[Location: Bar in Central] It's Crismas O'Clock Somewhere

[just_axe_me]

When it came to Christmas, Sam Axe was no Scrooge. When it came to Christmas in a subterranean city after being kidnapped by aliens, he was no jolly elf. Hell, he was well below reindeer in the joy to the world stakes

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[location: bar]

[numbersnfigures]

Bars and Spencer Reid tend to go together like onions and chocolate. Still, here he was. The tablet said that Sam Axe was somewhere around here and he wanted to speak with him. He felt like all the law enforcement in Taxon should get to know one another in case Kate's dreams of starting a force came to fruition.

He gazed around at the dingy decor, then sat gingerly at the bar. He supposed he had nothing to be afraid of. The Extras were harmless and if anything else tried to hurt him, well, he had Smith attached to his hip as always. Spencer looked up at Sam behind the bar.

"You misspelled Christmas..."

Yes, that was the best thing he could think to open with.

[OOC - Spencer doesn't really drink, I just want him to meet Sam LOL. We'll say he's heard about you from Michael Westen lol]

[location: bar]

[just_axe_me]

Sam Axe, whatever Spencer Reid's mental picture had been, turned out to be a tall, hefty man with one hell of a jaw and one hell of a festive Hawaiian shirt. He blinked a bit at Spencer, as though he hadn't quite realised the other man wasn't an Extra; after that there was a snort of laughter, and the man kept muddling mint and sugar together despite the uncomfortable-looking bartender.

"Nah, it's the new holiday," he said. "Merry Chismas, pal."

Maybe the eyes had already flicked over the concealed gun at his hip and his clothing in general, but if he had there was no indication. Sam Axe did not really look the type of man to hang around Agent Westen. He was genially good-looking, somewhere in his fifties, with a paunch -- but a paunch and the posture of a man who'd done something once. An athlete gone to seed. Or a military man.

"If you give me a sec, I make a hell of a Fuzzy Navel," he said. "Got a name?"

[location: bar]

[numbersnfigures]

"Fuzzy Navel?"

Spencer knew nothing of mixed drinks, which was truly a feat because Spencer was a man who knew something about everything. His eyes flickered over Sam. The Hawaiian shirt seemed incredibly out of place, but made sense to Spencer as he recalled that Sam and Michael Westen were from Miami.

"My name's Spencer Reid... I know Michael Westen..."

[location: bar]

[just_axe_me]

"As in you want to kidnap him for a diabolical plan, or you know Michael Westen?"

For a moment, there was a hard stare, and then Sam gave a snort of laughter again. "Nah, I'm just kidding," he said. "Mikey's mentioned you. You're the FBI wonder kid. All the blessings of Chismas on you, Spence." ('Spence.') "Glad to have you on board -- call me Sam."

And there seemed to be genuine warmth there, even though he didn't know Spencer Reid from Adam. And though the Hawaiian shirt was bright, the gaze was steady. "Mike said you were part of some hole-in-the-wall Fed unit? Couple of buddies of mine used to call all those units the Delawares, 'cause we had no idea where the hell they were. What'd you do?"

[Location | Bar ]

[smecker]

Paul was walking, because useful as the map could be now that he had gotten the hang of it, the best way to learn a city was by foot. That was how he had done Boston, New York, Washington, SF-- all of it. You walk it. Learn the damn little alleys, the mood from neighborhood to neighborhood, make connections, all that shit.

One thing in the good column was that Taxon was smaller than any of those cities.

Everything else was more or less bad: there weren't neighborhoods and they didn't have moods. Moods depended on residents, not walking talking cardboard cutouts. The architecture was a mess.

Paul sees a crappy neon sign for a bar. Or rather a '- A R'. There's letters on the bar window spelling out CRISMAS too.

Hell, this might be his kind of place. And whatever else, the liquor cannot be that damn bad.

He pushes the door open, letting in a blast of cold air.

[location: bar]

[just_axe_me]

It all depended on the bars that Paul Smecker frequented: if his dive of choice was the kind with sad over-stuffed bar seats and a bartender wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, this was his kind of dive. That old conundrum. It was the kind of thing he liked, if he liked this kind of thing. There were a couple of Extras floating around -- and the guy behind the bar had collected every single rum bottle in the place, apparently to make the world's biggest supply of mojitos.

He wasn't an Extra. It was the way he looked up at Paul without the empty nod of greeting or hello. In fact, the guy looked at Paul only briefly, whistling through his teeth as he started to squeeze limes, looking a little bit like Malibu Barbie's sleazy older uncle.

