A Bar on the Edge of Nostalgia

Posted on Mon Nov 1st, 2021 @ 2:57pm by Vice Admiral Nathan Cowell, MD & Captain Jocelyn Blake

Mission: Episode 2: 18th and Constitution
Location: The Well on the Presidio
Timeline: Mission Day 19 at 2000

[The Well, Old Ruger Street]
[The Presidio, San Francisco]
[MD 19, 2000 Hours]

The Well on the Presidio, affectionately known by those who frequented it as just The Well was situated just off the main drag outside of Cow Hollow. A plaque on the wall indicated that it was, once, centuries earlier, some sort of Social Club. Now, though, it was a popular spot for appetizers and drinks that boasted real alcohol, the type that took scientific knowledge and time to create as opposed to the synthehol that was so readily and cheaply available.

For Jocelyn, it was on the way home, or at least close to it as she stepped into the warmly lit space, shimmying onto one of the stools in front of the low bar. A bartender made his way down to her, lifting his chin in recognition. She wasn't unknown to this crowd, but it had been a while since she had been in.

"Thought maybe you had forgotten we were here what with the fancy new title, madam Press Secretary," the barkeep grinned, setting a deep belled wine glass in front of her.

Jocelyn pursed her lips, eyebrows raising over her eyeglasses--a brilliant grassy green today. "How could I ever forget The Well, Mike?" she asked, giving him an exaggerated eyeroll. "Who else is going to serve me a real Tempranillo?"

The man behind the counter was already pouring, even before her order left her lips. "You should try the new flat bread," he told her as he poured, giving her glass an extra dose. Her fingers closed on the step, twisting the glass lightly to coat the sides while the red breathed. "Make it so," she said with a chuckle as he turned, yelling an order behind him before stepping down the bar to see to other customers.

The door to the establishment swung open not long afterward, with a force behind it sufficient to make it clack rather loudly against the wall. It was enough of an oddity to draw the eyes of a great number of patrons, and once their attention was seized, the object of their curiosity seemed satisfied with the results. Standing in the now wide open doorway stood an elderly man with a sour expression on his face. The din of voices that had been making idle conversation throughout the establishment came to an abrupt end as they took in the spectacle that was a grumpy looking Admiral busting through the front door.

The man behind the bar seemed to be the only one in the entire joint that didn't seem a bit phased by the man, "Look what the cat dragged in."

Admiral Cowell nodded to the bartender as he made his way through the establishment, "Been a while, Mike. You look like you've gotten a good bit older and a few pounds heavier since I saw you last."

The target of his ire laughed his commentary off with a shake of his head, followed swiftly by a glass being placed on the bar with a bottle shortly behind it. The bottle had a very old label affixed to it that was almost illegible, with only a few dates in places that told the story of just how truly old the contents were.

"Managed to find a pretty rare one for you, old man," Mike said with a smirk.

Cowell flopped down onto the stool, which just happened to be next to Captain Blake. At first, the elderly physician didn't seem to even notice her as he poured himself a drink. It was only after he'd taking a long swig of the deep amber liquid that he turned toward her and jerked his chin toward her in recognition.

"Whatcha drinking? Anything worth a shit?"

Jocelyn had watched the entrance of Starfleet's Surgeon General with some interest and no small amount of amusement. Her lips quirked into a smirk as she sipped her wine before holding it out in front of her to admire the red's legs.

"Dr. Cowell," she said by way of greeting, her chin dipping in his direction before taking another sip. "Tempranillo tonight," she remarked. "Rioja 2360 if the glance I got at the bottle was correct. You?"

"Tastes like a local brand of whiskey from 2057 if what's left of the label is anything to go by. Damn good stuff though, kicks like a mule and doesn't let you forget about it either," the old man replied to the question before finishing what was left in his glass.

"Glad you like it," the bartender said with a chuckle.

Cowell shrugged, "Didn't say I did."

"Did you push the bottle off the bar?" came the snappy retort.

"No... I did not," the old man sighed, "Are you ever going to let that go? You hand me on bad batch of swill and I have the common decency to make damn sure no one else has to put that sewage in their bodies and you make a big damn fuss about it..."

