This probably should have been split into two chapters, but most of the second half was already done and I wanted to go ahead and get it finished up. I blame Brock and Trent for the length, because they insisted on having a lot of feelings.

Brock's reprieve from the excruciating pain seems cruelly short.

They get several good hours in at a nice rate of speed before things take a turn. It feels like the decline happens remarkably quickly. One minute Brock's walking fast enough to almost be considered a jog and the next he wilts in front of them.

For the first time, Brock's the one who calls a halt. He steps out of line and leans against a tree, panting. His hand clutches to a low hanging branch, the other gripped tightly in his shirt.

"What's going on?" Trent asks as he reaches to gauge his temperature again, not surprised to find him burning up now.

"Head is spinning," Brock replies, bracing his back against the tree as he slides down to sit on the ground with a groan.

"Okay, take some time," Trent replies, joining him on the forest floor. He's concerned about how quickly things seem to be going downhill. He had begun to let himself hope that Brock's strength would hold out as long as it took to get them out, but that clearly isn't going to be the case.

"Thirsty."

That surprises Trent. Brock hasn't had interest in taking anything in by mouth since all of this started, and their attempts at having him drink haven't gone well so far. Since then, the most he's been able to do is moisten his mouth and then spit.

"Want to try?" Trent asks. He's not sure it can really hurt at this point. Brock's already severely dehydrated. And surgery is far enough away that his stomach will clear before they reach that point anyway. If he can manage to keep some fever reducers and antibiotics down, it should actually help.

Brock simply nods, and Trent decides to trust his friend and what he thinks his body needs. He lets him take a few sips and then cuts him off.

Brock sits quietly catching his breath, head resting against the tree behind him with his eyes closed. It offers Trent an opportunity to study him in a way Brock wouldn't normally tolerate. There's a furrow between his brows and the pain lines have returned to the area around his eyes. His mouth is shut but his lips are quivering faintly, like he's fighting off the chatter that wants to take over – whether from the pain or the fever, Trent's not sure. He's propping himself up with one hand in the dirt while the other rests protectively across his middle, fingers picking restlessly at the seam of his shirt. His right leg is pulled up, but the left rocks back and forth, stretched out in front of him. Trent knows Brock's normal body language well enough to realize the movement is an attempted counterbalance to the discomfort. It's much like Jason's constant fidgeting, but coming from Brock, it feels wrong.

"Do you need to be done?" Trent asks, a part of him starting to hope he'll say yes. "I can dose you up and we can take over – get you out of here. You've already done more than I expected."

"Not yet."

It's stated simply, and it's the first real acknowledgement from the younger man that he knows he isn't going to be able to walk all the way out under his own steam.

"Brock, I need you to tell me when –"

"I know. I will," he says, turning his head to look at Trent. "Not yet."

He says it with emotion and conviction, and his eyes say please, trust me.

So Trent does.

When they start back up again, they're moving more slowly. But Trent feels like they've come to an agreement of sorts. That the weight of the decisions that need to be made don't rest exclusively on him. He trusts that Brock is going to know when he's reached his limit. And that gives him a new sense of resolve and determination.

"Can you cut it out?" Clay asks, from where he's now following just behind Brock opposite of Trent, ready to support him as needed. "If it comes to that?"

Trent nearly chokes on his tongue when he realizes what their rookie is suggesting.

"No, absolutely not," he says, imagining the horror of trying to perform surgery like that deep in the jungle. "And it doesn't matter anymore. His actual appendix is the least of his troubles now. It's ruptured. That means bacteria is spreading inside. He's already in bad shape, but if that spreads to his blood…"

He stops himself because he doesn't want to think about it. He just wants to keep moving.

#####

They reach an area where they can get a good signal for their sat phone. Brock lies down to rest while Trent steps away to make the call and some of the others filter water from a nearby stream to replenish their dwindling supply.

Monero answers the call and Trent explains the situation in as much detail as he can manage, not wanting to miss anything that might be important for the medical advisors. It only takes a few minutes for the return call to come in, and it's Davis this time, sounding concerned but focused. Hearing her voice tethers Trent back to the real world. It reminds him there's more out there than this damn jungle they're trapped in.

"Get him out as quickly as you can," is the simple instruction.

Trent's torn between feeling grateful that they're on the right path, and anger that there's nothing else he can do – some bit of wisdom or instruction he hadn't thought of.

When he helps Brock to his feet to continue on, he can tell there isn't much left in him. He staggers, and if Trent and Sonny weren't there to hold him upright, he'd probably topple over.

"Little more," Brock says under his breath as he works to steady his balance.

