#beaver scout camp

[tinytracys]

Scott’s Scout Camp Adventure

Scott is very excited to be helping out on camp. These will be beavers rather than rescue scouts but he plans to teach them many useful skills for rescuing and otherwise.

Making sure everything is packed. Don’t forget to pack all the snacks!!

Supervising tent construction. Good teamwork, everybody! Now where did I leave that jet pack?

Guy rope Situation! Scott offers his expertise.

Checking the mess tent is F A B.

Adventure fuel!

Adrenaline time! Swinging through the treetops? Scott’s well up for that. Best check the safety equipment is up to Brains’ standards first…

… tbc…

[fall-risk]

first time drawing these weasels so they look very wonky

[downingtwo]

scouts, uk, jun 2023

taken with kodak k100, kodak 100 film

[taters169]

So I got bitten by a beaver today 😬

[todaysdocument]

Telegram from Commander Alfred H. Terry to the Adjutant General of the Division of the Missouri

Record Group 393: Records of U.S. Army Continental CommandsSeries: Special Files of Letters ReceivedFile Unit: Sioux Indian Papers, 1879 - Brief and Letters Received 3721 (with enclosures to 3571) Thru 5219

[pre-printed form]

The Western Union Telegraph Company.

The rules of this company require that all messages received for transmission shall be written on the message blanks of the Company.

under and subject to the conditions printed thereon, which conditions have been agreed to by the sender of the following message.

A.R.Brewer, Secretary. William Orton, Prest.

No. [handwritten] 242 [/handwritten]

[handwritten at top of page] [illegible] / 36/ 29P [/[

[handwritten at right] 123 [ppw?] [/]

Dated [handwritten] At Paul/Minn/23 [/handwritten]

To [handwritten] Adjutant Gent Division [/handwritten]

Rec'd at cor. Lasalle and Washington Sts.,

Chicago, Ills. [handwritten] July 23, 1879 [/handwritten]

[handwritten] Missouri Chicago

On the seventeenth June the advance of [Mibs?] Column

under Lieutenant Clark second cavalry composed of

Lieutenant Bordens Company fifth infantry Lieutenant

Hoppins company second cavalry and fifty Indian scouts

had a sharp engagement between Beaver Creek + Mouth of

frenchmans Creek with four hundred Hostile Indians the

indians were pursued twelve miles when the troops in

advance became surrounded [illegible letters stricken through] Main Command was moved

forward rapidly + the Enemy fled North of Milk river

Colonel Miles reports that the troops engaged fought in

admirable order + are entitled to much credit that the action

of our Indians was quite satisfactory Cheyennes, Sioux,

Crows, Assiniboines and Bannacks fighting with the troops

Killing several Hostile Indians + forcing the enemy to

abandon a large amount of property. Our casualties are

two men Company Second Cavalry wounded two Cheyenne

and one Crow Indian Scouts killed and one Assiniboine

scout seriously wounded. A large scouting party sent

upon North side of Milk river near Head of

Porcupine reports to Colonel Miles that main

camp under Sitting Bull composed of sixteen

hundred lodges is on little rocky having moved over

from Frenchmans Creek Colonel Miles says this

report is corroborated by several others + by men

who were in the Hostile Camp as late as June Sixteenth

+ that he expects to move up between frenchmans Creek +

the Little Rocky where possibly the Main body of

Indians may be engaged

Terry Department Commander

246 paid Govt Rate

# 532

[stamped] RECEIVED

[stamped] JUL

[stamped] [2?] 23

[stamped] 1879

[stamped] MIL.DIV.,MO.

#245

[thereesespiece]

Camp Beaver Lake

Camp Beaver Lake is summer camp for your littles with time for learning, exploring, playing and making lifelong friends

I never went to camp, like ever. Mainly because my mom didn't believe in sleepovers, which now as an adult I appreciate. Honestly though, I always wished I had had at least one camp experience. So what does one do in this situation? Build a camp and send your simself as a child there! I had so much fun with this build and then playtesting it with my Girl Scouts troop!

There's a few buildings around, the main hall which has the kitchen and camp counselor's room. There are 3 camper cabins with 2 beds each. The bathrooms are located in a separated building, there's 3 showers and 3 toilet stalls. The outdoor area has a campfire, movie space, horseshoes, a garden, and telescopes. And finally my favorite place for those times when it's storming outside to keep the kiddos entertained the crafting cabin. There's art desks, games, and a knitting circle!

Happy Simming!

