A/N:So, my muse has popped her head up again and dropped this little nonsense in my lap. So I figured I'd share it with/inflict it on you. Clay's rambling, there's some hurt!Jensen (because we didn't get nearly enough out of that gunshot wound), a bit of family and a dash of premonition if you squint...
Enjoy!
Somewhere between the motel and the van, Jensen stops talking.
In the room, the rest of them don't say a word as they swing into action. The sirens are too close to stop, too close to do more than spare a quick glance to make sure the tech is still conscious – he is, face washed-out pale and shocky in the flickering light, but teeth gritted against the pain as he stumbles out of the door with a "...bitch shot me in the goddamn arm," that fades away as he disappears.
His team know their roles, even when it all goes so spectacularly to shit. Walking wounded have to take care of themselves, until they can get clear of any law enforcement, leaving the rest of the team to clear out the room and erase any trace they were ever there.
Cougar collects the brass, ducking down to check under the furniture for any spent casings that may have rolled out of sight. Roque dumps half the mini-bar on top of Jensen's blood where it's soaking into the carpet – bleach is better for wiping out DNA, but they make do with what they have to hand. Pooch wipes down every surface, from doorknob to taps to the goddamn flush of the john, taking care of fingerprints, while Clay throws his few belongings into his gunny sack and bundles up the bedclothes and linens to burn later.
They were already used to living below the radar, one of the more strangely mundane aspects of the special ops training they went through to operate covertly and something that's become a way of life for them since Bolivia.
With the room cleared, reeking of cordite and alcohol, they head for the van, catching up with Jensen along the way. The tech made it outside; they find him leaning against the wall beside the back door into the filthy alleyway as if it's the only thing holding him up. Wordlessly, Cougar ducks under his uninjured shoulder, slings an arm around his waist and hustles him on.
Jensen's silence is unnerving. Clay knows from bitter experience that even a minor gunshot wound burns with a pain that can be all encompassing, swallowing up the world. Cougar's presence at his side will help ground the kid, but each of them make sure to reassure him in their own way as they slip by. Roque growls something Clay cant make out at the tech that has him snorting a pained laugh; Pooch cuffs the back of his head lightly, probably scolding Jensen for leaving his gun in the van again. As Clay draws level with Jensen and Cougar, he drops a hand onto the back of the tech's neck, squeezes gently. Jensen looks up at him, quirks a strained smile and mutters an apology.
"Let's get the hell out of here," is all Clay says. There'll be time later to make damn sure the kid doesn't leave his gun behind again. For now, they need to get somewhere out of sight and let Cougar sew him up.
"I should've seen it sooner," Jensen insists, and Clay realises with a start that he wasn't apologising for bursting in on them unarmed, but for not figuring out who Aisha was in the first place. He knows that if Jensen couldn't find her real identity then it was buried deeper than the truth behind the moon landings, and that has Clay wondering just who did the burying in the first place.
It also has a sharp-edged guilt stirring in his guts, because he was the one who brought Aisha into their team and took on her mission.
"Later," he says, as they reach the van. Pooch already has the engine running and pulls away smoothly as they pile into the back, Jensen sinking back against the side, wincing as Cougar unknots the makeshift bandage. He still doesn't complain, just grits his teeth as the sniper probes at the wound, breath hitching as his pale face turns a sickly grey. Roque glances back once, turns forward to rummage in the glove compartment and then tosses a paper bag to Clay. It's translucent with old grease, a fast-food logo faded on the front and Clay passes it to Jensen just as the tech begins to puke. Cougar murmurs something too low for Clay to hear, reaches for a bottle of water, helps Jensen rinse his mouth out and sit back with a heavy sigh.
Not for the first time, Clay marvels at the way this team works together. They fit, in a way he's never been part of before, moving together in concert or taking up the slack when one of them is injured. He knows, too, how each of them react to injury; Roque's cold stoicism, Pooch's grit-teeth fury, Cougar's meditative stillness, and he knows Jensen is only silent when he's really hurting.
"There's a market a couple blocks over," Pooch says. "Lousy security. Cougs can do his nursemaid thing there."
Clay nods. "Circle the block first," he orders. "Make sure we don't get any rent-a-cops stepping in on us."
