Chuck "Saint" Whitman- OC- The Bar

[mm_ltcdrwhitman]

It probably said something about Chuck Whitman's state of mind that it took him a good two minutes to realize that this *wasn't* the Officer's Club.

He wasn't any stranger to fatigue.  Anyone who couldn't be on the go for sixteen hours and still be at their peak performance wouldn't make it through their first carrier tour, and sometimes it felt

Comments

[mm_lorna]

"Hey!"

Goddamn but he's hard to catch up with sometimes. For an old fart Whitman sures moves pretty fast.

The problem with Chuck's plan is that there are some things hard to forget, some impossible...

...and some just damn annoying.

She catches the door just before it swings shut, yanks it back open. If he was getting himself a drink, why not one for her, too?

[mm_ltcdrwhitman]

Wherever this place is, it looks nice. Seems like it's quiet, cozy-

"Hey!"

-and apparently not far enough away from Anna Devlin. Oh well. Every bar's got to have something wrong with it.

But he's smiling a bit as he turns, a little crooked grin that he just can't seem to chase off his face. Because much as the crusty-CO part of his brain might grumble, the company isn't all that bad.

"Devlin." He watches her slide up beside him. "Shouldn't you off celebrating? War's over, and I thought the woman who won it would be off havin' some fun."

Pause.

"Of course, if you really don't have anything to do, I've got a pile of paperwork still sitting on my desk. The stuff at the bottom should be nicely aged by now."

[mm_lorna]

She makes a face. "I'd rather have some Scotch, if we're talking nicely aged. But when have you ever known me to be bored, sir? Besides," the face turns into a wide grin, "how could I really celebrate without buying the old man a drink or two first?"

There's a little dish of nuts in front of her; she pulls it forward and starts munching idly, looking around.

"...uh, sir? You guys remodel the OC? 's nice."

[mm_ltcdrwhitman]

"Much as I'd like to take credit for all of this," Whitman gives the place a survey, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Devlin. But you know something, after the last two weeks I just want to put up my feet and have a drink. I don't really care where."

Speaking of which- he slides around the bar and looks. Yep. Cold beer in longneck bottles, just like the club back at-

(Wave that one off, Saint. You're here *not* to think about all that shit, right?)

So instead he just snags one, pops it open against the bar edge, and looks sideways at his pilot.

"Scotch already? Either I'm a bad influence or Koshiki is." And then he cracks a grin because- really- the image of Short being a bad influence on anybody isn't something he can really get his mind around.