💜 Type: Rental 💜 Size:  40 x 30 💜 Cost: 116,841 💜 Bathrooms: 3 toilet stalls 💜 World: Granite Falls 💜 Packs: Not pack restricted 💜 No CC, No ads, nevah evah

Download

[the-woild-is-y-erster]

gonna talk about a dream i had so i don’t forget it

so i was at this camp, which was a lot like one i’ve been to for several years, we couldn’t have our phones or any food or even art for whatever reason? like we couldn’t keep anything we made, they would occasionally raid our stuff to look for anything contraband, so it was lights out, and i knew i wasn’t the only one with contraband, but for whatever reason i was the only one good at hiding it, so the counselor came in and caught one girl, so she sacked our stuff, and i was the only one that got caught, and blah blah blah timeskip, she comes in later asking if anyone has any trash, and i’m like “oh shit this is a trap” so i hide my stuff, and she comes in and takes everyone else’s stuff and blows up on them, sends them out of the cabin, and she’s stuffing people’s art in the trash bag and i’m like “why can’t we have any of this stuff?” she goes “it’s not allowed.” and so i argue eith her and she’s finally like whatever. one of you can keep some art at the end. so she leaves and suddenly for whatever reason sniper tf2 comes in????? and he’s like “m8 you look different, you alright?” because apparently we’re friends in my dream??? and i look down and i’ll have to draw it later because it was sick, but i had knights armour but it was more agile, and i had a cape and these giant crazy red feather wings, and an old grecian helmet with a red plume, and he’s like “that’s the lord high admiral’s uniform, yeah?” (wtf is the lord high admiral??) and i’m like oh shit youre right so apparently the lord high admiral just gets chosen by an act of valor and you have to fight the other one to the death to recieve your formal title??? so sniper’s like “you gotta scram, m8, lil birdy told me the prev one is wreakin havoc in the castle” which was apparently where the grounds of the camp was???? so i hug him and walk out the door and my armor like flickers and dissapears, classic “hero doesn’t know how to use their powers until theyre in the heat of battle” so i’m like whatever and then as i’m running towards the drawbridge of this bigass castle it comes back and i’m fckin flying, and i crash through this giant stained glass window into a corridor that for skme reason i know leads into the bell/clock tower, and there’s a ton of like, narnia style fighters, like rabbits and beavers and bears with battering rams and stuff, and they clear the way for me with my majestic ass cape and wings to the huge oak doors and they creak open and it’s like a greenhouse instead of the bell? so in the middle is a wooden throne, and sitting in it in the most faggy like legs over the armrest position, is my brother scout with the same gear i got, but in blue. and so i stand in front of him, and oh so dramatic dream me, as the doors are slamming shut, draws my blade and says “hello, brother.” AND THEN I WOKE UP???????

[gemsofthegalaxy]

Hello hi 👋 if you are willing to indulge me I would love to hear any and all of your Canadian Greg thoughts!!

I am also a Canadian Greg truther but I live in America so I can’t imagine the full extent of what it means for him to be a Canadian boy™

Ooooohhhh hell yeah I love to share the Good Word about Canadian Greg at least from my thoughts

while I tend to tweak his background based on the specific fic I am writing here in there, I really truly believe Greg has moved around a lot in his life. I like to think in fact he's got American citizenship/was probably born there but after his dad (presumably) left after he (presumably) cheated on Greg's mother, they moved back to Canada so Marianne could be closer to Ewan (for better or for worse considering Ewan is....... kinda a dick imo) and now he's a dual-citizen, always an interloper, never quite Canadian enough but not quite settled into American culture.

Partially due to my own experience I think he grew up mostly in Ontario, he doesn't come across as, like, Quebecois to me tho neither do Ewan or Logan despite canonically being raised there so uh you know, and I only ever spent 5 weeks in Quebec myself. but, French Canadian peoples tend to be connected to their Francophone identities in my experience with Acadians and other Francophones in other areas of Ontario, so yeah i mean idk. It's not impossible but he feels more Ontarian, I could see some Western hcs but I've never been further West so like........... i stick him in Ontario bc it's what I know better.

On that, I think he speaks passable but not excellent French with an Okay accent, he likes and knows hockey, has a variety of Canadian slang he doesn't pull out around his US folks. He likes colour-coded Canadian money because it's easier, dammit.

I also like to imagine him spending a bit of time in small town Atlantic Canada, that is the epitome of self-indulgence for Me because that's where my own actual experience mostly lies. He has some random factoids about fishing. I like to imagine he did Little Rocks which is a curling program for kids, he was almost definitely a Scout (he might have moved to Canada young enough to be a Beaver Scout🥺) and he knows, how to safely start a fire and camping basics (i think he prefers to stay in a cabin to a tent tho lmfao), and I believe he genuinely likes some outdoorsy activities, such as hiking, but also wants to be able to retreat to a comfortable area and not be left out in the rain or anything like that.

I think he was raised Catholic which could be anywhere lmao and knows how to hunt but doesn't love it (which I think it was said he did in the scripts in Hunting, as well as Tom, but I can't recall?). I think he made friends that always felt temporary, he was often the new kid and always the weird gawky guy, but he got along with some people even if he was sometimes the butt of the joke too. He did stupid shit like putting hairspray on his hands and letting other guys light it on fire, partially to fit in and partially because "What's the worst that could happen". Not necessarily exclusive to Canada but I knew these guys irl. So.

