Maybe he should have sought medical attention for Walker earlier, Ethan thinks, but it's hard to feel sympathy for someone who was about to murder a fair proportion of the world's population, even if they claim they don't remember anything about it.
Behind him, Walker's measured tread falters, his boot sole scuffing against the waxed floor covering with a squeak that sets Ethan's teeth on edge. He pushes open the door at the end of the corridor, steps through without holding it open for Walker and hears the dull slap of wood against the other man's hand as he catches the closing swing. It's out of character, both the miss-step and the way that Walker fails to slip his body through the narrowing gap with his usual deceptive ease.
"Mr Smith?" says the Doctor, her greying eyebrows raised in a twist that suggests a certain amount of sceptism. He'll have a word with Benji about that later, Ethan thinks, even as he smiles confidently and holds out his hand for a brief, firm handshake.
Her gaze moves past him and she frowns. Ethan turns too quickly, half-expecting... something, but Walker isn't even looking at them. His eyes are shut and he's pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, brows drawn down as though he has the mother fucker of all problems to sort out, which he has really, if he remembers what it is.
"Mr Walker?"
The Doctor approaches slowly and Ethan tenses, can't help himself, his hand twitching towards the gun tucked in the back of his pants. If Walker wants to make a move, take a hostage, this is his opportunity.
"Mr Walker?"
She raises her voice, touches him lightly on the elbow. Walker flinches away, his hand falling from his face as he squints at her in confusion.
"I hear you were in a bit of an accident; not been feeling too well since?"
Well, there's an understatement if ever there was one. Maybe Walker thinks so too, because he just stares at her without making any response.
Ethan misses her low-voiced question because he's scoping the room, checking for exits and likely weapons and solid bits of furniture that could be used for cover. He responds immediately to the next question though, because it's louder and has a ring of calm command about it. He spins on his heel, gun already out and tight against the side of his thigh, but there's no need.
She repeats herself, her hand clenched firmly around Walker's upper arm and a quick glance in Ethan's direction.
"Are you feeling faint? Mr Walker? I think you should sit down."
Walker does not argue with her. He allows himself to be shepherded to the bed and sits down hard, as though he mis-judges the height by a few inches. He blinks a couple of times, swallows hard enough that Ethan can see the jump of his Adam's apple and the Doctor is prompted to scoop up a pressed cardboard dish and put it by his side.
She speaks to Walker quietly, running a quick check of his pulse and temperature as she does so.
"Help me with his jacket."
Ethan does, wondering why the hell Walker can't take off his own jacket, although the resultant close-up of his face reveals a grey tinge and a sheen of sweat that may explain the sudden urgency. For all that, it's Walker, and Ethan feels no guilt about hissing a warning in his ear when he's peeling down the jacket sleeves. Walker ignores him, closing his eyes as Ethan tugs the cuffs clear, his eyelashes surprisingly long and dark against the pallor of his sharp cheekbones.
Ethan snarls and is unnecessarily rough removing the other man's shirt, wondering savagely why he would notice Walker's fucking eyelashes of all things. It earns him a sharp look from the Doctor and no reaction at all from Walker, who merely sways with the force of Ethan's tugs and keeps his eyes closed.
Ethan is too tied up in his own self-recriminations to absorb what he's looking at until the Doctor's sharp-edged tone cuts through his racing thoughts. Walker is disagreeing quietly with whatever has been said to him.
"Just an accident," he says, words fumbling their way past his lips.
If anything Walker looks even paler and Ethan is pretty sure he's about to pass out. Given the state of his torso it's no surprise. Ethan is no stranger to pain or injury but he experiences a strange little clench of sympathy, not an emotion he ever expected to feel in connection with Walker.
"This man needs urgent treatment," says the doctor, in the sort of tone that does not invite argument.
Ethan finds he can't disagree. He nods and steps back, thinking to find somewhere to sit, because obviously he's not going to let Walker out of his sight. To his immense surprise the man leans forward, almost toppling himself from the bed as his eyes open and his hand makes a half-hearted move toward Ethan.
"Don't..." he mutters.
Don't what?
Don't let her treat me? Don't leave me here? Don't go?
