Maybe Bar was listening in on Cal's conversation with Ianto yesterday, despite her unconscious state, or maybe the napkin note is a coincidence
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Pertellis appears from upstairs with a variety of books under his arms and distending various pockets. He makes a neat pile of them and takes a seat at the end of the bar, poring over blurbs before choosing one to open at the first page.
He doesn't get far, though; he's apparently distracted by the thought of all the books he didn't bring down, and is alternately staring at the stairs and at the specials board with a kind of dazzled confusion, not quite recovered from the reality of libraries.
Cal watches him for a moment, waiting to see if he's going to start reading and not want to be interrupted (which Cal is much better at noticing when he's bartending than he is normally), or if he's going to want to order.
When he doesn't appear to be planning on making up his mind any time soon, and frankly looks like he could use a little help grounding himself, Cal moves closer and smiles.
Ah, a newbie. Cal nods, still smiling. He spent years in politics, which translates pretty well into chatting with new patrons and tending bar upon occasion.
"There are," he says, "and the kitchen's always open. Bar is asleep right now, though" - he pats her wooden surface lightly - "and she always makes sure there's someone to make drinks before she goes. I can take a food order to the kitchen too, if you want."
Cal considers for a second, then turns to the fridge and pulls out a container of orange juice. He mixes this with a generous portion of good vodka - even though he knows it doesn't really matter how much he uses in a drink for Sam - then places the glass in front of him.
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He doesn't get far, though; he's apparently distracted by the thought of all the books he didn't bring down, and is alternately staring at the stairs and at the specials board with a kind of dazzled confusion, not quite recovered from the reality of libraries.
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When he doesn't appear to be planning on making up his mind any time soon, and frankly looks like he could use a little help grounding himself, Cal moves closer and smiles.
"Hi. Can I get you anything?"
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Pertellis blinks at him helplessly, then pushes his glasses a little further up his nose.
"I'm sorry, I thought there were - " a gesture that couldn't be interpreted without a code book, or possibly some sort of map - "rats?"
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"There are," he says, "and the kitchen's always open. Bar is asleep right now, though" - he pats her wooden surface lightly - "and she always makes sure there's someone to make drinks before she goes. I can take a food order to the kitchen too, if you want."
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Because it totally worked.
Cal considers for a second, then turns to the fridge and pulls out a container of orange juice. He mixes this with a generous portion of good vodka - even though he knows it doesn't really matter how much he uses in a drink for Sam - then places the glass in front of him.
"A Screwdriver," he says brightly.
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He takes a long drink and licks his lips. "Very nice."
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"I thought you'd like it." Obviously.
Of course, in a different kind of mood, he might have chosen something disgusting just for fun.
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She teases.
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"I like to keep people on their toes," he says, reaching up to take a martini glass off the shelf.
Call it a hunch.
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Hey, if you have a signature drink, people are going to make certain assumptions.
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