Drake has his moments where he's so lost in his head that he's not paying attention to what's going on around him. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or sigh when he was knocked to the floor by the plane taking off. It's sweet that he wanted to check on Hicks, but he could've waited. Or just not stand and stare through the window for too long. Even Hudson knows not to be standing when a plane takes off.

Personally, I was glad we were leaving D.C. I'm not used to it, and I don't feel like I've accomplished anything. I wouldn't have even come along if it wasn't for Drake. I'm just . . . tired of being separated from him for long periods of time.

It's a strange thing that's been happening ever since a simple rescue mission to LV-400. Drake threatened to hit Bishop, and was sentenced to three weeks on an orbital hospital station. Those three weeks were hell, made even worse by a morning report we got that he'd been poisoned and nearly an inch away from death. After that, Hudson got poisoned, and then Drake decided to go to D.C. to check on him and make sure this doctor wasn't hurting him. That was another week where he was gone. Then, two weeks after he came back, the squadron was called to the Moon. Drake and Hudson couldn't go, and that trip, too, was nothing short of hell.

I refused to be thrown into back a position where I can't trust anyone, so I begged Apone to go with Drake and Hudson. It wasn't like I could do anything on base, anyway; I hurt my shoulder on the Moon. Not sure what hurts worse, though, my shoulder or the fact that I'm completely useless till it heals.

Drake sat next to me when the plane stabilized. The right side of his face was red from where it made contact with the rug. "Not the worst rug-burn I've ever had," he said before kissing my cheek. "You OK?"

"Why do you always ask that? All I've done is sit down in a fucking plane. You don't need to ask every time you see me," I replied.

"I like to stay updated, honey."

"It gets annoying sometimes. I told you not to fuss about my shoulder."

"I'm not fussing about your shoulder." Drake nuzzled my face. "Am I not allowed to be concerned in the slightest?"

"You can be concerned. You just can't be annoying." I rested my head on his shoulder, not looking forward to be stuck on this plane for the next fifteen hours.

It was ten-thirty in the morning when we finally landed in Australia. I followed Drake and Hudson out to the parking lot of the airport, where an albino doctor called Delhoun would be taking us home. I technically owe Delhoun something for keeping Drake alive, but I don't know him that well enough to say something. Drake says he's a nice guy, with a lot of quirks, and I'll take his word for it. Again, though, I'd prefer to get to know him before forming an opinion.

"Let's hope we all don't have to take another trip like that for a long time," Delhoun said as we piled in his car.

"You mean the long flight, right?" Hudson asked. "I'd love to go back to D.C. someday, man. I don't think I've eaten that good in years."

Delhoun glanced at Drake in the mirror. "Is that why you came to me for money? Hudson blew it on food?"

"No, it was the Metro," Drake replied. "Although, Hudson didn't help."

"Got a point, there. Washington's not cheap." Delhoun switched his red gaze to me. "What'd you think, Vasquez?"

I looked down at my lap, struggling to find something to say that wouldn't make everyone think I was upset. "It was big."

"Not someplace you'd like to try again?"

I shook my head. "Not for awhile."

"At least you had Drake as a tour guide."

"I'm not that experienced," Drake said, "but I did my best." His expression changed, like his thoughts smacked him in the back of the head. He looked at me through the corner of his eye. "Sorry."

"For what?" I asked.

"For not . . . getting you more comfortable."

"It's fine. I really don't care. It's not like we're going back any time soon." I recognized this as him doubting himself. Doubt isn't the worst thing he can do; he beats on himself pretty often, and it's sad. I know I should be helping him break that habit, but I feel powerless. Very, very powerless.

When we returned to base, I was a little surprised to see Hicks already there, sitting in the mess hall wearing a bathrobe. He was sweating a viscous silver fluid, and shivering. Not entirely sure why he was there instead of his private quarters. It's demoralizing to see the squad's corporal in such a sad state.

