"Is that what you're doing? Gawking at me? Because, dude, you could choose a better time to gawk rather than when I'm in mourning. Like, morning runs? In the shower? When I'm commanding my squad or some shit."

Another joke. It was that, wasn't it? A joke and not a low come-on? All of the burn of the alcohol was gone, lost in a memory that he didn't care to remember, and there was only this disconnect, words that tumbled without inhibitions to fuck them up. Or stop him from fucking up. Whatever.

The bed sank as Wash sat on it; the armor didn't help. Thank fucking God it was all reinforced metal. Tucker sat up, ignoring the vertigo that came with it, the dizziness of intoxication that was pleasant until the sun rose. He was allowed to be angry. He was justified in his anger. Sweet. He wished he had it in writing.

"Yeah, I know. And then Hargrove would have had him, and you would've had to bury us, and...no, I get it, man. I get it. But it doesn't make-" hurt any less "-me any less angry."

He took another drink and scooted closer to Wash, mostly because sitting up was hard and he needed something to lean against. The wall was far; Wash was not. "You miss him, too?"