The cold never bothered Thrust.

In general, the cold wasn't paid any mind by most mid-size or larger fixed wings, all of whom were built for high altitudes, thin air, and low temperatures. Their bodies were well insulated, and as long as one kept their engines running or had enough anti-freeze, one's fuel lines managed to stay untouched.

Many aircraft, however, drew the line at cold, wet weather. That particular combination caused slick runways, limited visibility conditions, and the bane of any aircraft: icing. Unless one fancied a fast, frigid slide towards death, aircraft avoided most contact with frozen water if at all possible.

Thrust included. Say what you want about his adrenaline addiction, he enjoyed living.

Which is how he found himself here, hunkered comfortably in a spacious hangar on a snowed-in airstrip. And by snowed in, he meant in the middle of a raging blizzard. And while the hangar itself was more than large enough for him to fit with room enough for other people (one's gotta love international airports), once you added those "other people" it began to get a little cramped. Thrust was slowly becoming desensitized to the prickle of people's fields along the ampullae on his wingtips and tail fins, although his lateral lines still let him know when someone got too close. Because of his size, he'd been offered a quieter hangar all to himself, but there was nary a bigger social butterfly than Thrust, and he was perfectly happy to sacrifice solitude and privacy for some scintillating conversation with perfect strangers. The strangers, in this case, were a young B737, a little gaggle of Cessnas, Pipers, and Grummans who were having a bit too much to drink, a few trucks and tugs, and a pair of Bell 407 air ambulances who looked like they were going to bury some pointy rotors in the loudly intoxicated small planes on the other side of the hangar.

And all that was disregarding Thrust's current conversation partner. When he'd entered the crowded hangar, he'd noted one corner that was distinctly void of conversation. No guessing why; it was inhabited by a massive Pave Low III, hulking in size and build even for his brutish type. He wasn't radiating the "approach at your own risk" that most helicopters in that class had refined into an art, but his rotors were folded. Maybe that was part of it. Unusual, though, for an unpissed (word now, he'd argue it) chopper to compact their blades.

And Thrust might have just let him be, except that he was sporting a very un-military paint job. The usual "Jolly Green Giant" matte grey-green was replaced with a sparkling, immaculate white and black livery, striped with gold accents. Decals along his body and flank raised Thrust's eyebrows. TxDPS? This guy was a southern cop? Thrust tempered down his excitement to reasonable levels, and made a slow, leisurely turn towards the Sikorsky's corner. Oh, the stories this guy must have…

And it would keep his mind off of… other things. Orbit was still outside somewhere. They did not make this trip together, but had coordinated itinerary to meet here before continuing their trip in tandem. Thrust had arrived first, despite leaving late due to, erm, "personal reasons," but Orbit hadn't been too far behind. It was far enough for her to get caught in the worst of the storm, though, and Thrust dearly hoped that she wasn't so far down the landing queue that a turn for the worst in weather caused her to be routed elsewhere. That, and Orbit was small (comparatively). He always wondered what it was like to be small enough to ride air currents into tight turns and dizzying spins. Currently, he was glad he couldn't. He also currently wished Orbit couldn't. Worry tasted bitter in his mouth, and it was unfamiliar enough to be extremely unpleasant. She was fine. Really.

Oh well. There wasn't a disagreeable train of thought that couldn't be completely avoided by striking up a convo with an utter stranger!

Thrust watched the Pave Low's eyes snap to him once it became clear he was headed in his direction. His facial expression was… not unwelcome, but he was clearly not expecting company. Hm, might take a few minutes to warm this guy up. No matter; chatting to the unchattable was Thrust's greatest joy in life. Sometimes it paid to be too big to be properly intimidated. And then Thrust watched his eyes trail up to the Lockheed's tail, where his crisp CAL FIRE brand and number were located. The big chopper sat up a little on his suspension, at least mildly intrigued. Thrust morphed his smirk into a warm smile. Very little opened up first responders like the company of other first responders.

"Good evening, man. I'm not bothering you, am I?"

The cop shifted minutely, but he gave Thrust a small smile regardless.

