Shared few meters of space, most of which were ignored by how close they both stood, shoulders almost touching. Or they were touching but it was too cold to matter. Both of them smoking, with eyes trailed forward, John glancing to his hand, noting how cold it was. His fingers were freezing out, to the degree of being painful. Huff of hair coming out on that fact.

He was far from his homelands for far too long, wasn't he. Getting whiny about light temperature power down. The usual pout deepening, eyebrows frowning and face with already too dark from sleepless nights eyes came out even more boney. The stubble, neglected in the mission, mohawk being far from his usually tended to perfection look. MacTavish let his eyes narrow on the landscape, praying to some gods for the mission to at least end properly.