Yeah, well. Tell that to my ex-wife. [She lifts her glass to her mouth to take a long, bracing draught of the still vile synthehol — it stands to reason that the more she drinks of it, the better it will taste, right? right? — any mention of Jocelyn still making her want to spit out a curse. To call the divorce acrimonious would be an understatement, but it's all in the past now. All Len can do is keep her sights fixed on what's in front of her and not wallow in what's done. Well, not too much.
She snorts somewhat inelegantly, and waves her glass in a dismissive sort of arcing motion.] Jim does whatever the hell Jim wants, always has, always will. It's up to us idiots to pick up his pieces and make sure he doesn't kill himself in the process.
[Len's so wrapped up in her sudden bout of brooding that she almost misses it when Spock lifts his hands to his mouth and proceeds to lick his fingers clean, even going so far as to suck his index finger into his mouth. It's almost obscene, watching him all but fellate his finger, and Len's suddenly glad for the fact that she's the type to blush when drinking, as her alcohol-induced flush hides the sudden rush of blood to her face at that display.
By human standards, it was pretty tame. A little risqué, but relatively tame. But knowing what she knows about Vulcans (which admittedly isn't that much, stupid tight-lipped bastards, the lot of them)...
She clears her throat.] I guess we're just like that. We name big guys "Tiny" and Chihuahuas "Bruiser" because... Well, I don't know why. And for god's sake, Spock, we're off duty. Call me Lenore.
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She snorts somewhat inelegantly, and waves her glass in a dismissive sort of arcing motion.] Jim does whatever the hell Jim wants, always has, always will. It's up to us idiots to pick up his pieces and make sure he doesn't kill himself in the process.
[Len's so wrapped up in her sudden bout of brooding that she almost misses it when Spock lifts his hands to his mouth and proceeds to lick his fingers clean, even going so far as to suck his index finger into his mouth. It's almost obscene, watching him all but fellate his finger, and Len's suddenly glad for the fact that she's the type to blush when drinking, as her alcohol-induced flush hides the sudden rush of blood to her face at that display.
By human standards, it was pretty tame. A little risqué, but relatively tame. But knowing what she knows about Vulcans (which admittedly isn't that much, stupid tight-lipped bastards, the lot of them)...
She clears her throat.] I guess we're just like that. We name big guys "Tiny" and Chihuahuas "Bruiser" because... Well, I don't know why. And for god's sake, Spock, we're off duty. Call me Lenore.