"Naw, you ain't botherin' nothin'. Just wasn't expecting you to come this way."

To Thrust's absolute delight, he had that warm, distinctive accent that he imagined every Texas cop should have. And he may have also had the deepest voice that Thrust had heard out of anybody, ever.

"I knew I was betting on my own wellbeing while approaching a chopper all shrunk up into a corner by himself."

The Sikorsky blinked, then gave a soft snort. His rotors relaxed a touch, fanning out slightly towards his flanks.

"Ah, sorry. An old habit that still dies hard. When you're one of the largest choppers on a base and you're forced to share space with everyone else, you get used to 'barracks storage,' as it were."

"Just wanted to make sure. Couldn't quite tell if you were here for the solitude."

"Ain't the solitude I'm here for, it's the heat." And he canted his head upwards. Right above them on the ceiling was a massive vent, pumping warm air frantically from the slats. Rather odd placement for a heating vent, especially considering how air currents tended to move in a massive building like this, but the way it was cradled into the hangar corner seemed to suit the big helicopter just fine.

"Quite the hot commodity you have, considering the weather."

"What you did there? I see it." That small smile was still in place. "Bruce, by the way."

"Thrust. My pleasure."

"'Thrust.' Your given name, or am I on nickname status already?"

"Given. It's what happens when you're born in the sixties; depending on how toasted your parents were, you are liable to end up with a name that may bite you down the road."

"That's mighty unfortunate."

"You're telling me. Try flirting with women at the bar. Most can't decide if I'm hilarious or way too forward."

"I've heard worse. All nicknames, though."

"Dirty nicknames are the best, especially when your friends don't want them."

A smile out of Bruce. A real one.

"Ain't that why we give 'em to 'em?"

The conversation with the Pave Low became the perfect way to pass the time, and he seemed just has happy to indulge Thrust's questions as Thrust was answering his. Bruce was former US Air Force, retired shortly after him and his concluded their deployment during Operation Desert Storm. Back stateside and with an all-consuming urge to keep busy, he'd applied to the TxDPS, and had been there ever since. The perfect combination of paramilitary and completely different, he envisioned retiring from the department somewhere way down the road. It let him do everything he could want; swiftwater rescue, air patrol and pursuit, traffic, community outreach. With his massive payload and ridiculously keen night vision (never mind his USAF SAR familiarity), he had been heartily encouraged by veterans in the department to apply for the search and rescue division, where he had eventually found his niche. Been stationed all over, from the southern border to the panhandle, but he was currently stationed at headquarters, where he instructed new recruits in the training academy when he wasn't in the field.

"Sure beats the hell out of bein' in the middle of the desert. I was raised in Texas, and didn't think it got any hotter than an August in El Paso. The Gulf was somethin' else."

"And now you're up here, holed up in a hangar while waiting for a blizzard to pass."

Bruce made a face. It was the least friendly expression Thrust had seen out of him yet.

"Next year, when the brass wants to send someone up north for a public safety conference, I am gonna decline as politely as possible. Somehow, when they said 'Washington' I added a 'DC' to the end. My mistake. This state is cold."

In DC's defense, Thrust didn't think it was much warmer over there, currently. Given the weather outside, though, he'd let Bruce have it.

"Or at least avoid November next time. It's much warmer in the summer."

"You're a little far from sunny California yourself. You come out here often?"

"Only during fire season, when these forests burst into flames."

"You Cali boys can't get enough of your own fire, huh?"

"Oh, we have plenty, trust me. But there's only so much crowding the airspace can take before they start shipping us out of state to lend a hand. And for better or worse, I often make the short list of folks to be sent. With my range, I can be anywhere in the country in a few hours."

"Sometimes I wish I had that kind of range. You tankers do seem to get around."

"Get around, or 'get around'?" Thrust knew he should ease-off his typical brand of humor with people he barely new, but his guttermind was a ravenous thing. It was out now, no getting it back. Bruce gave him a wry smirk.

"You know what I meant. At least you get to travel."

