Happy Hour

[notapilot]

Sam's visit to Milliways today comes with a price as he gets the infamous napkin. "Alright, Lady, I got you. Before you go though, can I get whatever crazy kinds of lemonades you can manage? It's Spring right?"

Bar provides and soon Sam is standing in front of an alchemists dream of beakers, tubes, and coils.

Specials:
Lemonades of all kinds
Alcoholic available on request, as are frozen or mixed.

Half-off if you try the purple stuff.
First drink free if you wear a pair of sunglasses from the box.

To the side of him is a box filled with crazy sunglasses. He seems to already have his pair picked out.

Unnoticed by Sam is a little cardbox booth, about the size of a mug, which reads, "The Counselor is In"

[OOC: And I need to run to an appointment. Happy Hour in slows, but more tags are welcome.]

Comments

[justmark]

None of this was here when Mark went back to the kitchen. Now, when he comes out still drying his hands with a kitchen towel, he wanders over to see what's up.

There may still be a few patches of shark blood he missed here and there, but he hardly seems bothered by it. He recognises Sam, and spends a few seconds looking from him, to the sign, to the box of sunglasses.

"You guys got lemonade here?" he asks, putting on a pair with green rhinestones covering the rims. There's no room for shame when 'free' is on the line.

[notapilot]

"Bar provides my friend. Got a flavor you like or are you feeling adventurous?" Sam points to the beaker filled with a purple liquid.

Lemonade is totally purple right?

[justmark]

The thing about living in what basically amounts to the stone age is that being adventurous keeps you alive, but it also gets you killed. There's an art to it, and Mark's getting real good at it.

This guy's a doctor of some sort, so he probably isn't out to kill people. Probably. There is a non-zero chance that he could be completely insane. Still, Mark's game. He picks up the beaker and gives it a sniff, before dipping a finger into the liquid and giving it a taste.

He can't tell if the flavour is the drink, or that bit of shark guts he missed under his nails.

[notapilot]

"Well, a tiny taste ain't going to get you half off your next drink. I need at least a swallow."

OK, that sounded bad but it's too late to take it back.

[justmark]

"Didn't know this was that kind of place," Mark says, trying not to giggle like a child.

Still, the tiny taste didn't kill him, so it's bottoms up. There's something very familiar to the purple drink, but he can't place it. Something fruity, in an artificial, chemical sort of way, and way more sweet than he's used to these days.

But he's also still not dead, so that's a plus.

"You haven't seen that girl around here again, have you?" he asks, handing the beaker back.

[notapilot]

Sam quirks his lips at Mark's first reply and then shakes his head at the question. "I'm afraid not. In fact, I was about to ask you how she was."

"I take it you two didn't know each other?"

[justmark]

Mark shakes his head. "Nah, she broke into our shack. We found her half-dead on the floor like that. We haven't seen her around since, and I was wondering if she took off inland or came back here."

He doesn't seem to bothered by any of it - casual, almost. As if people breaking into your house to die is normal.

[cook_the_rude]

"I will try the purple stuff, but do without the glasses, if that is all right?"

Dr. Hannibal Lecter approaches the bar from the kitchen, having rolled up his sleeves and wearing an apron.

[notapilot]

"Not a problem," Sam replies and turns for a glass. Sam's willing to hand over the whole beaker, but he's pretty sure Dr. Lecter is the type to drink from a glass. In this case, a highball glass. "Would you like ice? I think this is still chilled."

[cook_the_rude]

"I would just try a little bit first," Dr. Lecter says, smiling.

[notapilot]

"OK, fair enough," Sam replies, setting the glass on the bar before reaching to pour a fingers worth of the purple lemonade.

"I haven't been able to put my finger on the tastes myself." He adds, passing over the glass.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal sips, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

"That's not from Earth, is it?"

[notapilot]

"I'm not sure to be honest. I asked Bar for whatever flavors she could give me before she went to sleep. It keeps reminding me of something, but I can't place it."

[imthepilot]

Said small pilot, with messy dark hair and more rings around his eyes than the planet Saturn comes down to the bar, looking...

Well, he doesn't look good. Not good at all.

He ignores the sign and goes straight to the fire, curling up in a ball on one of the couches. A small black cat follows him, perching protectively on the back of the couch.

[notapilot]

Sam saw the guy walk in and kept an eye on him during the Happy Hour shift. It's an hour or so later that the shift ends and Sam is free. He takes a couple glasses of the lemonade, mixed with something called meiloorin if Sam read right, and heads over to sit next to the man by the fire.

He's careful to make enough noise to be noticed without being obnoxious.

[imthepilot]

Bodhi doesn't seem to notice him at first. Not that he's ignoring Sam, but that he's so far lost in his own head, he doesn't see or hear anything around him. He stares straight again, his eyes blank.

But the smell of meiloorin seeps through as something familiar. He tilts his head, looking at the glass, his expression still blank and shocky.

[notapilot]

Sam expected some resistance, so he's not put out. The guy's not catatonic, that's a start.

"Sorry," he says with a friendly tone. "You mind if I sit here? I just got through with a Happy Hour shift and my feet are killing me."

[imthepilot]

It seems to take a long time for the words to sink in and Bodhi shakes his head. "It's fine."

[notapilot]

"Thanks." After a comfortable pause, well comfortable on Sam's end since Bohdi seems to be alone in his thoughts, he adds, "You wouldn't happen to be thirsty? I was running a happy hour shift and had this juice left over. I didn't want to throw it away, but I'm not sure if I need two glasses."

[hasthehighground]

Clint's carrying a dog-eared copy of a Louis L'Amour novel, and is dressed 100% in civilian down-time gear (he's carrying, a gun under his flannel shirt and a knife in his boot covered by blue jeans, but that's habits for you).

He notices there's a bartender immediately on walking in -- as you do -- but it takes a few extra steps for him to clock the body language and build as familiar. He turns to give Wilson an interested look, and sits down at the Bar.

The next time Wilson turns his way, he'll get a casual nod, and a "Hey."

He's not sure this is who he thinks it is, but it sure as heck seems that way.

[notapilot]

Sam gives nod in return, bouncing off the back counter to stand up.

"I think I may know you. Afghanistan, two thousand...." Sam asks, giving the year he had a tour. "Wilson, Sam Wilson."

[hasthehighground]

"With the pararescue? Yeah," Clint says, relaxing slightly with a smile -- then pauses, briefly, before clearly doing an internal eh, what the hell. "They, uh, call me Barton around here. Clint."

[notapilot]

"I am so glad you said that. I had forgotten your name. But yeah, with the pararescue. Though I've moved on since then."

"Can I offer you some purple lemonade? It's safe though you'll spend the whole time drinking it trying to figure out what other fruit is."

[hasthehighground]

He's not entirely sure what his cover with the CIA was, either. Brandt, probably.

"Sure," he says, smile quirking, at the drink suggestion. "How's that working out for you?"

The moving on, or the lemonade, or the bartending -- however Wilson chooses to interpret it.

[notapilot]

Sam pours a glass from a large chemist looking beaker and slides it over. "Not too bad. Still finding ways to help the world, less people shooting at me or telling me what to do."

Okay, so the "less shooting at me" is kind of a lie.