John Pope, if nothing else, had always considered himself to be an extremely pragmatic man; down right pessimistic in fact, and for all the long hard years of his life it had served him well and good. In fact the only times he'd ever been in right deep shit could without doubt be laid at the feet of those few and far between instances of "trying to do the right thing"... so when he woke coughing and spluttering in the deep, dark woods it wasn't exactly an outcome he hadn't pondered on the flight in.

Hacking up the smoke in his lungs, and doing a cursory perimeter sweep with his peripherals he had to grudgingly admit he hadn't thought he'd wake up at all if the tin can did get shot down.

A quick scan had shown him all he needed to know; Mason, lucky as ever, looking a damn sight better than a plane crash survivor had any right to be, watching him expectantly. Well, there were worse people he could have been stuck in the woods with than the luckiest son-of-bitch alive that was for sure, if nothing else they were guaranteed to fall into the lap of some helpful dwarves, who'd patch them up, feed them, probably give Mason a Harley and send them on their merry way with a pot of gold. General Camo Pants on the other hand...

"Bressler?"

"Dead." Figured.

"You pulled me out of that thing?" He really didn't need to ask but Mason's tight nod was enough to let him know he'd probably at least considered just leaving him there to barbecue. The dire line of thought was abruptly cut off as the low whine of beamers swept into range. Floodlights sprung up, all across the clearing the crash had created and spurred by a sudden flush of fright and instinct Pope swung down into a hollow. Damn Mason, and his ability to attract trouble no matter where he went.

The next few minutes of conversation went a long way to reminding Pope why he hated this absolute ass of a man; and the loss of a damn fine air plane isn't the biggest of slights on the ever growing list. Clutching his side he gasps, half wishing Mason had left him there to burn. At least he wouldn't have to deal with this crap. He's pretty sure at least a couple of ribs are cracked, and his hip is throbbing in time to his pulse. Miraculously the thump to the head that's bleeding into his eyes hasn't progressed to a full blown migraine yet but it's certainly on its way. Mason's idiocy about wanting to move however is utter bullcrap. For one, those beamers aren't just doing a routine fly by, they're actively searching, and a whisker of movement is going to bring a volley of glowing explosive shit right down on their heads. It near makes his shrivelled black heart leap out of his chest when Mason jumps up to move out, and swinging out to catch his ankle and bring him down nearly makes him scream; for a brief second he genuinely considers grabbing Mason by the back of the head and smothering him in the pine cones but really... it's too much effort right now. Luckily reason wins out, and packed together, shoulder to shoulder in a low ditch they wait in terse silence for the glowing bastards to move along.

After the first two beamers move off, and they've moved to higher ground the Skitters move in, and for the second time in what is turning out to be a tiresome and patience wearing misadventure of a day, Tom Mason finds himself jammed in tight next to Pope in a ditch below a fallen tree. The tree much have originally been massive but the weather and rot has hollowed out several recesses along it mammoth length; regrettably only one of these is big enough for a person, and on the exposed hillside it has to do two. Tom doesn't consider himself a small man, at 6"1' he's always been happy with his height, now he'd trade Pope those inches happily, because the hole is bigger at the back than the front and despite vicious near silent arguing Pope had succeeded in shoving him in first. Tom has the passing fancy that Pope is claustrophobic, and thanks his lucky stars that he isn't, all he can see is a sliver of starlight above them, the rest of his view blocked by the substantial width of John Pope's shoulders. Stupidly he'd laid his leather jacket down to protect himself from the wet mulch and now at such close range Tom can see his biceps pebbled with goose bumps. It's almost enough to make him laugh in this ridiculous and life threatening situation. It's not until he starts violently shivering that Tom has to concede that he can't let him die of exposure, much as he'd like to.

It's a good three hours till sunrise, and despite the bitter cold seeping into his bones Pope is remarkably content, the angle he's lying at has crushed his possibly cracked ribs into the padding of his jacket and they've settled from a screeching howl down to a dull grumble. If only he could stop his teeth chattering it would be all well and good. Lost in his own thoughts he nearly shits himself when Mason grabs him by the arse of his belt and heaves him a few inches back, snug against the man's chest, the pain nearly draws a howl from him, even if the surprise and outrage didn't. Instead he grunts, deep in the back of his throat, and Mason pauses, having registered his error. Before Pope can roll over and sock him in the mouth for being a twat though the massive carpet of Masons Belstaff coat envelopes him. It's four sizes too big for Mason, something Pope has gleefully pointed out in the past (grudgingly it does mean he can fit a shotgun under it mind) but right now it envelopes the both of them just perfectly, and Pope's too cold too argue the compromising situation right now. Mason is as damp as he is, and the ice cold barrel of his Colt is digging painfully into Popes kidney where his wife beater has ridden up.

