A/N: Here it is, ya'll! Fic #2. The Big One. Now that season two of SEAL Team is drawing to a close and we've got confirmation of season three, I wanted to write a long multi-chaptered throwback to season one!
I not only wanted to explore/sculpt Clay's character and his burgeoning relationship with Bravo Team, but I wanted to play with less-written characters too—namely Brian, Adam, Eric, Mandy, Lisa, and Stella. I have an absolute ton of plans, plot twists, spin ups, and surprises planned for this, so! Without further ado, welcome to my canon-divergent retelling of season one. Enjoy. xx
1.
Cherry flavored Jell-O was the work of the goddamn devil.
Clay Spencer scowled at his little plastic cup of hospital gelatin. Despite the gnawing hunger that was ravaging his insides, he couldn't stomach another spoonful. The taste was reprehensible—was he eating a slimy, lukewarm blob of cough syrup? If he didn't get some real food soon, there was a good chance that Clay was going to vomit all over the floor. How long had it been since he last ate? Twenty hours? Thirty? Not since before the HALO jumps, at the very least.
The HALO jumps. . . Forty eight hours ago, Brian Armstrong's parachute didn't deploy. Forty eight hours ago, Brian's reserve chute deployed so late that it did almost nothing to cushion the astronomical blow (Master Chief Adam Seaver's words, "14,000 feet and upwards," echoed through Clay's mind on loop). Forty eight hours ago, Clay almost—almost—lost his best friend, the only person in this world whom he could say that he trusted with his life.
He tried not to dwell on what would've happened had Brian's reserve cute not deployed at all.
Another wave of nausea crested over Clay, this one stronger and far more persistent than the last. He dug the fingers of his left hand into his denim-clad thigh and tried desperately not to hurl. It was then, in the throes of illness, that the realization dawned on him: if it had been two days since the parachute malfunction. . . he hadn't eaten in two days.
Jesus. No wonder he felt on the verge of passing out.
'Oh well,' Clay thought. 'Dieters do seventy two hour fasts all the time. I'll just drink more water and eat when Brian wakes up.'
If Brian awoke while Clay was downstairs foraging for something halfway edible in the hospital cafeteria, disoriented and alone and lost in a hazy world of pain, Clay would never forgive himself. Could never forgive himself.
The last thing that Clay could remember eating was a Dave's Double from Wendy's; Him and Brian had stopped after they stumbled out of the aftermath of Stella's party, and Brian had protested the entire way there that they didn't have time, that Master Chief Seaver would skin them both like wild hares if they were late to the HALO jumps. In the end, Clay won the argument and Brian ended up ordering himself a snackwrap, grilled, low fat ranch only.
God, Brian was weird about food. Clay wanted to laugh at the memory—at the image of Brain Armstrong, golden child, speeding thirty miles over the limit down the freeway with ranch smeared all over his lip, singing along to that godawful Toto song about Africa—and then he wanted to cry.
What if Brian couldn't pull through this? The Brian Armstrong lying half-dead in the hospital bed was not a Brain Armstrong that Clay recognized. He was too pale, too quiet, too still. He was a grim sight.
One side of Brian's face was hidden completely by a swath of white gauze, and the other was so badly swollen and bruised that his freckles were lost in a deep, ugly sea of blue, purple, and mottled yellow hues. The crush injuries to his right cheekbone and eye-socket, Clay was told by Nurse Amanda, were so severe that they required immediate corrective surgery. . . and those were the least of Brian's major injuries, the rest of which were internal: two of his eight broken ribs punctured his lungs, both his appendix and spleen ruptured shortly after impact, and roughly twenty six of his bones were broken, and an addition three shattered. The cuts, lacerations, and additional bruising that littered his body went without saying.
Jesus. Twenty six fucking bones. Broken. Three shattered. The thought was nauseating, even more so than the taste of the goddamn cherry Jell-O.
Clay glanced at the trash can sitting next to the door. He could taste the bile steadily rising in the back of his throat.
Determined to keep what little Jell-O he managed to eat down, Clay returned to scowling at his little plastic cup—watching Brian struggle hurt too much, only made him queasier. He inhaled through his nose, deep and slow, and exhaled through his mouth, and then did the same again.
