They sat on the ship's cargo ramp and relaxed for a while, saying nothing. The wheels were turning in Max's head. He was always at his best when he had a lead to sink his teeth into. For her part, Sam elected to enjoy the peace and quiet. It felt like hubris, and she embraced it. She was much too tired for humility. After the constant stress of their mad dash across the stars, a moment's rest seemed like just what they needed. Something was missing, though. Sam began mentally running through her guilty-pleasures checklist. The ship didn't have a bathtub, she wanted to ration her remaining cigarettes carefully, she doubted Gorth Station had access to chocolate, and... well, certain other comforts would be exceedingly unprofessional and generally unwise to pursue. However, that did leave one option. Max didn't react when she got up and went to the stolen car sitting dormant in their stolen ship, and barely glanced at her when he heard the trunk unlatch. But the clink of wine bottles drew his attention at once, and when Sam offered him a bottle of white, he graced her with the rarely-seen roguish grin that usually meant they were about to do something very stupid and very cathartic.
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