Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
HUDSON
The truck smelled like diesel and someone's terrible choice in deodorant. Hudson wedged himself into a spot across from Shaw, who immediately closed his eyes like he was meditating or some shit. Probably conserving energy. Being efficient with his consciousness. Very on-brand.
Today’s briefing had been short and simple: two days, minimal supplies, and three checkpoints. Complete the objectives or do it again with everyone knowing you’d fucked up.
Pairs were announced. Hudson had already known the result before Kowalski opened his mouth.
Hudson eyed Shaw. “Excited?”
“Thrilled,” he said, keeping his eyes closed.
“Yeah, me too. Love hypothermia. Really brings people together.”
Shaw’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t respond. Hudson was used to that by now.
Twenty minutes later, the truck stopped and dumped them in ankle-deep snow with nothing but white in every direction. The truck pulled away before Hudson could even get his bearings, leaving them alone in the middle of nowhere.
Shaw pulled out the map, spreading it against his thigh to study the terrain. “First checkpoint is northeast. About twelve klicks.”
“You sure?”
Shaw shot him a silent look.
“Right. Yeah. You’re sure.”
They started walking, and Hudson took point. The snow was deeper than at first glance. His boots sank past his ankles with each step, sometimes mid-calf when they hit drifts. Breaking trail burned through his thighs, each step a battle—lift, push forward, sink, repeat.
"Switch," Hudson said after maybe twenty minutes.
Shaw moved past him and Hudson fell in behind, stepping into the path Shaw had broken. After another twenty minutes, they switched again. Then again.
Shaw moved like he'd been doing this his entire life. Economical. Never rushing, never slowing. Just constant forward progress.
It was annoying how good he was at everything.
By the time they reached the first checkpoint, Hudson's lungs burned from breathing cold air and his toes were numb. A small cache marked the supplies and instructions for the next leg.
Shaw read the card while Hudson caught his breath.
"Southwest." He pointed. "Fifteen klicks."
"Fantastic," Hudson deadpanned.
"We need to cover at least half before dark. Set up camp, finish tomorrow morning."
Hudson nodded, already dreading it.
By late afternoon, the light faded fast and the temperature dropped even faster. Shaw called it when they found a decent spot sheltered by trees dense enough that the wind dropped. The flat ground beneath the pines was dry, carpeted with old needles despite the snow.
Hudson dropped his pack with a groan, stretching his lumbar. "Jesus. Is your back killing you too?”
Shaw shrugged. “No. I’m good.”
He huffed out a breath. “Of course you are.”
They set up shelter in silence. Hudson eyed the flimsy piece of linen. It wasn't much—barely enough room for two people and their gear—but it would keep the wind off and their body heat trapped. Supposedly.
"Fire," Shaw said, already gathering deadwood from the surrounding area.
Hudson helped, collecting anything dry enough to burn. Within twenty minutes, they had a decent pile. Shaw cleared a spot and arranged rocks in a circle like he'd done this a thousand times.
"Let me guess.” Hudson grinned. “Eagle Scout?"
Shaw shot him a look. "My father required practical skills." He struck the fire starter and got it on the first try, which was more than Hudson would've managed with his numb fingers.
The flames caught and grew. Hudson moved closer, holding his hands toward the warmth like he was praying to it. The heat hit his face and the smell of woodsmoke assaulted his nose.
"Thank fuck,” he said as circulation burned back to his fingers.
While they waited for snow to melt in their canteens near the fire, Hudson leaned back against his pack, admiring the flames as they flickered in the wind. Shaw sat across from him, not saying anything, but for once the quiet didn't feel like something Hudson needed to fill.
Eventually, Shaw pulled out their rations and divided them with mathematical accuracy.
"Well isn't this cozy?" Hudson reached for his share.
"Casse-pieds. Can you shut your mouth and eat?"
“Can’t do both. Gotta pick one.” Hudson smirked.
Shaw glared at him. “Eat, Hale.”
He chuckled and did as he was told.
The creamed chipped beef—also known as shit on shingle—tasted as terrible as it sounded. Hudson’s stomach growled with hunger anyway. When they finished, Shaw packed everything away, folding the wrappers into precise squares before tucking them in his pack.
"So," Hudson said, because someone had to. Really. The quiet was unnecessary. "You know what's funny? I have no idea what your first name is.”
"Why is that funny?"
"We're stuck in a tent together for two days. Seems like something I should know."
Shaw didn’t answer right away. Then, “Elliot."
"Elliot," Hudson repeated, testing it. Serious. Controlled. A little old-fashioned. "Huh."
"What?"
"Nothing. Just suits you."
