Title: Goldschläger
Summary: Death tastes like cinnamon.
Word Count: 1374
Disclaimer: Don't own!
Author's Note: This is a retelling of a scene from episode 1x18, Cat and Mouse. According to the Grimm Wiki, the name of the bartender is Quinn. The quote is from Godfather Death. Elster is German for magpie...there haven't been magpie Wesen yet, but I think that would be pretty cool. This story took Second Place and Most Creative recognition at the 5th Grimm Challenge on LJ. I hope you enjoy!

There he saw how thousands and thousands of candles were burning in countless rows, some large, some medium-sized, others small.

Every instant some were extinguished, and others again burnt up, so that the flames seemed to leap hither and thither in perpetual change. See, said death, these are the lights of men's lives.

Goldschläger

"They're coming. I don't know when and I don't know who it'll be, but you must be ready." The man hunched over the bar speaks in a tone just loud enough to escape suspicion, but quiet enough that the trio of Mauhertz at a table in the back wouldn't be able to hear. "Another gin and tonic, Quinn, if you please."

He reaches for the shelf; the other man wrinkles his nose and waves his hand to direct him towards a different bottle. "The Plymouth, this time."

Quinn mixes the drink, cutting and juicing a fresh lime. "Did you know, Sal, that a G&T was first created as a way to mask the taste of quinine to treat malaria?" He chuckles to himself. "Malaria. What a way to die, eh?"

Sal coughes into one coat sleeve. "A thousand worse plagues on the Verrat! And no drinks as fine as this one to see them off to the other side."

Quinn pauses, resting both arms on the polished wood of the bar to lean forward. "And a member of the Verrat has…sniffed us out, you say?"

"A Hundjäger, if my sources are correct. They're very good at that."

"Are you telling me this so I have a chance to run?" Quinn asked.

"No, of course not. I know you'd never run if the Laufer needed you." Sal takes a deep sip of his drink, the unhurried nature in deep contrast to the seriousness of his words. "I'm telling you this so you can kill him."

"A back-alley brawl isn't exactly the type of attention we want to attract. And I'm not on the front lines, either...you'd do better asking someone with a...more specific skill set."

"Hah, you're something different. A Lausenschlange who doesn't like to fight, who lets a Mauzhertz come in here and keep his head. What's the world coming to?" He sighs, glancing back at the Mauhertz for a moment; they're all engaged in their own conversation, but he knows their ears work better than those of most Wesen.

"Traditional methods aren't for you, I see. And that's why you're going to poison him. Take this," and Sal reaches deep within his cost pocket to withdraw a clear glass vial, stoppered at one end. "Slow acting, but inevitably fatal without the antidote. Specially made, too, so even his Hundjäger nose won't be able to smell it."

Already Quinn can feel the sweat starting to stick his shirt to his back. "Hand it over, then. A little bit of poison in one drink is simple enough, so long as I don't get caught."

Sal laughes, his gravely voice catching and turning it into something far more downhearted. "If I were you, I'd poison every bottle rather than take that chance."

Quinn hasn't had a customer all day. Somehow his usual patronage of Laufer runaways and Wesen regulars have gotten the message. It's lonely, wiping down glasses and tabletops with only the muted jazz in the background for company, to the point where Quinn considers closing down early when he walks in.

Older, clearly a foreigner, clearly a Wesen by the way he walks straight up to the bar instead of hovering around the entrance, trying to make sense of the German name of the bar with its decidedly American decor.

"What can I get you to drink?" Quinn asks.

Sal had suggested poisoning every bottle. It hasn't been necessary; Quinn knows from just looking at the shelves of bottles behind him which one the Hundjäger will choose. And every instinct in his body is screaming at him now that this man is the one, and in facing him he is facing the Verrat head-on. And in facing them, he is facing death.

He had placed the bottle slightly off center, on a high enough shelf that the light from the windows can catch on the gold flakes floating in the liqueur.

"Yes, some of that...the Goldschläger, please," he says.

There is something about the appeal of drinking gold that Quinn can understand. It is extraordinary and memorable; it elevates oneself beyond imbibing something so simple or plain as to be made with wheat or juniper. It is gold, and he does not have to be an Elster to appreciate it.

"Did you know that this drink is named for a profession of gold beaters, the people who would make gold leaf by beating bars of gold into thin sheets?" He is beginning to sweat again, but he manages to keep his voice level and conversational. He imagines being surrounded by gold on all sides, turning a lump of it into something flatter than paper, stretching and curling all around him like a ribbon. He imagines drowning in it.

"No. I didn't know that." A few seconds pass. "You might be able to help me with something." He takes the glass from Quinn but does not drink it.

"How so?"

"I was told you were the man to talk to if I needed to get...certain documents." The flakes of gold continue to swirl in the drink, mostly ignored.

The man before him is as good as dead. Quinn just needs to hold him here a moment longer, get him to take a sip and fall.

"Of course. But you'll need photographs before you can get any documents made." He's stalling, he knows, and this man's carefully crafted patience will not last forever. He just needs him to take a sip. Just one. "Do you have any photographs?"

"Well, yes," he says, shuffling around in his pockets; his coat opens just enough that Quinn can see the edge of a gun. It chills his blood. In his drink, a pair ice cubes clink together, each slowly melting away.

"I have my passport, if it'll help. " He notices Quinn staring at his drink and picks it up, swirling the contents around. "Where can I get these papers made?"

If he has to, Quinn decides, he'll rip the bottle from the wall and pour it down his throat. "A camera store downtown." He gives the name and address easily, feeling somehow like he's just committed a betrayal, even though if this man were only to drink he could share every secret he knows and it will not matter.

"Thank you, you've been a greater help than you know." He sets the passport beside him on the tabletop; the edge of it is tilted just slightly up, and Quinn is overcome with curiosity to see what name is printed on the inside. "Get yourself a drink, on me. I insist."

His words take a moment to register, but once they do Quinn's pulse jumps, but years of bartending work have him reaching for a clean glass almost on instinct after hearing the order.

"Of course. Glad I could help." He pours an undersized amount and replaces the bottle. The Hundjäger lifts his glass, and Quinn moves his so they clink together.

"To...what shall we toast to? To health?"

"To liberty." Quinn says it as an echo, and together the two drain their glasses.

The taste of it is bitter and sharp, the cinnamon overpowering in a way that isn't entirely pleasant. It is the texture that is alien to him, sliding thick like syrup, every second slowed down and every sensation aggrandized to a torturous level. Over the rim of his glass he meets the Hundjäger's eyes, and knows without a shadow of a doubt that this man is going to kill him. His last thought is that if he is going to die, he should have poured himself a bigger glass.