milliways_bar | Entries tagged with xas

sime-channel.livejournal.com

Suzi slipped in from the supply closet in San Francisco (confused, and holding a box of coffee filters) and blinked around for a moment before getting summarily begged to run happy hour and dumped behind Bar.

Mikey is not behind the bar. He is, in fact, nowhere in sight. Which is why the Sime is staring in confusion at a growing list of things on Bar's surface as the Bar attempts to help Suzi figure out what in the world is going on.

Next step? Specials.

Green Sneaker
Blindside
Slippery Box

And now she's flipping through the notes on how to mix things, bewildered. So maybe "happy hour" is more "confused as heck hour", but here it is.

thirty-pieces.livejournal.com

It's just about that time of year, isn't it? No one's told Judas, who doesn't especially know what day it is, but he's found himself feeling weak; he descends to the bar today, pulling at his collar with long fingers, and orders wine.

There's something in the air, he thinks.

Shakes his head: he must be imagining things.

accipiterpuella.livejournal.com

A door opens to Milliways from the still warm hours of a very late St. Roch, Louisiana night; there is the smell of Arabian jasmine - a Maid of Orleans, to be precise - and stagnant river water, overlayed with a patina reflecting the accumulated detritus of 21st century urban life. Through the doorway, one can see a warmly lit long hallway with a high ceiling, conveying a distinctly Rococo ambience, filled with display cases to either side; an acute eye will note the decor, and conclude rightfully that it is a museum.

A young woman steps through the door purposefully, carrying a dangerous looking flail with a disproportionately large spiked head in her right hand, and two DVDs in plastic cases in her left. The upper half of her face is covered by a striking gold and black mask, forged in the shape of a hawk head. She has an athletic build, and wears a green and yellow top and leggings; her tall boots are red, covered with a gold bas relief of sharp hawk claws on the tips. Her forearms are covered from wrist to elbow with studded gauntlets, lending an archaic flavor to her motley attire.

But perhaps what is most notable are the two large grey wings that seem to grow from her back, almost dwarfing her.

Upon looking up and noticing her surroundings, she stops, of course, and becomes very still.

There is a very soft clink, the sound of the chain of her flail as it moves slightly, and then the sound of two DVDs landing on the floor. Upon closer inspection, they will be duly noted as films, namely Battleship Potemkin and The Third Man.

Milliways, please say hello to Kendra Saunders, better known as Hawkgirl.

Don't mind the flail. Or the mace.

giftedthom.livejournal.com

*The back door opens, and Thom drifts in. He looks terrible: wet through with snow, wearing last week's thin black clothes. He goes on bare feet to a table, sits down, and rests his chin in his hands; closes his eyes.

After a few minutes, he shivers, opens them, and orders Atlantean.*

un_fallen

Raguel's at the bar. He looks surprisingly... rested. He might even have shaved.

Be wary, patrons.

sime-channel.livejournal.com

Suzi has a basket of knitting and a basket of puppy. The puppy's basket is going squeak! as the puppy asserts her dominance over a toy shaped like a steak.

The knitting fails to make any sort of noise at all, although Suzi's left leg says jingle-jingle-jingle every thirty seconds. Her hands are writing up (in ~~Genlang~~ English, not Braille) a list.

It isn't very long, but may be somewhat impressive. It has things like genetic disorder and potential for early, traumatizing death written on it.

lissla-lissar.livejournal.com

She was ready to go and seek humans. She was. She was ready to seek other humans.

Not quite this fast, not nearly this many. Golden eyes flinch from the light, pale limbs cringe from the noise, and only the questioning noise from the long-legged, long-furred hound combined with the sight of the land outside the door causes her to move.

She flees from the front door and out the back without ever testing the wall behind her, or managing to acknowledge anyone she may have run over in her wild flight.

dontlooklisten.livejournal.com

He's still not really comfortable with the Bar after all that's happened, but there are people about that Whistler needs to talk to. So he's in the Bar again, and he's ordered dinner for himself. Suzi, he figures, will find him on her own.

Oh, and he asked the rats to bring the food from the kitchen, not the Bar.

nitro-is-ace.livejournal.com

Sometimes, everyone needs a break. Tonight, Ace is curled up in her comfy chair by the fire with a book she scrouged out of the mid-twenty-first century Earth, when she stopped in for a bit of shopping and lunch a few weeks ago.

The book, in this case, is Jasper Fforde's 'The Fourth Bear'. She's made quite a lot of headway, and is finally reaching the point where all the various threads come together.

And then she cracks up.

Because there's something both horrifically wrong and wonderfully right about a beautiful, prize extreme cucumber named 'Cuthbert'.

shall-go-free.livejournal.com

Xas steps in through the front door, snow dusting his eyelashes and hair. And, of course, the shoulders of his shirt.

He is, it would appear, wearing neither coat nor scarf nor gloves.

He does, however, have shoes.

And soon a glass of wine, as Bar is a very obliging creature.

Now--where to sit?

sime-channel.livejournal.com

Suzi Darley is curled up in a chair reading a thick Braille book. One tentacle skims the words lightly as she watches the bar. It is, she thinks, reassuring to be able to watch rather than have to divide her attention.

