I stopped setting my alarm the day Captain Flowers died. There’s no point anymore. We go to sleep when we want, we wake up when we want. We’re supposed to be fighting the Reds who live on the other side of the canyon, in their base that’s identical to ours, in their armor that looks exactly the same as the suits we wear save the difference in color.

It’s a load of shit. Sure, their C.O.’s an aggressive little bastard, but we’ve been in, what, one real conflict since we’ve been here? Predictably, the only person who got hurt was Caboose. And it was Church who shot him, anyway. Right in the foot. Yeah, we’re all pretty fucking pathetic.

So no, I don’t set my fucking alarm. Why would I? So I can wake up bright and early to see the sun rise?

But even without the alarm, I still get up before I need to. I still get out of bed when the sun’s glare is the least intense. I hate the never-ending daylight. It’s the shape of this planet, this awkward sliver of machine and earth. The sun can effortlessly touch every surface on the inside of this stupid ring.

So I get up early every morning, without the aid of some blaring radio or obnoxious, infuriating beeping. I drag myself out of bed and make that holiest of drinks, coffee.

Church hates coffee. I know – fuckin’ weird, isn’t it? He seems like the kind of guy who’d take it black, unsweetened, because he’s a big sour asshole like that and it would fit his character. Regardless of that, he hates it. Refuses to touch it. I get all the coffee rations to myself because Caboose doesn’t like it, either. Score.

So, every day I go out into the kitchen, make myself a giant pot of the shit, and sit across from Church. No matter how early I wake up, he’s always at the table before I am. Reading. Jotting down something in a thick, auburn colored journal. Staring blankly at his reflection in the stainless steel of our refrigerator.

Always. Which is why this morning I am really fucking confused, because Church isn’t in his chair. I grab a cup and swig the steaming concoction as I begin my search. I check his room. His door is open, showing a dark, empty space beyond. Okay, not there. Caboose snores gently from the room he and I begrudgingly share. The mess hall is empty, so are the lower barracks, lockers, shower, bathrooms, and basement.

And thus ends my leisurely stroll through base, because now I know where the jerk is hiding. The roof. Humming in triumph, I swagger up to the West entrance and press the door open.

A blast of cold air slaps me in the face. Startled and confused, I whip my head around as I slowly ascend the ramp that leads to the rooftop, taking in the gray sky and low fog rolling over the canyon floor.

Church is sitting behind the opening for our nonexistent turret, his knees tucked into his chest, goosebumps peppering his strong, pale arms. The concrete under my feet is like ice - I can only imagine what it feels like under his pj-clad ass. He doesn’t seem to care, just stares intently at the unfamiliar and achingly beautiful sight of Blood Gulch in the throes of fall.

I blink stupidly at the top of the ramp. Church’s dark hair stands in heavy spikes from his head, ruffling in the occasional chill breeze. Without thinking, I pad over to him and sit gingerly at his side. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, as is his custom.

I want to enjoy this, this odd, breathtaking weather that has come from nowhere. But I can’t. I’m fucking freezing. Church’s thin gray tank top stretches tight across his chest, showing that he’s just as cold as I am.

Suddenly, one of those muscled arms reaches over and Church plucks my half empty cup from between my fingers. He brings it to his face and takes a sip.

“Ew.”

He puts it back in my hand, which hasn’t moved since he took the mug. I look down at the light brown liquid and then up at Church again. My eyes widen as I’m struck with a disgustingly sentimental idea.

“Refill,” I mumble, then stand and walk back into the base.

I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this. And I accuse Caboose of being motherly. I shift through the packages in the cupboard until I find what I’m looking for. I set aside two new cups, fill them with water and shove them in the nuker. God, I can’t believe I’m doing this. Might as well go the whole nine yards, Tucker.

Inwardly berating myself, I head into my room and pull a heavy box from beneath my bed, struggling with the contents before I head back into the kitchen. I mix the drinks, fold my quarry under one arm, and head back to the roof.

Church looks curiously at the cup of hot chocolate shoved under his nose, eyes traveling briefly up to mine before he takes the mug without question. When he catches sight of what’s tucked under my bicep a strange look flashes over his face.

“Up,” I tell him. He glances at me again, still with that expression. He looks pissed. Then again, Church always looks pissed, so I’m not really concerned. Brows knitting together in a frown, he stands. I unfold the sleeping bag and toss it down, the nylon backing hissing over the concrete and fluffy insides exposed to the cool air.

