Buy A Girl A Drink

Posted on Wed Sep 5th, 2018 @ 8:31am by Commander Rita Paris & Lieutenant Samuel Clemens XV

Mission: Holographic Horrors
Location: Artan Family Orbital Fortress, resort lodge
Timeline: 2395, during Shore Leave after Holographic Horrors

After a long day of learning how to ice skate and falling on her well-padded ass a few too many time, Rita Paris had retired to the ski lodge, wishing it was a cabana on a beach. She was not in the least bit a fan of the cold- even with insulating layers and proper precautions, she was still chilled to the bone, and was debating whether to start drinking before finding a hot tub, or finding the hot tub then drinking. Since Thex had retired upstairs to change and unwind for a bit, she was on her own.

Before her first transporter accident, Rita had been an off-duty drinker, much like many fleeters of her day. She never drank on or before duty, but she was definitely known to put down her share of scotch after duty or in celebration. After all, you were a Starfleet officer, you drank scotch. Or Romulan Ale for special occasions.

After her transporter accident, 2 years at Starfleet psych had wrung her out, but upon her return to active duty, she had begun trying her hand at drinking wine. After all, it was a more feminine drink, she reasoned, and millions of basic bitches couldn’t be wrong.

One she had begun carrying on with Sonak, they bonded… quickly. Then suddenly what affected her, he would often feel, and she of he. Thus the self-destructive concept of poisoning oneself to harm one’s brain cells for pleasure made absolutely no sense to the last kolinahr. So she had given up drinking for him, just as she would give up being a carnivore. After all, she didn’t need intoxicants to fill the empty hours off duty, nor did she need them to sleep. Her Vulcan lover more than filled that void in her life, and brought her joy that made it easy to walk away from bad habits.

That was then. This was now…. 127 years later now. Sonak was a dimension and a dozen decades away, leaving a void in her life that she was trying to ignore, because she had no idea how to fill it. She’d started drinking again, because why not? Synthehol let you shake off the effects at will, and even if she was drinking real alcohol, what did it matter? She couldn’t hurt Sonak, and it wasn’t like she was exactly called upon mentally very often here, as the slow kid from the past who still asked at least a few times a day, “What’s that mean?” or “What is a…”

At present Rita was resolving to look things up later, but was often not getting around to it.

Thus it was no surprise that she settled for finding a seat at the bar in the wintry resort lodge that somehow managed to look European and alien at the same time. In her fluffy white boots, nude tights-covered legs and pink unitard, she shrugged out of the heavy down parka jacket she had been wearing, abandoning her gloves and earmuffs, but keeping the bright blue stocking cap on her head. Hanging up the coat and accoutrements on a coat rack, she moved in on the bar, rolling up the sleeves of her v-neck powder blue sweater and trying to decide what to order to warm her insides.

A funny thing about shore leaves in general- once a place sprang up to service fleets, a dozen more popped in, all nearby. Clemens had never been one to let an opportunity to sample something new slip by, so after he'd gotten enough rest (once Miss Garvil and her frustrations had been addressed), he determined that he would peruse the other options in the dome. Since he'd been born and raised in Earth's American Deep South, he reckoned some frozen frolicking might be interesting. Dressing warmly, but still with a nod to his roots, he took a tram over to the ski resort area, whereupon his eyes were greeted by a bevy of beautiful sights, most of them dressed as snugly as he was.

The snow caps were pristine and blinding, not unlike his gentleman's winter longcoat and waistcoat, as well as his heavy felt winter fedora, a short but wide scarf, and bowtie, all in the brightest of white, against the backdrop of his sky-blue dress shirt and trousers, as he exited the carriage in front of the resort lodge.

He went inside without hurrying, trying to take in the crisp air and sweet smell of the gigantic roaring fire, burning what was obviously some form of fruit tree wood as part of their fuel mixture. As he approached the dining area, he couldn't miss the stunning bronzed buxom beauty sitting at the bar, like some sort of fictional accounting of America's west coast come to life.

In the moment, he did indeed wish they all could be California girls.