Much as she didn't trust the bar before, she trusts the place even less now. Comfort, well, comfort is a long, long way away.

giftedthom.livejournal.com

*Looking shaken, Thom comes in, hair tousled, eyes wide. He goes straight to the bar and orders a drink; sits down with it, bare feet hanging above the floor.*

shall-go-free.livejournal.com

The door opens, and Xas steps through, tapping snow off his boots and unwinding the scarf from around his neck.

There is no appreciable redness on his cheeks despite the snow melting gently on his eyelashes and hair.

He draps his coat and gloves on a chair before going to the bar for a glass of wine, then settles back at the table, toeing off his boots and tucking his bare feet underneath him.

thirty-pieces.livejournal.com

Judas sits down at the bar, expectant. Turns to face the room and leans back with his elbows on its surface.

a-fell.livejournal.com

The scenery outside the door (were you looking over his shoulder as it swings quickly open) might jar a very little. Grey, certainly, but not quite the right shade, and the streets don't look nearly narrow enough for London. It can only be a glancing impression in any case, and it's unlikely anyone would notice, since he takes a couple of hurried steps forward and turns his head to watch the door click closed behind him, as though in need of some sort of reassurance.

A battered leather satchel is slung over one shoulder, a large and intriguingly lumped paper bag dangling from one hand. Under his other arm - no great surprise - a newspaper is tucked, although it appears to be a recent purchase since only one or two of the crossword clues have been filled in. It's no Daily Telegraph, really, but he wasn't paying any great deal of attention to it.

He stands by the door for a moment, taking in the various patrons scattered around the bar; possibly his gaze rests a little longer on one dark head, visible over the back of a couch by the fire, but although he swallows visibly he makes no move in that direction just yet. Instead he makes his way over to the staff corridor and disappears for a moment or two, returning without the heavy paper bag - and therefore a free hand for tea.

This, he feels, is important.

The Bar provides a steaming cup of Earl Grey before he's even opened his mouth, and the faintly startled expression is quickly replaced by a small smile.

"I missed you too, my dear," he murmurs under his breath; it's been a very long three months.

Aziraphael picks up his tea, takes a deep breath, and makes his way over to one of the armchairs by the fire.

Current Mood: nervous

shall-go-free.livejournal.com

The front door opens, and Xas steps through, hair a little disheveled and sunglasses hanging lightly from one hand.

Someone was driving with the top down, apparently.

The city noises fade behind him as the door closes, and he heads over to Bar to get a glass of wine.

There's a particular vintage he's been missing, of late.

a_poor_guardian

Archibald Craven, of Misselthwaite Manor, Yorkshire, has spent the day tramping in the hills about Lake Como. He has been so deeply buried in his thoughts that he forgot the time. When dusk comes, he is too far away from his villa to return to it. Fortunately, there is a small inn, with warm yellow light shining from the windows, a little way down the hill.

He knocks on the door to the inn, waiting for someone to push it open for him. So distracted is Archibald Craven that when the door finally does swing outward, and he walks into the warmth, he does not realize that the room around him is much larger than the little Italian inn.

The man who walks into Milliways wears a black frock coat over his high, crooked shoulders. His face is drawn, his black hair streaked with white, and he has not smiled once, not really, in the last ten years.

[OOC: All tags are welcome. However, if your pup has met Mary Lennox, Colin Craven, Dickon Sowerby or Martha Sowerby, please don't let Archie know they come here. You wouldn't tell someone where a missel thrush keeps its nest, would you?]

giftedthom.livejournal.com

*Thom sits at the bar, legs pulled up on the stool, waiting for someone to buy him a drink.*

e_delmar

Ennis hadn't seen so much destruction in...

well, it'd been a while, anyway. Up early and working, two days in a row. Two days ain't nothing, really, but every man needs a break now and then, and some water, so that's what he's doing, out by the fence.

e_delmar

There's a corner table, in the back. It's deep in shadows, but if you can tell, Ennis' sitting there, cigarette in hand, hat pulled over his eyes. Sure, he's hungover, but when you wake up at four thirty, it's mostly gone by this time of day.

shall-go-free.livejournal.com

The front door opens, and Xas moves quietly toward the bar, fetching a glass of wine.

He settles himself in a booth, back pressed to the wall, not quite slouching.

It's a near thing, though.

At least the color of the wine is good, and it tastes sweet. Things could be worse.

the_lioness

[OOM: A family picnic, of sorts. When news must be shared, there's safety in numbers?

Not in this family.]

kassandraloxias.livejournal.com

Kassandra is reading. Her selections for today: the omnibus When We Were Very Young And Now We Are Six, and Sun Tzu's The Art of War.

The same piece of parchment she's carried about for a while, with its small sketch of an infinite city, is beside her.

giftedthom.livejournal.com

[OOMs x 2.5.

Xas' version.

Thom's version.

P.S. Deleted scenes/DVD extras/bonus footage here.]

shall-go-free.livejournal.com

Xas steps in through the front door, feet bare and crusted with sand. His hair is ever so slightly curly, despite the utter lack of sweat at his hairline.

His shirt is fine blue linen, open at the front, and his pants are white and neatly pressed, cuffs rolled up almost to mid-calf.

It takes him a moment to remember to take off his sunglasses, holding them carelessly by one earpiece. Then he smiles, very faintly, and heads to the bar to get a drink.

White wine, of course. It goes well with the day.