"Yeah, I do enjoy the non-stagnant nature of it."

A portable radio on a passing tug crackled, and Thrust found his attention diverted. Three voices, back and forth, at least one of which was the control tower, and another was apparently ground crew. All runways currently closed, with whole teams of trucks trying to clear it of snow and ice. Thrust checked several of his frequently-used private channels. His quiet ping went unanswered.

"You alright?" Bruce wasn't quite frowning, but his gaze was focused firmly on Thrust's face.

Thrust sighed, the smile returning. Was he really worried enough that other people were starting to notice? Cripes.

"Yeah, just… yeah. I'm waiting for someone."

"In this weather?" A gust of wind pushed against the building, rattling the hangar doors and walls. The resulting vibrations tingled against anyone with sensors fine enough to feel them. "You sure they weren't diverted?"

"Yes. She would have called." If Thrust could rely on anyone to keep him abreast of any changes to plans, it was Orbit. "She entered final approach an hour ago. I haven't heard anything since."

"Your ladyfriend?"

"Yeah."

"Your class?"

"No. Much smaller, a former business plane. She's not much longer than forty feet."

"Yikes. Your kind can just power through, as long as you've got a place to land. For smaller planes? You say she's half my length, and there's a reason I'm on the ground in a nice, warm building." He politely omitted that all MH-53Js were also outfitted with adverse weather conditions in mind.

"Yeah." Thrust was still only half listening, frequently changing channels between the ground, the tower approach, and any other frequency Orbit might be on. So far, not a sign of her.

"If you don't mind my askin', what're y'all doin' up here anyway? Ain't it out of season for you?"

"We're here to visit with friends, now that we both have time off. It can be hard to go places together at any other time of the year, especially if they send us in different directions."

"Take it where you can get it, huh?"

"Yes." And there was more than one meaning to that, which Thrust found prudent to emphasize with a smarmy smirk. Bruce snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Again, not what I meant, but I guess there's that too."

"We're creative."

"I do not need to know."

Thrust grinned, and his radio crackled in his ear. He wouldn't have paid it any mind, he'd had it on intermittently for the past few minutes, but a familiar call sign was queued up next, and it made him jump hard enough to spook a passing fuel truck. Thrust gave him a sheepish, apologetic smile; heavy-class planes where dangerous when they moved like that. Bruce keyed in on Thrust's cues and opened his radio to tower approach to listen in.

"Tower to SP67."

"SP67, go ahead Tower."

"Runway one-six is clear, you are cleared to land. Be advised of wind shear near the ground, possible ice, take it slow. SW B737 is due in behind you, currently on your six, flight level 60 at about five miles."

"Roger Tower. Wind advisory, take it slow."

Thrust didn't bother to wait for the rest, and nodded to Bruce as he backed his tail out to swing around.

"Sorry for the abruptness, but I gotta bounce."

"You know you cannot actually help her land, right?"

"Yeah, but I can do something else." Another stiff gust rattled against the roof of the hangar. If Orbit was gonna get down to the ground, she'd better do it fast; if this wind got any worse, they'd be closing the runways for everyone, no matter the weight class. "It's in bad form to be cozy inside while you're lady toughs it out in a blizzard."

"You're actually goin' out there, ain't you?"

"Yes."

"To do what, wait by the door like a lost puppy?"

"Well… actually yes, I think that's about as far as I've gotten with the planning."

"You have no plan, don't pretend there's a plan."

"It's like you've known me for years." And Thrust couldn't resist a coy stage smile. Batted his eyes and everything. Bruce gave a resigned sigh, as if he was expecting to go outside in the morning and roll past Thrust's frozen corpse.

"Just don't freeze to death, yeah?"

"It's not on my list of Things to Do, kinda gets in the way of every other plan for this evening." The ampullae on his tail prickled, and he could hear the sudden growl of several engines as some variety of ground vehicles bailed swiftly out of his way. Oops, his bad. "It was nice talking to you."

"You too. If you ever have a reason to stop in Austin some time, ping our controllers. Tell 'em Sergeant Turbotorque sent you."

