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“You’re drunk.”
“Yeah…well…so’re you. S’kinda the point.”
“Well…” Tucker trailed off, frowning. “Yeah.”
“What?”
“Huh?”
“M’gonna be honest, I lost track of this conver—…this whole thing…a while ago.”
“Yeah.” Tucker leaned back against the wall. It was creeping towards one in the morning, and the bar around them had nearly emptied; he and Grif were slumped at a table in the corner, and neither of them could quite remember how they had ended up there together, but there they were, and Sarge was passed out at the bar, having gotten his hands on something so high proof that no one else would even go near it, not even Church, and Church and Simmons were two tables away talking about…something, Tucker had gotten bored really quickly and wandered off, and had nearly tripped over—oh shit, that’s right; Donut was passed out on the floor next to their booth. “Fuckin’ lightweight,” he mumbled, the words heavy on his tongue.
“What’s that?” Grif said, blinking and looking around. A lock of black hair fell in his eyes and he shook it away impatiently. “Oshit, Donut. We should probably…”
“Yeah,” Tucker agreed.
They both sat there silently.
“Yer too drunk to stand, aren’t you.”
“Am not.”
“Fine, go over there and pick him up.”
“You do it. He’s your teammate.”
“Ehhhhhh.” Grif shrugged and finished what was left of his beer. He pushed himself to his feet, walked—somewhat unsteadily—to Donut, and, arms around his chest, managed to pull him back into the booth. Donut shook his head, blinked, found himself nestled against Grif, and smiled up at him with a glassy look in his eye.
“Don’t even start,” Grif told him, no real vitriol in his voice.
“I won’t,” Donut said solemnly, folded his arms on the table, and put his head down, unconscious almost instantly, all freckles and unkempt blonde hair. Grif just sighed and put his chin in his hands.
“Some fuckin’ shore leave, man.”
“You really think it’s that bad? I been havin’ a pretty good time, actually.”
“Nah, I mean. S’fun but, not so fun that we gotta go back. Gotta go back to fightin’ each other.”
“Oh.” Tucker frowned. “Yeah.”
“I mean, there’s no reason for it, is there? Y’ever hear of a good reason for this war?” Grif didn’t wait for an answer, just shrugged at nothing and continued. “It’d be nice if we didn’t have to pretend to hate each other, y’know? You Blues aren’t all that terrible, really.”
“Yeah, you Reds aren’t too bad yourselves.”
They both watched as Donut shuffled around in his sleep; the bar was now more or less silent, the quiet broken only by Church’s snoring and the rather frazzled-looking bartender announcing last call. Tucker sighed.
“Should I rescue him from Caboose? We probably oughta get going.” he asked. Grif just shrugged as Simmons slipped into the booth on Donut’s other side, stifling a yawn, face flushed beneath his freckles.
“I dunno, I’ve kinda been enjoying watchin’ this.”
Tucker and Grif had, for quite a while before, watched Caboose try to engage the bartender in conversation, and Grif had laughed until tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes, and Tucker had laughed at that until his stomach hurt, and then the bartender had given them the most withering glare this side of Blood Gulch, and that had sobered them up a bit, so to speak. Now, he was just watching Caboose with a desperate, despondent look on his face, as Tucker stumbled up to the bar and laid a drunkenly congenial hand on Caboose’s shoulder.
“C’mon, Caboose.”
Caboose looked up at Tucker, completely sober, uncharacteristically pleased to see him, a slow smile working its way across his face. “Hey, Tucker.” He leaned towards Tucker, adding in a conspiratorial tone, “I don’t think he wants to talk to me.”
“Yeah? Well, his loss, Caboose.” Tucker looked back at the bartender and shrugged in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner. “Let’s get outta here, bro. We’ll grab Church ’n go.”
“Yeah, Caboose, guess yer our desin—design—“ Grif pulled Donut to his feet. “Desig—“
“Designated,” Simmons interjected, pulling Sarge’s arm over his shoulders.
“Yeah, whatever, driver.” Grif shifted Donut’s weight and his head lolled onto Grif’s shoulder. Grif rolled his eyes. “Let’s just get outta here before I start getting attached to Donut.”
———
They somehow made it back to Blood Gulch without major incident, and those of them who were still awake sat, blisteringly drunk, in a semi-circle on the floor of Blue Base, passing around what was left of a cheap bottle of wine they had pulled from Church’s stash. Simmons was slumped against Grif’s shoulder, eyes barely open; Tucker had Church’s legs draped across his lap, mostly disentangled from his drunken affection; Caboose was leaning against the wall, having pulled an unconscious Donut into a bunk at some point (“that kid can’ handle his liquor,” Grif had slurred into Church’s ear, and Church had just grinned lazily back).
“Okay, okay,” Tucker exhaled and stared at the ceiling. “The ability to walk through some walls.”
“Well…” Simmons frowned at him. “Just some? D’you know which ones?”
“Nope, it just…just happens. Can’t control it.”
“I’d take it,” Grif said, nodding.
“Me too,” Caboose added.
“Nah, I wouldn’t. Just be a hassle.” Simmons sat up and took the proffered wine bottle from Church, wincing as he drank. “Might as well just…not.” He passed the bottle to Grif.
“Yeah, but when it worked, c’mon, that’d be sweeeet. Tell me you wouldn’t wanna walk through walls.” Church pulled his legs off of Tucker and got into a sitting position, running a hand through his hair. “Think m’too drunk for this. That’s never happened.”
“What’re you talkin’ about, Church, you get ‘too drunk for this’ every time we drink.” Tucker grinned at him. “You get all…touchy feely…and then you pass out. Without fail.”
Church disregarded this with a limp wave of his hand. “Yeaaaaah, but we’re sittin’ here like a bunch of teenage. Bunch of teenage girls. Drinkin’ wine and talking.”
“Well…” Grif said, shrugging.
“Got anything better to do?” Tucker asked.
“I mean…” Church trailed off, shrugged, sighed. “Nah. S’not so bad, I guess.”
Gathered together, without their armor, in various states of inebriation, they felt a strange sense of—friendship might be too strong a word; under any other circumstances, maybe, but for now—camaraderie. At the very least, the kind of bond people can only share after a night of heavy drinking together.
Well, at least up until Church started throwing up.