all_inclusive | Don't worry about the zebras

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Don't worry about the zebras

Behind the bar and dispensing drinks in little more than a loose tank top, Olaf feels like he's found his calling in life.

(Never mind that this isn't actually him working so much as he'd ducked behind the bar to steal his own drink, accidentally served someone else a drink, and that had been two hours ago)

Olaf's pretty sure that he could do bartending on a regular basis. After all, he knows his liquor, he's had endless amounts of experience listening to people's problems, and being an oracle means that he not only usually has a solution, but most of the time, it's pretty sure the right one! True, 'most of the time' for Olaf depends on the sun in the sky and a lot of other factors, but he's pretty sure that he's having a good day today.

He serves up a screwdriver, a sex on the beach, listens to a hotel guest mourn her ill luck with men, and drinks a beer all before he notices that there's someone new having approached the bar. True, he's not actually the bartender or anything, but given that Olaf pretty much fills his days with a hazy miasma of slacking off and generally not giving a damn, he thinks that playing at bartending for the day can't hurt.

Of course, if this gets him banned from the bar, that could have some severe ramifications down the line.

"What can I get you?" he asks cheerfully and hopes the answer isn't 'your arse out of here, now'.

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Thea knows she isn't exactly of legal drinking age in most jurisdictions but she thinks that screwy hotels in the middle of other dimensions don't count. If she gets caught, she hopes she can just talk her way out of trouble with Ollie's help.

"Dirty martini," she says. She used to run a nightclub and the nightclub, understandably, had a bar, but it was nothing like this. Drinks in a nightclub are fast and meant to be slammed back. Nothing enjoyed like you might enjoy a drink in a place like this.

Possibly the worst person in the world to worry about legality, Olaf is. He slides his shades up to the top of his head and makes her a martini that he thinks might be dirty (the other problem is that he mostly just throws things in a glass and so long as they're alcoholic, he's happy to drink them). "One dirty martini," he says, sliding it to her and knowing it's not right, but he smiles like it is, "for the beautiful lady."

It's an awful lot of vermouth but at least he used vodka and not gin even though she didn't specify. Thea will take it.

"How long have you been uh...bartending?"

"Self-service, for years," Olaf says cheerfully. "Professionally? Well, Mike doesn't pay me and he mostly yells at me to get out from behind the bar, so the last two hours," is his easy reply, grinning at her with far more charm now that he's done away with the job talk. "What's your name?" he asks, leaning his forearms over the bar to get a bit closer.

"Thea," she says, laughing a little. She guesses in an interdimensional hotel, you don't need training or a liquor license or any of the trappings of the real world.

"I've been drinking professionally for...how long have I owned a bar? A year?"

Olaf loves this girl already.

He might propose marriage, but he needs to play this slow and smooth, needs to let the god charm out slowly so he doesn't scare her off. After all, she owns a bar. She needs a man who appreciates that sort of thing. "You own a bar," he says in the complimentary manner that comes with most flirting. "You clearly know your alcohol, then. Don't judge me on what I give you," he insists. "It's piss poor and only for those with no tastebuds. Peril of drinking as much as I do."

"Nightclub, technically, but it has a bar. And this isn't terrible," Thea says, not wanting to offend him too much. "But I've had a lot better. I could probably teach you how to mix better and of course if you use top-shelf vodka, it's going to be thousands of times better tasting than the usual. Believe me, the price is well worth it."

"Anything with a bar is a beautiful thing," Olaf insists, still giving her the best charming smile he's got. "How about you come behind the counter and show me a trick or two. I'll let you in on a secret that's probably not so secret," he confesses. "I'm not really a bartender."

"I kind of figured that one out," Thea says easily, sliding out of her seat and behind the bar to show him how it's done.

"All right, so, when you make a martini, you never shake it. I know James Bond tells you to but he's an idiot," she says, pulling down the bottle of Ketel One and the vermouth. "So you stir it so you keep the taste."

