aut_nihil | (no subject)

He's glad, actually. He wants to get a look at Anders for himself, and he also wants Carver to have a chance to compose himself in front of Anders before the corpsman shows up and notices anything.

So he drives fast and he gets them there, gets them checked in, helps get Carver into the room and onto one of the beds.

By then he's sweating with the pain, his heart beating hard. "You have pain meds?" He asks Leah quietly, ashamed to need them, but he does.

Like before, Freya lays down with Carver. It worries Leah down into the coils of her soul that Carver allows it. That he's gone so quiet and still that he isn't trying to fight them, to do chores or clear the room.

She opens one of the gear bags without a word and shakes out two pills from an unlabeled bottle, holding them out to Pope. "Lie down," she orders softly. "Sir. You need to rest. I'll make you some more food."

He takes the pills. He thinks about standing the full twenty minutes it will take for them to kick in but he's so tired, and so he levers himself down onto the other bed with a groan of pain.

"Don't fuss too much, I'm fine."

"Yes, sir," she agrees, though she'll fuss as much as she pleases. She will not lose these men. Not after she's just gotten them back.

In the meantime, she fixes MREs. She's getting them ready when there's a sharp knock on the door. Freya lifts her head and growls, ears pricked.

Leah has a hand on her gun when she checks the door, but ultimately it's an ally. A tall, dark-skinned man with a raw dent in his cheek where the flesh was ripped away, nearly exposing the jaw underneath, and what remained was sutured together as neatly as such a thing could be. He's in uniform, his handsome face drawn into a worried mask.

Riley Anders is here.

Pope gets to his feet and this time he doesn't let himself cry out. He looks Anders up and down. "We're waiting on a medic," he tells him. "Carver's running a low fever."

And Carver is still in his bloodstained clothes from the escape.

Riley's gaze flicks between Shaw and Pope. By right, he ought to salute Pope. Stand at attention, pay homage to the propriety that's supposed to matter in moments like this.

Instead, he brushes past both of them and kneels down next to the bed, reaching for Carver. "Why the fuck are you skulking around in a Motel Six?" he asks, very evenly, because he refuses to degrade himself by shouting at these people.

He wants to, though. Fucking Christ.

Pope bristles. "None of your business, Sergeant. You're here to help him. That's it."

God, he wants to yell at these people. Carver turns toward him, fuzzy and exhausted, and so goddamn pale. There's blood on his clothes and a dog curled up on his chest, bruises around his wrists. And it's been a long time since he's seen Carver so quiet, so unfocused. Riley can't remember the last time.

Maybe after that IED. The really bad one that shredded Carver's armor.

Riley touches a palm to Carver's forehead, eyes widening. Jesus Christ. These fucking people and their pain Olympics. "He has a fucking fever. You know that, right?"

"We're taking care of it," Pope snaps. This was a mistake. He looks at Shaw, who is always his calm in a storm.

This isn't going well. Leah lifts her chin, centering herself. She shoots Pope a look - let her handle it.

"He's hurt," she agrees, softer. Anders gives her a sharp look, his anger so close to the surface. But she's had a lifetime of weathering angry men. "But he'd want you here. Can you do that?"

She'll kick him to the curb if he can't.

Anders exhales sharply. "Are you getting a doctor?"

"Yes," Leah agrees. "But this is classified. You cannot say a word."

"This his blood?"

This time, it's Leah who has to compose herself. "Some of it," she admits.

God bless Leah Shaw. Pope stalks to the window, peeking out through the curtains, but no one is coming.

"Most of it isn't," Pope says. "We had to fight our way out."

More black ops bullshit. Riley fights the urge to curse at them both. No doubt this was off the books, so far into the black nobody will ever admit to a damn thing. But then, Pope and his people are always into some bullshit. Even in the early days, there were rumors.

He cups a hand to Carver's face, feeling the heat of the fever. The way that Carver closes his eyes and presses into it, even though they're being watched.

It's bad, then. Carver's barely coherent, it seems like. Shock, or exhaustion? Something worse?