One of the things I've noticed that is a big difference between Canadians and US Americans is we don't mythologize or adore our founders the way they do. Unsure impact that has on Greg, but part of me likes to do a little excusing for him, that he rationalizes meddling with American politics and the landscape of the News using the idea that it's not his "Real home", even though he knows damn well the US impacts Canada in a huge way. It's another one of his many excuses, like, "it's not my fault, i'll get in trouble if I don't, i need a job to survive and this one is as good as any" etc.

Finally. Another one of my Greg headcanons despite having 0 evidence canonically and in fact evidence against it to an extent- he likes a good graphic tee. Most of them are stored at his mother's. Most importantly, he owns this:

which i photographed in a real Canadian walmart.

[spaci1701]

Nodding along vigorously in (acting) group secretary of 5 years.

I am supposed to be paying attention in these meetings but I have a special cheat - I'm also giving the reports for 75% of the meeting so I already have the info needed.

Plus it's a bit repetitive- Beavers are meeting, need more volunteers. Cubs are meeting, need more volunteers. Scouts are meeting, need more volunteers. Fundraising coming up, need more volunteers. Camp on the schedule, need more volunteers.

“Most students with documented ADHD are entitled to a note-taker so they can listen and absorb information without the stress of having to work out how to identify relevant information and write it down concisely.” 

The irony of being asked to keep minutes of meetings at literally every job I’ve ever had, including my current one. Oh the irony.

(I’m actually GREAT at note-taking because I pay ZERO attention to anything except note-taking, with the result that I absorb nothing, but most meetings I’m taking notes for I’m not meant to be absorbing from so it all levels out. At my current job it’s only one meeting once a quarter, at least.) 

[tinytracys]

We’re off on a camping adventure!

Scott here, I’m keeping an eye on the Beaver Scouts (who wear blue), Virgil is with the cubs (green) and Gords is hanging out with the Sea Scouts (who also wear blue but.., y’know…sea)

Are either of you actually putting any effort into lifting this?

[flutissimo]

15 Q's

Thanks @mymusicalcat for tagging me! I didn't really have time earlier, so I'm replying a bit late...

1. Are you named after someone?

Nope, I am not. My name isn't traditional, so it has no family history. I know other people with my name, but it's spelled differently.

2. When's the last time you cried?

I suppose Thursday, I was on the verge of crying. When I feel corned or like I am treated in a unfair way. I'm also that person who cries when someone else does, that certainly increases my cry count...

3. Do you want/have kids?

No clue. I think I'm bisexual, that makes the situation a bit more complicated. I like kids when they start talking and it makes sense, but having them around for a longer time sounds very tiring. While volunteering as scouts leader, I deal with 5-7 year olds, but they go home after 2 hours :P

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot?

Yup!

5. What do people first notice about you?

Probably my enthusiasm, depending on where they meet me: I'm very enthusiastic in band and scouting, but a lot less in school.

6. What is your eye colour?

Green!

7. Scary movie or happy ending?

I'm already happy with a closed ending! It doesn't have to be a happy ending, but it needs to really make the story complete.

8. Any special talent?

I can have really creative ideas, but it's not really that special of a talent. Oh, I do play multiple instruments, that amazes people sometimes!

9. What is the last thing you dreamt of?

I always forget that, but I dreamt about my upcoming scouts weekend recently.

10. What are your hobbies?

Music and scouting! I love them both equally, but in a different way. Scouting is amazing because the people are so sweet, and camping is lovely too. I can spend way more time playing music, and I like performing too! Practicing is a struggle, but at least I can struggle at home, which is harder regarding scouting. Recently, I discovered stargazing, I don't have a clue what I'm doing, but I'm having a blast doing it :)

11. Do you have pets?

Yup, I have a cat!

12. What sports have you/ did you play?

I played korfball, dancing, judo and a thing where we did a lot of sports in a short time! I longboard occasionally, and I like hiking!

13. How tall are you?

Around 175 centimetres (for the Americans: tall for a girl)!

14. Favourite subject in school?

Probably biology or geography! I also like maths, if I understand it at least!

15. Dream job?

Something that makes people happy! I won't be going to college for music, but doing some gigs on the side looks amazing! I will be doing a liberal arts and sciences programme focused on food, just a job in my field would be great :)

I'm tagging:

@flutejesus @that-twink-composer @elliefluteelephant @portablewingwang and everybody I'm forgetting

[12theastleighscouts]

Group Camp 2021

Now that we are back to face to face Scouting, and life is starting to get back to normal, we have decided to hold a Group Camp. On a Group Camp, ALL Beavers, Cubs & Scouts from the 12th Eastleigh are invited to join us for a weekend of camping, regardless of which Pack/Colony they are with, or if their sections leaders will be attending This year, Group Camp will take place on the weekend of…

[justscoutthings]

Camping Troubles #20

The bathrooms are awful, and always will be no matter how expensive the site is. Do not look up, there will be spiders. Do not look down, there will be dead bugs. Do not look at the walls, there will be spiders AND dead bugs. Boys? Piss in the woods. Girls? Shewee.

