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The training exercise has taken them deep into the forest, and despite the full gear and demanding hike, the men are treating it as a camping trip. They’re acting no better, reverting back to schoolboys that MacTavish is supposed to be in charge of.
They’ve set up their waterproof ponchos as modest shelters from the elements, attached to the trees in a tiny clearing they’ve occupied. The terrain looks much the same in every direction, not that their line of sight reaches very far with the density of the trees, and they’ve only chosen this place because they happened to end up here when MacTavish resolved to stop for the day.
It’s simply luck that an old tree has fallen over, half way to rotting, but still intact enough to be rolled over as a makeshift bench. Their cargo is laid out on the soft ground, filled with pine needles and pine cones and drying leaves. The oncoming autumn and the dry weather for the past week means there’s more than enough sticks laying around that the men were building a campfire before MacTavish could order them otherwise.
He doesn’t bother to now either, watching them coax the fire bigger and bigger so they can heat their ten-year-old MREs on it, shoved into their packs before they reach their expiry date and they’re not supposed to be handed out anymore. Their faces are still streaked with sweated off camo paint, green and brown and black greasepaint reflecting in the firelight, smeared on hands and arms as they grapple with each other between preparing their food for no other reason than to tussle around.
There’s another group out there who they are supposed to be tracking, some game of cat and mouse that no one takes as seriously as it should be taken. MacTavish thinks he has better things to do than camp out here in the wilderness. He’s slept rough enough times that this mild autumn weather leans more towards enjoyable than a hardship, yet there’s no one doing the paperwork that’s left sitting on his desk while he’s sent out here.
He shoves his fork into the plastic packaging, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Meat with his brows up to his hairline, leaning so close to the fire he’s nearly in it as he gapes at Ozone at the other side. “You haven’t had clams?”
Ozone makes a face at him. “That’s some posh shit.”
“Nah, you can get them everywhere if you– not once?”
“Sounds disgusting,” Scarecrow chimes in with a grimace.
“It doesn’t really taste of anything.”
“Yeah, but consider this,” Archer starts, holds up his fork as he waits for eyes to settle on him, before he comes out with, “octopus.”
“Where did you eat octopus?” Ozone bumps him harshly in the shoulder while Scarecrow pretends to heave and Worm wrinkles his nose.
“Can’t be worse than those cockroaches,” Meat adds, and Scarecrow makes a show of slapping his hand in front of his mouth, Archer grimacing fiercely. Ozone shakes his head and gives Meat the middle finger for reminding them of that unfortunate occasion. MacTavish had the pleasure of only hearing the bitching about it later, since captains were afforded better food than bugs.
“Have you guys ever eaten worms?”
The over-the-top acting suddenly stops as all eyes turn to Worm. He sits with his arse on the ground, legs crossed, and his MRE pack in his lap, since Scarecrow and Meat stole the sizeable log for themselves and Archer is using the side as a backrest. He meets the silence with wide innocent eyes.
“What?”
Scarecrow scoffs, shaking his head at him. “You are never beating the allegations.”
“What allegations?” Worm asks, sitting upright. His brows draw together into a furrow that somehow makes him look even younger. “What, what are they saying about me?”
“Remember when we made kale into a smoothie?” Ozone cuts in and Scarecrow grabs for his throat again.
MacTavish is only vaguely listening to the recounting of the events, following from the corner of his eye as they gag pretentiously, comparing the nastiest things they’ve eaten all the while shovelling down lukewarm pasta that has sat in storage for a decade. He took something resembling rice for himself. It has no taste so it doesn’t bother him, and it’s warm which is an improvement from a lot of meals he’s had.
He simply watches the campfire flicker, coals smouldering in the makeshift firepit. There’s mud under Scarecrow and Archer’s fingernails, all too excited to dig into the ground so they could set something aflame. Ozone keeps poking at it with a large stick he found, achieving nothing but determinedly stabbing at the burning twigs anyway.