"That a pistol in your pocket or are you just happy to see me Professor," Pope grumbles mutinously, wiggling to try and dislodge the cold metal. Huffing in what could have been mistaken for good humor, Mason pulled back just enough to retrieve the pistol from its nylon holster strap, and more than enough to let the sudden cold back in. Shuddering violently he only just resists the urge to lean back into the startling heat radiating from the other man. Damn woods, damn cold, damn Mason.

"Shit! It's as cold as a frost bitten hemorrhoid out here."

"Shh." Is the only reply he gets, the sounds of scavenging Skitters is still loud enough to set both their teeth on edge and the hum of a solitary beamer scouting the area is as persistent as ever, but Mason does lift both his arm, now holding the pistol, and the Belstaff and wrap both firmly over Popes prone form. The pistol, now tucked snugly against Popes belly is doing wonders to remind him that he isn't as fit as he used to be, and for one vain fraction of a second he direly hopes Mason isn't lingering on the thought of how soft that underbelly his hand is flush to really is. Pain wins over vanity quickly though, sucking in your gut is damn near impossible with possibly broken ribs and with a sulky huff Pope relaxes into the body damn near wrapped round him like a snake; and both seeking any lingering warmth they settle tightly against one another in the dark.

Somehow, somewhere, in the steadily building warmth Tom slips into a patchy slumber, and dreams of hunting deer with Hal the first year of the invasion. The scent of gunmetal and the sharp acrid whiff of a rifles muzzle flash muffled with a piece of gutter tube and some insulation foam; the deep gamey scent of the blood and the meat as they'd butchered it and laid strips to cure in the wood smoke. Jousting with the antlers for a moment and telling him about the uses the native American's had for the tendons and the velvet.

When he wakes, the scent of gunmetal and wood smoke lingers, and it takes him longer than it should to realise the comforting scent is all around him because his nose is buried in the hollow of Pope neck and shoulder. His first instinct is to dive back, probably blush and stammer an apology, but for the life of him he really can't be bothered, and he's too stiff and sore to try. He's not so insecure in his sexuality that he's frightened by waking up next to another man, and he's certainly not concerned considering they nearly froze to death last night. In the years since the invasion this isn't the first time he's woken up beside someone odd, crushed into a small space for warmth and safety; he's a bit surprised he's never been stuck in a hole with Pope before now actually... Instead he sighs, tickling his nose with the long hair that could really do with a wash if he's honest. Feeling well rested, he takes stock of last nights injuries.

The fingers of his right hand, which has dropped the pistol during the night, is wound tightly into the belly of Popes shirt, the heel of his hand pressed flat against the warm abdomen. Judging by the soft steady breathing Pope's still sound asleep; at least he's not shouting and throwing punches in defense of his molested honour; then again, Pope's a survivor of this war too, no way this is the first awkward situation he's found himself in either. Even if they are a bit closer than Tom will admit to ever being those other times.

One of his knees is between Popes thighs, and he's snuggled up so close he's almost lying on top of the other man. In a fashion that he doesn't pause to think about his crotch and his thankfully too-tired-to-be-an-embarrassment cock is pressed snug up against the curve of Popes ass. Slowly attempting to extricate himself from both the shirt and Pope in general proves to be more difficult than he first considered, he's warm, and all around him the forest is blessedly silent. Pope smells of wood smoke, gunmetal and an underlying hint of something he can't quite place. Probably rot, from those damn fingers he keeps round his neck like a worldly warning.

Frowning as the spell breaks, Tom leans back, and obligingly, as if he's been awake this whole time Pope slides away and up out of the hole slightly, groaning all the way.

"You still owe me an air-plane," he grouses. He's exhausted, the pain in his ribs has only gotten worse the warmer he's gotten, but he's man enough to admit (at least to himself) there's not a power on this green Earth that would have made him crawl out from under Mason's coat tails into the cold either. It's been nearly a year since he joined up with the Second Mass and in nearly a year he's kept his head down and his balls blue. He knows the stories Maggie went spinning when she crept into the Mason Lollipop Guild and he knows there's not a bitch in Charleston or the Mass that wouldn't hang him out to dry on the Mason flagpole either because of it. No, it's been much easier to keep his pants on, and his nose in dirt of his own making rather than risk a harassment charge.

But it had been lonely, aw hell, he'd never admit it, but the five years in prison, studying a trade and the library, and three more before the Skitters fell from the skies had been eight long years of self-induced solitude. He'd never say it out loud, not if you put a gun to his head, but he missed prison.

Living with his crew after the Skitters came had come close to being back there, the violence, and short rations. He'd gotten used to the constant fear of death, but he couldn't get used to the stupid.

