"My pleasure. Now I suggest you take it easy before I have to culture replacement liver cells for you, alright?" Julian puts down his hypospray and picks up a tricorder, scanning to make sure the alcohol is being cleared from his system satisfactorily.

It wasn't like he was unused to seeing people dealing with intra- and extra-personal conflict at the bottom of a bottle--Quark's bar served genuine alcohol, unlike most starships, and in forms that were certainly less than legal in Federation space proper. He'd treated his share of people suffering from the consequences of their overindulgence.

"I can leave you two alone to talk if you like."