#justabookworm39

By far the single worst feature in the long, long list of useless nonsense installed in the buggy, bulky, and utterly unflattering armor Donut had to wear everyday was (without question!)  the clock in the upper right corner of its HUD.

1756

The numbers glared at him. They were an unappealing mud color, which only yesterday Donut had seen as a lovely chocolate mousse. He’d changed the color of the settings no less than two dozen times, but no matter what amazing shade of chartreuse or lilac or light-ish red Donut chose, it only took a day or two for him to never want to see that color again. That made Donut loathe the clock more than anything else; it ruined colors! Only the most heinous of things could ruin a color.

1757

The way it ruined colors was pretty terrible, too. Having a clock in front of your eyes all hours of every day meant that every spare second Donut wasn’t doing something, his eyes would be drawn to those darn numbers. Time would slow to an unbearable crawl and sap the positive thinking and energy right out of him. He’d had to up his skin care routine from once a day to twice a day already, just to combat the stress lines!

1758

He had tried to get rid of it, of course, Donut wasn’t stupid! But tape didn’t stick to the inside of his visor (especially after long hot days filling his armor up with body fluids) and asking it nicely didn’t do anything either. The obvious next step had been to ask his team for help, but that hadn’t really panned out. Sarge went on a long speech about the importance of knowing the exact time of “your glorious victories, for record keepin’ and/or scrapbookin’!”, and Simmons was always busy talking with Grif. Donut wasn’t especially confident either of them could fix it anyway, computers were so complicated!

1759

As soon as the clock ticked over from 58 to 59, Donut’s train of thought lost its steam. Hard to stay mad about time with less than 60 seconds left to go! He pondered exactly how many were left, watching the numbers instead of the flat dry canyon he was technically supposed to be keeping an eye on. Not like anything subtle ever happened here. Even the sneak attacks featured grenades.

1800

“Finally!” Donut said, abandoning his post like a cat out of a bag. Fuzzy happy energy bubbled inside him, and trying to keep it from all coming out at once took some pretty hard concentration. Skipping helped.

“Bye guys, going on afternoon patrol!” Donut called out towards the living area everyone gravitated to this time of day. He didn’t wait around for a response, but it was probably something like “Be safe Donut!” or “You look fabulous, as always, knock em dead!”

Out the door and into the canyon proper, skipping at top speed along his route and not paying a square inch of it any mind. The scenery never changed, always dry alien dirt and hardy alien grass in a dull rocky bowl. Not a scene Donut would put on a motivational poster.

But it wasn’t getting to Donut now, because the path to the cliff paths was right in front of him, and in just a few short minutes his day would be infinitely better.

Donut couldn’t skip properly on the rocky and uneven cliff path, but there was a noticeable spring in his step as he climbed upwards, towards a ledge just out of view of both bases. It got some pretty nice shade this time of day, and on top of almost being cool, there was-

“Caboose!” Donut said, “You’re early!”

Caboose had been sat on the cliff edge, kicking his feet and looking down towards the ground, but as soon as Donut called out he perked right up and waved. Caboose was always thoughtful that way, giving as good as he got right back!

“Captain McMuffin! Hello! I decided I wanted to be far away from the base early today. For no reason! Especially not anything like making Church mad, because Tucker was the one that broke the microwave.”

“That Tucker!” Donut settled in on the ledge next to Caboose. “Is there anything he can’t break?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. He is very dumb.” Caboose said, nodding seriously.

It had started with an accident, because what in this canyon didn’t start with one kind of mistake or another? Even the happy accidents like Donut’s discovery of the moisturizing properties of Grif’s hidden imported drinks were still accidents. Running face first into someone who was supposed to be ‘the enemy’ sure qualified.

But Caboose had helped him up, and he’d been nothing but hospitable while Donut was a Blue team prisoner, so they got to talking. And then they kept talking, for hours, the entire time both of them were supposed to be circling the canyon. Circling the canyon and keeping an eye out for enemies to shoot.  Donut didn’t want to shoot Caboose, and Caboose didn’t want to shoot Donut, so they weren’t enemies. Simple as that!

They settled into the routine pretty quickly. It helped that rookies on both teams got more patrol shifts than anyone else, and even at the same times. If Donut was a more suspicious guy, he’d almost think it was weird how both teams had identical schedules.

