Can't Ignore The Issue
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, then I don't own it
"Brock!"
"What?" Brock's head shot up from where he was dozing, sitting up to see Clay watching him with concern. He squinted up at Bravo Six, trying to figure out what he wanted. His head pounded, making it hard to think straight. It seemed that was not the first time the younger man had called his name.
"You good, man?"
Brock yawned, wiping at his watering eyes, "Yeah."
"The team's heading down to the mess hall to grab some chow."
"Oh," Brock hadn't even noticed the rest of the team leaving the room.
"You coming?"
Brock's stomach clenched at the thought of food. He tried to swallow the large amount of saliva pooling on his tongue. He waved off the offer to join them. Clay stood at the door, watching him for a moment longer before he followed the team out with a wane smile.
"Get some sleep. You look beat."
Brock kicked his legs over the arm of the community recliner. He laid his head back as he rubbed at his aching temples. The stress of the trial and Ray's imprisonment was finally crashing down on him. His brothers were free and by his side, but they were all stuck on a damn boat.
He yawned again, rubbing at his burning eyes. Clay was right, he needed some sleep.
He pushed himself up. His vision whitened out as his head swam. His knees buckled as his legs turned to cooked spaghetti. Grabbing behind him he gripped the chair's armrest to steady himself. He loosened his grip shaking out his cramping hand as he stumbled out of the room.
He no sooner exited the room before he was deterring his path to the head instead of bed. His shaky legs collapsed under him as he fell to his knee before the porcelain throne. He hugged its rim as he expelling the liquid demon in his gut. He laid his wet forehead against his forearm, looking down at his past meals clear back to VA Beach and possibly a kidney.
He groaned. He thought the last few days he'd been just suffering from recent stress or maybe bad ship food. He hadn't been stationed on a ship for years, but he remembered a transition period between land and sea. Not that he remembered it being this bad. He'd tried fighting it, but he had to finally admit his diagnosis to himself.
He was seasick. The guys would never let him live it down. A Navy Seal without sea legs. Hopefully, it would pass soon. If not, he could fake it until he could get to the ship store to get some meds. It had already been a few days. It couldn't get much worse. He'd be fine.
Dragging himself vertical he made his way to his bunk using the wall of the hated ship to keep himself upright. Crawling into bed he hoped the boys would keep the noise level down when they got back. He laid his aching head on his thin, inefficient pillow in his bunk and prayed for sleep to come.
Brock awoke in a cold sweat. with vomit bubbling up over his tongue, he leaned over the side of his bunk only for him to nearly nosedive to the floor when his world flipped on his axis.
"Brock, you good?" A sleepy voice called from the darkened room.
Swallowing hard against the dry heave, he croaked out. "Yeah."
He waited for someone to get up and flip on the lights and find him in his precarious situation. However, the room remained quiet as his brother, satisfied, went back to sleep. Brock should go back to sleep, too, but he didn't have the energy to pull himself back up from his half sprawled position. But the blood continued to rush to his head, aggregated his vertigo as the dark room spun behind his closed lids. Moving faster than he thought he could in his state, Brock was once again rushing to the head before he made the decision to do so. After getting reacquainted with the familiar toilet, he quietly weaved his way back to bed. Exhaustion overcame him before his stomach could continue its protest.
He found himself back in his recliner without really remembering how he got there. He'd gone through his morning routine without conscious thought, following behind his brothers without a word. The team assembled around him for breakfast to avoid the mess hall's morning rush. He tried to ignore the food smells around him as they flipped his stomach. He clenched his teeth against bile; his adam's apple bobbing at regular intervals as he swallowed down rising stomach acid.
The offers of food quickly turned into concerned glances as he tried to gain control of his body once more.
"Brock, what's wrong?" Trent shook his shoulder roughly.
"Headache," Brock refused to admit sea sickness.
"You take anything?" Brock gave a slight shake of his head to not aggravate his head or stomach.
Two chalking tablets were forced into his hand, "Here."
He eyed them wearily. He swallowed them dry before Trent had time to give him a water bottle. The thought of even water made him want to puke.
"That bad?" Trent's eyes crinkled in worry.
Brock forced a slight grin onto his lips, "Nah, just ready for it to go away."
