Whew I just cannot seem to sit my ass down and get this stuff done lately! (Well I'm always on my ass but you get it) any way I won't keep ya long. Next chapter away!

"When you get to the end of your rope. Tie a knot and hang on."

― Franklin D. Roosevelt

November 9th, six years prior

It was hot. Psh, it was always hot- what did it matter in a place like this? Desmond had grown used to the dry heat of Afghanistan, holding a new habit of wearing his military cap all around base. It was thick-it made his head feel congested and gross-but it indeed kept him from getting overheated from the beating rays that never had clouds to conceal them.

"Full house." Jonas gloated with a tip of his sweat drenched head as he spread out the grimy cards. Desmond huffed with resignation and slapped his own hand down in surrender. He never got the knack of poker, or Texas hold 'em. Even after his entire year-nearing and a half- on the city boy populated base. Well. He just didn't have any skill with gambling, period.

"I don't know why I bother doin this. You beat me every time!" Jonas laughs, his green eyes looking a bit better than they had a few weeks ago. So tired, the loss of a different kind of innocence- obvious through the whole battlefield. Desmond felt it too; his boots may have become lighter, but his eyes and heart felt pathetically weak. He didn't like taking lives; he didn't like seeing bodies strewn across the sandy ground of the foreign country, he didn't like the mornings where alarms screeched into the sky. But hey, he knew what he was getting into when he signed up. That didn't mean he tried to hope for a desk or infirmary job.

Ground control wasn't as easy as some of spiteful city dwellers believed. Besides the other poor sobs that earned the position. Desmond hasn't met the other teams, and he probably never will. Patrols were frequent; the only time they stayed on campus was for supply refills- Attacks on neutral ground had become concerning-dare Desmond say they weren't patrols anymore, more like the most twisted camping trips he ever experienced…all that time in no man's land gets to a person, you know. Desmond had shot more people the past month than his father's favorite actor. He was never a deep sleeper, but now his dark brown eyes flashed open at the smallest rustle, handgun within fingers reach every night. Sometimes the team got no sleep at all if they got an update of possible ambush. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't in his control anymore.

At least Clay brought some light into the gloomy situation.

Ah, Clay; how the man managed to stay sarcastic and composed would forever baffle Desmond. He bounced back with more vigor than someone half his age, almost unstoppable when out in battle. Desmond had learned a few too many dirty tricks from him. The older freely voiced how proud he was of Desmond and Jonas, happy with their progress and attitudes. Desmond smirks as he remembers Clay's words just a few weeks ago.

"Smartest fucking kids I've had…"

Desmond didn't enjoy the title 'kid.' He was nineteen now, Jonas jokingly saying they'll have a belated party on leave. But it was also kind of nice to know Clay still saw them for something more than just rough tough soldiers. His major was sharper than the average war superior; his casual appearance away from the fight was comforting, his Cheshire grin infectious, and his respectful attitude a good splash of reality. The man was older than him by nearly twelve years, but he hardly acted that way. At least the way he spoke.

He had a mixture of upbringings-Clay had explained one boring night on patrol-He spent thirteen years of his life in Colorado near the same area Desmond had, but moved to the heart of Los Angeles after his Father was offered a high paying job. That mix of two different lifestyles left him with the casual, sarcastic personality of someone in the city, mixed with the laid back movement and slur of someone raised in the more isolated parts of America. When he turned nineteen he was actually recruited into the army, intentions to stay behind the lines with the computers. "As you can tell, that didn't work out well!" He had chortled, with a lazy flick of his knife in his hand.

It had been an interesting night all around.

"Des, you okay? Kind of spaced out there." Jonas was rounding up the cards, the hot summer-like weather even dampening his mood for a day of no profit gambling.

"Just thinking…." He drones, removing his hat to swipe some of the sweat off his brow.

"Sure hope it's about our next destination." Clay drawled as he strolled loosely towards the younger members. "Just got a message from lieutenant about that other ground team going missing." The blonde stopped in front of the two, hot weather forcing the man to roll up his sleeves, marred arms exposed. Desmond had seen them before, but the paler scars that lashed and skittered across his guardians arms never failed to send a chill down his spine. Some were long and wicked from knife wounds, others shrapnel. One even looked like a bite mark. They were a wicked symbol of his time in the force. Of his time fighting when the feds said "sick 'em."

"Oh? And how does that include us." Desmond inquired as Jonas proceeded to stand up from their spot. Clay cocked his hip in a way that meant he wasn't pleased. With what always depended on the news. So strange Desmond was already accustomed to Clay and Jonas' movements, knew their breathing patterns, and knew the tone of their footsteps. He would've considered it creepy if it wasn't a vital part of team work and survival.

"You're not gonna like this, but we're going into the heart of enemy territory. We have to get information of some hostage program they have going on. That's where the other team disappeared." The blondes face displayed his distaste, discomfort in such an assignment for two not quite fresh soldiers that still flinched at a gunshot. 'Dumb mother fucker is going to get these boys killed…'

"You're joking." Jonas groans with his own distaste.