Trent isn't sure if he means there's a little more to go or that he can continue on for a little more, but he lets it go. He and Sonny follow along at the slow pace Brock is able to maintain, hands ready to reach out and steady him each time he falters.

#####

Darkness is just beginning to fall when Brock finally stumbles for the last time.

"Come on, buddy," Sonny encourages, just as he's done for the last few hours. "You've got this."

"I can't," is the quiet reply from where Brock is hunched over, arms shaking and hands digging painfully into his knees.

Trent crouches down in front of him. He doesn't need to take his temperature to know his fever is raging. He can see it in the pallor of his skin, only broken by the high spots of color on his cheeks. His teeth are chattering, and there's a glassy sheen to his eyes that makes him look like he's five years old.

"Done?" Trent asks, and Brock nods his head without hesitation.

And that's it.

Trent instructs the rest of the guys to put a litter together as he gently helps Brock down to the ground.

"Sorry," the younger man says, as Trent reaches for his wrist, not surprised to find his increased heart rate.

"Nothing to be sorry for. Let us take over now, okay?"

"K," he says quietly and closes his eyes as Trent pulls another auto-injector from his pack.

The next few moments are spent getting Brock settled, and then the rest of them take a couple minutes to hydrate and eat to gather some strength. It's quiet. They're all exhausted, and the task ahead of them seems impossibly daunting. They have to carry their sick friend, in the dark, knowing that the amount of time it takes them is directly correlated to his chances of recovery. But even facing that challenge, Trent can see reflected in his teammates' eyes the absolute determination he feels within himself. They'll do whatever they need to do to give Brock the best chance possible.

#####

The night feels longer than any Trent has experienced before. They fall into a rotation – two carrying the litter at a time, switching every 30 minutes or so.

Trent's arms feel like jelly, and he can see the others shaking as they work to carry their brother to safety. But no one ever complains. Instead, they encourage each other on steadily.

Brock is in and out of consciousness, and Trent keeps him drugged up enough so he isn't in excruciating pain. Giving him that break from the agony makes every bit of effort they have to put into carrying him completely worth it.

They continue on, mostly quietly, completely focused on the task at hand.

But the quiet allows Trent too much time to think about everything that could still go wrong. He wonders if he's done enough. If there's something he missed along the way.

Even if they got Brock to a hospital right now, is it too late? Is the damage already done? Will he just become septic and die after everything they've tried to do for him? After everything he did to help himself?

And what would life be like without Brock Reynolds in it?

It's too hard to imagine.

This man who he's grown so close to over a relatively short period of time is more of a brother than a blood brother could ever be. His calm, steady presence is something Trent has grown accustomed to - something he takes great comfort in. It's a nice counterbalance to the egos and emotions that often run high among the team.

Trent wonders if they've taken Brock for granted. Not his actual ability – they all know how talented he is. But his even temper and self-sufficiency mean he might sometimes be overlooked. They all know a hungry Sonny is a bear to be around, so they make sure he's fed. Ray grumbles if his opinion isn't taken into consideration, so they carve out the time to hear him out.

Trent can't think of a similar scenario where they always make sure Brock is happy. The squeaky wheel on Bravo gets the grease, and Brock is never a squeaky wheel.

Trent decides right then to do a better job of reminding Brock how important he is, not letting everything else get in the way of thanking Bravo 5 for being a good teammate and friend.

The thought of losing that relationship is unbearable. It can't happen. Brock won't be taken out by something as simple and mundane as appendicitis. He's endured horrific war zones and impossible firefights. He's dodged bullets and bombs and falling buildings. His own body isn't going to be the thing that kills him. Trent refuses to allow it. He felt pressure before, but that was nothing compared to now – they're in the final stretch and Brock is relying on Trent completely to deliver him to the help he needs.

"Hey, kid. You okay?" Jason's concerned voice filters back from where their team leader is carrying the head of the litter.

Trent's steps falter. He can't handle something being wrong with Clay right now. They're already stretched too thin.

But when he looks up, Jason isn't talking to Clay. He's talking to Brock.

The younger man is moving restlessly on the litter and Trent turns on his headlamp to get a good look at him. His eyes are wide, darting around in the dark. His hair is plastered to his forehead, but he seems to have stopped actively sweating.

"Are we home now?" he asks, and there's a weak shudder to his voice that raises the hair on Trent's arms.

The fever is clearly surging through him and his pulse flutters rapidly beneath Trent's fingers when he gently takes hold of his wrist.

"Not yet," Jason answers soothingly. "We're on our way. We'll be there soon."

"Cerberus," Brock suddenly says, glazed eyes searching around the area but not actually focusing on anything. "Where is he?"