Taking off his trim white gloves, he hung his coat on the rack at the end of the bar counter. Seeing no drink setting next to her, the mustachioed gentleman hopped nimbly onto the stool beside the lovely creature whose legs seemed to go on halfway to the galactic core. He motioned in the manner of a denizen of pubs and drinking establishments across the universe, signalling to the barkeep for service. As he landed, his right hand gripped the brim of his hat, and he tugged, nodded to the lady, flashing a smile as white as the hat.

"Ma'am," came the drawling greeting, as he glanced back at the 'tender to make certain he was incoming.

Turning her head to take it all in, the buxom bronzed bargal raised both eyebrows in the middle. She didn't reply, but she did gain a bemused expression as she too waited for the bartender. When he arrived, she leaned into the bar, arching her back lithely as she beamed a million-watt smile at the man, intercepting him before he made it to the white-clad character. "Irish cocoa. Double size- I've been freezing my ass off out there for hours."

As Clemens had observed on the way in, and now checked again to be certain, the posterior in question appeared to not only be there, but there in spades. Perhaps hearts might be the correct word, given the shape in question. With a wiggle of the eyebrows the dapper engineer quipped, "Mah goodness, Miss- it does appeah that you may just be in possession of a class G star, as yoah skin tone is perfection itself." He twinkled his eyes at her, just for the fun of it.

Stepping off the barstool the professional liar bowed to her, doffing his hat, then with ceremony holding it to his chest. "Lieutenant Samuel Clemens, most recently of Stahfleet, at yer service, madam."

Wait- he said I have a yellow dwarf? What the hell... Paris began to process, then watched the chivalrous display unfold. Her brain skipped a track or two at the accent and the name, but she'd had a long fun day- why the hell not. He was charming and he seemed to be Starfleet, although was that mustache regulation? Given the alien races in Starfleet these days the grooming standards must have to be written by race and gender and who knew what else. For all she knew he was a Walrusian.

Extending her hand in a demure manner taught to girls who got sent to charm school, the blue-eyed bombshell turned to stand, sliding gracefully into a pose reminiscent of a 1950's pinup model. One hand draped on her generous hip, her right hand extended, big baby blue eyes open and warm, with a million watt smile in place that could blind a man if he stared too long, Samuel suspected.

"Rita Paris- no relation. I think I might have read one of your books," she offered in a sultry prowling velvety fog of a voice. Again, charm school could work wonders for your rebellious teenaged daughter. Just ask Clifford Paris.

The handlebar-moustached lothario deftly flip-rolled his hat across the back of his hand and onto his bushy mane of auburn hair, as he bowed, pressing his lips to the back of her strong but supple perfectly-manicured hand, raising his other hand to grasp the palm.

"Oh, that'd be mah great-grand-times-tuwelve-fathuh, Miz Rheetuh," he added, as he gazed up at her through bushy brows with those phaser-blue eyes, again.

"Well Mr. Clemens, I daresay he'd have a thing or two to say about a gentleman wearing a hat indoors," She offered archly, then waved to the bar and grinned slyly. "C'mon Missouri, you can buy me a drink."

The Man With the Golden Tongue nodded accommodatingly as though to say, '...as you wish...' as he came 'round the luscious-lipped lass' delicious derrière to once again sit next to her. His first action was to remove his headgear and stow it safely away inside his coat, through some odd and rapid folding method that made it nearly flat without effort. "Ah, yer right- the Author would have swatted it right off mah head in a second,"

The next action was the ordering of more libation for the both of them. "'Keep! Bring yer best whiskey!"

"So how'd you end up in the Artan Family Orbital Fortress?" the leggy blonde asked, hands cupping the steaming mug gratefully.

With a deft motion, nimble fingers fished out a flask from the pocket of his vest, out of which he took a careful sip of his 300 year-old single malt Earth whiskey. The Fleeter leaned back a bit, and let the flavor bloom for a moment, his eyes closed. When he opened them again, the trademark twinkle was in full force. "Well, that's a Tall Tale and a half, mah mesmerizin' masterpiece. Most recently, ah've been assigned to thuh USS Hera, a fine ship of exploahration, out here in th'wilds of thuh universe. She's docked out there, and huh fine crew is on shore leave, here on this amazin' piece of engineerin'. And how did we all become so foahtunate as to be in proximity of yoahself, Miss Paris?" He leaned an elbow on the bar as he watched the Face of Beauty before him.

