The Last Drop Grand Opening

[conflictresolution]

Who: Whoever would like to attend the grand opening mingle at the Last Drop
Where: Entertainment District – The Last Drop
What: The grand opening of the night club / bar
Warnings: Alcohol and low-level drugs




The Last Drop opens big and loud with neon lights and music that booms from within to be heard from the streets. There are two large bouncers at the door, but they were allowing people in very freely on this night until the room was at capacity then there would be a line. The bouncers only stop those who are already three-sheets to the wind and could cause trouble, but otherwise, they are there to break up trouble as the night wears on.

Inside, there was smoke machines, flashing lights, loud music and the drinks were flowing to anyone that wanted. There was plenty of dancing, some dart boards along the walls, a jukebox, tables and booths for patrons to have drinks and discuss business.

There are stairs that lead up to a second floor to one side of the bar, lights on the stairs. There were people lounging on the stairs and it seemed to be ‘employees only’. Patrons were allowed the lounge there as well if they were tired of dancing or the tables or booths were occupied.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4aGrN9ZBg0

Comments

s'chn t'gai spock >> ota.

[ashaya]

i. we men are wretched things

[ Spock has never been one for the center of rooms, for the warmth and the press of the crowd. He'd always preferred the sidelines, the quiet the fringes afforded. Observation had always suited him better than idle conversation. When he was young, it had given him time to formulate what it was he wanted to say. When he was older, it gave way to means to slip back into his lab, to engage only with individuals who might have found his company wanted. As an individual of two cultures, two worlds, two species - it was easiest. It was simplest, to thread through when opportunity was presented. For both his sake, he'd thought, and their own.

And so, it is only with Jim's cajoling that he finds himself here. The scent of bodies and booze and neon diffused is enough to give Spock a headache, but there is something to be said of the ironclad controls of Vulcans. That it extends over the whole of his body and autonomic functions? A great pleasure in these circumstances one should know. But, still:

Most will find Spock in the early hours of the night tucked into a booth toward the back with Jim. That they seem to be scanning over a notebook jointly is not really unusual for those who know them, but they seem to keep drifting closer and closer together throughout the course of the night without their seeming awareness. They might even be using two separate writing utensils at the same time on adjacent pages. Does it correspond to the increasing collection of glasses? More data is needed.

At other times, Spock is alone for short periods. The booth still seems to be his preferred location, if evidenced by the array of martini glasses that periodically appear and are taken away. If caught too early, his attention will be fixed and focused upon whatever it is he's deigned to bring with him to work on in that notebook of his. If caught later? Well, maybe he's neatly organized all the glasses that are scattered across the table into precise categories. Seems to be density at one point, color at another - maybe even pitch? Hard to say. Either way, he's very particular about how he picks up his glass when he drinks from it. His fingers stay always and firmly on the slender necks, as if he's attempting to avoid any sort of moisture from touching his fingertips.

Also, they all seem to be... Chocolate martinis?

As for other possibilities? Well, it isn't exactly unsurprising to see the booth paused by for a few minutes. He may be participating in idle conversation with a handful of individuals, but the most common point of interest seems to be how he's done his makeup. It's hard to miss once it's noticed. It stands out against the black-on-black attire. For people who have encountered him before, it might be surprising to see he's actually quite fit. Huh. ]

ii. you will never be lovelier than you are now

[ Late in the evening, one might find any of the following situations if they go poking about outside:

There is a cluster of cats in the back alley. Why? Because there appears to be a man crouched down nearest where the gaggle is thickest. He's jotting down quick observations in a plain, black notebook. The writing is sharp and cramped, his dark eyes flitting occasionally upward toward newer additions. Sometimes, if someone watches him for long enough, he'll thumb over to another page. He'll say, eventually:

"While not essential to me, you are blocking their light."

Who's light? A cat's?

At other times, Spock might be found arranging his grey cardigan under a makeshift bench out back. Why? Well, the answer will soon be obvious. There's a cat winding around and around and around his legs, chirping all the while. It's an odd sight. At least, when contrasted with his impassive expression and the gentleness of his actions. ]

( ooc: i am fine with both brackets and prose! i actually tend to prefer the latter if you want me to really cut loose with longform tags, so choose wisely(?). )

ii

[solitarysoul]

[While ducking out of the club to get some air, Levi notices the mass of cats. That was weird, right? He's pretty sure cats are supposed to be solitary but it's not like he's ever had a pet. Maybe the guy was feeding them? He moves a bit closer but stops when Spock speaks.]

O-oh, um, sorry? S-should I go?

[ashaya]

As you will, [ he says, not bothering look up. His tone is neither one of encouragement nor derision. No, it is plainly indifferent. He writes another few lines. The movement is as sharp and precise as the eyeliner he wears. He appends, at some length: ] Provided you no longer block the light.

[ He isn't the type who indulges that sort of uncertain behavior, it would seem. ]

[solitarysoul]

Um.

[He's not heard 'as you will' before, so Levi isn't really sure what to make of it. He shifts a bit so that his shadow is no longer covering the cats, though.]

