#*describe

The audio all of a sudden:

“Hold still!” Ben’s breath is strong enough to turn one sober man into a drunken fool in seconds and usually you would’ve gagged - if you weren’t just as intoxicated as he was.

“You hold still!” Ben’s head sways a bit before your vision. You’re not quite sure if it’s because everything sways or because his body moves from side to side without him seeming to notice.

Ben’s fast to reply with a brilliant answer of his own, “Shut up.” 

Your mouth gapes open, half because you think Rude! and half because you’re jealous you didn’t think of this yourself. Ben blows a concentrated huff of air through his lips, sending another alcoholic wave your way and adjusts the rifle on your shoulder. In all fairness you’re so close to him, he doesn’t even have to breathe in your general direction for you to smell the last two (or five) shots of tequila but you’re certainly close enough to see him blink irritated as he tries to squint through the scope. 

“Are you set already?” You wiggle a bit, your bottom hurting from sitting on the hard ground for so long, causing the rifle propped on your shoulder to move and smack Benny into his cheek.

“Ow! I said hold still!”

“This won’t work anyway.”

“It would if you could stop moving for two seconds!”

“What’s taking you so long then? You’re supposed to be the best shot in the unit!”

Ben props the rifle, again, setting it down harder this time, causing you to hiss at him - at least you try to. You feel metal scraping against your cheek, heat blasting the side of your face. In the distance, shouting ensures. There’s a lot of swearing from the other side of camp carried over to where you and Ben have set yourself up, and you both share a stunned expression. 

“It worked.” You whisper, turning around and eyeing the havoc you just caused, eyes wide with disbelief. “Holy shit, Ben. It worked!”

“Indeed. It did.” Ben’s beaming, chest puffed kneeling between your legs, starring proudly off into the distance - before he spins around and retches out the contents of his stomach beside you. 

You wake up, feeling as if you’d licked the whole goddamn desert in front of your tent, tongue dry and your mouth feeling all sorts of funny. Someone clears their throat in front of you. 

“Apparently, “ Redfly starts, standing at the end of your bed, hands crossed behind his back. “Someone shot the beer cooler of Sergeant White’s Team last night.” 

You blink an eye open, slowly lifting yourself up on your elbows. Everything’s too bright, too loud and also somehow still moving.

“Is that so?” Your voice also sounds like you licked the whole desert from top to bottom.

“Yes.” 

“Must’ve been a damn good shot.” You turn your head to Ben, who’s laying on his back beside you, one arm thrown over his face. He’s still fully clothed, even down to his boots. 

“Agreed.” You rub your eyes slowly, blinking up again. “And whoever did that deserves a medal. They’ve had it coming for a time now.” Redfly gives you a disapproving yet stern look and though he doesn’t show it, you’re sure he’s agreeing with you in silence. He glances around the room briefly before clearing his throat again, not able to keep his nose from wrinkling in disgust. 

“I’ll, uh … leave the door open.” You watch him stunned as he stalks over piles of clothes and bottles on the floor, dodging every single one on his way out. He’s almost out the door as he turns around, finger’s lifting and tapping his cheek, “You should get that checked out.”

You watch him leave in confusion, turning to Benny and ready to ask him what Redfly means by that - instead your questions get stuck in your throat as you see Ben’s starring at you. 

“Holy shit.” He whispers. He stretches out a  hand to touch your face but hovers over your skin without actually making contact. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean?” you shriek, scrambling to your feet to find a mirror. Once you do you understand Ben’s shock. Your right cheek sports a multicolored bruise, big enough to be caused by a grown man’s hand or a big rock. You carefully slide your fingers over the tightened skin, feeling a small cut in the middle of the bruise before turning to Benny slowly.

“Fuck, how drunk was I?”