The hum of the Tulpar’s engines was a counterpoint to the raucous laughter echoing from the mess hall. A stash of potent, contraband spirits, anonymously delivered, had transformed the usual stoic crew into a boisterous gathering. Swansea, usually a figure of gruff efficiency, was conspicuously absent from his usual post, his absence explained by the growing warmth spreading through his belly. Later, he lumbered in, his normally furrowed brow smoothed into an uncharacteristic smile, his arm slung protectively around the young intern, Daisuke. He clinked glasses with Captain Curly and Nurse Anya, his blue eyes, usually pools of distant weariness, now shimmering with amiable sentiment. However, a sharp glance in the co-pilot Jimmy's direction, punctuated by a mumbled insult about "shifty eyes," revealed the familiar undercurrent of distrust that even alcohol couldn't entirely wash away.

(Someone snuck alcohol onboard and the crew decided to drink it to celebrate something, your choice for what's being celebrated)