"It was extremely rare and almost impossible to get. You know what I had to go through to get it," Mike frowned.

"Yeah," Cowell shot back, "And I did you a favor by getting rid of it for you before anyone else got their hands on it and it ruined your reputation as a decent bartender."

"Oh please, it wasn't that bad..."

"The hell it wasn't! You went to all that trouble for what amounted to a bottle of bottom shelf military special. I wouldn't have passed that swill around in a foxhole during the Great War, let alone serve that shit after it sat for four hundred years. You're lucky I wasn't the Surgeon General around here at the time, I'd have closed your ass down for serving industrial waste and calling it booze!" Cowell shouted, a sharp glare aimed at the bartender.

"Shut Mike down and you'd have a mob on your hands Admiral," Jocelyn said with some amusement. "He's an establishment in his own right with The Well coming second to him. That and you'd have to contend with uppity Press Secretaries who like having a nice drinking spot near where they live." Jocelyn's voice had been calm as she spoke, some amusement in the mix, but mostly level. She sipped her wine again, draining it this time, the tanins hitting the back of her throat so that she made a face on the immediate burn of knocking back red wine at this pace.

"Hey Mike, another when you get a chance?" she said, waving and then pointing at her glass.

The bartender came over, tipping the reopened bottle against the rim of her glass. "You'll have to watch this one," He said with an affectionate grin at Cowell. "He's particular when it comes to, well... everything I've known him to care about."

Jocelyn turned and eyed Cowell then. "Is that so?" she said with curiosity. "Tell me, Admiral, what's your dream bottle of liquor. The white whale so to speak."

"Can't say for sure that even exists..." Cowell shook his head, "About the only things I haven't gotten my hands on are vintages that are older than I am. And even then, most of them pass their prime after about three hundred years or so."

"Kind of like you, eh?" Mike snickered as he walked off to attend to another patron in the bar.

"You can go fuck yourself, kid," Cowell shot back with a glare before turning back to his impromptu drinking partner, "Anyway, it would be nice to get ahold of a good bottle from the 18th century that hasn't been unsealed or spoiled in some way again. Those were the good years when people put their soul into alcohol... But barring that, anything that doesn't make me want to toss the bottle on the floor is pretty much fine."

"18th century," Jocelyn calculated in her head quickly, "That's quite a bit past the 300 year marker you've indicated. A white whale indeed."

Fingers met the step of her glass, running lightly along the length of it for a moment before she lifted it to her mouth again, taking another sip. The content of the first glass were beginning to work their magic and she realized, absently, that she hadn't eaten for some time. A rookie mistake, but not one she cared about in particular in that moment.

As if her realization thought it into existence, a plate of flatbread covered in cheese and various fancy toppings appeared in front of her, set just to her left so that it was between herself and the old doctor. She tilted her glass in his direction. "Feel free to help yourself," she remarked. "They're good, I assure you."

She snagged a piece of the cheese encrusted food using one finger to fold it slightly before popping the end into her mouth. She chewed slowly, savoring the warm mixture of flavors, before swallowing.

"How are you settling in?" she asked before raising her glass to her lips again.

Cowell shrugged, "Not much to settle into, really. Been a doctor longer than Starfleet's been an organization. Ran my share of hospitals, clinics, and organizations in my time too. About the only difference in the new job is the sheer volume of politics that surrounds the one person who can really even be called my boss, and even then he isn't really much of one. Don't confuse that to mean that he's not good at what he does, but he isn't a doctor himself and you can't really call the average person with only surface level medical experience an authority that can really make a judgement call over how I handle business. Lucky for me, he's old enough to know that and I don't see us ever really having to get into a debate about how I handle things. He may not like how 'illogical' I am when it comes to handling people in the day to day, but when the rubber meets the road and I have to do any sort of doctoring, he's not going to waste his breath or my time picking fly shit out of pepper where my methods are concerned."

