milliways_bar | Entries tagged with applegate

T H I N G S F A L L A P A R T

T H E C E N T R E C A N N O T H O L D

You know, assuming Bela hasn't been snatched up by the hungering darkness, she mmmmight want her pistol back.

If that's the case, she'll have to fight Ava for it. She's this close to naming it Rosebud or Widowmaker or something. And she'll have to find it! Because when Ava comes in from target practice, cheeks glowing from the cold and fingers chilly at the tips despite her jacket, the gun is not immediately visible.

(It's in a pocket on the inside of her jacket. The ammo is in the pocket of her jeans.

Safety first!)

Ava locates a comfy chair, takes off her shoes, and curls up; then she orders chicken pot pie from a waitrat. Then, and only then, is it relaxing time.

... Or is it note-writing time???

( It's for Applegate. )

likesthecoat

Ianto has decided he has a theme. Stick with what you're good at. It seems to make people happy.

TONIGHT'S SPECIALS
MARTININS
for example
ABSINTHE
BLACK
CHOCOLATE
DIRTY
EMERALD
FUZZY
etc.

COFFEE
ANY WAY YOU LIKE IT

At the end of the bar, Stuart Dakin is smiling to himself as he enjoys a pint. Amazing things have happened today. The first is that he got into Oxford--not only got into, but got into the college he wanted with an exhibition. All the hard work, the studying, the ignoring Fiona in favor of writing yet another essay, has paid off. The rest of his future is open before him.

The second is that he got his favorite teacher reinstated in his position. It was a powerful moment, pointing out that their headmaster was a hypocrite. Maybe not in those words, but the meaning was clear. And Hector will teach another generation of boys.

The third is...well. Going to happen.

Dakin loves moments like this, when everything feels ripe and heavy with possibility. No wonder Hector's mad for the subjunctive.

Merlin has no big news. He has no vegetables in his hair. He does have the Big Book of Magic, though, along with a flagon of ale and an eye on the door in case any of the magic users he's met or heard of walks through. He's longing to talk magic with someone who knows about it!

(Arthur thinks he spends too much time at the tavern. If only he knew which tavern! And why!)

Sitting at a table, having a fine supper and a good glass of wine, is someone utterly harmless and nondescript. That's what he wants you to think, anyway.

Jim Moriarty is trying to blend in. He still hasn't quite sussed the atmosphere of the bar--sometimes he thinks he could have some fun here, sometimes he thinks he should just let it be.

So hard to decide.

[OOC: Multi-pup post. Just let me know who you want.

emphasisonthe.livejournal.com

The door does not swing open, nor slam, nor is it thrown back grandly. It is, in fact, opened very politely. Exceedingly politely. Overly politely. It is a politeness made up of a thousand different desires to scream, throw a temper tantrum, rip someone's head off (literally) and never, ever see another cup of tea, ever again.

This explains the brilliant smile the woman who has just walked in is wearing.

"Milliways," she breathes out, violet eyes going wide. "Oh, thank you very much, it's really been too long." She's an attractive woman, with dark hair pinned up and skin fashionably pale. She's dressed quite stylishly...albeit for 1916, Hobart, Tasmania.

Tasmania.

Lola suspects that she's managed to annoy her boss by the location of her current assignment. But still, there is Milliways, and she makes her way directly over to the bar. And, yes, there is a spring to her step and a certain sway to her hips, because she really can't help herself.

Please note: Lola is dead, human, and a damned soul. To those who are sensitive to such things, there might be something a bit off about her - a faint whiff of fire and brimstone, so to speak.

And this EP is open until it scrolls.

small!tag: lola (damn yankees)

Current Mood: cheerful

turned_captain

Sometimes it's easy to forget just how far the magic of the Bar extends into the space beyond, the spaces made up of so many different magics from so many different worlds. It's as easy to forget as the fact that time moves differently in Milliways than in the feeder worlds, so a patron may be coming from, say, a warm Caribbean spring and find themselves in a place celebrating the close of a calendar year.