Olaf keeps close to her, though with just the hint of distance to make sure he's not intruding too much. She's a beautiful girl who knows alcohol and has a nightclub. He needs to be careful on this one. He leans over her shoulder, grinning as he watches her hands. "You look like a professional," he praises. "I bet you've had a bunch of practice. I take it you've also kicked a bunch of punters out, too?"

Thea grins. "I have security for that. I've never actually kicked anyone out myself, personally. I like to run a clean club. We had a drug problem a while back."

That was an understatement but it was better to approach it from a business owner's standpoint than a personal one. "But I think we've got it under control. I don't mind people having a good time but if you're taking something dangerous...that's not okay. Not when it's my club."

Olaf generally has a drug problem by living, but he thinks that it's not fair to compare, seeing as he usually only does the amount of drugs he does to cope with the visions an oracle has to deal with and it's not like he's going to die. Reborn every day. "Maybe you could take me to your club sometime," he suggests, though he would have to clean himself out for that.

"Really? I mean, I could, if I ever went home again. Right now, it's the last place I want to be," Thea explains. "So no such luck. But if you ever find yourself in Starling City, you should go to Vertigo and tell the head bartender that you're a guest of Thea Queen. They'll comp you everything you want."

"I'll keep that in mind," Olaf agrees, dragging one of the stools around so that he can get comfortable and settle in. "Maybe you could come to Auckland, instead. I've got a cousin who runs a bar, too. Nothing as nice as a club, but the atmosphere is relaxed and the drinks are free," he promises, even though they're absolutely far from it.

"Free? How are you going to make any money if the drinks are free? I mean, I might comp a friend every once in a while but I'm a businesswoman," she says, grinning at him. Thea is actually proud of her business acumen and her ability to make something out of nothing. She took Verdant very, very seriously, maybe even more seriously than Ollie had.

"I'm in it to make money at the end of the day."

The hotel is a strange place. That is describing it mildly. But in the handful of days that Vanessa has been here, she hasn't encountered any hostility. She still treats the place cautiously, but even she can't deny the intrigue. The people here are all wrapped in their own airs of mystery, indescribable to Vanessa.

In her last few weeks in London, she had thought she had delved into some of the greater mysteries of life -- demons and vampires, a whole range of supernatural entities. But she sees something new here with almost every corner she turns. She takes it in stride, quietly grateful that nothing seems interested in possessing her or tearing out her throat. A nominal change of pace.

She isn't looking for the bar, but finds it anyway -- and stays not because she's interested in a drink, but because she can sense something unique about the man parading as the bartender.

"What would you recommend?" she asks, the curve of her mouth not quite a smile but betraying her amusement all the same. She knows that she must look out of place here; she hasn't adopted to dress like many of the others here, and she knows that the fabric she wears are too heavy, stiff, and too long. But it's still what she knows.

Olaf has been alive long enough that he's not in a position to judge what people wear or do or say. He'll admit that it's a bit of a jolt from the past to see the woman in front of him (who reminds him of the schoolmarm, a bit, from when he had gone to school all those long, long years ago), but his smile is charming and winning and instant as soon as she starts talking his language.

"I'd heartily recommend anything strong," he advises. "Aqua vitae is a favourite of mine, but you should never rule out a good vodka," he says with a nod. "Let me create you something," he says excitedly, turning back to the drinks and closing his eyes for a moment to let the universe help guide his hand.

He splashes a bit of gin in a glass with a sour liqueur that colours the drink darkly before he adds a garnish of twisting purple flowers and just slightly, a hint of something sweet in it. He presents it with a delighted grin. "It's strong," he warns.

"Aqua vitae," Vanessa echoes, the corners of her mouth curling as if simply staying the words themselves is joke enough. They seem to pair well with him, although she can't precisely say why. She likes a puzzle of a man, and this hotel, if nothing else, hasn't disappointed on that count.

She says little other than that, allowing the bartender to plow forward, intrigued to see what he'll come up with for her.

She pauses only momentarily at the sight of the flowers adorning the drink, more of a distraction than the actual drink itself. She rests her hand against the outside of the glass for a moment, the petals just curling over the rim to touch her hand.