I sit on it, cradling my cup of chocolate, blowing steam off the top as Church glares down at me from where he still stands.

Shit. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I should have just walked back into base and sat at the table by myself, until Caboose woke up and made breakfast. Then I could have put on my armor and-

“You made me cocoa?”

I frantically grit my teeth to stifle the bark of laughter that tries to leap from my chest. He called it ‘cocoa’. Christ, there’s something so…so cute about Church calling hot chocolate cocoa. I reign in the giggles and look up at the standing man, and the laughter dies in my throat.

The Church who stares down at me wears a face so foreign that for a second I don’t know who I’m looking at. He does more than drop his guard, he lets it fall to the ground and shatter into a thousand pieces.

He finally sits down next to me, letting his stunned acid-blue eyes wander over his drink. He takes a finger and pokes at the tiny freeze dried marshmallows that come in the package. Even fattened by the hot liquid they float in, they are still too small to offer anything more than a brief burst of sweetness. Cautiously, he lifts the mug to his mouth and takes big sip.

Goosebumps explode over his skin and I can hear his throat constrict on an appreciative moan. I grin into my cup. Triumph.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, then dives into his mug and doesn’t resurface until it’s empty.

He sits there with his empty cup and stares off into the distance, gazing at the other base in the canyon. Goosebumps attack periodically, prickling insistently, rolling up and down my sides and the back of my neck. Fuckin’ cold. What is this shit? First it has to be a million fucking degrees outside, then it has to be near freezing.

I hate this place.

“Want more?” I ask him. He looks down at the piece of pottery in his hand.

“How do you make it?”

“Just stick a cup full of water in the microwave for like, two minutes. Three if you want it really fuckin’ hot. The packets of mix are in the cupboard. Just pour and stir.”

He stands up again and wanders off into the base, leaving me shivering on the roof. I tuck my toes inside my pjs and press the soles of my feet together, determined to keep in whatever warmth I can. Ah, well. At least my ass is cushioned and toasty.

The lone tree near my rock has bright orange and red leaves, a brilliant contrast against the muted colors of the rest of the canyon. Funny, I didn’t even know that tree had leaves. The wind picks up, harsh and cold against my face. My eyes burn with the force and the chill. God damn. It’s nice to not have the sun blazing down on me, but this is almost worse.

Just as I contemplate saying ‘fuck it’ and wandering back inside, Church emerges.

He carries our cups, a blanket, and the journal that I’ve seen him write in for the past year. Unceremoniously, he tosses the blanket at my feet. Once I get over my astonishment, I unroll the bundle only to find two hooded sweaters stashed inside.

“Too fuckin cold out here,” Church grouses and grabs one of the hoodies, his hoodies, from my lap. I eye the remaining garment before obediently pulling it on.

Church has a smell. It isn’t awful or tangy, or overpowering. It’s thick, rich. A spicy, deep rush of scent that floods my nostrils and screams out MALE with every breath I take. Fuck, Church smells really good. I shouldn’t notice this. I shouldn’t even recognize that he has a smell, let alone that it’s one I don’t find disgusting. And there’s something else, something…

“Did you put these in the dryer?!”

“Fuck yeah I did,” he snorts, wrestling the god damned goosedown comforter over our legs. It’s warm, oh dear sweet baby Jesus it’s warm, and the heat only intensifies the smell radiating from Church’s belongings.

My hand seeks out my mug. Hopefully more chocolate will calm the sudden panic that’s washed over me. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Thankfully, Church goes back to ignoring me. He’s flipped open his journal, and for the first time I can see what’s inside.

Drawings. Painstakingly detailed, but imperfect. Sketches and inked pieces and tiny, tight scrawls of words crammed into the corners and in the middle of images. It’s chaos, packed between those pages.

Church is shading the leaves of the tree he’s already sketched out. It’s good. He took some liberties with leaf placement but for what must have been a ten second doodle it’s pretty amazing. Should I tell him that? Should I draw attention to the fact that I’m watching?

“I didn’t know you could draw,” I murmur. His hand stills and his eyes flash to the side, pinning me with a startled blue gaze. “Uh,” I wave helplessly at the book. “It’s…the tree is, um…you’re good. Yeah. Carry on.” I bring the cup to my lips and occupy my rambling mouth.

