Disclaimer: Do not own anything. All is Kripke/Abrams.

Miles has never been a good sleeper. The slightest noise can wake him up. As a Marine and now, on the run, trying to save his nephew, and having to protect the others, he needs to on his feet at a moment's notice.

Tonight is no different. He's asleep, in the middle of a dream—Nora would not appreciate to know she was the star, or maybe she would—and then a scratching sound catches his attention. When he gains consciousness, he reaches for the knife kept by his head, and listens. It reminds him of a rat digging through something. This is followed by soft clangs that finally make him lift his head. He hopes to god it isn't an animal, or worse, Militia.

Instead he finds Charlie hunched over his pack, throwing a random assortment of items onto the ground.

"Charlie!" he hisses as softly as he can, not wanting to wake Aaron or Nora up. Her head jerks around but she doesn't seem sheepish or apologetic like he would expect. Instead, she looks angry.

"What?" she's louder than he is, annoyed as if how dare he intrude on her rummaging through his pack. He blinks, noting the tone of her voice.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I know..." she speaks slowly, a little slurred, and he sits up completely, rubbing his hand over his face, "You've got some more!"

"More what?"

"That... that stuff. Maggie said so." she waves a hand vaguely towards the extinguished fire and he sees moonlight glinting off something. He leans forward, reaching, and picks up his now empty bottle of Glenfiddich.

"Charlie."

"Mmm?"

"Did you drink this?"

"Mhmm."

He tips it over sadly, not even a drop dripping out.

"All of it?"

"Mhmm."

"By yourself?"

She snorts at his disbelief and he stares at her. She stares back, then turns to his pack once more and begins digging again.

"Why... why's there nothing left?" she asks, leaning close to the opening.

"Charlie,"

"What?" she whines, glancing at him in exasperation. Then she cocks her head and pushes herself into a standing position. She stumbles and he goes to grab her but she falls onto her knees right in front of him and is staring with a frown. "You... you... you gotta have some more."

She reaches forward, hands going towards his shirt and he quickly grabs her.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to find that stuff. You own a... a... a... what are they? Probly hidin' it on you." she tries to pull her wrists out of his grasp but he only holds her tighter.

"Unfortunately you drank all the alcohol."

She makes a scoffing sound at this as if she does not believe him and he rolls his eyes upward, silently wondering what he ever did in life to deserve this. He always assumed his sins would be rewarded with death or violent torture, not babysitting his drunken angsty niece.

"That was a full bottle."

"Yeah, so?"

He gazes at her for a long moment and she scowls at him, eyes dark with annoyance. A smirk slowly begins to form on his face.

"Have you ever drank before?"

"Yes!" she tries to sound indignant, then makes a face. "...no."

"So you decide to down an entire bottle of Glenfiddich for your first time. How you feeling? Bet it didn't go down so well the first sip or so."

She scrunches up her nose, trying to think back to the first sip. Maybe it did burn. Maybe some of it is spat out on the side, making mud near her bedroll.

"Are you even old enough to drink?"

She looks insulted, partially by the fact that he's her uncle and has no idea how old she is-what the hell kind of uncle is he?- and partially by the fact that he thinks she's too young.

"No age limit anymore." because yes, maybe she has a month or two, or twelve, until she hits 21, which is what she's been told used to be the drinking age. Now, Monroe couldn't care less. He had bigger things than a few drunken teenagers to worry about like guns and anarchy and electricity.

"Yes there is. Here, with me, there is."

"What's that?"

"Forty."

"Oh yeah! Make it big enough that only you get to drink. You smell like a bar."

That may be true but he hasn't touched a drop in a month, not since that night in Chicago when he massacred a platoon of Militia.

"Yes, well, apparently us old folk are the only ones who understand limitations and realize that we're being hunted at every moment so not being inebriated will help from getting captured or killed." his voice is a little sharper than he intended but it seems to prove his point. She hangs her head a little and he continues, "What if we got attacked right now? Would you be able to shoot that cross bow?"

"Yes!"

"Yeah, maybe you'll find the trigger but you'd probably shoot yourself in the process. Or me."

"Like that'd be a loss." she mutters. He rolls his eyes again and holds her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him.

"Listen. I know you're upset about Maggie. I know you're upset about Danny and your dad and this whole thing completely sucks. However, it's no-" she suddenly cuts him off by putting her entire hand over his face. Around the edges of her fingers, he can see her expression has changed from the mixture of annoyance and anger to one of nausea.

"I I don't feel..." she stops speaking, gags a little, and he pushes her hand off his face.

"Over there." he turns her away from him and his bedroll-no way in hell he's sleeping in vomit- and she hunches over, heaving.

"Charlie?" Aaron's voice from across the fire catches Miles's attention and he looks over to find him half sitting.

"She's okay. Just got a little sick. I got her."

Aaron nods, lies back down, and Miles looks back to his niece. She's breathing hard, mixed with a little crying, and he wants to scold her but can't.

"You're going to feel like shit in the morning." he tells her quietly. "Plus, next city we find, you owe me a bottle."

"Go to hell."

So apparently, she's an angry drunk. Maybe he'll skip on hiding more alcohol in his bag.

"Come on," he pulls her back gently and forces her into a lying position on her side, back facing him. "Stay here tonight so I can keep an eye on you. If you need to hurl, aim it in the other direction. Got it?"

She nods weakly on the ground and he lies down on his back, running a hand over his face. A few minutes later, he hears her moan pathetically and kicks him in her scrambling to sit up. It's going to be a long night.

"Hey," he nudges her in the knee with his foot. "Charlie, come on. Up and at 'em."

She groans miserably, tugging the thin blanket over her face.

"Oh no. We need to pack up." he reaches down and tears the blanket off her. In addition to being bright and sunny, there's a slight chill in the air. She curls into herself, clamping her eyes shut tightly. "Plus we've got a lot of ground to cover. Let's go."

"I..." she can't even finish her sentence.

"Feel like shit? Want to die? Never going to drink poor ol' Uncles Miles's alcohol again?" he gives her several options and he watches as her face crumples into aggravation. "Are you going to do this again? Well, let me rephrase that. If there was any more, which there isn't and won't be because I'm not taking this chance again, would you do this again?"

"No," she whispers.

"What?"

"No," a little louder.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"NO dammit!" she shrieks, then whimpers, pressing a hand to her head, "Please don't do this."

He throws her a look of sympathy and holds a bottle of water down to her.

"Drink all of that."

"Thank you." she slowly sits up and twists the cap off. "For y'know, sitting with me. You didn't have to."

"Oh." kind, gentle Charlie has returned. Thank God. "So you don't want to shoot me with your crossbow or for me to go to hell?"

"Did I say that?"

"In so many words." he looks amused at the idea that she can't remember what she said last night but knows he was with her.

She cringes and he's not sure if its from embarrassment or how she's feeling.

"Hey, no worries. You learned a valuable lesson. Just get cleaned up and let's hit the road."