the small list of ingredients that Bar's provided for her with each drink listing.

"Probably the E Pluribus," she decides out loud, hands hovering over the tumbler. "You want one?"

"That would be wonderful," he says with a nod. "Sometimes you just have to go outside of your usual, you know? Have a day for something other than beer."

"I think that's the right idea to have about it," Beckett says, plugging in the blender and adding the ice first.

"And certainly other than the Atlantean."

There are strong drinks, and then there are stupidly strong drinks.

"I think a person could have a different drink every day and never try everything there is to try."

"I believe it," Beckett replies, looking around for the ice cream when Bar graciously provides it for her. Two scoops go into the blender, and that gets mixed in with the ice before she adds each part of the liquor, pouring a small portion into a glass for herself to taste.

The rest gets served to him in a nicer glass, with the chocolate shavings sprinkled on top.

"There you go."

"I'm no bartender; I don't know what most of the drinks are when I come here. Either I pick whichever name appeals most, or have the bartender choose for me."

He smiles faintly, and takes the glass. "Thank you."

"That's giving an awful lot of power to the bartender," Beckett points out.

"I've yet to have one steer me wrong," Weyland says. "It's not like anyone here would serve poison, I've got a very high tolerance and no allergies. It may not be something I would drink every day; I default back to beer. But a diversion, for a time."

He takes a sip.

"No allergies?" Beckett nods slowly. "Well, that definitely gives you an advantage over a lot of people - especially since peanut allergies are so common these days."

She watches him closely. "How is it? It's my first time making it, so I welcome critique."

"I knew a girl once who was allergic to caffeine and strawberries. The combination seemed to be a miserable one."

He smiles. "It's very good. Sweeter than I normally have, but I like it."

"Good." She smiles, encouraged by the positive comment, and sips from the rest of her smaller glass.

"It's almost like dessert when the ice cream gets thrown into the mix."

"It's like a summer afternoon as a teenager," he says, "sneaking away from a church ice-cream social to have a few sips from a friend's flask. The warmth, the dessert feeling, the faint thrill of getting away with something."

"You know, I've never heard that comparison before," Beckett replies, "but I think I like it."

"Drinking and poetry go hand-in-hand," he says with a smile. "Well, drinking and singing, but I don't sing. Why have a prosaic evening, if you can help it?"

"That's an interesting way to look at things." Beckett unconsiously echoes the smile and pours herself a water. "I don't sing either."

"...no?" he asks. "Not ever? That's a shame. You should at least sing when you're alone, if the mood strikes. Either good or bad."

"I'll consider it," Beckett promises, sipping the water slowly. "At the very least, I'll do it when I'm alone so as not to offend any ears."

"They say it can be very relaxing," he says, and takes another sip of his drink. "Like meditation. Good for the nerves."

"Well, with the pace of my job, I could always use a little meditation."

"I do the sort of meditation one can do in the middle of manual labor," he says, "just tuning everything else out but the work at hand. What is it you do, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I'm a cop," Beckett explains. "I work with the New York police department."

"That would do it," he says with a quiet chuckle. "Meditation, yes--you would need it, with work that stressful. Unless the New York in your world is more peaceful than the one in mine, but I have yet to meet anyone here who comes from some kind of utopian New York. It seems crime is a constant."

"Crime will probably always be a constant," Beckett says, "and it's my job to see that the people who commit those crimes pay for their actions."

"What got you into that?" he asks. "A love of justice, patriotism, fondness for solving puzzles?"