“- and that’s how many guns we have in the armory! Pretty boring day staring at them all, nevermind counting all the bullets.”

“That is a lot of counting.”

Donut shrugged. “Less than you’d think. We’re actually pretty low on rounds these days. Guess that’s what happens when you blow your load on every little thing.”

“Ah! That’s just like us and gas. Poor Sheila…. she is so thirsty, but the next plane present isn’t for a whole two weekends!” Caboose slumped over, the picture of sadness.

“Sheila is the tank?” Donut asked, scooting in closer and offering a comforting hand. Caboose took it in his own without hesitation.

“Yeah… she can’t move around much right now. It is making her… antsy. I wanted to make a cookie to cheer her up, but then the microwave broke and it was Tucker’s fault.”

“I wish I could help! Red base is soooo understocked! Not even any flour in the whole thing, and Simmons locked up all the baking soda after I used it for scrubbing out my codpiece.”

“They do get very stinky.”

“Right?!”

Caboose and Donut often found themselves holding hands during their conversations. Who initiated it changed every time, but neither of them were ever keen to let go. So they didn’t. They’d hold hands for hours, relaxed and comforting pressure, even through kevlar gloves.

Occasionally, on days like this, things… escalated.

It started with the heat, of course. Blood Gulch’s heat snuck into everything, even lovely conversations in the shade with a good friend. Donut was quickly getting too hot to function, and time like this was too precious to waste dazed out on heat!

So Donut took off his helmet. Like it was a thing he casually did in the middle of the canyon. Going forward with confidence was step one of every successful thing Donut had ever done, and he wasn’t about to stop now.

Even if Caboose was a blue, and was still armed, and they were in the middle of what was supposed to be No Man’s Land. Confidence.

And besides, his helmet was already off. Too late to go back, that would be rude.

“Oh.” Caboose said. “I…” He squirmed a little and looked down and suddenly the threat of death seemed like a distant problem, compared to this.

Oh, Donut thought quietly, Does he not like-

“I. Ah. I did not know you were so pretty Admirable Cinnamon Bun.” Caboose said, glancing away, scratching at his helmet, and still holding Donut’s hand.

Donut’s dread melted into pure warm fuzzies in an instant. “Awww, thank you Caboose! That’s very sweet.”

Caboose beamed, obvious even through his helmet, and for a bit that was that. Donut liked to fill a silence with chatter as much as the next guy, but everyone once in a while just sitting with Caboose and listening to the thing wind in the canyon was more than enough.

Then Caboose said “… oh my god you took off your helmet!”

Donut blinked at Caboose. “… yes?”

“That means I can take off my armor now!” Caboose crowed, already frantically shucking pieces like they were suddenly made of spiders and last season’s fashions.

“… well, when in Rome!” Donut said, taking off his gloves first.

Caboose was down to his survival suit significantly faster than Donut, but soon enough both of them were much more comfortable, in the shade and out of the worst and stuffiest parts of their armor.

“Sure is nice to let everything down there breathe for a change!”

“Yeah, my legs get cramped up too,” Caboose said.

“Whoever designed these things obviously didn’t account for my calves.”

“Cows are hard to account, because they look a lot like each other and keep moving around,” Caboose said, nodding.

“Not as bad as sheep. There’re faster and don’t have spots.”

Caboose pondered, and then nodded. “That is true. We didn’t have sheep, but Mr. Fallben next door yelled at his a lot.”

The amiable quiet came back, slow and welcome as the tide rolling in. Donut and Caboose leaned into each other, fighting the sticky warmth of the canyon with the soft, welcome warmth of another body pressed against theirs. Like with the holding hands, it just felt natural to tangle up in each other’s grip and just be for a while.

Donut had migrated all the way into Caboose’s lap and Caboose’s head was perched on Donut’s own when they both heard their helmets making alerts.

“Aw, already?” Donut sighed. “I can’t believe how fast two hours passes up here.”

“My mom always said time flies when it is having fun. It must have been having a really good sandwich today. That makes time go fastest.”

Both of them put their armor on, said and waved their goodbyes, and took off back to base. All the way there, Donut couldn’t help but stare at the clock.

2030

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