troublewillfindme

coloneljamesmoriarty asked: 49, anyone from xcom

[Pre-Every Exit, but same canon]

It has been a week since they were last in a haven, the closest holdout to civilization outside of a city center in these parts. The weather is temperate, beautiful even, and the terrain is easy. They have been without the buzz of ADVENT carriers for days now, and the woods give them good cover.

Their haven stay hadn’t ended well. He doesn’t make a habit of starting fights, especially not when they’re low on supplies, and extra especially not when they’re low on booze. Making enemies won’t do them any good, and besides, it tends to draw too much attention to their already unusual little party.

However, when the sonofabitch responded to a growled “She’s fourteen” with “We could share her,” there was really no other appropriate option.

Still, his hands are beginning to shake, and that’s never a good sign. He squeezes his eyes shut. Thanks for the legacy, dad, he thinks, and remembers the ashes he keeps meaning to spread one of these days, stored at the bottom of his pack.

If Sally notices, she doesn’t say anything, just keeps poking at the vegetable kebabs roasting over the fire. He’s not proud of the drinking, not proud of how vulnerable it leaves them, but he’s in far enough that there would be consequences now if he stopped. Risk management, he reminds himself. Long as you’re both breathing, and outside of ADVENT custody, it’s fine.

Seemingly satisfied with dinner’s progress, he watches her cross to her pack and begin emptying it out on the tarp they’ve spread on the ground. Most of it, he recognizes. It’s the essentials: clothes, rations, tools, her father’s sweatshirt, a small first aid kit, and the few sundry items she’s picked up along the way.

“A-ha!” She calls as her hands find something he can’t yet see.

She pulls a large glass bottle from her bag, then crosses to the other side of the campfire to sit next to him. “I have no idea if this is good, but it’s got a label and it’s sealed, so I’m relatively certain it’s not the kind of alcohol that makes you go blind.”

“This was your trading priority?” He asks.

“Hey, I may be an idiot, but I’m your idiot. Besides,” she shrugs. “Gotta look out for each other somehow. And it came with, like, a week of rations. It was half a carton of cigarettes — I drive a hard bargain. We’ll be fine.”

Yeah, he thinks, breaking the seal. We just might be.