"Thank you," Vanessa says before she picks it up and takes a small drink. It is strong. But also precisely the sort of thing she would drink if she did drink regularly, she imagines.

"I'm Vanessa Ives," she offers an instant later.

"Olaf Johnson," he introduces himself, smiling as he touches the bar near her hands, as if he needs a moment to splay his fingers there and take stock of the situation, letting the energy around him flow and ebb through his body, careful and cautious the whole time. "Are you new here? I'm usually at the bar and I'd notice a woman as beautiful as you stopping by for a drink."

Olaf. She doesn't repeat the name aloud, but she commits it to memory, continuing her study of the people she's met here.

"I am," she says easily, appearing to pay almost no credence to the second part of his sentence. The direct flattery doesn't seem to be amiss in the hotel, as if it's something that's changed over time -- which is probably true. It reminds her, in a distant sort of way, of Ethan. Perhaps it's the brashness, which seems to smack of her American companion.

She doesn't entirely mind it. It's a pretense, after all. She's accustomed to things that hide behind shades and masks, and this flirtation is just that.

"Well, in that case, you should let me buy you a drink," he insists, which in Olaf-speak mostly means he's going to make a drink and serve it to her and hope that no one notices that the inventory is gone. He's made a good habit of stealing things for years and years, so he's pretty sure that people won't notice. "Something strong, for you, I think," he says, narrowing his eyes. "You don't seem the kind of woman who takes kindly to being underestimated."

"Nothing stronger than the present one, I hope," Vanessa answers, smile on her face. She has no intention of having more than one drink. She's uneasy about letting too much of herself go, especially after the last possession. But she's enjoying the conversation and isn't ready to let it go.

"How long have you worked at the bar here, Mr. Johnson?" Vanessa asks.

Sometimes he forgets that not everyone has the constitution of a god and therefore can't handle their liquor as easily as he can. "Well, it's, what, nearly half past six? In that case, I've been a bartender for a whole hour," he informs her proudly, lifting his chin as if that's something to be pleased by. "Normally, I sit where you sit, as a customer."

Note that he didn't say paying customer because there's a difference and Olaf makes a big one. "No one was around, though, and it didn't seem like anyone minded when I started pouring drinks."

Chiana still isn't sure about most Earth drinks, and if there's one area in life where she doesn't mind living dangerously (there's more than one, actually, as long as she has some kind of way out of them), it's drinks. Besides, the tall probably-human behind the bar sounds more like home than most other humans around, so she flashes him a sharp smile and doesn't keep the natural flirt out of her voice as she answers, "Surprise me?"

She's sitting on one of the stools, but she's half leaning out of it, to the side and on the bar, in what would probably look like a very uncomfortable posture on a human. But she seems perfectly at ease, and she tilts her head to the side, watching him with inhumanly dark eyes.

Olaf grins widely, thinking that unlike people are groovy beyond belief and this woman in front of him doesn't fit in any of the established boxes that he knows. He makes a drink that lends to her appearance -- white and grey, a bit strong, more than a little flirty with a swirl of pink for colour. He serves it up, grinning like he knows a secret.

Which, he does, but it might not necessarily be her secret.

"And? What's the verdict?"

Chiana likes the look of it, at least, and recognises it for what it is - her colours, down to the dash of pink that she is choosing to think is her tongue, although she's pretty certain she's never shown him that, unless she got a lot more legless than she thinks her first few nights here, but she thinks she remembers them, for the most part.

She'd hate to forget anything involving her tongue.

She grins again at his question, in appreciation, and a little twirl of the straw in the drink swirls the pink around a little more before she takes a sip. Her hand slaps the counter in excitement after she swallows, and she leans forward on the counter, smiling wide at the human. "Where'd you learn to make that?" It tastes just like naslir, the first alcoholic drink she shared wth Nerri after they made it off of Prime.

