milliways_bar | (no subject)

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It's one of those posts.

There's a spoilerific and mildly tipsy Desmond in a booth, sketching something that might be a snowglobe, only that's silly, right?

Another booth has a Hawkeye, with a glass of scotch and a newspaper from home -- it's amazing what Bar'll give you.

At a table by the noticeboard is Wes, copying English words from the various signs and seeing how much he can translate without checking the primer. (Answer: not many. Rose is watching from the next table over, smirking slightly at each mistake. It's great being able to read anything. Yay TARDIS!)

Ben's at the Bar with a chocolate milkshake -- that's not changed after three years, apparently. He's stealing occasional curious glances at an uneasy man nearby, though: Fi's wandered in wearing his off-duty clothes and without his brothers, but he figured he'd have a glass of fruit juice anyway. (And why not, eh?)

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"Bet you can't," Wes replies instantly.

He looks round vaguely for a glass as he opens his own bottle, but, failing to find one, he just takes a swig straight from it.

There's brief eyeing of Shalla at her statement, but then he shrugs and raises his bottle to her in a salute.

"Watch me."

She takes another gulp, shaking her head slightly.

"You know I'll win. Might as well give up now." Nod.

"Nahhh..."

Wes grins brightly, then takes another large swig himself.

"I'll finish long before you. And besides, I never give up. So ha!"

Well, neither does Shalla. She just...occasionally cheats a bit. Which is what she does now, shifting forward and grabbing Wes's bottle.

"Try finishing it now, flyboy." She downs some of hers, now in the lead!

"Hey! You can't do that!"

Wes pouts at her and tugs at his bottle.

"Cheat. You know there's laws about people who don't let me drink whiskey. Somewhere."

"Try and stop me!" She looks at him for a second, and then frowns. "No pouting. Too cute. There's laws about that."

Her fingers might just loosen on the bottle as she takes another sip out of hers.

Wes just pouts more, even as he tugs his bottle again and manages to take it back. Because if it's cute, obviously he has to do it more.

(He especially pouts when the action of taking his bottle back results in spilling whiskey on his notepad. Damn.)

"My whiskey," he says firmly, hugging the bottle to himself for a moment before taking another swig.

"I mean it. Stop. Or I'll hit you. Or something." She's very serious about this until he spills his whiskey, and then she can't stop herself from giggling at him.

Another sip of whiskey, and she salutes him. "Whatever y'say, Lieutenant."

"Aw, can't you handle me being cute? Sorry, it's my natural state of being."

But he grins anyway, then vaguely tries to wipe at the spill with a finger. It's mostly soaked into his notepad though, so he just shrugs and licks his finger before taking another swig of whiskey.

"You know," he says, shaking his head, "I'm going to start wearing my rank insignia here. An' then you'll have to call me Major."

"No it isn't. 'S mine, maybe, but not yours." Sorry, Wes, Shalla's got it covered.

"You actually think I'll call you Major? Even with your insignia?" She laughs at him. Laughs!

"Well ... we can both be cute," Wes says reasonably. "I think there's just about enough room in the universe for me and you to be cute."

Just enough.

And he pouts again at her laughter. "S'posed to."

This, obviously, takes some thought. "Maybe. If we squeeze. No room for anyone else, though. Just us."

Oh noes, what about Hobbie?

"Stop pouting. 'm not kidding about hitting you." She thinks very hard for a moment, and then adds, "Or I'll kiss you. I know you don't want that."

Be careful how you answer that, Wes.

"Right, no more room," Wes agrees with a grin.

Poor neglected Hobbie. :(

That makes him widen his eyes though, because he totally knows that's a trap. (But hey, at least he's not pouting now.)

"Um," he says eloquently, in a way that is supposed to convey something appropriate. Then he takes a very large gulp of whiskey.

"Too bad for the rest of the galaxy, then."

Poor neglected, forgotten Hobbie.

She really isn't thinking that much, thanks to the alcohol. And Wes looks like a fish, and never actually answered her.

So, this clearly means she has to lean over the table and kiss him.

"They'll deal with it."

And then, then Wes starts to kiss her back a little, just because it's reflex and that's what he does when (Hobbie) anyone kisses him -- but he's not nearly drunk (yet) and he pulls away after a second.

With something like regret, he says, "Don't."

"Um, yeah, woah, sorry," she stammers as she pulls back.

She tries to force a smile, and doesn't quite manage it. "Must be the Whyren's. I'm sorry, that was stupid of me." She's clearly ignoring the fact that only about a fourth of her bottle is gone.

Wes watches her closely, not quite sure what to say. Then he shakes his head and goes for, "Not stupid. Just ... don't."

He smiles quickly (it's only a little better than hers) and waves at her bottle. "C'mon. Still got a contest here. Think I'm winning," he adds, and takes a sip of his own Whyren's.

He's ... actually trying to just shrug it off. And change the subject before he has to explain why.

She holds up her hands, like she's surrendering, and says, "Yeah. Like I said, sorry."

She still can't get that smile right.

"Maybe you are. Hard to tell." Somehow, she doesn't sound like she cares too much. But she takes a large sip of her bottle, putting her noticeably ahead of Wes.

He wants to say don't be, or apologise himself, but he just shrugs.

His own smile is still pretty small, and wry, and he raises his bottle in a salute before taking a gulp of whiskey.

Trying for the same tone as way earlier, not quite achieving it, he says, "Still think you're gonna win?"

She sighs and swallows as much whiskey as she can without, you know, dying. It makes her choke, but now she's winning.

The fake smile falls from her face, but that might be the alcohol's fault.

"Still think I'm gonna lose?"

Wes does not like awkward, and this? This is still awkward. This is, in fact, a level of awkward he hasn't ever known before.

It can be cured only by matching her for drinking, and so he does.

Then he grins, holds up his bottle to compare thoughtfully, and says, "Yep," before taking another gulp.

A tiny smile escapes, which she quickly tries to hide by taking another swallowing two mouthfuls in a row.

"You're wrong, then." She takes another swig, just to make sure he stays wrong.

Wes shakes his head firmly, drinking moooore whiskey to stay caught up, and drinking so quickly now is probably not good.

"I'm never wrong," he insists. "I'm me, an' I'm always right, an' I'm going to win, so there."

Well, if he's speeding up so is she, which means she chugs as much as she can before she starts choking.

Stupid pilots.

"You contradict y'self. Y'don't always win." That sentence made sense in her brain. But she's ahead of him, so there!

Wes may be drinking more quickly, but he's still not drunk yet, and he eyes Shalla before taking another swig.

"I do so. When've I not won? Ever?"

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fighter--pilot.livejournal.com - 2006-06-13 02:04 (UTC) - Expand

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