I thought cats didn't really need light?

[ashaya]

[ Context clues are everything, Levi. For his part, he doesn't consider the language particularly complicated. It's just a more polite way of saying he doesn't care one way or the other. ]

At peak health, no. [ He snaps his notebook shut. Taking a deeper breath, he lets his eyes fall shut for a moment. When he opens them, it's with the barest rounding of his shoulders. He glances skyward, but mostly it is vaguely up. Upward, that is, toward the row of tomcats on the far wall. ] These are unhoused domesticated felines. Given their strict social hierarchies and their propensity to engage in territorial warfare, the probability of optimal conditions are greatly diminished.

[ As much as he loves explaining things, he saves it for people who take stabs at the subject themselves. ]

[solitarysoul]

O-oh...

[He doesn't know anything about cats so he'll just take this guys word for it.]

Maybe there should be a cat shelter like Kakashi's dog shelter somewhere.

[ashaya]

[ A sure contrast between them. Spock isn't one to take anything at face value. Seems like it causes people more trouble than the latter characteristic. ]

I have no inclination to disrupt their current social structures outside necessary medical treatment, [ he says, simply. He tucks his notebook under his arm, not seeming to mind as one particularly orange cat winds its way around him in lazy circles. ] Statistically, felines classified as feral see poorer outcomes when subject to rehabilitation as compared to their canine counterparts.

[ The reason for this should be obvious if one knows anything about evolutionary trends and domestication of Terran species, but so it goes. 21st century really wasn't that great, all things considered. The abandonment of formerly domesticated animals was just the tip of the metaphorical free-floating glacial formation. ]

[finalfrontiersman]

[ Jim had expected it to take a lot more convincing to get Spock to come out to Last Drop's opening with him.

That's not to say it didn't take some convincing, though frankly, Jim is starting to wonder if Spock was just making him sweat it out for his own amusement. Sure, Jim could go it alone - he'd done it before, for most of his life until Bones came along - but drinking was always more fun with friends. He's never seen Spock tipsy, though he knows it's possible - Spock, the bastard, had implied for the longest time that it wasn't. He'd claimed that alcohol had no tangible effect on his system (making no mention of any other substances that might) and that he did not like the taste - letting Jim take all of his penalty shots for him at Scotty's pub quiz. Like he said, bastard. Spock didn't like the taste right up until he needed to drink an Arcadian under the table for information on an away mission, and then, suddenly, he was pounding back shots like an academy freshie on slaughter night. He took three Irish car bombs without even flinching.

That's the hottest thing you've ever done in my presence, Jim had slurred, one arm slung over Spock's shoulders, and his Vulcan Commander had even been kind enough not to mention it in the morning.

But Jim digresses - no, he's never seen Spock so much as tipsy, but he does know it's possible, because he absolutely got caught up in Uhura's scheme to give Spock a mug of hot chocolate at the holiday party they'd thrown, a combination of 16 different celebrations amongst the crew's various ethnic and religious backgrounds - Christmas, of course, being one of them. So, it turns out, sugar was key - well, okay, not sugar, actually, he's oversimplifying - chocolate. He was a little too drunk himself to dig into the honestly kind of interesting science of it - but the key was chocolate, and Jim's been trying to get his First Officer to let loose ever since.

And hell, now's the perfect opportunity: they deserve to let loose! With the success of the Dark Web project - even in it's current beta state right now - there's plenty to celebrate. Progress might be slow, but it's progress, and given how long they've been stuck here - Spock, even more than him - a night of harmless fun sounds to Jim like just the thing to keep them fresh. Shore leave is essential to the health of a crew, and Jim has never bought for a second that Spock didn't want, deep down, to be part of the socializing.

...alright, maybe it's like, deep deep deep deep down, but if he really didn't want to, Jim is under no illusions that Spock would have any amount of trouble turning him down, so prodding at him incessantly is really just Jim's brand of charm.

Anyway, Spock had agreed to accompany him tonight, and Jim's not sure what he was expecting, really, but he's certainly pleasantly, so pleasantly surprised. They'd both agreed that their black thermals were probably the best clothing option either of them had available for a bar environment (RIP Jim's hot pants, wherever they might be, AKA the best fitting jeans he could find in San Francisco. They'd served him well.) Spock had emerged from the bathroom while Jim was feeding Bones his dinner and when he'd turned around, the eyeshadow had been...particularly striking.

Jim's pretty sure he'd recovered gracefully (he hopes so???) because Spock hadn't said anything about the way Jim had stared for God-knows-how long (his brain was giving up white noise, he's not sure), coughed, and tripped over a What's cookin', good lookin'?

Must have been passable enough for him to get away with it, but Jim's been sneaking glances at the makeup all night. He has no idea where Spock would have found something like that, or why, but hell if it doesn't look awesome. It manages to both accentuate the handsome cut of his cheekbones, and soften something around his eyes - which Jim's keep being drawn to like a magnet, the color of the purple shadow bringing out the warm chestnut in Spock's irises.

Yeah, surely drinking will make this better.

