aut_nihil | (no subject)

Carver rocks before he can think better of it, watching Pope close. He feels so tired, and so sick.

“Don’t you get tired of it?” he asks quietly. “All the evil shit people do to each other?”

"I do," he admits. "Of course I do. But we're here to protect people from that. We're here to take the pain for them. That's our job. Our calling from on High."

Take the pain. Carver watches Pope for a long time. Wondering if that’s what the commander means to do now. Take the pain that’s coming.

He bows his head.

“I’ll follow you, sir. I just…”

What do you even say?

“None of the tests were like this,” he murmurs. “I knew people did things like this, but—“

Yeah.

"we're above this kind of torture. I never trained you on it because...we're above it. And maybe that's a weakness on my part." He'll own that. That he didn't train his people to be immune to rape. "But I thought it was important we don't sink to this level. Was I wrong, Carver?"

“No, sir.”

He swallows hard, feeling wrenched, but he meets Pope’s eyes. There are things Carver never thought he could do to people that he’s now become very good at. Inflicting pain is a skill. But this?

Please, God, he prays, never make me do this.

“We have lines. We have rules. We’re better than the ones who don’t, you taught me that.”

"We are better. Never forget that."

He looks at Carver, assessing him. "You're still with me, huh? This isn't going to change that?"

"Always."

He doesn't waver, not this time. His voice stays steady.

"Bad shit happens, but you never lied to me. Not once. You taught me how to get through it and we're gonna get through it."

That's what he needed to hear. That he hasn't warped Carver, that he didn't leave Carver with such a weak spot that these people could exploit.

"Damn right we are." A stiff nod. "I'm going to shower. You rest up."

They haven't eaten in almost two days, he thinks, and wonders how long that will last.

"Okay," he murmurs, hoping there'll be time for him to shower, too. But he won't be greedy with it. Cannot be greedy with it. He's hungry and tired, and hurting, and he knows Pope has to be feeling it, too. It can't be helped, though. Maybe they could kick the door down and try to fight their way out, or break a window, but how far would they get?

Not far enough. They have to be smart.

"I'll rest," he adds, meeting Pope's eyes. He'll lie down on the floor. He doesn't want to sleep on the mattress.

Most showers Pope takes are quick, five or ten minutes at most, and that's including shaving. Today he spends almost an hour in the water.

He comes back out and finds Carver on the floor and can't blame him a bit. He wants nothing to do with the bed either, but he can't risk the captors coming in and seeing them avoiding it, letting them know that the torture is working. So he lays down on a bed that is softer and finer than what he has in his own home.

It hurts.

Carver stirs briefly when Pope does, watching him with half-lidded eyes. Exhausted and hurting, but still alive. He pulls himself up slowly, gingerly, every move made on pins and needles because he is so goddamn tired, and he hurts inside. It hurts in his soul, he thinks, and he wants to go home and be with their brothers and sisters, with Riley. To get that vodka with Pope.

He gets himself up, though. He showers with what's left of the hot water and scrubs his skin raw, comes back with damp hair and tired eyes to lean against the wall.

"You okay, sir?" he asks quietly, not sure if Pope's even awake or not.

"I'm just fine," he says and it's mostly true. "Just thinking what my first meal when we get out of here will be."

Carver is still limping slightly, he notes.

"Mhmm."

Carver watches him for a moment, leaning against the wall, then breathes out and lies down next to Pope before he can think better of it. He doesn't want to be on this mattress, smelling what he smells here, but the closeness is easier. He doesn't try to touch Pope but he knows the commander is there and that's easier, a little.

Just a little.

"You gonna go all out?" he murmurs. "Something fancy?"

"Nah," he grunts. "There's a barbecue joint on Route 9. Run down little place, best ribs I've had since leaving home."

He doesn't move to or away from Carver. He welcomes him here, something solid.

"A proper hole in the wall," Carver muses, closing his eyes and exhaling. "Tell me about it."

Distract him. Give them something human to share.

"They have a jukebox. Nothing but country songs though, reminds me of when I was a kid." And he's not a nostalgic man but he has to admit some things do tug at his soul after all.

"Run by the same family that's owned it since it opened. I keep hoping the kids will want to keep it open."

Carver never liked country music. Never really had an ear for music in general but he hums a little, settling into the shape of Pope's story. He can almost picture it. A small place, run by the same people year after year. The sort of food that melts in your mouth. The clang of quarters going into that old jukebox.

"Sounds nice," he murmurs. "I never was good at cooking ribs. But when they're made just right...yeah."

Yeah. That'd be a good meal to come back to.

"What's your freedom meal going to be then?" What is Carver going to do with himself when he's free?

"I'll cook," he murmurs, smiling a little as he thinks of it. "My grandma's pasta with kale and lemon. Mhmm. Cook up a really big bowl and get myself a glass of vodka. Yeah, that's what I'll do."

There's something wistful in his tone. He'll cook it for Riley, he thinks. He's always wanted to.

He chuckles. "That kid Austin could get behind that. Is he still vegan?" Austin follows fads like kale cleanses, but impatiently, never finishing anything that takes more than a week.

"Nah, it's keto this time." Carver huffs at that. "My version has sausage in it anyway. Lemon gives it a kick. People think kale's all bitter and shit, but you cook it right it tastes pretty damn good. My grandma used to grow it. And then we'd poach the deer and take it to her friend who'd make the sausage."

He huffs.

"Pasta we bought from the grocery store, though. Cheap kind. But it did the trick."

"You should have Bossie over. He makes pasta fresh. Only thing he does know how to make, far as I've heard." He's always amused by his people's hidden talents.

"Used to love hunting deer. We'll do that; get a group of us, go out hunting this fall."

"I'd like that," Carver murmurs. "We could go up to my grandma's house in Colorado. It's not mine anymore, but people rent it out sometimes. We could go hunting. I could cook for everyone."

It'd be like family. No war. Just all of them together, laughing.

"Count on it," Pope says, and this is what he'd hoped for by talking about that little place on Route 9: he feels inspired to get out of here, determined to live for a future where his sons and daughters go out hunting with him. "Make it a Thanksgiving trip for us all."

"Yeah," Carver agrees, and he shifts so he can press against Pope. Just a little. "It's rural. Close to the reservation, too, so nobody'd bother us. The kids'd love it."

Enough room to drink and let loose, not worry about scandalizing the officers.

"Shaw'd love it," he adds. "She came up with me once before my grandma died. It was nice."