"Wish I was." Clay mutters as he lifted his head in reflex when an ally plane purred over the sky. The frown etched into his face only deepened as the seconds passed. Desmond puffs a breath and pushes himself up, heat of his clothes feeling scorching from where the sun had beat upon them. Newly fit arms lift and drop in a movement of resignation. Brown meet blue in a lazy, friend like lock that has a smirk slowly melting onto Clay's aggravated face.

"Let's go get our gold star!" The ironic and slightly cruel quip has Clay throwing his head back in a laugh that pulls Jonas and Desmond in. The blondes arms circle the two young men's necks, nearly dragging them as they walked in a trio, Clay's hands patting there uniform clad chests in unison. He glances at both before clicking his tongue in a thoughtful manner, the young fighters waiting for him to speak.

"You guys are alright. Tell ya what, when we finish this bull mission, I'm takin you out for a drink on leave." Jonas scoffed, stumbling over himself due to both Desmond and Clay's fast pace.

"We're not legal back home." Desmond mentions-his mother's voice coming to mind. Her scolding tone towards the talk of alcohol. God he misses her…maybe he should write. The grin that crosses their partners face would be frightening if it were anyone else, those pale blue eyes holding something twisted and growing in intensity as age comes to the equation. But the concerning descent in an unknown threat is doused by the brightness of his smile, the lightness of his voice, and the casual demeanor that the two slowly growing boys fed off of for support.

"When you're a soldier? No one cares!"

Clay drags them off in a tangle of feet and brotherly laughter; something Desmond has never experienced being an only child. It feels surprisingly nice, the heat between them almost unbearable, but the lightness in their minds and bodies making it just tolerable enough to keep it enjoyable.

Little did Desmond know it'd be a long, long time before he laughed again.

Xxx

The sun is non-existent when Desmond wakes up, too early for the morning drill, but too late to catch enough sleep if he were to close his eyes again. So he dresses quietly- his cap still damp from the beaming heat from the past few days. He does not get up right away when the last lace on his boot is tied; he sits on his hard, springy mattress as the weight of the day comes to mind. He was delving into enemy territory, where mines and snipers and camouflaged fighters lay in wait for their arrival. These assholes were irrationally violent, but they were smart.

Was Desmond ready for such an assignment? The possible threat of other soldiers' lives, the lack of safety…this was much more different than patrols. Than taking on a straggler. This was a full out rescue/ investigation. He was still young; at least in mindful people's opinions. High superiors could care less about his age; if he shot to kill and listened to them, he was a full out pro in their eyes. Clay had been distant through the whole talk through of the coordinates, his 'major' side exposed as the lieutenant barked and pointed at the map below his fingers. At least what Desmond saw. He and Jonas had been ordered to stay at the entrance of the tent while the oldest two spoke over strategies.

When Clay had re-appeared, he had looked even more irritated than his entrance. He'd looked tired, as if he fought and lost the worst battle of his life. This scared Desmond, and he was sure it had scared Jonas. Desmond couldn't forget the look in Clay's eyes when he met his deep brown ones, the unknown resignation and anger. But when Clay spoke, none of this was shown he rolled his shoulders, giving a sigh as if it had been boring. His eyes faded back to the near vacant, steady gaze that fitted his face.

"Get some sleep. We've got work to do." When he passed, Clay patted the duo's shoulders, un- aware of the younger fighters watching him hiss and cuss as he walked away from the light of the tents, night swallowing him. Jonas had given Desmond one soft, frightened glance before heading off to his tent.

Desmond breathed a sigh, pushing up off his bed and out into the cooler, but still burning air of early morning. No sun-not yet at least. The moon was only a mere crescent, without its bright brilliance Desmond enjoyed. But the stars…they were out and alive, glistening and sparkling even stronger than back home. The sight woke Desmond up enough to begin a steady trudge. It had been too long since he had been able to appreciate what had kept him up so many nights back home. The nostalgic act felt almost saddening; because he wasn't surrounded by what he loved most. There was no Buster snoozing next to him, no father to pop quiz him on his constellations, and no mother to coax her boys inside.

The stars were the same as home, but it wasn't home.

"Goddamn, thought I was the only one." The voice tears through Desmond's thoughts, scaring him more than it should have-after all, he was a solider now. The voice is familiar-the lazy drawl deepened by obvious lack of sleep. So when he turns there's only a bit of surprise when he finds Clay. Desmond fumbles to salute.

"Major Ka-"

"Not now, Des. Just…Clay, alright? No one else is around." Desmond feels a sliver of heat crawl to his face, the awkwardness that had singled him out in the beginning butting its head for a brief moment. He drops his hand back to his side.

"Oh…uh, Clay-what are you doing out?" It's a question that sets up for rebuttal, but Clay doesn't take the accidental bait. He puffs a breath, looking away from Desmond to the barely lit ground below.