At the tail end of his ramblings, Mike returned from the kitchen with a small basket and set it in front of Cowell, even though he hadn't asked for anything since the moment he walked in. Steam rose off the six perfectly fried cheese filled sticks, but in opposition to what most people would expect it to be accompanied with, namely some form of tomato based sauce, a rather generous dish of yellow mustard adorned the basket beside the food.

"Just how I like it," the old man nodded.

"Enjoy it, gramps," Mike smirked.

Jocelyn chuckled, "That sounds like as apt a description of the Fleet Admiral as I've heard." She polished off the flat bread she had been holding, popping greasy fingers between her lips to get rid of any excess before snagging a napkin.

"I more meant personally, though," she remarked. "How long has it been since you've been stationed planet-side?"

"By my reckoning, it hasn't been that long," Cowell said, dipping one of his golden brown treats in the yellow sauce before taking a chunk out of it, "But to be fair, decades don't hit the same for me as they might for you. Einstein had the right of it when he said that time is relative. He just got some of the details wrong."

The old man took a moment to demolish the snack he was holding before continuing, "My old house is still where I left it, and my old ship is still in orbit. I think the only good thing about being an Admiral is that requisitioning a flagship and taking it out of regular service for my own use isn't as bad of a perk as I used to think it was. I like that I can keep someone else's ass out of my chair, especially one that I took a great deal of time and effort to break in."

Jocelyn considered that a moment, sipping her wine and finding she needed to tip the glass back further than she had anticipated. She held it out to look at it, noting that she was nearing the bottom again and shrugged, tipping it back and finishing the last of the glass before setting it toward the far side of the bar for Mike to fill when he came back around again.

"I can't say that I have any experiences with which to compare that. I've never had a ship-based assignment," her brow furrowed lightly as she said this, "and I've never owned a house. My own apartment isn't exactly my favorite place right now, so perhaps I am more displaced than you at the moment." Her tone was as much introspective as it was descriptive for the benefit of her... now... drinking partner. A bit of the ridiculousness of the last month flooded her and she sighed heavily.

One slender hand snuck out, grabbing another slice of the flatbread and folding again before taking a bite.

"I've owned that land since before I left Earth the first time back in the 1970s. Bought it for what was considered a steal back in the day, and thanks to some creative record keeping coupled with the fact that it's halfway in the middle of fucking no where up in Alaska territory, it kept pretty well. Sure, it has all the modern conveniences now so you can't exactly call it rustic, but even so... It's nice to come back to my little home away from home every so often," Cowell chuckled to himself as he finished off another of the cheese sticks resting in front of him.

"But if you want to talk about being displaced, I've got you beat by a mile. My real home doesn't even exist anymore thanks to the fucking Borg. Couldn't go back even if I wanted to. Real kick in the dick, if you'll pardon the vernacular. One thing that's taught me, though, is that the place you call home isn't always a place. Sometimes it isn't even a group of people. Sometimes it's as simple as a feeling you get when something reminds you of a familiar view or smell or taste. If you're not at home in the place you think you should feel at home in, it might just be that you're focusing on the wrong parts. Maybe all you need is a good glass of wine in a rundown bar on the edge of nostalgia," Cowell said before raising his glass, "But what the hell do I know, eh? Bottoms up, kiddo."

Jocelyn's cheeks pinked slightly as she considered Cowell's words although whether that was an effect of the wine on the pale skin so common of someone with red hair or an emotional response would be hard for anyone outside of herself to tell. She could think of a few feelings--recent memories--that felt more like home than any physical locations did. And the Horseshoe. And the Well. Funny that she hadn't considered that before.

Mike came around with the bottle again, holding it up for her to see. "Should I just leave this Joce?" he asked, no judgment, but a touch of amusement in his tone. She shrugged. "Probably not a bad idea," she responded, as he topped up her glass, setting the bottle next to it.

She raised her glass, tipping it slightly toward Cowell in a half motion toward toasting the moment. "To bars on the edge of nostalgia."