He's not sure how much chocolate Spock's supposed to ingest for it to have an effect, but Jim's been dutifully bringing them new rounds from the bar; an empty glass and a half occupy the table as he sets down a third martini for Spock, sliding back into the booth with his own double whiskey pour in hand. He's pleasantly buzzed, that warm, numbing feeling suffused throughout his limbs, now, and Jim bumps shoulders with his friend as he angles his body towards the notes they've been picking over all night. ]

Did you crack it while I was gone? [ Jim props his chin in his hand, leaning against the table. Spock's been of more use on the notes, to no one's surprise; after his fourth shot, Jim's been doodling in the margins (stars, a surprisingly accurate sketch of a radial blaster mechanism, a cartoon of Bones' head, half-finished) and occasionally adding a figure to Spock's work, seemingly apropos of nothing. ]

[ashaya]

[ Certainly, part of the game had been the illusion that Spock wouldn't deign to come with him. It was always something with the pair of them, an easy sort of back-and-forth. A white pawn tipped to a black queen, a feint of customary tactics — the board is more than a board. It had always been, even as Spock toes the edge of their current positions and calculates the increasing frequency in which Jim looks at him. He knows the precise antecedent, knows this particular behavior is likely accelerated by the consumption of alcohol, but Spock doesn't let the new percentages slide as though water through a fist. Spock had always known that even the most subtle of shifts in baseline held meaning and, true to form, he intends to replicate the experiment.

That is, of course, if Jim provides him the opportunity to do it.

For the moment, Spock keeps to himself such speculative tabulations. It will not serve to provide them any further information on what they are attempting to deduce about Aldrip (gravity, which seems both consistent and wildly inconsistent in its presentation), but further it will not serve to answer any sort of self-indulgent questions that Spock might only admit he may theoretically harbor under the influence of specific forms of sucrose (and for Jim, alcohol). It is perhaps a testament to his current state that he arrives at this conclusion without considerable cycling through logical reasons for their possible existence. Spock places them aside, because Jim returns with their drinks and slides into the booth beside him.

If Spock answers the nudge with a reciprocal nudge in return, he doesn't comment. Instead, he lifts his gaze from the rapidly filling lines of the notebook and offers Jim a minute tilt of the head. If it serves him under the hazy neon to do so, he isn't going to comment upon that either. He may have experimented with various flora and chemical compounds to achieve whatever effect he's accomplished with his eyeshadow this evening, the color shifting readily from the powdery end of the spectrum to something more at home in sensualist stockpiles of ancient consumerists.

His expression doesn't quite shift, but for Jim it is an easy read as any. The corners of his eyes crinkle in subtle degrees, his mouth pulling at one corner in some hint of conspiratorial murmurings. ]

No fissures were found within our current calculations, no. [ It's a clear jest. He understands his meaning just fine, but Spock finds himself readier to play into the opening gambit Jim provides than usual. Either way, tucked close like this, he can hear Jim without difficulty. In fact, Spock would place significant odds on this being more for Jim's benefit. Even so, Spock is at once simultaneously gratified and aggrieved to have such sharp hearing in these situations as the off-brand music continues its tortured thumping.

Still, Spock takes a moment to place down his pen. The side of his hand is picking up ink as a result of his deference to Jim's dominant side, but it isn't something that can't be fixed at the end of the night. At the moment, he's going for the half-finished martini and balancing its slim neck between two fingertips. He takes a measured sip, eyeing Jim over the rim.

By Spock's current observations, he's due to have more water after this round. He knows his body does not metabolize intoxicants as efficiently as his own. He considers, too, something that Jim might find appropriate to consume during such activities. Something, he thinks, with some nutritional value - but, he finds himself drawn by the way that Jim looks at him. Chin cradled in his squared palm, dressed in his own version of civilian wear that is not in part borrowed from Spock? It's intriguing.

It is not a side of Jim that he has often seen. Spock clears his throat gently as he places the glass back down, its foot a touching down a bit louder on the wood than he would have liked. ]

I see you've yet to complete your... [ Spock pauses, considers how he would like to describe Jim's scribblings for a beat or two, but then finds the words readily. ] Most interpretive caricature of the good doctor.

[ As if he hadn't noticed? Of course he did. He's gratified, even so, to see Jim so relaxed. It had been a continual stream of projects since he'd arrived and Spock knew as well as Jim did that their mutual efficiency dropped quite drastically in the absence of leisure. At least, that is what Spock often says to himself and Jim both. ]

[finalfrontiersman]

[ Something about the air between them is - relaxed, in a way it isn't, normally. Jim's not sure what it is, exactly, other than the fact that they're both slightly inebriated, but Jim finds himself orbiting just a little closer than normal, into Spock's personal space. He keeps trying to pull himself out of it when he notices it happening, chalks it up to the press of the bar, the effects of alcohol loosening his limbs (he's a drunk sprawler, it's true) - but his efforts are getting less and less concerted as the night progresses. If Spock minds, he hasn't said anything, so Jim doesn't think it's a problem.