He'd never felt a moments sorrow for the loss of his brother, didn't blame Maggie in the slightest for doing it neither; he'd grown up enough to know Billy was a stone about his neck, just waiting to drown him... but he did grudge her hanging him up with those animals. All her pretty little views of what's wrong and right in the world, and the damn girl couldn't see for a second that if he'd stepped between her and his men he'd have been flung out as Skitter bait. It took a skilled hand to balance that kind of crazy and not end up eaten by it. Claiming her as his hadn't made her like him any better but it had stopped the beatings, and she'd grown a pair of balls to match the pistols she'd eventually adopted. He hadn't touched her though, and her attempts to charm him had been as easy to see through as good gin; make him love her; earn his protection.

Well hell, he'd learned to love her, sex or no sex, and she'd burned him left, right and centre the second something prettier came along. He almost felt sorry for the little Mason boy; like his father, he was soft. He'd fall hard, Maggie would have her faithful protector, and he'd have his fathers army. Pope envied her the pretty face, and tight squeeze between her legs that let her do it. Shit, he'd have tried it himself if anyone but Dan Weaver and Tom Mason had been the leaders of the Second Mass. Might have tried it anyway if they'd met under better circumstances.

As it was Mason's closeness the night before had rattled him, a man didn't get up close and personal like that unless he was missing something, cold be damned, and with a new baby just arrived, and a beautiful new mother for his little brood Mason should be as happy as a clam. The tight lines around his eyes, and his bodies instinctive craving for the comfort of another warm body however argued that all was not well in the happy little family.

Oh Pope knew where his own came from, he was lonely, when he let himself think about his kids, and the wife he'd lost due to his own damn stupidity, he could have taken that shiny pistol and blown the back of his head clean away. He'd earned this life, he'd fucked it all up before the aliens had even appeared, throwing a good life, and a damn good family down the drain in a fit of temper.

The apocalypse was the best thing that had happened to him since, at least now he didn't have to pretend to be a happy, well adjusted human being when every ounce of humanity left to him had turned to rage and pain.

Almost, he wanted to grab Mason and shake him, tell him how fucking stupid he was being; what the fuck did he think he was doing looking for comfort in an enemy when he had a loving family, and a beautiful lover at home waiting for him. The sad emptiness in those grey eyes stopped him though. Something was very wrong in the Mason brood.

He pondered it for hours after that, stalking moodily through the dense forest, thanking whoever was looking out for Mason that it hadn't rained again, and paying attention to the damn moss. Maybe he'd have been better studying native American's rather than cooking; he was a fish out of water in this back country and he grudgingly admitted, he'd be utterly lost without Masons knowledge.

His wife, Elaina, stunning little firecracker that she'd been, had been sweet for one thing, good food had been a direct path to her heart, and with nothing better to do than consider how he could possibly win her back after his release he'd flung himself into the culinary arts with voracity. Food and affection were forever linked in his mind ever since his father had drummed it into him as a boy that a man was the provider. Ironically, his Pa would probably have been able to teach him all the woodsy skills he'd have needed now if he'd ever bothered to listen.

Whether Mason was psychic or not Pope would never know but it was during this thought that he had obviously decided to pull up for the night, and handing him a bundling of kindling he demanded a fire. He knew for a fact his zippo was still in the plane. He was screwed.

Almost instantly Tom knew he'd struck a nerve, always proud to show off his skills, and how much better he was, it was entirely out of character for Pope to refuse a task in such a manner. Ergo; Pope was embarrassed, and didn't know how.

"Are you going soft, Mason? It's not that cold." That's not how you felt last night, Tom instantly thought biting his lip hard not to blurt it out loud. They'd both studiously avoided the topic entirely after they'd broken apart, and Tom was damn sure he wasn't going to bring it up even if Pope was shivering in his wife beater and black leather while Tom was snug in his great coat. Instead he took a breath and struck for calm; they'd walked miles into much thicker forest, the canopy above which was thick and damp would hide and disperse the smoke from a small campfire well enough that he reckoned they'd be safe. Safer than if they tried to sleep in the open without one anyway.

"It will be when the sun goes down," he reasoned, trying not to let the impatience make it into his tone. Instead he focused on the mystery of Pope not knowing how to make a fire.

"How could you survive this long without knowing how to make a fire?" he eventually pushed, genuinely curious. Watching from the corner of his eyes he was startled to see a flash of... distress, there was no other word for it, cross the other man's features as he glanced about obviously looking for an answer or a distraction. Filing it away for consideration at a later date he got stuck into making the fire they would desperately need to keep warm; if nothing else the effort would warm him up.

Although he sat down, ostensibly to grumble and be an ass, Tom could see him watching carefully, cataloging everything in that ridiculous steel trap of a mind to be repeated, and perfected at a later date. Pope was an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, tied up with neon pink ribbon of crazy. He had a near photographic memory, Tom had seen in it in action repeatedly; and flawless information recall. He was grudgingly brilliant with his hands, intuitive about people, and damn near psychic when it came to lancing straight to the heart of any given subject. All in all he'd have made a fine military officer, or an academic, in another life. Another world. Instead he shrouded himself in this cloak of stupidity until Tom was damn sure every now and then he accidentally believed it, at which point he tended to cock up royally.