"The scariest name for the scariest 'copter. Can I just call you if I ever need the police?"

Bruce leveled a straight look at him, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

"I have a hard time believin' you don't have any beasts out where you're from. Some of those Coasties get big."

"Maybe, but you're a Pave Low cop from Texas. It doesn't get much more badaft than that."

A deep, rumbling chuckle bubbled out of the massive chopper, and he dismissed Thrust's entire last comment with another eye roll.

"Ain't you about to go do somethin' stupid outside in a blizzard?"

"Ah see, we're friends already!"

"I would try to stop you, but that ain't happenin'."

Thrust just grinned and dipped his head, a gesture Bruce returned. He completed his wide turn, before making for the hangar doors, dutifully ignoring the protesting shouts as he nudged it open to head outside. He suppressed a shiver as his plating quickly went from nice and warm to bitter cold. He couldn't see anything much passed the lights in front of the hangar, and the snow was already starting to gather in the seams of his flaps, melt, and refreeze. Quite a slap in the face, going from heated corner to frigid, paint-stripping blizzard, but that was alright.

Teeny tiny Orbit had been out in this for an hour. He could handle it for a few minutes.

It was cold as hell out here. If hell was an icy wasteland instead of a smelting pit.

They had been on the way to meet with longtime friends in northern Washington. Not together; Orbit had taken a brief trip home to visit family, while Thrust had been invited last minute to the bachelor party of one of his old college friends. He hadn't left the airport until the very last minute, probably so that he just barely scraped by the eight-hour booze limit on filing IFR flight plans. Even so, he'd arrived a couple hours before she did, the lucky bastard. When he'd hit the ground, there had been a weather advisory. By the time Orbit was on final approach, it had become a true blizzard. Large planes were handling it fine, until they weren't, and when Orbit got a call from the tower to take a lap, she did. Adverse weather with limited visibility was what ATC was for, and if they wanted her to come around again, so someone could have time to roll off the slippery tarmac, she wouldn't argue. Rolling face first into the aft of a jet was also not a fun way to end her evening.

Her single lap had swiftly turned into many laps. She kept her radio tuned to the tower; in these conditions, it was best to keep in constant contact with the people in charge of a million dollars worth of powerful radar and GPS equipment. He own radar worked fine, and she was glad it did (she was hardly the only one in a holding pattern above the airport, and she made damned sure she was well out of the way of the heavier planes around her), but it was reassuring to get an updated set of coordinates for her to follow, and to be entirely confident that no one else happened to want to share space in that cloud, either.

Down below, the three-runway airport was swiftly reduced to just one. The ground crew was working frantically to keep the runways just clear enough of ice to keep people landing. If you weren't already in the air, you were grounded. If you weren't in the immediate airspace, you were diverted. Orbit could feel the numbness starting to nibble at the edges of her wings and tail. She had long ago lost feeling in her ailerons and flaps, although they still moved when she wanted them to. Probably. At least she was still able to fly.

She felt her radar ping off the Russian Il-62 that was sharing a flight path with her as he pitched his nose up in a steep ascent. Eventually he leveled off, still following the same hold coordinates but high above her.

Above the clouds, more like. Now, why hadn't that occurred to her? She radioed the tower for clearance, felt around her for anyone she needed to stay away from, and put power to her engines.

It was a rough ride; the winds were as fierce as they had been all night. The last airstrip was down for some emergency shoveling. The plows and deicers were earning their keep tonight. She eventually flew free of the cloud layer. While still almost painfully cold, it was free of precipitation, and oh mercy she could see. A few miles in front of her, she watched the Il-62 make a slow bank around, continuing the pattern. Other aircraft started to follow them up, and soon there was a good half dozen of them, slowly circling in a wide formation around the airstrip none of them could see.

Only then did Orbit dare leave the tower channels. She flicked slowly through frequencies typically under use by her and Thrust. Big blockhead had been able to touch down before the plows had come out, but all he really had to worry about was ice buildup; he was heavy enough, and powerful enough, that snow didn't do much of anything to his landing gear, other than force him to make a more cautious landing than he otherwise would have. Y'know, like a normal plane.