And then Spock looks at him like that, and it makes it really damn hard to think at all, actually.

Jim always knew Spock was handsome - hot, even, that was never in question - but something about tonight's outfit is really making that fact impossible to ignore. Frankly, Jim's not sure how they haven't had more people stopping by their booth for a chat - or maybe Spock's literally so hot it's intimidating, hell, Jim wouldn't be surprised. The neon lights that bathe the place in purple and pink create interesting effects with the eyeshadow, catching the shimmer at just the right angle, creating a tractor beam that drags Jim's gaze right back to Spock's, to the smoky part of the eye effect, where the full strength of his attention lies.

If Jim's face is a little flush after meeting Spock's eyes, cheeks beginning to heat at the tops, well - maybe it's just the alcohol, and hopefully, the lights hide it.

His mouth is dry, so Jim takes another swig of his whiskey, tossing his head back in an effort to clear it. Don't even get him started on Spock's arms, the tight fit of the thermal shirt around his chest and biceps - see, being pansexual does have its disadvantages, and being able to fully appreciate every facet of the masculine, feminine, and everything else on the gender spectrum was certainly one of them. ]

You're such a comedian, you know that? [ Jim can't help the way his attention flickers to Spock's hand, elegant as ever in his motions. He'd always admired the fluidity, and shit, if he's indulging fully into the alcohol-induced horny voice in the back of his brain (what, it's not like Spock can hear it and if suppressing it wasn't working, maybe he should just stop fighting, at least on the inside - Christ, it's been too long since he's gotten laid, clearly that's the problem here - ) if he's indulging in the gremlin that lives in the back of his head, Jim thinks he can admit that he's a hands guy (longing sigh not included, thank you very much, he'd like to drown in his whiskey glass now, please).

Regardless, Jim tracks the motion as Spock plucks the glass from the table with slender fingers, following it right back up to his eyes and the playfulness that lurks over the rim of Spock's glass, directed at him with Spock's signature singular focus. His mouth is dry again, so Jim takes another mouthful of his own whiskey, fingers curling under his chin so his nails can subtly bite into his palm and remind him not to do anything too stupid.

Jim takes the out, inclining his head closer to Spock as he picks up his abandoned pen, reaching over to continue building the doodle. If he's drawing, he doesn't have to continue thirsting after his friend. Spock was a taken man, and even in a hypothetical where he wasn't - well, looking at it objectively, (threat to their friendship notwithstanding) there was no universe out there where this happened. Where Spock was into him, when he had the ability to pull amazingly hot and talented people like Uhura? Look, Jim knows his weight class, he's not embarrassed about it - and a tête-à-tête with Spock is decidedly above his paygrade.

Still. He's not doing anything wrong by having eyes. It's fine, everything's fine. He's just gonna...draw. ]

Not lifelike yet. He needs to look angrier. [ Jim squints at the paper; it's harder to see in the muted darkness of the club, and he's got bad enough vision as it is. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he sharpens the line of Bones' eyebrow. He rounds out the other side of his face with a sketchy line before he dares glance back up at Spock again - but whatever recovery he thought was sufficient was not, and Jim looks away quickly before Spock's cheekbones can suck him right back in. ] Should I draw you, instead?

[ Jim shifts the pen to a new blank area, shoulders brushing as his hand moves across the page, doodling out the diamond shape of Spock's face. It is, unfortunately, the perfect excuse to both stare at Spock, and not, and if Jim's cheeks heat further - whatever, shut up, no they don't. ]

[ashaya]

[ It is not as though Spock is unable to notice the aesthetic qualities of others. It is a common misconception, he thinks, that he is not able to.

Logic did not terminate baser instinct, did not deplete the innate drive of any individual who engaged in intimate relations. It made it easier, perhaps, to wheel themselves back from the precipice, but such things could always be let go. Such things could always be relinquished. Spock himself was no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh, was no stranger to the thrall of what he would consider beauty. However, as grew older and as his focus shifted, he found it harder to wish to engage in both casual and passing connections. He found it more difficult still not to notice what was before him, what sparkled at the edges of his katra and asked to be heard.

Spock still notices. Human eyes and the slender curve of necks. The cut of a dress. The turn of a wrist. A laugh, as rich as the waters that never graced the deserts of his home. Squared shoulders, the cut of a jaw - Spock saw a sort of fascination in many. But -

So rare it was, to find another who would meet the needs of the mind. He'd touched few, enjoyed fewer. But, Jim's - it was no secret that such a mind was welcomed against his. It was no secret, that each meld had required an intense concentration not to proceed in places he was unwelcomed, to lean with the full weight of his consciousness into his. Even with T'Pring, such a connection had not been so easy.

But, Jim is speaking and Spock is pulling his focus back to the present. ]

As always, [ Spock starts with a dry amusement, his eyes touching upon the minor tensions in Jim's jaw, the firm curve of his fingers under his chin. He does not risk a glance at the pull of his shirt about his chest, his arms. ] I fail to see how I might be so.

