Hello, sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up. My life was a little manic at the start of summer and now my wonderful Beta is incredibly busy. However, she has looked it over and will send any and all corrections when she has the time, so hopefully any mistakes won't be up for long! Since this is going up currently un-beta'ed, I apologise for any mistakes I may have missed.
Sam was exhausted. He'd been asked to extend his tour by two weeks out in Iraq, as his replacement had been delayed with a family emergency. As much as he had wanted to say 'no' he'd felt duty-bound, both to his job and to Hassan, to accept. Finally, three weeks after Mick Rawson and Danny Wallcroft had been brought back to base, bleeding, barely breathing and fading fast, Sam was going to find out more than just 'they're alive'.
He had suffered through a long and uncomfortable ride in a Humvee to Baghdad before an even longer and more uncomfortable ride in a crowded military plane that was half laden with troops, half with cargo, to Ramstein Air Base. From there, he'd made his way back into the civilian world and headed to the nearest airport in Saarbrücken and took the first flight he could find to London. In London, he'd struggled through the chaos of the Tube on an early Saturday evening before fighting his way to King's Cross Train Station and securing a seat on the next train to Peterborough. It took just under one hour by train and a fifteen minute taxi ride before finally, finally, he reached his location.
Peterborough City Hospital was much like any other - a huge block of a building, plenty of glass and a plethora of signs ending in -ology. It was a civilian hospital with a MOD Hospital Unit that both Mick and Danny had been transferred to once their medical status had changed to 'stable', freeing up their beds for the more urgent cases back in Woolwich.
Life went on in the surrounding area. There were some young men out for the night, walking in large, loud groups towards the pubs and bars that were dotted around the area. There was a middle-aged couple walking by, laden with shopping bags and a young girl of five clinging to her father's shoulders and chattering away merrily. There was also a slow but steady stream of visitors coming to and from the hospital, and Sam could only hope that he'd arrived in time for evening visiting hours.
When Mick and Danny had arrived back at Al Asad FOB, they were in a terrible state. Friends who had heard about their return had milled about together outside the medical tent and it was a testament to both their characters that Sam had found himself pacing alongside half the members of the UKSF, the Joint Operations Taskforce and many more beside. As units kept on returning from patrol or heading out, the names and faces of those waiting for news changed, but the sheer volume of people silently supporting their fallen comrades remained high.
The mood of the crowd had been very sombre, with the severity of their friends' injuries hanging over them all like a black cloud. Many of the men had long since given up hope of ever seeing their friends return to them alive and well, the rumours of Anderson's drawn-out and painful death having long ago done the rounds in Al Asad and the neighbouring FOBs. Torture was not a foreign concept to the men and women of the military and they had all expected the missing men to have endured something of it. The confirmation, however, was anything but gratifying, as their two friends fought against the odds to survive.
The only member of non-medical personnel who was granted admittance was Captain Adam Fealey, Mick and Danny's immediate OC. He had done his best to understand the medical jargon being thrown at him by frantic military doctors before relaying the information to the men and women waiting outside, but it was clear to everyone that the situation had taken a toll on the man.
Fealey was widely respected, and not just inside his own unit. With the Brass it came down to Fealey's success rate. With the soldiers under his command, it was the man they followed, rather than the rank, as he had more than proven himself to them long ago. While Fealey made it clear that rank and order was to be obeyed and respected, he was not so rigorous in ensuring it was carried out in the field as other OC's, believing that the heat of battle often required some flexibility on the matter.
Fealey was also a very open, friendly man. Some might think he had made a mistake, taking on so many of the soldiers who served under him as friends, blurring the lines of traditional military formality somewhat. However, it was obvious to most that his open and easy manner, his quiet and wry sense of humour and his readiness to help the men under his command through almost any circumstances had helped to form an incredibly tight-knit unit. It was a unit that was thoroughly comfortable together both on and off the field of combat, working well as a team through the physical aspects of war and the psychological demands. Most of all, it was a unit that trusted their OC through Hell and high-water.
Sam knew both Mick and Danny held their Captain in the highest regard and trusted him implicitly. They followed his orders to the letter, never hesitating or questioning the reasons behind them, not through blind trust but by having long ago learnt that the man was as reliable as they came.
