[ Clint accepts the bottle easily, not taking a drink just yet. Instead, he heaves a sigh, turning the bottle between his hands, staring at the clear liquid. He's got all of his mental walls up, stitched tight, prickly with lingering irritation. But it eases a little, with distance, with Bellamy's calm regard.
He drinks, one shoulder sloping in a shrug. Yeah, definitely moonshine, miles better than any of the shit they had in the circus. The drink helps a bit more, but not necessarily because of the kick. It's just strangely familiar, the unwind from rough missions, Nat swiping a bottle from between his fingers, the reassurance they're alive.
Tradition. He proffers the drink, a silent question. Silent regard. ]
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He drinks, one shoulder sloping in a shrug. Yeah, definitely moonshine, miles better than any of the shit they had in the circus. The drink helps a bit more, but not necessarily because of the kick. It's just strangely familiar, the unwind from rough missions, Nat swiping a bottle from between his fingers, the reassurance they're alive.
Tradition. He proffers the drink, a silent question. Silent regard. ]