A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating; Not only am I training for both a Spartan Race & bootcamp (I've ran 25 miles this week, sob), & not only is my work schedule insane this month (aquatics, yay!), but I just broke up with my girlfriend (re: career choices) & haven't been in the best mood to write. But! I'm here with chapter three! Hope you guys enjoy. I love y'all bunches & bunches.


3. IN THE JAWS OF A WOLF.

The time was pushing three thirty in the morning; Jason hadn't left Clay's bedside in almost six hours. The rest of Bravo Team came to visit shortly after Clay fell asleep, followed by Eric Blackburn and Lisa Davis, though Jason chased them all off after only a few minutes, fearful that they'd wake Clay from the rest that he so desperately needed.

Trent, however, didn't need to be chased away. He'd stayed for a grand total of sixty four seconds; He told Clay that he was sorry, and that he'd done what he had to do to make sure that both him and Sonny got home breathing, and then he'd quietly left. As he turned to leave, Jason noticed that his cheeks were damp. Jason didn't acknowledge his tears, or his presence, though whether because he didn't want to embarrass Trent or because he was angry at him, Jason couldn't tell.

Trent shot Clay. Trent watched Clay through the scope of his rifle, aimed at his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. Trent put a bullet in his own brother. His own blood. A part of Jason was absolutely furious and wanted to hit Trent in the damn jaw, but the other part of Jason, the Navy SEAL part of him, understood why Trent pulled the trigger and, regardless of how angry he felt, that part of himself forgave Trent.

Because, at the end of the day, Clay was going to kill Sonny. Hell, if it weren't for Trent, he would have succeeded.

God, Clay. He almost reminded Jason of Mikey with how small he looked in that hospital bed. It was hard to believe that Clay hadn't reached thirty yet; He'd been shot, stabbed, survived a helicopter crash, been kidnapped and sold like cattle, raped.

Raped.

Jason wanted to be sick. He couldn't stop picturing it; Couldn't stop imaging Clay being forced to pose naked for a stock photograph, one with a price printed in the corner. How long did Clay fight his captors before he was sold? And after? How long until gave up hope of rescue? How many nights did Clay cry himself to sleep, drowning in the belief that was his life now? That death might very well be the only escape? Maybe Clay didn't cry at all. Maybe, at that point, he was too numb.

Jason would have liked to think that, if he were the one who'd been sold into sexual slavery, he'd be strong enough not to cry. But after months of captivity, of radio silence. . . He'd break. Jason knew that he'd break. He'd lose his goddamn mind. There were some things that SERE just couldn't prepare you for. And, furthermore, the loss of your brothers, your team, would hurt a hell of a lot more than whatever physical abuse you'd have to endure. . .

Or, so Jason thought. The fear that he saw in Clay's eyes when he touched his forehead turned his blood to ice.

He'd never seen that sort of fear in Clay's eyes before. It'd been primal and raw, undiluted. A sheepdog who knew he'd been caught in the jaws of a wolf.

Jason glanced down at his hands. He wished that he could see what Clay saw so that he knew how to better interact with him. Though, one thing was for sure: No Touching. Not unless Clay initiated it, as he had when he requested Jason's hand.

Lieutenant Commander Blackburn had made a comment about that, told Jason to be careful. It took all that Jason had to not tell Eric to go fuck himself. All Clay wanted was a little comfort, and Jason was more than happy to give that to him; Clay trusted Jason enough to let him touch him. Jason wasn't going to throw that trust back in Clay's face and accuse him of being manipulative.

Clay was scared, and in pain, and deeply, deeply traumatized. After everything that he'd been through? There was no shame in wanting a familiar hand to hold while his fucking gunshot wound was being stitched up.

Jason heard his voice, all of a sudden.

"Jace?" Clay asked, abruptly pulling Jason from his thoughts.

He glanced to the side and saw Clay half - awake, watching him. And, God, Jason almost wanted to smile. Clay looked, and almost sounded, like his old self. For a brief, beautiful minute, Jason could pretend that things were okay, and that the gunshot wound was the worst of Clay's worries.