When the Dutchman rises into view at the Caribbean inlet, the Captain is surprised by the appearance of a bar napkin, that reads:

New Year's Party: You're hosting.

And the rigging is soon resplendant with strange lights that don't burn, but that do flash different colours with irritating arhythmia. Will raises his eyebrows at the note, but accepts his duty resignedly. At least this way he'll get to attend.

hallelujahpilot

Trudy has been using the bar in part to catch up on her reading. This reading has included her father's scholarly articles and her sister's journalism career.

It's the latter that currently has Trudy frozen. She had been reading Frankie's latest article on her datapad, seated at her normal table with her boots up and chair slightly tilted, when she freezes.

She rereads a number of things.

She shuts her eyes.

And, very eloquently, she introduces her forehead to the screen of the datapad.

If she weren't four point whatever lightyears away, she would kill Frankie.

note: open 'til it scrolls!

morningstar_ret

There's a man...

Well, something like a man.

He looks like a man, anyway. Now. For the moment.

But there's something slightly...wrong about him. Or right, depending on how you look at it.

It's not his clothing (perfectly tailored, dark suit, white shirt). It's not his face (There's nothing at all wrong with his face. It's perfect. Beautiful.). It's not the way he walks like he owns not just this place but possibly the whole world.

But his eyes are golden, and his hair...well, it can't seem to decide what color it wants to be. Or maybe it's just that you can't decide what color it wants to be. Golden? Red? Almost white? Sometimes it even looks like the wind hit it just right to curl bits of it into two horns.

Either way, he steps into the bar, and if he's surprised to find it there, the only indication is a slight arching of one eyebrow.

To no one in particular (it seems) he says, "If you wanted a meeting, this is certainly a creative venue. I'll give you that. Plumbing out in the Silver City?"

tiny-diabolical!tag: Lucifer (from the Lucifer series)

[ooc: Open until it scrolls.]

theunsmiling

Michael makes her way from the front door to a corner booth, tossing her bike helmet onto the seat. She passes the booth, however, and swings by Bar herself.

The exchange is quick but not unpleasant. The archangel is carrying a cup of coffee, a donut with sprinkles, and a newspaper with a crossword as she makes her way back to the booth. She props her boots up on the table, slouches way down, and gets to work.

The coffee might last longer than the crossword puzzle, but the donut is doomed.

hallelujahpilot

The Marines at Hell’s Gate worship their commander, and Trudy Chacon is certainly no exception to this. Quaritch is a good leader, the kind where you do what he says out of respect rather than intimidation. And he never asks of them what he would not do himself. And as the Marines tell all the new blood, on his first day, he had his mask torn off and survived. He has their backs, and they know this with a bone-deep certainty. They are the luckiest sons and daughters of bitches in the galaxy to have him as their CO.

However, he is still the colonel, and Trudy has gotten used to regarding Milliways as her own off-duty secret. It is somewhat disconcerting to now have him prowling around.

Cue the normally cheerful pilot looking somewhat ~~sulky~~ despondent as she sits at the bar, poking at her cup of coffee.

Current Mood: grumpy

morethanprops

Moist was just going to get a drink when a napkin appeared, he frowned at the napkin and then started a discussion with the Bar.

After a flurry of napkins, because Bar is not playing fair, he finally says, "Fine, fine, I'll do it."

He picks up the cocktail book and flips through it, most of the things he can find are all either too suggestive or just unhelpful. In the end, he pours himself a whiskey and writes up the specials.

Specials
Lady Be Good
End of the Road
Lost Cause

Tiny tag with an assumed name: Moist von Lipwig
Tiny tag with lots of sex appeal: Trixie
OOC: This is still open.

necessary_child

Sam Linnfer has draped himself along a tree branch overhanging the lake to ~~brood like Jack Harkness deprived of a rooftop~~ enjoy the spring sunshine.

