milliways_bar | (no subject)

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"But musing what an easy thing it were to mix our opiates in a larger cup," Autor says, patting the counter in preparation to hop over it. "And drink, and not perceive"—and here he hops—"sleep deepening lead his truer kinsman up, like undistinguished Night, darkening the skirts of Eve.*"

After a few minutes of setting up his prior preparations, the boy reaches for the specials board. "Good night, Bar."

Bitter Chocolate Aria
Hot chocolate & one croissant

Submission Sonata
Virgin strawberry & wasabi daiquiri

Ode to Blood
Giga ant eggs, sour apple juice, seltzer water, flavored ice

Fiery Trigon
Grenadine, lemon juice, apple juice, passion fruit juice, & cinnamon

Silent Overture
Free coffee if you can prove that you’re knighted

Note: Virgin bar.

[This post is open forever.]

*Ode to Sleep , Richard Chenevix Trench

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"Why not?" she says, tossing the piece of chalk over her shoulder. It lands with a plop in a momentarily unattended mug of coffee.

"I'll take your sour persimmons, cousin." Coyote excels at making pop-culture references people won't understand. Especially when they involve Looney Tunes.

Autor makes a noise which sounds very much like a, "tch!" and dumps the coffee. After a bit of assembling--some of which requires the use of the blender, as he's making this extra sour--he presents her with an Ode to Blood.

"I've never had a persimmon," he says, and leans back. The drink should pucker anyone's lips, but this is Coyote. It might be sweet to her.

Good heavens, it looks like a float in a pride parade.

"Do not eat them before they're ripe," Coyote advises. Then she tries a sip. It takes great effort not to make the lemon-puckery face, but she manages it. One eyebrow twitches.

"Needs something..." She rummages in her tool belt, coming up with a flask. Then she dumps some of whatever's in there into the drink.

He nods. "I'll keep that in min--oh," he says, wrinkling his nose. "I am shocked that people want to drink alcohol in this establishment. Shocked."

He shakes his head. "What's in the flask?"

She takes another sip and makes a considering face. "None of your beeswax, nosy. Maybe it is agave nectar."

It isn't.

"So. Read any good books lately?"

"Pfft!" Autor says. "If that's agave nectar, I'm a can can dancer."

He adjusts his glasses and leans on the counter. "Perhaps. What about you?"

Autor is well aware of how much you can tell about a person by what they read.

Patting herself down again, Coyote pulls out a battered paperback with severely foxed edges. It looks like it has seen many a second-hand shelf and library book sale in its day.

It is titled A Maiden Among Wolves. There are a couple of badly Photoshopped guys with yellow eyes and big pecs on the cover. Their chests are oddly hairless for werewolves, if that's what they are supposed to represent.

"It's very gripping," Coyote assures him with a straight face.

Autor blinks at the cover for a second. And a second more. Then every bit of skin on his face bursts into a brilliant red.

He places a hand on the counter, and holds up a finger. The boy takes three short, sharp breaths, preparing to say something. Anything.

Bereft of words, he turns to make himself a cup of tea.

Coyote lets out her trademark whooping, howling laugh and puts the book away. "It is safe now. I promise."

Such a virgin bartender. He makes this way too easy.

"Safe? I don't know how much that matters, given that I've already seen it," he snorts, teacup in hand. "That image has been seared into my retinas. If I ever sleep again, I shall close my eyes and see a golden gaze hovering over a man's protruding nipple."

Oh, now he has words.

"That one wasn't so bad," she scoffs. "They have anatomy that could actually belong to a mortal, physical being. No extra muscle groups or anything."

Coyote takes another sip of the drink. It might be growing on her.

Probably because she put ~~whiskey~~ agave nectar in it.

"I don't," Autor begins, and has to stop to regroup his thoughts. "I don't even want to know what else you read."

He leans against the counter and slouches, folding his arms across his chest. "I've adopted a habit of speaking in staccato around you and I don't particularly care for it," he says, with an expression as sour as her drink.

"I think it is great," Coyote says with a sparkling, shiny white grin that contains many teeth.

"You shouldn't malign my reading choices," she adds. "This is research."

"Tch!" Autor says, grinning even as he pops his nose in the air. "That's not proper research. What are you trying to delve into, the human condition?"

"I am trying to see what I can get away with, if I ever decide to write my memoirs," Coyote says.

It might be a lie.

It might not be.

Which choice is more alarming is up to you.

Autor blinks at her. "Well, I'm sure you can get away with anything if you label them as fiction," he says, completely bypassing the way she's researching.

"Though the library seems to have several collections of stories about you," he says. "Father Berard Haile's Navajo Coyote Tales, for instance," he says. "Or Coyote Stories by Mourning Dove."

He grins. "Would you be writing to correct their egregious assumptions?"

"I see someone else has been doing research!" Coyote says, sounding very pleased indeed. "Just because they are real stories does not mean they are true stories.

"But they are in the public domain, and I respect the rights of the author and the reader to make their own interpretations." She nods wisely.

Yep.

Autor cackles into his tea. "Even if I didn't know that you were a consummate liar, it's easy to recognize how amused you are.

"All right, then," he says. "Is it really true what you did to Pheasant and her granddaughters? Beating the old woman to death with a stinging bush and flaying her skin to wear as a coat seems..." Cruel, but resourceful. "Well. Is it true, anyway?"

"They did have my eyes," Coyote said. "I rather needed those."

That the Pheasant woman herself was not in possession of Coyote's eyes is immaterial.

"Besides, she came back." Death was a little different in those days.

"What?" Autor says, blinking. "No, they didn't. The people at the Sundance lodge had your eyes, given to them by the ravens. In fact, you essentially tortured the two birds for no reason and made them carry you to the camp."

He blinks again. "Did you ever manage to find the ravens? They started the mess and were never mentioned again."

Coyote waves a hand. "Their camp did, then. Besides, I was mostly blind and angry. Not my best day." Not that she seems very remorseful about it.

"Oh, I knew where the ravens came from," she says with a sneer. "His cousins always did follow Raven's lead, and there is nothing he finds more amusing than eyeballs, for some reason."

"You seem to be blind and angry a lot," Autor says, grinning.

"Do you know the reason?" he asks. He sips his tea carefully, watching her. "With the eyes, I mean. You said there was a reason, and I'd be shocked if you didn't know it, being Coyote."

He looks completely serious.

He's good at that.

Dude's not wrong. Coyote just sniffs.

"The reason is that he likes to eat them. Friendly advice," she says, leaning in a little closer. "Don't take anything Raven offers you from out of his pockets. You don't know what else has been in there."

Eyeballs, stray star systems, roadkill, cookies...

Autor cocks his head, looking a little ravenish himself. "So what you're telling me is not to take anything from him," he says, "and that the same also applies to you, as there are some aspects that you two share. Got it."

He sits back, smug as hell. "Thanks for the warning."

Coyote scowls at him. "I am much less irritating and glitter-laden than Raven, and you had best remember it. I can buy somebody a drink or give a present without it being some sort of meaning laden life lesson."

So can Raven, really. But it's the principle of the thing. He sets out to teach people on purpose. Coyote usually just trips over someone who needs a good lesson, ifyouknowwhatImean.