(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.

Comments

[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."

[aut_nihil]

Yeah. He gets that. If the situation was reversed--and it well may end up that way; what better way to humiliate the commander?--he'd want Carver to make him hurt, too.

"I can't risk injuring you," Pope says, apologetic.

[fortitudosalutis]

It's a simple answer, said almost kindly. Unlike so many of the officers in Korengal, Pope explains his reasons, too. The logic behind the choice that has to be made. It doesn't lessen the hurt any, but Carver breathes through it. Closes his eyes and grinds his forehead against Pope's leg.

"Okay," he agrees softly. What else is there to say?

[aut_nihil]

Pope hesitates, then strokes his fingers through Carver's hair. "I'm not walking out of here without you. So you need to save your strength and be ready to run. You got that?"

[fortitudosalutis]

For a moment, Carver just holds very still. Barely breathing, not sure what to do now that Pope's touching him. Stroking his hair.

It's nice, he thinks. But the officers don't touch them, ever. Not unless it's a test.

He shivers a little but doesn't pull away. "I got that, sir."

Part of him wishes that Pope hadn't come. Hadn't seen him like this. But then Carver knows he'd be alone and probably dead. It's better to live and fight, even if it hurts.

"If they kill me," he starts, and then goes quiet. Pope knows his grandma's dead. His mom, too. "Give my stuff to Delaney. And Sergeant Anders."

Riley should know. Riley should have his dogtags, at least.

[aut_nihil]

"They're not going to kill you," he says, his voice dark again, growling. He won't lose Carver after all this. He fucking won't.

"Delaney needs you to keep her out of trouble. Get her away from the dumbasses she finds in bars."

[fortitudosalutis]

Carver just huffs and stays where he is, pressed against Pope. "God, she really likes 'em dumb. Like illiterate dumb."

It's better to joke, he thinks. Better to think about his friends and Delaney's dumbass hookups and the time she just walked bare ass naked through the barracks because someone stole her clothes after a bender and she gave no fucks at all. Better to joke and be thankful that Pope doesn't ask why Riley rated a mention when he's not even one of Pope's guys. It's been said, and if something happens, Carver knows Pope won't forget.

"Thought women were supposed to be wiser and shit. Goddamn."

[aut_nihil]

"They are and don't you doubt it," Pope grunts. "Delaney might pick a loser for herself, but she'll always pick someone good for you. So ask her advice before you go home with someone."

[fortitudosalutis]

Carver hums at that, forced to admit it's true. Delaney's choices in men are baffling and hilarious in turn, but all her friends have their shit together. "She does steer folks away from the crazy," Carver has to admit. The bars near their bases take all kinds. "Course she's always drinking Fireball, so I gotta ding her for that one. On principal."

He wrinkles his nose. "Shit's too sweet. Alcohol shouldn't have cinnamon in it."

[aut_nihil]

"No it should not," Pope agrees. "Or gold flakes."

That other godawful cinnamon liquor he has run across from time to time. "Alcohol has one purpose. It does it right or it doesn't do it at all."

[fortitudosalutis]

"Amen to that," Carver murmurs, settling a little. He still feels sick but it's easier to talk like this, shoot the shit. To relax, ever so slightly, as Pope run his fingers through Carver's hair. "That's what vodka's for."

[aut_nihil]

"Mmhmm," he agrees. "Vodka's the only thing I drink anymore."

Something clean and burning, no flavor except that. Crisp.

"We'll get out of here and we'll go drinking, Carver."

[fortitudosalutis]

"You and me both," Carver murmurs. He'd drink beer because the others were, but he never liked it. His mom and his grandma were always drinking beer. "I'd like that, sir."

Get a drink, pretend this never happened.

[aut_nihil]

"Stay with me, Carver. I'll get you out of this."

The worst is yet to come, he's sure. But if he can keep Carver strong throughout it they'll survive, because he knows he won't break. So all that's left is rescuing Carver.

[fortitudosalutis]

"You always do," he agrees softly. Always. Pope could have written him off so many times before but hasn't. Didn't.

Carver presses close to him. Breathing out.

"Didn't think anyone was gonna come for me. But you did."

He wonders, secretly, if Pope regrets it.

[aut_nihil]

And maybe in answer to that unasked question he grunts. "I'm always going to come for you, Carver. You're one of mine. No one gets to fuck you up but me."

[fortitudosalutis]

It's a relief. It almost hurts. Carver takes a deep breath, then lets it go. Some of the tension bleeds from him, like excising a wound.

"You're worst than my drill sergeants," he murmurs. "Swear to God, sir."

He would do anything for this man. Anything Pope asked him to.