In the Cold of the Night
Canned bean dinner just isn't sitting well in his stomach. Maybe he's gotten adjusted to Bo's home cooking, dang near as good as Daisy's ever was, or, just possibly, he's gotten used to the joyful noise of the man himself.
Who is currently in something of a deep pout, simply waiting to whip itself into something more potent. Presently taking it out on his pack, digging for long underwear, when Luke's already told him that it's coiled up into a roll between the blanket and their jeans. He'd take the pack from Bo, find the damn things himself, except he reckons it's too late for that. If he wanted a peaceful tentmate, he should have let this afternoon's discussion come to blows. Never mind that they're too old to go pushing each other's faces into the dirt and demanding obeisance from each other, he should have stuck out his chin for the punching before agreeing to what they've both known he has to do all along – resign his position.
Eventually the long johns get found and yanked out of the pack with enough force that they could as easily wind up in the fire as in the dirt at Bo's feet. Not that it matters; the poor things get a filthy look from his cousin anyway, whether it's for hiding so well in the pack, or getting themselves dirty, Luke doesn't hang around to find out.
"I got the dishes," he announces, though it clearly never would have occurred to his cousin that they even still need to be done. It's cold, Bo's miserable, and Luke knew this wasn't a good idea.
The beans that his stomach's not too impressed with provide proof of what could be foreseen so long as a man went through life with open eyes, and no blonde bangs to obstruct his view. Oh, Luke might have figured that at least one of them would have been able to make an arrow hit somewhere within a half-mile radius of where they wanted it to, but he also recognized that turkeys don't exactly make the easiest archery targets.
And anyone with skin could feel the northwestern cold lurking there under the sunshine warmth of the day, just waiting for a chance to sneak out from the shadows and blanket the world. Not that it's all that cold yet; Luke only shivers once when the winds blows straight down the hill into the small clearing where he's squatting by the stream. Maybe twice – there's that second breeze that follows on the first.
Bringing along some canned goods might have been Luke's idea, but it was Bo who packed the food, Bo who chose the kidney beans instead of the barbequed kind that might have slid down easier. Which meant that it was also Bo who packed the corn oil, little bottle of hope there that Luke dug out of the bottom of the pack after starting the fire. Not a dang thing that they brought or could have hunted up would have been in the least improved by the use of oil. Bo had to have seen the bottle by now, where Luke stuck it off to the leeward side of the fire circle, but there's been no acknowledgement of that.
"I would have helped," comes from right behind him, footsteps, then warm body squatting between him and the wind. "If you'd have waited a minute." Calmer now, or trying to be, making peace over a fight that never happened. Not a lot of light here to see by, but Luke figures that under that horrid green sweater the long underwear is making Bo one hell of a lot more comfortable than he's been.
The sarcastic brat he's never quite stopped being nags in his head about how he warned Bo it was going to be cold. "It ain't that big a job, Bo," he says instead. He hands wet dishes over to his cousin, though, because it's better than laying them in the dirt beside him.
And when they're all as clean as icy stream water can get them, he and Bo carry the tin plates back to the fire circle, where Luke dries them on his shirttail before putting them back into the pack. Bo stands behind and watches as each bit of food gets stuffed away, including the corn oil. Man doesn't say a thing, so Luke doesn't either, just hoists the packed food up on the length of rope he tied over a tree branch an hour or so back. Soon as he's got it securely tied where nothing bigger or less agile than a hummingbird (and Luke's never seen one in these parts) can get at it, Bo kicks dirt into the fire and the Duke boys crawl into their tent.
"'Night, Luke," and the zipping of sleeping bags ought to be the last sounds of the night. Well, other than what nature herself provides by way of wind gusts on tent flaps, and the sound of raccoons tussling in the trees. A man could sleep perfectly soundly here in the brisk, fresh air of the woods, if only his cousin wasn't huffing and turning every few minutes. No doubt Bo's uncomfortable over there, but it's got nothing to do with the ground underneath him; Luke made sure that plenty of pine needles made it under Bo's side of the tent.
"You cold?" he asks when he's had enough. Could be hours later, but he reckons it can't have been more than one at most. He's pretty sure he never did more than drift off for a minute or two.
"No," Bo answers and, it's in a pitiful tone. Man's too old to go sounding like that, but then again, he's never been a master at disguising anything. Forty-two years old, and Bo feels exactly as awful as the sound of that word.
"Come on," Luke says, unzipping his sleeping bag, then Bo's. Not much cooperation coming from his oversized cousin, which means Luke pulling and tugging until Bo catches a drift of what he's up to, helping to spread Luke's sleeping bag underneath then, then zipping Bo's overtop. More push and shove until all two-hundred (plus another twenty-five, Luke would guess) pounds of unhappy cousin gets rolled onto his side, where Luke can curl up against his back, arm around his chest providing warmth and restraining him against flopping around anymore. "Go to sleep, Bo," he commands just like he's done all his life.
And it must work, because the next time he's conscious it's after a dream filled with ash falling like snow, coating the ground and getting into his eyes and mouth, choking down into his lungs as he tries to call out for his team – and Bo.
"I'm right here," in his ear is such a relief that he lets himself cling to Bo, doesn't fight against the tightness or stifling heat of the man all but surrounding him, even if the sensation comes dangerously close to letting himself be comforted.