aut_nihil | (no subject)

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?"

"No, sir," Carver replies, without much emotion at all. He's barely on his feet as it is, holding tight to Pope's jacket. Afraid that he'll crumple the moment he lets go.

He thinks about leaning Carver against the wall so he can strip out of his uniform, but he can feel how tightly Carver is holding onto him. "We're going to take your jacket and shirt off," he tells him. Pope will just have to stand for getting his clothes wet, because he doesn't think Carver can let go of him.

He swallows hard. Eyes closed, holding so tight to Pope. The pain's dulled to a background roar, weighing him down. There's a moment where he nearly refuses, wants to hold onto what's left of his uniform even though it's filthy and ruined, half torn off him already.

But that's being foolish. Pope's already seen everything. Pope already fucked him, too.

Carver twitches. "Okay," he says, very softly.

He tosses the clothes aside. They're filthy, he should rinse them off before he gives them back to Carver. He'll do that.

He gets them in the water. "Carver. Look at me. Look me in the eye."

He doesn't want to. He's shaking again, cold and probably in shock, and Carver just wants to hide his face against Pope's chest. Listen to the dull sound of water hitting tiles. Steam rising. He wants to let go and forget himself. Not be here for a while, maybe go inside his head like Pope trained him and all the others.

But there's an order. And you don't disobey the commander.

He twitches. Then, very hesitantly, he meets Pope's gaze.

"This might be the worst thing that's ever happened to you. That ever will. But I'm going to get you through it, and this is just going to be a memory someday. Something you don't even have to think about if you don't want." Something to be left behind in the dark.

Oh, Carver thinks, and he's too tired to be shocked or brace himself, but he'd expected another order. Something unyielding and cold. He watches Pope, swaying slightly, and tries to focus on the commander's voice. This will just be a memory someday.

Carver just stares at Pope for a long moment, water drumming against his skull. Then he puts his head down on Pope's shoulder, too exhausted not to. "Promise?" he murmurs.

He wonders, distantly, if Pope liked fucking him.

He doesn't know what to do with this so he rests his hand at the back of Carver's head. "Yes, son," he says. "Yes. I promise."

He'll figure this out. This won't be the thing that breaks Brandon Carver.