IM BACK AND I HOPE U ALL HAD HAPPY HOLIDAYS !
I was stuttering over this chapter for a bit,, sorry. But this is the big reveal !
Here we go- PLEASE REVIEW I LOVE READING THEM SO MUCH THEY MAKE ME SO HAPPY AHHHHHHH
Alex is discharged a few days later, and it's Instructor Thompson - who only gives him a mild scolding, what a pleasant surprise - that's present to help him (unnecessarily) into the helicopter on the roof of the building. B-Unit had been flown back after they'd gotten to see Alex wake up, and Yassen had been taken with them. He'd left Alex with a warning look and a significant squint towards the bandages under his gown - thankfully obscuring his 'mysterious injuries' from view - and Alex had been half relieved but secretly displeased.
He's grown to like B-Unit over his stay at BB; Bear is straightforward and assertive and protective, Panther makes Alex feel included in literally everything they do as a team and Croc-...
Alex can describe Croc in many different ways, but none of them seem to be sufficient enough. He's smart, scarily observant and softly dangerous - which is quite an odd phrase, but Croc always seems neutral and outwardly content, though Alex has seen him in the firing range. He's lethal. Calm, collected, sharp and efficient.
Alex supposes that he's the other side of the coin to his Uncle. The less...rusted side. Ian shared many of Croc's traits, though the distinct difference is that Croc's morals put others before himself, and he possesses this awfully keen sense of empathy that Alex can only wish his Uncle had owned.
Maybe, if Ian had been kind, it would be easier to miss him (because everyone expects Alex to do that so he tries but sometimes he thinks Ian was just wrong. In the head. Unbalanced, not well, not fully aware. Like an empty shell). But Ian's sympathies and good graces had probably been drained out of him the moment his brother and his wife were bombed out of the sky, leaving him with a small child he had no idea what to do with.
Croc is more like Yassen than Ian, though. Still a very dangerous mix with sentiments to it that Alex doesn't really want to acknowledge, because if Croc is more like Yassen then Alex has to think about what Yassen is like compared to his Uncle and that just feels wrong. For more reasons than one.
Alex considers himself lucky that his doctors weren't willing to send Croc off with a medical report. There was a lot of fuss over each of them and their own injuries, too, so all B-Unit really know is that his shoulder is injured, and that he's got a nasty head wound and a smarting bruise smearing most of his lower leg blue.
He's feeling much better, the absence of a headache and some proper sleep making him a bit less apathetic than usual, bruises faded to a combination of greens and yellows and blues and his burn finally knitting over properly with the help of a salve that Alex loathes to apply to himself. His body aches too much to bend like that, but he can't possibly ask anyone else to assist. The mortification would be too much.
He feels a little odd in these clothes that Thompson had brought him that morning; the grey SAS sweats and softly-lined boots are items specially doled out to injured/ill soldiers. It's a stark difference from their usual uniform, and Alex feels like he's walking around in pyjamas and he's unsure wether or not he likes how soft they are or dislikes how harsh they're going to make his regular clothes feel. They're a bit boxy on Alex, the sweatshirt cuffs falling to the middle crease in his palms and the hemline resting just under his hip bones. The bottoms cling low on his narrow waist, the drawstring tied as tightly as Alex could, and they fall very straight because of this. They go all the way down to hug their cuffs at his heels. He has them tucked into his thick socks.
Alex feels very young in them, just like any average teenager borrowing a jumper and bottoms from an older brother or dad or whoever that's just a few inches taller and wider than they are.
It doesn't take too long to fly back to Wales, but he thinks the pilot and co-pilot are being deliberately smooth and slow because - as one of his nurses had informed him as he had been getting ready to leave - he looks very 'precious' all bruised and young in his army sweats. Thompson (who's chatting lightly in the back with him) encourages him to try and rest, but Alex has been sleeping more in the last four days than he has in the last four weeks, so he watches the fields and skies as they fly past instead. When he can see them coming close to camp Alex tugs his beret on over his fluffy, sleep-downy hair and tries not to pout as B-Unit's Instructor smirks at him with an amused look that says 'you're trying to look serious but really you're just being adorable'.
The Sargent and a man in a pressed suit are waiting in the air field as they land, and Alex has a brief panic that he's about to be taken back to MI6, but the panic is immediately abated because both men look too content and mild. As they fly closer, Alex sees the stark white hat held under the man's arms and the badges and pins laid across his breast, and calms down much more.
When he jumps out of the open helicopter door as soon is it slides wide enough - even though they're still not technically touching the ground yet - Thompson, behind him, makes a loud berating noise that Alex ignores completely, happily rolling his joints around with a slight mischievous air as he walks to an almost informal attention before the Sargent. The Sarge, apposed to what Alex usually sees from the stern man, is equally as lax with his stance as they salute each other.
"Lynx." The man stares at him for a long moment, unable to stop a bit of mellow amusement leaking into his eyes as he takes in Alex's sleepy looking form. Alex blinks.
