When he woke up, he was laying the wrong way across the bed, and the first thing he noticed was that the whiskey was still capped. In fact it's the first thing he noticed, since it was mostly full, pressed against his nose in the indent his head made in the old mattress.
"Turns out I was wrong."
He picked his head up, and pushed himself up on his elbows.
She was still sprawled on the couch. He looked at her a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong with her, until he noticed the empty Med-x in her hand, and the haze of drugs across her face.
"Woulda been better off with you. Staying the course." She laughed. It was soft and breathy. Sick and yellow sounding. The syringe rolled from her fingers onto the floor. "Damn stupid."
He didn't respond. Didn't have anything to say.
She is damn stupid.
And he's damn pissed, he realizes.
Even though he didn't touch the whiskey, there's a pack of cigarettes by the door for a good reason, and he struggled up, his back protesting the odd angle he slept at. He took a few moments to shove his boots back on his feet and stood up.
"Van Graffs." Her words were a little too long.
"What?" His voice came out too sharp, too loud.
"Took care of the Van Graffs." She repeated herself. Her eyes glazed a little more as she seemed to focus on getting the words out.
"We did good work, Boone." There's something off about her voice. Something more than just the way the morphine she just injected was making her tongue drag along her lips.
Shit. He didn't want to look at her.
Didn't want to think about her lips.
He didn't want to look at the tears in her dull eyes. Didn't want to admit that it bothered him. For god's sake, she left him, left him at the fucking Outpost.
"Great." He said. He picked up his cigarettes and went outside.
The sun was brighter than he expected. He hadn't realized it was almost midday.
He only had a few cigarettes left, and most of them were pretty bent, faded in the sun, so he picked one out and started trying to get his lighter to work. At least he'd found a pack of menthols.
By the time he got the cigarette lit, he was standing in front of another door.
The courier's door.
God damnit.
She left him, he reminded himself. She left, and who gave a damn that she came right back? She left, and that's what mattered.
He sighed and knocked his ash off on her doorstep. Kicked it into the cracked concrete.
Shit.
He leaned against the door and took another drag of the cigarette and convinced himself that he didn't need to hide in her room again.
Hell, he just got himself to leave her room three days ago, he wasn't about to go back. No point in going back.
He slid down to the ground and sat.
Nothing left if you go back.
Right?