[ He doesn't, of course. He knows as well as Jim this is part of their usual banter, their usual conversation. The usual comfort of the atmosphere aside, Spock feels the current that runs beneath. He does not dip his fingers into the energies that fizzle off body and tongue, but the temptation is profound enough that Spock finds himself having to speak to keep it back. ]

I hadn't wished to distract you from your artistic endeavors, [ he says, light on the syllables and lighter still on the recursive nature of their contact. Clothed shoulder to clothed shoulder, familiar and not. He recalls one such occasion in a bar, the cheeky smile that his Captain had cast both a means and a lure to scratch his name alongside his into the wooden surface. It had not been his proudest moment, but it is not one he is liable to soon forget. Spock reaches to pluck up his glass again, permits himself another sip. The chocolate is bitter on the tongue, the drink itself an inviting shade of earth. If there's a particular brightness in his gaze, a subtle sort of amusement aligned with the intensity of his typical observation? Spock doesn't make mention of it. ] But, it appears you've already committed yourself to this new course.

[ Not to say that Spock himself hasn't changed gears. Sensation and sound are both becoming warm and muffled, suffused with a hazier light. It makes it difficult for Spock to work through the typical methods and means of correction and recalibration, figures and numbers quick and elusive as he attempts to review them outright. Instead, he takes up his pen in his free hand and works through the rough schematic of the lower decks of a most familiar ship, his lines clear and sure.

Still, he's prone to a certain... Distractibility. The music pulses as the bodies on the dance floor do and Jim's eyes linger. They touch upon his face with a slowly ramping frequency, his desire to draw him aside. Spock tips his gaze upwards on the next pass of his glance, notes the warmth against the apples of his cheeks and the pinkened tip of his tongue. Surely, it is in part the effects of the alcohol, but - Spock flicks his attention back to his drink. The next sip is almost too quick, the residual chill of the liquid bringing with it a sharper discomfort for a beat or two. He has to focus to keep clear the results of possible vasodilation, his heart thrumming hot and fast within his side. ]

Were space not a consideration, what more would you have added?

[ It seems like a non-sequitur, but the meaning becomes quickly clear: the nib of his pen brushes back against the tooth of the notebook, the belly of the Enterprise reflected back up at them. Beyond what is needed for it to function, there is ample space to fill with the speculative and figurative. He himself might only think briefly of the Discovery before training his gaze back on Jim. ]

[finalfrontiersman]

[ Jim...hasn't gotten laid in a while.

It's a sad fact of life aboard a starship that Jim was to be a terminal bachelor. Unless he wants to date one of the three Lieutenant Commanders on board, that is (and even that has about a million declaration forms attached to it that make Jim's eyes bleed just thinking about them). So: Bones (woefully straight), Spock (Uhura would kill him), and Scotty (just...no)?

Yeah. Add terminally celibate to the list, too.

All joking aside, relations between crew members were a highly sensitive matter. Rank was no small factor, even amongst enlisted personnel - and for Jim, as Captain? It's a non-starter. For all that Jim is known to spurn the rules where it suits him (when the rules are wrong, Jim would argue) - this is one area he's never pushed back. He'd never even dream of it. He understands why it's important, why this is the one area where he cannot step out of line, ever - nor would he want to.

The idea that anyone could feel unsafe on his ship because he - Jim doesn't even finish the thought, as unthinkable as it is. Bad enough there was a slip of paper somewhere in the house with criminal negligence carelessly scrawled across it.

It's not so dire, though. Contrary to popular belief (tales of his Academy exploits have been greatly exaggerated, alright), he is not a sex shark, and dying of blue balls is not a thing. Trust him, he checked. Yeah, it kind of sucks sometimes, but he also gets to fly through uncharted space, a new adventure around every corner. In the end, it's so unbelievably worth it.

But he's not on a starship right now, he hasn't gotten laid in a while, and he's only human.

The ridiculous part is, Jim doesn't even need the excuses: Spock just looks really fucking good. Not that he doesn't normally anyway - Jim would be the first to say Spock was a handsome son of a bitch, no question; with the classically handsome jaw, the chiseled angles of his cheekbones, the dark intensity of his eyes that almost seemed to have their own gravity...sorry, what was he saying? ]

How can you fail to see, Mr. Spock? [ Jim's tone is an approximation of innocence, ruined by the quirk at the edges of his mouth, gaze flicking up to Spock's. ] Your eyes look open to me.

[ Yeah yeah, Spock's better at those jokes than he is, but whatever, he's buzzed enough to get away with it, surely. It's really not helping his distraction either, as Spock so succinctly puts it - that the only thing sharper than Spock's eyeliner is his wit, and the careful delineation Jim normally draws with their banter is starting to blur the further into the night they get.

Drawing gives him something to do other than stare at Spock, and Jim commits to it, sketching out the foundation of his companion. When he glances up again (which proves to be a mistake), Spock is taking a sip of his drink - it means Jim gets to witness the long line of Spock's throat, the way his fingers play on the glass, the shine in his eyes when he meets Jim's gaze again. Jesus Christ. He roughs in the outline of Spock's nose on the paper, quick dashes of the pen providing a guiding line for the severe eyebrows that were to follow. ] My pen simply goes wherever the muse takes me.

