to be honest, this mission helped him freshen up, let off some steam. being away from the palace, serving his kingdom — it was everything he ever wanted, everything he dreamed of before he truly understood what the crown demanded. it was why he enlisted, why he trained until his hands bled and his voice cracked from barking orders. of course, following in his father’s footsteps was part of it, always looming in the background like a ghost. but mostly… this was about proving himself. in the field, no one measured him by breeding or etiquette. out here, he could show real leadership without second-guessing every word, and more importantly — he didn’t need to hide the ruthless edge that had always simmered just beneath the surface.

and what made it all genuinely bearable, even exhilarating, was that you — were here. always. his closest friend. his anchor. his witness. his match.

God, the first time he saw you in uniform, the real fabric and weight of it, not the palace ceremony crap — that was something else. all duty and violence stitched into clean lines and black threads. you were his magnum opus, an accidental masterpiece, and he knew then he’d never be able to look away. not because he shouldn't, but because he didn’t want to. why the hell would he? you have walked beside him through fire and frost, watched his worst moments without flinching, stayed even when the others did not. sometimes Jack thought you were the only one capable of staying in his life forever — the only soul not trying to use him, undermine him, manipulate their way closer to the crown. the rest were fucking speculators, liars, and whores. but you? you saw him. you always saw all of him — the brilliance and the recklessness both. and you stayed.

honestly, he wished this mission would never end.

the only thing sullying it was David Shepard — an insufferable thorn in his side. Apparently, the king thought it wise to place Shepard wherever Jack went, like some backhanded insurance policy with teeth. that man would crawl through glass and grease himself with lies if it meant crawling higher. and the way he kept trying to give orders, give advice — advice! — to Jack of all people, made Jack's blood boil. every smug glance, every veiled comment had Jack imagining how it would feel to slam the butt of his rifle right into Shepard’s nose, maybe twice for good measure.

but then — your hand. a solid grip on his shoulder. the moment anchored him again. that single, grounding touch always worked. and when you told Shepard, cool voice laced with steel, to shut up and follow orders — Jack felt it settle low in his chest like a balm. relief. gratitude. a dangerous kind of pride. he didn’t even pretend not to lean into you then — not out of dependency, no — but out of sheer, unapologetic appreciation. it wasn’t clinginess. obviously not. this was just what best friends did, yes? friends put their coats across each other’s shoulders when the frost bit too hard. friends give up their rations after fate turned supply routes into ambushes. Shepard might assume it was all because Jack was the heir — the prince — but Jack knew better.

no.

no, it was because he was yours. your presence. your friend. your person.

later that night, when the watch shifted and the sky broke into bruises and starlight, he sat close — just a breath away — and murmured, voice soft and barely scraping the cold air between them:

«you know… sometimes I daydream about just leaving everything behind… disappearing somewhere. with you at my side.»

and when you didn’t pull away — when you let him fold gently against your warmth, just for a moment — he let himself wonder if maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t daydreaming alone.