[trulycertain]

Swift silly fluff. How Kurt found out Marie and Vasco were a thing. 1k. DS/Vasco.

Kurt's still shaking off a night of dreams when he calls, "Oi, green-blood, training!" It's somewhere between habit and genuine need, at this point - that was a damn near lost fight yesterday. Sure, they all were exhausted when they tramped into camp and probably need more rest, but all that tells him is that they need new strategies for fighting these damn beasts. He was prepared for wolves, maybe, not bear-beavers that try to rip off his leg and beat him to death with it. Muscle memory will get them through, so any time training it is too important to waste.

He doesn't hear the sleepy mumble that says she's up, the one he'd know by heart after this long travelling with her. He frowns, and says, "De Sardet? Marie?” Nothing. “You better be decent in there." And he gives her a minute before lifting the flap of her tent.

Her empty tent.

He squints, and looks at her carefully packed supplies, the quill next to the inkwell, the untouched bedding. All things that suggest she was planning to turn in here when they made camp in the morning and went scouting. She was here last night, slumped by the fire with them. Far as he knows, she hasn’t been eaten by an ulg or poisoned by a dosentats.

He tries the other person most likely to know, and doesn’t bother with the pause; the man’s as used as him to barracks and bunks, where privacy is at best a polite pretence. “Sailor, have you seen - ?”

It seems like Vasco’s seen her. More than that, considering Marie’s lying half-spreadeagled over him, arm thrown over his chest, head tucked under his chin. They both seem pretty dead to the world. His bedroll’s barely rolled out, and they’re both clothed but for their coats. They haven’t even kicked off their boots; looks like they were too exhausted to get any further. Marie’s got her face in his neck, and Vasco’s got an arm round her waist, clinging to her like a barnacle, or whatever Nauts do, their legs tangled together.

It's not unusual to find them together, sharing a drink or snorting at some wry joke - if you can find one of them, you'll almost inevitably get the other. Vasco's maybe her closest friend here other than Síora or, well, Kurt. But not like, er, this. He could almost call it a mistake, or proximity, or something, but their hats are off. And Marie must have crawled in here sometime, probably knowing she wouldn’t be hard to find. Or too tired to care if anyone found out. And more than that, none of them sleep too easy round others, after everything that's happened. He's gathered enough to know Marie hasn't been spared that. It'd take someone she trusted, or... the other thing. Between people using her to get to Constantin and the job, and her wariness after everything, some part of him never thought she'd get that.

Kurt stares a little at that scarred, inked hand on Marie’s back, like Vasco fell asleep holding her to him. He tries to put together the sarcastic, tattooed, sharp-eyed sailor of Nobility makes me… uncomfortable and… cuddling. The one who joined their little parade and watched Marie the first week with quiet assessing wariness, like he thought she’d get him fired again any minute. The man who dispatches bandits with a scary amount of poisons and curses at Bridge soldiers and used to squirm half the time when Marie asked him a personal question, and... cuddling.

Cuddling.

Kurt isn’t paid enough for this.

All right, so Vasco is also Marie’s closest friend other than him, and the man who always seems to know where to find her in a room, and always seems to smile at the sight of her. And smiles even more, in that bemused lopsided way that's maybe a little charmed, when she asks him how ships work, or what rigging is, or what his earring means, or… whatever it is today. Kurt just put that one down to not having too many friends who weren’t on a ship, or the surprise of having a noble care a jot about you – he’s used to that one – not, well. And maybe Vasco kept half an eye on her, but Kurt thought that was because they were all here to keep an eye on her, not that the sailor just… liked looking at her. Even if he could be swift about looking away when he sensed Kurt's eyes on him.

And after Vasco helped her find her birth village, she threw her arms round him hard enough she just about knocked that captain’s hat off his head – so Petrus says, anyway. And in the damn coup Kurt prefers not to think about, she rushed to check Vasco was all right, but Kurt just figured that was due to the man being whacked round the head with a musket. And she has seemed the quiet kind of cheerful recently, even with all the nonsense that's happening between governors and clans. And she always seems to be comfortably leaning closer to Vasco, or grabbing a pint with him, or looking at him like he’s made her day a little bit just for being here…

Oh. Yeah.

Kurt’s usually pretty good at this stuff, but he’s not usually dealing with a diplomat who lies for a living and a stealthy bastard. No wonder he’s been so slow on the uptake with Coin corruption; he didn’t even know his friends were –

No, he’d prefer not to think about that, actually. He’s glad they’re happy and all, but he’d like to get through breakfast.

