Honey I'm hooooome, rang the sweet bell of the successful raiding party returning home with their spoils of the day. Another successful day of watching over some experienced, some helpless fools alike out on the dangerous run down wasteland. It was a lot more up close than his not-so-long-ago days in the Marines when he used to be an urban sniper, but war has changed. Still, there has never been a time where a trained eye and unerring aim is so needed. Bringing home the bacon & booze, so to speak, Maverick struts in with the rest of the raiding party, all smiles and upturned chin. His bag is packed fucking full of clinking glass bottles, a merry jingle as he walks by that lets everyone know he's got the good stuff. It is taken away by the survivors working the kitchen, to be stored away in the group's storage stash, but not before Maverick slipped in his own little treat. From storage, it is just short walk around the office building until he's in the makeshift infirmary where his favorite doctor's on duty at this time. Well, there's only two of you, so it's kind of a toss up, but hey, let him charm ya like that.
Barging in by pushing the door open with his booted feet, then walking in with hands behind his back looking mighty innocently suspect. "Ayy, Doc..." wiggle of his brows lets him know he's up to no good. "I'm losin' lotta, lotta blood. I need a, uhh, I dunno, fluids? real bad. Git the shot glasses ready, stat!" Hands coming into light from out behind him, unveiling a Jack Daniels whiskey bottle--big one, too. Figured they'd shop in bulk from the stores, that normally goes unsold. Jack was pretty standard fare back in the day, but in the apocalypse, it may as well be liquid gold. "Just what the doctor ordered."