Olaf shrugs because he's been alive for so long that he genuinely doesn't exactly remember where he learned to make half the things he knows how to make. "Here, there, everywhere. Sometimes, they just pop into my head without me really even having to think about them," he says seriously, given how sometimes he'll wake up in the middle of the night with the bolt of an idea about drinks.

That could be alcoholism, though, and not being an oracle.

"Now that's a nice skill to have," Chiana congratulates him, perfectly honestly. She doesn't know if he's being honest, or purposefully evasive, but about this, it doesn't matter. Or she chooses to think that it doesn't, because of the memories that come with the drink.

She takes another sip and smiles again, settled a little more appropriately, by human standards, on the bar stool. "Reminds of a drink I haven't had in cycles." Possibly her memory is blurry because it has been a few cycles, though, but she doesn't think so.

Olaf's pleased that he's managed to make something that can be consumed, seeing as there's always a chance of it going way too strong when he puts the mixes together. "I'm glad to hear," he says, also delighted because mixology is definitely a skill he'd like to be remembered for. He offers his hand out to her with an easygoing grin.

"I'm Olaf."

"Chiana," she answers, watching his hand curiously before putting her gloved one in it. Not right for a handshake; she doesn't know about handshakes.

Olaf looks at her hand in his, shaking it and eyeing the gloves curiously. For once, he figures he ought to let her tell him the story rather than wait for the universe to fill in the blanks for him. "You sound like you come from around my area, but you don't look like anyone I've ever seen before. There has to be a story there."

"Human, right?" Chiana checks, but doesn't really wait for an answer. "From what I heard, you lot don't venture very far away from home. I'm from very far away from home." Or so she assumes, since none of the humans she's talked to are used to other races. "You sound closer to home than anybody else I've met so far." Between that and the drink, she's definitely enjoying the familiarity, even if he looks like a Sebacean. She supposes that bartending Sebaceans might be alright, as long as they had no ties with the Peacekeepers.

Olaf shrugs and doesn't answer when she asks if he's human. He supposes he is, technically, but his spirit is far older and he's a god, so he's not entirely sure how human he is, in the end. "My body might not, but my soul," Olaf says, grinning. "Give me enough drugs, the good shit, and I can travel the whole universe," he guarantees. "Where's home, to you?"

Chiana's smile widens at his words about traveling the universe; she can't help but like this human, really. But that's a loaded question, and she breathes in all sibilant. "Home doesn't have to be a place," she answers, and it's not a cop out, it's actually the truth. There isn't any one place she'd wanna call home. "But I come from Nebari Prime. Your drug trips ever taken you there?" she asks, grinning again.

"Never heard of it," Olaf replies, pouring himself a large glass of vodka as he talks to her. "Then again, it's not as if I remember even half of what I experience while I'm on drugs. I only take the good stuff," he says firmly, as if that's something that genuinely has to be said. "And sell it, at times."

"You'd have hated it there, anyway," Chiana assures him with a confident half smile. Sure, the Establishment had the very best drugs, but they used them as a chemical straitjacket, a temporary measure to make people conform (possibly prior to a proper, permanent mind cleanse), and she didn't figure that was Olaf's style. "So, what are human drugs like?" she asks curiously, leaning forward on the counter again.

"Give me a few hours of your time and I can show you," Olaf replies, with a winning grin and a flirtatious wink, seeing as he has a regular stash of them tucked away under his drawer in his room and he feels as if he could happily share them with anyone he meets. He's very giving, like that.

Well, he's just mentioned selling them, so Chiana has to check, even if she likes his tone. "A little free sampling?" she asks with a hopeful and, yeah, inviting smile. Le 1 août 2014 16:58, "trulyoracular - DW Comment" dw_null@dreamwidth.org a écrit :

"We'd have to go back to my room," Olaf says, given that he might think this place is a pretty relaxed atmosphere, but he's still not going to bring the law down on him (in case there is law). "I don't carry them on me."