He feels eyes on him and realises, belatedly, that Vasco’s squinting at him over Marie’s shoulder. Kurt’s spent half his life brazening things out, so he says bluntly, “Training. Yesterday was nearly a wipeout.”

Vasco nods, in that easy, Out in a minute way. Like this is far from the first time these two have shared a bed. Marie gives a vague grumble, turning her head into Vasco's shoulder, and Vasco glances down at her with an expression that reminds Kurt just how young their young captain is; how much he takes things to heart, much as he pretends not to. He looks a little like he's been hit over the head with something heavy. He looks back up and visibly tries to rearrange his expression into something less ridiculous, seeming a little caught-out in a way that's strange to see, from a man who's normally so composed. 

Kurt ducks back out just as Vasco’s brushing Marie’s hair out of her face. He catches the tail-end of soft words; one of them’s... tempest? He decides not to ask. Probably some Naut thing.

All right, so maybe he's happy for them. He tries to shove the thought aside, because it feels too much like going soft.

There's still no way he's ever going to be paid enough for this.

[sarah-sandwich]

"I need a hug" please and thank you!

Hi friend! Here it is! Remind me to never commit to a fic a day for an entire week again lmao

Happy last day of National Storyteller Week to everyone who creates or consumes stories! Jump over to my ao3 for 5 ridiculous parkner fics 👌✨💛

Peter, no

He probably should have clued in sooner, a lot sooner.

Him and Peter have been attached at the hip for three years, ever since Peter ran into the lab in the middle of a video call with Tony, shouted something about an arm-wrestling tournament with the Avengers, and begged, “You gotta come trash talk them for me! Please, Mr. Stark! No one roasts as good as you!” Then, after receiving Tony’s resigned agreement, exclaimed, “I’m gonna dislocate Captain America’s shoulder!” turned tail and sprinted back out, ignoring Tony’s, “Peter, no!”

It was over in under a minute but he was bewitched.

“Who was that? And why haven’t I met him?”

“I’ve been avoiding this day,” Tony said in a world-weary tone. “You’re either going to hate each other or get on like a house fire. Either way, I’ll never know peace again.”

In usual Tony Stark fashion, he was right.

He thought he’d seen every side of Peter there is. He’s seen him soft and sleepy under the blue glow of the television. He’s seen him wired and manic as he pursues a project on little to no sleep. He’s seen him broken and bleeding in more ways than he cares to count. He’s seen him laughing until he cries, crying so hard the only thing he can do is cry with him, too exhausted to feed himself, too angry to speak, and he’s been there when he’s on the cusp of dropping dead from embarrassment (usually pointing and laughing but hey, somebody’s gotta keep him humble).

He knows him like he knows his sister, like he knows his mom, like he knows himself.

His point is, it shouldn’t have taken this camping trip to put the pieces together. Realization shouldn’t have hit him like a log to the face when Peter rolled up the sleeves of his borrowed flannel and suddenly he couldn’t breathe for wanting to kiss him stupid.

Well, stupider.

A moment later, Peter picked up the bag of tent poles like they weighed nothing and somehow managed to dump them all over the side of the road like a can of pick-up-sticks.

It’s gonna be a long weekend.

~*~

“What’s this thing for again?” Peter asks, raising his arms high over his head to hold up the long swath of fabric two times his height.

“It’s a rain fly, Peter. It keeps out the rain.”

“It’s not supposed to rain. Trust me, Aunt May checked the weather like 50 times before she would let me leave.”

“We still need it.”

“But why? We could sleep under the stars.”

“It traps in heat.”

“Sounds like another tally in the cons column. It’s hot as fuck, dude.”

“Not tonight it won’t be. Temperature fluctuates a lot in the mountains, especially when the sun goes down.”

“Temperature fluctuates in the mountains,” Peter repeats mockingly.

Harley stops what he’s doing. “If you really wanna sleep under the stars I don’t have to share my tent. Enjoy the skeeters.”

“You love me too much to leave me to sleep with the wildlife,” Peter says, voice muffled from under the rain fly as he attempts to drape it over the erected tent.

His heart skips. Does he know? Has he been that obvious even while oblivious to his own feelings? Did Peter figure it out before he did? Has he been graciously not saying anything about his huge undeniable crush while—

Peter squawks and tumbles forward, the tent collapsing under him with a snap that echoes through the trees. The rain fly flutters over him like a burial shroud.

“Please tell me whatever just broke was a part of you.”

“Uhh, sorry.”

He sighs. He’s in love with an idiot.

~*~

The tent leans a little to the left when they’re done with it but he’s pretty sure it’ll hold up through the night. Just in case, they limit how often they go in and out of it (which, in his opinion, is the way it should be done regardless).

A breeze rustles the trees, scattering pine needles as birds chitter and small unseen wildlife scurries around the underbrush. He breathes in deep, savoring the scent of dirt, pine, and fresh air. He’s been in the city far too long.

