“You’re getting tequila. Don’t ever insult a Mexican’s tequila, pendejo.” Sombra grinned and poured him a shot. “You’ve never had good tequila, probably. You’ll like this.”
She brought over the bottle and took a shot for herself, then reached out to get the jacket the rest of the way off. Turning it so the back was facing Soldero, she pointed at the 76. “See? When you’re trying really hard to be a masked superhero, so no one knows your identity, the most important thing is this: branding.”
Sombra poured another shot for herself. “Here, mijito, let’s look at your arm. You need healing. Take that shot and I’ll get my kit. Take off your mask, too. If I have to put up with your man stink, then so do you.”
She turned away and smiled to herself, not mentioning that she liked his stink. He smelled like sex and chiles to her, like candy and dia de los muertos. Like falling asleep in a summer rain.
Why was she feeling this way about him? Sombra knew she had to stop, that she couldn’t get attached. He wasn’t going to stay.
She opened the kit and pulled out a wrap, then turned back to Soldero. “Okay, it doesn’t look like much, but that’s so no one steals it.” Sombra held out the wrap and waited for him to offer his arm. “You’ll just need to hold still and it might sting at first. But that’s what the tequila’s for.”
Once the wrap was tight around his arm, Sombra pulled up her interface and started to type. Little trails of purple interacted with the wrap and soft boops and beeps dotted the room. “Okay, so it tells me it’s going to take a few minutes. Take a shot and tell me that’s not the tastiest tequila you’ve ever had.”
“The number’s not for branding, it’s important to me. And I’m not a superhero, I’m a soldier.” There was no hurt in the way he spoke, although his voice was quiet and tired. The wound was sore, but it ached too.
He sighed and held out the injured arm, removing his mask with the other, then looked at her, blue eyes faintly amused. “I had to take it off anyway. How else was I gonna take that shot?”
Morrison grimaced in anticipation of the tequila, recalling more than one occasion when he’d puked from the stuff, but Sombra was right and this one went down smooth. The drink caused him to take a deep inhale and he grimaced again, this time at his body odor.
“Jesus. Sorry, I didn’t realize I stank that much. I smell like … Detroit, or something.”
The soldier stopped talking to look at the bandage she held up, his features clamping into a puzzled frown. She was right, it sure didn’t look like much, but he felt it working as soon as she put it on. It stung, as promised, and it burned a little too. Still, not the worst pain he’d ever felt, but enough for him to reach for the second little glass.
“Post time,” he muttered, just like when he and Gabe tried to out-drink each other back in the day. Morrison picked up the shot and held out toward Sombra. She looked a little smug, but that seemed a standard expression for her. “You’re right, this is decent – so sit down and tell me where’s your shot? Because I’m sure as hell not drinking alone.”
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