(no subject)

[doctor_mccoy]

Who: Sam & McCoy, Open because hey, its a bar and anything goes.
When: 3-something or other.
Where: Merlotte's
Summary: McCoy cashes in on that free drink finally, the southern boys get to bond.
Warnings: Pending, language as always because it's McCoy.

It was closer to evening sirens than McCoy was comfortable with, but he'd been at the hospital since the previous night with a double shift, and even if he'd managed to catch a nap in one of the spare rooms and a rushed a shower at some point, he could still feel the phantom weight of blood and gore on his hands, his clothes, and it left a heavy sort of unease in his chest that sitting in his bare apartment and staring at the wall wasn't going to fix.

At least Marlotte's was easy enough to find, and the subway took him close enough that going out in the open didn't fray on his nerves as much as it usually did.  Inside seemed blissfully normal too, but he hadn't been sure what to expect between all of the announcements and fliers that had been popping up about curious places-- anywhere from vampire dance clubs to viking themed feast halls-- and the doctor wasn't nearly adventurous enough to tolerate anything with glow sticks or a mass of writhing bodies to any sort of musical beat.  He just wanted to get off his feet for awhile and maybe enjoy a drink.

Which brought him to belly up to the wooden bar to have a seat, not yet looking for his host until he was done fiddling with his NV to send Jim a message; he wouldn't be by for dinner as per the usual open invitation.  After last weekend he'd made of habit of informing his friend when he'd be working late, or was busy with other things, because it was hard not to fall back into that normal pattern of just looking out for each other, especially in a place like this. Besides Jim was a worrier, which, McCoy suspected, was a bad habit he'd picked up from him at some point.
 

Comments

[shifting]

Its a pretty quiet night. Quiet enough that Sam's actually spent the last half hour chatting up a woman who was looking lonesome at one of the tables (and okay, maybe he also really appreciated the low-cut dress she was wearing too). He spots McCoy on his way back to the office, pausing. ...The face looks damn familiar, but he can't...

That's right - the snarky doctor guy. The one he'd seen cozying up to Sylar. What was his name?

"Hey. Good to see you made it in." Sam pulled up a stool next to him with an easy grin, giving the bartender a brief nod. "Takin' advantage of that free drink?"

what is this 'tense' business.

[doctor_mccoy]

Cozying up nothing. It's a cold day in hell before anyone could even accusing him of playing nice, any unfortunate coffee 'dates' he'd ended up having with the psychopath he tallied up to protecting his own ass... or rather, kept Sylar from taking interest the only few people he actually gave a damn about. Everyone had to take for the team once in awhile.

"Figured I earned it, as long as you're still offering." He leans back on the stool a bit, regarding Sam with a curious albeit weary look for a moment before ordering a shot of bourbon from the bartender. Something to take the edge off before he ends up nursing a beer for the rest of the night.

idk but i think i'm bad at it

[shifting]

"Don't have to earn it when it's on the house." Cocking his head in curiosity, leaning back to give the man some space. He can tell a nervous glance when he sees one; no reason to put the guy on edge.

"Make that two," Sam adds. Drinking on the job; a perk of being the manager.

"...But did somethin' happen? You get caught out after Dark?"

[doctor_mccoy]

"Was on m' way back from a day at th' office anyway...one hole is as good as any." He lifts his shoulders, relaxing noticeably, not quite sure what to expect, most the people he'd come across in the Port were a little... stranger in person. He's waiting for some tell-tale sign that something might be wrong, but everything seems... normal.

Things get better after he swallows the shot down, letting it burn a path to his empty stomach like fucking baptism by fire, and he can get used to having 'real' liquor again rather than that synthetic shit that made space travel almost tolerable.

"Not likening your bar here to an actual hole." He amends, because god knows the last thing he needs to do is offend his host.

[shifting]

"No offense taken. I've got nothin' against holes." Grinning, and he nods at the drink. "How do you like it? You know, I would have figured you for a bourbon man. Makes sense. ...I think you'd also like a mild scotch on the rocks, but I'm iffier on that one."

He puts a hand on his own chest humbly, blue eyes dancing. The night's put him in an easy mood, and he wants poor Bones to loosen up. The guy looks like he needs it. "It's a talent of mine, you see - guessin' people's favorite drinks."

[doctor_mccoy]

"Good guess, you come in with that talent?" It isn't a hard to pin McCoy for that type, dampened accent aside he was still deep-south enough that bourbon and sweet tea were about staples. "But you're right, scotch and I get along well enough."

He finally decides that Sam is good people, sociable enough to be disarming, and McCoy's worn down enough he doesn't have enough fight in him to be stand-offish.

"Appreciate the drink."

[shifting]

"'Course. Any good bartender's gotta have it." He practically struts away, scooping up a clean lowball glass, holding it to the light. "You've gotta know people. It's the only way you're gonna keep 'em comin' back. It reassures 'em."

He nods off the the thanks - it's an offer he extends to everyone, no trouble. "You don't mind me sayin' so, I could tell that already. You hittin' a rough patch?"

[doctor_mccoy]

"If by rough patch you mean thrust into an unfamiliar place with nothing but my wits, and expected to start over in a profession that's so laughably out of date I don't even know where to start. Sure." He could go on, it's obviously on the tip of his tongue but he closes his mouth in favor of leaning back, absorbing the atmosphere. He's here to relax after all.

"You keep those coming and I'll tell you when it smooths out."

[shifting]

Sam laughs. "Well shit, I didn't realize we were so backwater. Do ya'll even drink alcohol anymore where you come from, or is there just a button you push to get drunk?"

Teasing, obviously, but also curious. Visions of futuristic technology, space travel - things like that used to fascinate the hell out of him as a kid. Who never dreamed about things like flying cars or alien pets?

[doctor_mccoy]

"If only, it's easier to get synthohol-- hardly the same, I'll take a bottle of ol' Makers Mark anyday. Isn't practical to stockpile fresh food that's bound to spoil, not on ships anyway... so they replicate our food and drinks using the basic elemental compounds. Still like asking for a damn cheeseburger and getting tofu that just looks like one... I don't care how many people think they can't tell the difference." He shakes his head, scowling.

"But yeah, we pretty much push a button and get what we want."

[shifting]

"Synthol?" Said like it's some horrible curse word. The very idea of it offends some deep-seated sensibility in him. Reasons to be glad he's not from the future, he guesses.

"So the food sucks, the alcohol sucks... What keeps you goin' in the job? Doesn't sound like the perks are there."