Peter stands with his hands on his hips, dirt crusted on the knees of his jeans, his borrowed flannel pulling tight across his chest as he watches a puffy white cloud scoot by with a befuddled expression.

He turns to Harley. “So umm, now what?”

He shrugs. “Whatever you want. You’re the one who’s never done this before?”

Peter stares at him blankly.

“Right. Forgot who I was talking to.” He shakes his head and walks over to the car with a sigh. “This way, city boy. It’s time you learned to fish.”

“Sounds smelly.”

“Mmm.” He pops the trunk and pulls out two fishing rods—one old and dinged up, the other brand-spankin-new—and he passes them to Peter so he can grab the tackle box and a white plastic bucket with a lid on it.

“And slimy,” Peter continues, wrinkling his nose at the bold ‘WORMS’ printed on the side of the white bucket.

“That it is, but there aren’t any rats and no one has pissed on the place you need to sit so it’s automatically better than anything the city has to offer.”

“We’ll see about that,” Peter grumbles.

~*~

“Y’know,” Harley drawls lazily, eyes half-lidded as he watches Peter jump from rock to rock along the shoreline, “usually when people are lookin’ to catch a fish they cast their line into the water rather than leavin’ it on the ground.”

“Oh is that how it’s done? I had no idea,” Peter says, stooping down to peer into a small pool sequestered away from the rest of the body of water. “What do tadpoles look like?”

“Uh, little squirmy guys.”

“Very descriptive, thank you.”

“Mhmm. Anytime, darlin’.”

Peter looks up at him, eyes narrowed and he jolts under the sudden scrutiny.

“What?” he asks. He always calls him darling. It’s just a thing he says—a southern thing. So what if over the years he’s stopped using the name for anyone else? It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not weird.

“Are you falling asleep?” Peter asks.

“Pfft, no,” he says. The sun is deliciously warm, seeping into his skin and turning his bones to butter as the katydids buzz and birds sing. A warm breeze ruffs his hair and he finds himself blinking slowly.

“Dude, you’re totally falling asleep.” Peter grins playfully and hopscotches across the rocks back to him as he teases, “You know, usually when someone wants to catch a fish, they do it while they’re awake.”

“I am awake, dummy.”

“Not for much longer.” He comes to a stop at his side and tweaks the brim of his hat. “Look at you. You’re like an old man falling asleep in his recliner in front of the big game.”

“Napping is a perfectly respectable part of fishing,” he argues.

Peter throws back his head and laughs. Backed by blue sky and thickly forested mountain, sunlit from above, he’s never looked better.

Should he tell him? Is now the time? He can’t imagine living like this—knowing how he feels but bottling it up and keeping it a secret from his best friend.

Then again—

His fishing rod dips and he sits up with a start, hands already moving for the reel.

“Woah, is that a fish?” Peter exclaims, peering into the lake.

“Sure hope so. Can’t imagine what else it’d—,”

“Can I pull it in?” Peter asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an excitable puppy.

“No, you if wanna get a fish you have to put in the work.”

“What work? Laying around half-asleep?”

“Yeah, exactly. I’ll let you take it off the line, how ‘bout that?”

“Eh, that’s okay. I’m good.”

He wrestles the fish out of the lake, a bass about two hands long, and then holds the flopping fish, hooked through the lip, out to Peter.

“There you go. Just pop that puppy off the hook and toss ‘im back in.”

“Wait, you don’t even keep the fish?”

“What would I do with a fish?”

“…eat it?”

“That’s a whole song and dance I ain’t got the tools or the patience for. Just grab the fish, Pete. Preferably before it suffocates.”

Peter makes an unhappy sound in his throat but reaches for the fish. Just as his fingers brush the scales, the fish gives a mighty wiggle and Peter flinches back towards the lake.

“Eep!” Peter squeaks and goes into the water with a splash.

Harley hunches over, laughing his head off as Peter sits up, water streaming down his face and dripping from his hair.

“I hate you.” Slipping and sliding in the muck, he makes his way through the mid-thigh deep water, back to dry land, and then keeps walking past Harley and up the hill to the trail that will lead him back to camp.

All the while Harley laughs and laughs, taking a moment to free the fish back into the lake before he sits down and tips his face to the sun, chuckling and committing to memory the way Peter’s soaked jeans and flannel clung all over his body.

~*~

“I still don’t see why—,”

“Shush,” Peter snaps, frowning in concentration over the tiny flame he’s been babying to life for the past fifteen minutes.

He sighs. He tried to convince him to wait until supper for a campfire meal but Mr. Eager Beaver insisted on trying his hand at it now. Had they made sandwiches they’d be done by now and could be hiking. But no. Peter wants to play Boy Scout so they’re going to sit here and starve until he gets a fire built just to spend five minutes roasting hot dogs and then have to put it out again.

