[Leonard McCoy is looking for a drink of his own in one of the quieter bars in the City when a flash of familiar gold catches his eye. The uniform is a couple years out of date and he doesn't recognize the woman inside of it, but it's refreshing to see an officer who hasn't just cut her first teeth.
The CMO pulls up a bar stool a respectful distance away and orders a straight bourbon whiskey. In McCoy's humble opinion, there's no good way to approach a woman in a bar. His standard-issue Starfleet scrubs give his affiliation away; if the lady's inclined to talk to an old medic, he'll be happy to oblige. He's not inclined to strike up a conversation himself when doing so might look like some kind of proposition. That's Jim's operation, not his.]
no subject
The CMO pulls up a bar stool a respectful distance away and orders a straight bourbon whiskey. In McCoy's humble opinion, there's no good way to approach a woman in a bar. His standard-issue Starfleet scrubs give his affiliation away; if the lady's inclined to talk to an old medic, he'll be happy to oblige. He's not inclined to strike up a conversation himself when doing so might look like some kind of proposition. That's Jim's operation, not his.]