Title: The Goddamned White Horse (Trek Style)
Fandom: ST TOS
Characters: Kirk, McCoy
Notes: Dylan Thomas and his goddamned White Horse have a long history, in certain parts of American culture. After a brief commentary, earlier today, on the subject, I couldn’t resist introducing the drinkers. This is, in some ways, utterly inexplicable. Thus, I shall leave the commentary at this.
"Jim, what are you doing in my office?"
"Dylan Thomas, Bones. Did I ever tell you the one about Dylan Thomas?" Kirk leaned back, glass in hand, leaving both his feet and the bottle on the desk.
"No, you haven’t. How much of that did you drink by yourself?" McCoy looked somewhat concerned, as he picked up the two-thirds of a fifth of whiskey from his desk, and examined it.
"All of it, so far. I was waiting for you."
"Your waiting skills need work, Jim." McCoy poured himself a glass and eased himself into the chair on the wrong side of his desk. "And get your feet off my desk."
"No, I don’t think I will," Kirk remarked, looking across the room, through the whiskey in his glass. "Dylan Thomas. Welsh poet. Twentieth century."
"Stop wielding nouns and get to the damned point. That means you’ll have to use a verb or two." McCoy wasn’t usually one for the language lessons, but Kirk seemed on the verge of regressing to a pre-lingual state, and he’d really rather not have that happen in his office.
"He drank quite a bit of whiskey. Of this whiskey, right here." Jim knocked back the contents of his glass. "When he died, they said he fell off his horse. Dylan Thomas and his goddamned White Horse."
Kirk smacked the glass on the desk and pulled his feet down, to stand, only slightly unsteadily. "Just making a point, here, Bones."
"What the hell are you —" McCoy started, but Kirk just strolled out the door, like he hadn’t even opened his mouth. Looking at the bottle in his hand, he found it to be White Horse Scotch Whiskey. On the corner of the label was scrawled the inscription, ‘To your health, Dylan’, in Kirk’s lazy hand.