simplestgift | Twenty-Eight Bells: [VOICE/ACTION(ish)]

[It's around ten or eleven at night when the transmission begins. Two voices, Kennedy and Bush, are sounding decidedly sloshed. They are, in fact, sitting at the bar in Good Spirits, because how often do you get to introduce someone to Romulan ale twice and see their reaction the second time like it had never happened before? Only if said person went home and came back and doesn't remember the first time. Due to this, Kennedy sounds considerably more sober.]

Your attention, everyone. Mr. Bush has something he would like to say.

Yes, yes I would.....What was it again Kennededy?

Begin with "my profoundest apologies." And-and end with...with the hair thing.

Ah! Right, right. *ahem* My sensherest apologies to the ladies of Lusheti....I like all of you and your is - hair - is very pretty.

Nunno, William, it's...the envy bit, that was nice. Do add that in.

I envy all of your hair.

And how silly a man are you?

Extremely, Kennedy. Siller man there ever was.

Now recite an appropriate verse.

Help me think of one.

What about, "O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day!"

It is.

And...why is that, Mr. Bush?

Hm?

Why is it a woeful, woeful, woeful day?

This isn't England and there's no naaavy. Missthenavy.

And...that's the only reason you insulted the crew, isn't it? Just want things to be like they are at home?

Mmhm.

...Do you need a bucket to vomit into?

Please.

[OOC: This is a joint post with

wouldntbetonit]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Why is that? [She tilts her chin as she regards him.]

[That makes him blush. He's so used to popping out with self-deprecating comments that people protest out of hand that being asked to explain himself takes him completely aback.]

Ah...

I don't think I've any cause to worry. [She grins boldly.]

[Touching, but Archie can never shake the feeling that if people only knew, they wouldn't like him. Knew what? That's always vague.]

It's fortunate for me you think so.

I am not one to simply dismiss opinions, and you are certainly welcome to yours. Our only gauge is time.

[...WHAT DOES HE DO WITH THIS?

He tries glancing away noncommittally, but realizes belatedly it may be a poor tactic.

Welcome to his opinion? She's saying he's insulting her by insulting himself. This is weird. Because her logic matches up, but it does not fit with his worldview.

When he speaks, his voice is somewhat hoarse and cracks embarassingly.]

Forgive me.

[She smiles again, cupping her glass of rum.]

Once again, I hardly think it requiring of apologies.

[Now he's really starting to feel self-conscious.]

I...no apologies, then.

You needn't worry so much. [She turns the tumbler in her hands, admiring the pattern in the glass.]

After all, I am a pirate.

And a lady.

[He appears very interested in his glass.]

And a friend.

[She peers over, suddenly feeling quite flattered.]

It is an honour to be so. I would count you amongst my own as well.

The honour is mine. [He's still awkward at taking compliments, but he's not going to protest again immediately.]

[She raises her glass again.]

To honour, then, and great friends.

And absent friends. [It's not the correct day for that toast, but still. He raises his glass, then drinks the last of his juice.]

[She takes another sip of rum, for even in her two years of knowing its taste, she will never completely tolerate its burn in larger mouthfuls.

As she sets down her glass, she remarks:]

A good toast.

A tradition. But not on Tuesday. [He spins his glass back to Buffy and leans against the bar.] I for one can hardly complain. I'd dearly love to see my family again, but for friends, I have all I could wish for.

[Except for a grouchy old doctor, really. And an unassuming, nurturing, fiddling midshipman.]

Edited 2012-02-17 04:16 (UTC)

There are others?

[She doesn't want to think about the family that is no longer there. The last of her bloodline exists solely in her, and for all she knows, may be gone come when she returns to her world for all that she faces.]

Friends, or toasts?

Toasts. It seems there is a tradition I know nothing about.

Mm. Well, it depends upon the day. For Sunday, it's absent friends. Monday, it's our ships at sea. Tuesday, our men; [His voice acquires the rise and fall of someone being repetitive and feeling it] Wednesday, ourselves; Friday, a willing foe and sea-room; Saturday, wives and sweethearts (may they never meet).

Very fitting things for a sailing lot to drink over. A pity to think some wives must worry about sweethearts! Perhaps it is best to hope they do not meet.

[She shakes her head, though she's smiling.]

Twenty-Eight Bells: [VOICE/ACTION(ish)]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]

[action]