"Can I help you?"

Go Away Minuano

His words came out just as sharply and full of vitriol as he'd intended them to. It had been a very long week. After dealing with failures on the field and several piles of paperwork that his equally overworked secretary had filled out for him, he'd been long since ready to be left to his own devices.

Failure wasn't anything he was particularly fond of. It soiled streaks of success rather quickly and would always leave a sharp taste in his mouth that was unpleasant in comparison to whiskey supported currently in man-made digits. There was always the added weight of it reaching his supervisor.

That was a thought he'd rather thoroughly been attempting to tune out in its entirety. At least that had been the original plan before his door had been parted–a set of eyes peering at him that belonged to Minuano. He hadn't locked it after his right-hand woman had left for several reasons–one of them being that most weren't ballsy enough to simply help themselves to stepping into the Cambodian's sanctuary.

He received no initial response from the always at-ease Brazilian sword fighter. Instead he'd playfully winked which had earned him a response of artificial eyes rolled in his direction.

"Go away Minuano," he hissed as he slid back another shot.

"You broke out the booze and didn't tell me?" he almost wined as he drew the office door closed behind him. Samuel always did enjoy playing with fire.

"I wasn't aware I needed to inform anyone I was drinking."

"Aww, c'mon, don't be like that. It's no fun getting smashed by yourself. What's on your mind, boss man?"

"That's a fairly long laundry list at this point, Sam. Its also not one I want to think about..."

"Well that's why the booze is out," Sam laughed. "But hey, it's a good reason for it. Want some company?"

'If I were to drink every time I felt like this. Ha,' the Cambodian thought silently as scarred eyes traveled to Sam.

"If you insist on not leaving me to my own devices, then fine. I'm in no mood to throw you down the hallway," he shrugged with the same sour look.

Unceremoniously the Brazilian came to plop down next to his senior officer.

"Whatcha' got there, anyway?" he inquired as artificial fingers of his right arm casually pointed to the bottle. "Jack? Jose Cuervo?"

"Jack," he answered sliding the bottle across the small space between the two bodies. The shot glass he'd been occupied with was slid in his direction, very purposefully, with a single index finger. He didn't feel like getting up to get another.

While Sam helped himself, brilliant blues turned back towards his window as he took in the skyscrapers levels lower than their own. Marshal was one of the tallest buildings in the whole city, but he could see the tops of a few.

Sam made a noise of approval immediately picking the bottle up. "Didn't take you for a Jack kind of man. Figured you'd be into...Remy, or that fancy stuff with the stupid names."

"I don't mind drinking whatever I can get my hands on, Sam," he said in a quiet, less annoyed tone, now that his door was closed.

"I've had everything from fancy to dregs. This isn't too tasteless as compared to nameless brands of whiskey, even if it doesn't go down quite as smooth as brandy or bourbon. I didn't feel the need for luxury tonight," he shrugged.

The Captain simply plucked the bottle up into artificial fingers and took a hit off of it the old fashioned way. He very much doubted the Brazilian cared, especially not since he minded using a shot glass that he'd used prior anyway.