aut_nihil | (no subject)

They could be discharged for this, even though it's forced. The fact Pope likes it means he should be thrown out on his ass but no one will convince him Carver deserves it.

He grunts as he fucks Carver, holding his hips hard, finally, finally coming inside him. Inside this man he's trained from the beginning. God help him.

Oh, God. Carver's breath catches when he feels Pope come. He holds very still, barely breathing. He realizes he's afraid. That Pope is going to sneer, or hit him. Call him disgusting for responding, for not going away in his head and taking it stoically. Like it was nothing.

Carver bites at his hands, shivering. He's going into shock, he thinks. He's cold and everything hurts. He can barely lift his head up.

"Look at that pretty face," one of them coos, "all fucked out and tired."

Pope pulls out and withdraws to where they can't accuse him of giving Carver hints about who just fucked him. "Shut the fuck up," he snarls.

He watches Carver, hopes he can hold on. Just a little longer.

Someone laughs. They wait until Pope's got his pants done back up before pulling the blindfold off of Carver. He blinks several times, trying to clear his vision, but the world blurs. Everything hurts. He's been beaten before, but not like this.

Not like this.

The leader grabs him again, holding Carver by the hair. "Focus," he orders, and he slaps Carver hard. "Focus. That's better. Good boy. Now, which one was your CO? I hope you counted. You fuck it up and you're gonna beg for this by the time we're done with you."

"Last, mhmm, last one," Carver murmurs, eyes sliding closed. It gets him slapped again.

"What number was he?" the leader coos. "Hope you counted."

Carver swallows hard. He's not sure. He has to be sure. The leader's reaching for him again, squeezing his hip, and Carver flinches before he can think to hide it. "Nine!" he blurts out. "Nine..."

"Hmm." The leader's eyes narrow. Then he grins. "Shit, CO. You really did train your boys well."

He's going to make them all scream before the end. He's going to make them all suffer.

He watches Carver and he feels sick but Carver answers plainly, clearly, he knew. He counted. He kept his head.

Good, Pope thinks, as fiercely as if his thoughts could be transmitted to Carver.

He says nothing to their captors. They won this round.

"Poor slut," the leader muses, and lets go of Carver's hair. Laughs as Carver slumps, exhausted and hurting, and tries to just breathe. "We did go a little hard on you, didn't we?"

The leader motions to Pope, snapping his fingers. "Well, let's talk now. You can have him back when we're done."

Carver just closes his eyes. Too exhausted to do anything but drift. He doesn't think he'll be able to walk, if indeed any of these fuckers are serious about letting them live.

He's keenly aware of Carver. He doesn't show it though. He shows the bravado he'd have if Carver were fresh off the line and ready to fight.

"Speak your mind," he says.

"Your guys killed some of my guys. Cost of doing business, sure," the leader continues blandly. "But I liked my guys, and I took that a touch personally. So, consider your boy services rendered for our pain and suffering, and we'll start fresh."

Carver shivers. He holds very still on the bed.

"We go our separate ways, and the fuckers signing our checks duke it out in a boardroom somewhere. You and your boy get to go home, everybody's fucking happy. Or I guess we kill you right now and I keep your boy, he's kinda fun and I'm in that sort of mood."

He's going to make them scream.

"How do we get to go home?" he asks, like he's not already planning how to pull this man's testicles off.

"Golly gee, you use the phone on the nightstand and call one of your people," the leader drawls. "But let me remind you, CO, that we're in the middle of a major goddamn city right now and if you start a firefight here, you're gonna sorely fucking regret it. We all walk or we all get fucked, what's it gonna be?"

"You walk." Of course they walk. For now. "Get the fuck out of here."

He looks at Carver. Asssesses him.

The leader laughs. But he whistles and collects up his people, and Carver hears a door click. Then silence. Then nothing but Pope's stare on him.

He swallows hard. He doesn't try to move, or untie himself. Pain is a distant thought. His body doesn't feel like his body anymore, just a dream he's having.

"...sir," he tries, voice hoarse. Everything hurts. He's never been beaten like his before. Never.

"You did just fine, son," he says, and lays a tentative hand on Carver's back. Lays down beside him. "You didn't break. You did me proud."