You strike an impressive figure. [ His mouth is dry again, and Jim reaches to take another sip of his own drink, amber liquid disappearing between his lips as he pauses for a beat before adding a simple line in place of drawing!Spock's mouth. To some, it might seem an odd choice, but Jim's pretty pleased with the result that's shaping up. No, he's not staring at the paper to avoid seeing how Spock took the compliment, shut up.

Spock takes over part of the page with technical drawing, and Jim just continues his doodle, filling in Spock's hair, crafting the pointed tip of his ear, visible from the perspective he's chosen to draw in. He sketches out the simplest version of a uniform he can before he starts on a second bust, beginning with Spock's eyes.

He takes it back - as their arms brush when they move in tandem on the page - the drawing is not, in fact, helping. Luckily, Spock offers further distraction, drawing Jim's attention to the whole of what he's sketched out - he'd recognize the old girl anywhere. It gets an easy smile out of him, eyes half-lidded as Jim takes another sip of his drink (that one didn't last long, lord almighty, he's down to about a fourth in his glass now) and taps the capped end of his pen in some of the negative space. ] Definitely a swimming pool.

[ashaya]

[ Vulcans and Humans are not so dissimilar at the root, should one examine it objectively. Once, both had been compelled by the strength of their emotions; where Vulcans arrived upon their peace earlier and with stauncher force, Humans continued to struggle toward a tentative balance. They embraced with the full force of themselves, destructive and affable both. They had created any manner of beautiful art, had comprised much of the Federation thus far. Reviled as they were admired among some, Spock had often come to suspect there were deeper reasons for his othering, ones that went beyond the intermixing of cultures and species that staunchly refused to admit a certain commonality. Where one valued privacy and control above outward expression of the metaphorical heart -- he was a glaring vulgarity. He encompassed all that could not be excised, could not be pulled apart.

That most aboard a starship abstain regularly is no surprise. Spock is one among the many, more reserved than even those he knows. It is not to say that he does not occasionally tarry, does not linger in the prospect of a fleeting affection, but such things are by nature temporary. Most were classed as a minor disruption, oft a compulsion brought on by external variables. Those that remained apart, Spock found, were hardly more fulfilling. There had been none before the start of their current mission, none that Spock would choose to rekindle. All that had ended had ended. There is no need for recounting.

Regulations aside, it was a rarity that those in their careers might have found the time to court and encourage. Alone in an ocean of stars, bobbing along as though the singular light against a distant shore, it once brought to mind the rambling accounts of Terran sailors. While some longed for the piers and the sights of Humankind, others embraced what they could not see. The velvet dark, the weight of the salt on the air like a brand -- there was a sort of innate Romanticism in those who chased the vastness. He sees such things in Jim, sees such things in two he now knows, and knows it to be a reflection of the home found in the absences. A place carved, Spock thinks, in the perfect liminality of what could and could not be.

Jim speaks to him easily, his attention like a warmer sun against the colder moon somewhere. That Spock should not turn to his attentions seems somehow an impossibility, his mind a sparking of embers against one so unaccustomed to being shown such measures of interest, such kindness.

And so, when Jim meets his eyes even briefly, it is all that Spock might do to remark on the absolute Humanity. Where once was the warm soils of Earth were now the waters of some unknown origin, clear enough that Spock thinks he might see through to the bottom. ]

I should find myself hoping, Captain. [ A playful tit-for-tat, an easy repartee. In the curve of his syllables lies another meaning, caught behind the banks of his teeth and stuck to the tip of his tongue. He should hope he would be here with him, he thinks, instead of entangled in some manner of imaginings. Still, there is a kind of... Curious charm, in how Jim attempts his manner of humor. It stirs something in him, both warm and somehow enduring, and Spock does not name it as he watches Jim's throat bob around the sting of his drink.

If Spock takes a moment to glance away, to place down his own and push over his heretofore untouched water glass with tips of his fingers? It is more for the realization that this rate (as well as his own) is likely to end poorly for him without appropriate countermeasures.

He is only so fortunate, however, to have timed it before Jim's offhand compliment. As otherwise engrossing as their mutual sketching might be, his fine hearing seizes on it. It seizes upon the way he turns the syllables over his tongue, the way he does not look at him whilst saying so. Spock finds himself for a moment quieted, the heavy thump of the music going on for a stretch uncounted. Jim's profile in the cut of this light shows both focus and fixation, a softness at the round of his cheek -- the curve of his nose. Juxtaposed with the firmer lines of his throat and his jaw, he thinks to argue the comment. To turn it about to him instead, but: ]

No more than usual, sir. [ For all usual tactics remain, there is something that goes soft and unchecked at the corners of his expression. His gaze dips back to the notebook -- for the sake of observing, of course --, and takes in the sketches that Jim pours himself into with such vigor. They are a deal more detailed than Spock might have thought and he feels a peculiar heat crawl up the back of his neck no matter his attempts to stifle it. ] You are an artist and flatterer both.