Briefly the time-tossed temptress considered stringing her new shipmate along, but that wouldn’t exactly be very nice of her. “Well, when the Hera pulled in to dock, I was the one piloting her,” the glamour gal admitted. “The Chief engineer’s upstairs taking a cold bath and a nap. I just took her ice skating... which is why I’m so chilled.”

"Mah goodness gracious A-live...you AH half-frozen, are'ent yuh?" the officer exclaimed, suddenly realizing the poor girl, despite the roaring fire and the alcohol, was like to have the death of cold of her. He immediately stood and brought over his longcoat and scarf, wrapping it coat over her shoulders, and offering her the scarf as well.

"Fah be it from me to ignoah a lady in distress, maduhm! Mah sincERE apologies fuh missin' th'clues which wuh right before muh verruh eyes!"

The laughter that bubbled up was merry and gay. “While your chivalry is appreciated, Mr. Clemens, I’m fine, really. Just some proper inner warming and I'll be right as Rigel. But it is very sweet of you to offer.” The tone held no condescension, nor did it lack sincerity as she shrugged out of the coat draped across her shoulders and returned it to the gentleman to whom it belonged. The scarf, however, she seemed less in a hurry to part with as she sipped from her steaming mug.

“So. I’m chief helms- ah, sorry, flight control officer of the Hera,” the buxom blonde bombshell corrected herself. “What’s your rating, Mr. Clemens?”

Clemens happily accepted the coat back, as the lady seemed content with the scarf, and did seem more warmed than a moment ago. He folded the coat on the bar, then returned to his seat, replying, "Ah passed mah mahks in th'Cademy, though ah reckon theah musta been others that left me in thuh dust, comparatively. Ah squeaked by with a few tricks an old freightuh cap'n once showed me, in case we were evah t'be in thuh position of needin' t'be elsewheah in a hurreh. While not strictleh in thuh 'Fleet manuals, they worked well enough in thuh simulatahs to get me t'a passin' grade." He started out a bit shyly, but as he went on, the grin spread across his face like maple syrup over a hot stack of flapjacks.

Finishing the long draught from the steaming mug in her hands, the blonde snow bunny cocked her head curiously, a small smile settled pleasantly onto her face. "I was 32nd in a class of two hundred and twelve cadets. And I worked really hard in the Academy. I wanted to be top in my class, but..." She shrugged as she blinked, bringing her whiskey cocoa back up to her full bronzed lips.

"You didn't answer my question, Mr. Clemens. Which is funny, because it was a very simple question." Paris took a sip of her cocoa, but he couldn't help but notice that one of her feet hooked itself around the barstool, even as her weight shifted ever so slightly even as she tried to look casual sipping her drink. One evaded question and the woman was bracing for a situation. Not overreacting, but being prepared, just at the hint of someone claiming to be Starfleet who might be something else entirely. Rita Paris was no amateur, even on shore leave.

Clemens' bushy brows drew down a bit at the realization that the girl in front of him had the notion that he wasn't what he claimed to be. It was chilling to think that someone her age must have been through something that could evoke that sort of reaction, from a mere prevarication. But here they were: her suspicious and potentially afraid of him, and him...well, he didn't exactly know how he felt about her.

No direction left to go but through, he supposed.

He sighed, and sat back, hands spread open to her. "Ah wasn't tryin' tah mislead ya. When ya said 'ratin', ah thought ya was talkin' 'bout pilotin', an that's somethin' ah've never had a claim t'fame with." He had the grace to look embarrassed. "Mah skillset lies mostly in tinkerin' with machinery. Engineerin's mah billet, not flyin'. Ah s'pose ya could say that ah'm a luvuh, not a fighta pilot."

Given the misunderstanding and the rambling explanation that got them there, she had little difficulty believing it of an engineer. Either they lacked social grace or they tended to be a bit- off. Thex being an exception to the rule- but then, she was an Andorian who enjoyed competitive Orion slave girl dancing, so that was a little odd. Relaxing her posture and taking another warming sip of her delicious cocktail, Paris smiled and took a shot with a literary reverence. "Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy?"

