(no subject)

[scurlock]

The door opens to admit a face that hasn't been here in awhile.

(Especially with the devil-may-care expression that it's currently sporting.)

The outlaw attached to the face in question seems to be in a good mood, if the way he's walking (just a little bit of strut to his step to go along with the hint of a stagger) and the bottle of whiskey in his hand have anything to say about it.

He's got a scabbed-over cut above his left eyebrow and he hasn't shaved in a handful of days, but it's been even longer since he's had a haircut -- evidenced by the fact that he's got the dirty blond strands pulled back into a 'ponytail' that rests at the nape of his neck.

Doc heads for the bar, in search of a glass of ice. He'll handle the refill himself.

Comments

[deadlinedriven]

"Just like that."

The fashion-plate blonde a couple of stools away lifts her glass of champagne, and swirls the flute with a delicate flick of her wrist.

She casts a glance toward the counter, one eyebrow arched.

"So tell me, what else can you do, and where are you hiding Criss Angel?"

[scurlock]

Doc turns at the sound of the voice (and while he does make an effort to be subtle about it, she's got legs that go on for days in that skirt) and smiles.

"Evenin', miss."

A beat.

"If I knew him, I'd tell you; but I haven't met any angel here by the name Criss. Yet."

[deadlinedriven]

She looks over, taking in what appears to be, for all intents and purposes, a cowboy, in one quick down-and-up.

"Nice," she says, with a shark-sharp smile. "Authentic. Did you forget to swing by wardrobe before you left the set?"

[scurlock]

He comes to rest at the bar, placing the bottle of whiskey on the counter.

"The set?"

A glass of ice appears at his elbow, and he tips a portion of the whiskey into the tumbler, taking a moment to appreciate the crackle of the melting cubes as they are splashed with the liquor.

"Oh." He lifts the glass and points at her. "You mean like, the movin' pictures. Are you one of those Hollywood folk from the future?"

[deadlinedriven]

"New York, actually. Gina Cowell, Black Pawn Publishing."

A beat.

"You've gone full Method, haven't you?"

[scurlock]

He glances at the bottle in his hand.

"I've only had a glass or two."

Then he looks back at her.

"New York City?" He smiles. "I lived there, for awhile. That one of the new papers?"

[deadlinedriven]

"It's a publishing house for books," she says, her speech slowing slightly as she studies the guy.

She snaps her fingers, eyes lighting with high-octane eureka.

"I've walked into some kind of Punk'd 2.0, haven't I?"

She leans in, conspiratorial, a knowing half-smile curving her glossed lips.

"It's okay. I'll make sure they don't fire you."

[scurlock]

"...did you just walk in?"

[deadlinedriven]

She gives the room another discreet perusal, checking for hidden cameras and possibly Ashton Kutcher, or a younger, more relevant Kutcher replacement.

"If I say yes, does that make you more or less likely to keep your job?"

[scurlock]

"I'm not worried about losin' my job," he replies. "But I will say that your answer will either make this a very interestin' conversation, or turn this into a very interestin' evenin'."

(He wonders what -- or who -- she's looking for, and his outlaw's instincts remind him of the weight of the Colt against his thigh.)

[deadlinedriven]

"Oh, well, then."

She smiles, dialing up the charm to eleven.

"I'll be honest with you. I just walked in, and I have to say, whoever designed this place has a lock on high-concept."

[scurlock]

"First drink's on the house, though I see you might've already discovered that," he says, motioning at her glass. "Welcome to Milliways. Bar, restaurant, hotel."


One corner of his mouth lifts into a tiny smile.

"At the end of the universe."

[deadlinedriven]

Her mouth forms a small, soundless oh.

She can't help but wonder if Pan knows about this; the publishing house should, by all rights, seeing as someone's marketed Adams's idea — otherwise, it's a lawsuit-in-waiting.

"Thank you."

She picks up her champagne.

"Is it new? I thought I would've heard of it."

From the Times, or even from Richard, for that matter. This kind of theme would have him all but mouth-breathing with giddiness.

[katyafeline.livejournal.com]

Katya firmly believes that a sentient talking bar just might be one of the very best things about this place. That'd be why there's a frizzed blond Russian perched on the polished wood, with a napkin in her hand, contemplating the alcohol behind the bar.

"Da, da, I know, but there must be something in the purple range - we've already done green and blue."

[scurlock]

"Purple range of just what, exactly?"

He's had just enough whiskey to allow himself to insert his question into her stream of conversation with the bar -- politely, mind you -- without a proper introduction.

Doc smiles.

[katyafeline.livejournal.com]

"Alcohol." Katya beams back - proper introductions are secondary. She knows the feel of him, though it is slightly different now without the fear. "Hello!"

[scurlock]

"It's been awhile," he says. (Unsure if she remembers him, though if her condition after the attack was any indication of her memory, she might not.) "You doing okay?"

He looks at the bottles.

"What kind of alcohol? Vodka?"

[katyafeline.livejournal.com]

There's a general impression within the Moscow Others that Katya is incurably young - an especially violent Peter Pan of sorts. That'd be because she generally fails to be staid and remote unless in battle conditions. She does remember him, a steadying force in her out-of-control world on that horrible night.

That'd be why she hops off the bar and hugs him, kissing both cheeks before hopping back up to her perch.
"Any kind of alcohol - it is a bar at the end of the universe, no? It is best to be adventurous."

[scurlock]

The smile that Doc gives her is one he doesn't share often -- full of quiet happiness and a hint of gratitude. (She remembers you. You helped her. One of the few things you haven't fucked up entirely.)

"I like the way you think." He puts his glass down. "Bar? Something purple."

[katyafeline.livejournal.com]

Bar doesn't see the point, evidently, in arguing with two determined drinkers, and produces two chilled cocktail glasses full of a pale purple liquid, decorated with a lemon twist.

Katya takes an experimental sip, and blinks at the drink thoughtfully. She's never had one that tastes like a truck full of rum crashed into a flower shop.

[scurlock]

That is certainly different. Doc sips carefully, then has another sip.

(He likes rum, as Captain Sparrow can attest to. He likes rum quite a bit.)

"Not bad."

He hops up onto the barstool closest to her.

"Never had purple rum before."

[katyafeline.livejournal.com]

"Experimentation is good." Katya agrees cheerfully, ordering up a double serving of fried paradoxes as well. Her first glassful of purple alcohol has disappeared, so she makes sure those get continuously refilled as well.
"You are awfully pleased with yourself."

[scurlock]

"Managed to make it another day without gettin' shot at," he replies. "I always consider that a reason to celebrate."

He drains off the purple drink. It's definitely sweet and a bit flowery for his taste, but there's enough alcohol in it to balance it out just fine.

[katyafeline.livejournal.com]

"And no one managing to bleed at you?" Katya grins, swirling a fried paradox through its sauce as she teases. "That does sound like a good day."

Not one she'd want to have too often in her normal life, to avoid being bored to death... but once in a while. It'd be a good day.

[scurlock]

"Ever since I struck out on my own, the only time I get people bleedin' at me is if I tend to be the one doin' the shootin'."

It's a fact.

"And thankfully, those instances have been quite infrequent."

He'll toast (and drink) to that, and then snag a few paradoxes.