Cowell, for his part, grabbed the bottle in front of him and hoisted it up in salute, "I'll drink to that." And then without any shame or reservation, the old man took the bottle to his lips and tipped it up, draining a considerable percentage of the contents before the bottle found itself back on the table. The silence that had ensued didn't last very long afterwards.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I had to break my foot off in a President's ass? I mean... technically he wasn't a President at the time... but still..." the old man started down a rabbit hole of twists and turns, half of his tirade sounding almost obviously made up, and the rest sounding so far removed from fact that it couldn't have been made up if someone had all the time in the world to devote to concocting the story. The few times that Mike passed by during the entire rant, he would nod along to it as if this weren't the first telling of the story, or even the tenth. The booze, however, never once stopped flowing throughout the meandering tale filled with tangent anecdotal information and long periods of explanation when the terminology of the era eluded comprehension. By the end of it, he'd gone so far off the beaten path of the original story that it didn't even seem like he'd started from such a random and innocuous statement.

Jocelyn had followed along with the story with no small amount of enjoyment. It was a treat and a relief to simply sit and be regaled with fanciful stories while food and drink were aplenty and the company was pleasant. It felt... normal; something she hadn't really encountered in several weeks. By the time that Cowell had finished his story her third and most of her fourth glass of wine had been consumed and the plate with the flatbread bore only crumbs. She couldn't remember the last time she laughed so hard.

"I'd trade you a story for a story," she said as the laughter died down, "but I'm afraid I can't come even close to what you've just shared."

She was quiet a long moment, feeling the effects of the wine by this point. She shook her head lightly at her glass as if she'd just had some sort of agreed upon exchange with it, before turning her head to look at Cowell. "Your favorite era to live through?" she asked, eyes twinkling with curiosity.

The question caused Cowell to sink into a very long pause as his face scrunched up as if he were trying to summon memories that weren't always there at the surface. After a while, he seemed to settle on something and turned to look at his drinking companion.

"If I had to pick only one era, I'd say the time just after the Civil War right up to the Great War. It was a time when the world was simple, people were fairly decent to one another barring a few incidents here and there... I think I just appreciated the freedom a man could have when he wandered the frontier. I didn't have to change my name, didn't even have to give it out sometimes, just saying that I was a doctor seemed good enough for folks back then. I could linger for a few months, maybe a year, then move on to the next little town further into the depths of the wilderness. Went all the way to the coast, then all the way up to the Alaskan Territory back before it left Ruskie hands. That's when I bought my land, actually. Bought it for a gold bar I'd won in a card game, and when the Ruskies sold the place off to the Americans, I made damn sure the deed to my little chunk of it wasn't 'forgotten' in the deal. Actually wasn't that hard to manage, what with several congressmen at the time owing me for saving their sorry asses from some pretty questionable diseases of the venereal variety. You'd be surprised how pliable a man's mind is when you have something like that held over him. No politician in any age likes a scandal, and they'll do some pretty questionable things to keep questionable deeds in the dark," the old man chuckled as he recalled the details of the events he'd mentioned.

"So yes," Cowell nodded, "That would be my favorite era that I've lived through. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind the present day at all, but it's just not as simple... as clear cut as it used to be. I doubt there will ever come a day when it really is that simple ever again... at least not in my considerable lifetime."

Jocelyn considered Cowell's explanation for a long moment, fingers running the length of the stem of her wine glass. The solidity of the thin glass seemed to hold her attention for a moment until she finally let out a sigh. "I envy you the experience of that kind of simplicity," she said simply. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

"No worries, kiddo. I don't mind talking about the good old days, if you couldn't tell," the old man chuckled as he dusted off the last of the bottle he'd been given when he'd walked in, "You feel any better now? Seemed to me you needed a good drink when I saw you last."

"No one is actively trying to have me removed from my position today," she said with a light self-deprecating shrug. "So I suppose that's an improvement?" Her fingers ran the length of the glass stem again, splaying along the base of the glass to it's rounded edge when she reached the bottom. "And I didn't have to stonewall a single question about how I got my position, whether I am a suitable person for the job, or whether I think Starfleet is xenophobic today. So that's something too." Another run along the stem, this time ending with a snatch of the glass, bringing it to her lips to drain it. "In my short tenure as Press Secretary I suppose that amounts to a good day. But I'm still enjoying regular bouts of nightmares from the bombing and Whitford," she caught herself quickly, "Admiral Whitford, is still the highest ranking officer on site, so... let's say I'm no better or worse than when you last saw me?"