Most options seem pretty unlikely, but whatever it is Walker wanted to say, Ethan finds it hard to think it's an act because the man is out cold before he even finishes the sentence. The doctor catches him with a curse, somehow using her tiny frame to pivot his considerably larger and heavier bulk fully onto the bed.
She scowls at Ethan.
"Your lot don't pay me enough to deal with this shit! There's no question this man has suffered serious trauma some time ago, but there are other injuries, spread over a period of time, that are more consistent with torture!"
"I'm trying to help him," says Ethan bleakly, and finds to his surprise that it's not a lie. He sits heavily on the adjoining cot and scrubs his face tiredly with his hand. When the fuck did that happen?
The doctor bustles around for a few minutes, setting up a scanner, unbuckling Walker's belt and removing his boots. She raises an eyebrow at Ethan then, the severity of her expression making him feel somehow inadequate and rather like he's back in grade school, trying to explain a poorly presented homework assignment.
She gestures impatiently at Walker's legs. Ethan moves, unwilling to assist, confused why he cares about the man's modesty; it's not as though Walker has earned any respect as a person. For all that, Ethan would hate to be vulnerable like this in front of an enemy and it grates on him, causing him to focus on the button on the man's jeans and the fabric of the cheap, cotton sheet as he eases the denim down Walker's long legs.
He steps back gratefully, doesn't even realise he's staring until the doctor moves him gently aside. He turns away then, sits back down with his eyes lowered and a headache starting in his temples, the image of Walker's body seemingly burnt into his retinas.
The thing is, he already knows Walker. He's stood beside him, sat next to him, hefted his weight as they struggled down the mountain from that godforsaken hut in Kashmir. He's fought beside him. Damn it, he's fought against him, for his life for fucks sake! It doesn't get much more close and personal than that.
He knows the breadth of Walker's shoulders, the hardness of his bones, the brutal strength of his muscles. Then there's the smell of his skin, the heat and sound of his breath, the bitten-off grunt he makes when Ethan gets in a good hit. They're all recorded in Ethan's memory, a lurking, violent, technicolor, sensory overload. For a moment he thinks he can still smell the spilt fuel, feel the heat and shock roiling up the cliff face from the exploding helicopter.
He feels nauseous. Guesses it's a form of post-traumatic stress disorder, although why it should raise its head at this particular time is a mystery, given that Ethan's entire life is pretty much one traumatic event after another.
He drags his hands through his hair, takes a deep breath and looks up. He's not sure why Walker's near-naked body has such an effect on him. So Ethan studies him, tries to be objective.
He's tall, taller than Ethan, although that doesn't make him unusual. He's lean and the way the skin is stretched tight over his hip bones and ribs suggests he's too lean. It gives him a ripped look, like a body builder who has starved and dehydrated themself before a photo shoot. Despite everything he's gone through, he still has amazing muscle tone and bulk; it makes Ethan wonder just what was under those smart suits before Walker was put through his own personal hell.
Ethan swallows, forces himself to keep looking, because painted over and deeply carved into every part of Walker is a vista of appalling damage. There's the shine of burned, healed skin; the ridge and pucker of scars; the open wounds that Walker has kept hidden, but after all he's a master at keeping things to himself.
Ethan watches, transfixed, as the doctor wipes away dried blood, stitches the worst of the gashes and smears salve over the livid bruises. Something inside him stirs, an awareness he's never felt before. He doesn't know what to do with it, doesn't understand how he can feel anything but revulsion, because Walker is his enemy and tried to annihilate everything that means anything to Ethan.
He wants to get up, punch Walker in the face, because the man survived against the odds when Ethan was sure he was dead. He wants to pull the trigger, empty his magazine until the man is no longer a threat to anyone, ever again.
Unfortunately none of it is enough. Lying there, bruised and battered and alive, with shudders of pain rippling through his body and sweat and goosebumps rising on his skin, to Ethan, Walker is still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
It could continue, but let's see if anyone reads it first!
Any reviews are appreciated. Thanks for reading!
I own nothing - no profit expected, intended or desired. Strictly playing in the awesome sandbox that is Mission Impossible.