aut_nihil | (no subject)

"I need stitches." The blood coating his chest and stomach has dried into a tacky mess and it still hurts. "Get him stable first. I can wait."

He tries to drink again but his hands are still shaking. He focuses, fights, manages a real swallow this time and only a little spilling. He wants to sit down but sitting hurts more than standing.

You're hurt, too, she doesn't say. It doesn't need to be said. They allow each other certain fictions in this life.

"Carver," she murmurs, touching his forehead. He's cold, and clammy. "Hey, shh. I need to get a look at you. Freya's going to stay, so you just pet her. Yeah?"

Carver shivers, gaze unfocused. "I'm fine, ma'am," he slurs, but there's fear underneath the words. He's not strong enough to fight her, but he's shivering.

"Watch the dog," she murmurs, shifting the blankets side. "Watch my dog, Brandon, that's an order."

She tries not to react when he starts to cry, very softly. But she has to look and so she does her best to cut his clothes off of him gently, without making things worse. It reveals the mess underneath and there is blood, most of it dried dark. Blood, and other things.

Leah breathes out slow, bowing her head. She warps him in blankets and touches his head gently. "Just rest," she murmurs. "Hmm? Watch my dog, Brandon."

She stands stiffly, biting her lip as she goes to Pope. "He was bleeding," she murmurs softly. "He's not anymore. I'll get him cleaned up, but I want him to rest now. Get warm. Let's get you sewn up now."

He should have acted sooner. He should have launched into action the second he realized they were going to fuck Carver raw again.

He watches and he memorizes this moment. Someone is going to pay for it. He's going to make this right.

And then, like that, it's his turn and he can't stand the thought of anyone--even Shaw--touching him. "I can do it," he says, gruff, knowing that it will be better if she does it.

"Uh huh," Leah agrees, even as she opens her suture kit and gets the alcohol wipes out. His hands are shaking. He'll hurt himself if he tries but they don't need to talk about that. "Drink the Gatorade. Sir."

She doesn't warn him before she starts cleaning the wound. He wouldn't thank her for it, she knows.

He flinches when she touches him but he growls out something that's almost a word and holds still. He lets her clean him. He's not going to be a bitch.

"I need to get word we got out. But he needed help. Needed your help. I don't think he'd handle a corpsman or a hospital well right now."

They've been gone at least three days. Maybe a little more. The enemy had them that long. Enough to do real damage. Maybe the lasting kind. Leah cleans the wound silently, knowing it came from a knife. She doesn't ask Pope if there's worse under his clothes; they'll get to that. A corpsman might know what to do for Carver and Pope, physically, but she knows Pope is right; Carver wouldn't be able to stand a corpsman now.

Not like this. She doesn't think Pope could, either. He doesn't like to be touched. He allows it only grudgingly.

"I've got a satellite phone. You can report it." She glances back toward Carver and the dog, worrying. "How badly are you hurt, sir? And don't give me the answer you're going to give the corpsman."

A breath in. It hitches; he blames it on the pull of the needle and thread and not on the way his throat wants to close up, the way his eyes sting.

"I'm hurt," he says roughly. "About like he is. I don't think I'm bleeding."

He didn't stammer. His voice didn't break. Thank God for small favors.

And there it is. Leah bows her head slightly, focusing on the sutures. She doesn't force him to explain more. These things are understood.

"I'll pull a camp bed in here," she murmurs. "I'll get you clean clothes and something to eat, and you'll rest. Then in the morning you'll shower and eat something else, and you'll feel better."

There's no question in this. She simply tells him how it's going to be.

He'll find he was wrong; he was bleeding, a lot, but sometime in that hour long drive it finally stopped.

"I don't want Carver left alone. He's not..." A frown. "I just don't want him left alone."

There’s a great deal left unspoken in those words. Leah finishes her sutures, tying the last off. Pain, she’s found, is inevitable. You learn to take things, to square your shoulders and endure the great unfairness of them. It’s a lesson she’s been obliged to learn many times over her life, and why she’s been so careful to carve out space for herself. This small cabin, her curtains, the rugs on the floor. A proper home.

She begins cleaning the blood off Pope’s chest, in the meantime. Maybe he’s too distracted to flinch from her.

“I’ll stay with him,” she murmurs. “Or I’ll call one of others.”

She knows that there’s no one who Pope could call to stay with him; they are all of them alone, except for each other. “Can you stand for a shower, or do you want to sleep?”

"I need a shower." He needs to get the blood and the sweat and the shame off of him.

