fic: Everclear
Jan. 7th, 2015 11:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Everclear
Series: TF2
Character/Pairing: Scout/Miss Pauling
Rating: PG-13
Summary:
Word count: 2719
Author's note: hc_bingo: medication. Post-Expiration Date. I actually did this a while ago and forgot about it, but edited it to be compliant to current canon.
Everclear can come in up to 95% proof. regretfulmorning.com/2009/05/5-of-the-most-alcoholic-drinks-ever-to-scorch-your-throat/
Thanks to Hazmad for the beta.
*
Miss Pauling rubbed at her temples. The ink smudged beneath her elbow, which only caused the throbbing in her head to increase. She'd have to start that paper all over again, for the Administrator didn't tolerate messy paperwork. The pounding ache in her head had started about the morning, and had only gotten worse as the day went on, especially with the flaming rubble which was the nearby town after a drunken Demoman and Soldier had been through it.
To be fair, it was bound to happen with the nearby town's latest event of burning flags with ignited alcohol barrels to signify their new stance on patriotism and strict rules of prohibition. Or as it was more accurate now, the burning heap of ash and destruction.
She bunched up another failed paper and restarted. A knock sounded at the door, twice in succession. Before she could say come in, he stumbled in, looking like he'd been through a meat grinder. His red shirt was splattered with dark blood, which for once, looked like it was his own. He had a swollen face, two black eyes and enough blood across his pants and shirt to make her wonder just how much was left inside his body. He was bent over from the weight of everything he was carrying, and dropped an entire load of various items across her desk. A pill bottle rolled towards the edge, and in a very dramatic quick move, he dove after it. He hit the floor with a harsh thud and a groan, the bottle still held up, as if it were glass instead of plastic.
She bent close to him, and reached to feel for his pulse. A groan answered her question before she could ask it. "Should I go get Medic? Those wounds look bad enough to send you to Respawn if they aren't taken care of."
Scout looked up, and tried to smile, though blood was leaking from his mouth.
"I heard you had a headache," he said. His voice was a rasp she could barely hear. He moved to open his bag, slowed by his wounds. Inside was a bottle of Scrumpy with several taped on notes, the handwriting too much of a messy scrawl to read without effort, a half-eaten sandwich, a box of bandages splattered with blood, a health pack, and three bottles of painkillers among his things.
"So, you stole these—"
"Borrowed," Scout said. "I would've brought a dispenser, but those things are damn heavy to carry. Also, Engie is mean about his equipment. Last time I just did one little drawin' on it, and he about beat me to death with that wrench of his."
"He sees them like his children," she said.
"Then wouldn't his kids like me drawin' with them? Like buyin' colorin' books and shit. It'd be like playtime or somethin'," Scout said.
"I think you'd realize by now that the men don't appreciate when you draw phallic symbols on their equipment," she said.
"It wasn't dicks! At least, it wasn't this time," Scout said.
She looked at him disbelievingly. With Scout, it was always dicks. At least unless it was pornography stenciled on the walls, often involving national monuments and some of his teammates.
He was far beyond simply feeling his forehead or putting on a band-aid. The first place he should've gone was the infirmary, but for not the first time, he'd chosen her on the brink of death.
"I don't even know where to start," she said.
"Well, turns out the guys don't like sharin' their stuff, or lettin' me draw on stuff, but it's all right."
She sighed, and rested her hand on his shoulder. "What am I going to do with you?"
He coughed, flinching at her touch, but grinned through the pain.
"I'm going to stop you right now before you finish that sentence, because I'm too tired to even think about that," she said. He laughed hard for mere seconds, until he broke out into a coughing fit. His hand shook as clutched his ribs, his face turned white with pain.
"Are they broken?" Miss Pauling said.
She pushed her rolling chair out. She reached out to nothing, his skin was too broken, a touch would hurt more than comfort. She let her hand rest to her side, and cleared her throat to cover up the momentary visible concern. Showing things like mercy and caring would get her a stern reprimand.
He coughed again. "Dunno, got punched a couple times by Heavy before I could get away," he said.
"That would explain the two black eyes," she said.
With some effort, he lifted up his shirt. "I got bullet wounds, too. See? Ain't nothin' but a flesh wound, though. Barely hurts at all."
He grimaced as the shirt dropped down, covering the bleeding wound. "Not at----alll."
Of course, with Scout's usual exaggeration, that meant he was about a few minutes away from bleeding out due to severe internal damage. Still, he held out the sandwich to her. Blood trickled down his chapped lips.