Mick hadn't said much about why he trusted the man so unreservedly, but the fact that Fealey had earned it from the wary young Welshman said more than enough for Sam. Danny had been a little more frank about the incident, citing a gross abuse of power from a senior officer and that it was Fealey's reaction to the situation that had forever earned their loyalty. Sam was still missing the finer details, but he imagined a seasoned and well-respected Captain standing up for a lowly Corporal against a man of superior rank would have had quite the impact on the young Welshman, who Sam was sure had not had very many people stand up for him over the years.
He didn't know what it was about Mick that made Sam feel so protective him, but Sam could only assume it had something to do with the way the young man seemed to approach life. Mick could grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat, but Sam had noticed the careful way he guarded himself and his emotions, even in times of levity the man could be remarkably close-mouthed. Whenever personal stories were shared, as was wont to happen with so many people so far from home and their loved ones, Mick would smile and joke along with the rest of them, but he always managed to avoid sharing any stories of his own through clever redirections. Hell, Sam and Danny were two of the few people who even knew about Jenna!
Despite being in the military, it was clear that respect of authority figures was not something that came naturally to Mick. Sam had heard several stories, via Danny and many others, that cited occasions when Mick's reluctance to follow an OC's orders blindly had led the young Welshman into all sorts of trouble. Thankfully, that had ended with Fealey.
However, Mick's reluctance to trust anyone, even with the most basic facts about himself, indicated more than just a typically unhappy childhood, and while Sam was more than curious and could probably dig up the truth with the help of his old contacts, he couldn't fathom betraying Mick's trust like that, all too aware that he would not be given a chance to earn it back from the Welshman.
The moment the Shamal Winds had died down enough for a Casevac by air, both men had been airlifted to Baghdad before being loaded onto a C-17 Globemaster, fitted out as a flying medical centre. The plane was responsible for transporting the most severe casualties of the wars in both Afghanistan and Iraq, and, kitted out with life support machines and a talented crew. The planes had helped save many lives, and the equipment and the experience on-board were elements that had been crucial for the survival of both of his friends.
After a frantic six hours of trying to keep them alive and as stable as possible, they were met on the tarmac by several ambulances, before being transferred to Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Woolwich. After that, any news about them had all but died down.
Only a few days after Rawson and Wallcroft touched down in the UK, the Joint Special Operations Taskforce conducted a full-scale attack on the AQI faction in Al Halaba, hoping to stem the faction's increasing attacks in the region. Unfortunately, that meant that Sam's only tangible link to Mick and Danny, via Briggs and Fealey, was lost as the fighting in the surrounding region kept Al Asad FOB as empty as it had ever been.
It had taken a fair bit of asking around the base and calling in favours before being directed to Peterborough, but that had been three days ago and there had been no knowledge on their status other than 'stable', a word that he was both beyond relieved to hear, and yet so very ungrateful for, given how much leeway that single word allowed for.
With a deep breath, Sam returned his attention to the building in front of him. He had travelled so far and for so long, there was no point putting off the reason behind his visit. With a rather reluctant first step, he started to walk towards the entrance, completely unsure of what awaited him in the other side.
Mick was bored - there was no other word for it and yet 'bored' was so wholly inadequate. He hated hospitals…with a passion. He supposed there were not many people who were actual fans of the institutions - the pain and the smell and all the terrible connotations usually related to a hospital ensured that. However, it was far more than feelings of unease for Mick - his very worst memories of his very worst day were inextricably linked to the sterile environment of a busy hospital in Swansea.
Before his parents died, he had only ever been in hospital once that he could recall. He and a friend from the same street had decided that trees were meant for climbing and found the perfect oak, fully laden with acorns, at the nearby park. The climb had been far easier than he had expected, and unlike Owen, who was a whole two years older than him, he managed to climb almost to the top. Unfortunately, he had not taken the descent into account - landing awkwardly, using his outstretched arms to stop himself from face-planting right into the ground, a loud snap indicated the very moment his arm gave way to pressure and broke.
He missed two whole days of school and didn't have to do any writing for almost four weeks. All of his friends signed his cast and drew pictures on the once white plaster. His little sister, Jenna, looked at him in awe, as though his injuries came from slaying dragons and not from a serious lack of judgement. His dad took him to see Swansea City just lose out to arch rivals, Cardiff. His mum kept him supplied with ice-pops, the blue ones, to tide him over when it hurt or itched or he got frustrated with not being able to play with his friends. All in all, his memories of that injury were too well entwined with the good that followed.
