Okay, this is a companion piece to Thessaly's 'Moet and Chandon' fic. Thanks for letting me use your idea! This is different to Thessaly's follow up fic in that it's a bit more on the angsty side. Think of it as an alternate ending.

Disclaimer: I don't own WWRY, or any of the song lyrics I may include in this.

Whiskey and Rye

Khashoggi could remember her so easily, flopped on long summer grass without so much as a care as to what her pose may suggest. He had knelt about half a metre away from her, not used to sitting in actual nature, not a virtual hologram. Meat couldn't have been any more used to it, he realised, but she had seemed to take to it with more ease.

"Tell me something about yourself," he had asked suddenly, breaking the mutual silence. Meat's head flicked lazily toward him, the summer heat making her slightly lethargic.

"Tell you what?" she murmured.

Khashoggi shrugged. "Nothing in particular. Just something about you that I wouldn't know."

Meat had laughed. She didn't laugh often, but when she did, it seemed to Khashoggi more like a defence rather than actual amusement. "I've gotten drunk in your presence so many times, and you don't know everything about me?" Khashoggi nodded in answer, causing Meat give another humourless laugh. "Alright," she had said, leaning back onto her elbows. "I dropped out of VirtualHigh. I'm terrible with computers. I'm not into drugs myself, but I know people who are. Oh, and I drink far too much." She had rolled onto her side, regarding him with eyes as green as the grass she was lying on. "So, what do you think?"

Khashoggi had simply smiled. "I think that you did a brilliant job of telling me absolutely nothing."

She had asked him then if you ever really knew a person. He answered inwardly that he didn't think he ever would know her properly. She seemed so self-confident and assertive, but in her late-night moments of drunkenness Khashoggi saw how vulnerable she really was. Often in those moments she would regard him with a rather puzzled look, as if she was expecting something from him and wasn't receiving it.

Khashoggi heard the clink of glass as he poured himself a glass of whiskey, the suddenness of the sound jerking him to the realisation that he hadn't met Meat in over two months. There had been no disagreement, nor a mutual ending to a relationship that hadn't even started, she had simply stopped coming to see him. Whenever their paths crossed she found some excuse to hurry away, as if she was trying to avoid him.

Khashoggi sculled down the golden alcohol, for a moment unpleasantly reminded of his time in the Seven Seas of Rhye. Meat seemed well enough, he reasoned. The last time he had seen her was around two weeks ago, at Seal and Big Macca's wedding. After more than ten years of being a couple, those two had finally decided to tie the knot. "It was something to do," Seal had answered any questions on the matter. Khashoggi had seen Meat dance, she had even laughed a little at Madonna and Aretha's antics. She had, however, refused to be enticed into singing. No one had heard her sing since the day Brit died. No one except Khashoggi.

Khashoggi was pulled out of his reverie by a quiet, uncertain tap on the door. "Yes?" he called, annoyed at having to put his drink down. There was no answer, but he distinctly heard someone coughing. Clearly whoever it was wasn't going to let themselves in.

"Yes?" Khashoggi demanded again, opening his apartment door rather abruptly. "What do…" he trailed off. A slender blonde girl was standing on his doorstep, her black trench coat pulled tightly around her skinny shoulders.

"Hello, Andrei," Meat breathed.

"Meat," Khashoggi said with surprise. Meat shuffled, seeming shy and a bit embarrassed. With neither of them knowing what to say, the silence seemed to stretch on for an age, until Meat couldn't stand it any more and broke it.

"I'm getting married," she blurted.

Khashoggi was so shocked that he nearly laughed. "Married? To whom?"

Meat shrugged miserably. "Bob. You know, Bob the Builder? He proposed to me after Seal and Big Macca's wedding."

"Bob?" Khashoggi was puzzled. There never had seemed to be any connection between the two. "You're going out with him?"