The dog whines. She presses her wet nose into Riley's hand.

"Okay," Riley says, very calmly. "What'd you do to him?"

"I got him out alive," Pope spits, because all morning all he can think is that he should have acted sooner. This is his fault. "And I don't care for your tone."

"Yeah, well, you can write me up," Riley replies flatly. He's never seen Carver like this - never. It scares him, and in his fear he turns sharp. "But you won't because I was never here, was I?"

"Anders -" Shaw tries.

"Don't." He closes his eyes, shifting to hold Carver's hand. "Just don't. He doesn't deserve this shit."

No. Carver didn't deserve what happened to him. And that's why Pope went after him; that's why Pope defied it all and got captured with him. Because Carver deserved better.

"He knows his job. He chose this job," Pope says instead.

Then why'd you let this happen, Riley wants to demand. He already knows the answer, though. He always does.

He just exhales through his teeth, furious and unable to do anything with it. "He loves you," Riley informs them both, with no small amount of bitterness. Of course they know. They rely on it, don't they? "And now here we are."

They have never said it, of course. There are lines. But yes, he knows. Just like--he hopes--Carver knows Pope loves him like a son.

(He thinks, against his will, of what he was made to do to Carver and flinches.)

"No one signs up thinking they'll be safe, Anders. You should know that better than most."

There's a whole lot they're not saying, the both of them. A heavy, conspiratorial silence hanging over the room. Riley squeezes Carver's hand tight, hating this. He wants to climb in bed with Carver and hold him.

"Sure," Riley agrees flatly. It's all such a grand adventure. A grand sacrifice. Thank you for your service. "What happened?"

They're going to lie, he knows. They're going to bullshit him. They always will.

Pope has the same zip tie bruises on his wrists that Carver does. Has the same bruises on his face.

"It's classified," he says because that's all he can actually say. "Things went sideways. But we got out."

Pope did, at least. It remains to be seen if Carver has really made it out alive or not.

But they still brought him in. Even though he's not one of their yes-men, part of their fucked up little orphan club that Pope and his cohort are so proud of. Riley bows his head, rubbing Carver's knuckles. They brought him because something's wrong with Carver, something is very wrong, and they couldn't do it through official channels.

Riley wants badly to believe that they care. That they want to be human beings about this.

Then he exhales sharply and does what he wanted to from the start and just climbs onto the bed and lies down next to Carver. "This is classified, too," he tells them flatly.

Say a fucking word, he dares them, staring at Pope. Say a fucking word.

Pope wants very badly to say something about it, but he doesn't. Isn't this why he asked for Anders? Because Carver needs some gentle attention, something that doesn't hurt?

Besides, this thing, whatever it is that's going on between them, is temporary. When Carver is a Reaper it will be over.

"You'd better be good at hiding that shit from everyone else," Pope says. "I won't see my boy thrown out before his time, lose all his benefits, because of you."

Carver's more out of it than not, but he makes a small sound and curls into Riley's chest. And it's easy to get an arm around him like this, to cup a hand to the back of his head and just hold him while the dog watches and these two, sober and bitter, watch in turn. Pope looks so goddamn smug saying that shit.

They always do, don't they?

"Your boy?" Riley repeats, softening his voice so he won't disturb Carver. "Your boy?"

What the fuck.

"Pope," Shaw warns softly. Sensing a fight.

"My boy," he says again, though he doesn't take a step forward to challenge Riley like he would have if not for Shaw.

"You think I went through hell for just some soldier?"

"Enough," Sergeant Shaw warns, stepping between them. Riley almost pushes, puffing himself up to raise his voice and make a fucking scene because how dare these fuckers, how dare they try and claim Carver?

But there are deep bruises around Pope's wrists, too. They've been tortured, Riley knows.

"We're trying," she continues, her gaze flicking between Riley and Pope in equal warning, "to keep him calm. I'm going to make some coffee. Stand the fuck down."

Pope listens to Shaw where he ignores every other person in the world so he scoffs and steps aside.

"We need to get some fluids in him," he mutters to her.