But the next time he was in a hospital, he was all alone. He had no parents to hold him and comfort him, or bribe him with trips to the football and sugary snacks chock full of preservatives and additives. No little sister to stare in awe at his latest battle wounds. No friends to gather round and distract him from the crushing reality he found himself in.
He remembered the doctors and nurses and the way they tiptoed around him, afraid that the slightest misstep would cause him to shatter into a million pieces. He remembered the police, the questions they asked and the way they asked, some with more tact than others but always with that look, the one that said they were cornering a wild animal that could either bolt or bite at any second. He remembered the social workers and the way they tried to be his best friend, calling him 'son' and 'sweetheart' in hushed, almost reverent tones as they tried so hard to reassure him, to make him feel safe once more. He remembered that not one of them would give him a straight answer about Jenna.
He also vividly remembered the hospital, because it had been far better, easier to focus on the sights and smells that surrounded him than to even consider thinking about what had happened that terrible night or what would happen to him in the future.
It was much easier to think about the smell of disinfectant rather than remember that of fresh blood and salty tears. It was easier to hear the steady beeps belonging to the multitude of machines than reimagine the bone-chilling screams of his mother and older sister. It was easier to watch a newly disabled man slowly make his way down the corridor with a quiet determination on his face than recall the terrified visage of Jenna, huddled under the bed with her hands firmly pressed against her ears, crying out desperately, futilely for their mother.
It was easier to forget about the outside world and Christmas and families and hope in the white, sterile environment of the hospital, where the only signs of Christmas were a few sorry looking strands of tinsel dotted about the place.
Foster-care saw his last remaining family torn away from him, a cute six year old girl a far more appealing prospective adoptee than a traumatised ten year old. Foster-care also saw a few return trips to the hospital. A few broken bones, the odd concussion and a ruptured kidney later, and he had wanted to run far away, to leave and never look back. He probably would have headed for the hills long before then if it hadn't been for Jenna and the odd good placement.
While he hated that they no longer lived together, he was still bound and determined to be her big brother, whether her snotty new parents wanted him in her life or not. When it had all become too much, he disappeared from foster-care at the age of fourteen and lived on the streets of Swansea as close to Jenna's respectable new home as he dared, thinking it was a much better, much safer alternative to foster-care. Oh, how wrong he was!
He had suffered through all sorts of abuse, varying in type and degree, as he was passed around the foster-care institutes on offer in South Wales, but, despite the hurt and the emotional carousel, he was never without the most basic of necessities – food, clothes and a roof over his head.
That first night he faced sleeping in a doorway on a cold street a stone's throw away from Swansea Marina, he had thought himself so tough, believed that after all he had endured in his short life, roughing it on the streets would be a breeze. By four that morning, he was crying like a baby.
It was so hard to stay warm, even in the summer months, and it took him a while to learn the tricks of the trade – layers of insulation, pick-pocketing with two fingers and not your thumb, avoiding being too close to the typically more blustery seafront, staying in old buildings that had a roof and four walls and enough of them to keep the worst of the inclement weather out. He had quickly learnt which shelters to avoid if you wanted to stay off the radar of the police and social services. He eventually came to know where to go to get a hot meal, more clothes or a woollen blanket, enduring the well-meant religious sermons from the Salvation Army volunteers as he ate their soup and sifted through their clothes bins.
However, he was not the only one out on the streets trying to survive and he was certainly not the only one trying to remain under the radar, and stealing from others on the street was often less risky than trying for the shelters. There were a few scuffles here and there as boundaries were tried and tested, and Mick's young age and slim physique meant that he hadn't always won - he had learnt pretty quickly that street-fighting was a dirty affair, one without rules and that any possible way to gain the advantage should be taken. Mick had only ever been hurt badly enough to warrant a trip to the hospital once while out on the streets, and it also happened to be what took him off them - he was stabbed by someone who wanted his blanket on a cold winter's night.
He remembered waking up, groaning as the unmistakable scent of hospital hit the back of his nose before forcing his eyes open, only to be met with his sister's tear-stained face and the disapproving glare of her foster-parents. The relationship between Mick and Jenna's foster-parents was an antagonistic one, at best, and while they had both tried to talk Jenna into distancing herself from her troubled brother they had never outright stopped her from seeing him, either. He ignored them and opted to focus on Jenna, listening as she cried and hiccupped her way through her fears and concerns – Mick had been dismayed to learn that they were all centred on him.