If the opposition spots them, they’ll move away. MacTavish knows the captain of the squad they’re against and knows that he likes to play it safe to the extent it ceases to be safe, especially since they took down what had to be half their squad in a mock firefight earlier this day. Not to mention that he has insider information about where they’re supposed to be heading – information he will keep to himself until his team figures it out on their own.
MacTavish empties his MRE with efficiency, ignoring the teasing and goading that’s suddenly being directed Scarecrow’s way in an attempt to, MacTavish assumes, make him genuinely heave. He sets his empty package aside and puts the other one he’s kept beside himself in the pot of boiling water. Pasta and chicken, a valuable commodity.
“Where’s Ghost?” he asks the men, cuts short their discussion about – something fish. They shrug their shoulders, as expected.
“Supposed to be on watch,” Worm says, which MacTavish knows already, he ordered it. Except somewhere between making sure his men don’t burn the forest down and smuggling a spare MRE into his hands, he lost track of him.
“I’ll go find him.” He stands up, then points at the pot. “Don’t let that burn.”
“Can that even burn?” Meat asks and it sounds an awful lot like a challenge. MacTavish gives him a meaningful glare that makes him shrink back onto his log, shoving a forkful of something brown looking into his mouth.
MacTavish steps back from the campfire and over his bag left by the side of the tree. Looks around. It’s trees every way, the undergrowth slightly more trampled from where they came, growing high where they’ll continue tomorrow.
Instinct pulls him north, where the trees are dense and thick. Branches snag behind his trousers and snap under his boots no matter how carefully he steps. He goes slow, has to look at where he’s placing his feet and then turn his eyes up to scan what he can see for any signs of life. The only sign he finds is a spiderweb that he accidentally walks through.
He continues until the campfire is barely a flicker between the trees behind him, like a will-o’-wisp, bright orange in the dark night, flickering between the dark lines of trees, warm where the rest of the forest has cooled down considerably. The air is a cool breeze against his face and it steals the remaining warmth clinging to him from the fire.
There’s the flash of white from a slanted birch, wide leaves drifting down from an oak, and the vague shapes of criss-crossing branches of two firs growing tightly side by side that he can’t make out any clearer, eyes still struggling to adapt to the darkness. Still, glancing over his shoulder now, the speck of fire is bright and glaring.
He turns on his heel and doesn’t go farther. Riley wouldn’t have.
He takes one step when an acorn hits his shoulder.
MacTavish spins instinctively before he turns his eyes up to the trees. It takes a moment for his sight to adjust and make out the shape of Riley sitting up in a tree. Grinning down at him, undoubtedly, at having caught him off guard.
“What are you doing there?”
“Good view.”
Definitely grinning. MacTavish can hear it in his voice.
“Ahah.” MacTavish nods like that makes sense. Looks up with his hands on his hips and tilts his head like that might afford him more light to see Riley by. “Your food is ready.”
“I’m fine,” Riley calls down to him. The shadow of his outline shifts as he adjusts himself in the tree.
“Saved you some chicken.”
“You did?” And it shifts again as Riley looks down at him, something almost like surprise in his tone before he twists it into something jesting. “And you left it with them? Are you sure Meat isn’t eating it already?”
“He wouldn’t.”
“Did you make it an order?”
MacTavish sighs. “C’mon, Riley.”
“Nah, come up here, sir. The view’s nice.”
MacTavish turns his incredulous stare up at the tree, vaguely in Riley’s direction. He isn’t sure whether Riley can actually see his expression, but he thinks he can sense it, the same way MacTavish knows his grin widens at his exasperation.
“How’d you even get up there?”
“It’s like one of those rope climbing exercises.” Riley pats at the tree trunk, loud enough MacTavish hears it. “Even have some branches here if you’re out of shape.”
MacTavish rolls his eyes in his general direction. “Ha-ha. Laugh it up.”
“C’mon, sir. You’re no fun.”
“Really?”