It was endlessly frustrating for someone who'd spent their entire adult life in education, being taught and then teaching. He'd watched fabulous minds rot because they were bored, and the boredom inevitably led to trouble. The schooling system simply wasn't designed to deal with clever outside of the box thinkers. They ended up falling into the habits of their peers, and dropping out to pursue a life of inevitable disappointment. It was frustrating beyond belief. Tom was a hard worker, he wasn't inherently clever like Pope, or those kids he'd watched consistently flunk out of school. He had to work for every scrap of knowledge he gained, and every mark he ace'd. Where on a good day some of his peers would walk in still bug eyed from the night before, scrawl down an A+ and leave again to fall right back into whatever dive they'd managed to crawl out of, Tom spent his life researching, memorising, learning. In the end he had a high end teaching position and arrogant and disillusioned, because they were cleverer than their successful friends, those gems of intellect would slide into the dirt. That kind of intellect was fleeting, and if it wasn't captured, challenged and channelled early it would slide off into the abyss.

And those clever eyes watched his every move, because finally, in this end of the world situation, that intellect had found its purpose; to survive. Maybe that was the issue; the modern world was too easy, remnants of the instincts and quick thinking that had made humans the dominant species simply couldn't be coerced into giving up their strive for more. To be faster, stronger, better.

That killer instinct that was evident in Pope, Tector, and he admitted grudgingly, Ben; instinctual cleverness that needed an outlet for the cold, and the logic, that constantly told them school was boring, academia is useless; that was what made them predators. Five years ago, somewhere in there, he'd have settled down and written a thesis on the nature of man if the world hadn't been falling down around his ears. Instead he listened as Pope rambled, sarcasm rippling off him in waves, and he tried desperately to cut to the heart of the issue, tried with all his might to be clever, rather than simply capable.

"I just got this image of young Tommy Mason, out there in the wilderness with his old man. Behold my son, the miracle of fire," Smug satisfaction rolled off Pope in waves. He had fire, and he had something to tease his favourite victim with. Smarting, Tom groused back.

"I just got an imagine of young Johnny Pope, sitting on his ass and making wise cracks while the other kids played." Wondered if it was true, had Pope had friends? Or, as Tom suspected had he been a lonely ostracised child, too intuitive for his own good and unable to comprehend the anger and dissatisfaction roiling within him. As expected the query was dodged with dismissive silence. He wouldn't give away shit if he could help it, wouldn't make himself weak in front of the enemy.

Instead Tom played a different card, and tentatively offered a weak spot to the wary predator.

"My father wasn't really the outdoors-man type," he confessed. It was an old hurt, and not one Pope could stir him to anger over, but the man would jump on it like a piece of good steak as a weakness.

"Too busy managing his stock portfolio, huh?" So that was part of the issue then, Pope thought he was privileged; that somehow just because he was a history professor he'd been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Instead of working three jobs just to pay his rent, and eating packet noodles for a year to finish his Doctorate.

"Owned a hardware store," he admitted. "Never made it past the 7th grade. But he knew his tools." Knew how to beat his son and wife with them too; but Tom wasn't going to let that slip.

"Well, sounds like my Norman Rockwell upbringing," And in that second Tom honestly would have bet his last bullet that Pope had had a much better upbringing than he had. He carried the scars of a man who'd learned to fear life as an adult, unlike Tom, who'd learned to fear his father very early.

"My father was a drunk," he admitted morosely. Grudgingly getting closer to the truth, but unable to pull himself away from what was beginning to be a full out bonding session. Was he this starved for attention, this fucking desperately lonely that he was admitted secrets he hadn't even told Anne to Pope. The surprised look that the other man shot him is enough to tell him, yes, Pope had had a decent upbringing, a good family, he'd thrown it away later, no one who'd had a shit childhood could look that surprised when someone else had too. "Angry, mean drunk." He continued bitterly. Anger sweeping through him, of course Pope had had a loving family, and had thrown it all away. "There was nothing idyllic about my childhood." He confessed, and as if the rage had flowed out through his finger tips the ember he'd been building caught the alcohol he'd snitched from the med-pack and daubed on the wet kindling. And just like that his anger evaporated. Lots of people had shitty childhoods, he couldn't grudge Pope having had a good one; he'd no idea why and where it had all gone wrong. His father had been mean, and vicious, but he'd made his son into a man who could make fire, if only to keep himself warm when he was locked out at night, and he'd inadvertently steeled him for the pain and destruction of a war he would never see. "Except that maybe I survived it." And he had. Survived, and thrived; just long enough to pour his bleeding heart on Pope. Who was sending him concerned sidelong glances, as if he wasn't quite sure what to say any more; like he might have had the rug swept out from under him a little; and like an ant crawling up the back of his neck he could almost taste the faint, but distinct tang of sympathy laced concern.

