AN: A little filler to follow up the encounter with Whitney. Thanks to a lack of format transposing, one of my executions of John's journal format is MIA. Tried to counter-steer to salvage the humor of the moment.

Ch 11: Kindred Souls

Chad's not entirely surprised when I tell him I can't remember, but he's almost shocked when I tell him I hardly recall anything about my past. How it's all bits and pieces. Comes in random fragments, usually followed by moments of absolute paralyzing anxiety.

It's easier to admit you have a problem when someone else is going through the same thing. I know I struggled with it once before. PTSD. The feeling is all consuming. Nearly stopped me in my tracks. Until I found a purpose. Pushed all the feelings inside somewhere and ignored them. It didn't make anything better in the long run, but at least I was functional.

Chad embraces it. Says like the scars on our body, it's a testament of the shit we've actually been through. Lived through. Survived. Experience that can't been taken away from us. The deaths of our brothers lives on through us. We become their legacy. We continue to carry them into battle with us. Guy's a straight up motivational motherfucker. Charismatic. The kind who you just want to be around. A natural leader, and from a few of his stories, a natural born killer.

Whitney's an interesting character. 4 boys back home. Apparently the "Upstate" has 2 definitions -one's referring to anything north of NYC, the second referring to the rural mountains around the capital and northward. Used to work as a well driller until he became a career guy. Played baseball, coached kids football – and not real football. That atrocity known as American football. Apparently the wife was tired of waiting for him to call it quits. Wanted an actual father around for their kids. Recently divorced around the same time of his accident -IED in Germany claimed his knee and his partner -the loss is still raw. He speaks highly of him. He calls it "posthumous divorce". Never actually met the person who drug him out of the rubble, but his life is indebted to them.

He gives fair warning when he says it's going to take a bit to tell the tale of my past, especially because it's only coming from what he learned while out in the field. It all started back in 2011. 22nd S.A.S. I wasn't anything then but a greenhorn – a Yank word for rookie. Lowly sergeant in the world of collar brass. Should have been grateful to wear my chevrons. Fell under the order of a salted dog John Price. Captain Price. Renowned for his own deeds.

I have a name to the voice in my dreams. The man who pulled me from the debris. The man I owed my life to for countless reasons. My very existence. I remember flinching under his gaze. Like he was always looking for something I was doing wrong. Something to criticize. Remember always feeling like I was never doing anything right. It wasn't until much later I realized that what I took for him being an asshole was a misunderstanding. Price thought of me like his own son and was grooming me for a promotion. Shared a big laugh over it afterwards.

I ask about Price. Our paths are heavily entwined. Hardly one without the other. It's a great story, and it feels right. Familiar. He gets to a highlight in the story about the first nuclear detonation. The fall out. The aftermath. There's survivors here, though they're on borrowed time. Radiation Exposure. Elle's RAD patients…

There's a soft knock at the door. It catches Whitney and I off guard. Elle's leaning in the doorway, arms folded across her chest.

"You boys having fun?" She asks.

"Of course. This is an exclusive club you know. No girls allowed." Chad starts, trying to get a ruse out of Elle.

"Good thing, because that would exclude you from here too. I need my patient back Whitney."

Chad looks at me, as if I had a choice in the matter. Raises an eyebrow, expecting a response. I pass a look between my new found ally the Ranger and my warden, weighing my options.

"She's nice to me Chad." Outstanding actually. I chalk it up to Elle. I don't want our conversation to end here but I need to write it all down while it's still fresh.
"I want to stay on her good side."

He leans back in his chair, tossing the ball up in the air to catch it.

"I see how it is John." He's unreadable. Can't tell if he's genuinely upset or busting my balls. Tosses the ball up and makes another catch.
"Tactical. Fucking brilliant."

I hear Elle approaching, but Whitney's last comment has me confused. He leans in close, guarding his comment with a handshake.

"Get some solider."

And he's back to giggling, as if there's some personal secret between us. But it's contagious, and for no reason I'm starting to laugh too.

I'm surprised how late it is when Elle escorts me back to my room. Almost 2 hours past my usual dinner time. After chow, she comes back armed with a bin of supplies and sets it on the stand next to my bed.

