#replies;maxwell

“You know, I don’t think this is actually food-” Maxwell grumbles as he holds the packet of dehydrated (and subsequently re-hydrated with kettle water) provisions in one hand, the other stabbing at it with a plastic fork. With a grumble he scoops up some of the slop with his utensil, letting it plop back into the packet with the sort of consistency he’d imagine a giant’s snot to take... only with small sausages floating in it. 

Above them the baking Afghan sun was kept at bay by a dessert camo tarpaulin, casting a little shadow over rows of benches in the make shift mess hall, filled with hot sweaty bodies equally grumbling about the food. Even covered as he was, Maxwell had to be careful to keep his pale-skinned shoulders and neck out of the sun, so had opted for a backwards cap and had his light khaki t-shirt on with his desert camouflage over-shirt tied around his middle. His dog tags sit against a darkening of fabric from his sweat, curved around the outline of his muscles. 

Grinning triumphantly, hands still on his hips, Maxwell looks back at the Staff Sargent with his chest puffed. A boyish, playful glint in his eyes as getting out there, in the mud and sand, rolling around with his team and working towards a common goal, against a common enemy of other militants just as focused as him - it was fun. Sure they weren’t called war games because they were meant to be fun, but after the boring hours in base camp, filled intermittently with the terrifying adrenaline of missions out where an IED could blow him to smithereens, this was a fun change of pace. 

Happily snatching up the paint as he’s bade closer, Maxwell nods and crouches down in front of the other and starts smearing his fingertips with the brown and black make up. “I’ll keep an eye out for you, don’t worry” he says, teasingly. Of course the sniper’s whole situation was to not be seen, but with Lugo being so serious, he couldn’t not be jovial about it. They were on opposing teams, sure, and their friendship ended as soon as the whistle was blown, but he rather thinks the older American has a soft spot for him and this was his way of telling him. 

Fighting is not new to Maxwell. He’s camped out in foxholes, wrestled toe to toe with the enemy and seen his fair share of blood shed... but nothing like this. 

“Fuck, CHRIST-!” The ex-infantry man yells as his fists, now bloodied by this point, land another punch against this twisted creeps jaw and though he goes down, he still refuses to stay down. 

Maxwell had stumbled out of a bar, as he was prone to do on really any night of the week, as his sad-sack of a life continues to spiral and like all hopeless fools, he finds solace in the bottom of a bottle, or the warm body of another. Only this night the drink wasn’t sitting right and his sour mood had scared away any potential interest so he’d decided to cut his losses, and head home. Stepping out of the bar, he’d almost missed it - the quiet commotion in an alley not far away until he glances over to see two people pressed close, a strangled scream, and what looked like the other bite their neck. “What the fuck?” He’d cursed under his breath, before the soldier in him kicked in, and he moved forward to intervene. No matter how drunk and broken, he never could stand to see someone attacked when he could help. 

"Mnn.." Maxwell mumbles his reply, evidently not present as he stands by the kitchen counter, head lightly bowed and hands outstretched but his eyes are unseeing and his hands trembling. The tremble runs up to his shoulders, as he's stood stock still, disassociating, before finally Lugo's voice manages to cut through the fog and drag him back in that magical way only his gruff tone ever really did.

"There's just so much sugar-" Maxwell shakes his head as he stands at the breakfast bar of his small apartment, a bottle of bourbon next to his mixing bowl, along with eggs and heavy cream and a Lugo flittering around impatiently.