The Captain, in the bar

[captgreatcoat]

Nobody's seen much of Jack lately. He's been quieter, more subdued, more prone to keeping to himself, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat and ....

Rose would have called it brooding. Gwen probably would, too.

Rose is gone. Gone back to her time, perhaps. But who knows? She'd just disappeared. He should know better than this, now, to be so attached to people, but Gwen would say that's what keeps people human, and human is something he doesn't always feel. And Rose Tyler was one of the best people he'd known in so many lifetimes' worth of living. She'd taken a con-man and helped show him how to care again, how to live, how to love. She'd had adventures with him across time and space, been his best friend and his best girl though nothing more than friendship had ever officially passed between them, at least not in the confines of 21st century Britain's understanding of relationships.

Rose is gone, and he doesn't know if he's sent her to her death by not warning her.

To anyone who truly knew Jack, the sight of him in his Second World War era coat perched on a barstool with a glass of brandy might seem ... out of place.

He's not breaking his self-imposed not-drinking-unless-he-really-needs-to rule, though. It's synthehol.

He'd probably be better off talking to someone.

Comments

[ships_counselor]

Her gait is easy, and there isn't nothing about her presence which seeks to either conceal or to the demand the announcement itself. She does not attempt to stand too close, but walks up between two stools to the left of him. Voice calm and yet kind. "Good evening, Jack. Is that as interesting as it looks?"

The drink in his hand. The one that doesn't look like it has his attention. Not with the waves of emotion rippling off him.

[captgreatcoat]

"Counselor Troi." Jack takes a deep breath.

He's not, it's true, overly fond of counselors. Nothing against Troi, whom he's sure does excellent work for the Enterprise and who sure did more than her bit down on that planet. But you probably couldn't blame a guy for being a little wary around anyone trying to dig too deep into his head when they have the sort of stuff Jack's got hidden away in there.

He shifts in his seat, glancing over his shoulder at her.

"It's interesting that synthehol is the beverage of choice here. Or is that by Starfleet mandate?"

He wonders what the Starfleet personnel here make of the people who disappear, if they've done anything to figure out what happens to them? Or is it a case of once off their hands, not their problem?

He'd like to think that Starfleet, with its highly proclaimed ideals, would care, but ... idealism has its limits.

[ships_counselor]

Deanna returns the congenial smile. He wouldn't be the first person to look at her easily, while every emotion read wariness and suspicion, sharp edged self-protectiveness. She steps up to the bar and places her hands at rest on the bar. Her own was easy through and through, made of calm and even judge-less acceptance. Understanding. "Deanna, please. I'm off duty for the night."

"It's a chemical variant," she explains. "The same taste, the same smell. But the metabolizing of it is different, removing the harmful effects that might affect duty or passenger interactions. Intoxication, addiction, and alcohol poisoning, all a thing that the imbiber not need to be prey to."

"But if you are seeking those qualities from it--" And, perhaps, this one does come with its own look of both concern and curiosity. But just as possibly some more understanding for it. It was hard to be stuck in this situation, and there were a myriad number of paths people could use to walk through it. "--Guinan does pride herself on being irreproachable in her chosen duties, and stocks a selection of drinks made of the older, archaic fashion, too."

[captgreatcoat]

"Deanna," he says, accepting the correction easily, though he does find himself wondering if she can ever really be off-duty. Certainly it's something Jack struggled with, at Torchwood, once he took over: the work was all-consuming and if he saw something that needed him, he did it.

"Actually, I prefer it this way," he says, lifting the glass and giving her a tiny toast before he takes a sip. "I don't drink."

Not anymore, at least. And it sounds ridiculous coming from a man who just took a deep sip of brandy, but hey. Sometimes he misses the taste of alcohol as much as the thing itself. Good old Time Agency rehabs and how they never really worked all that well.

"But it still tastes good enough to almost make up for that."

[ships_counselor]

Deanna considers him for a second, not trying to hide at all her surprised about that revelation. It's not as though some of the people here, new and unknowing of Starfleet hadn't ended trying quite a number of things they either never did or never thought they'd ever have the chance for. But it does lead itself to an obvious question.

Deanna asks with a frank curiosity, "Did you know what it was before you ordered it?"