I guess I was the only person who felt that way. Drake and Hudson were going over and patting his shoulders and trying to comfort him. A nagging voice in my head was telling me to do the same. Just shut the fuck up. I carried my duffel bag into my bedroom, and closed the door behind me. Dropping the bag on the floor, I sat on the bed, sighing heavily. Coming home had such a bittersweet feeling; I was glad to be someplace familiar, but at the same time, I was still wearing a sling. Unconsciously, I cradled my useless left arm in my right, becoming aware of a dull ache. The muscles holding my shoulder together were throbbing a little, but the rest of my arm was starting to go numb after not doing anything for over fifteen hours. Just take it off and gently massage your arm. No big deal. I was starting to remove the sling when the door opened, and Drake walked in.

"What are you doing?" he asked, softly.

"My arm went numb."

He sat next to me, taking the sling off and trying to control the movement of my left arm. "You coulda said something, honey."

"I can do it myself, dammit. You're fussing again. Please stop."

Drake took a breath, loosening his grip on my arm. I rubbed it until I could move my hand again, and put the sling back on. He made eye contact with me, and looked like he was trying to smile, but failed.

"Don't you have to put your stuff away?" I said.

"I can't talk to you?"

I bit my lip, guilt punching me in the chest. "I just want to be alone right now. We just got home, and I'd like to enjoy my own shower and . . . just be alone, OK?"

"Does that mean we're not sleeping together tonight?"

"I'm sorry. We slept together last night. W-We'll do it tomorrow night."

"Aw, I was hoping to cuddle."

"Oh, go cuddle with Hicks. He looks like he needs it."

Drake smirked at my terrible joke before planting a kiss on my forehead. "Love you. Guess I'll see you at dinner." He left the room, closing the door on his way out.

It took a few minutes before I started to feel better. I really didn't regret telling Drake to leave; he of all people should know what it's like to want to be alone for a few hours. What followed was incredibly mundane; I went through my bag and found the painkillers I was given for my shoulder. Not needing them at the moment, I put them in the bathroom medicine cabinet, then took a quick shower. Afterwards, I carried the dirty clothes down to the laundry room, where Spunkmeyer was tossing the colors in one machine and the undergarments in another.

"Put you on duty?" I asked.

"Yeah. Well, you were supposed to be on duty this week, but Apone decided to let you go with Hicks for some reason," Spunkmeyer replied.

"It was for Hicks's well-being," I lied. "Besides, you can't use me for anything right now."

"Personally, being down one man is better than being down four. Do you have any idea how many missions we've had to transfer to other units because of Drake's shenanigans?"

"None of this is Drake's fault-"

"No, you know what? I don't want to hear anymore about Drake. Because of what happened on LV-400, and how he can't keep his Goddamn feelings in his pants, we're all stagnating. Our training is not paying off. Some of us who could've been promoted, could've gotten a nicer paycheck, are not getting that because of Drake. Hicks trying to defend him with this mental health stuff is slowly becoming bullshit. I get it; reliving horrible memories and being suicidal isn't good, but I don't want Drake's problems to be reflecting back on this entire unit."

I swallowed past a lump in my throat. Spunkmeyer was making a good point, and it was eerily similar to what I told Drake about how I was tired of him being sad because it was rubbing off on people around him. "I take it you're not the only one who feels this way?"

"Not at all, Vasquez. Ferro's not happy. Dietrich's not happy. Wierzbowski's quiet about it, but he's not happy. Frost complained to Apone about this. Crowe said he'll punch Drake if this happens again." Spunkmeyer slammed shut the washing machine. "I don't think Hudson will be much help, either."

"Oh, when has Hudson ever been helpful? Look, I'm not happy about this, either, but I don't think fighting with Drake is going to solve anything. Maybe . . . he'd appreciate it if you talked to him more, and stopped making him feel like an outcast."

"Do you not remember when you and him first came here? He isolated himself. Didn't want to talk, didn't want to socialize, just put on this big cloak that has 'Leave me the fuck alone' written all over it. He pushed all of us away."

"He let Hudson in. Things have changed."

"I don't think so. I'm sorry. I really am. Hell, if Drake can just shove his issues down his throat for a few days, maybe I'll change my mind. If not, fuck it. I'll request a transfer. We all had a really good reputation throughout the USCM before the mission at LV-400. Now . . . we're tanking. There are inspectors calling more frequently. I've heard rumors about psychologists coming in. I've even heard Apone talk about giving Drake a full discharge if he can't get his shit together." Spunkmeyer shrugged. "If Drake's suffering, staying here probably isn't the best. No one wants to see him suffer, and no one wants it to drag everyone down."

