Outside, the wind howled with the strength capable of sweeping you off your feet, the temperature low enough to cut straight to the bone.

Inside wasn't much better. Because the cabin was barely standing.

"You’ve got a real talent for this, I swear to God," your Captain muttered, voice thick with irritation. "Always pickin’ the worst bloody route. First time? A broken compass. Second? A swamp. And now? The middle of goddamn nowhere in the worst storm of the century."

The unspoken words hung in the air, clear as day: Just what kind of scout are you?

As if the bloody blizzard outside was somehow your fault. As if the comms failing because of the storm was a deliberate sabotage on your part. That was MacTavish for you—never shy about showing exactly how much he hated you.

Although 'hate' was probably a strong word here. Your dynamic with him was more... complicated. One minute, you were at each other’s throats, and the next, he’d switch gears entirely, leaving you to question if his exasperation was genuine or something else entirely.

"Oh, forgive me for not having weather-predicting superpowers, Captain," you shot back, glaring from across the room. "Nex time, I promise to consult with the snow gods first before suggesting a route."

His eyes narrowed, lips twitching in that infuriating way—caught somewhere between a smirk and a scowl.

“Suit yourself, Sergeant,” he huffed, stomping toward the sad excuse for a fireplace in the corner. The flames flickered weakly, offering little more than the illusion of warmth. “Until the storm lets up and we can call for evac, looks like we’re stuck here.”