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S.Q was not a group that was big on the concept of bonding exercises. More often than not the four of them went their separate ways during downtime, with an exeption made for Sanford and Deimos who were always attached at the hip. On the rare occasion they did choose to share each other's company, it was gathering in the pathetic excuse of a living room within their current base and sharing drinks.
2BDamned hardly partook, stopping at one drink each time, maybe two if it was something he really enjoyed. It was scarce, but the others had learned when checking through old gas stations or liquor stores to dig for the medic's favorite bourbon to bring home, commonly saved as an apology for Hank returning dead.
Hank would drink anything put in front of them, in copious amounts. They claimed to have the best alcohol tolerance of anyone they'd ever met, and thus far they'd actually proven themselves in that regard. No matter how much they took back they never stumbled or slurred. 2BDamned had explained it was probably a mix of their large size and potential past exposure. Deimos said he thinks it's because Hank has just fucked so many people up even alcohol is afraid of them. Hank agreed with the latter.
Deimos thought he had Hank's tolerance. He did not. Oftentimes he knew better than to have too much, but if Hank chose to pick on him and one of them wound up challenging the other to a contest of who could drink more before they vomited or blacked out, he'd always agree even if he'd also always lose. He claims his mama didn't raise a bitch. 2BDamned reminds him that he did not have a mother, or a father for that matter. Deimos drinks to that.
And then there's Sanford. Usually he aligns most with 2BDamned, tending to not even finish one bottle of beer before passing it off to Hank or Deimos, whoever got it first. As of late, however, he's been forcibly kept sober by way of 2BDamned prescribing him a painkiller that did not mix well with alcohol. The medic even reminds him when they all gather to ensure he won't incidentally harm himself.
One would think a man of so minimal consumption wouldn't be slighted by this, but oh, how slighted he was. 2BDamned had been so unbearably strict with him lately. Ever since he took a (life-threatening, and not to mention careless) wound during a recon mission he's felt as though his neck has constantly had someone breathing down it. He'll admit, maybe it was his fault for not watching behind him, but maybe he'd have been fine with being struck upside the head and killed that day. Did any of them think about that? 2BDamned would have just revived him when they came home anyway, it didn't even matter.
He does still attend their little get-together, despite everything about him making it seem like he'd rather be anywhere else. It isn't that he doesn't want to take part, he's merely frustrated by the exclusion. Maybe the medication is making him irritable, he told 2BDamned he didn't want to be on the stupid things. He's a pretty shit doctor for not listening to client concerns.
There's a vacancy to his eyes as he watches the others have their little conversations and sip their drinks, gaze dull and cloudy. Deimos does try to include him every now and again, but all Sanford offers are little noncommittal hums and nods. They'd been asking if he was okay a little too frequently since the accident, and it's starting to get annoying. Christ forbid he wants to just exist in their proximity and not talk, maybe he shouldn't have bothered.
Sanford looks to 2BDamned and Deimos, both enraptured in some talk of agency coding and how moronic all of their field agents are. His gaze shifts to the one beside him, Hank, who appears to be listening intently. Then it moves downward to their half-drank bottle, on the floor beside the leg of their chair, completely out of their vision and unguarded.
Being told what to do all the time is so tiring. 2BDamned probably just wanted to feel all high and mighty, have something to lord over. Sanford wasn't one to bow, a man who did what he wanted even if it hurt others or himself. Not that it mattered if he did get hurt, that's just life, especially here and especially now. What's one sip of beer, anyway? It's not going to kill him, nor would two, or three, or the rest of the bottle plus another and then one more for good measure. He used to drink so much more than anything they had together and he came out fine. This is ridiculous.
Carefully, he glances between Hank's face and their bottle. He shifts some in his chair, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as if he, too, is just taking in all of the chit-chat. When Hank doesn't move to acknowledge him, he feels confident enough to start reaching for what he wants.
They catch him out of the corner of their eye. In a mere few seconds, Hank snatches the bottle from the ground and knocks back the rest before setting it on the table with a soft clink.
"You fuckin' bastard!" the other two jolt in surprise when Sanford shouts at Hank, the void of emotion about him now filled with seething anger. It's the most expressive he's looked in days. "What the hell is your damn problem, huh?"
Hank doesn't falter, unafraid. They lean closer to him and croak, "You wanna fucking fight about it?"
2BDamned shakes his head. Deimos immediately sets his own beverage down and makes a move to get up, but 2BDamned gently guides him back into his seat and looks at him as if to say, 'let them handle it'. Deimos doesn't relax, still stiff and prepared to jump into action, though he does obey and remain seated.
Sanford stares daggers into Hank, and Hank stares right back. They remain that way for what feels like an eternity while Sanford debates on if he could effectively beat the shit out of Hank while still recovering from an injury. He quickly realizes he probably couldn't beat the shit out of Hank fully healthy and with a weapon.
Oddly enough, it's Hank who breaks the lengthy silence, simply stating, "You'll get hurt."
"So what," Sanford snaps, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair in defiance.
"So stop trying to touch shit behind our back." their jaw makes a noisy creak of protest when they raise their voice, just enough to speak sternly above their usual rasping grumbles. "Don't try to do anything behind our back."
The usage of plural language takes Sanford off guard. Hank spoke as if this isn't between him and the bottle, as if it's between him and everyone else. As if they aren't against him, but on his side, and the wall he built is the one thing keeping them from truly being there. He doesn't like the knots that form in his stomach as he continues to mull over it, starting to see the point they were trying to make— that they, and the others, didn't learn to trust him just so he could screw them over and cause trouble.
What the hell was he even doing, acting like this? He shouldn't be putting his comrades in this position to take care of him, as if they don't have enough on their minds already. Sanford doesn't have anything to say when the regret settles in. He only nods.
Deimos gives Hank the rest of his drink. 2BDamned does the same. Hank promptly chugs both, bottles jingling as they set them all on the ground together, on the side opposite Sanford. There's an effort made to get Sanford speaking more, asking him questions that cannot be answered with gestures. They talk to him about plans to rig the next agency base they infilrate with explosives, about what meals he thinks he can put together with the rations they've been finding.. about everything but his current feelings, about anything that will get him interacting somewhere that isn't his own brain.
He does talk about whatever they prompt him with. They even get a few smiles and chuckles out of him, and yet his eyes lose all light, reverting back to the same emptiness he'd come in with. Sanford doesn't know what's wrong with him. All he knows is that he wants to have a drink, and that maybe if he doesn't wake up tomorrow morning from that medicinal reaction, he'd feel better.