"Kick the door closed, pal," he said. "It's goddamn cold. Add a roll of chicken wire and we got ourselves a gulag cold."

[location: bar]

[smecker]

Paul glanced at the wrist just by habit, but yes, he didn't need to see the silver bracelet to know the bartender was real.

"Yeah, apparently they managed to nail Siberian fucking winter," Paul answered smoothly enough, pushing the door shut behind him and glancing around at the, erm, decor. Jesus, what a shitty bar.

Much like Sam Axe's original thoughts on the matter, it was half-meant as a weird backhanded compliment.

Paul stood by the door a moment, stripping off his gloves, then gave the bartender a fairly amiable nod, all things considered.

"At least the liquor comes without needing to barter sodomy privileges, so, you know, one area where their prison research fell flat. Paul Smecker, here three weeks and counting. You?"

[location: bar]

[just_axe_me]

Paul Smecker. There were a multitude of people who would, back in Boston, have a reaction to the name 'Paul Smecker,' but in Taxon things were different. Nonetheless, the half-start was there, though at least it wasn't followed up with shit man this isn't a cop bar what do you want from me. In fact, Sam Axe lit up like a fistful of goddamned Christmas lights, though Maddie Westen would be able to tell you that this wasn't always a great sign.

"Samuel Axe, two weeks plus small change," he said. He leant his hands palms-down on the bar and gave Paul his most amiable, what's the word on the street, bud? smile, nearly Saint Sam The Welcoming in its beatitude. "I know you. You're the guy who's been messing up my guy Mike's chap stick. Watch out, his lips crack in a temp like this, you know? Start flaking and everything. His mouth starts looking like global warming. Just a heads-up

[location: bar]

[noheatnikki]

Westen had mentioned Sam Axe in their conversation, and eventually, curiosity got the best of Kate. When she was out for a walk and saw Axe's dot nearby, she figured she'd check him out, introduce herself.

She snorted at the misspelled CRISMAS, then entered the bar. She hadn't actually anticipated Axe being the bartender, but then she figured he was probably better than an Extra. She took a seat at the bar and held up her hand.

"What do you have on tap?"

[location: bar]

[just_axe_me]

It was a truth universally accepted that a way to get noticed by the bartender was to be a pretty woman. The greying man behind the bar immediately gave Kate a megawatt smile, pushing aside the nozzle he was cleaning to lean his elbows down on the bar next to her.

"All depends, honey," he countered. "Could be you're one of those microbrew types -- nah. Those girls, you say 'tap' to them, it's like a dirty word. They start spritzing the bar with anti-bacterial, talk about cold filtering. No, let me get this one, there's a trick to it. Kinda like seeing into your future. You like a nice crispy Stella, don't you?"

It was, Sam thought, pretty difficult to keep a bad mood for long around other people. You pushed it back under layers of other sediment. Sometimes it got pulverised, other times it became coal. Wasn't a perfect analogy.

"They call me the Beer Whisperer," he said, already getting her a draft. "Sam Axe for short."

[location: bar]

[noheatnikki]

She grinned at his spiel, and took the draft with a nod. He sounded like he was full of shit, but Kate could already tell she was going to like Sam Axe. She toasted him, then took a sip.

"I generally prefer Yuengling, but this works."

She held out her hand to shake.

"Kate Beckett. Don't ever call me 'honey' again."

[location: bar]

[just_axe_me]

They shook hands amicably. "Will do," he said, though not all that apologetically: you met the older guys, the ones who thought honey or baby were kind of a linguistic divine right, but at least it was some kind of promise. "Kate Beckett, Kate Beckett. Ringing a couple of bells."

Sam clicked his fingers, then leant back from the bar. "You're one of the cop crew," he said. "What the hell makes a bunch of aliens go, 'you know what would be interesting? Putting a bunch of cops in the same place.' Now, don't get me wrong, I love the old protect and serve, but damn if it doesn't make me scratch my head."

[Location: Bar]

[iminmynightie]

Amy snorted at the Extra who kept on repeating "sir," but she completely agreed with the stranger's tactics. Her own drink was pretty lousy too.

"Now we're talking!" she exclaimed, sliding her drink away from her on the bar. Apparently it ran into some moisture on the bar surface because it slipped too far and shattered on the floor. She made a face, but waved it out.

"Eh, they'll clean it up." All extras were really good for anyway, since they certainly weren't any good at making drinks.