"Yeah, I'm here, Spense'," Jason said, switching on the lamp that sat on the little table next to Clay's bedside; Light illuminated their corner of the room. "How you feelin'?"

Clay rubbed at his eyes. "Okay, I guess. Shoulder is sore as shit, but. . . I'll live."

Jason did smile then. "Yeah, you will, man."

Clay smiled back, though it faltered. "Listen, I'm. . . Did I really attack Sonny?"

Jason sighed. "Yeah, you did. But it's okay. Sonny's fine, and he'd not mad, and neither is anyone else. You've. . . been through a lot."

Clay nodded and glanced down at his hands. Jason's heart clenched. A long bout of silence stretched out between them, and Jason thought Clay may have fallen back to sleep.

"It's hard to tell what memories are real, and which aren't," Clay said, suddenly. "Everything is. . . really broken up. Like puzzle pieces. And none of them fit together."

Christ. Jason wasn't sure what to make of that. What could those fucking animals have done to Clay that would make him doubt his own memories? What could possibly scramble Clay's mind that badly?

"It's okay," Jason said, because it was. "We'll help you sort through it. We'll tell you what's real, and what isn't. We'll get you through this."

"I know you will," Clay said. "You don't look like a guy who gives up on anything."

Jason chuckled, soft and sad. "Yeah, well, neither do you, kid."

An expression that he couldn't quite gauge flickered across Clay's tired features.

"Hey, Jason, can I. . . tell you something?"

"Yeah. Anything."

"You make me feel safe. And I know that probably sounds. . . really fucking weird, but I remember you the best. I. . . It's been a long time since I've felt safe."

Jason bit the inside of his cheek to keep his lip from wobbling. His heart had long since shattered, and now sat in a pile of dust in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed thickly.

"It doesn't sound weird," Jason said. "You're Bravo Six, remember? You're family. We're here to keep you safe. I'm here to keep you safe. I promise. No one will ever take you again. We'll make damn sure of that."

Clay smiled, open and soft and sleepy. With drooping eyelids, he reached for Jason's hand again. Jason let him take it, and if Clay turned on his side, tucked it under his cheek, and drifted back to sleep—

Well, Jason wasn't going to mention it. He meant what he said. I'm here to keep you safe. I promise.


The next morning, Jason woke to the sound of Clay screaming. Frogman instincts kicked in; He was on his feet in an instant, wide awake and ready to beat whatever dared to lay a hand on one of his brothers into an early grave.

It took only half a minute for Jason to realize that there was nothing, and no one, to fight. Clay was having his first of many nightmares to come; He twisted and arched against the bedsheets, and when he wasn't wailing loud enough to wake the dead, he was whimpering. His face was wet with tears, and Jesus fucking Christ, Jason's chest had never felt tighter.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and grabbed Clay's shoulders, pinning him to the bed. If Clay didn't stop fighting, he'd rip his IV out and tear his stitches open—a few were bleeding through the gauze already.

"Hey, hey," Jason said, firm but gentle. "It's just a nightmare, Clay. Calm down. You're gonna' hurt yourself, buddy."

Clay's eyes flew open, and he froze like a deer caught in the headlights. The expression on his tear-stained face would haunt Jason until kingdom come; It was the same expression from yesterday, when Jason touched his forehead. A sheepdog caught in the jaws of a wolf. It took a fraction of a second too long for Jason to realize that he was the cause.

Jason jerked his hands away from Clay's shoulders as though he'd been burned and all but leapt off the bed. He moved back to his chair and hoped he hadn't done too much damage. Shit. Was he stupid? Why did he grab Clay like that?

"Clay? You okay?"

Clay didn't speak. He didn't move. He laid there, as quiet and still as death, and stared up at the ceiling.

"Spenser?"

Silence.