"He's not here with us, Brock." Sonny replies, and Trent can hear a shake in his voice as well. "He got to take this one off, the lucky bastard. He's back at the kennel in VaBeach. Probably lazing around and dreaming of chasing down those nasty bad guys."

"Oh," Brock says, and his voice is small and soaked with confusion. "I don't know…"

"It's okay," Trent assures, sweeping the curls away from his eyes. "Don't worry about it. Just rest for now."

And he does, drifting off again.

"Damn it," Jason grumbles. "We shouldn't even be here!"

Trent can't argue with that. 'Unfair' isn't a word he uses very often, especially related to what they do. By virtue of signing up for this life they all know they're taking extraordinary risks. And he carries the philosophy that sometimes shit happens and there's not much you can do about it – the control comes in how you react to a situation.

But this isn't something they ever could have expected, and Brock doesn't deserve any of it. The op never should have been assigned to them in the first place. And now they're forced to watch their brother suffer – pain visible in every inch of his body, fear lurking underneath his quiet strength, his confusion and vulnerability evident as the infection and exhaustion take hold. Everything about it is so utterly wrong, and there's nothing they can do to make it better for him.

Trent wants to shout to the whole world how unfair all of this is. But it wouldn't do any good, so he does the only thing he can do. He encourages his team to keep moving, with the single-minded objective of saving their friend.

#####

Time blurs. Trent's entire focus becomes about monitoring Brock and putting one foot in front of the other. The whole team seems to pick up the pace as the night wears on, knowing that they're so close, but also running out of time.

When the sun starts to rise, they're nearly there. Distance can finally be measured in miles instead of tens of miles. Jason asks if they need a break, but everyone insists on continuing on. They end is in sight.

They're able to call in again to give a status and location update, but they never stop moving. Brock is completely asleep now. He has been for hours. From exhaustion? Infection? The drugs? Something worse? Trent's not sure, and he doesn't allow himself time to dwell on it. His friend is breathing, and that's really all he can ask for right now. There's nothing else he can do for him.

Trent thinks Blackburn and Davis are a mirage at first when they appear through the trees in the distance, less than a mile from their exit. He blinks his eyes several times to clear the image away, but they seem to be real, moving toward the guys as they continue to trudge onward.

Nothing is said as they approach. The five healthy members of Bravo team are too drained to even form words.

"Put these on," Blackburn says. He drops a duffel overflowing with civilian clothes at their feet as they gently set the litter down. "You're a group of American adventure hikers. We have documents to back it up. The ambulance will be here in a few minutes."

Trent hadn't even considered how they were going to explain their presence in Brazil. Brock needs surgery urgently. There's no time to fly him back to the states, so a local hospital is required. As is so often the case, Trent's forever grateful to Blackburn and Davis for always being mindful of the details and handling things with speed and efficiency.

The team works together with shaking arms to get Brock changed first. Trent can see the alarm on Eric and Lisa's faces when they look at their ill teammate. He imagines he'd have the same reaction if he was looking at him for the first time. Brock looks like he's on death's door, and Trent fights down a sudden surge of shame at delivering him to Blackburn in such a condition.

"Go," Trent says as soon as they're done getting Brock ready, "take him."

"You sure?" Eric asks, realizing that means none of the guys will be able to travel with him to the hospital.

"Yeah, go," Trent says with regret. He knows Brock can't spare the time it's going to take them to get changed. And they're so exhausted, they're moving too slowly at this point. "Please hurry. He needs every minute he can get."

The remaining Bravo members collapse on the ground as they watch Blackburn and Davis carry their teammate away. They take several minutes to just breathe, some of them sitting and some completely sprawled out. As happy as Trent is that Brock is on his way to the help he so desperately needs, it feels like a limb has been ripped away. The team would never be the same without Bravo 5.

Time passes. Maybe five minutes, maybe fifteen.

Jason eventually groans and shifts up to his knees.

"Okay, let's get moving," he says, rallying the group. "We need to be there for our boy."

#####
#####

Brock floats.

He knows he has a body, but he doesn't really feel it. And he's perfectly okay with that.

The absence of sensation – of pain – is euphoric.

He lets full awareness wash over him slowly, in its own time. He intuitively knows he shouldn't be in any hurry to lose the pleasant drug haze that envelops his brain.

As sounds and smells begin to take shape around him, he has the distinct feeling that this isn't the first time he's come close to scratching the surface of consciousness – that he may have even breached it a couple times.

