Pilot's Flask - a bar on LA

[Jane Hartman]

"I can let it go once. Not sure if our guest can." She nodded across the table at the still swaying Andrew Wheatfield. Agitation rippled through her at the intrusion, but she quashed the emotion, filing the aggression away. There were, after all, the people she had given up nineteen years for. Bars had a way of making her doubt the wisdom of that course.

"You look well, Lewis." Hartman stood, a smile rippling across her scarred face as she engulfed Lewis in a hug firm enough that she could feel her coat buttons through her shirt. Plenty of soldiers she had served with had handed their fitness in with their discharge paperwork, muscle giving way to fat as the luxuries of civilian life took hold. Lewis wasn't quite there yet, though his features were softer than they had been when they'd last met. After a moment she relaxed her grip, stepping back to survey the distance between them. "You've been keeping alright?"

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