aut_nihil | (no subject)

Carver takes a steadying breath, lets it go. "Big sister will know," he murmurs, even though he should call her Sergeant Shaw out of respect. But he feels so goddamn raw now, teetering on the edge of something brutal and new, and he misses her badly. Misses Delaney, and Riley, and not aching like this. Big sister will know.

"But we're not going to talk to her about what's happened here," he warns. "Are we?"

Oh. Carver hesitates. Earlier, he thought he'd die if anyone else ever found out. But maybe Shaw would understand, of all people. Maybe Riley would. Maybe they could make it easier to bear, like explaining combat scars to someone who'd survived the same, or close to the same.

He shakes his head. "No, sir," he replies very quietly. He doesn't look at Pope.

"I'm taking this one to my grave." He couldn't bear for Shaw to know what he was made to do to Carver. He gets up, paces in front of the window.

Carver just curls tighter into himself. He thinks, maybe, this is the worst thing that's ever happened to him. And then he wonders if he's weak for counting that against the whole of Korengal, where he lost people he knew. Saw them die in horrific, painful ways.

He shivers, watching Pope. He knows he can't say any of that.

"You okay, sir?"

He doesn't know where this anger is coming from but he bites down on it and wants to save it for later.

"I just- I should have fought harder." He failed Carver. They shouldn't even be here.

"I'm the one who got cornered."

Carver shivers, curling tighter into himself.

"It's just natural consequences, right? Like the sergeants say."

"Yeah." He stops pacing, centers himself. "It is what it is. Nothing for it but to take it now."

But still. He came after Carver knowing this was a suicide mission, came determined to get him home alive, and now look where they are.

"Whatever happens- it's worth it to get you home."

Carver just closes his eyes. Natural consequences. He was the one who got caught, who needed the commander to come and save him. Everything that happened after is his fault. It's simple, isn't it?

"Nothing for it but to take it now," he repeats quietly. "We'll survive."

They'll take it like medicine. Like a test.

The anger ebbs away slowly.

He comes back to the bed and sits. No sense wasting energy. "You feeling guilty, son?" Carver is folded in on himself; he looks guilty.

Carver holds very still. Barely breathing.

"Yeah. Yes, sir," he murmurs. Eyes on the wall. "I got caught. It's my fault you're here."

"I saw the brief. I knew what was going to happen, sending you out alone." He frowns at the wall. "I couldn't abide that. I came, I chose to come. I have no regrets and I don't want you to have them either."

It has to be someone's fault, doesn't it? Carver curls tighter into himself, fighting the urge to bite his hands.

"If I were better -" He twitches. "If I were better, none of this shit would've happened. Natural consequences. It's just what happens."

"There was an 85% chance of getting captured in this mission. You were sent in because you had a better chance of surviving until rescue. I came along to make damn sure that rescue comes. Senator McKendrick can kiss my ass if he thinks I'm going to leave one of you out to dry."

That high? He hadn't known that. What would it have mattered? Carver shivers, curling tighter into himself. Lifting his hands to shield his head without thinking.

"I'm sorry, sir," he whispers. "I really tried."

"You were sent because you could survive," he says. "Austin was second pick. His chances of making it out though..."

Austin is great in chaos. In a situation like this, though? He'd have failed. He'd be dead now.

"I'm just sorry any of this is happening at all, Brandon. I need you, all right?"

Carver closes his eyes, shivering. Could Austin have survived this? Taken it for hours with no end? Maybe. Maybe not. But he would've been utterly alone and it's doubtful the enemy would've bothered to ransom him. They would've raped him until they got bored and then probably just shot him in the head and buried him in some nowhere place.

"I want to go home, sir," he murmurs, biting at his hands. "It'll be fine once we're home."

"Hey, hey, hey," Pope comes to him, behind him, cradles him. "Breathe, soldier. Pull it together. We're going to get out of here. Breathe with me, all right?"

Oh, God. Carver flinches before he can stop himself, taking a ragged breath. But Pope doesn't yell at him for it, just holds him like a child. Carver keeps his eyes closed tight, breath hitching. Biting back tears because he refuses to cry now, when nothing's even happening.

He holds tight to Pope's arms. He can't manage words.

Don't you make a liar of me, he thinks, but without teeth. With nothing but fear. He has so much faith in Carver.

"Breathe in," he orders. "Nice and slow. Calm down for me. I'm going to get you out of this."

God willing their captors will never see this moment.

It hurts to breathe. Carver shudders hard, clinging to Pope's arms. His hands ache. He wants to die. But he focuses on the commander's voice, the words there.

Moment by moment, beat by beat, his breathing slows down.

He murmurs to him over and over, keeps his breathing even and calm, and feels Carver relax.

"That's it," he says finally. "You all right?"

Carver shudders hard. He has to be okay. That's the only acceptable answer. But his throat is so tight he can barely breathe. He gives Pope a single, jerky nod.

"Up. Up, son. Move around. Shake it off. Come on," he urges him up onto his feet.

It hurts to move, to breathe. Carver's breath hitches but he does what he's told, standing up stiffly. It's a kindness, he knows. Pope usually hates it when he paces. And it hurts to move but maybe he needs to, maybe Pope just knew it deep down.

He gets up. And he starts to pace, back and forth, back and forth. Away from his racing thoughts.