"Let me know if it gets worse," Trent gave him a critical look before standing. He clapped him on the shoulder, softer this time, before handing him the water bottle, "Remember to drink plenty of fluids."
Brock nodded taking a small sip of water until Trent was appeased for the moment. He'd need to get a handle on things or Trent would have him in the med bay for a migraine or brain tumor or something. It would then get around the ship that a Navy SEAL went to a doctor for seasickness so that the whole boat could laugh at him. He'd never have a moment's peace for the two months he was here. Or longer. His brothers would never let him live it down either. He took another tentative pull of water. He even accepted the piece of toast offered by Clay. By the time breakfast was concluded he felt ready to crawl back into bed. But his stomach felt more settled, once it had something in it.
The next few days he was kept busy between his duties and frequent trips to the head. By the time he made it back to his bunk at night, he always felt worse than he felt the day before. His nights were spent quietly rushing to the head and stumbling back to bed to fall into a fitful sleep. At least until nausea woke him once more to start the cycle over again.
He flopped onto his bed at the end of the day with a quiet groan.
Not quiet enough.
"Stubborn ass," Trent grumbled, throwing a water bottle next to him.
Brock ignored him and the water bottle and pulled his bed curtain shut. Turning his head from the room as he curled up, as much as he could on the narrow bed, hugging his aching belly. Closing his eyes against the light leaking from the room, he tried to breathe through the nausea. He doesn't know how long he fights the losing battle, but his stomach does not want to be ignored and overridden.
He was out of bed before his body knew it. The dim room spun around him like a kaleidoscope before he made it two steps. The swirling colors abruptly blackened out. He didn't make it to the head, he dry heaved onto the cold ship floor.
"Enough is enough," Jason growled, flipping on the room light to slice into Brock's head. Bravo One's harsh tone doesn't match his gentle hands as he pulled Brock away from his own mess, setting him up against his bunk. He nodded to the team medic to take over the care of the stubborn patient.
"You finally ready to let me help?" Trent's hands palpitated his stomach and checked his eyes and throat. Brock could only offer a rough swallow and shaky nod. He didn't care anymore about teasing. He just wanted the room to stop spinning and his stomach to cease trying to turn itself inside out.
Brock answered Trent's questions the best he could with nods and shaking of his head. He was worried if he opened his mouth to answer, more than words would escape.
"He okay?" Jason asked, impatient of the status of his teammate.
Trent sat back with a little smirk, ticking off the worse of Brock's ailments, "A little dehydrated, probably pretty hungry, and a sore throat."
"He sick?" Clay wanted confirmation of his teammates well being as much as their team leader.
"So to speak," Trent let out a little chuckle.
"Kid just needs his sea legs," Metal grunted heading back to bed.
"A sailor that's seasick," Sonny chortled as he too headed back to his own bunk.
"Come on, Brock, back to bed," Trent told the blushing Bravo Five.
"Clay, will get you something for it in the morning?" Jason ordered clapping his shaky teammate on the shoulder as he practically tucked him into bed.
Clay let out a half-hearted pout from his place cleaning up Brock's mess on the floor, "The ship store's crazy in the morning."
"Yep, so you can grab my juice while your there." Trent grinned as he gave Brock one last once over as his pigheaded brother drifted into an exhausted slumber.
"We have water," Clay grumbled. He'd do anything for his brothers, not that he'd tell them that. He was no go-for. He placed a can next to Brock's bed in case he needed it. That way he wouldn't have to rush to the head again in his weakened and dizzy state.
"Water doesn't prevent scurvy." Trent could already taste the well-loved sweet fruit drink he refused to risk the ship store to get.
"He really okay?" Jason asked, hesitant to climb back into bed.
"He'll be fine," Trent vowed, even if he had to steal a helo to get him off this damn ship to make it so.
Brock woke to find the room empty. He dragged himself to his well-used recliner. His brothers watched him in concern but went back to whatever they were doing before he entered the room. He closed his eyes, thankful for their care and their restraint.
Clay entered in like a whirlwind, bearing gifts.
"Sunshine for you, Brocky boy," Jason pats his leg and ruffled his dark, sweat-soaked curls with a smile. Brock clutched his pop cans and meds close, ready for a day in the sun with his brothers.