aut_nihil | (no subject)

There's a question. It takes a moment for the words to shift into something recognizable. Carver doesn't quite look at Pope, but he nods. His grandma taught him how to strip the wires. How to make the connection close when she got drunk and lost the keys to her truck.

He moves, moves, moves from car to car until he finds one that's unlocked. "Get to it," he tells Carver, taking up a position to cover him if anyone comes out of the hotel. No one has yet, but it's only a matter of time. "Fast."

There's pain when he bends. A distant, sharp ache. Pulsing with his heart. Carver ignores it. Takes the knife and yanks the wires down in the driver's seat, stripping them to force the connection. The engine clicks, but it doesn't turn over. He keeps going. Utterly focused even as blood runs hot and thick down his hands; he's torn his hands; he doesn't remember the wounds.

But he gets the car started. He puts his seatbelt on.

Pope gets in the other side. He has to sit crooked; it hurts to sit up straight.

"Get us home," he tells Carver, his voice ragged with pain.

Carver doesn't say a word. He just drives. The gas tank is full. He takes them back home, driving until the blood dries. As his hands ache and he starts to shiver again. To feel cold, and uncertain. Shaky.

He almost gets them back before he has to pull over abruptly, before he crashes them into something and kills them both.

"I'm in shock," he explains distantly.

Pope is shirtless. His chest is still bleeding, and he has nothing to staunch it with, so it just runs and runs and it ruins the upholstery and his pants.

Carver pulls them over and it shakes him out of a daze. "Switch me," he says, and he sees a coat in the backseat. He makes a decision, puts it on Carver instead of using it for his own wounds. "Keep that wrapped on you, we have to get you warm," he says, and he makes sure Carver's seatbelt is on before he starts driving, the heat blasting on full.

The world tilts. Carver curls into himself, his hands shaking. He can't manage the seatbelt so Pope does it for him. Just like Pope wrapped the coat around him and turns the heat on high.

He's shaking. Curling into himself, rocking even though it hurts. His skin doesn't feel like his skin anymore.

"We're going home," he murmurs. "Right?"

"We're going to Shaw." He can't stand for his men to see him like this. But she's safe. She's always been safe, for him and for Carver.

"Recite something for me, Carver." To keep him talking, to try to get him focused.

Shaw. Big sister. Carver shudders hard, closing his eyes. He wants to disappear into himself. Stop existing. He wants to cry. He wants Riley.

He clears his throat. Trying to think. "In a village of La Mancha, the, mhmm, name of which I have no desire to call to mind . . ."

The words trail off. Carver goes quiet. He takes one ragged breath, then another. "There lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing . . ."

Pope reads. Not many classics, though, not in a long, long time. He grunts. "What's a lean hack?"

"An old horse," Carver murmurs. "He calls it Rocinante. Workhorse, in Spanish. He thinks it's grand, but it's just an old horse..."

"Reminds me of my first car. It was my uncle's old truck, older than I was, barely ran. I thought it was the finest thing I ever owned." He shudders, pain racking up and down his spine when they hit a bump.

"You remember your first car?"

Carver keeps his eyes closed, shivering. He's so goddamn cold. Everything hurts. And he can hear the hurt in Pope, too. The tension in his voice.

"My, mhmm, my grandma's truck," Carver murmurs. "She'd get drunk and lose the keys, so she taught me how to hotwire it..."

The words trail off. His head slumps against the window. He thinks, a little distantly, that he might pass out soon. That the adrenaline can't take him any further.

Pope reaches over, grabs him by the shoulder, shakes him. "Keep talking, boy. Tell me about your grandma's house."

He drives faster.

He groans, pressing his forehead against the glass. It hurts now. He wants Riley to come and hold him. Wants Sergeant Shaw to tell him what to do, for Pope to stop sounding so goddamn worried.

"We...it was nice, for the area," he murmurs, the words slurring. "Two stories. Fireplace in the living room. She'd chop wood, stack it up by the door. Heat didn't work so good, so we had dogs....they'd always sleep with me. Keep me warm."

"You want a dog? You have any pets?" He wishes he could call ahead. If she's not even home...

They're an hour away. He drives faster, dammit.

"Not anymore...."

He's fading, Carver thinks. He wonders briefly if he's dying or just on the verge of passing out. Too hurt and exhausted to hold on much longer.

"I don't...I don't have anything but this..."

The words slur. He slumps against the window, passed out cold.

He gets them to Leah Shaw. He shows up on her doorstep soaked in blood--not all of it his but a good amount is--and he pounds on the door.

She has a proper house. A proper place, with furniture and table mats and curtains on the window. And she has a security system but she has Freya, too, and the dog is up and alerting her even before the alarm digs and someone pounds on the door.

She greets Pope with a shotgun, lowering it as her eyes go wide. "You're hurt."

He doesn't know if she'll have been told that he and Carver were captured. If she didn't know she does now.

There's no time to worry about his wounds. "Carver's worse. Help me get him inside."

She doesn't hesitate. Just whistles to Freya and the dog bolts out the door, doing a perimeter check. There's an unfamiliar car parked in front, Carver slumped in the passenger seat. Out cold. Shirtless. And very pale.

There was a briefing. A vague one. She only knows they were overdue.

But she gets Carver's arm slung over her shoulder, and she drags his ass inside and puts him down on her couch. "Where's he hurt?" she murmurs. "I don't see a gunshot."

She pauses. "Where are you hurt?"

"Just this," he says, motioning to the long knife wound on his chest, sticking only to the obvious one. "He went into shock. They hurt him but he'll be all right with some rest. We need to get him warm, get some fluids in him. He hasn't eaten in three days."

Neither has Pope but that can wait.

Her jaw works. But already she's in motion, getting her med kit. "There are survival blankets in the chest. Freya! Go!"

She jerks her arm, pointing to Carver, and the dog jumps onto the couch, laying her big head on Carver's chest and whining as she licks his face.

"I'll get an IV going," she murmurs, laying out supplies. "Stabilize him. Then I'll clean you up. Were you followed?"

"No. Either we got out before reinforcements could find us or we killed them all." He doesn't know if they left anyone alive in that hotel. Maybe a maid who was tucked away ignorantly cleaning a room.

He gets the blankets, wraps Carver up, watches as Leah gets things arranged. The adrenaline is wearing off again and he's shaking and he hates it.

But they came here instead of going back to base, or a military hospital. Or even a civilian one. Things are still hot, then. She knows that Carver got tapped for something stateside, something dangerous. She wasn't invited to the briefing but it's not hard to guess things went wrong. He's hurt bad.

So is Pope.

She comes back with a bottle of Gatorade and presses it into Pope's hand before he can argue. "Drink," she orders. "Sir."

She crouches down, touching Carver's forehead briefly, and then she gets an IV into him.