Smut, Gen, Angst, Fluff, Anything, Everything. PFL era, Post war, Pre Canon, AU, whichever Brackets or Prose whatever you're comfortable with Tag and go, baby!
"Yep. Kind of need you- you know- on my wing. To be my wingman." He offers a half smile when he tips his head enough in Malcolm's direction to actually see him.
"I can have one beer. It's not gonna ruin my diet." He knocks Malcolm with his elbow. He appreciates it, really, but he can handle one drink. Why'd D have to bring up the 'recovering alcoholic thing' with mal, really?
"Which is why I only have enough cash for one beer- maybe not even that if the prices are high." He props his elbows on the bar, face tipped to Malcolm. "I can manage that, Mal."
True to his word, York counts out how much he'd need for a single beer, generous tip on top. It's light and smooth and easy to sip. He says nothing about the fruity drink till the orange peel starts bobbing when Malcolm sips and - "Would've figured you to be a gin martini kinda guy/"
"Fair enough." He takes a sip, wetting his lips with his tongue before he turns to put his back to the bar and look out at the bodies dancing on the floor. Could he even with his blind side? It'd be nice to try.
"Think I just might. I know some of this music." After awhile it's all overly familiar, running through bones and heart and beating him out of his own head.
"I suppose I'll come along and let you know if someone's coming up on your left. Whether to get your attention or because you're about to accidentally smack them in the face. Maybe I should do it from a distance?"
"I'd appreciate it. Last thing I wanna do is elbow someone in the face that's just trying to have a good time." He sips on his beer for a little longer. Just the one and it's gotta last him the night. No second. No smiling for drinks. None of that. Water after this- or soda. Sometimes they got fruit juice, even.
"Blond in the far corner. The things he's doing with his hips have got to be illegal. That or the brunette up front. She's just- look at her legs." No redheads. Never redheads.
"They do go on for miles." He can definitely appreciate the feminine form. "What about that redhead, the short cropped one? She looks like she has quite a bit to grab hold of."
"What, not redheads, not short haired women, or not women with impeccable backsides?" He nudges York lightly. "Maybe you should ask one of those that do catch your eye to a little dance."
"Redheads." He'll leave it at that. Anything more seems a little excessive. Still- asking someone to dance sounds like an amazing idea. He downs the last of his beer and slips off his stool. "Wish me luck?"
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He'd had one. He'd lost one. It wasn't something he means to revisit.
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