He'd excused himself quickly after Mason's heart to heart; unsure where the sudden overwhelming urge to say something comforting had come from; neither he nor Mason had any interest in hearing what he was likely to spout in that situation. He was after all, highly skilled at inflaming situations rather than soothing them. Somehow Masons... god he almost wanted to call him Tom now, how shitty was that? Somehow his quiet and passionate little speech had sunk right in and pinched a nerve Pope hadn't known was still in there, and he'd felt utterly shitty because he'd had a loving family, a thick as shit, maniacal, and dog loyal brother and a beautiful, wickedly funny sister. His parents had still been smotheringly happy together when they'd both died in a car accident when he was 19: leaving him with a lovely home, enough money to see the kids through college and the eldest child in a family that didn't know how to function without it's Ma and Pa.

Well Billy had been too dumb for college, and too dumb to keep himself from ending up a crack head by the age of 17, shooting up and smacking about his girl, landing himself in juvie, and various short sprints in and out of prison right up until the Skitters broke atmo.

Selene, beautiful, kind Selene, at 12 years of age when she lost her Ma and Pa had been too young to be brought up by a big brother who didn't know how. She'd done well for herself in the end, leaving for Europe when she was 18 and taking the last of the money from their parents with her, they'd stayed in contact right up until he got busted for manslaughter. She'd forgiven him stealing that Harley trying to impress Elaina Salvatore, he'd married her and had two brats after all. But manslaughter had lost him everything, his wife, his kids, his job, and his degree in engineering. It was curtains all over again and five years in lock down hadn't done him any favours. He'd learned to be rough around the edge's maturing in Florida. He'd learned cruelty in prison.

Rules and regulations had suited him just fine, and he'd slipped into 'yes sir', 'thank you sir' quickly enough that the screws had mostly left him alone. He'd learned to be fast, and hard, and to strike without mercy after three near fatal stabbings; he'd learned when to duck his head, lower his eyes, and keep his mouth shut after a rigorous, and forced, education in how to curry favour amongst the inmates with power, and a wandering eye. The first eighteen months had taught him how to fight for his life, and when to bend to a greater power; the next eighteen learning how to cook had saved his arse, literally. There wasn't a man in the place who wouldn't do a favour for a nice bit of nosh, and Pope had suddenly found himself a valuable commodity for more than his pretty mouth.

So looking back, Pope couldn't hold the grudge, felt fucking guilty for even having built it to begin with, because he had made himself into the man he was by choice, not fate; and Mason, well if he was telling the truth, and not a man in the world could look like that while lying, he'd made gold from horse shit with the life he'd built for himself. And Pope had hated him for it.

Shouldering the shotgun he'd wandered out of camp with the vague promise of 'hunting', if nothing else he could hunt; deer weren't quite as easy to find as Skitters but they sure went down faster even with a shotgun.

In the end he didn't find any deer, but a pond over the ridge provided ample volumes of the biggest frogs Pope had ever seen in his life. He'd sat by the edge thinking for a good long while about the Mason issue, stripping willow switches and spearing errant frogs. He'd even taken a minute to hunt around for anything recognisably herby, or anything that matched his mental catalogue of fungus but it wasn't the right time of year by a long shot. Eventually, as it approached twilight he had to concede he'd no more excuses to hide behind and trudged wearily back towards the muted glow not two hundred paces from where he'd set off. Mason would think he'd gone miles, but he'd needed the time to think and he'd done enough trekking recently to last his ribs several lifetimes.

Padding into camp he watched as the other man put away the shiny Colt, the pistol was a cracker, matt stainless steel with a claw hammer black rubber Hogue grip and extended mag. A damn fine piece, funny how even at the end of the world the good old US of A couldn't leave a good gun behind. It was prettier than it needed to be, but the stainless steel would likely outlast them all.

Settling himself gingerly down besides the remarkably welcome campfire he brandished the fat frogs with a grin, watching in righteous amusement as Masons eyebrows slanted down in a frown. Someone had obviously never eaten frogs-a-la-barbee before. It wasn't until he was groaning in complaint trying to spit them into the ground without leverage that the other man snapped into action.

Tom hadn't eaten frogs in years, and was distantly trying to remember if there were any types of poisonous frogs in America when the soft, and carefully muffled groans broke his concentration. Pope had returned as the subdued but victorious hunter, with possibly more frog than they could actually eat, but he had been gone a long time, and he was beat up as it was without adding another long hike onto his already long ass day. Snapping into action he crouched and helped Pope put the frogs where he wanted them, lending strength where Pope had obviously used his quota and more for the day.

As soon as they were finished he reached for the med-pack, before tugging sharply on Popes leather jacket.