It started to become evident that Clay was having a flashback. Jason scooted his chair a little closer to Clay's bedside, and gently said, "Clay, I need you to breathe for me, bud. You're safe. You're at the hospital. I didn't— I didn't mean to touch you. I just didn't want to rip your IV out. You're safe."

Clay turned his head and looked at Jason. His expression was pleading and raw, vulnerable in a way that made Jason want to claw his own skin off.

It was then that the reality sunk in, that what happened to Clay wasn't just a bad nightmare, or a worst case scenario; It was real, and Clay was shattered from the inside out, possibly beyond repair.

"Clay?" He asked again. "It's Jason. You're okay."

Clay remained quiet and still for another few seconds, then slowly, slowly returned to what was left of himself. He crumbled like a statue; His body shook and his breathing grew heavy, his eyes were wide as saucers.

"I'm sorry," He said, so quiet that Jason almost couldn't hear. "I'll be better. I'll do better. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"Hey, Clay, no," Jason said. "It's—you're fine, okay? You didn't do anything wrong. I did, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just didn't want you to hurt yourself."

Clay started to laugh hysterically, as though Jason's words were the funniest goddamn thing that he'd ever heard. Then, he puked on the floor again.


Jason took his time walking back to the waiting room where he knew the rest of Bravo Team would be waiting. They were too stubborn to go home for the night, and too loyal; Jason loved and hated them for that in equal measure.

In the end, he didn't make it to the waiting room. He took a sharp left and found himself down the stairs and to the right, in the little vending machine room. He dug around in his pockets for some spare change. He could use a couple of Snickers bars, at the very least.

What'd Alana always say? Oh, right, that Snickers were his comfort food. She'd teased him mercilessly, even after the divorce proceedings began.

Jason could use some comfort. His team was in tatters, and Alana was still buried six feet deep, and he still had to figure out how to pay for Emma's tuition. He would've given his life for another ten minutes with Alana, just to hear her laugh at his stupid jokes, just to hold her tight in the cage of his arms and kiss her forehead. He wanted to tell her he loved her one more time.

'What do I do, baby?' He thought. 'How do I fix this mess?'

Jason rubbed at his tired eyes, and only then did he notice the familiar figure standing in front of the machines.

"Trent?" He asked.

Trent Sawyer turned to look at him, and Jesus, Trent didn't even look like himself; His hair was greasy and thoroughly mussed, as though he couldn't keep his hands off of his head, and his eyes were distant and glassy and red rimmed—the darkness underneath them told a story deeper than exhaustion and fear. He looked about ten seconds away from collapse.

"Hey, Jay." Trent said.

Jason tried to smile. He wasn't sure if worked or not. "Gettin' some M&Ms?"

There were three packages of M&Ms in Trent's hands, one regular and two peanut. Something sharp twisted in Jason's gut. He knew what that much candy meant when it was in Trent's hands.

Trent sighed. "They're better than whiskey, I guess. And I really, really want some whiskey."

Jason's heart skipped a beat, terrified.

"Eight years," Jason said, quick as a bullet being fired. "You've been sober for eight years, Trent. Don't throw that away. Please."

"I shot him," Trent said. His voice cracked over the words. "I fucking shot him, Jason."

Jason sighed heavily. He hadn't had time to process Bravo Four putting a bullet in Bravo Six yet, and he wasn't sure what degree of pissed he was, but he wasn't letting Trent break eight years of sobriety over a questionable judgment call.

"He was going to kill Sonny," Jason countered. "In that moment, you did what you thought was right. It was a real shitty situation, and all our options were equally shitty. Don't beat yourself up over this. Clay's gonna' be fine. He won't even need surgery."

"I could've killed him."

"And he could've killed Sonny and ran back to the bastards who bought him. Did you hear me? He's going to be fine. He's home and he's alive, and that's because of you, Trent. This is the best outcome that we could've hoped for, no matter how we got here."

Trent ripped open his peanut M&Ms and dumped half of the bag in his mouth. While he chewed, Jason stuck a couple of dollars in the vending machine and pressed the battered, off-white 2C buttons; He needed his goddamn Snickers bar.