To make matters worse, Peter’s no longer wearing his shirt since it got soaked in the lake. He’d gotten attached to how he looks in his clothes. Now he’s wearing on one of his standard nerd-pun tees and a wrinkly pair of khaki cargo shorts and he’s going to have to convince him to at least put on long socks before they hike or he’s going to risk getting poison ivy or poison oak all over his calves and ankles.

“There it goes! There it goes!” Peter exclaims, sitting up tall and motioning at him to look at the little flame as it eats up the pile of twigs and tinder.

“Very good, dear,” he says dryly. “Now see if you can keep it going with some real wood.”

Peter cocks his head at him. “Was that a double-entendre?”

“Why on earth would I imply that we should put a part of my human anatomy in the fire, Peter?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, squatting beside the fire as he breaks up a stick. “Dick jokes are funny.”

“You’re a child.”

“And yet you— Shit!” He flinches back from the fire and falls on his backside.

He comes alert with a spike of adrenaline, rushing forward to— to— pat out flames with his bare hands? He doesn’t know. “What happened?” he demands, checking Peter over for damage and finding nothing, not a burn or singe in sight.

Still sprawled on the ground, Peter looks up at him through his eyelashes with an embarrassed grimace. “I don’t want to say.”

“But you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” he sits up cross-legged and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He stares down at him as he looks down in his lap. “You’re really not going to tell me what just happened? I already saw you fall in a lake because you were scared of a fish. It can’t be worse than that.”

Peter looks up, neck crimped and mouth screwed into an unhappy pucker. “I thought something was on me but it was just the grass.”

Harley stares. “So, you thought a bug was on you.”

“Yeah. I’m starting to think I’m not cut out for this place.”

What has he gotten himself into?

~*~

Peter hasn’t stopped chattering about everything under the sun since they left camp. And considering where they are, there’s a lot to chatter about. From bugs to birds to types of trees and identifying clouds, he’s heard it all. It’s why he’s not paying attention to the path like he should, too busy watching the way Peter waves his hands animatedly as he rambles, the way the sun lights his eyes and makes his hair shine, the way his lips shape the words.

He hasn’t taken in a word he’s said for the past twenty minutes but he’s watched him with rapt attention while his mind churns through his options. He’s not one to ignore something once he knows about it. He doesn’t want to keep this a secret. There’s no reason to. It’s nothing shameful and if Peter doesn’t reciprocate then… well, nothing changes, right? He’s fine with that. Best friends is still good. Great, even.

But if Peter does reciprocate…

His breathing quickens at the thought. How did he not notice this ridiculous crush sooner? It’s like something has been awakened inside him and now it refuses to shut up and go back to sleep. He gravitates towards Peter like an orbiting moon. He’s a moth to Peter’s beam of light. Helpless under the thrall.

Peter suddenly looks right at him. “—you know what I mean?”

“Huh?” His foot lands wrong and rolls over a root. His ankle screams out and then he’s dropping as it gives out.

“Woah!” Peter catches him, one arm around his back and the other fisted into his shirt at his shoulder. His brain goes offline, only processing the way Peter is pressed against him, the way his face is angled over him like he’s on the verge of dipping him into a kiss, the way neither of them moves or speaks, staring instead with startled realization.

He thinks he imagines it when Peter’s eyes dilate but then they fix on his lips and there’s no way he’s imagining that.

Lights flash in his head and he forgets to breathe as they hang suspended in time.

Then Peter bites his lip and his cheeks flush dark pink as he yanks Harley upright.

He stumbles, unprepared, and his ankle gives out a second time.

Peter catches him by the elbows babbling, “Oh my God, I’m sorry! Are you okay? I didn’t mean to—,”

“I’m fine. I…” The rest of the sentence vanishes from his tongue as he looks into Peter’s eyes. He loves his eyes—warm and affectionate, they always give him away. Whether they’re bright with curiosity, sparkling with delight, wide with embarrassment, or narrowed in anger, he’s an open book. That’s why the look in his eyes now gives him pause. He’s never seen it before—or maybe it’s been there all along but he hasn’t noticed until now.

They’re dark and focused like he’s seeing through him into his soul and likes what he sees so much he wants to eat him alive.

His heart thunders as he lifts a hand to Peter’s cheek. This is it. This is the moment he tells him and finds out where they’re going to go next.

Peter’s eyes go wide and he swallows thickly, but then his gaze shifts beyond him and he freezes except to carefully grab his forearm in a too-tight grip.

“Bear,” Peter breathes.

His awareness of their surrounding returns so suddenly it hurts. Birds sing, bugs buzz and chirp, somewhere nearby a creek burbles, and behind him on the path, something scuffs the ground and then snorts and sniffs harshly.

“No,” he says quietly. No, he refuses to allow this to be his reality. This cannot be happening. He won’t allow this to happen.