The Starfleet Intelligence operative gave a small bow to her uncannily-accurate quote, given his Historical Espionage class thesis topic. "A stitch in time, will moahst def'nitely save nine, Ravishin' Rita. Please- do feel free to call me Sam..."

That laugh of hers could lighten the mood of a funeral. "A stitch in time.... I think I may have an entire needlepoint, Sam. And you can call me Rita," she offered, although clearly he'd implied it from her introduction. "Want to guess how old I am?" she asked sweetly, beaming at him mischievously.

The man actually seemed to pale a bit at the suggestion. "Oh, mah loahd, no! Mah deah granny taught me that it is th' HEIGHT of folleh foah ennah man tah even imply that a woman is moah than twenty-fahv yeahs o'age, regardless of ennah indications to thuh contrary."

"Were ah foaced to estimate, perhaps at phasuhpoint, ah would posit that all ansuhs ah wrong, as goddesses do not age, bein' timeless constructs composed of purest beauty," he finished simply.

Taking another sip of her diminishing cup of cocoa, those baby blues blinked at him. "Well, I'm flattered by the goddess part, and I do seem to be pretty timeless," the starship siren sighed, the preened a bit on her barstool. "Not bad for a gal born in 2233 eh? Whatever that translates to in the stardate they use around here, which I still can't get the hang of calculating. I think it's metric, but it's a pain for we poor old humans who had a calendar already." Paris then finished off her drink, and set it on the bar.

The young man allowed some of the shock to register on his face. "My deah lady- you speak in impossibilities. I have good, strong eyes, and they tell me that you cannot be a day ovah one hundred and one." He seemed content to allow this overt falseness.

That bemused smile stayed in place as her eyes shifted to her empty drink sitting on the bar, then back to the snake oil salesman that Starfleet Intel had sent to the Hera, then back to that empty drink, then back to the auburn-haired fellow with a few fluttering of lashes thrown in for good measure. "You gonna make me pout too? Don't be chicken, Colonel Sanders- were you planning to buy me that drink?"

Without breaking eye contact, the Merlin of Misdirection held up one hand, and made the motion that had been universally-recognized for millennia to mean that a patron wished to order more booze.

He could feel the mixologist approach, and, again, without taking his gaze off the face that was currently launching his ship, called over his shoulder, "Soah'ree'ahn brandeh foah th'lady, if'n'y'please, good suh. Bring thuh bottle."

As the barkeep set and poured her snifter full, and left the bottle of two hundred-year-old brandy, the slightly-lopsided warm smile Sam gave her, along with the crinkling of his eyes as he nodded to her, raising his own well-nursed glass in salute, was one hundred percent genuine.

"To strange new wuhlds, nyew life, nyew civ'lizatshuns, to boldleh goin' wherevyh thuh roads take us. May they keep on rollin' interestin' places."

Picking up her snifter, the curvaceous cosmonaut raised it to meet his glass, bright eyes shining with promise. That smile could launch a thousand starships, and somehow he was struck by how the woman seemed so effortlessly sensual even when she wasn't trying. Clinking her glass against his, she offered, without a trace of irony, "To boldly go where no man has gone before, Sam. These are the voyages of the starship Hera."


Sometime later, the whiskey was exhausted, and the brandy was echoing in the empty bottle, some having been used for a N'Orleans Brandeh Sundae, which included such things as praline pea-khans, hawt fudge, French vanillah ice creahm, and sliced buhnanners, according to Sam, who recommended it highly to the sultry ship steer'er. Both parties were thoroughly-socially-lubricated, and Sam had stood, donned his coat, and offered his arm to his companion.

"Wheah to, Ma'am?"

“I… whoops!” Rita Paris stumbled slightly getting off her chair and ended up taking more than just an arm, nearly toppling both of them in the process. “I thought I was gonna have a bitty blue buddy join us but I think she laid down for a nap and discovered what happens to overachievers who lay down for quick naps.” Rita straightened herself up, wobbled slightly, giggled, then patted the espionage engineer on his broad chest.