"To be honest, I don't know. Been out here all night." The two start to walk again, side by side.

"Can't sleep?"

"Can't stay still." It's meant to be a joke, but it come out as a bitter statement. Desmond purses his lip and gives a rock in his footing a rough kick. It skitters across the dusty ground, coming to a halt a good foot or two away. He takes a peek at Clay, and sees something he hasn't even seen on the field. The poor man looks defeated, angry at something that doesn't care. He looks his age for the first time. It makes Desmond sad; selfishly wishing the grinning, snarky major would make an appearance. He had grown so used to that side of his captain that this side was hard to swallow.

"You know, when I was younger I always wanted to get a tattoo." Desmond is thrown off by the 180 in conversation, blinking confusedly at the blonde. Said blonde chuckles, his step tottering to the side for a moment. "I used to be obsessed with them. I wanted ink all over me-big elaborate works with the deepest meanings possible. But when I joined the force, they lost their luster."

"Why's that?" Desmond probed. Clay seems to study him after the question, his ice blue eyes looking more intense with the contrast of the dark. He started to pull up his sleeves, the scars appearing sharper against his skin. Desmond had a miniature heart attack when Clay began to unbutton his uniform almost all the way to where it tucker into his pants.

"Wh-"But Desmond stopped when he saw the larger, darker scars almost dragging down Clay's chest, bullet, knife and-good lord were those from nails?! These were from unexpected attacks, desperate fights to escape an enemy's clutches, to make it out alive. His heart sunk at the realization Clay had been through more hell that he let himself believe.

He peers up to his major's tired gaze, noticing the bags under the bright blue eyes. Hands move to re-button his shirt before the slip into pockets, the silence feeling heavier as the heat of morning began to touch of what skin was exposed.

"I figured those were enough permanent shit for me." Desmond felt sick; fingers brushing against his clothed chest with a shiver. He already had a few healing wounds that would surely become scars, but nothing like what Clay had-or any other elder on base. That's why Clay treated him-them- so casually. Because he already lost innocence beyond belief and the last thing he wanted to do was take away someone else's with angry, loud words that only pushed the victim into darker thoughts.

No one did that for Clay.

The sun was starting to rise, the heat of the air hardening into something smoldering. Desmond jumps at the weight of hand on his shoulder, eyes coming to terms with Clay's for the hundredth time that morning. They were bright indeed-in so many ways-but something had cracked them; taken something away that could never be returned. Desmond felt stronger, steadier the longer the two stood together in the dead middle of the camp. If Clay could hold his head up high at the worst of moments, so could he.

Clay smiles-a genuine smile that has one stretching across Desmond's scarred lips to return. It vanishes when a hot hand covers his face and playfully shoves his head back in a manner that would have half the base generals in tizzy. Clay's laugh would have been annoying if Desmond himself hadn't found it amusing himself. An uncovered, scarred arm links around his neck in a big brother fashion, pulling him forward towards the mess hall.

"C'mon, ya country boy. Let's get some of Mario's mystery meat. We'll meet up with Jonas there." The seriousness of the situation faded, the blonde showing that those words, those scars, were Desmond's knowledge only. Why? Desmond didn't know. And frankly he wasn't going to dig into old wounds.

OoO

"I don't understand…why did he only show you this?" I question, the spell of Desmond's words leaving so much behind it hurt. He sits across from me on his couch, the tags clutched in his hand. His eyes come to me, the burning in them harsher than before.

"I don't know." He states, looking away as if the television would give him an answer. I let my eyes crawl across his tattoo again, the face that taunted you once you saw it showing more life-more light than its owner. His shoulders are slumped as if telling only the beginning of his story burned his energy. So far it sounded like Clay had been more than just a mere war partner. A friend, perhaps. Maybe go as distant as a brother figure. He trusted Desmond, and Desmond trusted him. How this grew within a year baffles me.

But I guess when there's a chance of death without the loyalty of your teammates, it's befriend or be dead. I tap my pen against my notepad, watching Desmond twitch and squirm as the silence ate him inside. He had held it in so long; this guilt, the anger, whatever is feeding this insanity. Now he was releasing it in a rush of a story that started it all. He was reaching something that hadn't been even acknowledged for years.

"Did you ever ask?"

The viciousness in his eyes told me I had said the wrong thing.

"There was never time to ask. There wasn't time for anything. No time…" He muttered, rolling into himself, shivering with a sort of shock I'd never been able to deal with. This man was beyond broken. I know why, I just hope I can figure out how.

Christ thought this would never get done. *falls off cliff.* BUT it is and I feel proud because this is much better than the previous chapter! Thanks for your patience that I immediately destroyed with a cliffhanger again. I bet everyone hates me. TATA

(BTW I COULD USE A NEW-OR MY PREVIOUS BETA WHO I LOST TIES WITH BECAUSE MY GRAMMAR HAS GOTTEN HORRENDOUS AND I COULD USE THE HELP. PM ME IF YOU'RE INTERESTED PLZ)