"You scared the shit out of my men, you little runt." The Sargent shakes his head at him, and his tone is admonishing but not loud. Like he's trying to tell off a kid that punched a bully in the school playground. He can't do it properly, because you can't really tell someone off for doing something 'bad' with good intentions.
"Oops." Alex deadpans, and he immediately folds his lips in on each other as the Sarge raises his eyebrows at him. He hadn't meant for that to slip out.
"14 armed men captured a...friend of the Royal Family and my best Unit. Within what had been reported to be somewhere between 4-7 minutes: 6 were dead, 5 were unconscious and 3 were found trapped under a crate of smuggled contraband." The Sergeant clasps Alex's upper arms in a tight, warm grip, looking him straight in the eyes.
"Lynx, you're a bloody one-man army!" A gentle hint of Scottish brogue slipped in between the sharp grin of the Sergeant, and Alex gives a slight shrug, pretty relaxed under the unexpected praise. He's not used to being thanked or doted on with much special treatment after he pulls off something stupidly impossible. He kind of likes it. It makes him feel entitled to the beret he's wearing, to the almost-pyjamas he gets to wear for a bit and the fondness that the Sergeant is pretty much lavishing him in (when compared with his usual stoic-ness).
"Still got the shit kicked out of me, though." He says bluntly, and the Sergeant barks a short laugh Alex is becoming familiar with connecting to soldiers. He pats Alex's arms one last time before stepping back to introduce the man next to him.
He's just as tall as the Sarge, with cropped salt-pepper hair and there's a pair of sunglasses hanging in the pocket of his blazer. Obviously not a native Brit, then, if he had bloody sunglasses on him for a trip to Wales.
"Colonel Walter," the man introduces himself, an American accent thickly coating his words that Alex connects to what he thinks is Brooklyn. Or maybe Boston. He always gets those two mixed up.
Alex shakes his hand in a strong grip, curious but not letting himself show. "Lynx." His voice sounds extra English compared to Walter's, now, and it's slightly odd to his ears.
"I'm with the US Navy Seals. The people that you've put away-" wether it's in the ground or in jail is not specified, "-have been on our list for a while now. They took out 3 of my best men almost a year ago near an overseas base. I'm here to thank you on the behalf of those men's families, friends and my government."
Walter grins at him, a shine of relief and satisfaction in his eyes as he nods at Alex. "You're a brave soldier, Lynx. One of the good ones. You've got a friend in the U.S Navy if you ever need one. A whole lot more people back home wanted to thank you, too, but I think you get the message."
Alex feels warm in the cheeks as he quirked a slightly embarrassed smile at the Colonel, awkward at this too-personal thanks. He shrugs slightly in lieu of a worded response, and both men chuckle at him, but not unkindly.
"Right, you need to go and get back to your Unit, soldier." The Sarge dismisses him, turning in to converse with the American and gesturing Thompson over from the helicopter over to report. Alex salutes one last time, and stuffs his hands in his pockets as he strolls out of the airfield.
He's not too eager to get back to the Hut, because he knows he's going to be absolutely smothered in attention and too much scrutiny from a still slightly annoyed Croc. There's also the fact that he has no idea where Yassen is or what he's spilled to B' about him - not to forget what A-Unit must be being told from an overreacting Panther.
The ground is soft today, but not muddy or clumpy like usual. And the sky is a pale blue dotted with white fluff, the air is fairly warm and overall Alex is very unsettled. It's easy to see that it's a perfect scene about to be ruined.
"Oi! Lynx!" A voice bellows from outside of Hut One, and Alex winces as he realises he's just caught B-Unit on their break. Panther pounds down the steps to shake him by the arms, grinning widely and squirming around in a little happy jig. "You're back!"
Alex tries not to squirm himself, discomfort and anticipation running trails up his spine. His eyes dart around to try and see into the Hut. "I'm back." He reaffirms, rather pointlessly.
Panther's grin lessens in its intensity, simmering contently as he tugs Alex forward towards the steps. "C'mon, mate, the whole Unit's waiting for ya's."
Alex groans under his breath, which makes Panther chuckle mischievously. "Aww, don't be shy, Lynx. You're only going to be mother-henned within an inch of your life."
Alex groans louder. "Shut up, Panther!" He says, whining slightly, but Panther doesn't bother replying. He's already thrown the door in, dragging a reluctant Alex behind him.
He's quite immediately dragged into a stare off with a squinty-eyed Croc, standing only a handful of inches in front of him. Alex has the realisation that he should have thrown the manila folder tucked into his waistband out of the bloody helicopter when he'd had the chance. It feels too heavy, now, sitting there.
Bear ignores the tension in the room, immediately gripping Alex's forearms and shaking him much like Panther did. Alex begins to wonder if this is less than accidental, and that everyone has been informed of his fragile ribs and mysterious shoulder injury. Probably.
"Good to see you up 'n about, mate." Bear rubs his knuckles on Alex's head through the beret, skewing it with the force of his noogie. The tall man grins down at him, and Alex pouts slightly. Bear seems to be of the same impression that Alex is...yuck...adorable.
