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Another night shift.
Expected. Time lost meaning long ago. They worked when it was demanded: dawn or midnight made no difference. Neither of them had anyone waiting beyond those reinforced walls, so there was no reason to complain.
Surveyor didn’t mind the silence. He had always worked better in it. Silence was predictable, unlike the world outside. Unlike the man across the room.
Luchino was crouched beside the vehicle, sleeves rolled. Occasionally, switching between the tools scattered on the floor. He didn’t speak; he rarely did when focused. That was one thing Surveyor respected from him: when he worked, he worked wholly.
Which also made it almost irritating how effortlessly Diruse could talk when he wanted to: the sharp remarks, the dry humor, the discussions that felt too much like an invitation.
Yet it wasn’t unwelcome. That would have been a lie. They worked well as a team, surprisingly so, even if they wouldn't fully acknowledge it. Sometimes, Surveyor even suspected he preferred having Diruse nearby. Because somewhere between the hours spent like that, familiarity had naturally formed.
He exhaled through his nose and continued with the unfinished paperwork. They were meaningless in the long run; none of those pages would save them. But routine was an anchor, and they all clung to whatever anchor remained.
Of course, Diruse had turned into one. An illusion of stability, at least. Even framing it as that sat wrong with him.
He had never planned to notice another person this much. Not past what was necessary. Much less come to expect that confidence that bordered on arrogance, or the way he pushed simply to see what would happen. Whether he liked it or not, for all the friction, Diruse was the closest thing he had to consistency. Maybe even a connection.
But Surveyor would never say it out loud. Not when tomorrow might never come.
The report in his hands was proof of it. He flipped the pages, but the words blurred. Lists of missing teams, failed missions, unsafe routes, lost supplies… Casualties he was meant to classify and forget about. He'd learned that detachment; it had been the only way to endure for that long.
His attention drifted back, inevitably, to the silhouette working a few meters away. Luchino was a shadow in the dim garage lights, the gloves stained with grease moving with fluid precision. Surveyor's pen stilled. The tip hovered just a centimeter above the paper, frozen in the middle of data that felt suddenly trivial.
What would he do if Diruse’s name appeared on the missing list? If the radio went silent one day, with nothing but static? If an expedition demanded him to leave the man behind and not look back?
Surveyor refused to follow that thought any further. The wood groaned under his thumb; without realizing, he had been gripping the clipboard with an unusual intensity.
Life was far from peaceful. The world outside was unforgiving and cruel, without much expectation further than survival.
And yet the man beside him, infuriatingly brilliant and sharp-tongued, wouldn't fade into the dreary background the way everything else had. Through the constant sparring or through physical indulgence, Diruse’s presence lit up heat under his skin. Impossible to ignore.
If he was honest, the burn was the closest he’d felt to being alive in years. Alive, but aware of everything he shouldn't even consider to begin with. A deficiency. He looked down at the paper again, staring at the empty space where he’d stopped.
It was strange. A world without rules should have meant freedom. No expectations, no future laid out for anyone, nothing left to lose. Yet they still felt the need to hold back, refusing to cross certain lines. Strange, how two people could share so much —duty, danger, nights— and still stay apart.
In the end, freedom meant nothing when every choice carried a cost. When any attachment was a liability. They had seen what happened to people who forgot that.
If the circumstances had been different, they might have called it something simpler.
But they lived with what reality allowed. Never-ending work. Silent understanding. Physical contact that never needed to be discussed. Watching from far enough to not break the illusion of distance.
That should have been enough. Thinking too much never changed anything, anyway.
With a sigh, he gathered the paperwork and filed it away, burying the losses in the metal cabinet, where they now belonged. They should keep moving, and so he walked toward the vehicle.
Surveyor opened the passenger door and slid into the cabin. The air inside was hot, stagnant. A suffocating mix of spent fuel, stale tobacco, and the tang of the man beside him, that he had grown used to. Luchino, already in the driver's seat, turned slightly in acknowledgment, as he had been waiting for him. As he sat, their gazes met, just for a fleeting second. Brief. Always brief.
Behind that gas mask, he wondered, was there still the same calm, confident smile? Or had it become just another piece of equipment?
Did Diruse ever mourn the life he should’ve lived? In the world before everything fell apart and the sky turned to ash, when sunlight still touched living green?
Did he still carry hope, hidden beneath cynicism and pragmatism? A foolish, stubborn hope that things might return to what they would have been, maybe with space for something more than just survival?
And when he pushed, when he drew close enough for him to feel his pulse against his own… did any of it mean anything? He turned away, staring out at the dark horizon where only the silhouettes of ruined buildings stood in the distance. Since when had he let himself think about it at all?
The thrum of the engine vibrated beneath his boots. In that pressurized silence of the cabin, Surveyor could only wonder whether there would be enough time to unravel it all.
If time was what it required, he would remain like this. Patiently watching. Quietly waiting.
He wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the night there. He wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life in the passenger seat.
Eyes fixed on the road, Surveyor exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping from their usual firmness, the weight of the evening finally winning out.
Luchino caught it in his peripheral vision, his hands steady on the wheel. After this long, he’d learned those subtle hints of fatigue, of strain. Vulnerabilities Surveyor buried deep and never spoke of, perhaps even more intimate than anything else they did.
Had there been a day Clark didn’t keep the world at arm’s length? A moment where he felt safe enough to loosen, to trust? Luchino couldn't help but wonder. Somewhere beneath all that restraint, was there a softer version of him, one that was no longer allowed?
And if so, he found himself thinking —irrationally, selfishly— he wanted to be the one to see it.
Not that Luchino would ever tell him any of that. There was no reason to ruin the safe arrangement they had. Instead, a faint smirk tugged at his mouth. All he could offer was practicality. It was the closest thing to gentleness either of them could afford.
“Get some sleep, Clark. You look like shit,” he murmured. “I’ll take it from here.”
Closing his eyes, Surveyor pretended not to notice the softness beneath that tone. Rocked by the steady hum of the engine and the swaying of the vehicle, he gave one last exhale before letting his head rest against the leather. With Diruse at the wheel, he just let himself surrender to the movement.