Rush watches the bottle scrape over the table's surface, opened with the sharp one-handed twist that prefaces a full swallow thrown back. She replaces it as the table's impromptu centerpiece with a pointed emphasis, a gauntlet thrown down in the crisp click of glass set against wood. He matches her look.

"Fuck," he sighs, and sets down the screwdriver.

He's not been properly pissed in what he will assume is years, though the specifics are somewhat beyond him. The products of Brody's distillery, being only a mark above rubbing alcohol in taste and alcoholic content, hardly qualified as valid incentive whilst aboard Destiny.

"Fuckin' slainte," he says with wry distaste, and takes a long, searing gulp.