"Sonny won't talk to me." Trent admitted while Jason collected his candy from the machine.

Jason turned the Snickers bar over in his hands. It didn't seem all that appetizing anymore.

"Give him time," He said. "He'll come around. So will Clay."

Silence.

"Your wife needs you sober, Trent," Jason continued. "Those beautiful babies of yours need you sober too. God knows that they're hard enough to tell apart as it is. Bravo needs you sober. I need you sober. Don't do something that you can't take back. Eight years sober. Don't forget that."

Trent opened his second bag of M&Ms.

"I know," He said. "I know, it's—Shit, Jay. I shot him. After everything he's been through, I put a bullet in him."

"You saved him from himself," Jason said, and he meant it. "And you saved Sonny."

"Doesn't feel like it," Trent shot back.

"Like I said, Clay's gonna' be fine," Jason said. It felt strange to reassure Trent, of all people, considering that Trent was the one who was always saving their asses. "All you gave him was a flesh wound. He's stitched up. Now it's his mind we have to worry about."

"It's gonna be a long, hard road for him. That's for sure."

"Anything we can do?"

Trent sighed and leaned against the wall. "Listen to him. If he wants to talk about it, let him, no matter how uncomfortable it is. If he says no to anything, anything at all, accept it. Don't argue. The biggest thing for Clay, right now, is going to be re-learning how to say no, and how to make choices for himself. What happened to him. . . Saying no to anything at all could've very easily been a death sentence. He was probably told what to wear, what to eat, where to go, what to say . . . He has to learn that he's safe here, and that this is his home, and that he can say no, and that he can make his own choices. And under no circumstance should you say anything about his appearance."

Jason nodded.

"I know you don't want to hear it, Jason," Trent continued. "But Blackburn is right. Right now, you've gotta' keep an eye on Clay. He knows you're the one in charge, and he's going to do anything in his power to keep you happy. He attacked Sonny, so it's pretty clear that he doesn't think he's been rescued. He probably thinks he's been bought again."

Jason took a bite of his Snickers and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will away the tears. Fearful that Trent would notice, he did what he did best; sharped his grief into anger, turned it into a weapon.

"So what should I do, then? Ignore him?" He snapped.

Trent narrowed his eyes. "No, Jason, you need to set boundaries. Very, very clear boundaries. Make absolutely sure that Clay knows you're not his owner, you're his friend. Make sure he knows that you don't want anything from him. He's been treated like property for months. That isn't going away overnight. It's impossible to understate how astronomical Clay's trust issues are."

Jason thought of his conversation with Clay last night; While he knew Trent was right, to some degree, he couldn't bring himself to believe that Clay was manipulating him. The Clay that he talked to last night. . . Jason knew that Clay. That Clay was a glimpse of the old Clay. The real Clay.

Their conversation wasn't meaningless. It wasn't smoke and mirrors. Jason refused to believe so. Clay had to know that Jason was there to keep him safe, and to help him recover. He had to. It wasn't as if Clay were gone for years, it had only been six months. . . He couldn't be as far-gone as Trent was alluding to, right? Trent wasn't a damn psychologist.

Aching to change the conversation, Jason exhaled deeply and said, "Do you want to go to Dairy Queen?"

Trent blinked at him. "What?"

"Dairy Queen. It's fifteen minutes down the road. I say we go to Dairy Queen, buy our kids some ice cream, and then come back this afternoon. Clay had to be sedated again, anyway. He'll be out for hours. And I think we could all use a little break. We know he's safe now."

Trent huffed. "Yeah, you know what? Let's do it, man. Let's go to fucking Dairy Queen."

Trent finished off his third packet of M&Ms, Jason shoved the rest of his Snickers bar in his mouth, and they left.


I don't love how this turned out, but I wanted to get it posted. Any mistakes are wholeheartedly my own. I gotta' keep reminding myself that this is a first draft, and it's okay if it's messy, but it's hard, lol.