Pooch drives steadily, just a mile or two over the limit. But his knuckles are white around the wheel and he keeps one eye on the mirror, watching them as much as the road. By the time they finally stop, Jensen seems steadier, climbs down from the van unaided, cradling his arm tucked against his chest. Roque slips away and Clay leads them to the front door to wait for the big man to unlock it from the inside. Pooch stays close to Jensen as the tech slumps wearily against the wall, Cougar prowling restlessly. Faintly, Clay hears glass shattering, knows Roque is inside. Now they're away from the motel, the adrenaline rush is fading, replaced by the gnawing guilt of his own mistake. None of them speak as Roque appears on the other side of the door, lets them in. Pooch steers Jensen to the pharmacy counter, Cougar disappearing into the aisles and coming back with an armful of sewing kit, kitchen paper and a baby's pacifier that he hands to Jensen with a smirk.
"Nice," the tech grunts, lying back with a heartfelt groan. It's the first thing he's said since his apology to Clay, almost thirty minutes earlier, but his fingers clench tightly around the pacifier as Cougar slices away his sleeve. A moment later, it's between his teeth, each breath coming harsh and strained around it as the sniper digs the bullet out of his arm. Clay doesn't let himself turn away, makes himself watch as Cougar douses the wound with iodine, Jensen swearing bitterly around the pacifier and writhing on the counter.
"It's done, pendejo," Cougar tells him, but the hand that wipes away the iodine is careful, and he tucks the packet of kitchen towels under Jensen's head. "You ready?" he asks. The tech takes the pacifier out of his mouth long enough to answer; "Gimme a minute." The plastic is marked, deeply, and Clay makes a note to make sure it gets destroyed with the evidence from the motel room. They're all silent as Cougar pulls a needle from the sewing kit, threads it and drops it into a glass filled with an inch of more iodine to sterilise it. Finally, he taps Jensen on the shoulder.
"Time," Cougar says, and the tech nods, clamps the pacifier between his teeth again as the sniper starts stitching the torn muscle together. Clay stares, sick to his stomach at the smell of the iodine and blood, the cordite still clinging to their clothes.
At Aisha's scent, faint but still lingering on his skin.
He's still trying to get his head around the perfect lie she lived for the months since Bolivia when Pooch finally breaks the silence.
"She burned us. The whole op's blown. She knows our names, faces. Does she know about our families?" he asks, pushing away from the counter where he'd been leaning on his elbows. Clay stares at the floor, doesn't answer.
"Dammit, Clay, look at me!"
He waits another moment, finally lifts his head to meet Pooch's cold resignation.
"Does she know about our families?" he asks, quietly, and Clay preferred it when Pooch was shouting. He thinks about lying, but he owes them all more than that, this team – his team, who backed him without hesitation when he led them into the compound, who followed his lead when he told them to trust Aisha.
"Yes," he says at last, simple and plain. It's all he has left to give them in apology, the cold, hard truth of just how badly he's fucked them all. Pooch and Jensen look as if he's just told them the sky is falling, a gut-wrenching fear he can't imagine written clearly on their faces.
"I gotta go home, to Springfield," Pooch mutters. He looks sick. "Jensen can come with me, his niece is in New Hampshire." Jensen pulls his glasses off, pushes the back of his hand against his eye. "I'm done."
None of them move, for a long moment, silence as thick in air as the smell of blood and iodine. It's as if the world holds still, waiting for this team he's put together to finally fall apart.
It's Roque, of all of them, who suddenly stands.
"Well, I'm going to the port," the big man says. "Okay?"
Clay looks at him steadily, surprised but too weary to care.
"You get back to your families. We'll get Max. I did this, I made the call in Bolivia. I put your families in danger."
"Just let me and Clay finish this," Roque insists. Pooch looks at him, then at Clay.
"So you two idiots are gonna go in there blind?" he asks. Roque stares at Clay, meets his gaze squarely and the colonel knows they've faced worse odds, this man he's known longer than anyone, but for the first time he can't see the absolute, unshakable certainty in their combined ability in the other man's eyes.
Cougar pulls a revolver from his belt, gazes at Clay as he cocks it. "Three," is all he says, and tucks the gun back in his belt. On the counter, Jensen sighs.
"Hey, getting shot's great, I'm up for doing it again."
"Four idiots," Roque says, and Clay can feel the strange uncertainty that's been churning through his guts ever since he looked up at Aisha and finally thought to ask her the question he should have asked at the beginning shifting to a sense of anticipation.
"You sonsofbitches," Pooch laughs, humourlessly. "I'll drive."
The world steadies under Clay's feet and he smiles.
"Five."