a soldier on my own ;

“Old habits die hard, huh?” His boots drug along the gravel as he approached the lithe figure, always giving the Wraith as much warning of his approach as possible. The pilot had given up on the naive hope that Esca would join him in the mess hall about twenty minutes into a bowl of lukewarm stew. The atmosphere was decidedly rowdy — brothers and sisters at arms clapping one another on the shoulder and regaling in monstrous chorus of their misadventures and conquests while on leave. Ezra had joined in himself, but couldn’t help scanning the room for any sign of the ghostly sniper. 

“Brought you somethin’.” He pulled a few spoils from lunch from the pockets of his leather jacket and set them to the side — bottle of water, crackers, an apple. 

He sat down on an abandoned trunk, and his eyes traveled to the target. Perfectly thrown, every time. As much as he hated to admit it, it was strange being back. It felt strange. As soon as they’d touched the soil, it had been utter bedlam — doling out bunk assignments, answering the question of wall-eyed newbies, and trying to rein in the chaos by affecting an air of nonchalance and calm for which he was known. The fear that what they left in Colorado on leave would stay there, that everything would be different, now, was rearing its horridly heavy head and seething.

“Could go for some of mom’s ratatouille right about now. That soup tastes like an old boot,” he muttered, knocking a smoke free from a crumpled pack.

The voice’s bearer was a sharp identifier. Often, its tone remained devoid of resentment ( where his bloodline was concerned ). The lacerating tool and its anticipated victim were relinquished, deemed mediocre when contrasted with the materialization of Ezra Cooper. A tight-lipped frown dispersed, its displeasure gone adrift in exchange for a grin, all canines on vibrant display at his turn. His gaze, now target-locked, failed to wither from the pilot’s features. His hand swapped its lethal article for the offered fruit, digits curling around its exterior as his companion seated himself upon a discarded trunk. The corner of his mouth grew taut, the brilliant smile growing broader.

There were more things than she’d have ever liked to admit that rattled her. The small things that threw her off her guard and left her fumbling for the words that usually rolled so easily from her blunt tongue. She’d never quite been above rolling her eyes or clenching her jaw depending on the situation, never afraid to voice her true feelings when honesty should be valued above all else. But for all the things that might have left her slight hesitant, the Russian in front of her wasn’t one of them despite the knives in his hand. There was something mesmerising about the way he moved and for a moment the Scot finds herself transfixed on the smooth movements that she knows she doesn’t have the skill or precision for when her skills have always lain more with machines than targets. “Don’t you ever get bored of hitting the same fucking bullseye all the time?” There’s a certain dry humour seeping into her words when there’s enough familiarity between the two of them for her to class him as something of a friend. “It hardly seems like enough of a challenge for you.”

He’s prone to frigid response and snarling result. Chiseling upon his resolute barrier is near impractical. A single chance to grasp his graces is endangered, and yet, the woman had long ago forged her stance as a sanctioned statue. Still, he can be un-fractured ice, his blockades impenetrable. Lending an ear to her rhetoric, the Wraith turns on a dark-leathered heel. “Throw something,” he proposes, challenge seeping through sharp accent, “or stand in front of the target.” He hardly seeks the target when the fifth knife is projected. He delivers its propelled direction, momentum true, and observes the serrated item embed itself within chipped nature. “Either way, I’ll hit it.” Always do. “They would have executed me if I couldn’t.”

file photo of esca mercuritte

“That’s what people say, but it does seem awfully convenient, no? Not that I’m complaining either way, I guess.” Lucas had spent his formative years being told that he wasn’t good enough, and had this formed the opinion that nothing he could do would ever be worthy of praise from anyone but himself. No matter how many people validated Costin’s motives, there would always be doubts in the back of his mind. The arch of a brow was all that Lucas did to give away his surprise, and surprise only mellowed into a smile. “Their loss.” He chuckled, intrigued by Esca’s un-anticipated openness. Ever seeking the opportunity to try for a laugh, Lucas feigned shock and hurt at not being named Shade’s most desirable pilot. “And mine, apparently.” Thinking for a moment, there were only two options plausible. “It’s not Walshy, is it?” Lucas asked, screwing up his face. The combination of the two just didn’t seem to fit in his head, until he thought a little further. “God, is it Solo?” Lucas tipped his head to one side in confusion. “But he’s so…” He went to say ‘old’ before he realised that made him a hypocrite. “I don’t know… Straight?” Ezra Cooper was the closest thing Lucas had ever had to a hero, and it seemed strange to think about him from any other point of view. “Aiming high though, I can respect that.” He said, back to his usual warm smile. 

His face screwed into something similar to distaste at the Sparrow’s first decision. Eagle was a golden boy, sure, but far from his interest. In fact, the sniper couldn’t recall when anyone had held his attention. He couldn’t recall when he had been even remotely attracted to another soul. But before Esca could shoot down the younger’s assault of names, ‘Solo’ was flicked from his prying, youthful tongue. He avoided Lucas’ gaze as the sentiments spilled. This was not something he was accustomed too-- sharing such personal data. When had war made room for pillow talk? “As I said,” Shade reminded, “I might.” To confirm anything other than the possible mistake was ludicrous. And there was that single destructive factor: straight. Perhaps its truth would save him from self ruin. Shrugging, Shade reminded himself it did not matter. He was no one’s preferred choice, and he understood how that had come to be. “If that’s aiming high, then he’d be aiming low for someone like me.”