He tried to focus on the rhythm of Brian's electrocardiograph instead of his own rising anxiety and hunger. The machine beeped steadily, broadcasting a strong heartbeat. In that moment, Clay wished that he could be a little more like Stella. He wished that he could summon the energy, and the sailor's courage, to be more grateful, more hopeful. . . But he was too tired, too jaded, and too much like daddy. He wasn't superstitious, but Brian certainly was, and Clay didn't want to give fate a single reason to be fickle. The fact that Brian's heart was beating at all was a goddamn miracle.
But that was Brian Armstrong for you. He never gave up on anything.
Clay listened to the rhythm of Brian's heart with the hyper-focus of a frogman and began to count every beep, every beat:
'One, Two, Three. Brian is alive. He's still alive. Four, Five, Six. He'll be okay. He's made it through all the surgery he'll need. He's made it through the worst of it. Seven, Eight, Nine. He won't leave me. He wouldn't. Ten, Eleven, Twelve. He promised. He promised. He promised. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. . .'
Clay made it to two hundred and seventy four before Master Chief Adam Seaver interrupted him.
"Any reason you're glarin' at your pudding, Spencer?"
The familiar drawl of Adam Seaver's voice came from somewhere to Clay's left. He didn't look away from his Jell-O cup.
He hadn't heard his Master Chief enter the room, and for that his cheeks flushed red and grew warm with shame. Clay knew what his father, Ash, would say about that: 'Some SEAL you are, son. Didn't even hear your superior walk into the room. What if Seaver had been an enemy? You'd be dead right now. Do better. Make me proud.'
"It's not pudding, Master Chief," Clay replied sharply. "It's Jell-O and it tastes like ass. Want a bite?"
A beat of silence stretched out between them. Clay sighed quietly to himself and braced himself for a harsh reprimanding. He was being instigative and rude and he knew it, but his grief and fear and hunger had sharpened themselves into wolf's teeth and God, did Clay want to sink those teeth into somebody, into anybody—himself included. Why should he get to be okay while Brian was fighting for every breath he drew? Why had his own parachute deployed instead of Brian's? What lazy fucking idiot didn't triple check all of their parachute packs? That had to be someone's job, right?
"I know you've had a rough day couple of days, son," Adam Seaver said sternly. "So I'm gonna' let that attitude of yours slide. . . for now. Don't test me."
Clay remained silent, eyes downcast. He began to count again.
Beep. Beep. Beep. One. Two. Three. . .
Adam cleared his throat. "Can I sit?"
Finally, Clay glanced away from his godforsaken Jell-O and at Master Chief Seaver. Adam almost looked like a different person, like he was as worn down as Clay felt: there were dark bags under his eyes, and the worry lines on his forehead looked twice as deep as usual, and a heaviness lingered in his eyes that Clay had never quite seen before.
Clay nodded, suddenly feeling like a selfish brat. He hadn't stopped once to think about what affect Brian's accident might have on Adam—the poor man has probably been drowning in mountains of paperwork and worry. The wellbeing of Green Team was his responsibility, after all.
"Yeah, sure thing." He said.
Adam took a seat in the chair next to Clay. It was as ugly as it was uncomfortable; cheap, abrasive paisley-print fabric dyed pale yellow. It was somewhere to sit, at least.
"Sorry for being an ass," Clay said. "It's. . . been a long couple of days, Master Chief. I shouldn't take it out on you. I'm sorry."
Out of the corner of his eye, Clay saw Adam Seaver scrub a hand over his face and lean back in his chair. "I know. For me, too. But the doctors are hopeful, you know. In another few hours, barring any complications or sudden infection, they should be able to remove his intubation tube. Right now, they're just wanting to give his lungs a chance to heal without havin' to work overtime."
Clay squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the tears that were stubbornly trying to fall. He wanted to believe Adam, but it hurt too much to do so. He was intimately familiar with hope and the gut-wrenching devastation it so often brought. The only thing that Ash Spencer ever taught him was the fine art of false hope: how to survive being let down time and time again. It was a lesson that Clay took to heart.
"They removed his entire spleen," Clay said. He wasn't sure why. "His risk of infection. . ."
"It's high, I know," Adam replied. "But he's being monitored very closely, Spencer. If his conditions worsens any, any at all, the doctors will catch it. They'll get him fixed up."
"In over fifty percent of infections attributed to spleen removal, it's fatal," Clay continued, tone far more flat than he intended. "There's also the risk of lung collapse, and both of his are already pulverized. He probably wouldn't survive that either. Definitely not both."