He is not emo at all, and you are a lying liar if you suggest otherwise. Hush.

~

Molly Hayes has also found a high spot, but indoors – the weather outside is still too cold for this California baby. She’s sitting in one of the lower-hanging rafters, legs swinging as she blows rainbow-coloured bubbles. (It’s amazing what Bar can provide, if you ask nicely.)

Her Security badge is neatly pinned to the front of her pink bunnyhat.

~

Minerva McGonagall has a seat in a booth just out of the main hubbub of the bar, and is marking essays. Lots of essays.

She has a large gin and gillywater, because there are only so many times you can read what is essentially the same essay without going insane. That Hermione Granger and her revision classes is a menace.

~

Dean Thomas, one of whose essays McGonagall is currently marking, has wisely chosen to be as far away from his Transfiguration teacher as possible: he’s sitting in the Observation Window, sketching the stars.

~

The entrance door morphs abruptly, as a massive man in the remains of heavy armour lifts what is meant to be the entrance flap to his tent and finds the bar instead. When he sees where he is, Raoul of Goldenlake grins with relief, tugging his helmet off to expose dark eyes set in a ruddy face under a cap of sweat-damp black curls. He’s noticeably limping as he makes his way across the bar to the sofas, and sits down so heavily that the sofa he chooses complains alarmingly.

Muttered, “Oh, just a twenty-foot giant, they said...”

Yeah. It’s been a long day.

~

Edna Mode, meanwhile, has taken over several large tables, had the Loompas clean them, and laid out large swathes of different materials, over which she is now buzzing like a small, black, very chic bee wielding tailor’s chalk, scissors and pins. (She also has a large mojito, but that’s far out of spilling distance of the material.)

Beware: any interruptions are likely to be used as models.

~

She’s being watched surreptitiously by a slightly older gentleman with a pintglass of beer and a book of poetry that has been very carefully hidden inside a History of Genghis Khan and Other Bloodthirsty Villains.

...Oh. Did we mention that Captain Shakespeare also happens to be wearing a very elegant – and frilly - ballgown?

~

At a table in the corner is a very tired medical student with a very large pot of tea and even larger stack of books, tapping away at a laptop. Martha Jones has taken refuge from Facebook to write her latest coursework essay, and by the looks of things she’s going to be here for a while.

Interruptions had better bring chocolate.

~

Someone who hasn’t been in the bar for a very long time has returned! A stripey young gentleman and his dog are flitting through the bar tonight, beaming agreeably (yes, the dog too). Where’s Wally is more than happy to be back. After all, so many people to get lost in, so many books to drop and be found later, so little time.

~

And, finally, one person who has never been here before, though whether or not she has even noticed its appearance is debatable. A (pre-canon) Suzie Costello has taken refuge in an isolated booth with a strange silver gauntlet, and is writing feverishly in between tinkering with it.

~

All characters – even Suzie – have been supplied by an insistent Bar with a large cupcake crowned with four lit candles, even though none of them quite know why. Except maybe Sam, and he’s not telling.

[OOC: See, I wasn’t kidding about hating my brain. Where’s Wally is not taggable, as he’s plot-only – however, he will be appearing somewhere in the Bar tonight, for your spotting pleasure. See the Back Room for details, please and thank you!

Secondly, Suzie is not currently crazy, although she’s getting there, and is therefore really very unlikely to shoot your pup. However she may not be pleasant and she’s certainly fragile. As she’s pre-canon, the management would like to request that no pups who know about Torchwood’s future shenanigans tag her.

Finally, the management reserves the right to wave a white flag for ~~truce~~ slowtime at any time. Until then, consider this as an apology for my not bloody well playing lately!]

justasaleswoman

There are things a girl (to use the term loosely) can do that leave her with a temporary upswing in mood. Like . . . eating a chocolate bar, or getting a manicure, or finding just the perfect black dress on just the perfect brunette.

