all_inclusive | 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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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."

Don't worry about the zebras

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