I couldn't help but agree with Spunkmeyer. His frustration was tangible, and it was surprisingly given that he's not the type of person to become frustrated. At all. As a pilot, he pretty much has to be calm and level-headed and not easily ruffled.

The LV-400 mission was a little over two months ago. I think that's too much time for someone's frustration to build. I should know.

What do I tell Drake? Obviously, he needs to know that no one's happy with him. God, I can already picture his reaction; he'll go right back into his shell. He'll claim this is all his fault, and he'll continue to hate himself. I don't want to see him do that, only because . . . I just can't. I have to hide all of this. I have to hide Spunkmeyer's anger from Drake, and I have to hide Drake's problems from everyone else. If that's the way things will go, so be it. I've been able to keep the details of my past hidden from everyone. There's no reason why I can't hide more.

At the same time, someone has to know. I can't have a repeat of the three weeks Drake was gone and I bottled up my own problems to the point where I couldn't look anyone in the eye without feeling the urge to burst into tears.

Unfortunately, the only person I felt could be trusted with all this was our court jester.

I found Hudson leaving the armory with his pulse rifle, going to the outdoor range to practice shooting. To me, it felt weird, stupid, and even a little uncomfortable to be talking to Hudson without Drake around about non-military topics. I didn't trust him on day one. I didn't trust him for a long time. Everything just has to be out in the open with him. He's loud, obnoxious, and can't take anything non-military seriously. There's no way he's done half the things he brags about.

And somehow, Drake trusts him.

"We just get home and the first thing you do is go play on the range?" I asked.

"Hey, the thing in that office building made me realize how much I miss my own pulse rifle, man," Hudson replied. "Besides, it's not inspection day, so I didn't bother folding any of my clothes."

"Can I ask you to not be batshit irritating for a few minutes?"

"Uh-oh, what'd I do?"

"It has nothing to do with you." I followed him outside and waited for the door to close completely. "It's about Drake."

"You two having problems?"

"No." I glanced over my shoulder, hoping no one else was listening. "Turns out Spunkmeyer and some of the others really aren't happy with what's been going on. They feel like Drake's problems have been stagnating the unit as a whole."

"Like how?"

"People aren't getting promoted. We're not being sent on many missions. There are rumors that we're being looked at badly by the rest of the Corps. Plus, they don't like him in general because of his attitude and personality."

"I think that might be a bit of a stretch, people not liking him. He's important to the whole group, and . . . yeah, I can see how everything is making us look bad. It's not like we're completely unorganized or bad at our jobs. People're getting sick. Just getting in the wrong place at the wrong time, man."

"It just seems beyond coincidental that three of us have been poisoned by that flower in such a short timeframe."

"Hate to say it, but it's all coincidental. Me and Drake were complete accidents, and somebody else tried to kill Hicks. I don't wanna say 'it's something we gotta deal with,' but I guess that's the best thing to say. Not everything is one big fucking conspiracy or an evil plan by some nutty mastermind. Sometimes, bad shit happens. Ain't nothing we can do about it except push forward and learn from our mistakes." Hudson slid a magazine into his rifle. "And you thought I was stupid."

"Well, I certainly didn't expect that from you."

"Hey, I learned a thing or two when I was in high school. That came from my history teacher. Pretty laid-back woman. Almost makes me feel bad that I gave the seniors some tools to prank her at the end of the year. Wanna know what we did? She was a fan of the Minnesota Vikings, so her classroom had all sorts of memorabilia. Jerseys, helmets, pennants, cards, you name it. Well, we took all that down, and replaced it-piece by piece-with Green Bay Packers stuff!" Hudson laughed. "Good thing we came up with that plan early in the year, 'cause it took us forever to match each Vikings piece with a Packers piece."

I took a breath, an unsuspecting feeling of jealousy putting weight at the base of my chest.

"She wasn't too mad at us, but she made us take everything down, since we seemed to know where a shirt went or a helmet went, and put the original stuff back up." Hudson's expression slowly sobered. "Nice old lady. Actually helped me out when I said I wanted to leave town and go to Minneapolis. She stayed in contact with me the whole time I was in the process of moving, and through every fucking job I got and lost. When I said I was gonna enlist, she said, 'Go for it.'"

