Author's Introduction:

I don't think so.

Draw Four

A G.I. Joe fanfiction by Firestar9mm

I know he can do it.

I know he can do it any time he wants, and if I'm really honest with myself I know I can't stop him. Not if he really wants to do it.

I can't watch him every minute. I can't stay awake indefinitely. If he wanted, he could wait until I was asleep and do it then. He could disappear one morning or afternoon, when I've got the duty, and even ten minutes would be long enough for him if his mind was made up. Clearly, there's a reason it isn't yet; it could be fear, or it could be indecision, or pride, or it could be me—it could be me, after all.

And just in case it is—just in case it's me and only me that's stopping him from making up his mind—I try to stay awake as long as possible. If it's me—if I'm the last thing between him and this decision—I can't let my guard down, not even for a minute.

I think sometimes, maybe, it might be me.

Because he hates this game.

He lays a bright red S card down on the rising stack, then follows it with another red card, an R, pointing to himself before laying down another red card.

I smirk. I hate it when he plays the trap cards in succession. Once, I dealt a hand and he played trap after trap until he'd discarded everything he had and knocked me out for good with a Wild card. I didn't get to play even one card before he beat me. He does it on purpose.

He gestures to me, waiting for me to take my turn.

The trap cards wouldn't work nearly as well if we had additional players—even one more person would make his traps far less effective, but this is a private game. The fact that we are still playing after so much time is a bond of trust; at least for now, he has entrusted me with his secret, and I have kept it.

"Green," I say, laying a two of a different color on the two he's already played, and he frowns. He is a better player than I am, but the more cards he plays the less he has in his hand and the harder it is for him to reach his goal.

The games themselves are my desperate card. I live in fear of the day I've got nothing left in my hand.

He begins to draw cards, shaking his head in disgust. After six of them, he lays a four down. I follow with a nine, and he has to draw again. I can tell this angers him because the first opportunity he gets to lay a card down, he forces me to draw two of my own, even though he's still out of green cards and has to continue to draw again himself to continue.

Again, another player would have saved him from his own traps, but this is just between us. I haven't even told Duke. And it's not that I wouldn't like to; Duke is too perceptive himself, commenting on the shadows beneath my eyes, putting hands on my shoulders because he knows the weight of what's on them. But he cares enough not to ask. This is something that I have to do and I am doing it; and he waits with an endless, secure patience, promising his presence, come what may. I love him very much for that—whispered it like a secret to him, like a child, a few nights ago when I thought I might not be able to avoid crying over this—and that rock steady patience, the presence which demands nothing from me and so makes me want to give him everything, managed to stay the tears for one more night.

Come to think of it, that's sort of what I'm doing, too—trying to give that same gift as I deal out the cards. Maybe my opponent at cards is not as grateful for my presence, now that I think about it. Maybe he wishes I'd just leave, not show up one of these nights, be just late enough for him to make up that indecisive mind of his. Maybe he'd be happier if I'd just go away.

I mean, he hates this game.

I'm out of green cards—surprising when he's made me draw at every opportunity and I feel like I have half the deck in my hand—but I do have a seven, which matches the number of last card he played, if not the color. "Blue," I say, putting it down, and I'm too distracted by my play to stop the yawn that overtakes me.

He watches me, and even though it's his turn, he doesn't play a card. We stare at each other.

He signs, {Go to bed.}

I shake my head. "I'm fine. Come on, it's your turn."

He waits a moment, tilts his head ever so slightly as if considering me more seriously than any other night we've played this game this week. He tries again. {What will Duke think?}

But that won't work on me, either. "He knows where I am."

This rewards me with an eyebrow raise, and I feel smug that for once, I can surprise him.

He spears me with a look and I know that he is trying to get a rise out of me when he signs, {Your man doesn't worry about you spending your nights with me?}

I don't jump for the bait—because that is what it is. "If he did, he wouldn't be my man," I say calmly. "It's your turn."

His mouth—that glasgow rictus, now, slashed so viciously across-loses the cruel twist that accompanied his attempting to make me angry—angry enough to leave, I assume—and he looks at me with the affection that is far more familiar and welcome. {Go be with your man. He deserves your attention, too.}

"And he has it," I say, keeping my voice even. "He knows I'm here, so he went for a run, and I'll see him when he's back. Are you going to draw?"

This is true. I saw him off at the gate, and Duke has to know this is wearing on me; his kiss on my forehead was like a blessing, and he only does that when he wants to comfort. I could have withstood anything except sympathy; I almost lost my composure right there.

