(Untitled)

[notabricklayer]

Thanksgiving has sailed on by, tragically (or not) without the turkeys Charlie gifted to the mess hall. Those had disappeared along with the boy, and McCoy feels it's more than a fair price to pay. It's near Christmas-time back on Earth, and the mood on the Enterprise couldn't be grumpier. Between teenagers on their first multi-year cruise

Comments

[agtninetynine]

Something about the uniform looks all too familiar.

Therefore, he shouldn't be surprised by a woman in a white trenchcoat casually glancing his way, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in her hand.

[notabricklayer]

He could use (if he knew that she found the uniform familiar) the spectacularly corny line about being in his dreams all night. He wouldn't, but he could, and the fact he wouldn't shows that Mama McCoy taught her boy some sense. That, or his ex-wife beat some of the stupid out of him along the line, one or the other.

But she'll never know if she stays over there! And McCoy is a very observant sort of fellow.

Thus, when she comes back around for one of those not-entirely-unplanned casual glances, she'll find him saluting her back with a tumbler of whiskey and a grin.

[agtninetynine]

It's a line she's heard more than once (among others), so she wouldn't exactly be able to give him points for originality. It's probably best that he doesn't use it, though.

By the time her gaze lands on him again, she answers his salute with a nod and a brief incline of her own drink before lifting it to her lips. It's still hot, and the marshmallows on top are starting to melt, creating a frothing white surface layer.

It leaves a similarly frothing mustache on her upper lip.

[notabricklayer]

He momentarily debates about letting her know. It's bound to embarrass her, and rule number one-hundred thirty six of the Southern Gentleman's Code says something about not embarrassing pretty young ladies.

But he does believe it's somewhat inevitable now, so he gestures, with a bit of an apologetic smile, to his own upper lip.

[penderwydd]

There is a Celt sitting at the bar drinking mead from an earthenware jar.

"Hello," he said with a grin as the other man sat down.

[notabricklayer]

"How do." The irrepressibly Southern gent replies, before tapping the bar's top and ordering himself a single malt whiskey, neat.

It's a crime, really, to water down good alcohol.

[penderwydd]

"Are you doing well, brother?"

Who said the mead was watered down?! It's booze, just made from honey is all.

[notabricklayer]

"Better than before." McCoy allows, sipping his drink.

And narration was referring more to the habit of putting things like water or ice in whiskey, which is sad. There's truly nothing watered down about mead. Rather the opposite.