Dr. Phaedra Paderborn, as a rule, did not drink. She would sip and she would linger and she would people watch, but she rarely would see a bar close, nor would she linger long enough to know the smell of a man who's just narrowly dodged the urinal in his drunken stupor. No, she and alcohol had never gone well together, in any way. But once in a while, she would leave work, and she would shed the lab coat for the sleek, metropolitan-chic suit or austere cocktail dress, and she would order herself a martini, just one, and she would watch the night pass by. Even more so since she was, after all, not entirely herself since her Twin had metabolized, literally, into her psyche.
Suffice to say, when her gaze lifted from the strangely radioactive green of the drink cradled in her hand at the man's voice, she leaned out of the shadow, glancing down. A gesture, and the bartender was refilling the man's glass, compliments of the Good Doctor down the way.
"From the redheaded broad," the bartender said dismissively; he was more in tune with the increasing itch under his skin, where fading marks along his arm were like stained lipstick kisses beneath his shirt.
Morphine smiled thinly. It was not a warm smile, but it was amused.