Falco brought his fingers to his forehead and kneaded at the deep pain that festered within the depths of his brain. The headache had begun after they started the journey back to Corneria. The trip had only lasted a few hours, but it took its toll.
He was exhausted, and every fiber of his body felt it. His travels had taken him from Corneria to Kew to Hell and back, and a good night's sleep had eluded him since he left. He'd figured a drink would be just the thing to calm his nerves and numb his headache, but after sitting down at the table, his mind was changed by forces unknown. Alcohol never really was his thing.
The host came back with a pitcher of ice water, a bottle of the hard stuff, and four glasses. Falco watched as Wolf poured the water into three of the glasses, and watched even closer as Fox poured his liquor. He drank it straight.
"Slow down; I don't want to be dragging you out of here by your ass," Falco muttered to him.
He didn't answer.
Falco wasn't new to seeing Fox drink. Every time something bad happened to him, every time that woman of his left him, he'd be reeling around the Great Fox with a bottle in his hand for the next few weeks, moping in his room for days, puking in the hallways and pissing in his bed. It always fell to Falco to lead him back to his room should he wander out, and it always fell to Falco to take away his drinks when they had work to do, to slap his best friend in the face and tell him straight that he was a mess, to shout violently at the closest thing he'd ever had to family.
And here it was, happening again.
It occurred to Falco that he couldn't remember a time in the last decade he'd slept well, and figured he'd had this headache the whole time as well.