"Who would you call?"

He didn’t answer the question. Too damn proud to. Leah just nods and cleans him off as best she can. Then she stands and offers her arm out to him. There are things they will never say to each other. He will never ask her for help walking now that the adrenaline’s worn off.

“Washington’s on leave.” She frowns, going through her roster. “Anders, from the chopper bay. He and Carver are friends.”

He and Carver are more than friends, Leah thinks, but she would never force them to admit it.

“Shower’s this way,” she adds. She’ll help him because it needs to be done. Because he would do the same for her.

He takes her arm. He would have loved to not have to lean on her but once he's on his feet he almost falls, so he holds onto her.

"Get Anders here. Call Wash too he'll come."

Wordlessly, Leah steadies him. She takes his weight and steers him to the bathroom, where she has thick towels and a warm bath mat, and soap that smells like almonds.

“I’ll get them,” she agrees, and pulls the shower curtain open. She turns the water on hot. “Brace against the wall.”

She kneels before he can protest and begins unlacing his boots.

"I can get it," he growls, but he notably makes no move to stop her or push her away. He lets her take his boots. He leans against the wall and he just breathes.

"Carver and I have to report in tomorrow," he decides. "I want us both on our feet for it."

He growls like she knew he would, but doesn’t fight or shove her away. Leah works matter of factly, pulling the boots off and setting them aside. He’s not wearing socks, she realizes, and the boots aren’t his size. It speaks to certain things.

She doesn’t ask. Just sets the boots out of the way and offers her arm out again. “The corpsmen will know.”

These things are difficult to hide. There aren’t many ways to get these injuries.

Leah exhales. She’ll need them both upright and energized. “We still have that coke from the last assignment?”

Sometimes they can’t afford to sleep. The Army looks away.

"Not if we don't need a full exam." There are ways of getting out of that. If you argue loud enough, make yourself a big enough pain in the ass.

"I can get some." He doesn't look forward to the migraine it will inevitably give him but better that than being pulled apart by the higher ups.

“I’ll pull the duty roster. Get someone to sign off.”

One of their own, or someone she can threaten or bribe into compliance.

Leah nods just once. “Good. Do it. Just enough to get through the debrief.”

She hates that it’s necessary. But you cannot show pain in moments like this and they both know what comes next. What needs to be done.

He needs help getting undressed but can't bring himself to ask for it.

"You should get back to Carver," he says quietly. "I don't want him alone when he's awake...I mean it." Something in how distant Carver was during the escape scares him.

Leah exhales, running a hand through her hair. She's so very tired of all this, but the work remains. Her boys are hurt.

"Freya's with him," she murmurs, meeting Pope's gaze. "We'll get you sorted and then I'll sit with him."

But first, she needs to tend to Pope. She watches him for a moment, then sighs. He hasn't tried to strip. She has a feeling it's not out of modesty.

"Brace against me," she orders softly, and reaches for his pants. If they don't talk about it, then it's one step closer to forgetting it happened.

He wants to snap at her. To send her away, to not have her touch him. But the adrenaline is long gone and he can barely walk, let alone bend, and he can't stand to have this mess on him any longer.

He holds onto her shoulders. He stares hard at the wall.

She does her work silently. She gets his pants off and if she swallows hard at what she finds beneath them, Leah doesn't let herself flinch. She doesn't ask, in the end, because what is there to ask beyond the obvious? What would she accomplish by making him say the words they both already know?

Sometimes, bad things happen. The world isn't fair and she hates how often she's been obliged to learn that lesson. That she's been forced to harden herself against the inevitability of it all.

"Brace on me," she repeats, and she guides him under the water. If her pajamas get wet, then that's just what happens.

He feels weak and he feels small and he feels like he felt as a child when his father would beat him. And that's not Leah's fault but he wants to yell at her as if it is.

Instead he gets under the water and it runs red and pink under him and he pulls her to him and just hugs her rough with one arm, half-leaning on her for support.

"I have you," she murmurs, and she does not let him go as the water drums down on them. "Sir."

She holds Pope tight, breathing slow, bearing the weight. Watching the water swirl down the drain.

The blood on his chest and stomach was so thick it's congealed into a crust, and he takes the soap finally and scrubs hard at it until it comes loose.

"I'm all right," he grunts, though he still has hand on her, steadying himself. Little by little he comes clean.

He feels foolish holding onto her and makes himself let go. "You said there were clothes?" If not he supposes they can wash these pants.