Work Text:
She doesn’t let herself drink often.
Much like cigarettes, her wife hates it.
But unlike the addiction that comes with nicotine, booze she can let go of, maintaining months, and years of abstinence between glasses.
But when she does drink, she always goes for something strong. She’s come to respect Riley's taste in bourbons, though she prefers something a bit more expensive than Kentucky brews.
Christ, that poor bastard.
Trapped in Las Almas for too long, Soap along with him.
It never should have happened; she should have seen it coming before the shit hit the fan. She’d nearly gotten two good men killed for something she should have caught. She was CIA, for god's sake, this was her wheelhouse, and Shepherd had slipped right under her radar with Graves in tow.
It was embarrassing, to say the least.
Silently, thoughts spiraling and clawing at one another, she tipped back the rest of her glass, relishing in the burn.
The glass clinks softly as she rests it back down on the counter, sighing softly.
She’s not sure how long she sits there, the quiet bar moving around her, pensive eyes locked on the far wall of glasses as she rests her chin on her fists.
It’s not until her phone pings, vibrating on the bar top, does her stupor break.
