a/n: another trent one, i know. sorry this is shorter than usual. i'm easing myself back into writing. inspiration isn't coming as easy.
next chapter: would ya'll prefer something whumpy/angsty or something fun?
ambiguous ending.

08. CIRCUMSTANCE.

"I know it hurts, sweetheart," Trent said gently, taping down the large bore IV that he'd placed in her arm. "I know, I'm sorry, but it's going to make you feel better, okay? I promise."

The little girl, who couldn't have been more than six years old, blinked at him with wide, glassy brown eyes. Trent felt the confusion—and the sheer terror—radiating off of her in waves; It was clear that she didn't understand English. Or where she was. Or why these big, scary men in body armor and big helmets had plucked her from her corpse-strewn, war-torn home. She looked heart-wrenchingly tiny in Clay's arms, streaked in dirt and grime and her father's blood, clothes ragged and torn, dangerously underweight.

All that Trent wanted to do was gather her in his arms and hold her tight; He wanted to dial Darcy's number with his bloody, dirty fingers and ask her, desperately, "Can we keep her? Please? She doesn't have anyone. But she could have us." But Trent knew that whim was only a fantasy. A wildly expensive, unrealistic one at best. A pipedream, at worst. He sighed to himself.

Clay lovingly muttered something to her in Arabic. She sniffled and burrowed deeper into his embrace. Trent continued to secure her IV.

He kept his eyes low, focused on his work, while Clay hummed a soft song to her in Arabic. It must've been a cultural song, something well-known in the area, because the little girl hummed along with him. Her eyes drooped, tired. Trent was grateful that she felt safe enough with Clay to even try to sleep.

He couldn't help but remember when he introduced Clay to his own twin girls, Anabelle and Beatrice, during a Fourth of July cookout at Sonny's place. Vivid images, sacred memories, charged to the forefront of his mind: the way that Clay's eyes had lit up like Christmas lights when Anabelle rushed to hug his leg, how he'd fawned over the monogrammed yellow bows in their hair (courtesy of their angel-faced wildcard of a mother, whom Trent wouldn't trade for anything), the way he'd looked with Anabelle tucked under one arm, and Beatrice under the other, as he read them an early bedtime story. And, dear Lord in Heaven, he even did the scary monster voices for them.

Clay was paternal by nature, and in this moment, Trent ached for him.

In Clay's arms, a scared little orphan girl slept; And back in Virginia Beach, an empty apartment awaited Clay's return. Clay wanted a family. She needed a family. But circumstance kept the two of them apart, just as circumstance kept that brave little girl out of Trent's heart and home, too—well, out of his home, at least. Trent wondered what would become of her when they landed back in the States. He hoped that she'd get the trauma counseling that she needed to heal, and that she'd be adopted by a loving family, desperate for a child to spoil with love. He tried to believe that she would.

He had to believe that she would, or he'd do something reckless like try and convince Clay to keep her for a night or two while he made a game plan to find her a forever family, close to heart and close to home ...

"Her name is Amara." Clay said suddenly, starting Trent.

Trent looked up at him, painfully aware of his own sobriety. His blood burned for a finger of whiskey.

"What?" He asked.

"Before she fell asleep, she told me her name," Clay whispered. "It's Amara. Did you know that translates to 'mercy'? 'Kindness', too. Her parents ... must have really loved her. Too bad this ugly, godforsaken world hasn't shown her an ounce of it. She deserves better than this."

Clay's soft words had a sharp, vehement edge; He curled his fingers tighter into Amara's ragged shirt and pressed his cheek against the top of her head. Trent bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw the metallic taste of blood.

'Don't be reckless,' He thought. 'Don't you dare be reckless ...'

Trent wished that he had Ray Perry's steadfast self-discipline. But only for a moment.