Some of the scars are still shiny with newness, the pink weals of healing skin a patchwork between the ridges and creases. The blast-faded eyes are still a pretty shade of blue, and they're suspiciously bright as he puts his cards down, carefully, and reaches across the table for my hand, signing with the other.

{I will see you tomorrow.}

I blink. He's told me to go to bed during a dozen of these games, tried cajoling, tried scolding, but he has never assured me of his presence the next day either way.

He knows, of course. He knows what I am doing. He has probably known all along, and I feel suddenly foolish, behaving as though I were stealing a march on him.

{I'm not going to do anything,} he continues, and his expression, while not quite a smile, is encouraging. This surprises me, but I worry he's just a better actor than I realize. {Except maybe go to bed. I'm tired.}

I do not plan to ask the question, but it's out before I can think better of it. "What's stopping you?"

He says nothing, just looks at me.

"Is it me?" I ask. My voice is scratchy. I'm scared he'll say yes, and I'll feel even more pressured to stop him from what I know he's thinking about, and I'm scared he'll say no, because then maybe there is no stopping him.

But his gaze slides downward, to the legs of his chair.

Timber is stretched out on the floor, tail flicking every so often in contentment. He can hear my voice, so he knows I'm there, and he can feel the closeness of his master; he is happy just to be near us.

Snake starts to sign. To tell. This is new; I wonder if he was just waiting for me to stop dealing cards and ask the question.

{The closest I ever got...} he begins, then stops. Maybe it's my face; I am sure I have winced, hearing confirmation of my fears, hearing the plural in his words. I calm myself—it is an effort—and he resumes signing.

{It wasn't very close at all,} he signs, and if that is a lie, it is for my benefit. {But he came in with an old towel. Old thing we play tug of war with. He wanted to play...and I thought, if I do this...What will happen to him?}

I am alarmed to find I am on the verge of tears, and they're audible in my voice. "I'm not trying to encourage you to...I don't want to ever have to...but, I mean, if something else..." I swallow around the lump in my throat. "If something else...got you...I would take care of him."

{I know you would.}

"Then what happened?" I ask, because I don't want to know.

{Played tug of war.} He actually smiles, and leans forward in his seat to scratch his friend behind the ears. Timber rolls slightly, kicks his feet; I sense that I am witnessing the highlight of his day.

Snake straightens, and his smile slowly fades, although I know his affection for the animal never could. He signs again.

{I think they can feel.}

"Of course they can feel," I say, glad to be on a different topic so I can finally bite back the tears.

Except we aren't on a different topic, because he says, {I think if I did...he might be sad.}

I look at Timber, laying contentedly beside Snake's chair, just happy to be near his master. "I know he'd be sad. And I would, too—Flint, Lady Jaye, Duke—we all would," I point out, wondering if he honestly thinks the wolf would be the only one to mourn him, and wanting to shake him for that foolishness.

{But you're all...} He gestures uselessly in the air, as if he can't find the sign for what he means.

"Humans?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

{Adults.}

I frown. Timber is full-grown; and while he can't talk, I sometimes think whimsically that he and Snake Eyes have a telepathic link, that's how close they are.

{He wouldn't understand what I'd done. He'd just understand that I was gone, and he couldn't find me. However long it would take for you to come...and find me...he'd have to sit with me. He'd try to wake me up, and be confused when I wouldn't. Then I'd be gone, and I wouldn't come back, and he would only understand that I had left him behind.}

I want to beg him to stop. I sit and say nothing. Do nothing.

{You would mourn me, Shana. I know that. You would explain it to yourself as best you could, and eventually, you would heal. Maybe not all the way, but enough to go on with your life. You would still run with Duke and practice in the dojo and talk to Lady Jaye in the mess. You would make your peace with it. He can't. He doesn't understand accidents, or depression, or PTSD. He knows Master, Scarlett, food, water, slumber, sunrise, nightfall. That's his world.}

You're his world, I want to say and can't.

{Humans will justify it any way they can...they'll make up the best reasons they can think of...but he would just understand that I didn't want to be with him anymore.}

Suddenly I'm crying, gaping stupidly at him and the wolf at his feet, my heart breaking because the only thing standing between my best friend and eternity is he doesn't want his pet to think he doesn't love it. I'm crying because my friend has been through hell and probably has more right to pull the ripcord on his life than anyone in the world, but the reason he doesn't is because he doesn't want his pet to be sad.