"Ahem, about that, I already ate. You should finish it," she said.
With a shrug, Scout shoved it in his mouth, finishing everything but the last crust in two bites. He patted his stomach, where the wounds had already begun to close.
"Works like a charm---almost as charmin' as me, heh heh. One thing always bugged me, though. Why does a sandwich heal you, anyways?" Scout said with his mouth full. "My ma made a damn good sandwich, but it never healed anything but an empty stomach."
"Because Medic drugs them," Miss Pauling said.
"Seriously? Does the big guy know?"
"Likely. If he had any problem with Medic drugging him and experimenting on him, they wouldn't be friends. They're usually beneficial, and Heavy has the highest rate of surviving them, so I suppose it works for them."
After all, that was about half of their friendship.
Scout frowned and looked at the last remaining edge of sandwich. Then, with a shrug, he shoved that in his mouth as well. After the sandwich he looked a little less like he would bleed to death on her floor.
She reached up for the bottle of Scrumpy he'd brought, and filled an emergency wine glass she kept stored away in the cabinet behind her desk. She downed it too fast with a couple painkillers, finding it oddly flavorless, yet no less potent. She took another glassful---it was that kind of day--It only came to mind that this was a bad idea when the alcohol started to feel like a punch to the gut.
She coughed, a fiery feeling hitting her through and through. "I think he mixed it with rocket fuel," she said.
"Wouldn't surprise me. Maybe he gets extra lift from rocket burps or somethin'. No wonder he beat me in every burpin' contest," Scout said. He pulled out bandages from his bag, and began to unwind them.
"It's not that I'm not thankful, but bandages aren't necessary for a headache," Miss Pauling said.
"Those were for me. I got these for my trouble," Scout said. He rolled up his shirt and revealed a large spot of several deep needle gun marks in his back.
She pulled out a bottle of healing gel from one of the lower drawers in her desk and handed it to him. "I believe you'll be needing these."
"Thanks, Miss Pauling, you're a real star," Scout said. He pushed up his shirt again for a moment, before pulling it off entirely and tossing it aside. In a dramatic, exaggerated motion which she supposed was intended to be sexy, he started rubbing the gel over his chest. Like most things, his attempts at being suave were like watching someone fall down a long set of stairs. It circled back from horrible back to cute when he fell out of 'character' and ended up stammering, looking like an actor who'd forgotten his lines.
"Jeez, it stings, and it's cold as hell," he said. He paused a moment in, his expression turning thoughtful.
"I used to wonder what the hell they meant. Cold as hell? That makes fuck all sense, maybe a drunk guy thought it up," Scout said.
"In Dante's Inferno, the innermost circle of hell is a frozen wasteland," she said.
"Really? Damn, you know your stuff," he said.
He started to work on his biceps, in an attempt to both flex and rub himself down with gel. He leaned back, showing off as his wounds healed into scars. She was more amused than turned on, but she hid her smile under the pretense of a yawn. He didn't reach for his shirt, instead rubbing himself down more.
She watched him work without hesitation. She could hardly be cited for overseeing the rehabilitation of an injured mercenary, after all. The fact that him coming inside her office was the best thing that had happened didn't need to be mentioned in the inevitable paperwork she'd have to file over the unauthorized use of healing gel.
He dragged out his blood-spattered duffel bag and pulled out an apple. He rubbed it on his chest, before remembering that his shirt was elsewhere. With a shrug, he began to chomp on it anyways.
"Gee, just what I wanted, a dinner and a show," she said.
"Damn right," Scout said.
The pounding in her head had already begun to subside, only to be replaced by a lurching, vertigo-like feeling. She rested her head in her hands in an attempt to get the room to stop spinning. Honestly, what did he put in that alcohol—Unrefined Australium? Knowing Demoman, he just might. He certainly knew enough about mixing chemicals to alter his alcohol.
Scout leaned over her, his hands ghosting just above her back, reluctant to touch. Finally they settled, a light pressure between her shoulder blades. She looked up, feeling another lurch in her stomach. She clutched at his arm, feeling like the room was spinning. Whatever Demoman was putting in his Scrumpy, she was pretty sure it would be better suited for powering jets.
"Oh geez, Miss Pauling! You're---you're okay, right?"
"What does the bottle say?" she said.
"Umm, lemme see."
Scout almost dropped the bottle in his haste. He caught it mid air, bent over so far to reach it that it looked like something out of a circus act. Leave it to Scout to be flexible beyond compare.
