BATTLE READY.

james isn’t good at being Soft -- he’s not good at cuddling ( he’s very tense all the time, doesn’t relax well ) or little touches ( hand holding kinda skeeves him out ) or admitting his feelings ( not that there was much time for it during the end of the world ) and it kind of adds up to him being this really weird emotionally suppressed person

and it’s something that he doesn’t think is a problem usually? because james is an incredible soldier, and has proved that on more occasions than anyone can count. but outside the uniform? it’s like he doesn’t know who he is

he probably has a lot of feelings that he doesn’t know how to identify -- when he was a kid he definitely had some jealousy issues with keith, but it manifested as him being an intolerable ass-hat instead of a kid that wanted attention, and now that he’s older he doesn’t really know how to voice his need for people to acknowledge him, both in and out of professional atmospheres and it, again, leads to frustration

   keith blinks; really, he’s got no time to do anything besides that — and, well, listen to james (who seems so keen on talking to him, now that the silent treatment rode its wave.)

   but this is not a shade of james, asking—did he really?—to be a part of this.  this is rule-breaking.  this was the difference between them: crisp uniform, tempered salute, neat hair, that stick up his ass.  james has gotten taller, filled that uniform in a way better suited for war.

(something else changed, too, but he can’t put a finger to it; he’s not sure why it matters.)

   keith digs his fingers against the garrison uniform he jacked, pushing the fabric into his biceps.  he stays at a distance, eyeing james wordlessly, like he’s testing possible retorts, arguments, deterrents.  when none come to mind, there’s only one option left.

   “moonlight ride,”  he corrects, a long, burdened sigh releasing the tense line of his shoulders.  he takes a step forward and uncrosses his arms.  “we’ll need something quiet.”

    the hangar he leads keith to is much smaller, more akin to a garage than anything else. rizavi’s dragged him here more times than he cares to count, either after training or during their rec time. he’s a better pilot, has more control, but she always kicked his ass racing all-terrain. james is glad he doesn’t have to go against keith.

   he makes his way to the back, past a few of the flashier bikes and scooters, one of the prototype AW cruisers, to a much smaller vehicle. it’s equipped with a roll cage, side and top open to the elements. he and the other MFEs used to joke it was a glorified golf cart, and would often see commanders and captains riding them around the garrison campus, but it would work for tonight.

   he leans over into the driver’s seat, coaxing it on to check the stats. “it’s completely electric,” he explains as he fidgets with the digital display, pushing himself back up. “quietest vehicle with the best top speed to distance ratio. battery’s full, so we can get at least 35, 40 miles out of it before it needs a recharge.”