[ It is another moment before he might continue upon his own schematics, the nib of his pen having pulled off track in the wake of such comment. He clears his throat gently, his attention losing its typical single-minded edge as he steers his pen back into the confines of the Enterprise. ]

Ah. Yes, [ he starts, feeling the familiar weight of Jim's eyes against him. He tamps down on the desire to confirm visually that he's smiling, but there remains the allure. ] I do so recall your preference for water over sonics. A true impracticality.

[ And yet, he is obliging. His pen moves, his lines confident and measured. Resources were carefully balanced upon any starship, even those such as the Enterprise, but he had known Jim to always like such small allowances when given to him. Spock had never quite explored the differences, but much of the crew waxed on about it. And he was beginning to think, in his experiences here, that perhaps there was an increased sense of relaxation associated. ]

ii for now

[skelters]

[ of all the differences between this world and the one he's (temporarily?) left behind, this is the key difference; it is kinder, of sorts. more prodigal in its resources that allows for others to take care of each other all the better. there doesn't seem to be much of an excuse of choosing survival of oneself over another's - at least, that is how it looks from vash's perspective so far, as determinedly idealistic as he is. ]

They don't need that much light to see, right?

[ curious of the fauna that he's only previously seen through old earth-recordings and words in books, vash can't help but be drawn to the cats crowded around the other. even as he laughs, vash obligingly steps aside a pace, allowing his shadow to move away. ]

What're you up to?

[ashaya]

[ he isn't surprised when the newest addition to the scene speaks, having detected his footfalls some ways off. unlike his human counterparts, he's got keen hearing. perhaps one could even hazard saying it's just about as sharp as his eyeliner at the moment.

either way, vash can get a good look at his profile in this half-light. his dark hair and dark eyes cut a contrast to the pale of his skin, somehow enhance the peculiar and pointed tip of his ear, the upward sweep of his brow. ]

Not usually, no. However, [ he quiets, pauses. the reason as to why he does becomes evident in the next few moments as he snaps shut his notebook and tucks it under his arm. he points to one cat that had fallen in the cast of vash's shadow earlier, a sleek looking thing with black and white patterning. it appears to mostly get around through the use of its other senses, its mouth parted to scent the air more efficiently. ] Age and injury reduces visual acuity significantly.

[ anyway, good question. what is he up to? well, whatever it is, it takes him a beat to answer. during that time, he holds out a hand to one of the cats nearest him, his dark eyes cast to its left in recognition of their reluctance to meet gazes directly. ]

I am observing their social hierarchies.

[ which seems true, but there's more to it than that based on their seeming familiarity with him. pay no mind to this grey tabby shoving forward to slam its head against his hand in a friendly greeting. ]

[skelters]

[ he's used to that, you know; it's almost a second nature by now after a century of it - cutting himself down into harmless noisy pieces that clatter and clunk awkwardly like a disjointed doll, letting his steps fall just on the too heavy side, quelling the flood rapid beat of heart (and always that secondary echo like a belated step in a dance, his twin shadow unseen at his heels) and always pretending to be much less (much, much more) than what he is.

his eyes behind the tinted glasses widen slightly, before vash's whole feature (eyes, brows, mouth) splits into a wide, delighted grin at the sight of the other. he remembers him, you see. vash has good memory for faces, even if he hasn't seen them in a while. ]

There's a lot of them here ... [ carefully, vash crouches low - settling on his haunches and extending a gloved hand out to one of the younger cats who step closer to his vicinity, curious. ] Do you feed them? Or do they just like you a lot?

[ashaya]

[ and it is an interesting thing, how one might adapt to the shape and circumstance of their surroundings; spock had learned early that one who tread light and sure was not as apt to be questioned by many. it was a decision and a defense, a choice and a shield. a consequence.

but, it is not a lack of recognition that too passes through him. for all the presumed impassivity that makes of a mask his face, there in the cast of light is the Human dark of his eyes. when he turns his head to look upon him, there too is the slight nod that follows. ]

Twenty-three at present, [ he supplies, his hand turning at the strange cat's insistence. it presses its sleek head into the softer valley of his palm. to spock, it relays nothing more than the simple and shapeless contentment that most animals like these often do. a vaguer sense of knowing, by scent and by sound. ]

As they are an unhoused domesticated species, consistent exposure and unconditional delivery of food stuffs has led to their gathering.

[ it is not necessarily a rebuff of the concept that they like him. more, it is a deflection. they are indeed lovely creatures in their own right, but to ascribe emotions to such creatures seems illogical to him. their perspectives are wholly different. ]

i.

[starguy]

[ Peter is enjoying the bar's atmosphere -- he's had a few drinks, he's danced, he's even chatted up a few folks, which is how he ends up wandering towards the booths and spotting Spock on his own. The amount of martini glasses on his table can't possibly have all gone to him, right? Well, Peter intends to find out. It's as good an ice breaker as any, isn't it? And Peter's never afraid of breaking the ice. ]

Damn, dude, you sure know how to put 'em away!

