Fingers clutching the cool crystal, Illyana swirled the amber liquid you had poured, breathing in the contents: hints of sweet orange, the licorice from the fernet, the warmth of the bourbon, like a roasting fire. Warmth. Just about the last thing Illyana was feeling at that moment, especially not when she was left in your hands.

"Thanks for the drink," she murmured, sheepish. Sounding as if such an admittance of gratitude was defeat. To her, it was. She made sure to neck the liquor down before you could finish your own — evening the score. You didn't notice. You never did. Sometimes it felt like Illyana was arguing with a brick wall: her continuous efforts to rattle you in anyway proving fruitless. You had no need to be rattled, no, not when you won every sparring match, lead every team, got selected for every battle. Over her. So of course you had accepted being paired up with her for the latest mission so graciously.

"Those Pyjamas look stupid," she mumbled, looking over the rim of the glass. Trying to get one over you again. Or really, for the first time.