aut_nihil | (no subject)

(no subject)

Pope doesn't go on as many missions as he once did. But he sees trouble brewing in the future, in the solo orders Carver was given, and he can't stomach staying behind when Carver might face the worst alone.

So he defies his own orders and he goes with Carver.

And things go sideways. They're outnumbered despite his best efforts and his warnings, and they're gathered up, hoods on their heads, arms tied behind their backs.

Carver's strong though. They're going to make it through this. He's going to get them through this.

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Carver shivers and just hides his face against Riley’s chest, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “Doesn’t…matter.”

Riley holds him tight. “Just rest,” he murmurs. “I got you. We got you.”

Carver shivers again. “It hurts,” he whispers. It really hurts.

"Hey no one's getting through that door to hurt you more, you get me?" Wash says, his voice quiet but iron clad.

He looks up, sees Pope. Sees the bruises and goes a little grey.

"Where the hell is that doctor, Shaw?" Pope snaps.

"Ten minutes," she responds, checking her phone.

Carver stiffens, lifting his head. "No doctor," he insists. "I'm fine."

"Brandon-" Riley tries.

"I'm fine!" he snaps, louder, anxious. "Nothing happened!"

Pope moves to his side.

"Easy, son. We're going to take care of you. We're... Going to take care of me, too. I'm going through it too you hear me? One last thing and then we're done."

Carver shudders, rocking, feeling pinned between all of them even as he grab for Riley's uniform and holds on tight. He's shaking, he realizes; he thinks he's going to cry, or start screaming. "You said we don't tell," he hisses, miserable, "we don't tell, nothing happened...."

Riley rocks him. Pulling him close and pressing a kiss to his head. "Shh," he murmurs. "Brandon, you've got a fever. We're just worried about you."

"We don't tell. But you've got an infection. She's going to give you medicine. Me too." Because God knows he's starting to feel sick, too.

Washington looks at Shaw, helpless.

Pope squeezes Carver's shoulder. "You just take those pills and eat, you hear me?"

No one has to know details.

"I -"

He feels sick, everything fuzzy. It hurts and he wants to go home, back to the barracks, back to Shaw's cabin. Somewhere he knows all the corners, that the enemy can't get them. But it's hard to think and he's getting fuzzy, shaking as Riley holds him and rubs his back. As Pope squeezes his shoulder.

Carver shudders. He hides his face against Riley's chest. "Okay," he whispers. He doesn't want a doctor. He thinks he'd rather die.

"It's okay," Riley says softly. "It's okay. Sit up with me, there you go. Just like that. We're gonna get you some pain meds, okay?"

There's iron in his tone. Something that books no argument.

"And then we're gonna eat, and you can rest. Okay?"

Carver shivers, eyes closed tight. He feels sick. "Okay," he whispers, miserable.

Pope Strauss there, hand on Carver's shoulder, hating everything.

"Go guard the door," he tells Washington, who is reluctant to leave but obeys.

Something is really wrong. Riley rocks Carver, holding him close and rubbing his back, trying to soothe a man who's so rarely rattled. But Carver's shivering, feverish, and he sounds scared. Whatever they did to him -

It was bad, Riley thinks. It was really fucking bad.

He meets Pope's gaze, wary, but he doesn't let go of Carver. "C'mon," he murmurs. "Try and eat, okay? We've got painkillers for you."

Don't fight, Riley prays. Don't fight, just take the goddamn pills.

Carver makes a small sound, almost a sob, but he nods.

Pope steps aside so Shaw can deliver the meds. He limps over to the MRE he made and brings it to Carver.

"Eat," he orders.

Carver feels like he's on the verge of crying for no goddamn reason. Hiding his face against Riley's chest, his skin crawling at the thought of being touched but unwilling to pull away. He doesn't want a doctor. He thinks he'll die if anyone tries to take his clothes off.

But he leans against Riley and he takes the MRE, eating listlessly. Riley holds him, stroking his hair.

"I don't need a doctor," Carver murmurs, almost pleading. "Nothing happened."

"Relax, son. I won't let anything happen to you." He leans against the wall, feeling sick and cold and too hot at the same time.

He resents Anders being here, seeing them like this.

Riley holds him, stroking his hair, and then eventually passes Carver two pain pills. He swallows them mechanically, wincing at the sour taste. Trying not to look at Pope, feeling sick.

“I don’t…” Carver closes his eyes tight. “Don’t hold me down,” he whispers.

“Brandon…” Riley murmurs, sounding almost frightened.

"No one's going to hold you down. I won't let them. But I need you to be strong, Carver. We need to get through this."

Leave, he think fiercely at Anders. This is a family affair, it's none of his goddamn business.

He looks at Shaw. "Would you tell the doctor to hurry the fuck up?"

Riley feels sick. He strokes Carver’s hair and murmurs to him, trying to keep him calm. But he can feel the fever radiating off of him; it’s getting worse, and Carver’s shaking. He’s never seen Carver like this, never.

“She’s almost here,” Shaw reports softly.

Riley meets Pope’s glare and doesn’t flinch. He holds Carver tight. “I’m here,” he murmurs. “Focus on my voice, it’s okay.”

The door clicks open. A harried looking woman in civilian clothes ducks in.

About goddamn time, Pope thinks, but doesn't say.

He points at Carver. "He's sick."

Carver flinches, hiding his face in Riley’s chest again. He’s shaking, his breathing gone ragged, and it worries Riley down in his soul to see Carver showing fear like this, showing fear at all.

The doctor scowls, but moves to the bed. “I can see that. Sick with what?”

Carver won’t look at her. He just clings to Riley and trembles.

“Something’s infected,” Riley murmurs. He has a guess. “Brandon, we need to see.”

"No," Pope snaps. "You can see he's sick, give him antibiotics."

He's not going to let anyone make this worse for Carver. And he's sure as hell not going to strip down either.

"I need them too."

Carver flinches. Actually fucking flinches and shakes his head, holding so tight to Riley. He’s scared, he feels utterly fucking terrified, and Riley doesn’t know why. He can guess, but he doesn’t know.

“It doesn’t work like that,” the doctor snaps. “I need to see what I’m working with.”

“No,” Carver hisses.

"You heard him. He said no," Pope says, speaking for himself and Carver both. They're not going to degrade themselves further. Not after all that. "We were hurt--we're sick. Treat us."

“Tell him to stop being a bitch,” the doctor snaps, looking nothing but annoyed. “Or hold him still.”

Riley tenses. Fuck, no. “You don’t touch him.”

“Jesus Christ. Do I have to fucking sedate him?” the doctor demands.

"Give him the fucking meds!" Pope snaps. "Or examine me; same thing happened to me, you want that? You want to get neck deep in this mess or do you want to help us?"

The doctor exhales sharply. She turns to Pope, scowling. “You show me, then.”

She has no bedside manner.

"No." But he looks at Carver, who is the only other option. And he can't put his boy through this.

"Come with me."

He limps his way to the shitty tiny bathroom. Carver had better damn well appreciate this.

Shaw stands, as if to protest. But she holds, bowing her head.

On the bed, Riley feels Carver tremble and start to cry very quietly.

The doctor follows Pope, crossing her arms. She notes the way he limps, though.