Are you done yet? I thought, rolling my eyes.

"After I got shipped out, that was it. Few years later, I went back home on leave, and . . . found out she'd passed away." Hudson swallowed hard, and tears were starting to glint in his eyes. "Never got to say good-bye, or even 'thanks for the help.'" He tried to wipe the tears from his eyes, and then noticed my stoic expression. "I'm sorry, Vasquez. That got . . . That personal real fast, man, and I'm sorry."

"It's fine." I felt bad for not being more attentive to his story, especially since he threw in that depressing curveball. "I just wish I had someone like that when I was in high school. Fuck, I never even finished high school."

"Yeah." Hudson glanced at me. "You were in juvie with Drake. What'd you do to get in?"

Now I felt like crying. "I don't . . . want to talk about it."

"Drake told me what he did."

"I don't care! He's him, and I'm me! I'm not telling you what I did! I'm not telling anyone what I did! If you ask again, I'll take that gun from your hands and smack you over the head with it!"

"Hey, easy, man. I didn't press further." Hudson seemed to flinch a little. "Geez, it's OK. I wasn't gonna ask again."

"No. You brought it up, and that's bad enough." I turned to storm back inside. "Hope you don't shoot your eye out, dickhead!"

Again, I thought Hicks would be better off resting in his room, but he was sitting with the rest of us during dinner, looking very out of place in his bathrobe. That wasn't the half of it; he was paler than fresh snow, making the circles under his eyes look even darker. Silver sweat was running down his face in waves, and he looked like he was going to drop off to sleep at any moment. Whenever he reached across the table to get something, I could see goosebumps under the dark hair on his arms. He just looked sick, and he should be resting instead of making us feel bad for him.

"First time we've had dinner as a family in awhile," Apone said.

"They coulda served something better," Hudson mumbled.

"Oh, shut up," Frost said. "You and Drake and Vasquez got to eat out every night in Washington, right? You shouldn't be bitching."

"Kiss my ass," Hudson replied. "You'd be singing a different tune if you got to eat something other than bread and dry beef for a few days."

"No one wants to kiss your ass, bud," Drake added.

"Anyone who's had the misfortune of seeing Hudson naked don't wanna kiss his ass," Spunkmeyer muttered.

Drake snorted. "That was you when we were stationed off the coast of South Africa. You two had to share a bunk and a shower."

"Yeah. Hopefully, that doesn't happen again. Although-" Spunkmeyer looked at Drake, "I'd rather be stuck with Hudson than you."

My heart started pounding harder. Please, don't start anything here.

Drake frowned, looking a little confused. "What?"

"You heard me. I don't know how anyone in this room can stand to be around you for more than five minutes at a time."

Hicks slowly looked up from the table. "Watch it, Spunkmeyer," he rasped.

"Corporal, I know you're not feeling all that well, but I'd like to bring an issue to your attention-"

"Is it the same shit Frost told me three days ago?" Apone asked. "If it is, I heard it once. I don't need to hear it again."

"Yes, sir." With that, Spunkmeyer didn't say another word.

Drake glanced at me. "What'd I do?"

"Nothing," I said. "You did nothing." I couldn't tell him the truth. Not now, not ever. He's not going to make any sort of progress if he finds out; it'll send him right back to square one, and I don't want to deal with that.

Author's Note: I will be honest, when you write a character for a long time, it's difficult to transfer to a different one. Numerous times, I had to stop myself from "sounding" like Drake. He and Vasquez are both pretty cynical, but Drake goes off on mental tangents about everything. Vasquez keeps it short and to the point, and doesn't react to things the way Drake does.

I wasn't all that sure about what to revolve the plot around when I first started this. I played around with some ideas, and I'm glad I found a solid one when I started writing the dialogue between Vasquez and Spunkmeyer in the laundry room. It seems fitting to reveal how the rest of the group feels about all the setbacks and lack of action, considering we've been following Drake's perspective for the last seven books, and he's never given much of a crap about how the others feel unless they've shown some degree of care towards him.

Does the story need more details? Or does the lack of extraneous information feel appropriate given that the perspective is from a different character?