"We ain't all drunks and useless men, you know. Us who do drink."

He sounded almost defensive. It was hard not to be, really, when he'd spent the last few years fighting tooth and sword not to be the sort of jumped-up ranker who ends up wasting away with the baggage train, a bottle of brandy tucked under his arm. Battlefield commissions were given to drink -- it was a truth well known and well discussed.

"Some of us just want to have a decent time after all the cannons are done ravaging the air with their noise. With friends, like."

He crossed into the kitchen and grabbed a seat at the table. Not quite managing to mutter a thank you.