Four hours ago, Hank had been in the heat of battle. The mystery woman and her pet had given his team a thorough workout, to say the least, and his whole body ached as a result. It'd taken all of the past four hours to handle the situation and deal with the aftermath. He'd come directly from the medical center, where Charlie had been admitted. Her wounds were nothing threatening, but seeing a part of his team in that condition was frustrating all the same.
It was time for a drink.
He quietly settled down into a chair near the professor, balancing a bottle of Red Stripe and a shot of rum in one hand, a tall shot of Jameson's in the other. He set the whiskey down in front of his older comrade, because god was it sad to do a shot alone.
"Time to man up, Clarke." Hank forced a grin, holding his own shot up in a small salute to his friend. He hurt all over, but he wasn't about to let it show tonight. He'd learned a long time ago to leave everything on the battlefield, and that included that pain.
He chose to ignore Leon's anger for the moment as he raised his glass toward the rest of the table both as a toast and greeting. He was determined to make this a good night.