"Whitford? That grungy little piss ant? How in the hell did that little shit stain end up being in charge of anything more important than a damn bed pan? Hell... last time I checked, I outrank that moron. You need me to toss him out on his ass? I've tossed larger shit out of better windows than the one in his office. Seriously... what the hell happened to Starfleet while I was on the Arizona? Did you people lose your damn minds? This is like the Dominion War all over again... It would almost be better if I was in that job, lack of tact that I suffer from and all. Be better than that smarmy little maggot fucking up intentionally," Cowell grumbled.

One long fingered hand went to the Press Secretary's mouth, knuckles pressing against her lips as she suppressed a laugh. "Well, considering he's the DCinC even your rank can't outpace him in the chain of command. As for how he got there..." she shrugged again at this, one hand pushing her glass back to the far edge of the bar for another refill, "Hell if I know. Someone must have liked him. And he must be good for something because Sturnack..." She caught herself again, the wine clearly lowering some inhibitions in the mix, "The Fleet Admiral decided he warranted keeping despite going against direct orders. So..." she shot a sidelong glance at the doctor, "surely there's something about him worth having around?"

She sighed then, one hand adjusting the green glasses before shifting behind her head to tug at her ponytail, tightening it. She took a glance around the space, satisfied that there were no obvious listening devices. "Whitford's a misogynistic piece of shit that's not worth my time of day as far as I'm concerned, but he does seem determined to rid the whole of San Fran of me. So, unfortunately, I can't just pretend he doesn't exist."

"Must be a lack of options, best I can figure it. Having a few useful skills here and there doesn't account for him being a shit show and not worth the time it takes to call him a shit show. So it can only be a lack of options. Most folks don't want that kind of responsibility, and even when they are forced into it, they tend to drag their feet and try to get out of it. Hell, I fought tooth and nail to just stay a doctor back in the Dominion War, but they needed ship Captains and I was the only Captain at Starfleet Medical that had never been a ship commander. So I got picked. Sure, they gave me a medical ship, but I wasn't down in the trenches fixing people up... I was running a ship. Then after a few tours on a few boats I landed the Arizona, got comfortable there, decided to fight tooth and nail to stay nothing more than a ship's Captain. Three promotions later and now I'm at Starfleet Medical. if I hadn't been so... unambitious I guess the word is... I could have been where our mutual Vulcan friend is at right now. But I didn't want that career path. At least... not in my heart. In my head, I knew I could do it if I wanted to. Got enough experience just in Starfleet alone to be overqualified for the job. Factor in my actual number of years alive and very few have me beat... at least very few who would actually bother to do the job," Cowell said as he leaned back on the stool's back rest, "Point is, Starfleet's been running low on talented people for a while now. Disillusionment left and right, disappointment on all sides, and most of it is just bad leadership choices from politicians that don't really give a rat's ass about Starfleet until something bad happens, then we go from 'a waste of resources' to 'the defenders of the Federation'. It's the same old shit rebranded and resold to the masses, same as they did back in the Great War. They've just changed the names... It's not the Germans, now it's whatever flavor of alien we ran into this week that we pissed off because we didn't ask enough questions first. History has a nasty habit of repeating itself, even when people swear they've learned from it."

Mike had been back around by this point, a fresh glass of wine finding its way in front of her. "Last one," she said with a smile at the bartender as he did the surreptitious check that those in his trade learned to do when someone had consumed enough alcohol to warrant it. She lifted the glass lightly, once again toasting the doctor, but this time with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm and less poise than the first time. "I'll drink to that," she remarked, before taking a long draught of her glass.

"Hell, I'll drink to that too," Cowell said, knocking back the very last traces of alcohol he had.

A mission post by:

VADM Nathan Cowell, MD
Surgeon General, Director of Starfleet Medical

Captain Jocelyn Blake
Press Secretary