What she would give for some of his abnormality right now. She expected to hear him call half an hour ago, ATC-controlled radio frequency be damned, asking her where she was at. Oh, it would embarrass the hell out of her, but they'd laugh about it later. Make her feel warm inside, for sure, and gods she needed that right now.

An Airbus up ahead of her took a sudden descent into the cloud layer, and Orbit beat a hasty retreat back to the approach channel. At least one runway back up, another almost there, and they were working to clear the backlog of planes in holding before the worst weather arrived.

So it was only going to get more terrible. How nice. Pardon her while she sipped on that sweet sarcasm.

The Il-62 was next, then a Leerjet. She recognized his flight number from more than an hour ago. He'd been due in right before her.

It was damned hard not to pull herself from holding until she heard her number called.

Orbit rode the waves of her relief through that storm. The driving winds and stinging snow seemed bearable when she only had to tough it out for a little while longer before being able to trundle into a nice warm hangar. Preferably with a nice warm TriStar to defrost her plating on. That thought alone had pushing so much power through her engines that ATC reminded her to watch her speed on touchdown. She reined it in, but barely.

Once she put her tires into the snowy tarmac, she was glad she did. Never mind the terrible visibility—she had barely seen beyond her lights, and HIRL be damned but that runway had materialized underneath her out of nowhere—but the asphalt was a slick beast that made her very aware of how easily a loss of control could happen. She laid into her brakes deliberately, but cautiously. Last thing she wanted at this point was to drift into a ditch.

Once safely on the ground, much to her overwhelming relief, she left the approach frequencies as quickly as she was able. She flew through her radio, passing and then returning to the one channel with a single plane emitting a slow, constant ping. The number danced across her HUD, and she had to resist a squeal. She just about failed.

"Thrust."

"Hey, beautiful." Never had his voice ever sounded so good. That constant, unflappable personality that sometimes made her fear for his self preservation. Right now, she needed it. She may be jealous of his time spent in a warm, dry hangar without precipitation in all his seams (and yes, she could feel it in there now), but all would be forgiven if he spent the next eight hours keeping the chill off of her.

"Where're you at?" And get her out of here.

"Take taxiway Juliet, heading east. Our hangar is on taxiway Kilo, on the left. Number 15." A short pause. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Cold and tired and damp, but I'll live." But wait a minute. "Are… were you worried about me?"

"No. No I was not." Thrust, a good ninety percent of the time, was a terrible liar. "Maybe. But just a little."

"That's adorable. You're adorable. If it eases your concern, I'll let you do my post-flight inspection once we get inside."

"Oh-ho! Are you sure about that? I'm not a certified inspector, I'll have you know. I failed the test because I get so… 'distracted' easily." Oh, yes he did. She was counting on it.

"Mm, I have it under good authority that you'll do just fine."

"I should fly you through a snowstorm more often. You come out of it so kinky!"

"If you think this is kinky—"

"…Especially since we're sharing this hangar with about ten-ish other people."

"…dammit, Thrust. Just when I got my hopes up."

"Other people are kind of a mood-killer, huh?"

"YES, yes they are."

"Boo, and just as I was… oh hey, there you are! I can see your lights. Let me kick on mine."

Why the hell would he turn on his forward lights? It's not like he needed them from inside the—oh hell no.

Thrust was not inside the hangar at all (number fifteen, just as he said, if she was reading that blurry, snow-obscured paint on the side of the building correctly), instead parked a short ways outside. He had both is forward and running lights on, and they were easier to see than the small blue taxiway illuminators that were hampered by the snow. Speaking of, it was all over him. A modest amount on his slick fuselage, but it lay in thick mats along both his wings. Not just snow either; in places where it didn't have a flat enough grade to pile up, thick crusts of ice had formed instead. Along his wingtips, Orbit though she saw the infant beginnings of icicles. The only parts of him not frozen over were most of his face, and his engines. They were on and running, sucking in cold air and snow like it was nothing and blowing hot exhaust out the back; he had a good two-hundred feet behind him that was perfectly dry, and probably warmer than she was.

