((Bahaha, I'd be kinda worried if you had. But know the struggle is real!))
Griff nodded, his mind never once going to the idea of a nurse being a derogatory profession for a male. Clearly that was just an American thing. Some of the of the best people Griff had known had been set nurses and say what you will about their motivations, but they generally jumped into action faster than the medics.
“Should we sign in blood?” Griff joked. “Or is this more of a ‘cut our palms and shake on it’ sort of deal?” He did appreciate the others caution though and made a mental note to try and watch what he drank. The other thing alcohol was no good for was clotting blood and Griff would be pretty pissed if he started leaking through his stitches.
Griff balked at the choices. He’d never been a rum man and tequila was one of those things he stayed away from. Brought back memories of being far too young to drink and waking up in a much too awkward position; Griff shuddered.
“Guess there’s no chance of a dram o’ scotch whiskey? 21 years, slightly oaked?” Ever since this whole zombie thing hit, Griff had been craving the simple things that reminded him of home. He was aware that the chances of ever getting back to Wales were slim to none and somehow that made the idea of windy days and Scotch Whiskey and drunken Irishmen all the more appealing.
Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers and in a moment of reckless abandon – something that his generally uptight self-discipline was letting happen more often – he pointed at the bottle of tequila. Go hard or go home, he told himself.