The Lives of Adeline

Hendrix

Hendrix really hated Azazel sometimes.

The annoying, egotistical, prideful prick could never seem to get his shit together long enough to hold an honest conversation— and Hendrix knows peoples tells! He was a bartender for ages, he knows when someone's had too much to drink, when someones bullshitting a story, when two people across the bar are ex-lovers and avoiding each other like the fucking plague.

And yet this egotistical bastard is the only one he can't read, everythings gotta be taken with a grain of salt with this guy. Hell, Azazel likely isn't even his real name, just another phony alias for him to use.

"Would you be a dear and throw yourself onto the nearest train tracks?" were Azazel's first words to Hendrix— though Hendrix's initial comment on his tacky suit likely hadn't helped. Hendrix had been met with death threats all night long from drunks, what was one more? Though this wasn't his usual patron.

There are two types of people who go to bars; people who try to forget, and people who can't forget. The former are your party goers, looking for adventures, trying to get drunk out of their mind, quick hookups, a bit of stardust in their drink.

The latter are your sad drunks, now they're the interesting ones. They're the ones who tend to have a story to share, and they're Hendrix's personal favorite customers.

Azazel wasn't either.

"Well aren't you sparky?" Hendrix had replied in return, and had turned his back on Azazel, not even bothering to serve him, "it's true, it looks cheap, where'd ya get it from? The sallys costumes?" Azazel had only huffed at that.

"If im sparkly, you're nothing but paper," Azazel's voice transfixed Hendrix. It was as phony as Azazel's suit, but the hint of southern in it couldn't have been faked, "because you're gonna get nothin' but burned playing with me," Azazel had whispered that last part, mostly to himself it seemed.

"Wine or Whiskey?" Hendrix asked, seeming to momentarily stun Azazel, a satisfying feat that he could only years later appreciate.

"Whiskey," Azazel finally said, "wines too sweet for my taste." there was something in Azazel's eyes, almost transfixed on Hendrix. Thinking back, those three little words had likely sealed his fate with the bastard.

"Really? Seeing as you're wearing wine red I figured you'd like some red wine to go with," Hendrix snarked, pouring Azazel a single shot of whiskey. "Speaking of, what's with ya hair?"

Azazel without realizing reached up to his own hair, almost as if he had forgotten that other people could see it. Hendrix couldn't help but snort. "Glamour spell?" He asked Azazel, who didnt respond. If he hadnt been paying close attention, he would have thought that Azazel hadnt heard him. "They dont hide your appearance, or your face. That's just a lil rumor—" "im offended that you think i dont know how a glamour spell works mister bartender," Azazel was sarcastic, making Hendrix laugh. It had been a while since he got a patron this sassy.

"Like I said earlier; Sparky," he threw the towel he was using to dry the shot glasses over his shoulder, and leaned in, "so, am i getting your name anytime soon, or should i just continue to refer to you as the man with the shitty suit?"

Azazel had stared at him in the eyes, face unmoving, "Asher," he responded, holding his hand out, "pleasure to meet you...?"

"Well, if we're going to be lying, then you can just continue to call me Mister Bartender," he shook Azazel's hand, yet despite seeming offended, Azazel only laughed.

"Well, if we're lying about our true professions, than you can call me a hitman, Mister 'Bartender.'"

Hendrix froze, before pulling his hand away. "I don't know what you think your on bout—"