"Hey, any time you're off work," Chiana states easily. "My schedule's pretty open as long as I'm stuck here." Le 2 août 2014 18:58, "trulyoracular - DW Comment" dw_null@dreamwidth.org a écrit :

"A beer, German witbier if you have it," said Erik, squinting a little at the man's face. He wasn't the usual afternoon bartender— and the fact that Erik knew who the usual afternoon bartender was said rather more about his drinking habits than he was comfortable with— but he was familiar, all the same.

"And a Bellini for my friend," he added, catching sight of Jordan twinkling her fingers in his direction as she wound her way through the bar toward an empty table at the back. He turned back to find the bartender eyeing him strangely, and raised an eyebrow in response. "Yes?"

Olaf can't help his amusement at the brusque nature the man has when he orders the drinks, giving a cheerful look in reply. "Yes," he agrees, but he's trying to generally appeal to the man's seeming nature to want drinks. He's getting full waves of something from the other man, something that he can't put his finger on, but he's not normal. Nor does he think him to be a god, though. "Except, maybe you might have to tell me how to make a Bellini. I don't think I've even seen one in my life before."

Erik had to smirk a little at that; he'd never seen one either, until he'd stumbled off a space station into a sunlit arboretum and a charming cynic from the 1920s offered to buy him a drink. But at this point he'd seen Jordan coach several bartenders through the making of them (some with more patience than others) and felt reasonably confident in his ability to do the same.

He pointed to the mini-fridge behind the bar. "Peach puree's on the top shelf. Two spoonfuls in a champagne flute and top with Prosecco." Erik watched the man assemble the drink, occupying the space behind the bar without any of the economy of movement he was used to from seasoned bartenders. Add to that the notable absence of the Nexus staff's usual prim dress, and Erik felt suddenly sure he was being served by a hotel guest. "Did Marcel quit, or were you just tired of sitting on this side of the bar?"

"Mainly, I was serving myself drinks," Olaf confesses as he starts to fetch all the things that have been pointed out for him to make this 'Bellini', which sounds like someone Ingrid and the girls might drink (it also sounds delicious, so Olaf might have to give it a whirl). "And then someone ordered a drink and I thought, hell, why not?" he says cheerfully, sliding the beer over the bar, following by two Bellinis -- one for the lady, and one for him. "Olaf Johnson," he introduces himself.

"And you are..." He tips his head to the side, trying to sense the waves coming off the other man. "Interesting, definitely. Contemporary, though, that's always nice," he says, given that Olaf has lived for ninety-three years, so he's seen a lot of them, but hey, he always likes remembering the past.

His eyebrow arched; in another context, or maybe if the man were even a little coy about his assessment, Erik would wonder if he was being hit on. Instead, he found himself grinning at the man's careless frankness.

"Erik Lehnsherr," he said. "A contemporary— so you're a hippie, then?" Between the facial hair and the man's general air of relaxed unconcern, he might have guessed. But the question was mild— he didn't share the contempt popular society had held for the beatniks and stoners of the time; after hanging around Sean Cassidy for a few months, how could he?

"I used to be," Olaf says cheerfully, given that he'd spent a good deal of the sixties and the seventies seeking to forget as much as he could because it was the enjoyment of the whole thing. "I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not like I don't still enjoy the drugs and the alcohol and the sex, but I do bathe more than I did during that decade."

"I can't really speak to much beyond 1963," Erik said, "but from the people I've met since leaving home, it doesn't appear that drugs, alcohol, or sex ever really go out of style. Not showering, on the other hand..." He shrugged. He'd been accused of fastidiousness on more than one occasion, but as far as Erik was concerned personal hygiene wasn't optional. He'd spent too long filthy and downtrodden to ever take hot showers and tailored clothes for granted.

"At least hot water's never in short supply here." He grinned and added, "Neither are drugs, alcohol, or sex, now that I think about it."

"You spend a few months in Africa and some of the Pacific Islands and I promise you, it all fades away," Olaf assures with an easy grin, given that he'd been addled by drugs too, of course, but those do help in any situation. "No, there's a lot of all of that, and the latter three are categories I feel personally able to admit claim to," he boasts, lifting his vodka in salute before he begins to sip at it.

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Don't worry about the zebras

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