aut_nihil | (no subject)

"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."

"It wouldn't be a proper hunt without her," he agrees. He glances at Carver; finds that despite it all he is glad for the contact. "I took her hunting once. That woman can stalk."

"Big sister's a badass," he agrees, expression softening a little as he smiles at Pope. "She was with me the first time I went into combat. She ever tell you that?"

"Yes she did," he says with a wry smile of his own. "Said I should keep an eye out for you, that you were up and coming. The Army did you wrong, not giving you that advancement."

Pope fought for Carver.

He sighs. “I wanted it, sir. I wanted to be just like her—and you.”

It didn’t work out, though. He got shot down so hard he nearly got whiplash.

He’s quiet for a long time. Then:

“I’m not gonna re up. I was working up to telling you. They’re never gonna let me be a sergeant, you know how it went down.”

He's quiet. Draws in a long breath. "Carver, I'm going to tell you something I haven't told anyone yet. I'm retiring. I'm starting my own firm. I can take care of my people better if I go private sector. You come work with me; I'll put you to real use."

Oh.

Carver stills, watching Pope close. Somehow, of all the responses, he didn't see that one coming. "....you want me to come with you?" he murmurs. After all this, Pope wants him to come along?

"I was going to wait to pitch it to you until after I was out and had it all set up," he gestures around them, "But we're here and this seems like a better time to tell you."

"I'll come with you," he replies immediately. "Whatever you need, I'm there."

The Army's disappointed both of them time and time again. Maybe they're due for something pure.

"I'm asking Shaw, too. And the kids, when they're up for grabs." He's picked his people. He's confident they'll all say yes.

"You taking any of the officers?" He pauses, considering who Pope listens to. Whose opinion he values. "Mancea?"

"Just Mancea. If he'll go," he's the only one Pope isn't sure about. Mancea isn't motivated by money. "I'll need your help recruiting."

"I think he'd come. He doesn't really seem like the golf and beach type, anyway."

Carver settles against Pope, closing his eyes. It's easier to think of future plans than the things stained against this mattress and what they were made to do to each other.

"I'll help you," he promises. "Riley—Sergeant Anders, he's getting a medical discharge. He'll be out in like three months, and he knows all the pilots."

"Is he? What happened to Anders?" He knows Anders saw heavy action, they all did, but Anders wasn't under his command for any of it.

"Shit, you didn't hear about that?" Carver winces. It was pretty bad. "His bird got hit by an RPG. Killed the pilot. Anders and the other gunner got shredded. He was in Germany for a while, getting sewn back together."

Carver had wanted so badly to go with him. It wasn't possible, though. And asking would have prompted questions neither of them could have answered.

"He's okay," Carver adds, a little softer. "Mostly. He almost lost an eye. And he was close with the pilot, they called her Junebug on the coms. I liked her."

Edited 2024-06-16 01:22 (UTC)

There were a few disasters like that, tragedies like that, but he thinks he knows the specific one Carver is talking about.

"They have him on desk duty now?"

Carver exhales slow. It's worse than that. "They put him back in the helicopter bay. Even though his depth perception's fucked up."

So, that's going well.

"Army ingenuity, right?"

"The Army wastes its people." And Pope can't stand to see it happen anymore. "We'll find a place for him."

Good. Some of the tension drains out of Carver and he puffs out a breath.

"Thought I'd go be a cook or something when I got out," he admits. "Guess that was a stupid plan."

Wasted potential, Pope thinks. Carver is a warrior; he doesn't belong in a kitchen.

"You'll do plenty of cooking for us," he says instead.

"Mhmm. You'll keep me busy. The kids especially." He huffs. "Goddamn, do they eat."

A chuckle. "And that's them eating MRE's. You should see them with real food."

He entertains that notion a moment. "I want to do things different. Have us all together once a week, like family for Sunday dinner."

"Yeah?"

Carver brightens at the thought. He's exhausted and hurting, and so hungry it feels like his stomach is trying to dissolve his spine, but the thought of having a proper meal with everyone is enough to drag him away from the melancholy at least for a moment.

"That'd be nice. Think the others would like it, too."

"They will." They're all without families. They're all so alone without each other.

"I want you to keep that image in your head, son. When they come in and do what they're going to do to me, you stay back and you think about that future."