He wants to sink back into the darkness but his mind won't cooperate, doggedly becoming aware of life around him – a distant conversation, the squeak of rubber on linoleum, the unnatural smell of plastic mixed with disinfectant, a tickle under his nose, the tightening squeeze of a cuff around his arm. It all drags him inexorably to wakefulness.

He finally gives in to the inevitable and cracks his eyes open, staring at the pale blue wall in front of him as they adjust to the light. He's not sure how much time passes before he summons the energy to look around the space. It's fairly typical as far as hospital rooms go, but it's the other occupants that draw his attention.

Trent is curled in a chair immediately to his left, Clay and Sonny on a couch/bed hybrid in the corner across the room. They're all sound asleep. There's an interior hallway window to his left, and through the blinds he can see Jason and Ray talking animatedly to a man wearing blue scrubs.

He wonders how long they've all been here. They're in civilian clothing and seem to be clean. And they're clearly exhausted. Brock doesn't remember how he got to the hospital. Or how he got out of the jungle. But he knows these men – his brothers – made it happen.

The blood pressure cuff tightens again, drawing his attention down to his body, where there are IV lines in each of his arms. He's in a hospital gown and the sheets are pulled up to his chest. He's in no hurry to take a peek at the damage they're covering. He's sure he'll feel it soon enough.

There's a small stuffed dog tucked into the crook of his right elbow. It's a pink poodle with a tuft of rainbow hair atop its head and it's wearing a little hospital gown with a butterfly print. Cerberus would be offended, and Brock knows he'll greatly enjoy the 30 seconds it will take him to rip it to shreds. An unexpected chuckle bursts forth at the thought, and he regrets it immediately as he feels the first twinge in his belly.

"Hey," comes Trent's sleep-gruff voice as he unfolds with a groan.

When Brock connects with his gaze, he's momentarily taken aback. The man looks wrecked. There are bags beneath his blood-shot eyes, and he looks like he's aged 10 years. It reminds him of when Nate died.

Brock forces a small smile, wanting to wipe the concerned frown from Trent's face.

"How do you feel?" the medic asks.

"Amazing," Brock replies, smile completely genuine now.

Trent coughs out a laugh. "Yeah, well, I don't think that's gonna last. They spent a lot of time in there cleaning you out. You have a significant recovery ahead of you."

"Don't think it can be any worse than being out there."

Brock feels his anxiety pick up just thinking about the torturous ordeal that was the last few days. The unrelenting flames that licked up through his body. Trying to relax around the pain so he could keep going – so it wouldn't consume him completely. The feeling of being completely stuck – trapped. Knowing he had hours of torment ahead of him without an end in sight. That does things to your mind, and it's a trauma he won't be able to forget any time soon.

It's over, he reminds himself, before the memories have a chance to sweep him away.

"Thanks for getting me out," he finally says.

"You got yourself out," Trent replies, leaning forward in the chair. "Seriously Brock, you were… incredible. I don't think I could have held out that long. You saved yourself."

Brock doesn't know what to say to that, so his eyes flit away to the other side of the room where Clay and Sonny are still sleeping. He remembers flashes of them from out in the jungle - worried eyes and encouraging words and physical support when he faltered.

He shifts his gaze out the window again to see Jason and Ray are now talking quietly together, leaning heavily against the wall.

"Is Jason in trouble?" he asks, suddenly remembering why they were in Brazil in the first place. "For not finishing the op?"

"No, of course not," Trent scoffs. "Do you really think they'd expect him to leave you out there like that? Or that he would even if they did? Especially on a throwaway run?"

Of course Brock doesn't actually think Jason would leave him out there in that condition. But he also remembers the heightened panic he felt when he realized he was going to be responsible for a failed mission. It clouded his mind, made him question everything. It's hard to just wash that away.

Trent clearly takes his silence as insecurity, and he leans even closer to the bed, meeting Brock's eyes directly.

"You know Jason Hayes better than that," he says firmly, almost angrily. "You know all of us better than that. There were no other lives at stake, Brock. Only yours. That decision was a no brainer."

Brock nods. "I'm just sorry you guys had to go through all of that to get me out. It couldn't have been easy."

Trent leans back again with a heavy sigh.

"Let me ask you something," he says. "If the roles had been reversed - if it had been Jason this happened to? Or Clay? Or me? Would you have done the same for us?"

"Of course!"

"I know you would. So why do you question us doing it for you? Why is it different?"

Brock doesn't have an answer for that, and he doesn't think Trent expects one. He gives a slight nod in acknowledgement anyway. He knows it doesn't make sense. And if he can't understand it about himself, he can't expect Trent to.

They sit in a comfortable quiet for a few minutes and Brock is just starting to drift off when Trent speaks up again.

"I wish you'd said something sooner."

