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."
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.
"Alcohol." Katya beams back - proper introductions are secondary. She knows the feel of him, though it is slightly different now without the fear. "Hello!"
"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?"
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."
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."
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.
"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."
"So peaceful for someone who carries a gun." She teases, deciding that while fried paradoxes are lovely, they still won't replace any of her usual favorites.
"In my time, not carryin' a gun is like not wearin' a solid pair of boots. It just ain't done, unless you're willing to take the chance of not being able to defend yourself against one."
Doc has fast hands. They've saved him more times than he can count.
She holds up her hands (glittering in the bar lights, the girl has an incurable facination with fashion jewelry) in surrender. "I am hardly a peaceable creature myself." She admits, without any sign of remorse.
"Da, da, I know, but there must be something in the purple range - we've already done green and blue."
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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.
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He looks at the bottles.
"What kind of alcohol? Vodka?"
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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."
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"I like the way you think." He puts his glass down. "Bar? Something purple."
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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.
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(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."
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"You are awfully pleased with yourself."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Doc has fast hands. They've saved him more times than he can count.
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"I am hardly a peaceable creature myself." She admits, without any sign of remorse.
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(Which isn't very much, but he can Tell some things.)
Doc smiles, and picks up his drink, not bothering to question how it has seemed to refill itself yet once again.
"But there isn't nothin' wrong with it. Some towns are just more...unsocialable than others."
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