"You, too." Alex knocks the hand off his head, not caring that his beret goes with it. Their Hut floor is always cleaned regularly, so it wouldn't get too dirty.
"Lynx." Croc calls his attention back. Alex shuffles under the man's unrelenting bright stare. His eyes look unnervingly green in his glare.
"Croc." Alex parrots his tone. Croc's jaw tightens.
"Can I talk to you? Outside?" He asks.
Alex has never seen Croc look so frightening. His face is completely stony, his dark eyebrows are furrowed and the green of his irises look absolutely startling. Every detail is sharp and cold.
"Um." Alex stutters, fingers twitching and brain chugging along furiously to reach a response that's a reasonable way of saying 'no!'.
Croc keeps staring through him. Alex gives in with an inward shriek. He can already feel that this little talk that Croc wants to have is going to be extremely and excruciatingly exhausting.
"I guess?" He mumbles, and isn't all that shocked when he's being dragged out of the Hut immediately. Instead of stopping on the little porch, however, Croc surprises Alex by continuing to walk through Camp, letting go of Alex's wrist after they'd touched soil again. Alex's eyes are bouncing around his surroundings desperately, noticing in his hypersensitive state that the leaves are starting to turn a very rich green and some of the fluffy white clouds are obscuring wispy grey ones and that the soft thud of their boots against the ground is too loud combined with all of the other noises in Camp.
Croc stops walking once they reach the lake, and sits himself down on the short wooden peer over the too-soft sand/dirt bank of the water itself. He doesn't turn around to make sure Alex is still there, and part of Alex tells himself he should just run - far, far away from here.
But Alex is tired of running.
So he sits a foot apart from Croc, half-mindful of his bruised leg, and waits for him to say something. The Unit leader stares out over the lake for minutes, face unmoving and eyes trained on one spot with the precision of a man with a perfect shot. Alex thinks Croc could have been a sharpshooter if his skills as a Field Medic weren't so miracule-inducing - he's been told stories like bible psalms about Croc stitching and wrapping and cleaning and blocking up wounds and making splints and slings and crutches out of weird things and his split-second decision making and and and-...
Basically, when Croc has a life thrust into his hands, he saves it.
Alex can only dream that one day he'll have that same courage.
"How many missions have you really been on? And don't bullshit me, Lynx."
Alex doesn't startle when Croc finally speaks, in fact it takes him a second to even comprehend that anything was said at all. Croc hasn't moved at all, his eyes are still staring at the flat navy-grey of the lake, still looking like he's meditating.
There's a lump sitting in Alex's gut, in his chest, in his throat.
He doesn't want to do it this way. He wants Croc - calm and objective and neutral - to just hold out his hand for the folder of his medical history, and read through it silently, and not ask any questions.
Alex doesn't think he'd have any of the right answers.
"10." He mumbles, deciding to follow Croc's idea and stare out at the marbling surface of the lake. "Give or take a couple of...accidents."
There is a very thick, permeable silence as Alex's shoulders throb with how he tightens them. And then Croc suddenly spins around with a fire lit in his eyes and his face ashen. And though he's angry, he still speaks calmly and slowly.
"All in one year?"
Alex hesitates. He can tell that this is a question where there is a right and wrong answer too. "Yes."
Oops, wrong answer.
Croc buries his face into his palms and swears low and repeatedly, fingers arching as they dig into his face a little bit, arms so tense it looks painful. Alex doesn't really know what to do, so he just shifts uncomfortably, eyes slowly trailing around them to see if he could get away with taking off.
He doesn't, though, and Croc collects himself and turns to face Alex properly. Alex can't hold his stare.
"That's illegal, Lynx." Croc says lowly, and something bitter runs havoc up Alex's chest until it comes flooding out of his mouth.
"Everything they've done to me has been fucking illegal, Croc, and the lack of rest periods is very far from the worst." Alex is starting the feel hysterical, now, his chest heaving with short breaths and self deprecating chuckles and he thinks his hands might be shaking a little bit, too.
"Fucking hell, Lynx," is all Croc can up with. He sounds shaken.
Alex snorts. "It was."
There's a dark, cold silence as Croc's mind tries to swirl past the stuttering halt it's been brought to, and Alex tries to bite through his lips to shut himself up because talking about it filled him with such horrible anger that he just couldn't stand it.
"You're Cub."
It was so quiet Alex almost missed it, but as it filters through his ears he tenses madly and swivels his head to find Croc looking at him in sudden realisation. At Alex's swift response, Croc pales several shades lighter and his hands form fists so tight the knuckles are white.
("'6 are real bastards, Lynx, you should try and avoid them from now on. We had a kid sent here about, what, about 10 months ago? It was very hush hush, but we managed to squeeze out of the old Sargent once he'd left, that SIS were using Cub - the kid - for suicide missions.")
("Bloody awful, if you ask me. He kept up ridiculously well, but he was so unhappy. Ill for some of the course, I think. Might have been depressed. God knows that rookie unit of his - bunch of jealous newbies, really - didn't make things better for the kid.")
Alex does the first thing that comes to mind.
He runs.
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