Brock's sluggish brain works to catch up.

"Did you know?" Trent questions when he doesn't say anything. "That it was serious?"

"No."

"Brock…"

"No," he says as firmly as he can. "I thought I was just sick. A stomach bug or something. Honest."

"Okay, I believe you," Trent says, scrubbing his hand down his face. "When I think about what could have happened if we'd kept going – if we didn't realize what was going on and turn back when we did…" His voice fades out and his eyes go a bit distant. They look haunted, and Brock starts to truly realize how traumatic all of this was for his friend as well. Probably for the others too. He was so overwhelmed by his own misery at the time that he didn't really register it, but he does know they were there for him every step of the way, desperately concerned about his wellbeing. And he knows how he would have felt if it had been one of his brothers in trouble.

"Sorry," he says automatically, and he regrets it immediately. He knows it isn't what Trent wants to hear.

"Stop it," is the expected reply. "I don't ever want to hear you apologize for being sick. Or injured. Got that? It's not your fault."

Trent seems frustrated, and Brock has to bite back another apology. Before he can come up with something to say instead, Trent's continuing on.

"And you know what? Even if it was your fault – if you did something stupid or made a wrong move and got hurt? It wouldn't make a difference. I'd still do everything possible to help you. The others would too."

"Well, it is your job," Brock says with a half-smile.

"Don't do that," Trent shakes his head, and he looks sad. "Don't try to diminish your importance to me. You aren't allowed to do that. Sure it's my job, but more importantly, it's about you. You were in pain and in trouble, and I couldn't do anything about it and…"

The sentence fades away, and Trent looks like he's struggling to find the right words.

He runs his hands through his hair with a low growl before continuing. "Do you have any idea how scared I was out there? How it felt to know you needed help so badly and I couldn't get it for you? It's the most helpless I've ever felt."

He leans forward again, pinning Brock with his eyes.

"That's not just because you're my teammate and it's my job to look after you. It's because you're my friend and I love you. Seeing you in pain like that hurt me physically, and making you continue on through it is probably the hardest thing I've ever had to force myself to do."

Brock feels a lump rapidly forming in his throat and he has to blink to keep the rising emotion contained. Trent has never spoken quite so openly and affectionately with him before – it's just not the way any of them operate – and Brock is incredibly touched.

"And I know all of that is true for the other guys too," Trent continues. "Man, I thought Sonny was gonna strangle me at one point for not giving you meds, because he couldn't stand seeing you like that either."

As if on cue, the Texan snuffles from where he's still asleep on the couch in the corner, causing both men to chuckle.

It breaks the tension slightly and Trent sighs, sinking fully back into the chair again.

"Please don't discount that level of caring," he says, and it sounds like a plea. "It isn't fair to me. Or them. But mostly, it isn't fair to you. It robs you of the absolute knowledge that we'll be there with you through anything. Have your back always. That you're an essential and vital part of this team. This family."

"I know that," Brock says. "I do."

It's true, and he has a hard time explaining where his insecurity comes from. "I just doubt myself sometimes," he says quietly.

"I know you do. And I know this team can be a lot, and that can be hard. Sometimes it is for me too. But you matter, Brock. More than you'll ever know. I'm not sure we've all done a good enough job of showing you that. That's on us, and it's going to change."

Brock's not sure that's true. The last few days did a damn good job of showing him how much he means to these men. But he didn't need that proof. He already knew. They've shown him repeatedly since the moment he became a part of Bravo. He just needs to let himself accept it, and that's something he commits to working on.

"We all carry each other," Trent says. "Whether that's literally or figuratively. It's how we work. Why we work. Every piece is necessary and equal."

Brock nods on a yawn, "I know." He feels his eyes starting to droop.

"Get some sleep. We aren't going anywhere. Jason made it clear to Blackburn we aren't flying out until you can too."

Brock smiles. It doesn't surprise him one bit.

Before he lets his eyes close, he takes one more look around the room. He thinks about his friends and their determination to be present for him, even if they're tired and uncomfortable and just want to go home. Knowing they'll be here with him for as long as it takes fills him with warmth, and he lets himself drift away on the pleasant feeling.

Sometimes Brock feels like he's invisible. But only sometimes.

Because most of the time he feels like he's the luckiest guy in the world.

If you got this far, thank you!

I know a 13,000+ word story focused on Brock and Trent and barely featuring the other guys isn't exactly the way to get a lot of readers in this fandom. But I have received some truly amazing comments on this story, and I appreciate every one of you who took the time to let me know you were here reading. Thanks so much! ❤️

And now, finally, back to finishing up You Will Be Found.