Reliant ~ [John Soap MacTavish]

XLIII. Not Enough Training

There's only a small lamp on in the entire common room.

The small source of light still manages to brighten the room just enough for me to read. Though long shadows are cast across the empty space from a couple of chairs standing in front of the lamp.

I sit on the worn-out couch, my fingers absently tracing the edge of a book I have no intention of reading. I have been avoiding the common areas of the base, preferring the solitude of my room to the awkward interactions with the rest of the team.

But restlessness has driven me out of my room tonight, leaving me to wander the halls until I found myself here, alone in the quiet of the common room, knowing no one usually came in here anyway at this hour.

They must be sleeping. Working. Doing whatever in the confinements of their rooms.

As I try to distract myself with my thoughts, footsteps echo in the hallway outside. I immediately tense, bracing myself for the inevitable encounter.

Just a moment later, a familiar frame appears in the doorway.

Soap.

He halts when he sees me, his fingers wrapping around the cup he's holding just a bit tighter. I quickly focus back on the item in front of me, hoping to somehow avoid an ordeal. I sit there, book in hand, pretending to be engrossed in its pages.

I can tell he hesitates for a moment, letting his head hang forward before he finally decides to step into the room. My heart races as his presence fills it, his footsteps amplified by the otherwise quietness of the room.

Avoiding eye contact, I keep my gaze fixed on the book even though my brain isn't registering a single word.

His presence demands acknowledgment, and my attempts to hide only delay the inevitable.

I steal a quick glance at him from the corner of my eye, noticing the way his shoulders are tense as he stands in front of the coffee machine, his back facing me. It gives me the opportunity to study his body language for a moment, though it's practically giving me nothing but tense shoulders.

Is he as unsure as I am? Does he dread this conversation as much as I do?

Does he hate me?

He should.

With a weak hand, I turn the page of the book, my eyes skimming over the words without absorbing them. I can hear the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears before it's drowned out by the sound of the coffee machine.

"Am I not even getting a hi, Alex?" his voice cuts through the silence, sounding even louder in the empty room even though his voice is rather calm. His back is still to me, his hands fiddling with the machine before he rests them on the counter without turning around.

I hesitate, unsure of how to respond, so I keep my book up, using it as a sort of shield. I let the silence play out for a little before confessing. "Price told me not to talk to you."

A breath escapes him, something close to a laugh, perhaps. "Since when do you listen to orders?"

It's then that he turns around, his gaze landing on mine. I can physically feel my heart skipping a beat and I instinctively hold my breath. My skin tingles, heating up as his eyes glide over it.

I sigh, the corner of my mouth twitching but refusing to curl up into a smile. "I don't, I guess."

A silence plays out, and while I'm usually not someone who minds that, this time it is different. It feels uncomfortable, and I'm not sure what I should be saying at this point. He doesn't say anything either as he grabs his cup and slowly nears the couch I'm sitting on. He sits down on the couch opposite of it, not too close, not too far.