And I'm the one who's crying, selfishly, like a fool, because I can't even imagine how he's feeling; even listening to him describe it breaks my heart. I've been dealing cards and making small talk like it matters, and it doesn't matter because there is nothing I could do to ease this hurt. I'm imagining it without wanting to—Timber whimpering, head down, tail dragging. Searching, whining. Lying with his head on his paws. Howling because he can't put his hurt anywhere. And I'm crying because I can't put mine anywhere right now—I can't lift my head and howl at how unfair the world is.

I have never been this close to pain this big, and I'm frightened of it.

He holds my hand while I cry, and squeezes whenever I start to shake. We don't finish the card game. He sees me off at the door, and does the same thing Duke did earlier in the evening-he brushes my hair off my forehead and kisses it, gently. Before I can fall apart again, he repeats his promise, his signs precise so that I might mark him well—{I will see you tomorrow.}

I have to believe it. Timber licks my hand, comfortingly, before I shut the door between us.

True to his own promise, Duke is waiting for me when I escape—because that is what it is, no matter how I know deep down I can't outrun the terror I've been trying to stave off this entire time—to his quarters. He doesn't ask any questions-he doesn't have to; my eyes are red and aching and speak for themselves. We don't talk about it, and I'm as grateful for that as I am for the arms that are the fortress I fall asleep in, trying not to imagine that mourning howl.

He keeps his promise.

Eventually Duke and I do talk about it. Not all of it, but enough that he babies me in his own way for the remainder of the evening, the look in his eyes telling me that my exhaustion and stress has worried him far more than he has let on. Bless him for not pushing, for ignoring the instincts of the small-town farm boy whose life he has and hasn't outgrown to scoop me up and tuck me away somewhere these things can't hurt me. But he cossets me, in his own way; he's far cuddlier than usual, as if he doesn't want to stop touching me, to prove to himself that I'm there.

Maybe it scares him, too; maybe he is worried it will infect me somehow, instead of just draining me.

Maybe we're all a few steps away from it, now that I think about it.

When I present my idea to him, he agrees immediately, with a kiss of my knuckles and an idea of his own.

Yes, I say. This is good.

"This is bullshit," Flint grouses. "We should play poker."

"We're playing this," Lady Jaye argues. "By the way, Snake, draw two."

Snake draws two cards with one hand and flips Jaye off with the other; we all laugh.

"You're just bitching because Duke keeps laying trap cards on you," Jaye admonishes Flint.

"But I'm losing!" the warrant officer protests, and Duke throws his head back and laughs.

{You guys know I hate this game, right?} Snake signs, and I smile; it's the first time he's ever admitted it.

"We're playing this," I agree aloud with Jaye. "It's about time someone got between me and all your trap cards, Snake."

{It's not my fault you're terrible at this game!} Snake retorts, and I have to bite back tears during yet another card game, because he's laughing—real laughter, he is not putting on his usual show for me, and I'm so grateful I feel like I could simply slide out of my chair to the floor.

A muzzle pops into view over the table, and Timber wuffs, his exhalation of breath stirring the cards.

"No helping!" Lady Jaye scolds playfully, ruffling the wolf's headfur; his jaws loll open happily, tongue hanging out, at the attention.

"Skips you, Top, goes to Flint," I say, and Duke pretends to frown at me; under the table he gives my hand a quick squeeze. Play continues, and Jaye, who is even worse than I am at this game and even better than Cover Girl at swearing, weaves a tapestry of obscenity as colorful as the cards themselves as she draws over and over again. At one point Timber thrusts his head into my lap, and I oblige him with pets; he likely has no idea how important he has been through all of this, but I know it very well.

Flint can hardly hold back his laughter—Jaye has got to have a third of the deck by now—and she is getting angrier and angrier, and Flint's eyes twinkle as he soothes, "Sorry, baby!" None of us can avoid laughing when she kicks the leg of his chair after he lays another Draw Two on her—not even Jaye herself. I can't tell if it was a terrible idea to seat them beside each other or the best idea we've had all night.

Snake holds up one finger, his way of calling "Uno", and I put down a seven, forgoing my best trap card on purpose. I'm not going to make Duke draw, not after how supportive he's been through all of this, and he smiles at my wink. He knows what's in my hand.

In my heart.

"Nope," Duke says competitively, throwing a Reverse card down, sending the play back to me. "You and that card look lonely, Snake. Scarlett?"

I look around the table, from Joe to Joe, then down at the wolf sitting happily at Snake's side, who is trying to put a paw up on the table to "help" his master and is only succeeding in adorably scattering the discard pile.

Duke...

Flint...

Lady Jaye...

me...

...and Timber, the last line of defense, the strongest thread in the safety net.

I put down a Draw Four. "Here. Now you've got five for company."

Author's Notes:

No.