"We need to bind your ribs. Get it off." Pope was an unmitigated ass but even Tom couldn't garner enough dislike for him right now to watch him moving in such obvious agony. The bright, sardonically raised eyebrow and the wide grin that greeted him however very nearly convinced him otherwise. The glimmer of bright amusement was just enough to convince him this really was worth the effort.

"Why professor, are you trying to get me naked in the woods?" Refusing to rise to the bait Tom tugged the jacket collar a little more forcefully, sending a shiver of pain through the cocky asshole.

"Technically half naked in the woods." He replied, proceeding to strip the jacket from the suddenly embarrassingly cooperative idiot. "Not even the interesting half." Confound the man, Tom was struggling hard now not to grin. There had always been a certain amount of camaraderie in flirting for Tom, and he'd made some of his closest friends that way, somehow this felt just a sliver different from hassling Dan about how pretty he looked in his new BDU'S though.

"Oh I dunno about that," Pope smirked heartily. Obviously enjoying the game much more than he was. "I'm told my mouth can be pretty interesting at times." Blushing furiously Tom helped the moron out of his shirt, knowing fine well he'd made that reference more than once; usually in shock at the brief glimpses into Pope true genius mind. "And you can be damn sure these skilled chefs hands know how to be interesting..." The smirk was damn near lascivious now, compounded by the fact Pope had his good arm out of the sleeve of his wife beater, exposing a vivid slash of pale abdomen and ribs, gently pulling it over his head and finally down the arm on his injured side Tom breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was quickly replaced by a deep frown as he surveyed the damage.

"God you're an idiot," he muttered. Reaching out a sympathetic and curious hand to trace the vivid purple marbling splashed across a good foot square of his front and rear rib cage, he jerked the fingers back guiltily when Pope flinched and hissed between his teeth.

"Fuck Professor, keep your cold ass hands to yourself. That's not a finger painting." Snorting Tom rubbed his hands together rapidly to warm his fingers before going back to his careful pressure testing, the skin wasn't clean but it was a damn site cleaner than the rest of him and surprisingly silky smooth considering both his age and lifestyle. He was really starting to think he needed to get laid. A handful of times in three years really wasn't cutting it.

The bruises were vivid on the pale skin, and sensitive and he was obviously in a lot of pain but there were no obvious breaks, and he'd be lucky if he'd gotten away with a couple of minor fractures and a helluva bad bump. The near squealing agony of lifting his hand above his head pointed towards some intercostal muscle tearing but nothing that wouldn't heal with time, and rest. Something they were running low on. Resisting the urge to keep investigating the miles and miles of creamy skin Tom retrieved his nosy hands and turned to search through the med-pack; rummaging produced several rolls of self adhesive bandages, they were designed for ankles and such but they'd do the job well enough. Ripping open three packs he got placed one end on the unhurt side and did a couple of anchoring wraps.

"This is going to hurt," he warned.

"More than you calling my top half boring?" Pope groused. "Gimme that bit of kindling." Plucking the afore mentioned stick from the little pile by the fire Tom watched as he carefully bit down on it, took a deep breath and nodded. Quickly, knowing this was going to hurt like a bitch he pulled the wrapping tight and began to bind his chest. It wouldn't help much, but it might stop him causing any more damage till they could find a real doctor.

When it was finally done, Pope was white as a sheet and panting, he was bound up tight as a drum, but remembering Anne's strict lecturing, not so tight as to crush the ribs out of shape or force any protruding bone into a lung. They'd agreed to tend to the shrapnel wounds next so gently lowering his near apoplectic patient onto the ground by the fire Tom took a minute to turn the frogs as instructed, while Pope leant back against the log behind him, obviously attempting to gather himself after the ordeal of rib wrapping.

"Let's get this over with Professor," Pope demanded as soon as the last frog was turned; starving as he was they looked absolutely delicious to Tom. He'd gotten his breath back and was looking utterly murderous. He'd been a relatively good patient according to Anne when he'd been all shot up, but the enforced close quarters and gruelling conditions could get to any man Tom supposed, let alone a querulous arse like John Pope. Pulling the suturing kit closer he peeled open the little paper packet that held the sterile stitching needle, followed by several packets of antiseptic wipes. The wound was dry and dirty, and to be honest, Tom wasn't even sure if he should be stitching it so late after the fact but several wipes and judicious scrubbing later it was clean and oozing bright red blood, a generous application of anti-baterial cream later and he'd finished off the stitches as neatly as a grandmother darning baby socks. Pulling an adhesive pad from the kit he spent a minute more smoothing the skin with his thumb before absently plastering it over the wound. That would have to do.

The head wound wasn't nearly so easy, for one, Pope was adamant it would be fine, and was just a scratch, but the inch and a half long wound was still cracking and leaking blood into his eyes when he frowned.