“For me it’s off to bed, Mishter Clemensh. Clemens,” she corrected, then giggled again. “You have been delightful company, but I am drunk and I should retire before I do something regrettable, I think.”

Clemens moved quickly to support the tipsy top-heavy blonde. "If'n you don't mind, ma'am, ah b'lieve ah'm in need of a pilot t'get me to th'nearest transpoahtuh node, hyeah. Would you do me thuh hohnuh of gettin' me there from heah?" Sam, who wasn't nearly as wobbly as the Hellenic Helms'n, wanted to make certain she got back to the ship without further incident. His whisky having been a bit more smooth than her libations, his tolerance of such things had a bonus effect upon him. He carefully began navigating with her toward the establishment's exit, having already taken care of the barkeep for the most excellent service.

"We're gonna need a sled," the plowed pilot intoned seriously as she grabbed her parka jacket and slid it on with surprising ability. Plucking her earmuffs out of her pocket, she tugged down her stocking cap and settled the muffs in place. Pulling her gloves from the other pocket, she began slipping into them with a surprising degree of sobriety from a woman who was slurring her words moments ago. Once attired and uniformed against the cold, she nodded to her companion, then turned to walk into the wall.

While he was similarly-soused, Sam was wiry, and had fast reflexes, just fast enough to initiate an emergency course correction, using her shoulders as impromptu rudders to steer her gently but firmly toward the actual transporter node the lodge. "Ah do apologize, Miss Ritah- that, ah'm, exit's undah repaihs, at th'moment. Let's reroute ovah this'a'way, if yah dohn't mihnd."

As they made their way across the nearly-empty lodge, he was somewhat uncomfortably aware of the very warm presence of his charge. He shook his head to himself, wondering how he'd gone so wrong. Right up until they arrived at the transporter node, and she dug her heels in, backing that rather rounded rump directly into him as she literally began backpedaling away from the transporter.

"Well! Here's you, ah, your ride. I'm not, I'm staying here, I've got a room upstairs with a friend, my friend, my best friend, so, I..." The excited nervous ramble had come rolling out of the sauced spacegal like word vomit. But only a fool couldn't see that the seemingly unflappable Rita Paris was... afraid? Clearly not of Sam, given her proximity to him as she sought to get past him, apparently away from the transporter, of all things.

"Whoah, woah, Miss Ritah- ah'll git ya to any place ya want. Ah'm just tryin' ta getcha there safe an' sound. No need ta beam anywhere- we're all quiet an' peaceable, heah." Sam steered her away from the kiosk quickly, seeing just how rattled it made her.

There had been a long history of transporter fear since the introduction of the technology, back in the early 2100s, and quite a bit of it was legitimate. Being an engineer, Sam could count both hands full of incidents that he'd studied in the Academy, and at least one that he'd witnessed personally, though that one involved cargo, not living things. While there hadn't been a great deal in the current century, it was perfectly-reasonable, as far as he was concerned, to have some worries.

That was when he recalled one of those cases he had studied at the Academy, back on the original USS Constitution back in the 2260s. A lady helmsman had been disintegrated on the pad, no trace ever recovered. Which might not stand out in his mind so much, except that there was an image that accompanied the account, of a curvaceous young woman in one of those gold minidresses the ladies used to wear in those sexist times. She has a bright smile and short blonde hair that he'd have to compare when he got a moment.

Hadn’t she made a joke about how old she was earlier? Nahhhh, couldn’t be.

Whatever the cause, this seemed very, very personal, at least to his eyes. He had watched her casually cool confidence evaporate into bubbling fear at the mere sight of the transporter node. Seeing that, he resolved to make absolutely certain that this young lady got to her destination safely, and as quickly as possible.

The tinkering, tailoring, soldiering, engineering spy gently guided her over to the bank of lifts opposite the main entrance. "Ah'll get ya upstayahs right now. Which floah are we aimin' foah? An' who ah we goin' ta see?"

“Thu-third floor, room 312… it’s okay, I’m okay,” the young woman stammered, clearly trying to convince herself as much as him. As they waited for a lift, she worked on slowing her breathing, and offered him a weak smile. “Sorry, I’m… not so good with transporters.”