"All right, all right, I got this---Man, he's got worse writin' than Soldier. It's got something written over the Scrumpy label. Uhhh 'Everclear EX, 190 proof,' that's what it says," Scout said.
Scout turned the bottle over. "I drank some Tequila once on a dare from Demoman. Guzzled it right down. Spent the whole night passed out and the mornin' pukin' my guts out. I swear, it was like takin' a rocket to the guts, except I've had that, and it hurt less," Scout said.
"Joy. That's probably in my future," she replied.
"Nah, you're a strong lady. You'll show that stuff who's who. Ma always asked for drinks to help her mornin' headaches. I used to mix 'em right up for her. Hair of the dog. Though the first time, she didn't mention I wasn't supposed to put actual dog hair there."
She closed her eyes—at least her head wasn't hurting anymore.
"Hey, Miss Pauling, I got this, c'mere," Scout said. His voice was low as he bent over her.
"Scout...This is no time to be flirting. At this rate, I might throw up on you," she said.
"You'll be fine. You'll kick out that alcohol out into space with your awesome leadership and readin' skills," Scout said.
"That's not how alcohol works, Scout. And that was definitely a come on. Don't blame me if I break the mood by vomiting on your shoes," she said.
"Ain't a come on," he said
"Scout, everything's a come on with you."
"Well, this one ain't. I don't want you hurtin' your pretty face. Your glasses might get all broken, then where would you be?"
"You came onto me as you were saying you wouldn't come onto me," she said.
"Naaah, that's just the friggin' truth. It's like sayin' 'I go fast'—fact of nature, you know? Now, c'mere. Your heads goin' to get dents in it."
She didn't correct him, or point out that her hands weren't about to get her hurt. He made no move to touch her. Above was the sound of cans and other assorted things in his bag rattling together. The peripheral view of scarred chest and abdomen from his torn, bloodstained shirt. She heard every loud breath, every loud bite. Even his blood vessels seemed loud as they rushed through his body.
A thought struck her alcohol-addled mind—she could just stay like this. She could ignore her paperwork and the mess for a few seconds until the pain seeped away into something almost like relaxation. She could take this offered gift, she could kiss him and make all of this, smiles, laughter, company, shared sandwiches and even adoration all her own.
She couldn't even blame the alcohol, as it'd been one which had been visiting her during the soberest of hours as well.
Scout cut into her moments of quiet.
"Oh, yeah. There it is. I got somethin' else for you," he said.
He leaned just enough to pull something else out of his duffel bag. Out came several bottles of water. He shook one with a smile. "Demoman, he's always sayin' that Scrumpy heals all pain, so I thought it had to have some kind of painkiller or somethin'. Natural alcohol power. That Everclear is probably super duper pain killer, but this, this will kick that Everclear's ass," Scout said hopefully.
She turned the bottle over in her hands. Simple bottled water, but it looked like he'd stolen her a whole case. Somehow, you always seem to find what I need.
She pushed herself up, and he moved quickly to guide her up. His hand to her back. "There you go," he said.
With the first bottle, she started to feel a little better. The Everclear may have felt like a tornado going down, but combined with the painkillers, it had done wonders for the throbbing in her head. She reached out into the cabinet, and pulled out another bottle of healing gel. It never seemed to do anything for Demoman, but it was worth a try. She dumped the gel into the bottle, and guzzled until it was empty.
"Keep on drinkin' them. That's what my ma said when I told her about the Tequila Incident, anyways. That and...coffee, and....orange juice, oh, and peanut butter, and somethin' else, I just can't remember which..." he said. He trailed off as he tried to think through the many cures she must have given him, though none seemed to come.
"Thank you, but I think water will do the trick nicely. I'm not sure you'd survive a second trip out there---especially since you actually managed to steal Heavy's sandwich. He's not going to be too forgiving if he sees you again."
"Probably not, but hey, I'd get out of Repsawn and come right back."
She looked back at him once more. His hat had gotten pushed off when he reached for the bottles, and rested on the floor near his shirt. He'd nearly gotten himself killed just to get her something to feel better. It wasn't the first time, either.
"Thank you, Scout," she said. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek. For a brief moment, she saw that bubble world of possibilities again. His hand in hers, dates, notes pressed between official papers, with a smudge of her lipstick on his collar.
As she pulled back, he stared at her, slack jawed and giddy. She reached for another bottle of water. She could always blame her absence from paperwork on a headache.