He'd hugged her as tightly as his injured body had allowed, and promised her, gently whispering in her ear as he glared at her foster-parents over her shoulder, entirely resentful that he wasn't allowed even five minutes alone with his own sister. He promised her that he would get his act together, that he would do everything he could to grow up and that once he was old enough she would come and live with him. He had no idea if his promises held any merit, not entirely sure about the legal demands of them all, but he was determined never to be the cause of that devastated look across her face ever again. He thought he'd managed pretty well until he'd woken up in Woolwich.
Her tear-stained face was once again the first thing he remembered seeing upon awakening. He couldn't recall much of that first time, but apparently he'd sung her some half-remembered Welsh lullaby that their mother had often sung to them, 'Suo Gan', in an effort to try and calm her down. Mick thought his singing was pretty bad on a good day, fully awake and stone-cold sober - he hated to think what he might have done to one of his mother's favourite songs half asleep and drugged out of his mind.
However, apparently it had worked, and after some pissed off nurse found her curled up asleep beside him, Jenna was given a stern lecture about patients needing plenty of 'unhindered' healing space. He almost wished he'd been conscious for his sister's response – her foster-parents were more than a little disappointed that so much of her big brother's 'smart-arsed sarcasm' had rubbed off on her over the years, while Mick just thought it was hilarious and was quietly relieved that there were still parallels to draw between them both.
Having spent more of their lives growing up in separate homes than together under the same roof, Mick had often pondered on the nature versus nurture argument – despite having grown up leading such different lives, there did at times seem to be some similarities between them.
Physically, neither one of them was particularly big, Mick being of a relatively average height while his sister measured at just barely over five foot. Both of them were of a wiry build, with not an ounce of extra flesh to them.
With Mick's military training, he had bulked up some, but his body was still all lean muscle. His slim build had often meant that he seemed entirely unthreatening and that had come with many a complication throughout the course of his life. Foster-carers, schoolyard bullies, people out on the street, even a couple of his instructors all seemed to want to have a go, believing him to be an easy target - he'd shown them otherwise, of course, but his naturally slim build seemed to mean he was constantly having to prove himself capable of defending himself.
His sister, unaided by military training, was almost elfin-like in appearance, all sharp angles and sinewy limbs. Her huge eyes often made her look a lot younger and far more vulnerable to the harsh ways of the world, when she was actually one of the strongest people Mick knew.
In spite of the terrors of their childhood, Jenna had come out the other end pretty much whole, while Mick often felt as though he was simply pretending - watching normal people from afar, never truly comfortable in their presence but too much a sociable creature to stay hidden away forever. He had left school at sixteen, eager to leave that part of his life behind him and, given that his school records were full of fights, suspensions and truancy, he never even contemplated college and university. The Army brought him a sense of camaraderie and a purpose that had long been missing from his life, and they'd trained him up to be the best, but that hadn't meant that he'd ever wanted Jenna to follow him down the same path.
Thankfully, his sister was a much more dedicated academic. Jenna was a star pupil, keen to carry on her success through university and become a teacher, to inspire others to follow their dreams and be all they could be – her personal version of the British Army's motto of 'be the best'.
He'd teased her about her idealistic approach to the world, of course, but truthfully he was just glad that she wasn't as jaded as he frequently felt. He still greatly disliked her foster-parents (and he refused to think of them in any other way even though they had long since adopted her), in particular, he detested the way they constantly looked down their noses at him – he didn't think he'd turned out half bad, all things considered. While he liked the fact that Jenna stuck up for him each and every time they started in on all his flaws, he hated to be the source of contention in her new family - he may not have gotten the same second chance, but he certainly didn't want Jenna to suffer for it.
Other than their rather angular features, they shared the same brown eyes. Mick's hair was short and in various hues of browns while Jenna's hair was much darker and a mess of waves, and they both needed some form of product to tame their wild hair. Mick's time in the military saw the advent of a much shorter cut, but when he wasn't on tour, he let it grow that little bit longer, while Jenna had never had short hair and looked positively horrified when he told her she'd suit the pixie look – a half-remembered childhood name of 'Pix' doing little to alleviate the perceived insult.
They were, against all the odds, as close as any two siblings could be. Years of growing up apart had done little to diminish their relationship, and Mick wondered if the tragedy of their childhood had formed an unbreakable bond. He'd always been close to Jenna, even before they lost the rest of their family, but they seemed to rely upon one another much more and be far more honest with each other about their more personal issues than a lot of other siblings. He was sure that, like he himself did, Jenna still kept some secrets of her own, and rightly so – there were some things that really did not need to be shared amongst siblings.