Her protector was about to reply, when the lift doors sprang open, revealing a vacant car. He immediately reached out and held the doors open for the shaken young woman who by all rights oughtn't to be here and now. "Aftuh you, madam," he invited, as he gestured to the perfectly-safe, ordinary high-speed turbolift.

“Thanks…” the snow bunny stepped into the lift, then turned to mop a surprising amount of perspiration from her forehead, and he couldn’t help but notice a tremor in her formerly steady hand as she did so. A frown of consternation settled on her face as she fought to get a grip on herself. “I’m sorry Sam, I didn’t mean to freak out on you there. I’ve really had a good time tonight, I just…”

Unbidden, that was when the waterworks started, as a few tears streamed down that pretty face.

"Oh, luv..." he quickly stepped on into the lift, pressed the HOLD control, and, while he was used to gals who came up to about his shoulder, he adjusted, and made sure she had a place to put her head, as he wrapped his arms around her.

"Theah, theah. Ah reckon we've all had owah sheahs of trouble from 'Fleet life. Why, ah once had ta figger out th'controls of an en-dimensional modulatah array t'keep mah boss'es fav'rit set of coveralls from slippin' inta an interspatial rift, after ah spilled a drink on th'console." He patted her flaxen hair as he spoke, just talking in soothing tones, telling a tale. "Ah don't think he evah caught on to it, but sometimes he looks at me with those funneh eyes o'his, and mah haih stands straight up! An' lemme tella yah, that's a tall ohrduh!"

He paused, and just held her for a bit.

The distraught damsel clung to him for a moment before the storm subsided, as she began the sniffling and mopping that tended to follow, along with the self-recrimination. “I’m sorry Mr. Clemens, this isn’t who I am… it’s just that I’m drunk and it’s the first time I’ve faced a transporter since…”

It was clear to see that she was struggling to keep herself under control, and while it took considerable effort, she succeeded. “Ah. Sorry. This is the first time since my latest accident, and I’m clearly not dealing with it very well. I, uh, have a note on file from Starfleet Medical excusing me from transporting.” She offered a small half-smile. “So my crazy is pretty well-documented.” At that, she patted him on the chest. “Thanks for understanding.”

"Pshaw. If'n gettin' bounced outta yer own tahm didn't make yah nutty, yah had'ta've been nutty already. Ah reckon 'Fleet sez yuh cleahed, an' since it's no different from bein' skeered of ah rattluh aftuh you've been bitten, yer all right in mah book, mah beauteh." Seeing that she'd regained her composure, mostly, he hit the continue button on the lift, and their journey resumed.

The lift ride finished in silence, as did the walk down the hallway, save for a sniffle or two. When they reached the door marked 312, the statuesque siren turned to face the egregarious engineer.

“Tonight was actually kind of amazing, Sam. It’s been a long time since I was escorted by a gentleman, and..,” those baby blues shifted downward, then came back up to meet his eyes once more. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Clemens.” With that, the pinup pilot leaned in to kiss him on the chastely on the cheek, though her subtly intriguing scent lingered. Then she opened the door, stepping into her room. Turning, she leaned slightly against the door jam, the adrenaline having run it's course through the crying jag, and weariness settling in.

“You are a true gentleman and a good friend, and you'll be a fine shipmate I'll wager. Welcome to the Hera, unofficially," the weaponless weaponeer offered earnestly. Those big baby blues could clearly sell sincerity, because it was genuine. "Thank you for taking care of me. I've missed having someone do that for me. G'night, Sam,” she slid into the shadows with a smile as she closed the door.

The wiry-haired man smiled, as the door closed. With several days' worth of leave left, he decided to just grab a room for the night here, and have breakfast at the lodge, in the...well, THIS morning.

With that in mind, he had his luggage brought over from his casino room, and sent up to his new room, and retired for the evening, setting an alarm for a reasonable breakfast time, considering that Miss Rita was likely to sleep in.

Sam left a note for her with the concierge, inviting her and her roommate to a repast at a time of their choosing in the AM, and hit the hay.