Shaw raised an eyebrow. “And yours?”
“Hudson.”
"That's... very American."
He laughed. "I'm from New York. My mom liked the river. Said it sounded strong."
"Your mom named you after a river?"
"Yeah. Could've been worse. Could've been Mississippi."
That earned him a smile. Small, but there.
“What about you?” Hudson asked. “Elliot’s pretty formal. You named after some fancy great-great-grandfather?”
“It’s French. Eliot.” Shaw said his name in French and it suddenly sounded a hundred times more sophisticated. “My mother’s from Lyon. My name was one of the few things my parents could agree on.”
Hudson caught the edge in his words, but didn't push. "Well, that explains the French cussing I've been hearing."
"You noticed that?"
"Hard not to when you mutter putain every time I beat your ass.”
"I do not—" Shaw stopped, clearly realizing he was right. "Merde."
Hudson laughed.
The fire crackled. Wind rattled the shelter. Hudson shifted, trying to find a position that didn't make his back scream, but there wasn't one.
"You close with your mom?" Shaw asked after a minute. He seemed almost as surprised by the question as Hudson was.
Hudson glanced at him, trying not to make a big deal out of the fact that Shaw had voluntarily started a conversation.
"Yeah. Really close. It's just been her, my sister, Taylor, and me for a long time. Dad left when I was six." Saying it out loud left a sour taste in his mouth, as always. He hadn’t seen his dad in seventeen years. He didn’t even know where he was. If he was still alive.
Shaw nodded slowly. “She sounds tough."
"She is. Made it work." Hudson pulled his knees tighter to his chest. "What about you and your mom?"
Shaw's expression shuttered. "Not much to say. She's kind but... living with The General hasn't been easy. It's not her fault, though." He said it fast, like he’d defended this before.
"That must be hard."
"It is what it is." Shaw's expression closed off, eyes going distant the way they always did when he decided a conversation was over. Hudson recognized the tell by now.
They were quiet for a while, the cold seeping in despite the shelter. Shaw sat beside him, close enough that Hudson could feel the warmth of his body. It should've been awkward, but instead it felt settled.
He glanced over. "Did you always want to do this? Military, I mean."
Shaw let out a breath that sounded more like a fake laugh. "No."
"No?"
"I wanted to be an engineer. Design buildings and bridges. Stuff that actually lasts." He sounded bitter.
"Did your dad push you into this?"
"He didn't have to push. I knew what was expected." Shaw shifted, shoulder brushing Hudson's. “The only thing I had a say in was whether I wanted to enlist or go to West Point. My dad went to West Point, so I enlisted. What about you? You seem like you actually want to be here."
"Yeah, I do. When I was a kid I told everyone I was going to be a hero when I grew up. Wanted to fly jets and save people." He didn’t say the part about him wanting to really matter.
"A hero." Shaw sounded amused.
"Shut up. I was ten."
"And the pilot thing?"
Hudson smiled. "Still want that. Aviation Warrant Officer. Then 160th SOAR. Wanna be a Night Stalker."
"Of course you do."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Very you. Wanting to swoop in and save the day."
Hudson shoved Shaw’s shoulder. "Better than building bridges."
"At least bridges don't crash."
"Can collapse though."
"Only if the engineer is incompetent."
"And helicopters only crash if the pilot is incompetent."
Shaw snorted. "Fair enough.”
The wind howled outside and Hudson shivered. The temperature was dropping fast.
"We should try to sleep," Shaw said, turning off the flashlight—currently the only thing letting them see each other. “Long day tomorrow.”
Hudson knew he should let it go. But something about Shaw’s dream of being an engineer becoming irrelevant because of his shit luck in parents bothered him. And honestly, when did he ever let stuff go?
"Does it ever get exhausting? Living up to someone else's expectations?" he asked into the dark.
"Every single day." Shaw's voice was almost too quiet to hear over the wind. "But that's the deal, isn't it? He's General Shaw. I'm his son. There's a standard to maintain."
Hudson had a feeling this was something Elliot rarely admitted.
He thought about his mom working double shifts so he could stay in school.
The way she never once told them something was out of reach or that they were aiming too high.
Hudson could’ve told her that he wanted to be a Broadway ballerina and she would’ve cheered him on despite him having two left feet.
That’s why failing wasn’t an option. All that work couldn’t be for nothing.
“I get not wanting to disappoint,” Hudson said.
“You do?”
"My mom—" He stopped, trying to find the right words. "She never said it outright, but I know she sacrificed everything to raise me and Taylor. Her whole life became about making sure we had opportunities she never got. And I... I can't fuck this up, you know?"