aut_nihil | (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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From:

aut_nihil

"You want a dog? You have any pets?" He wishes he could call ahead. If she's not even home...

They're an hour away. He drives faster, dammit.

From:

fortitudosalutis

"Not anymore...."

He's fading, Carver thinks. He wonders briefly if he's dying or just on the verge of passing out. Too hurt and exhausted to hold on much longer.

"I don't...I don't have anything but this..."

The words slur. He slumps against the window, passed out cold.

From:

aut_nihil

He gets them to Leah Shaw. He shows up on her doorstep soaked in blood--not all of it his but a good amount is--and he pounds on the door.

From:

nootherway

She has a proper house. A proper place, with furniture and table mats and curtains on the window. And she has a security system but she has Freya, too, and the dog is up and alerting her even before the alarm digs and someone pounds on the door.

She greets Pope with a shotgun, lowering it as her eyes go wide. "You're hurt."

From:

aut_nihil

He doesn't know if she'll have been told that he and Carver were captured. If she didn't know she does now.

There's no time to worry about his wounds. "Carver's worse. Help me get him inside."

From:

nootherway

She doesn't hesitate. Just whistles to Freya and the dog bolts out the door, doing a perimeter check. There's an unfamiliar car parked in front, Carver slumped in the passenger seat. Out cold. Shirtless. And very pale.

There was a briefing. A vague one. She only knows they were overdue.

But she gets Carver's arm slung over her shoulder, and she drags his ass inside and puts him down on her couch. "Where's he hurt?" she murmurs. "I don't see a gunshot."

She pauses. "Where are you hurt?"

From:

aut_nihil

"Just this," he says, motioning to the long knife wound on his chest, sticking only to the obvious one. "He went into shock. They hurt him but he'll be all right with some rest. We need to get him warm, get some fluids in him. He hasn't eaten in three days."

Neither has Pope but that can wait.

From:

nootherway

Her jaw works. But already she's in motion, getting her med kit. "There are survival blankets in the chest. Freya! Go!"

She jerks her arm, pointing to Carver, and the dog jumps onto the couch, laying her big head on Carver's chest and whining as she licks his face.

"I'll get an IV going," she murmurs, laying out supplies. "Stabilize him. Then I'll clean you up. Were you followed?"

From:

aut_nihil

"No. Either we got out before reinforcements could find us or we killed them all." He doesn't know if they left anyone alive in that hotel. Maybe a maid who was tucked away ignorantly cleaning a room.

He gets the blankets, wraps Carver up, watches as Leah gets things arranged. The adrenaline is wearing off again and he's shaking and he hates it.

From:

nootherway

But they came here instead of going back to base, or a military hospital. Or even a civilian one. Things are still hot, then. She knows that Carver got tapped for something stateside, something dangerous. She wasn't invited to the briefing but it's not hard to guess things went wrong. He's hurt bad.

So is Pope.

She comes back with a bottle of Gatorade and presses it into Pope's hand before he can argue. "Drink," she orders. "Sir."

She crouches down, touching Carver's forehead briefly, and then she gets an IV into him.

From:

aut_nihil

He twists the cap off and his hand is shaking so hard as he lifts it to his lips that it spills over his wrist, down his chin, his chest. He swallows a little mouthful and caps it again and watches.

"Wake up, son," he says quietly. "Didn't bring you this far for you to drop out now."

From:

nootherway

Freya whines, pawing at Carver's face. "C'mon," Leah murmurs, stroking his hair. "Brandon, focus on my voice."

He's not dead yet. He's breathing shallow and shaky, but he's not dead. In shock, badly hurt, but not done.

Not yet.

His eyes open. Unfocused, his gaze drifting. "Sergeant...?"

"Hey, you," she murmurs, carding her fingers through his hair. "Shhh. Just rest. Get warm."

She looks back to Pope. "Sir. How bad is he hurt?"

From:

aut_nihil

"I don't know, Leah. Bad. He might be...bleeding." He should send her away so he can check but every angle he thinks of just screams out what happened to them. She'll know. "He'll be all right. He just needs fluids, food. Rest. No questions."

From:

nootherway

She goes very still. The way that Pope holds himself. How pale Carver is. It speaks to certain things, in the end. Certain wounds. No wonder Pope didn't take them back to base. She swallows hard, looking away to steel herself to the task. And if tears prick at her eyes, she puts them aside.

"I'll take care of him," she says simply. She'll keep Carver warm, get him stabilize. She'll keep him alive like she has for years now. "What about you, sir?"

The sad truth of it is she can't tell which of them she needs to tend to first, and she only has two hands.