"I though you could use a little extra time with Mr. Whitney. It sounded like you were both hitting it off."

"The man's a riot." Maybe even a few screws loose. US Rangers were always a little touched in the head. You had to be in order to do their job. Hell, even my job.

"He is something." Elle fusses with a touch of sarcasm, rolling her eyes. She pushes the oxycontin my way with some water. Apparently, she was more than acquainted with his shenanigans. Chad had mentioned having Elle as his warden prior to my arrival. I wonder if she was as involved with his recovery as she is with mine?

"John, would be you be so kind for me and take off your shirt? I'm going to change the port bandage. I was going to wait until tomorrow, but I wanted to get a good look at it tonight before I left."

"And I was just getting cozy." I can't help but tease her and it pays off when she smiles. I know she's exhausted, yet she feels obligated to push herself at my expense. She pulls off the covered the area under my right collarbone, taking several steristrips with it. The incision isn't fully closed yet, apparent by the fresh red blood that has seeped through.

"How does it feel?" Elle asks, pulling on a pair of gloves and preparing a square with peroxide. Even though she's gentle, there's a fair amount of discomfort.

"Still sore, but better than it was."

"That tends to happen when you take hardware out after its been inside you for 12 weeks." Elle's focused on her work, criticizing every millimeter of the area.

"I'm not going to miss the bugger, that's for sure. I'm done with all the ports and needles."

She lets the incision dry before adding new steristrips and applying a covering, taping up the area. It actually feels good having a fresh bandage.

"I'm sure you are." Elle takes a moment to admire her handiwork. I catch her eyes wandering, her hands too. Pressing along my ribs and has me breath in, and exhale. They're sorer than I'd like to admit.

"I like what I see." There's something in her voice. Subtle, but it's there. She hands me my shirt back.

My encounter with the girls has me feeling brave -no, cross that out- stupid. Definitely stupid.

"Do you now?" I know I'm giving her a look and I can't help it. It's a guy thing. Once the switch is turned on and there's no backing off until the steam's been let off. It's a terrible disposition that tends to get our kind in trouble.

Even if just for a moment, I feel confident Elle's interested. If she was though, she shuts me down. Fast. Nothing like a dose of reality and a kick to the cahonies when she laughs at me.

"I'm talking about your progress, Romeo. Don't think for one minute I don't know when the Cavalry visits." She winks and tilts her chin up, tapping at the crook between her neck and shoulder meet. I vaguely remember someone biting there. Hard. Without missing a step she redirects our conversation back to business.

"You've gained a lot of muscle tone in a short period of time. Put a little weight on. Everything is mending nicely with minimal scarring."

I pull my shirt back on with Elle's help to avoid destroying her work. Getting my right arm to cooperate is still a challenge, especially with the tightness lingering between the knife wound and the port.

"Even the strength you've regained in your hand is remarkable." She holds my right hand flat in her palm and I close in around it. The flex is feeble but it's a far cry from not being able to move anything when I first came to. Might be able to hold and write with a pen some day. I try not to dwell on the moment when it can no longer improve. When I hit the wall.

"I'll see you bright and early in the morning John." Elle lets go of my hand, gathers up the wrappers, and throws everything into the bin to be disposed of.

"You want this?" she points to my journal.

"If you'd be so kind." I remember tossing it harder than I had intended last night, sliding it further back on the stand.

She grabs my journal from the stand and sets it in my lap. She knows I want to write down the plethora of information I've gotten out of Chad. Elle gave it to me in the first place as a safe place to organize my thoughts and I've been using it diligently since. I've never felt the need to try to hide it – Elle's made a point to respect my privacy.

"I have a few new ideas I want to introduce into your PT tomorrow. Then afterwards I'll get you looking like a civil human being again."

"You don't like this?" I drag my hand across my jaw. I'm kind of liking this stubble thing. And with being outside, I'm going to need a beard to fend off the cold.

"You look like you're homeless."

"Maybe that's what I'm going for."

Elle heaves a sigh and shakes her head.

"Goodnight John. Don't be up too late."

"Goodnight Elle."

A/N: I hope there's some subtleties in the details you can appreciate. Had a rough past 2 weeks where I haven't have much down time to write.