Getting up, Amy headed over in front of the man and plopped down on another stool. "How about making two? One for me and one for you." She sat up straighter, eyes sparkling. "Ooo, that rhymed!" She set her chin in her hand. "I'm a poet and I didn't even know it."

[location: bar]

[just_axe_me]

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Sam said agreeably, though he'd given her a long, considering glance beforehand. Maybe the amount of glasses you broke were counted up as to when you got cut off. The guy seemed pretty easygoing, though. "Give me a sec, Red."

He pulled out two shot glasses, and at seeming random dosed them up with bottles from behind the bar: he winked at her before pushing one of the tiny glasses towards her, and held up his own. "To your continuing health in this crazy Chismas hellhole," he said, and knocked his back. Amy's smelled a little unidentifiable -- frangelico, maybe. "PB&J," he explained. "Tastes just like it, right? I like mine with a little more of the peanut butter to it, but I'm not that picky."

His empty shot glass disappeared behind the bar. There was something a little tired around his eyes, but otherwise he seemed jovial and American and comfortable. "What's a nice girl like you," he said, "breaking glasses in a place like this?"

[location: bar]

[iminmynightie]

Amy held up her own glass and bobbed her head. "And to yours as well." She downed the shot, pleased at the flavor, but not convinced it tasted very much like PB & J.

"It's good. You make quite the bartender." She set the glass down, shrugging at his question.

"My roommate's not much of drinker, and being stuck here on Christmas... well, let's just say I felt like drowning my sorrows, y'know?" Then she pushed her shot glass towards him for another.

"Name's Amy. What's yours?"

[location: bar]

[just_axe_me]

"Sam." He had a long frosted glass of his own, and was stirring it with nothing as sophisticated as an oversized toothpick. "I hear you. Nothing like spending Christmas in lock-up to make your Navidad lack feliz."

At this, he took a long swig of whatever was in his drink, and her shotglass was replaced afresh with one filled clear from an apple-smelling bottle. "I won't engineer a wholesale drowning-your-sorrows," he said, "but there's nothing wrong with putting them in a paddling pool. Here. What're you missing the most?"

[location: bar]

[lionofolympus]

Hoping that there wouldn't be a no-shirt, no-service rule, Hercules wandered into the bar in his usual sash, skirt, and sandals number with a grin.

The atmosphere of the bar didn't deter or bother him one bit. Instead, he wandered right up to the bar, slapped his hand down on it and laughed.

"A beer. In the biggest glass you have."

[location: bar]

[just_axe_me]

Sam Axe was from Miami. No-shirt, no-service was pretty relaxed when dress code was bikini and wedges; you tended to gauge things by whether or not girls were bothering with a sarong. Hell, the stuff in Sam's closet was usually considered business casual. Mike Westen was perennially overdressed. And if Fi wore a sarong it was because she was concealing a knife somewhere, but Fi could walk into the Hilton wearing a t-shirt and high heels.

Nonetheless, Sam hunted around underneath the bar until he emerged with a stein mug, and didn't really bother looking too hard at which beer tap he was filling it up from. Guy walks in and asks for quantity, he doesn't tend to care that much about whether it's Miller Lite. Not when he's a guy that big, either.

"Did I miss a toga party?" said Sam, and slid over the mug. "Buddy, you must be freezing your balls off. Y'know, to put it colloquially."

[location: bar]

[lionofolympus]

The joke got Herc to laugh, to slap the bar with a hearty thump of his meaty hand. You know, even though it wasn't that much of a joke.

"It's no summer in Crete, that's true. But as a demigod, the cold doesn't bother me too much. Though I do miss my lion cloak on days like this."

There is really no tinge of Greek to his voice. It's been a long time. And he's only recently given up on ye olde English, so the manner of speech sounds more generic American, than anything else.

"Wherever I go, there's a toga party. Though... this isn't a toga. That was the Romans. Though they're the ones whose name I use now."

He might have trouble remembering all of his own legend, but the bit about his name... that he knows.

[location: bar]

[just_axe_me]

Lion cloak, check. Mention of the Romans, check. Bar rattling when smacked, check. Sam a little bewildered, check.

"Well, it looks pretty comfortable," he said. When in Rome or other than Rome, right? "Normally a guy feels a kind of social pressure to wear pants. I've always said I do my best thinking without them. Lets your mind roam free as everything else roams free."

Demigod. Uh --

"So what's the name?"