Despite being so close, he hated that Jenna was there when he'd woken up, disorientated and completely drugged out of his mind. He can only remember snippets of that first time but he knew enough to recognise that his severely weakened state had affected his sister in all the worst possible ways.
He was grateful for Danny's presence, who's quiet, innate strength acted as an antidote to both their troubled souls. Despite the constant threats of bodily harm Mick threw at Danny should he act in a manner less than platonic towards his sister, he knew there was no one he trusted more with her. He could have done without the gentle flirting that had been carried out in front of him, of course, as he hated being forced to think about his baby sister all grown up, but he had been gladder than he could say that Danny had been there to lift her spirits while he drifted in and out of consciousness.
They had both been hanging around the hospital more than they should – Jenna had school and Danny had only just got out of the hospital himself. Mick had heard the nurses berating the Spotter for over-doing it, and with a talk that didn't always border on the calm, quiet side of conversation, he had finally managed to persuade them both to go to a hotel where they could shower and rest. They had both flat-out refused to go home, too worried about him both physically and psychologically to stray too far, and Mick hated being reminded of just how weak he was lying in a hospital bed and attached to a plethora of machines and tubing, some of which were in places they had no business being!
A quiet knock at the door brought Mick out of his musings and he sighed out loud with frustration, an insult on the tip of his tongue right up until the moment he turned and saw, not Jenna, not Danny, but Sam Cooper.
"Hey," he offered with a raised eyebrow. He had become good friends with Sam during the time between meeting the man and his capture, but he certainly hadn't thought the man would travel all the way to the UK to see him.
"Mick," Sam nodded in response, taking a quick moment to scan the prone man before him. He'd heard the question in Mick's short greeting and Sam wondered how, for all of his seeming confidence and popularity, the Welshman seemed so sure he wasn't worth the relatively quick trip over from Germany.
Physically, the young man seemed a lot better. He was still hooked up to a lot of machines that indicated Mick was not entirely out of the woods yet, but he was propped up in his bed and awake. He was talking and breathing on his own and he was responsive.
Sam remembered meeting Steele, one of Rawson and Wallcroft's fellow POWs, who had driven back with Mick from the ambush site. The young man had been beside himself with anguish at how unresponsive Mick had become on the journey back to the FOB, and full of guilt for not being able to do more to help the British soldiers. When he recounted the tale of Mick's response, or lack thereof, after Danny went down, it was clear the Welshman must have been in a very serious state to ignore his best friend's possible demise - to see him awake and alert brought about a breath of relief.
"How are you doing?" he asked as he took a hesitant step into the room. He and Mick had struck up a good rapport in Iraq, but those bonds didn't always translate back to the civilian world.
"I can't complain, I guess," Mick shrugged. "You?"
"I certainly can't complain," Sam reply with a wry quirk of his lips. He briefly wondered just what would have to happen to Mick for the Welshman to think he could complain.
"Nice to see you and everything, mate, but what the hell are you doing here?" Never let it be said that Mick was a master of tact.
"Came to check up on a couple of friends," Sam replied deliberately, as if he was talking to a rather slow child. Mick's eyebrows furrowed further still. "You do realise that you and Danny had half the Joint Operations Taskforce skulking around the med tents, pouncing on anyone who looked like they might even know someone in the Med. Corps, right? Last we knew you weren't doing too well."
"Danny's out of hospital already," Mick informed his friend, his resentment at his fellow soldier's liberation a little too clear.
"Really?" Sam asked, surprised. His last memory of Danny had been of him being rushed to a helicopter, the medics surrounding him covered in the Spotter's blood.
Mick nodded tiredly. "Yep. Bullet missed his lungs – lucky bastard! He had some pretty severe blood loss, shock and a broken rib, but once they got the blood loss sorted, there wasn't much else for the doctors to do. Doc's orders are to rest, take his pills and rest some more."
Sam huffed out a small laugh, amazed that his friend had escaped the hospital so soon after looking like death was just around the corner. The blood loss had been a very real threat, as had the shock, but apparently once Wallcroft had undergone an operation to repair the damage and had his blood volume restored, his condition had improved dramatically and he'd been out of the danger zone.
"And what about you?" Sam asked, suppressing a grin when he saw Mick's incredibly juvenile scowl.
