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expiationlogs2024-05-26 08:15 pm
conflictresolution) wrote in expiationlogs2024-05-26 08:15 pm
The Last Drop Grand Opening
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
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.
no subject
For once, Jim is comfortable. It's a strange thought to have, amidst all the unknowns of their situation here in Aldrip, but it's true. Not something he ever would have guessed at, either, after his the first meld on Delta Vega - like an ice pick to the frontal cortex - despite the echoes of something else that seemed to haunt the experience. Jim hadn't gone digging to find it, the mind's self-preservation preventing him from doing so.
But here, now, he thinks he might understand what he was sensing. A calling, some enigmatic likeness between their two minds that felt - relieved, in the other's presence. A salve to a wound Jim hadn't known was there. Should it be so surprising, when Jim knows he could equate the feeling by the human standard, by having Spock at his side, always the two of them, taking on the universe? Perhaps it is a self-fulfilling prophecy, then; or maybe its just a fantasy constructed from his human consciousness as a way of framing their connection in the emotional language that he understands - but if Spock doesn't mind, Jim sure as hell isn't going to say anything. ]
All nights are days to see till I see thee, [ Jim quirks a brow, something tender shining in his eyes - the way they've been exchanging lines since the Tower is a language in and of itself; perhaps one they're more comfortable speaking in, like the way Spock's hand fits into his. ] And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
[ Spock tilts his head, acute angles thrown into sharp relief with the shadows that catch on his cheekbones, and pool down the side of his neck from the halo of the streetlights above them. They lead Jim down the long line of Spock's throat, coming to rest at the hollow there, where his Adam's apple sits - actually, what do they call that, on Vulcan? Jim's never thought to ask, and the thought of a Vulcan named Adam is so fanciful it strikes him funny, a wisp of fondness threading through his surface thoughts - fondadmirationcontentheat - skimming along the connection between them.
Spock pulls them closer, sides brushing as they walk, down towards the warm light the late night food stalls are giving off. There aren't many people here, one or two dotting the barstools lined up at the counters for each stall - the herds will come later, when the bars close. Spock's mind sends pulses of warmth suffused with the heady incense Jim is so familiar with - he's been considerate to light it when Jim isn't home, or with the windows open in the cozy house they share - but it reminds him of Spock, inextricable from the whole. It reminds him of home, spiced and warm. ]
The logical path. [ Jim smiles to himself, cutting his gaze away as his heel drags, bumping the texture of the cobblestone path beneath his shoe. Sometimes this place just didn't seem real - the folksy charm of it (at least, to Jim - a seaside city with 21st century allure. Physical money, paper books, vintage appliances), the brief moments of calm (Spock and Bones in a dapple of sunlight while they picnic at the library, a shared pot of tea in the evenings, Spock's soft breathing next to him as Jim passed over the divide between waking and dreaming), the warmth that they had found here. Despite everything they had endured here
and everything that was to come,sometimes it still felt...well, like a strange dream. ] What's a logical path for one to walk may not be the same as another.[ And Spock has always seemed the type to carve his own, as daring a man as any Jim had ever known. His fortitude, his compassion - to list all the qualities Jim appreciated about Spock would take more time than the evening they had left. ] Defiance looks good on you.
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Perhaps it is his service with Humans that have stained his perspective with such fantastical things. Perhaps they were always destined to pollute the orderly line of his thinking, bring such concepts of hope and luck to his metaphorical door. Yet, for all that Spock may have thus far resisted the full depth of their influence, there was always something further to uproot. There was always something further to let his fingers card through, the fabric of his being both flexible and inflexible. Diaphanous, Spock thinks, and steeled.
But, with Jim —
There is no drag of the self against the other. There is no grit or grain, no scale or tooth. Where it is Jim touches is both steady and smooth, honeyed on the tongue and in sweet within the stomach. It curls against the line of consciousness, nectarine and copper. Fingers across the still of ponds, the circumference of bruise — Spock does not press, despite the gentled encouragement. He does not submit, though Jim's thoughts become as the weaving birds amid the hottest parts of Terran days. For all that they might sing and ruffle and flit, Spock might only watch them.
He might only remain grounded. ]
And, thou away, the very birds are mute, [ Spock answers, the fairest brush of a reciprocal heat and the glimmering note of satisfaction caught just so upon the teeth. What Jim might grasp is secondary, hints beneath the surface of what is fonder, softer things.
