The smell of weed fills the air as you smoke your joint, sitting on top of the infirmary in the spot you made your own. Soon you hear heavy booted steps behind you, soon you can smell that oh so familiar scent of your Lieutenant.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

His British accent comes out and rings through your ears, he leans against the ledge of the roof. Both of your leaves got denied, stuck at the base a million miles away from home for Christmas.