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[notabricklayer]

The lights of their apartment come up in the way he is used to lights coming on the way he is used to lights coming on - smoothing increasing from dark to light with barely a hitch inbetween. The apartment is the same as before - a naturally quirky Victorian that's slightly stark thanks to the driven surgeon who had made this his home once upon a

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[olyabird]

She follows him through, dropping her coat on the sofa and bending to unzip her boots, kicking them off with abandon.

"And you say you're from the future, hmm?"

Her eyes spark with mischief as she heads passed him back into the kitchen. There's bound to be a bottle of something in there. Yes, there is. Right where she left it.

[notabricklayer]

"Yes, but these boots are from the Spanish Inquisition." McCoy calls after her as he drops onto the couch, tugging the boots off irritably.

As for the alcohol stash, he has plans on restocking that particular asset. It's a shame there's no Romulan Ale.

[olyabird]

"Oh really," she deadpans, emerging with the bottle and two glasses. And a butterknife.

A butterknife shouldn't seem so ominous as it does when Olga starts eyeing the fireplace unit.

[notabricklayer]

"Mmm. Don't you know it's military tradition to carry on something stupidly idiotic generation after generation, no matter how brilliant the rest of it might be?" The hated boots are off, and he's eying her, and that butterknife.

Well. This ought to be interesting.