And then there are things that result in a slightly longer lasting good mood. A really good first date, or shoe-shopping, or having the most interesting conversation with the right person just before Windows Millenium Edition comes out and thereby creating a thorn in users' sides for a good long while.

But there are some things, and they are rare and to be savored, that result in a good mood that isn't going to discipate anytime this century. Like buying Dean Winchester's soul, and at a 90% discount. And that fact that purchase also put a certain dead horse back into a certain very important race . . . well, that's just gravy.

So, to sum up:
Brunette, black dress, apple martini, and annoyingly smug smile.

[OOC: Not plotlocked in any way, shape, or form, but any other threads will be magically millitimed to before the one with Castiel.]

ofthosegoodold

Applegate is entirely prepared to object to being tapped for bartending service again - honestly, if he'd wanted to serve, he'd've played nice all those millennia ago - but when the Bar points out what day it is on any number of worlds, he can't help but reconsider. There are, as far as the Christian calendar goes, very few better days for providing alcohol.

From his perspective, at least.

Drink Specials

The Hundred Years' War
The Battle of the Seven Souls
Dead in a Ditch

Your first drink is on the bartender.

And no, there's no catch, though he's sure convincing some people of that will prove to be entertaining.

tinytag: aphrodite

[OOC: ~~Open till around ten-thirty PM EST.~~ And closed! Thanks so much to everyone who tagged in!]

hadyougoing

When Ava stops by the bar for some Friday night raspberry-lemonade-and-vodka, it comes along with a small cardboard box, addressed To: Ava and From: Elle.

Her eyes narrow fractionally, since last time they hadn't exactly parted on the world's greatest terms, and she shakes the box suspiciously before asking Bar for an x-acto knife. One delicate slit in the tape later, and she is prying the thing open to discover a toy London phone booth.

Ava blinks. (The knife disappears.)

And, after a moment, she begins to giggle.

She's not sure she gets the joke, but this thing is kinda cute.

[ooc: open until whenever, y'all. I got a paper to procrastinate on.]

necessary_child

Answer to tonight's Cluedo game: Friendly Neighbourhood Lucifer, in a booth, with sushi.

Minimalist mun.

Come and get him!

Tiniest of all possible tags: Applegate, Nori Ashida

nevercomplains

A doctor steps into the bar.

He furrows his eyebrows.

(He is dressed in a grey suit, every detail meticulously neat, brown bowler hat perched on his head at a natty angle. He leans on a handsome cane.

He is blocking the door.)

[tags: applegate]

[OOC: And I am gone for the night, and for the sake of my ability to handle slowtimes, the post is closed! Thank you! ♥]

ofthosegoodold

The woman who steps through the Door is glamorous to the point of parody, with an impossible fall of sleekly wavy blonde hair, impeccably arched eyebrows, and a lacy black dress that doesn't look as though anyone should be able to move in it without copious amount of duct tape in some spots and Crisco in others.

Judging from the way she smooths her hands along the fabric, though, and then smirks at herself in a mirror that wasn't there a few seconds ago, the new look suits Applegate just fine.

[OOC: Open till it scrolls.]

hadyougoing

It's Friday night, and Ava has already changed out of her office wear into sweatpants and an oversize purple sweater. (Her silvery headband is, however, still in her hair, and she likes to think that it and the thin chain around her neck, strung with red clown noses, complete just about any outfit.)

She's curled up on a couch by the fire, munching chips and a sandwich and looking absently at the game of Scrabble she borrowed from the Bar.

It's weird to think of board games as having any relevance to her (after)life, so she may be staring at it just a little too intently.

ofthosegoodold

At the first note, Applegate raises a derisive eyebrow.

"My dear, I don't work for free."

At the second note - he pauses.

". . . Ah. Yes. Well, if you put it that way."

Who knew a piece of wood could be so persuasive?

Specials

Apple Martini

Apple Brandy Highball

Snake in the Grass

Subtlety is only one of Applegate's strong points when it has to be.

