He huffed out a breath. “Of course you are.”
They set up shelter in silence. Hudson eyed the flimsy piece of linen. It wasn't much—barely enough room for two people and their gear—but it would keep the wind off and their body heat trapped. Supposedly.
"Fire," Shaw said, already gathering deadwood from the surrounding area.
Hudson helped, collecting anything dry enough to burn. Within twenty minutes, they had a decent pile. Shaw cleared a spot and arranged rocks in a circle like he'd done this a thousand times.
"Let me guess.” Hudson grinned. “Eagle Scout?"
Shaw shot him a look. "My father required practical skills." He struck the fire starter and got it on the first try, which was more than Hudson would've managed with his numb fingers.
The flames caught and grew. Hudson moved closer, holding his hands toward the warmth like he was praying to it. The heat hit his face and the smell of woodsmoke assaulted his nose.
"Thank fuck,” he said as circulation burned back to his fingers.
While they waited for snow to melt in their canteens near the fire, Hudson leaned back against his pack, admiring the flames as they flickered in the wind. Shaw sat across from him, not saying anything, but for once the quiet didn't feel like something Hudson needed to fill.
Eventually, Shaw pulled out their rations and divided them with mathematical accuracy.
"Well isn't this cozy?" Hudson reached for his share.
"Casse-pieds.Can you shut your mouth and eat?"
“Can’t do both. Gotta pick one.” Hudson smirked.
Shaw glared at him. “Eat, Hale.”
He chuckled and did as he was told.
The creamed chipped beef—also known asshit on shingle—tasted as terrible as it sounded. Hudson’s stomach growled with hunger anyway. When they finished, Shaw packed everything away, folding the wrappers into precise squares before tucking them in his pack.
"So," Hudson said, because someone had to. Really. The quiet was unnecessary. "You know what's funny? I have no idea what your first name is.”
"Why is that funny?"
"We're stuck in a tent together for two days. Seems like something I should know."
Shaw didn’t answer right away. Then, “Elliot."
"Elliot," Hudson repeated, testing it. Serious. Controlled. A little old-fashioned. "Huh."
"What?"
"Nothing. Just suits you."
Shaw raised an eyebrow. “And yours?”
“Hudson.”
"That's... very American."
He laughed. "I'm from New York. My mom liked the river. Said it sounded strong."
"Your mom named you after a river?"
"Yeah. Could've been worse. Could've been Mississippi."
That earned him a smile. Small, but there.