Fuck these people and their weak efforts.

His breath hitches. He doesn't cry but part of him wants to, badly. You did just fine, Pope murmurs, and lays beside him in all that filth. Carver pulls his bound hands to his chest, rocking slightly, trying to remember how to breathe.

But he didn't break. Pope said so. And the commander is never wrong.

"I don't..." he swallows. Closes his eyes tight. "I don't think I can walk, sir," he manages. "I'm sorry."

"I'm going to get you out of this." He positions himself over Carver, breaks his zip ties over his own knee even though it will cut Carver's wrists to do it.

He strokes his hair after. "We're all right, son. I'll get us out. You're coming with me."

Carver barely reacts to the blood. It feels pure compared to everything that came before. He shivers and presses unthinking into Pope's hand, breath hitching. He doesn't want to cry but then suddenly he is, quietly. Too exhausted to fight it back, to do anything but shiver and press against his commanding officer. "I'm filthy," he murmurs. "My uniform's ruined."

It bothers him more than it should. That indignity among so many others.

"Don't you worry about that, son," Pope says, and he pulls Carver to him, pulls his head to his chest. "This is just a scar. Just another way to show you survived."

He holds him close. He hates these people and he will make them suffer. "You survived."

Pope's never held him before. Touched his head sometimes after a rough test, or clapped him on the shoulder. Nothing like this. There are boundaries between the echelons of command and Carver knows he's trusted just like he knows there are rules for a reason. But here, the only thing he can do is curl his hand into Pope's coat, clinging to him and hiding his face against Pope's chest. He's crying, stupidly, feeling nothing but unmoored as Pope calls him son and says this is nothing but a scar. That he survived.

There's something to be proud of in surviving, isn't there?

Carver shivers. He doesn't let go. Doesn't think he can right now, that maybe he'd finally break if Pope made him. "Don't let the others see me like this," he pleads. "Sir..."

He doesn't know what to do with tears, he never has, so he holds on tight and his voice takes on gravel. "Don't you worry about that. Don't be ridiculous. When the others see you they're only going to see you with your head up, shoulders back. You survived, boy. Find some pride in that."

Carver just shudders and hides his face against Pope's chest. Trying to get his breathing under control. It's just a test. You survived, Pope says, so find some pride in that.

It hurts, though. It doesn't feel like the sort of scar he should be proud of. That he'd show off to the others like the mangled mess on his hip. The gunshot he took to the back.

"Yes, sir," he manages, even though he doesn't know how he'll do what Pope wants. How he can hold his head up. Everything hurts and he's so tired. It feels worse than after the drowning tests. He wants to score his skin until it bleeds.

He knows these things happen. They just do. He knows Carver will probably hide it the rest of his life, that there is no bragging about this like he's heard the men and women brag about injuries.

"You take everything you're feeling right now and we'll make them feel it a hundred times worse. We're going to make them suffer."

Breathe, idiot, Carver tells himself. He realizes distantly that he's shaking. That he feels cold and clammy, his hands curled so tight to Pope's coat. He doesn't think he could let go even if Pope ordered him to. Revenge is a distant ghost. It's hard to focus on anything except how wretched he feels. The weight of all the filth on him, inside him.

"Yeah," he agrees, only half focused. He wants to kill these men, he thinks; he wants them to hurt because that's what he's supposed to want. "Can you...?"

Carver swallows hard. Closes his eyes.

"Can you help me up? I don't want it on me."

Pope is shaking too, but with rage. With the unfamiliarity of being helpless. "Yes," he says, and pushes himself up, holding onto Carver all the while. "On your feet, son. There's a shower."

They took them to a room. It feels like an insult somehow.

It hurts to move. Carver bites his lip so he won't make a sound and does it anyway, holding tight to Carver's coat. He feels unsteady, the room tilting around him. Blurring in the corners.

He doesn't say a word as Pope gets them up. Just holds onto him, white-knuckled, gaze ahead. It'll be better when he's showered, back in his uniform. It's just a test. It'll be better once it's done.

"Can you stand?" Pope asks, when he gets him to the shower and turns the water on. "Or do you need me in there?"