“Harley, bear,” Peter repeats, grip tightening.

Oh my God, this is happening.

“Don’t run,” he says in an undertone. “You’re not supposed to run.”

“We gotta run.”

“Peter, no.”

“Harley, there’s a fucking bear.”

“Listen to me—,”

“I’m gonna grab you—,”

“—we gotta stay still and—,”

“I’ll carry you and—,”

“—non-threatening so—,”

“I’m going to get you up a tree and then—,”

“—it won’t chase us.”

“—the bear will chase me.”

“Peter—,”

“It’ll be fine.”

“—no.”

~*~

He waits in the tree for over an hour, ankle throbbing, sick to his stomach with worry, wondering if he’ll ever see the idiot he stupidly fell in love with ever again. Even if he didn’t get eaten by the bear, he’s no good out here in the woods. He could be lost. He could be too hurt to move. He could be—

—covered in what smells like animal shit and standing balefully at the base of the tree.

“I need a hug,” Peter says, voice small.

“Did you—,”

“I did what needed to be done.”

“So that’s—,”

“Don’t say it. Do you need help getting down?”

“I’ll figure it out. Don’t touch me.”

“That’s fair. I’ll be in the lake. Will you bring me all of the soap and soap-like products we own?”

“Yeah. Gimme a minute.”

“Thanks, Harley.”

“Peter?”

“Yeah?”

I love you. I’m glad you’re not dead. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come back. My life wouldn’t be the same without you in it. You’re everything I want.

“You’re an idiot,” he says.

Peter nods. “Yeah.”

~*~

“Black bears can run 35 miles per hour,” he says conversationally. They’re sprawled on a blanket while the fire crackles nearby (but not too close, they’ve had enough disasters for one day). His foot is propped on the tackle box, elevating his ankle and Peter is beside him, flat on his back staring up at the stars through the trees, close enough that their arms brush.

“Trust me, I know.”

“They can also climb trees,” he continues reading from his phone. “You should never climb a tree to avoid a bear.”

“Harley—,”

“If a bear notices you, stay calm. Most bears don’t want to attack you.”

“Dude, I get it.”

“Move away slowly and sideways. Do not run. Do not climb a tree.”

Peter snatches the phone out of his hands and sits up. “I panicked, okay? I can’t lose you! I had to get you out of there.”

He goes still, the crackling of the fire and the crickets the only sound in the night.

“Say again?”

“Don’t,” Peter says harshly, still holding his phone far out of reach. “Don’t make fun of me about this one. You don’t get it, okay?”

This isn’t how he expected this to happen. Hyper aware of his heart beating in his chest, he asks, “What don’t I get?”

“I was terrified.”

“And you think I wasn’t?”

“Not in the way I was. I was— It was like— It was like if anything happened to you, nothing would be okay ever again. I don’t—,” He pulls in a deep breath, chest heaving as his eyes shine uncommonly bright in the firelight. “I don’t know. You’re— Ever since we met things have just felt right and good in a way they hadn’t before and I’ve already lost so many people and then you were in danger and I couldn’t do nothing. I couldn’t.”

“Okay,” he says gently, sitting upright and scooting over on the blanket. “Okay.” He takes the phone and sets it aside then takes Peter’s hand in both of his. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m okay.”

“I think I’m in love with you,” Peter says miserably, sniffing and wiping his eyes with the back of his free hand. “I think I have been for a long time.”

“Well, that’s lucky because I think I’m in love with you too.”

“You— What?”

“Mhmm. Since at least this morning.”

Peter stares at him. His lips twitch. “This morning? For real? Are you teasing me?”

“A hundred percent serious. It hit me right before you dumped my tent poles all over 36th street. Unrelated, you should wear my clothes more often.” He pauses and then says, “I think today was the universe asking me if I was sure I wanted to be tied down to your dumb ass for the rest of forever.”

“And?” Peter asks, eyes wide in the firelight.

“Yeah,” he says, smoothing a curl away from his forehead. “I’m sure.”

Peter leans in and kisses him, soft and quick. “Is that okay?”

Heart in his mouth, he says, “I think you can do better.”

Peter laughs and smooths his thumb over his cheekbone. “I love you.”

“I love you too, darlin’.”

[mlim8]

08.23.20 - Happy Birthday, Sarah! @starstruck4moony​

I love the Scouts AU a lot and know you do too…! Please enjoy this lovely little photo of the precious boys. The Beaver Scouts are pure love! Remus thanking Sirius for holding his hand throughout the camping weekend and helping him out!

I hope you have one heck of a lovely day today! Rest up, eat well, celebrate you being you!!  Also some angst under the cut because… You know where this AU goes uwu

(After the Lupins move away, post-bite, the two only reconnect 20 years later but don’t recognize each other at first. Sirius eventually puts two-and-two together but doesn’t know how to bring it up to Remus. …. Oh, and Remus has a boyfriend.)