"What is your problem?!" Tom eventually burst out, uncharitably reminded of trying to make his kids eat their vegetables the tone of voice had become so petulant. Anger and resentment flitted across his face and belatedly Tom realised that was the issue; Pope had obviously gathered his courage though because just as petulantly as ever he huffed out a low, "Fuck you Mason!" before canting his head back like a dog and laying the side of his face on Tom's thigh. The intimate position nearly set him on fire; Pope sat at his feet with his head tipped back like that was an indescribably vulnerable position, throat bare to any whim Tom might take and eyes watching him equal parts furious and stubbornly defensive. His hands had made tight fists on his thighs, but he sat quietly.

Reaching out for more wipes Tom realised belatedly that his hands were shaking just slightly, and took a deep breath through his nose to calm himself. There was absolutely nothing wrong with treating a fellow soldiers wounds, absolutely nothing worth getting punched over anyway. Cleaning away the accumulated blood and grit around the head wound he discovered it wasn't as bad as it had it looked. The gash was long but straight and shallow. The adhesive stitches in the case would be more than satisfactory, and gently he began to pinch the edges of the gash together. Ridiculously, smoothing each stitch down tight with his forefingers felt horrifically intimate, and damn near like a caress. Popes eyes had drifted shut somewhere during the proceedings and Tom wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

With his eyes closed, and his face relaxed Pope looked years younger than he was, the long hair framed a well proportioned and handsome face, with a nose that had been broken once or twice but had survived relatively unscathed to tell the tale. There was a tiny little tear-dropped shaped scar above the right bow of his upper lip where no beard would grow. All in all not bad looking man by any stretch of the imagination; if only he weren't so damn self-centered and such a copious asshole.

He shouldn't be indulging, even feigning sleep was dangerous because Mason knew him well enough to tell like as not, but the momentary comfort of being close to another human being even for a few dangerously stolen minutes was too tempting to resist. Mason had obviously noticed him 'sleeping' because he'd graduated from precise applications of butterfly stitches to absent minded stroking; whisking his thumb back and forth across the undamaged side of his forehead and temple in a manner that was decidedly distracting, and utterly enthralling.

He didn't really know how long they lingered there, but eventually the scent of overdone frog began to rouse him from his half slumber and he sat up with a groan at the crick in his neck. Rubbing the back of his neck he shot Mason a tight and guilty look.

"Sorry, I'm beat. Didn't mean to pass out on you Mother Theresa." snorting, and accepting the pathetic excuse for what it obviously was Mason packed away the remaining supplies and lobbed the empty paper packets into the fire. The bright flush of warmth from the flames reminded him that while sitting snuggled up with Mason had been nice, it was damn cold. Gingerly he ducked back into his shirt jacket without the need for help while Mason pulled the toasted frogs from the edges of the fire.

They'd crisped up slowly, and while some had blackened more than a little on the outside, the interiors were moist and juicy. It wasn't long before the pair of them were gorging on the feast, and damn if it wasn't one of the best things Pope could remember eating.

"I tell you," He murmured happily, feeling fat and warm and remarkably less sore. "A little white wine, lemon and garlic, cayenne pepper, it'd be almost edible." He grinned smugly, knowing fine well Mason had damn enjoyed his dinner. "You much of a cook Mason?"

"Nope. Rebecca did most of the cooking." Inordinately, this pleased Pope, and his sharp smile softened into something more approachable. "I used to make breakfast for the boys; on Saturdays sometimes. I liked the smell of bacon and hash browns in the house." Pope has been told more than once that his hash browns are better than his blow jobs, he never took offence, and suddenly this seems like much more valuable information. Seeking common ground he offers a little about himself, feigning interest in the last of his frogs legs.

"I wasn't much of a cook when my kids were around." He'd been too busy, but he'd always made the time to cook something nice for his old lady when she needed it. He'd never been much good at telling her how much he loved her other than with pancakes and syrup in the mornings.

"A boy and a girl," he confirms, surprised Mason has remembered at all that he has kids. "Brandon, and Tanya." After his mother.

"When was the last time you saw them?" Too long ago. Glancing up though there's no accusation in Masons eyes, only mild curiosity, as if this anecdote is a passing piece of undiscovered information from a good friend. Surprised, and cautiously pleased he nods "Alright," whatever this is, they are obviously following it down the rabbit hole after all. For a brief second he wonders why Tom hasn't mentioned the good Dr Glass since this whole shit storm hit the fan. He's beginning to suspect but there's no good way to ask that so he nods good-naturedly and continues. If Masons going to hate him, he might as well hate him now rather than later, and with all relevant info to hand.

"Five years, before the invasion." He admits, and despite the end to this story its a happy memory. The last time his son had looked at him with love and admiration, before his damn temper and chronic bad luck had sent it all to the wind.

"Me and my boy were working on his mini bike, this little old school Honda that his uncle gave him." As he tells the story he can visibly see Mason putting two and two together, but the righteous anger about the douche bag who'd nearly killed his son wasn't something he'd ever feel ashamed over. The courts had agreed with him, they'd only given him five years, just enough to lose his wife and kids before the world went to hell. Shit he couldn't even have told you how many people or Skitters he'd killed since then. Murder. In the old world.