Series: TF2
Character/Pairing: Scout/Miss Pauling
Rating: PG-13
Summary:
Word count: 2719
Author's note: hc_bingo: medication. Post-Expiration Date. I actually did this a while ago and forgot about it, but edited it to be compliant to current canon.
Everclear can come in up to 95% proof. regretfulmorning.com/2009/05/5-of-the-most-alcoholic-drinks-ever-to-scorch-your-throat/
Thanks to Hazmad for the beta.
*
Miss Pauling rubbed at her temples. The ink smudged beneath her elbow, which only caused the throbbing in her head to increase. She'd have to start that paper all over again, for the Administrator didn't tolerate messy paperwork. The pounding ache in her head had started about the morning, and had only gotten worse as the day went on, especially with the flaming rubble which was the nearby town after a drunken Demoman and Soldier had been through it.
To be fair, it was bound to happen with the nearby town's latest event of burning flags with ignited alcohol barrels to signify their new stance on patriotism and strict rules of prohibition. Or as it was more accurate now, the burning heap of ash and destruction.
She bunched up another failed paper and restarted. A knock sounded at the door, twice in succession. Before she could say come in, he stumbled in, looking like he'd been through a meat grinder. His red shirt was splattered with dark blood, which for once, looked like it was his own. He had a swollen face, two black eyes and enough blood across his pants and shirt to make her wonder just how much was left inside his body. He was bent over from the weight of everything he was carrying, and dropped an entire load of various items across her desk. A pill bottle rolled towards the edge, and in a very dramatic quick move, he dove after it. He hit the floor with a harsh thud and a groan, the bottle still held up, as if it were glass instead of plastic.
She bent close to him, and reached to feel for his pulse. A groan answered her question before she could ask it. "Should I go get Medic? Those wounds look bad enough to send you to Respawn if they aren't taken care of."
Scout looked up, and tried to smile, though blood was leaking from his mouth.
"I heard you had a headache," he said. His voice was a rasp she could barely hear. He moved to open his bag, slowed by his wounds. Inside was a bottle of Scrumpy with several taped on notes, the handwriting too much of a messy scrawl to read without effort, a half-eaten sandwich, a box of bandages splattered with blood, a health pack, and three bottles of painkillers among his things.
"So, you stole these—"
"Borrowed," Scout said. "I would've brought a dispenser, but those things are damn heavy to carry. Also, Engie is mean about his equipment. Last time I just did one little drawin' on it, and he about beat me to death with that wrench of his."
"He sees them like his children," she said.
"Then wouldn't his kids like me drawin' with them? Like buyin' colorin' books and shit. It'd be like playtime or somethin'," Scout said.
"I think you'd realize by now that the men don't appreciate when you draw phallic symbols on their equipment," she said.
"It wasn't dicks! At least, it wasn't this time," Scout said.
She looked at him disbelievingly. With Scout, it was always dicks. At least unless it was pornography stenciled on the walls, often involving national monuments and some of his teammates.
He was far beyond simply feeling his forehead or putting on a band-aid. The first place he should've gone was the infirmary, but for not the first time, he'd chosen her on the brink of death.
"I don't even know where to start," she said.
"Well, turns out the guys don't like sharin' their stuff, or lettin' me draw on stuff, but it's all right."
She sighed, and rested her hand on his shoulder. "What am I going to do with you?"
He coughed, flinching at her touch, but grinned through the pain.
"I'm going to stop you right now before you finish that sentence, because I'm too tired to even think about that," she said. He laughed hard for mere seconds, until he broke out into a coughing fit. His hand shook as clutched his ribs, his face turned white with pain.
"Are they broken?" Miss Pauling said.
She pushed her rolling chair out. She reached out to nothing, his skin was too broken, a touch would hurt more than comfort. She let her hand rest to her side, and cleared her throat to cover up the momentary visible concern. Showing things like mercy and caring would get her a stern reprimand.
He coughed again. "Dunno, got punched a couple times by Heavy before I could get away," he said.
"That would explain the two black eyes," she said.
With some effort, he lifted up his shirt. "I got bullet wounds, too. See? Ain't nothin' but a flesh wound, though. Barely hurts at all."
He grimaced as the shirt dropped down, covering the bleeding wound. "Not at----alll."
Of course, with Scout's usual exaggeration, that meant he was about a few minutes away from bleeding out due to severe internal damage. Still, he held out the sandwich to her. Blood trickled down his chapped lips.