Orbit was overdue some turbofan envy, and she was getting a good dose of it right now.

Not that Trust noticed. He did nothing but beam at her as she approached, wiggling happily on his gear.

"Good evening, dollface."

"Why the hell are you outside? You have a nice, dry hangar a good body length and a half away!" And him being here made it significantly more difficult for her to reheat her skin off of his massive frame.

His smile lessened somewhat, from sun-in-the-eyes beaming to his soft smirk.

"Because I promised I'd meet you here."

"'Here' could have still been inside. Where it's warm."

"Meh, got tired of waiting."

"It would only have been a couple seconds more oh forget it—" and Orbit simply buried her nose against his flank, as far as she could go. He wasn't going to listen anyways, and she was elated to see him, driving blizzard or no. Thrust put his own broad nose against the curve between her wing and her body, mindful of her numb, frozen propellers. The closeness broke off some of the ice from Thrust's skin, which sloughed off onto Orbit's head.

"You were supposed to keep me warm, you dork."

"I can still do that." His breath was warm, at least, puffing out against her back.

"Not with the Norwegian tundra growing from your plating you can't."

"I have an easy fix for this called Going Inside." He pulled back, and began to gently herd her towards the hangar doors.

"Do you ever listen to yourself?" The hypocrisy. It was alive.

"Psh, no. That's mighty self centered."

"You're doing this on purpose."

"You betcha. I haven't seen you for a week; you have no idea the amounts of nonsense I have saved up." He nosed the doors open, but canted a wing up to let her enter first.

"You didn't get any of it out during the bachelor party?"

"Not enough; had to fly the next day remember?" So he did leave late in order to make the "Bottle to Throttle" lockout. Lucky bastard. "Oh! That reminds me! There's a guy in here you need to meet."

"Have you been imposing yourself on random strangers all night?" Orbit smothered the gasp that swelled up unbidden as she felt warm air for the first time in hours. She could melt into the floor right here and sleep. Someone please just tow her out of the way.

"Just one, thank you very much, and I asked politely."

"There's a first time for everything."

"Hardee-har. Seriously though, I'm gonna introduce you, and tell me if his voice honestly doesn't sound like thunder dipped in chocolate."

"Like what?" But he was off, as soon as he crossed the threshold. He trailed little slushy puddles of melting snow and flaking ice as he went, but there was nothing to do for that but apologize to everyone he passed.

"Heeeey, Chocolate Thunder! Lookie what I found outside!"

And it began. Orbit could feel her evening stretch out before her. As she nudged the hangar door closed on the howling blizzard outside, she realized it wasn't all that bad. Thrust's personality was always warm, even when his plating wasn't.

And she was willing to sit through the most awkward conversations for that.

AN:

Because Orbit and Thrust were long overdue some shenanigans. My apologies, at about halfway the tone and direction of the story seems to have run away from me. Ah, well. There's a reason this is separate from War Stories; it means I can play in my sandbox without a care for really solid coherency.

TxDPS Sergent Bruce Turbotorque is my new toy. Hopefully I'll get to bring him out again to play at some point in the future.

Words!

Sikorsky MH-53J Pave Low III: One of the most badass helicopters around. Another author here termed it "Chopperzilla," and the moniker is apt. These things make even Skycranes and Chinooks look small. Almost ninety feet from most to tail, not including its massive six-bladed rotor assemblies. These are USAF craft, and they fold their rotors for storage. It looks cool when they do it, too; almost like a dragonfly's but more on the sides. They carry some of the best infra-red and night vision equipment around, and are sturdy enough to fly in some really unfavorable conditions. These always make my top ten list of favorite aircraft, ever.

TxDPS: Texas Department of Police Services. This is a statewide umbrella organization that includes the Texas Rangers, the Texas Highway Patrol, and Aircraft Operations, amongst many others. They have a surprising amount of aircraft at their disposal.

Insert obligatory typo warning here. You all know the deal by now.