(no subject)

[aut_nihil]

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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[fortitudosalutis]

Carver stiffens before he can think not to, barely breathing. He hates the thought of letting go of Pope, of being alone, but he doesn't want anyone touching him right now. An awful contradiction.

He screws his eyes closed and holds as still as he can.

"What comes next?" he asks softly. He doesn't think he'll be able to sleep. Isn't sure he'll be able to walk, either, but the orders come first. Pope will know what needs to be done.

[aut_nihil]

"We get ready to fight. We find our moment and we get the hell out of here." So he needs Carver strong and he needs him focused.

[fortitudosalutis]

Okay. Carver takes a steadying breath, then lets it go. It's the only answer that matters. The one anyone could give. The fact he's still not sure he can stand on his own, let alone walk, doesn't matter. Can't matter.

They have to fight, so he will. This was supposed to be a solo mission and so it's his responsibility to see it through.

"Yes, sir," Carver murmurs, grinding his forehead against Pope's shoulder. It hurts, he doesn't say, it hurts bad, sir. He doesn't know what the fuck he's going to tell the corpsman. What he's going to tell anyone except that he got beaten.

[aut_nihil]

"Come on." They've been in the water long enough. "We'll get you dressed." And they'll lay on that bed,a nd Pope doesn't want to go anywhere near that mattress where he was made to defile his own soldier, but Carver needs the rest.

[fortitudosalutis]

Carver just nods against Pope's shoulder, too tired to argue. The hot water felt good, even though he's sure he's still filthy. But they can't stay here forever, it isn't practical.

It hurts to move. He does it anyway, lifting his head and blinking at Pope.

"You're all wet," he realizes, peering at Pope. "Your boots..."

[aut_nihil]

He grunts. "It's like when they made us march in the rain," he says. He leads Carver to the bed and hands him his uniform, then strips off his jacket and his shirt, takes off his boots and socks to dry. His pants are wet too but he can't bring himself to remove them.

[fortitudosalutis]

Just like marching in the rain. Like bootcamp. It's nothing special, nothing unusual. Carver bites his lip as they move but he doesn't complain, just reaches a hand to brace himself against the wall. He tries not to look at the bed as Pope hands his uniform back, just pulls his shirt back on. It's a relief to have clean, familiar fabric against his skin.

It hurts to bend to get his pants on, enough that his eyes water, but Carver braces against the wall and does it. Bites his lip so he won't make a sound and then he does his belt up, too. His hands only twitch a little.

[aut_nihil]

Pope is watching him all the while, ready to catch him if he stumbles or falls. But Carver doesn't, because Carver is strong. He has faith in him and that faith has not been misplaced.

"Lie down, soldier," he says, his voice gruff again because he sees the tears in Carver's eyes and he doesn't know how to handle that. "Breathe slow until you fall asleep."

[fortitudosalutis]

In a different moment, in a different place, Carver knows he wouldn't hesitate. The adrenaline drop would take him down, exhaustion killing even the most insidious of his nightmares.

Here, he stares down at the mattress and the filth there. The messed up sheets. The spots where he bite his hands and blood stained the blankets. Where the enemy held him down and -

He swallows hard. I can't, he almost says, please don't make me, I can't.

Don't be weak, Carver orders himself. Don't be a bitch. He swallows hard. Tells himself it's like being back in Korengal. You didn't get a choice there, either.

He shivers. And then he forces himself to lie down, to curl himself onto his side because he can't be down on his stomach now even though he thinks it would hurt less. He can't.

[aut_nihil]

He knows why Carver hesitates. The truth is Pope hesitates, too.

He fucked his soldier here. The forbidden, shameful, hateful thing he did here, because they would have killed one of them if he didn't. Somehow doing it to save their lives doesn't make it feel any better.

He failed Carver here on this mattress.

He makes himself sit down, back against the headboard. "Count those sheep, son, "he says. "I need you rested."

[fortitudosalutis]

Carver tucks his hands under his chin, trying to breathe. Sometimes he couldn't sleep when he was in bootcamp and he'd just lay in his bunk for hours, trying to slow his breathing down and slip away. Just empty his mind. He was never any good at meditating, though, and the thought of being here on this bed makes his skin crawl. He closes his eyes as the mattress dips with Pope's weight, suddenly frozen, but Pope doesn't touch him. Just gives him orders, calls him son.