"God knows," he grumbled. "They've pumped me full of blood and drugs and vitamins and everything else under the sun, apparently. I still feel more cyborg than human," he said, gesturing to the mass of tubes and machines surrounding him, "but apparently, I'm 'doing well'" he sneered at the Doctor's assessment, given just how ridiculously unwell he felt.
"They gave me the all clear for the shoulder wound and don't think there'll be any long-lasting damage, but they've already stuck me with some sadist of a physio who seems to think I should be able to move like a damn contortionist. The bullet to the abdomen nicked the large intestine, so I'm minus a couple of inches inside and they've got me on a thrilling diet of apple sauce and a cocktail of antibiotics." Sam didn't think it possible, but Mick's scowl deepened further. "They told me I can't have coffee!"
"Now that is a human right's violation," Sam agreed. Mick could spend a couple of days in a perch without moving a muscle, and not a morsel of food or a drop of water would pass his lips, and he'd do it all without complaint, but if he returned to base and found there was no coffee Mick didn't simply stop at grumbling, but at waging war on the poor, unsuspecting soul who finished the last mug. Mind you, Sam had his own coffee fixation so he couldn't say too much without appearing a hypocrite.
"Damn straight!" Mick agreed, nodding his head a little too vigorously, a slight wince told Sam that such a simple movement clearly came with consequences.
"You ok?" he asked, stepping closer to the bed.
"Yep," Mick replied through gritted teeth. "I've just got to remember to stop doing that. The Doc said I could suffer from the head injury for a couple of months yet – said the concussion from the crash on top of all those I got before came with 'consequences'," he spat that last part, pissed that his Doctor seemed to think there was something he could have done to avoid them in the first place. The doctor he'd had in Woolwich had been nice enough and explained things to him without making him feel ridiculously idiotic, his new one in Peterborough…not so much.
Sam took note of the careful way in which Mick avoided referring to the torture he had endured, simply using 'before' as a woefully inadequate euphemism. He imagined that both Mick and Danny were suffering from the more psychological aspects of their captivity, but he also knew that he would probably need to build up an approach towards that side of things, so the Welshman didn't bolt at the first sign of concern directed his way.
"Hypothermia's all gone – they warmed me up and pumped me full of glucose and thiamine and gave me the all clear. Of course, then my chest infection turned to pneumonia and they shoved a damn tube in my chest and the numbness of hypothermia became all too appealing," Mick offered Sam a dry grin.
"A chest infection?" Sam demanded, finally sitting down in the uncomfortable looking chair by Mick's bed, his concern for his friend overcoming all previous uneasiness about his presence.
"Yeah, I got one before. Apparently, repeated drownings and being forced to hang about in the cold desert air in wet clothing is hazardous to the health – who knew," the young Sniper replied with a glib shrug of his shoulders.
It was Sam's turn for furrowing the brows. Everyone knew that they had been tortured, but beyond that the details were sketchy at best. He wondered if Danny had suffered through the same treatment. He'd been told by Steele that Mick had been singled out almost from the start, but it had been equally clear that no one, not even a civilian aid worker, had escaped unscathed.
"The Doc said I was pretty much predetermined to get an infection given everything else – the infection in the shoulder, the dysentery, the malnutrition and dehydration, the…torture," he stumbled over that last word. He knew what he had endured, but admitting to it out loud didn't seem to make the word any more palatable.
"You had dysentery?" Sam asked incredulously. The more he heard, the more amazed he was that Mick was still in the land of the living.
"Yeah. Came down with a pretty bad fever with the shoulder wound and that apparently sunk my immune system into the gutter, because I went down with dysentery not long after. But I did get this wonderfully svelte figure out of the deal," he offered humourlessly as he gestured towards his emaciated body.
"Anyway, other than that, it's just a mess of cuts and bruises that are all healing nicely enough. I've got a couple of broken ribs, but then it's not like I'm doing anything to risk a puncture now, is it? Although with the pneumonia, the sadists here keep forcing me to hack up all the gunk in my lungs and to 'breathe deeply' and that hurts like a bitch!" Mick complained bitterly.
"And here I thought you couldn't complain," Sam offered with a small grin that his heart wasn't in at all – he'd simply felt that a moment of levity might get some of the uncomfortable tension in the room out of the way.
Mick laughed, wincing slightly as the movement pulled on his lungs but he didn't attempt to stop himself – it had been a long time since he'd really laughed and it felt good despite the pain.