Church chuckles. “Hn, I guess. It’s something to do out here, at least.”

I smirk. Well, there goes some of the tension. With a grunt, I straighten up and stretch my arms. Several loud pops crackle up my arched spine, ripping a groan of relief from my throat.

“Ohhh fuckle,” I whisper, arms still extended above my head. Church laughs at me, the bastard, and watches as I set my mug aside and collapse on the sleeping bag. With a sigh, I fold my arms under my neck and glance between the cloud-choked sky and Church’s dark gray back.

He looks at me over his shoulder. “Comfortable?”

“Like woah,” I groan.

“Hn.” He pivots, then spreads out on his stomach, I presume to experience the feeling of reclining after a spending so long hunched over. “Nng,” he grunts. “You’re right. Like woah.” He puts his head down for a second and stretches out, back popping with about half of the jarring cracks mine made. “Holy fuck, sitting up for too long sucks.”

“Amen,” I sigh and close my eyes. I hear his book flip closed with a soft clap near my head before he shoves it over to the side. He rolls and mimics my position, our elbows brushing as he situates himself.

Peace descends once more as we both stare up into the clouds. About ten minutes pass in warm, amicable silence before I tap at it with a whisper.

“So weird.”

“Very.”

Pause.

“Are you tired?” he asks. I roll my head and look over at him. His eyes are lidded, like he’s been drifting off. Mine are too. Hell, I’ve been almost asleep for the past three minutes. “Because I’m about to pass the fuck out. I just wanted you to wake me up if the sun starts showing its ugly face. I don’t want to be out here under a comforter when it does.”

“Yeah, I’m tired,” I mumble through the neck of the sweater, pulled up over my mouth to block out the chill. “But there’s no fucking way it’s gonna clear up within the next couple hours. Holy shit, you feel that?” I shiver and curl under the blanket as a blast of air skirts under the duvet.

“Fuckin’ a.”

“We need pillows.”

He shrugs. “Don’t have any. Mine was so flat it didn’t matter anyway.”

“What did you do with it?” I ask.

“I lent it to Caboose for that sleepover he had with Donut. It came back with nail polish on it.”

“Nail polish?”

“Among other things.”

I pause. “Oh. That’s…uh-”

“Glitter. Shittons of glitter. You ever wake up with glitter in your eye? Not fun times. I let him keep it.”

Glitter. Of course it was glitter. Fuckin’ Tucker and your sick fucking brain-

“S’cool, I’ll go grab mine.”

I take a moment to steel myself for the briskness, counting down from five. Church mutters ‘puss’ right before I toss back the cover and leap out onto the concrete, and I’m satisfied to hear a loud curse and the hasty rustling of blankets.

“Fucking cold, huh?” I shoot back at him, ignore his muffled insults, and dash into the base.

“I feel like I’m five,” he says when I toss the thick, fluffy pillow at his head. I dive back onto my side of the sleeping bag. curiously, my spot is still warm.

“Dude, I know.”

“But it’s kinda cool, right? Unless it stays like this, which I doubt it will, it’s probably the only time we’re ever gonna see a gray sky out here.”

“Might as well enjoy it.”

“Hn,” he grunts in agreement.

“By sleeping through it,” I grin.

“Fuck yeah,” he chuckles and curls up onto his side, facing me, trying to get more room on the pillow we’re sharing. “Move your fat head,” he butts his black spikes against the side of my face, nudging me over. Mmn. His hair is soft.

What feels like mortification washes over me at the thought. I shove it violently out of mind and nestle self-consciously into the blankets. Fuckin’…don’t think about that shit, Tucker.

“Thanks again,” he mumbles.

“No problem.”

I wonder if either of us is going to ask what the fuck we’re doing. For crying out loud, we’re two grown men curled up on one sleeping bag, together, outside in what has to be forty degree weather, reveling in the novelty of a cloudy sky in our shitty, shitty box canyon. For all intensive purposes we don’t even like each other, really. At least, I don’t think we do. Do we?

Church is asleep. His breathing is deep and easy next to me. Slow, rhythmic, almost a purr, I focus on the tiny puffs of air fluttering against my neck instead of the thoughts rolling around in my head, and I gently float away.