He too has not found himself opposed to the steady way of their routine, to the particular comfort that such habit brings. To work alongside him is no less agreeable than living alongside him, but there is an unnamable quality. There is something in the way Jim looks upon him, studies him — eyes upon his hands as he is cooking. The tuck of his smile when it is he laughs. The sleep-warm brush of waking consciousness against the backs of his knuckles, Jim taking from him his coffee without much complaint.
Now, such transfer is deliberate. What he might feel, what Jim might feel. The shield remains, but there is something in the way of its consistency, its quality. There is an underlying—
It matters not. It is not something to look upon this evening, close as they are now. It is not something to examine in his current state, despite the way there is no absence of mirth at the corners of his mouth. ]
You would ascribe that particular emotion, [ he says, the cobble evening again beneath their feet as Spock idly aims them toward a suitable stall. It had been banked for such occasions, though he had oft not factored himself in. Beneath the dimmer lighting, Jim's skin makes itself a show of something warmer, golden. His dark follow the gilt that it brings, touching upon the dip of a temple. The bridge of his nose. Freckles, Spock thinks, that so dot across his cheeks like the artful streak of stars. ] And yet, logic does not preclude the possibility of deviation.
[ It doesn't, of course. And yet, it is that particular uniqueness that Spock too had admired in Jim. That sense of being, the possession of a formed and forming surety. His logic, balanced against the cradle of his empathy.
He clears his throat, softly. ]
Do these offerings meet ritual qualifications?
[ He knows they do, but even still. He plays at his games as well as Jim does too. ]
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Maybe that's contagious, or maybe Spock's just using that as an excuse for what already lurks beneath his own skin; if so, Jim won't call him out on it. Maybe it's a bit of both, or maybe they just feed off each other - back and forth, an endless, golden loop. Jim settles into the push and pull of the mental landscape, how easy it feels to rest there with Spock. The longer it goes, actually, the easier it seems. Maybe he's just projecting - but hey, he's most definitely had worse nights.
Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow. The answer is thought, not spoken, almost involuntarily so in the wake of the sensation that pours from Spock's mind to his. Jim nearly blushes, heat rising in his neck, just barely tinging the tops of his cheeks - but he stifles the urge, determined not to blink first. Not to inject doubt into their evening, to let it anything impugn everything they've been exchanging tonight - especially not when Spock would likely be able to feel it. ]
No. But it sure likes to try. [ Jim chuckles to himself as they make their way down the street and towards the stalls. Spock was one of the most bullheaded, steady, defiant people he'd ever met - and Jim means that as a compliment, honestly. Sure, when the obstinance was aimed in Jim's direction, it was a pain in the ass - but no less admirable, truth be told. That Spock had the resilience to carve his own path in a world that did not recognize the value of it - Jim had no shortage of regard for the man beside him.
They stop astride a small booth, tucked between two others, offering up a variety of french fries. Sweet potato, golden, something fancy involving a truffle. Jim's lips slide into a smirk to hide his growing grin and he nods, slipping a hand in his pocket to free the requisite currency from the confines of his pants. He had been the designated treasurer, since he'd arrived; the coins were something Spock seemed to have zero interest in, beyond the strangeness of their shape and the composition of their metal. ] Greasy and salty, you've hit the nail on the head, Commander. Someone been studying up?
[ Jim's also going to hazard a guess that these fries aren't made with peanut oil, given that Spock's the one who stopped them there, and he quite possibly had the entirety of Aldrip catalogued for Jim's allergies. He orders a big batch for them to share, sliding the coins across to the shopkeep, before moving to lean against the pickup window. ]
Did you ever do the Sophomore Slaughter crawl? [ Jim's presuming the tradition was shared across their universes, but who knows, it wouldn't be the first difference. Even if it was, he's not sure he can picture Spock participating - a bar crawl through San Francisco, while sophomore cadets waited nervously for their track acceptance emails to Command, Engineering, etc. Or maybe he did participate, downing shots impassively to fuck with the humans around him. The image makes Jim smile, as he draws Spock's hand between both of his own, covering it completely with the warmth of his palms. ] I think that was the last time I had a night out like this one.
[ Jim doesn't think it'll end quite the same, with the Command track hazing ritual - streaking into the Pacific Ocean - but that's probably for the best. ]
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And hundreds of years from and since, the stars dying and dead and reborn again — there is much about all that there is that Spock does not know too. There had always been more than the Vulcan suns, the Terran moon. There had always been another constellation, another destination. Another bead upon a foreign tapestry, woven in thread and yarn.