He wasn't usually one to air his ailments, having learnt long ago that on the whole, no one cared. However, he'd tried to avoid talking about it with Jenna at all, not wanting her to worry or know about the true extent of his injuries – he didn't know what the doctors had told her while he'd been unconscious but she hadn't talked about the torture so far and Mick was more than happy to continue the silence on that particular topic.
With Danny, it was less a case of trying to hide the truth and more one of simply trying not to acknowledge it. They had both suffered through similar treatment and they already knew the ins and outs of their injuries, having tended to them out in the middle of the Iraqi desert. But neither man was ready to fully face exactly what had happened out there. It didn't help that Danny was blaming himself for Mick's extra torture sessions and Mick was blaming himself for Danny's gunshot wound. They'd been through entirely too much together not to sort themselves out sooner rather than later, but they both just needed a little more time to reconcile with it all.
Sam Cooper was ready and willing to listen to Mick's aches and pains and the long gripes about them – hell, the man had seemingly come all the way to the UK to do just that! It was nice to have the man, who never seemed to judge Mick despite all his short-comings, offer a friendly ear.
Of course, he was so pumped full of drugs that the verbal filter in his mind seemed to have disintegrated away to practically nothing, and that helped ease things along somewhat. He had expended a huge amount of effort in making sure his drug-addled mind didn't let anything slip in front of Jenna and Danny, but he didn't feel the need to be quite so careful with Sam, which was a huge source of relief – trying to stay focused on what you're saying when you can barely feel your own nose costs an exhaustive amount of effort.
They spent a brief few minutes catching up on the bare essentials. Mick asked about Steele and Hauser, but Sam couldn't tell him much other than the fact that they'd both gone home. He was amused to hear Mick talk about Steele as 'the kid' given that there was barely a year between the two - he knew that Mick had lived through a lot in his short life, but it still seemed unreal to hear him talk about a soldier one year his junior as though he had at least ten years on him.
He asked about Hassan and could see that Sam was unhappy with leaving him behind. He respected the way that Cooper seemed to look out for Hassan, gently and quietly and entirely without causing a scene, but with a steely spine and a sharp mind should someone try to take advantage of the idealistic young man.
He asked if Sam knew what had happened to Anderson and was informed that the Sergeant's body had been found, flown back to the US and given a proper military burial. He had never got on well with Anderson, but the man had been a damn good soldier and he was injured in the line of duty - protecting Mick and Danny as they covered the retreat to the chopper. He had helped save many lives that day, and he hadn't deserved to go out like he did, left all alone to rot in in the desert sun, with nothing but his pain to keep him company to the end.
He asked about Samson and Mick could not hide the sadness upon learning of the man's death - he knew it was not just likely but probable, but until he found out one way or the other there had at least been hope. He'd not counted Samson as a friend, having never really gotten to know the man well enough, but he'd liked the man. The Sergeant had been a consummate soldier, always ready, able and more than willing to go that extra mile. His quiet, contemplative nature was a soothing balm out in the field, either in the heat of battle or when boredom came a calling.
"So why are you here instead of back home in the US?" Mick asked, not caring at all that his change of topic after Samson was entirely transparent.
"I don't have anything to go back to," Sam shrugged. Before the ambush, he and Mick had talked about a great many topics and while some of the more personal topics were strictly off the table (Sam's time at the BAU and what finally caused him to leave, and pretty much all of Mick's childhood) there were other subjects that they had conversed over rather candidly. Sam knew that if was ever going to get more from Mick than redirection and a pointed silence, he would have to be the one to open up first.
"Nothing at all?" Mick asked trying to hide his incredulity. Sam was a wise man who had clearly been well-educated – that likely meant university, and his time at the FBI meant the training academy. Sure, Cooper could be a bit of a loner, allowing the darker side of humanity to swallow him up whole from time to time, but Mick would be hard pressed to think of anyone who could remain so wholly unaffected after a career in the BAU. However, Cooper was a good man with a sense of humour and a strong moral backbone and Mick found it hard to imagine the man was without friends.
"I have some old friends," Sam shrugged. "But most of them are in the FBI and I don't think I'm quite ready to travel down that road just yet."
"I know I have no idea what happened to make you leave so you can just tell me to fuck off if you want, but don't you think your friends would want you to stay in touch?" Mick asked hesitantly.