[ashaya]

[ He has been assured that that is indeed the goal of such locales. At least, that is what both Jims had told him in their own manner of speaking. It is something he ruminates on frequently, their individual diction. Fascinating, how circumstances can change a person's base vocabulary. Even so, he can hear the subtle stutter-shift of an approach even over the roar of music. And, gauging his current state, he is not yet particularly intoxicated in a way that would be noticeable without his rising from his seat.

He thinks.

Well, he'd certainly taken on Klingons and their blood wine before. A few chocolate martinis won't kill him. Three, to be precise. He'd kept himself appropriately hydrated and put in some order or another for bar fare that wouldn't violate his dietary principles and Jim's innumerable allergies.

That's all to say: Spock lifts his head. His notes are becoming increasingly cramped across his page, but the lettering is impeccable (the adjacent leaf isn't really - it's more a mish-mash of doodles and equations in a very different hand). If Peter was hoping for a clear picking up of what he was placing down as an implication? The minute furrow that forms between Spock's dark brows seems to tell tale to the contrary. ]

And what is it that I am putting away? [ He can make a few inferences, but goodness knows with Humans. Their idioms are colorful and strange on the best days. It seems likely he's referring to the glassware or the drinks themselves, but he's been told that it's not expected in this establishment. Curious. ]

[starguy]

[ Peter, being Peter, is a simple man. He has no intention of snooping on Spock's notes, though he does notice the two kinds of scrawls -- or, perhaps more correctly, the one type of scrawl and one type of perfect penmanship. Two guesses as to which is which, and the first guess doesn't count. ]

Drinks, my man!

[ Peter smiles, not troubled in the least by having to explain his idiom. This dude has pointed ears and he's pretty sure he recognizes his picture from that one post on the network. It is very cool to finally meet an alien in person after so many months of just hanging around humans. ]

Mind if I join ya? Not for a drink or anything, I should probably switch to water pretty soon, anyway.

[ashaya]

[ Perfectly acceptable by him, though no need for such formalities. He wouldn't bother with more important computations here. These are more theoretical. His boothmate, which has so far gone off to converse elsewhere, might hazard that these are "for fun." ]

Ah, that. [ He surveys the damage. Well, his own glasses are very neatly aligned. Not so much the others, which he moves to stack whilst he's speaking. His fingers are sure and light about their middles, the resulting "tower" not a hair out of line. ] I understand that the Human body is more susceptible to such intoxicants.

[ Which implies, vaguely, that he isn't. Still, Spock considers the man and then nods once. It's a shallow, quick little thing. Easy enough to be caught if one is looking. He shuts the notebook, tucking the associated pens neatly side by each. ]

As you wish.

[ The other side is perfectly spotless. ]

[starguy]

Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's true. Us humans get wasted pretty easily!

[ Despite his ancestry, Peter has never considered himself anything more or less than human. The jury's out on whether his half-Spartoi blood has anything to do with why he's a little tipsy, but it's honestly not something he worries about.

He slides into the booth on the opposite side, smiling wide and ordering himself some water and turning his attention back towards Spock. ]

The name's Peter! I'm, uh, technically from Earth, but I kinda grew up in space. How 'bout you?

[ He does not move to shake his hand. Last time he asked an alien friend for a handshake, Drax crushed his fingers. He knows better. ]

ii

[entreats]

[ Ange hasn't been in the bar much. Just long enough to check it out after Jinx helped her sneak in, and then right back out of there once she realised there was only so little information she could gather in there.

The cats do pull her attention though. It keeps her from making her way back home just yet. Instead she follows the trail of cats, wondering what they're all gathering here for, only to spot the man.

.. what is he, some sort of cat whisperer? The remark really does very little to combat that impression, honestly. Ange does move a step to the side, moving herself out of the path of the light, but then dryly remarks: ]

They look like they're going to eat you.

[ Ange may only have seen groups of cats under very specific circumstances.. ]

[ashaya]

[ Neither has Spock. It is actually the fault of a certain Captain (at least he should tell himself) that he is here at the moment. He's not what one would call "three sheets to wind," but he is indeed slightly compromised. It should only become obvious in the way his expressions are not so opaque, which does relatively little for any person who has just seen him in the flesh.

Either way: Spock simply tips his chin in a way that would just mild contemplation, if not for the way he's quick to come back with a relatively dry answer of his own. ]

Their relation to greater Terran apex predators aside, [ he starts, the sharp curve of a pointed ear and the glimmer of his dark eye makeup making itself known in the new light. ] I believe they would find it most detrimental to eliminate a consistent source of nutritive food stuffs.

[ Which implies he's a known visitor to such curious animals, among other things. ]

[entreats]

.. you feed them often?

[ It's not difficult to arrive at that conclusion after what Spock has said, after all. It practically is what he said, just with different words.

Apparently it's slightly surprising to the other girl. Not that she looks super shocked, but then again, Ange rarely does. Just her lifting an eyebrow the way she's doing now is already more than she usually shows. ]

Is that why you came all the way out here? I thought you might be investigating something.