Spock has seen a great deal, experienced a great deal more. He has touched the fathomless and inconsistent, tasted with his hands and mind and mouth. He has known the bend of space, the loop of time. He has traced its contours, the sinuous curve of tomorrows yet to come. And yet, there is always more. There is always more, in the tilt of the head and the cut of a mouth. A grin. The way the light pools warm and orange off the seams of an affected contrapposto. Citrus on the tongue, Spock thinks, as Jim holds any part of himself so close and secreted. A hand, cupped in the nest of Jim's own.
Spock's fingers curl, smoke and fire and ash. Sand through the throat of a glass. Perfumed and feathered, the dark spill of earth. His eyes flicker upward, focus upon the solid and the present. The tangible and the sure. Jim's bright eyes, met with the steady shadow of his own. ]
No more than usual, sir. [ Spock murmurs, the syllables stained with the weight of a breath. And yet, there is something coy that plucks about the boundary. There is something humored, in the way it toes against the edge. He had made a gamble, it seems. A guess, built upon the foundation of preference and allergy. The knowledge of Human metabolism.
Experience.
Against the backdrop of the sea and the clattering of the cooks behind the counter, Spock considers. He considers — ]
Not as such, [ Spock says, soft to the ear. His other hand rises, shadows the curve of the gentled net Jim's cast. ] However, I was informed my attendance would "strengthen rapport" among my cohort. [ His thumb tucks into the curve of a wrist. He feels the Human thrum of his heart beat, a slow staccato.
He lays his palm flush to the back of Jim's, the corners of his eyes crinkling only just so. A hint, perhaps, to what stories lie beneath. ] In retrospect, I cannot say it did not serve its purpose.
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How badly did you beat them? [ Jim can't help his smile, warm with affection and amusement in equal measure. The mental image of a Spock as a cadet, resplendent in red, completely deadpan and tossing back Irish Carbombs like they were water - what Jim would give to see that. They would have gotten into so much trouble, if they were students at the same time - whether Spock would have wanted to, or not.
He knows Spock finds it equally as amusing, even if he'd never admit it in so many words, and another slight shiver runs up Jim's spine as Spock's thumb finds the soft skin of his wrist, resting just over his pulse. Jim's hands curl around Spock's, aligning their knuckles as the pads of his fingers brush slowly over the back of Spock's hand, the drag of his calluses light. ] I'm not saying it's right, but Command's been using drinking ability as a fortitude metric for years. I can see where that would have worked in your favor.
[ Jim hums quietly at the back of his throat, one hand releasing Spock's, since the Vulcan seems to have that area covered. It seems only fair Jim's newly freed hand should come to rest against Spock's side, mimicking his seeking of Jim's pulse - finding the rabbit-quick heartbeat that resided there, fluttering against his hand. It had the added benefit of allowing Jim to spread his palm, to settle comfortably with Spock, decidedly, pulled into his personal space. ]
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Indeed, [ he says, smoother than his heartbeat would suggest. Jim's proximity, the heat of his palm — it rests against him as a brand, the stutter-step of his heart a hummingbird beat within the chest. He knows that Jim might feel it, but there too is an excess of stimulus that must be caged and cornered and corralled. What is physiological falls lower upon the metaphorical "totem pole" when faced with the sweeter curiosities that brush along his shields. ] I believe they had implied I had "drunk them under the table."
[ Spock pauses, almost as though in thought. It is a guise more than not, a secondary action tucked within the first. The meat of his thumb rubs against the curve of Jim's wrist, nipping into the shadow the fine bone casts beneath it. ]
Despite its colloquial usage, I found it be quite literal.
[ And if there is a humor that rests within it? There is something that shimmers soap-slick and quick against the division that defines himself from Jim. A pull of smoke off fire. A sizzling candle, the dampness of fingers choking off the flame that keeps close the wick. ]
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You took no prisoners. [ Jim laughs warmly, able to picture it easily in his head - probably at that one bar, closest to campus that was always packed with a sea of red, everyone drunkenly bemoaning Spock's abilities, getting completely trashed themselves. His fingers curl against Spock's side, feeling his heartbeat thrum like a humming bird beneath his palm. ] Just confirms to me that I didn't need to take your penalty shots during trivia, you sly bastard.
[ It's clear from the amusement in his eyes, the tang of it bright and fresh where their skin touches, that Jim doesn't mind. His fingers skim against the side of Spock's hand, more than content to stay, just like this.
The arrival of their food interrupts, however, passed to them through the window, and Jim has to release Spock's side in favor of accepting the small paper receptacle. They seem fresh, at least, hot enough to scald if they eat too fast. Jim groans appreciatively, holding it up between them. ] Perfect drunk food. Soaks the ethanol right up.
[ Whether or not that holds any scientific merit, Jim snags a fry hanging off the edge with his teeth, grinning playfully. ]