“Really. The view’s nice.”
MacTavish doesn’t know what’s come over him. He doesn’t even know when the moment passed where playing into it turned into genuine consideration. That schoolboy attitude must have rubbed off on him, because under Riley’s goading gaze he steps up to the tree, claps his hand against a solid trunk, and then heaves himself up. Doesn’t even know why he’s doing it except that Riley asked, and even if it’s a joke, Riley so rarely genuinely asks for things.
He climbs up branch by branch, sticking as close to the trunk as he can in case anything feels like snapping right underneath him. The bark scratches at his palms, leaves his hands tender and red. He left his gloves in his pack, but Riley must be wearing his, so nothing should have pricked him as he pulled himself up to the top.
Riley scoots over to make room for him at the top. MacTavish throws his legs over it to sit the same way as him. The branch is tilted so they both slide downwards towards the trunk, MacTavish pressed between the tree and Riley.
Riley’s eyes are crinkled as he smiles at him. He catches it for only a moment before Riley turns his face to the sky and MacTavish follows his line of sight.
It is a nice view. No clouds, far enough from civilisation, and high enough to see past most tree tops so that the stars twinkle down at them. The moon is a sliver of silver light, dim and unobtrusive, it leaves the inky blackness of the night twinkling, like gems or jewels or tiny shards of glass. The more he looks at them, the more he sees, another dot popping up and glowing brighter as he registers it.
“Did you bring the biscuits, at least?”
“Christ.” MacTavish rolls his eyes. Turns away from the sky to face Riley already looking at him. “Won’t come eat but will hound me for sweets,” he grumbles, though he’s already pulling out a small pack from the pocket of his jacket. He hands it over and Riley easily rucks his mask up. He rips the pack open fully down the side which means it will be impossible to wrap it back up which means he’ll use it as an excuse to eat all of it. He’s kicking his feet back and forth like they aren’t high enough to break something.
“You want one?” Riley asks after practically swallowing the first himself.
“Aye, sure.” MacTavish takes the proffered biscuit. There’s a little layer of chocolate on it that he doesn’t mind as much as he usually does. Sugar does wonders after a full day of hiking. Except Riley has half the row gone by the time MacTavish finishes his.
He gives Riley nothing more than a brief glance – honestly, shouldn’t even be surprised anymore how fast he can tear through anything sweet – and looks back up. It’s chillier up here, more exposed to the wind, and it feels like the stars turn a brighter white with the oncoming cold of the night.
“It’s peaceful up here,” he comments, voice no more than a rumble with how he keeps it low. Riley hums in agreement.
The packaging crinkles as Riley folds it to sit in his palm, and then it’s quiet. So incredibly quiet. Just the sound of their breathing, and the chirp of a nocturnal bug, and the gentle rustle of a leaf falling. There’s a tree right beside them, with large wide leaves, reduced to black in the night so it’s impossible to tell whether they’re green or orange or red. MacTavish watches one snap from its branch, float on the air, and then slowly glide downwards into the equally inky darkness below them.
MacTavish has a snow globe back home, on a shelf in his flat. He doesn’t remember where it’s from except that his sister bought it for him as a souvenir present from a trip he didn’t go to but she insisted he have. It’s small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, has a tiny tree with an even tinier house on the inside. The fake snowflakes stick to the glass when it’s shaken.
He feels tiny now, staring up at the tiny specks of white in an arc as if they’re sticking to some imaginary dome. And here he is, sitting in the middle of it all. He’s warm despite the lack of cover and the late hour, pressed against Riley’s side.
“That’s Orion,” Riley says. MacTavish blinks to bring the stars into clearer focus
“Where?”
“There.” Riley points at the sky, waving his finger about. “Those three are the belt, and that’s the head.”
“You’re making shit up.”
“No, I’m not– look.” Riley shifts to lean heavily against his side, head practically on MacTavish’s shoulder as he points again. “There, see?”
