The last mission was long.

It was unbearably long, and the two of you had been living off of MREs and odd-tasting water for what seemed like eons. So sitting at a pub together was the equivalent of getting sorted into Elysium. Neither of you had family to go back to, yet together, it felt like it.

"So I had told 'er, I told 'er, 'if you're tracking this, let's call an airstrike,' " Simon finishes his sentence, taking another gulp of his beer while you chuckled mid-bite of your burger.