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[nostalgiabomb]

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[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.

[twelveoclock]

[ Well, this sure makes for a tense ride to the airport, but McCree seems unfazed. He doesn't do the things he does so that people will like him, after all.

The airport is little more than a single hangar and a runway, barely an airport at all, though the singular plane taking up residence there looks really out of place given how large it is.

McCree pulls right onto the runway, and into the open bay on the back of the jet itself. There, they're greeted by a blonde woman who gives McCree quite the Look when she notices Peter. ]

Put him in kinda a bad mood, sorry Angie.

[ She just rubs her temples and mutters, What am I going to do with you, Jesse? Then she moves around to Peter's side of the Jeep and asks for him to follow her. She'll lead him to a medbay, but it's at least away from McCree? The flight is well under way once the doctor releases Peter from her clutches, but give that she's the best at what she does, that broken arm should me no more than a mended bone and a dull ache.

The jet is likely a holdover from the glory days, and McCree can be found sprawled on the couch, hat pulled down over his eyes. By all accounts he looks like he's asleep, until he says, ] Doc get ya patched up?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Peter hasn't been on an airplane before.

Well, not a Terran one, anyway. He's been on transport ships and spaceships and air cars and a lot of variations therein, but an actual airplane on planet Earth? Not so much. Even so, he's pretty sure most planes don't look like this, based on his limited experience of what he's seen in movies and on TV.

His sour mood doesn't give him much room to appreciate it, though, and even the presence of Dr. Ziegler, hot as she is, does little to lighten his mood. He at least makes a concerted effort to not bite her head off, since she seems inclined to help patch him up. By the time she finishes and the worst of the pain is gone, Peter's slightly less surly. Still pissed at this shitty situation, sure, but at least less likely to pull a gun on someone.

When he wanders into the cabin, finding McCree on the couch, he takes a seat in one of the armchairs. At McCree's question, Peter holds up his recently broken arm, gives it an experimental stretch and feels only a light twinge.

A little gruffly, ] Seems like it.

Didn't know you had this level of medical tech here.

[twelveoclock]

Angie's a genius. Best in the world.

But I reckon you're used to all sorts a' space medicine.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He hesitates, then looks out the window, elbow resting on the arm's chair, hand propping up his chin. ]

Yeah, maybe. [ Another hesitation, followed by a shrug. ] Not a lot of doctors know what to do with a human patient, so this is a nice change.

[twelveoclock]

[ McCree hauls himself up to a sit, setting his hat aside on the arm of the couch. ]

You the only one out there, or are there more?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ A quick, sidelong glance McCree's way before he redirects his attention. ] I'm not the only one, no, but I'm the only one I know.

[ He gestures vaguely. ]

Guess we're all pretty spread out, whoever else is out there.

[twelveoclock]

Must get lonely.

Sounds like ya got yourself a team, though.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He shrugs a shoulder. ]

We're no Overwatch, but, yeah. We make do.

[twelveoclock]

Overwatch ain't the best measure of a team, trust me.

If y'all got each others backs, there's nothin' more you could ask for.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ This time when he turns, he gives McCree a long, measuring look, expression mostly neutral, before letting out a breath. ]

You ever gonna tell me where we're actually going?

[twelveoclock]

Gibraltar. That's where Winston's at, and the tech t' hail your crew.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ For all his talk of having a vague idea of where things are, Peter frowns at the mention of Gibraltar, clearly at a loss. ]

That's where your headquarters are, or whatever?