Adam huffed a tired little laugh. The sound of it made Clay want to punch him in the goddamn teeth. He immediately regretted apologizing. How could find his Master Chief find any humor in this situation?
"Have you been on WebMD?" Adam asked matter-of-factly.
Yes, he had, but Clay wasn't about to admit that. Instead, he bit his lip to keep from mouthing off.
Silence filled the space between them again. It wasn't tense, but it wasn't comfortable either. . . Clay Spencer and Master Chief Adam Seaver sat together in the silence and watched the steady rise and fall of Brian's chest, listened to his electrocardiograph beep. There wasn't anything else to say. There wasn't anything to do other than wait. Wait and pray.
Clay couldn't remember the last time that he prayed. He doubted that there was anybody listening, anyway.
After some time had passed, Adam spoke up and said, "Listen, Clay. I've got a few things to say."
'Listen, Clay.' That was surprising, to say the least. Had Master Chief Seaver ever called him by his first name before? Clay couldn't recall that he had even once. Uncertainly simmered under his skin, right alongside the rage. He tore his eyes away from Brian to look at Adam.
"You've got SERE coming up in just a couple weeks, and I need you to get yourself right, okay? So, I'm approving seventy two hours of special liberty for you. Get some rest. Get yourself together. And when Brian walks up, talk to him. But. . . if you take anything away from this conversation, Spencer, take this: SERE is the most important thing that you're gonna' do in your Naval training. SERE is what makes or breaks you. You can not go into it worrying about Brian. He'll be okay. Right now, I need you to be okay. Your division needs you to be okay."
That. . . stunned Clay. Special liberty? He hadn't even asked for it.
"Thank you, Master Chief." Clay said, bewildered. "I. . . really appreciate it. I'll be good for SERE. Promise."
Adam gave Clay's shoulder a squeeze. "Don't get used to it, kid. I have a reputation as a hardass to uphold. Jason's already been givin' me shit about gettin' soft. I blame it on my daughter. Kids'll do that to ya'."
Clay chuckled.
"So," Adam continued. "Have you ate anything since Brian hit the ground? Because, I gotta' say, your stomach is louder than the damn breathing machine."
"I ate just before." Clay said.
Adam blinked, the information not quite registering. It had been over forty eight hours now. "Jesus, Spencer. It's been two days."
Clay shrugged. "It's fine."
Truth be told, Adam Seaver's concern for both him and Brian meant a hell of a lot more than any meal, and it was far more satisfying. He could eat anytime, but his Master Chief caring enough about him to give him advice? Caring enough about Brian to drop in and see how he was healing? That was a rarity.
Adam sighed. "Alright, tell you what. I've got to go drop Hannah's ballet bag off at her school in twenty minutes. How about I stop and grab us both somethin' to eat on my way back?"
The offer, though clearly genuine, felt like. . . too much. Like a line was being crossed. It made Clay uncomfortable. He wasn't a child that needed to be tended to, nor was he a wounded animal in need a mercy kill. He was SEAL, goddammit. He could get his own food.
"You don't have to do that." Clay said.
"I know," Adam replied, a little too gently for Clay's liking. "I'm offering."
"Okay," Clay said. He figured protesting would be more trouble than it was worth. "Thank you. Seriously, Master Chief. Thank you."
Adam nodded and stood from his chair. "Not a problem. I"ll be back later. Don't give the nurses too much hell."
Clay watched warily as Master Chief Adam Seaver gave Brian's ankle, the one not in a cast, a reassuring squeeze before leaving the room. His eyes stung with unshed tears. Not only was Brian still knocking on death's door, but Clay felt as though his conversation with Adam had been a loaded one. . . and his gut told him that it didn't go well. God, he hoped he hadn't fucked up too badly.
A knock at the door started Clay from his thoughts. A familiar figure stepped into the room.
"Can I come in?"
'I'd rather you didn't,' Clay thought, not without a hint of ire, but instead he said, "Sure."
. . . aaaand end chapter one! Let me know what you guys think. This is the first 3rd POV fic I've written in a cool minute, so I might be a liiiittle rusty. I promise the next chapter, which is Jason's POV, won't be so. . . slow. lol. I promise a Spin Up is coming.
Coming up next: Jason and Adam have a decidedly unhappy chat regarding Bravo Team, Sonny tries to learn the fine art of diaper changing, Mandy gets her lovely hands on a brand new target package, there is a major change in Brian's status, and Clay and his visitor go for a little walk.