Sam nodded. He knew he had hurt several people with the way he had cut all ties with the Bureau, and he knew that some people could not even understand why he had left in the first place, believing him to have abandoned the BAU and the FBI altogether, rather than the other way around. Agents like Hotchner and Gideon would understand, and Sam knew that they wouldn't hold it against him when he was finally ready to face up to his past at the BAU, but as for the rest of them, he wasn't sure if he could ever repair those bridges.
"One day," he smiled sadly at the younger man.
Mick let his head fall back into the pillow, unable to meet the look in Cooper's eyes that spoke of a profound sense of loss and grief and a muted melancholy that suggested he'd been living with those emotions for a long time.
"You been debriefed yet?" it was Sam's turn to change the topic.
"Not yet," Mick shook his head. "They've been in a couple of times, but the medical-staff were pretty adamant about waiting. I guess they were right to be cautious – it was during their first attempt to debrief me that my pneumonia made itself known. That was fun – nothing quite like coughing up a whole load of phlegm all over a superior officer's shirt before vomiting on his shoes," he stated with typical dry humour.
"Seriously?" Sam asked, with a laugh, finding the episode all too easy to picture.
"Well, I don't know that anything actually hit him, but it wasn't through a lack of trying – the guy came across as a bit of a prick, to be honest," Mick joked back. "They probably would have pushed for sooner, drug-induced delirium or not, if it hadn't been for Danny – obviously there are going to be differences between our experiences, but they got the essentials from him, at least. Apparently they're aiming to start tomorrow afternoon now, and it sounds like I've got half the military brass to talk to over the next few weeks, so that'll be fun," he said, voice laden with sarcasm.
He turned to stare back up at the ceiling, all the talk of debrief reminding him that he was going to have to talk about everything that had happened in front of many a superior officer, some familiar, most complete strangers – he was far from enthusiastic about it all. He barely had the energy to sit up, how was he going to manage a few dozen Q&A sessions with any degree of clarity?
"You ok?" Sam asked. He taken note of the way the younger man's eyes had grown heavier, as well as the way the Sniper was resolutely doing his best not to succumb to sleep.
"I'm ok," Mick offered, turning his head to look at the other man. He saw Sam raise an eyebrow at his statement and cast a glance at his battered body before giving him a wry grin – he knew exactly what Cooper was saying, even if it was without words. "Alright, so I'm not 'ok', obviously," he said as he gestured to his own body.
Sam nodded, surprised that Mick had even made such an admission. He had only known the man for a few, badly interrupted, weeks, but he knew that the proud young Welshman was not one prone to admitting to his weaknesses.
"I will be, you know," Mick offered quietly, a yawn breaking up his sentence. "I know I look pretty bad, but I'll be ok." It sounded more like he was reassuring himself than Sam.
"Yeah," Sam agreed. Mick Rawson had already proven himself to be made of strong stuff, and Sam had no doubt that the man's fortitude in the face of adversity would only strengthen. "Yeah, you will be."
Mick didn't answer, as he had finally allowed exhaustion and the drug cocktail that flowed through his IV to take over and pull him into a deep, much needed sleep.
Thanks for your patience with this and I hope you enjoyed it despite the wait. As this chapter is un-beta'ed, please let me know if you spot any mistakes - thanks!
MOD – Ministry of Defence, the UK equivalent of America's DOD (Department of Defence). The MDHU's (Ministry of Defence's Health Units) are run in conjunction with the NHS for military personnel and their dependents. Most hospitals in the UK dedicated solely to the MOD and its personnel have closed due to spending cuts. There is now the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham that treats operational casualties, but this only opened in 2010 (too late for this story).
FOB – Forward Operating Base.
UKSF – United Kingdom Special Forces. This includes the SAS, the SBS, the Paras 1st Battalion and much, much more.
OC – Officer in Command or Officer Commanding. Americans tend to use CO, or Commanding Officer.
Casevac – Casualty Evacuation.
C-17 Globemaster – is a Boeing military plane used by the US, the UK and many more beside. In the UK, some are used for troops and cargo, others by Aeromed. The Aeromedical Evacuation Co-ordination Cell (AECC) is based at RAF Brize Norton, and at the height of the wars in the Middle East, they were transporting almost 5,000 high priority patients a year, getting them back to British soil in less than 24 hours. They are fully equipped medical centres in the air, complete with the most vital of life-saving machines and an incredible medical crew who is in constant contact with the hospital, providing status updates so the urgent care received on land will be at its most efficient.
AQI – Al Qaeda in Iraq.
POW – Prisoner of War.