He doesn't see it coming, watching the pain, guilt, shame, all of it, flitting across Popes face like a road map of his feelings; he should, and yet he doesn't. Somewhere, deep in his fucked up skull, he doesn't consider this man capable of stone cold murder, and he's surprised by that. He's seen Pope take plenty of hits, and come out swinging, come out bloodthirsty and cold, and poisonous with his rage. But looking at him now he sees a man who made a very big mistake, who knows that in that world, before the aliens came, he'd had a choice and he'd chosen wrong.

For a brief few moments he's overwhelmed by the disgust, reminded of all the foul things the man sitting by the fire with him has actually done, but suddenly there's an entirely new context.

Pope isn't telling him this story because he's proud, or to try and scare him, or any other macho bullshit reason... he's telling him because he thinks he deserves to know. Tit for tat. And maybe, because he's looking for just an ounce of forgiveness. Why Pope's decided his forgiveness is worth shit to him is beyond Tom's wildest imagination, but somehow, he has. John Pope is asking, hurting for, Tom Masons forgiveness, he continues before Tom can reply, and for a fraction of a second Tom thinks this is it, this is where John Pope will break, and the pieces will go back together differently. But the next words out of him aren't asking any more.

"You know what Mason? I was never cut out for the home life, homeowner crap, just never my thing you know." Tom doesn't know, because every cue Pope is sending off says he's lying, his body is screaming that he misses it, that it's eating him up inside that he messed it up on one stupid fit of temper. Tom's been there, he'd nearly killed Pope in a fit of temper, over nothing more than a fit of dignity and honour. He can't imagine what he'd have done if Pope had nearly killed one of his kids then had an attitude about it. In this world he might have shot him out right, might even had made it hurt first... he'd certainly have beaten him to a pulp. One square hit wouldn't have been enough; hadn't been enough when he'd insulted the memory of a kid he barely knew. Pope could take it, maybe that was why Pope was safe.

"And prison," he continues, musingly, "prison was easy. Prison I understood. That other stuff..."

He doesn't continue, and momentarily Tom is glad because his world view of John Pope has been turned on its head these last few hours. They've been steadily growing closer for weeks, working together on more missions, Pope bringing him information on trouble makers; trusting each other more, hell, even joking together on occasion. Tom trusts him, would never have let him fly out with them if he didn't no matter what Pope tried to pull. He's starting to rely on him. But he relies on the Berserker; the rage, and the cold, and the unfiltered John Pope, who will do what needs to be done, because that's how his mind works. Who does what Tector won't, and what Tom can't bring himself to ask of Ben.

He'd told Dan that Pope and the Berserkers were a necessary evil once upon a time but it wasn't until he was actually in charge of them that Tom had really come to appreciate it. Pope's team would follow him to the ends of the Earth and for all the time he'd known them all that loyalty had never seemed justified or well placed. Now, Tom could see it, here and now Pope was letting him in, letting him see the cracks in the mask of the insurmountable legend that was John Pope the Berserker King. And despite months of wishing they could come to some sort of agreement, at least work together peaceably, he didn't know what to with it now the hand had been offered.

Standing slowly and preparing to go on watch, he considered his next words carefully, and thoughtlessly reached out for the shotgun; the sudden and violent lunge that Pope made for the gun startled him badly, and he realised belatedly what the gesture must have looked like from his point of view. Slowing his movements he dropped to his heels and didn't move to reach for the gun again. There was a near feral wildness to the other man eyes now, fear leaking in around the edges, he'd slipped up, lulled by Tom's own admissions he'd let too much slip; how much of this story did anyone else know? None? Tom rather thought he might be the first to hear it this side of the court room.

Watching Pope now, his next few words were crucial, this was the moment between waking up beside an ally tomorrow and waking up to an enemy. They'd both gotten over the shock of the plane crash, the odd intimacy they seemed to be building had gone beyond nerve racking and was steadily heading into curious territory but this, how he reacted to this was how the rest of their time together would be judged.

The answer was easy when he thought about it, was slipping guiltily back into its seat with a rapidly appearing flush colouring the high cheek bones; visible even below the dirt. That flinch, that instinctive reaction to a perceived threat where there was none had given him away entirely. Pope didn't consider himself as having any power here... oh he'd bluster and bullshit and make a lot of noise but that's what he always did. Here, now, with just the two of them, and this odd companionship blooming in the dark like a fragile night flower, he was utterly vulnerable. He'd lost focus and left himself wide open, and he was expecting rejection right down to his bones.

The words were chosen very carefully, and he held his gaze firmly as he said them, using full eye contact to drive the point home.

"Sleep Pope." He murmured. "I've got your back."