Lucas shrugged and gave the fact a dismissive gesture. “You’re probably right. Between you and me, I think he quite likes the noise, so you’re shit out of luck.” Another sin-worthy smirk was tossed in the Russians direction. “Lucas is fine, really. I’m 90% sure Sergeant is only part of my name because the Commander is fucking me anyway.” Another shrug masked Lucas’ tensing at a threat, even only so loosely framed. “Sticking my beak where it doesn’t belong is my forte, but I’m not the ones making ‘em. If you’re going to issue threats, I’m not your guy.” Though Lucas had never met the Shade in question when listening in on the rather crude discussions of who it would be to snatch the title of Esca Mercuritte’s first, he had found the discussions jarring and crass enough for him to remove himself from the campfire around which Esca’s unknown and probably unwanted suitors sat. “Awh, come on. Don’t say things like that. I’m sure you’ll find some pretty girl that cares more about your face than your past before too long.“

Though the rumors often suspected that the culprit, Shade had known the truth. Anyone would if they opened their eyes and noted the young pilot’s skill. “Deadshot wouldn’t give anyone a promotion unless they deserved it,” he relayed, “doesn’t matter how many times you’ve blown him. Even I know you earned Sergeant from that last mission. He didn’t make you a Shadowed Commando to fuck you easier.” Still, the sniper wouldn’t have put him past it. For their Commander, it had become quite a convenient condition. His cigarette was down to the butt when he flicked it from the conversation. “Girls.” Shade watched heated embers turn cold. “Not my forte.” The word sounded rough shot through the thickness of his accent. “I might like a pilot, actually. And no, Cas, it’s not you.”

Anyone else may have been embarrassed to hear that their more intimate moments had caused disturbance to another person, but all Lucas did was grin. Costin often warned him that it was not in his best interests to be as loud as he was, but Lucas just as often ignored him, not necessarily by choice, either. “I suppose I am. But any complaints about that should be addressed to the Commander, since, really, it’s his fault.” Like clockwork, Lucas’ need to attach himself to each and every unlikely soul in camp in need of a friend kicked. Unfazed by the sniper’s declaration of the blood on his hands, Lucas found himself teasing Mercuritte with the familiarity he would use on someone he knew far better. “A huntress sure, but a chaste one at that. You can be pure in one way but not another, don’t you think?” Lucas grinned, hoping that Esca’s sense of humour would permit the nature of Lucas’ own, which sometimes bordered crossing the line. “What’s your deal then? I find it hard to believe it’s got anything to do with not having anyone willing, if the bets being placed are anything to go by.” 

He figured he’d save his complaints. The wolf would bare his white teeth and growl his laughter. Esca did not need to commit to the action in order to witness the wolfish grin that would follow. “I think he is more concerned with fucking you than the noise level.” The sniper couldn’t understand the appeal. The physical nature was one thing, but the mental allowance was another. Shade would rather slice a jugular than let a finger trace the veins of his wrist, or pierce a skull than allow a mouth at his neck. So when Lucas posed his question, Esca blew a breath of laughter alongside cigarette smoke. “I am unsure of these bets, Sergeant, but I am sure that you’re sticking your beak where it doesn’t belong.” The threat was loose, but he was used to their recipients taking it as a solid gambit. “My deal comes from a past not easily forgotten. Or forgiven.”

“Oh, and what is that being?” 

“Their beer.”

“This shit puts New Zealand beer to shame, Es. Fuck. Doesn’t taste like complete piss.” Lucas grinned, hot on the Russian’s heels with three beers down. “Still has me well on the way to fucked after three, though.”

"Three?” Esca repeated, turning back to face his comrade and their intoxicated descent. “I’ve had four. I feel fine.”

While the intended cold of his words should have perhaps been taken as some distinct declaration, it actually did clear up some understanding [ or lack thereof ] Eva had of the base. She didn’t bother to offer him a response because the statement didn’t warrant one, her pace quickening to match the lengthy strides that carried him along. His shoulders were a squared shield just as his tongue was a barbed one–though only for matters of keeping out than declaring war on the new fly boy around; this, Eva thought, she could keep up with. Her Hellcat was due in two days, and she hoped a mission would precede it. As long as she had those two and her orders, Eva would get by just fine. “Oh good. Let’s leave something to talk about for the next time around.” Eva replied, words dry though far from hostile. Her gaze maintained ahead of them, but it strayed every now and again to map the path they were taking for purposes of memory. “ ‘S a pleasure then, Shade.” She added, simply because she didn’t quite feel like offering up anything of her own. Eva doubted he’d ask, regardless. 

Their banter was infectious. It was rare Shade found someone that could keep up with his icy nature and meet steel-shone words with ones of their own. She struck him the sort that would wind up fitting in, but he, like the whole of the Commandos, were tight-knit and impenetrable. At least she had bite. “I wouldn’t bet on it.” Shade admonished. He led her through the meat of camp, rather than an outskirt trail he trudged during regular passing. It was a war's tattered recipe: at some points boisterous and seemingly hopeful, at others depressive with the scent of iron and rot. "Other units pass through. You'll know your Commandos from typical soldiers. Remember, we don't exist." Esca turned down an aisle of tents; a wing separate from a lining of regular grunts. "If Deadshot's in, I'll leave you with him." Esca was far from the one to play tour guide, and new blood did not fall upon his charge.