[OOC: Also functioning as car keys bait for Jo Harvelle. To everyone else, this is open to new tags until ten PM EST.]

the_lioness

Dreams about Roger used to make Alanna worried, angry or cold. The latest astounded her, left her speechless as she reviewed each word and gesture and sound, true, but the worst that could be said of it is that since the dream, Alanna has been annoyingly quiet and introspective.

Tonight she's claimed a comfortable armchair by the fire and is seated with one foot propped on the opposite knee. A cup of coffee is cupped loosely in her hand, and her sword is within easy reach. Technically she's on duty, but unless one of the flames jumps out of the fireplace to accost a patron, she's not likely to notice much of what's going on around her.

That's how it looks, anyway.

[OOC: Car keys bait for

ofthosegoodold, but open to all!]

justasaleswoman

The door opens, and there's a split second glimpse of a woman with dark hair, a designer black dress, and a lot diamonds.

And then the dress and the diamonds have been replaced with something far more plain and demure, and the hair is covered by a neat white cap.

For the first time in a few hundred years, Verity looks like she's supposed to be in the middle of a damn Thanksgiving display.

And she looks fairly annoyed about the fact.

"What the hell is this?"

Okay, maybe more than fairly.

[tiny tag: Applegate]

latino_menace

This is the first time he's spent any proper time in the bar since the...uh, incident with Demeter. He's been staying away for the sake of his blood pressure because to say he's been living in a permanent state of simmering fury would kind of be understating it a bit.

He's down tonight because his restraint has given out. There are certain people he wants to find and they're not going to magically knock on his door upstairs. So here he is, in a booth with a good view of the rest of the bar, a bottle of tequila at his elbow and no inclination to move until he gets what he want.

Other people are, of course, welcome to come and try to distract him.

[OOC: 2am and slowtime there must be! Fab threads everyone, thanks. Will pick them up tomorrow. :D]

puckishly.livejournal.com

Puck is sitting by the fire, and he is surrounded by a pile of books.

Some of them are poetry, and some of them are legends, and they are written in a hodgepodge of languages and mostly old and moldering. He flips through them idly, more like somebody with a divining rod looking for water than a scholar looking for information. Occasionally he glances up-- looking for some people, and looking out for others.

Unrelated-- or apparently unrelated-- the notice board features a large, white piece of paper, blank but for a single scrawled question:

How does one rid the land of a pestilence?

[ooc: Hi Milliways! Talk to Puck or just answer the question-- I'm easy either way. Here for a few hours and then slowtiming; ping at Merky Dee with questions.]

lionlike_tabby

"Me? Again?"

The young witch does not seem terribly happy about Bar's demands on her time, but puts her massive textbook aside with a sigh. Well, this probably does count as a half-way reasonable excuse- sorry, reason not to complete her essays just yet, and at least Millitime will mean she hasn't lost anything.

Actually, that's an idea...

After a few moments' thought (and a few more moments' scrutiny of the cocktail book), Minerva picks up a red chalk and writes in the board in a firm, neat hand:

Happy Hour Specials:
Butterbeer
Firewhiskey and gillysoda
Pumpkin Juice

Half off any drink if you can teach me something I don't know about transfiguration.
Double price if you try to lie.

Raising her voice authoritatively: "Happy Hour's open!"

Come and try to teach the teacher-to-be.

[OOC: And it's 5:30am here and I'm flagging, so happy hour is now closed! Slowtime is love, guys.]

white_flowers

She has been gone for some weeks as the days are reckoned here, to be certain, but her time has not been spent in idleness.

Far from it.

At the moment, though, she seems content enough to sit quietly with a cup of tea, watching the room and those in it.

Occasionally her stone-hard blue glance falls on a repaired patch of floor; occasionally it rests on the note that lies slowly crumbling on the table before her. At those times she seems rather less content, but it passes swiftly.

To all outward indication, that is.

[OOC: Note on appearances; note on abilities and weaknesses.]