From the corner of his eye, MacTavish is looking at Riley. At the way he’s so close that he can count his lashes and see the tinge of pink high on his cheekbones from the chill of having sat out here for a while. He’s taken the glasses off in the darkness, and his eyes are wide open, tilted up at the sky.
“You’re not even looking,” Riley snaps. MacTavish quickly turns to follow his hand. He’s so warm, suddenly.
“Alright,” he concedes, tracking the line he thinks Riley is pointing at. “Maybe I see it.”
“Maybe,” Riley scoffs, disbelieving and petulant, and all of it exaggerated in the movement of his head as he rolls his eyes and shake of his shoulders as he hmphs. He lowers his hand but doesn’t lean away, and his thigh presses against MacTavish’s on the branch.
“There’s a reason we upgraded from star navigation,” MacTavish says. Riley bumps him with his shoulder, which in this position means simply leaning more heavily against him.
“Just because you lack imagination–”
“It’s meaningless shapes!”
“You lack imagination,” Riley insists. MacTavish meets him with a deadpan, disbelieving look. “C’mon,” Riley challenges then. “Find a shape, if you don’t.”
MacTavish squints up at the sky, tracking the countless stars shining above them. He lost whatever line was supposed to be Orion, but finds a cluster of shiny little dots just above the horizon.
“Those, over there. That’s a grenade.”
Riley huffs a laugh. “One track mind, aren’t you.”
“Just taking inspiration from life.”
“Wouldn’t you say it looks kind of like a pear?”
“I don’t like pears.”
“Grenades can’t be the only thing you like. That shit doesn’t look like a grenade.” Riley sounds incredibly vehement, and the fact that it’s about imaginary shapes makes MacTavish’s lips curl up into a smile, despite the insistence in Riley’s tone. “Look– look, that’s a cup of tea.”
“You just found a rectangle.” MacTavish supresses his smile before it comes out on a laugh at Riley’s indignant sputtering. He hits MacTavish in the chest with the back of his hand, the one holding the biscuits, so the packaging crinkles loudly. He takes one of the few that he still has left and eats it in barely a second. If he really wanted, the star-grenade could look like a biscuit, MacTavish supposes. Lopsided and wonky, but it’s circular enough to be one. He keeps his eyes on the cluster before the loses that shape too in the sea of stars.
“C’mon,” Riley nudges him with his shoulder. “It’s your turn. What do you like?”
Riley is turned to look at him and MacTavish meets his eye.
His pupils are dark and dilated in the night, and they reflect the light of the sky. The little stars glimmer in his eyes, more endless than the vast space above them. Like the depths of the sea, blue so dark it’s nearly black, only a fleck of colour from the brighter light of the moon. Deep and all-encompassing, so still that the movement of the waves is imperceptible and you don’t even realise you’re drowning.
The night sky is mirrored in his eyes, stars creating new galaxies, and it’s so much more captivating to study the shapes they create like this. Riley’s skin is nearly glowing in the faint light, pale enough that it stands out in the dark. The line of his jaw and cheeks where his mask is pulled up, the rough scars softened in the light. His lips are ticked slightly upwards, shining from when Riley licked his lips after eating that last biscuit.
MacTavish opens his mouth on an answer he doesn’t know. There’s something faint on the tip of his tongue, a lump in his throat, a tightness in his chest. There’s not enough air in his lungs to say what he means to say. Then all the words are stolen from his mind when Riley pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Just the corner, so it leaves the shape of his mouth charmingly lopsided, so the white of a canine peeks out.
“Hm?” Riley hums.
MacTavish blinks himself back into awareness. He quickly turns back to the sky, flicks his gaze over each dot, scouring for a pattern.
“Uh, that’s a gun,” he offers.
Riley’s laugh fans over the side of his face. He’s leaned against MacTavish so he can feel the shake of his shoulders.
“You’re hopeless,” he says on the tail end of his laugh, but MacTavish is listening to the faint chuckle that follows, then the slow inhale as Riley composes himself. It comes out on a sigh, but Riley’s lips are curled into a smile, small and easy like he doesn’t realise it’s there.
