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[nostalgiabomb]

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[nostalgiabomb]

[ A few thoughts lurch through his head when McCree wakes him.

First: Whose bed am I in right now?

Second: What the hell time is it?

Third: Is this fun pain or bad pain?

Because he wakes up stiff and aching, and while his deep sleep kept him from moving around too much, his broken arm throbs angrily at him, and his body feels like some giant picked him up and slammed him repeatedly into a brick wall. Bad pain, he decides. ]

Shit.

[ It’s the only coherent thought he offers, breathing in sharply through his nose and exhaling through his teeth as he waits for the ache to fade. The disorientation is enough to keep him from immediately reaching for his blasters – which wouldn't have been a fun start for either of their days –and he squints at McCree once he manages to wrench his eyes open. It takes some time, but the events of the past day or so come back to him, and he lets his head fall back against the pillows. ]

Shit. [ Maybe that’s how aliens say “Good morning”? ]

[twelveoclock]

[ That whole scene would almost be comical if McCree didn’t actually feel bad for the man. ]

You need a minute, or-? [ Or some high-end painkillers? ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He lets himself wallow in self-pity for another second or two more before pushing himself up into a sitting position.

His voice is rough with sleep when he speaks. ] What’s going on?

[twelveoclock]

Train's leavin' the station.

[ He motions to the Jeep outside with a jerk of his thumb ] Best get on it.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He grimaces for a second before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Apparently he’s in no hurry as he goes through the motions of gathering his own things. ]

Where are we going?

[twelveoclock]

Airport. [ In spite of his metaphor abut trains. ] Little private affair a coupla hours away.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He gets to his feet slowly, gratified to see his guns and jet attachments haven't been tampered with, and slides his blasters home into their customary holsters at his hips. ]

And after that?

[twelveoclock]

After that, we're gettin' on a plane.

[ This is payback for being a butt the night before. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Once he has everything he came in with moves toward the door, following McCree's lead.

He also says, ] You're an asshole, you know that?

[ but at least he says it brightly, so— he's probably just joking. Probably. ]

[twelveoclock]

I been called worse.

[ He grins around the unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, tossing his things in the back of the Jeep. He then slides into the driver's seat and motions to the radio. ] You can pick the station if ya want.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He eases himself into the passenger seat, doing one last check of his belongings; when McCree gestures, he follows his motion to the radio, and bites back the childish response of, "I don't even know what stations are what."

Instead, in a vague imitation of McCree's accent, ] Might kind of ya.

[ And he lands on what's probably some top 40s station – not that he's really listening to it, anyway. ]

So when do I get to know where we're actually going?

[twelveoclock]

[ McCree as very specific tastes in music, so it's probably for the best.

He starts up the Jeep and pulls out onto the road. ]

I gotta wonder how much it would really mean to ya, considerin' you're from space and all.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He snorts, settling into his seat. ]

I've got a vague idea.

[ Which is to say, what little geography he retained from his fourth grade education.

And more than a little cheekily, ] Besides, you already know it's not my first time at the rodeo.

[twelveoclock]

[ He gets the feeling that Peter’s mocking his speech patterns, but he doesn’t much care. He’s not the first, and he’s probably far from the last. ]

Just for my own sake, when was the last time you were at this rodeo?

[nostalgiabomb]

A while ago, like I said.

[ Time gets fuzzy, once you get accustomed to other tracking systems. So it's a dodge, yes, but also a way to avoid locking himself into some arbitrarily chosen number. ]

[twelveoclock]

You don’t got a date? A year or somethin’? Like, I dunno, 1988?

[ Well, that’s one way to bring it up. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ W E L P

Peter goes rigid in his seat for the span of a breath, before he fixedly stares out at the scenery zipping past. ]

Somewhere around there, maybe.

[twelveoclock]

Yeah? You enjoy yourself? I hear Missouri's nice in July.

[ please stop him ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Somehow, he freezes all the more, and slowly, he turns to look at McCree. There's a hardness in his eyes, something cold and blazing, that silently warns McCree away from this topic of conversation. ]

I don't know what you're talking about.

[twelveoclock]

[ That reaction tells him everything he needs to know, and he leans back in the driver’s seat a bit, glancing sidelong at Peter. ]

I’m not really sure I get why you’re bein’ so secretive about it. Not like I’m here to ship ya back there.

[nostalgiabomb]

Maybe my life and whatever shit you think you dug up on it isn't any of your fucking business. You ever think of that?

[ whoops. Looks like McCree found Peter's angry button. ]

[twelveoclock]

It became my business the second you crash-landed back on this planet. We’ll help you out, but that doesn’t mean we’re gonna do it without knowin’ thing one about ya.

[ In contrast to Peter’s anger, there’s nothing confrontational about McCree’s tone. This is just how it is. It’s just part of the job. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Something about McCree's voice, how neutral and flat it is, just makes Peter even more pissed. He makes a derisive noise – a puff of air between his teeth – looking away from the other man and back at the scenery. ]

Just so we're clear? I didn't want your help in the first place.

[twelveoclock]

Thanks for the newsflash. I ain't here to be your friend either, so be mad at me all ya want.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ With mock brightness, ] Already started on that one. Thanks, though.