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Dawn is just barely tinging the horizon when you zip up your flight suit.
Under any other circumstances, you’d take the time to admire the seemingly infinite number of stars gracing the sky: you never see this many stars, on land, with the light pollution seeping from city streets and headlights and runways.
It is bitingly cold.
The wind that kept you up for most of the night, mercilessly howling along the flanks of the carrier, has finally died down, leaving only an icy calm. It’s a little unsettling.
You puff up your cheeks and blow on your frozen fingers, trying to coax them into cooperation. Five minutes from now, Quantum will call you to attention and do that unnerving thing she always does when the mission’s tricky: hold eye contact with each of you for a few long moments.
Call you up to the plate.
You’re struggling with the clasps on your harness, your stiff fingers almost losing their grip on your oxygen mask, when Hangman steps in.
Naturally, he’s ready before anyone else: Strapped in, buckled up, not a hair out of a place. Looking like he was born to be here.
You glance up at him, but he won’t meet your eyes. Wordlessly, he fastens your mask in place, secures your clasps with deft fingers.
It would annoy you, usually: it’s part and parcel of his relentless know-it-all nature. Showing off.
This morning, though, something about the way he’s biting his lower lip tells you this is not that.
He looks vaguely otherworldly, his skin tinged with that eerie shade of blue light you’ve only ever seen here, at sunrise, in the middle of the Bering Sea.
He checks your comms line, and then his hand stills just above the patch bearing your name. He’s still not meeting your eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on your shoulder.
Incongruously, a million miles from home, he smells perfectly ordinary: Like Sierra mint, and Tide pods. The recognition disentangles something deep in your chest.
“Seresin.” You say, gently, over the fracas of the grounds crew moving into formation across deck.
He looks up, finally, and you’ve never seen this expression on his face: Slightly defiant. Vulnerable.
Experimentally, like you’re watching yourself do it, you close your cold hand over his, still sitting lightly on your collarbone. Watch as he swallows, deeply, his throat bobbing.
“Be careful out there,” he says, clipped, to your joined hands.
“Worry about yourself, Lieutenant,” you reply, smiling slightly, in spite of the bitter cold, in spite of the mayhem the next forty-five minutes are about to bring.
Jake Seresin. Who fucking knew.
“Attention, Gamma One!” Quantum calls out, her voice ringing out clearly above the general commotion on deck, the sound of the waves surrounding the mammoth carrier picking up speed.
Where you woke up feeling apprehensive, now you find it in you to be brave. You squeeze his hand, lightly, calling his eyes back to yours. Already, you are waiting seconds too long to join the rest of your squad at Quantum’s side.
“Come on.” You say, hoping your smile conveys what you won’t say.
He nods, and something in his jaw seems to unclench. He gives your shoulder a final tap, then lets go.
The first rays of daylight hit the deck as you make your way to your Commanding Officer, Jake at your heel, come what may.