He nods mutely, eyes still closed. Exhausted. This is just happening.

In time, he does sleep. The nightmares twist through him and he shakes, biting at his hands, but he remembers his training; he doesn't make a sound.

[aut_nihil]

Maybe the kind thing would be to wake him. He notices Carver twitching in his sleep. He doesn't, though. Bad rest is better than no rest, and Carver's body needs to heal.

He wishes he knew how badly injured Carver is, but he's no corpsman and he couldn't make Carver expose himself that way. So he sits and he guards.

[fortitudosalutis]

He's too exhausted to wake himself up. The nightmares churn. He feels hands on him. The enemy grabbing him by the hair, pinning him down. The pain comes in waves and he bites his hands to distract himself, to stay still, stay quiet. So it goes. Then, abruptly, Carver wakes with a start. Gasping, reaching for a weapon.

It hurts. He forgets for a moment that it's Pope next to him and freezes, wary, before he remembers.

[aut_nihil]

"Easy," Pope says, his voice low and even. He's tired now but he'll go without sleep for now. Outside, the sky is starting to lighten.

[fortitudosalutis]

Carver swallows hard, trying not to move. "Sir."

He hopes he wasn't making noise. Wasn't making a fuss.

"Are we moving?" he asks quietly. He'll have to, Carver knows. There's no choice, so there's no point in complaining.

[aut_nihil]

"Not yet." Carver isn't ready, that much is clear. And if they try to escape too early and fail it will only mean worse punishment, worse injuries.

[fortitudosalutis]

He doesn't allow the relief to show. Just nods, watching Pope carefully, and lies himself back down. It hurts to move. He doesn't really know how bad he's fucked up or what he's supposed to do about that except lie still and not think about it. He wonders if Pope knows.

He's quiet for a long time. Trying just to breathe. Maybe go back to sleep. It doesn't help.

"I think I'm hurt bad, sir," Carver says final, as neutrally as he can. "I can stand, but."

He'll make himself stand. He'll make himself run if he has to. But Pope's probably counting on him in hand to hand and Carver already knows he won't be able to. He can feel the truth of it in his bones.

[aut_nihil]

He grinds his molars as he thinks about that. He suspected that much, but hearing it--yeah. Carver must be hurt bad if he's admitting it at all.

"Then we play their game until you're stronger."

[fortitudosalutis]

Yeah. Carver bows his head, feeling small and ashamed. You're not supposed to admit when you're hurt, not unless it compromises the mission. But this will. He can't let the commander down more than he already has.

He swallows hard. "They talked about...keeping me," he says, as neutrally as he can. He wants to go home so bad. "I don't think they'll kill us."

[aut_nihil]

"They won't kill me." He's too valuable for intel. Only an idiot would kill someone as highly ranked as Pope. "We do what we can to stay together. That means playing them. Can you do that?"

[fortitudosalutis]

Carver stares at his hands, flexing his knuckles and watching how the bite marks shift with his skin. The bruises from the zip ties.

“I…” He twitches, can’t make himself look at Pope. He wants to say no. “Yes, sir. Whatever it takes.”

[aut_nihil]

"Look me in the eye and tell me that," he says, hating the way Carver seems to shrink away from him.

[fortitudosalutis]

Don’t flinch, Carver orders himself, and takes a ragged breath. He forces himself to look at Pope, feeling sick at the thought of anyone touching him again. Holding him down on this bed. “Whatever it takes,” he repeats.

[aut_nihil]

"You can take this. I trained you to survive anything. You go away in your head, you go where it's safe, we get through this." They're going to make him do it again, he's sure, and he will not, will not show Carver how the thought sickens him.

[fortitudosalutis]

Carver twitches, fighting the urge to curl into himself or bite his hands again. Anxious and tense. His skin crawls at the thought of anyone touching him just as he knows they will. It got a rise. It got a reaction. It hurt both of them.

Of course they'll do it again.

"I'll go away," he agrees, subdued. After a moment, he shifts and just lays his head down on Pope's leg. It hurts to exist and he is so tired, and so sick at the thought of more. "Don't..."

He swallows hard.

"Make it hurt, sir. If they make you do it. It's easier when it hurts."