"Ahem, about that, I already ate. You should finish it," she said.
With a shrug, Scout shoved it in his mouth, finishing everything but the last crust in two bites. He patted his stomach, where the wounds had already begun to close.
"Works like a charm---almost as charmin' as me, heh heh. One thing always bugged me, though. Why does a sandwich heal you, anyways?" Scout said with his mouth full. "My ma made a damn good sandwich, but it never healed anything but an empty stomach."
"Because Medic drugs them," Miss Pauling said.
"Seriously? Does the big guy know?"
"Likely. If he had any problem with Medic drugging him and experimenting on him, they wouldn't be friends. They're usually beneficial, and Heavy has the highest rate of surviving them, so I suppose it works for them."
After all, that was about half of their friendship.
Scout frowned and looked at the last remaining edge of sandwich. Then, with a shrug, he shoved that in his mouth as well. After the sandwich he looked a little less like he would bleed to death on her floor.
She reached up for the bottle of Scrumpy he'd brought, and filled an emergency wine glass she kept stored away in the cabinet behind her desk. She downed it too fast with a couple painkillers, finding it oddly flavorless, yet no less potent. She took another glassful---it was that kind of day--It only came to mind that this was a bad idea when the alcohol started to feel like a punch to the gut.
She coughed, a fiery feeling hitting her through and through. "I think he mixed it with rocket fuel," she said.
"Wouldn't surprise me. Maybe he gets extra lift from rocket burps or somethin'. No wonder he beat me in every burpin' contest," Scout said. He pulled out bandages from his bag, and began to unwind them.
"It's not that I'm not thankful, but bandages aren't necessary for a headache," Miss Pauling said.
"Those were for me. I got these for my trouble," Scout said. He rolled up his shirt and revealed a large spot of several deep needle gun marks in his back.
She pulled out a bottle of healing gel from one of the lower drawers in her desk and handed it to him. "I believe you'll be needing these."
"Thanks, Miss Pauling, you're a real star," Scout said. He pushed up his shirt again for a moment, before pulling it off entirely and tossing it aside. In a dramatic, exaggerated motion which she supposed was intended to be sexy, he started rubbing the gel over his chest. Like most things, his attempts at being suave were like watching someone fall down a long set of stairs. It circled back from horrible back to cute when he fell out of 'character' and ended up stammering, looking like an actor who'd forgotten his lines.
"Jeez, it stings, and it's cold as hell," he said. He paused a moment in, his expression turning thoughtful.
"I used to wonder what the hell they meant. Cold as hell? That makes fuck all sense, maybe a drunk guy thought it up," Scout said.
"In Dante's Inferno, the innermost circle of hell is a frozen wasteland," she said.
"Really? Damn, you know your stuff," he said.
He started to work on his biceps, in an attempt to both flex and rub himself down with gel. He leaned back, showing off as his wounds healed into scars. She was more amused than turned on, but she hid her smile under the pretense of a yawn. He didn't reach for his shirt, instead rubbing himself down more.
She watched him work without hesitation. She could hardly be cited for overseeing the rehabilitation of an injured mercenary, after all. The fact that him coming inside her office was the best thing that had happened didn't need to be mentioned in the inevitable paperwork she'd have to file over the unauthorized use of healing gel.
He dragged out his blood-spattered duffel bag and pulled out an apple. He rubbed it on his chest, before remembering that his shirt was elsewhere. With a shrug, he began to chomp on it anyways.
"Gee, just what I wanted, a dinner and a show," she said.
"Damn right," Scout said.
The pounding in her head had already begun to subside, only to be replaced by a lurching, vertigo-like feeling. She rested her head in her hands in an attempt to get the room to stop spinning. Honestly, what did he put in that alcohol—Unrefined Australium? Knowing Demoman, he just might. He certainly knew enough about mixing chemicals to alter his alcohol.
Scout leaned over her, his hands ghosting just above her back, reluctant to touch. Finally they settled, a light pressure between her shoulder blades. She looked up, feeling another lurch in her stomach. She clutched at his arm, feeling like the room was spinning. Whatever Demoman was putting in his Scrumpy, she was pretty sure it would be better suited for powering jets.
"Oh geez, Miss Pauling! You're---you're okay, right?"
"What does the bottle say?" she said.
"Umm, lemme see."
Scout almost dropped the bottle in his haste. He caught it mid air, bent over so far to reach it that it looked like something out of a circus act. Leave it to Scout to be flexible beyond compare.