Meat nodded in assent. "Hmm. Since you and I stopped… seeing each other." Meat bit her lip nervously, wondering if she had phrased that correctly. She could find no proper words for the relationship she'd had with the ex-Commander. It wasn't a romance, at least not by her definition, and yet…

Khashoggi leaned against his doorframe, trying to maintain his cool persona. "Do you love him?" The question was brisk, getting straight to the point. Khashoggi couldn't help being unpleasantly reminded of himself performing interrogations on prisoners a long time ago.

Meat bowed her head slightly, refusing to look him in the eye. "No," she replied. "But he loves me. He does, Andrei. Bob is- was- Brit's best friend."

Khashoggi stood up straight, his height forcing Meat to look up at him. "I never thought you'd be the marrying type."

Meat fixed her eye on Khashoggi's collar button. "I'm not. Brit mentioned it once in passing, but it was more of a joke, a sort of 'what if' thing."

"I see. So you're trying to replace Brit."

Meat's head snapped up. "I'm not trying to replace Brit!"

Khashoggi kept his voice at the same monotone, knowing that it was harsh, but he felt he needed to have it said. "Yes, I think you are. You can't have Brit, so you went for the next best thing, didn't you?"

Meat clenched her jaw with anger, suddenly reminded of who Khashoggi originally was. "I am not trying to replace Brit with anyone! I couldn't, even if I wanted to. What, are you going to get all jealous on me now? Cause it's a little late!"

The outburst caught Khashoggi off guard. "Late for what?" he asked, making an effort to make his voice seem calming.

If anything, this infuriated Meat even more. "Don't pretend you haven't noticed."

"Noticed what?"

Meat bit back her frustration and the need to pummel Khashoggi's chest the way she had all those months ago after the Rhapsody. "Never mind," she muttered. "Maybe I had things wrong. Too used to romance. I'm not the type of girl who waits around, Andrei."

Khashoggi tilted his head to one side, trying to get his mind around what Meat was saying. "I take it you never had to 'wait around' before?"

Meat laughed helplessly. "No, I didn't. Waiting wasn't exactly a word in Brit's vocabulary."

"And not in yours, either?"

Meat didn't answer. Not for the first time, Khashoggi wondered how old she really was. Had those records really been accurate? He suspected they might not have been. She was young, he knew that, easily ten years younger than he was and probably a few years younger than Brit had been as well. "How old are you?" he asked, echoing their earlier conversation back at the bar, oh, years ago it seemed. "I don't think you are twenty six."

Meat looked him straight in the eye for the first time that evening. "I'm not," she said simply. "I'm twenty three, turning twenty four next month. I became a Bohemian at sixteen. But don't tell anyone." It was so much like previous conversations that Khashoggi could do nothing but agree.

Meat stepped closer to the ex-Commander, suddenly seeming unsure as to how to go on. "You're invited to the wedding," she said hesitantly, suddenly reminding Khashoggi of why she was there in the first place.

Khashoggi nodded in assent. "Thankyou for the invitation," he said stiffly.

Meat's eyes fixed her eyes once again on Khashoggi's collar, as if she hoped that it would do the talking for her. "I'd like you to come," she whispered, a hint of desperation in her voice.

Khashoggi shrugged. "I'll see if I can make it."

This, evidently, had been the wrong thing to say, as Meat's eyes flicked up looking suspiciously shiny. She didn't say anything to him, because even if she'd wanted to, Meat felt as if she had no words to say it. Finally she simply leant forward to Khashoggi and kissed him gently on the mouth. "Thankyou, Andrei," she breathed.

Khashoggi swallowed, still tasting her lips on his. She tasted like champagne. He got the feeling that champagne would always remind him of her. "For what?"

Meat gave a genuine smile for the first time in a long time. "For making me realise that it's not the end of the world."

She turned quickly on her heel and was gone, jumping into the back of a battered black car, which Khashoggi could see was driven by Charlotte, with a giggling Madonna in the seat next to her. How long had they been there?

Realising that it didn't really matter, Khashoggi retreated into his flat, pouring himself another glass of rye whiskey. The irony of an ex-Commander drinking the golden liquid didn't occur to him. Not now.

And the good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye, saying this will be the day that I die.