From:

aut_nihil

"I need stitches." The blood coating his chest and stomach has dried into a tacky mess and it still hurts. "Get him stable first. I can wait."

He tries to drink again but his hands are still shaking. He focuses, fights, manages a real swallow this time and only a little spilling. He wants to sit down but sitting hurts more than standing.

From:

nootherway

You're hurt, too, she doesn't say. It doesn't need to be said. They allow each other certain fictions in this life.

"Carver," she murmurs, touching his forehead. He's cold, and clammy. "Hey, shh. I need to get a look at you. Freya's going to stay, so you just pet her. Yeah?"

Carver shivers, gaze unfocused. "I'm fine, ma'am," he slurs, but there's fear underneath the words. He's not strong enough to fight her, but he's shivering.

"Watch the dog," she murmurs, shifting the blankets side. "Watch my dog, Brandon, that's an order."

She tries not to react when he starts to cry, very softly. But she has to look and so she does her best to cut his clothes off of him gently, without making things worse. It reveals the mess underneath and there is blood, most of it dried dark. Blood, and other things.

Leah breathes out slow, bowing her head. She warps him in blankets and touches his head gently. "Just rest," she murmurs. "Hmm? Watch my dog, Brandon."

She stands stiffly, biting her lip as she goes to Pope. "He was bleeding," she murmurs softly. "He's not anymore. I'll get him cleaned up, but I want him to rest now. Get warm. Let's get you sewn up now."

From:

aut_nihil

He should have acted sooner. He should have launched into action the second he realized they were going to fuck Carver raw again.

He watches and he memorizes this moment. Someone is going to pay for it. He's going to make this right.

And then, like that, it's his turn and he can't stand the thought of anyone--even Shaw--touching him. "I can do it," he says, gruff, knowing that it will be better if she does it.

From:

nootherway

"Uh huh," Leah agrees, even as she opens her suture kit and gets the alcohol wipes out. His hands are shaking. He'll hurt himself if he tries but they don't need to talk about that. "Drink the Gatorade. Sir."

She doesn't warn him before she starts cleaning the wound. He wouldn't thank her for it, she knows.

From:

aut_nihil

He flinches when she touches him but he growls out something that's almost a word and holds still. He lets her clean him. He's not going to be a bitch.

"I need to get word we got out. But he needed help. Needed your help. I don't think he'd handle a corpsman or a hospital well right now."

From:

nootherway

They've been gone at least three days. Maybe a little more. The enemy had them that long. Enough to do real damage. Maybe the lasting kind. Leah cleans the wound silently, knowing it came from a knife. She doesn't ask Pope if there's worse under his clothes; they'll get to that. A corpsman might know what to do for Carver and Pope, physically, but she knows Pope is right; Carver wouldn't be able to stand a corpsman now.

Not like this. She doesn't think Pope could, either. He doesn't like to be touched. He allows it only grudgingly.

"I've got a satellite phone. You can report it." She glances back toward Carver and the dog, worrying. "How badly are you hurt, sir? And don't give me the answer you're going to give the corpsman."

From:

aut_nihil

A breath in. It hitches; he blames it on the pull of the needle and thread and not on the way his throat wants to close up, the way his eyes sting.

"I'm hurt," he says roughly. "About like he is. I don't think I'm bleeding."

He didn't stammer. His voice didn't break. Thank God for small favors.

From:

nootherway

And there it is. Leah bows her head slightly, focusing on the sutures. She doesn't force him to explain more. These things are understood.

"I'll pull a camp bed in here," she murmurs. "I'll get you clean clothes and something to eat, and you'll rest. Then in the morning you'll shower and eat something else, and you'll feel better."

There's no question in this. She simply tells him how it's going to be.

From:

aut_nihil

He'll find he was wrong; he was bleeding, a lot, but sometime in that hour long drive it finally stopped.

"I don't want Carver left alone. He's not..." A frown. "I just don't want him left alone."

From:

nootherway

There’s a great deal left unspoken in those words. Leah finishes her sutures, tying the last off. Pain, she’s found, is inevitable. You learn to take things, to square your shoulders and endure the great unfairness of them. It’s a lesson she’s been obliged to learn many times over her life, and why she’s been so careful to carve out space for herself. This small cabin, her curtains, the rugs on the floor. A proper home.

She begins cleaning the blood off Pope’s chest, in the meantime. Maybe he’s too distracted to flinch from her.

“I’ll stay with him,” she murmurs. “Or I’ll call one of others.”

She knows that there’s no one who Pope could call to stay with him; they are all of them alone, except for each other. “Can you stand for a shower, or do you want to sleep?”