"All right, all right, I got this---Man, he's got worse writin' than Soldier. It's got something written over the Scrumpy label. Uhhh 'Everclear EX, 190 proof,' that's what it says," Scout said.
Scout turned the bottle over. "I drank some Tequila once on a dare from Demoman. Guzzled it right down. Spent the whole night passed out and the mornin' pukin' my guts out. I swear, it was like takin' a rocket to the guts, except I've had that, and it hurt less," Scout said.
"Joy. That's probably in my future," she replied.
"Nah, you're a strong lady. You'll show that stuff who's who. Ma always asked for drinks to help her mornin' headaches. I used to mix 'em right up for her. Hair of the dog. Though the first time, she didn't mention I wasn't supposed to put actual dog hair there."
She closed her eyes—at least her head wasn't hurting anymore.
"Hey, Miss Pauling, I got this, c'mere," Scout said. His voice was low as he bent over her.
"Scout...This is no time to be flirting. At this rate, I might throw up on you," she said.
"You'll be fine. You'll kick out that alcohol out into space with your awesome leadership and readin' skills," Scout said.
"That's not how alcohol works, Scout. And that was definitely a come on. Don't blame me if I break the mood by vomiting on your shoes," she said.
"Ain't a come on," he said
"Scout, everything's a come on with you."
"Well, this one ain't. I don't want you hurtin' your pretty face. Your glasses might get all broken, then where would you be?"
"You came onto me as you were saying you wouldn't come onto me," she said.
"Naaah, that's just the friggin' truth. It's like sayin' 'I go fast'—fact of nature, you know? Now, c'mere. Your heads goin' to get dents in it."
She didn't correct him, or point out that her hands weren't about to get her hurt. He made no move to touch her. Above was the sound of cans and other assorted things in his bag rattling together. The peripheral view of scarred chest and abdomen from his torn, bloodstained shirt. She heard every loud breath, every loud bite. Even his blood vessels seemed loud as they rushed through his body.
A thought struck her alcohol-addled mind—she could just stay like this. She could ignore her paperwork and the mess for a few seconds until the pain seeped away into something almost like relaxation. She could take this offered gift, she could kiss him and make all of this, smiles, laughter, company, shared sandwiches and even adoration all her own.
She couldn't even blame the alcohol, as it'd been one which had been visiting her during the soberest of hours as well.
Scout cut into her moments of quiet.
"Oh, yeah. There it is. I got somethin' else for you," he said.
He leaned just enough to pull something else out of his duffel bag. Out came several bottles of water. He shook one with a smile. "Demoman, he's always sayin' that Scrumpy heals all pain, so I thought it had to have some kind of painkiller or somethin'. Natural alcohol power. That Everclear is probably super duper pain killer, but this, this will kick that Everclear's ass," Scout said hopefully.
She turned the bottle over in her hands. Simple bottled water, but it looked like he'd stolen her a whole case. Somehow, you always seem to find what I need.
She pushed herself up, and he moved quickly to guide her up. His hand to her back. "There you go," he said.
With the first bottle, she started to feel a little better. The Everclear may have felt like a tornado going down, but combined with the painkillers, it had done wonders for the throbbing in her head. She reached out into the cabinet, and pulled out another bottle of healing gel. It never seemed to do anything for Demoman, but it was worth a try. She dumped the gel into the bottle, and guzzled until it was empty.
"Keep on drinkin' them. That's what my ma said when I told her about the Tequila Incident, anyways. That and...coffee, and....orange juice, oh, and peanut butter, and somethin' else, I just can't remember which..." he said. He trailed off as he tried to think through the many cures she must have given him, though none seemed to come.
"Thank you, but I think water will do the trick nicely. I'm not sure you'd survive a second trip out there---especially since you actually managed to steal Heavy's sandwich. He's not going to be too forgiving if he sees you again."
"Probably not, but hey, I'd get out of Repsawn and come right back."
She looked back at him once more. His hat had gotten pushed off when he reached for the bottles, and rested on the floor near his shirt. He'd nearly gotten himself killed just to get her something to feel better. It wasn't the first time, either.
"Thank you, Scout," she said. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek. For a brief moment, she saw that bubble world of possibilities again. His hand in hers, dates, notes pressed between official papers, with a smudge of her lipstick on his collar.
As she pulled back, he stared at her, slack jawed and giddy. She reached for another bottle of water. She could always blame her absence from paperwork on a headache.
