Doc turns at the sound of the voice (and while he does make an effort to be subtle about it, she's got legs that go on for days in that skirt) and smiles.
"Evenin', miss."
A beat.
"If I knew him, I'd tell you; but I haven't met any angel here by the name Criss. Yet."
He comes to rest at the bar, placing the bottle of whiskey on the counter.
"The set?"
A glass of ice appears at his elbow, and he tips a portion of the whiskey into the tumbler, taking a moment to appreciate the crackle of the melting cubes as they are splashed with the liquor.
"Oh." He lifts the glass and points at her. "You mean like, the movin' pictures. Are you one of those Hollywood folk from the future?"
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?"
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The fashion-plate blonde a couple of stools away lifts her glass of champagne, and swirls the flute with a delicate flick of her wrist.
She casts a glance toward the counter, one eyebrow arched.
"So tell me, what else can you do, and where are you hiding Criss Angel?"
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"Evenin', miss."
A beat.
"If I knew him, I'd tell you; but I haven't met any angel here by the name Criss. Yet."
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"Nice," she says, with a shark-sharp smile. "Authentic. Did you forget to swing by wardrobe before you left the set?"
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"The set?"
A glass of ice appears at his elbow, and he tips a portion of the whiskey into the tumbler, taking a moment to appreciate the crackle of the melting cubes as they are splashed with the liquor.
"Oh." He lifts the glass and points at her. "You mean like, the movin' pictures. Are you one of those Hollywood folk from the future?"
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"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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