Yeah. He is, MacTavish has to agree. He’s absolutely hopeless.
Sitting here beside Riley, it’s almost like they’re the only ones in the world. The only ones in this small snow globe where the scene never changes and the stars merely drift across the sky. Tucked away in a corner all for themselves, somewhere high on a shelf and hidden in the trees. The world outside is muted and the sounds faint, and it’s so easy to forget anyone else exists.
“Look!”
MacTavish follows Riley’s stretched out hand, instinctively on alert. He catches the tail end of a shooting star soaring across the sky, a bright trail that fades out in a mere second.
He turns back to Riley, but he’s already looking at MacTavish with a wide smile. His expression is bright, almost like the tail of the shooting star is reflected in a streak in his eyes too, except it must be the glimmer of his sudden smile that makes him shine. Captivating, and often so fleeting, so MacTavish feels he has to make the most of this moment, memorise it in its entirety.
“Did you make a wish?” MacTavish asks.
“I can’t tell you. It won’t come true,” Riley says, entirely too pleased with himself, kicking his feet back and forth in the air. “What’s your wish?”
“What, you don’t tell me but I’m supposed to tell you?”
“Well,” Riley starts, hedges with that easy lilt to his voice like he knows he can coax MacTavish into whatever he wants, “I was hoping you aren’t superstitious about this.”
“That’s not fair.” MacTavish narrows his eyes into something not quite a glare. Can’t really bring himself to even pretend properly when he feels so light, as if they’re simply hovering in the air and drifting towards nothing like those leaves, and not weighing down this poor branch.
Riley gives him a sharp smirk, smug and arrogant and only partly joking. “You know I don’t play fair.”
MacTavish huffs a laugh and the smile sticks to his face, sticky and cloying, yet he can’t find it in himself to push it down. Not when he keeps looking at Riley, at the curve of his mouth and the shape of his lips, at the light blush to his cheeks that the moon highlights, dusted with pink from the chill.
The upwards angle of the branch leaves them sitting close together and Riley easily leans his entire weight into MacTavish’s side. They’re pressed so close together, the line of Riley’s body so warm against him from thigh to hip to shoulder.
In the darkness no one would see them. There’s not a single soul nearby and the stars won’t tell. His heart beats louder for it, pushing against his ribcage as if it too is pulled into Riley’s orbit, as if it doesn’t fit in MacTavish’s chest, as if it knows where it belongs.
And Riley is already leaned against his shoulder, it would be so easy to dip his head that little bit. It’s just a tiny space where he feels the warm air from Riley’s breaths and the slight rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes. It would be so easy to see whether Riley’s mouth feels as soft as it looks.
“So?” Riley asks. “What did you wish for?”
MacTavish raises his eyes to meet Riley’s. They’re crinkled at the corners, still shining, glimmering with the stars.
“I…”
“Yeah?”
MacTavish takes a slow breath in. Holds it. Riley is staring at him, patiently waiting for an answer, and MacTavish feels his heart stutter as it adjusts to beat to the rhythm of Riley’s.
“I just wish we’ll make it back.”
Riley lets out an incredulous laugh. He kicks his foot into MacTavish’s ankle. He can’t be bothered about the way the toe of his boot hits right against bone when Riley’s face lights up like that.
“You have that little faith in us?” His voice is light and airy, playful but not like it is when he’s trying to rile someone up. Soft, to account for the stillness around them, and gentle in the way he is underneath the armour and mask but doesn’t let anyone see. “I think the worst thing that can happen is Scarecrow twisting his ankle again.”
“Aye,” MacTavish agrees faintly.
He watches as Riley turns his gaze back to the sky, watchful and patient, as if waiting for the next shooting star. MacTavish doesn’t need any more. There’s nothing more he can want for, really. it’s enough for him if Riley always makes it back.