Sorry for the big delay. Life got busy and I got a bit of writers block on this chapter. It was a terrible combination. I think because this is one of my favorite episodes I just couldn't seem to do it justice like I wanted to. But got something down eventually so hope you enjoy it.
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McG ran a hand up over his face trying to clear the sleep as he walked a well tread path down down the dark hallway. He had gotten up to use the restroom but now his stomach was growling and he figured while he was up it was worth a visit to the kitchen to score some of the leftovers from earlier. Cold pizza was kind of a thing at 2:00 am.
As he passed their CO's room, he was distracted from his quest for food by a soft groan that was barely distinguishable from behind the door. He froze in place, lingering in the doorway wanting to be sure Top was alright inside.
After a few moments of silence he was ready to chalk it up to a nightmare, something that was an all too common occurrence in their line of work. One that not even Top was immune to.
Just as he turned away new noises from within had him leaning back towards the door and listening intently to the movement within. He could just make out feet rushing across the floor followed by the bathroom door slamming open and another groan, then finally the telltale noise of someone emptying their stomach. The medic sighed heavily not needing to do much deducing to figure out what was going on within. Sometimes their leader was his own worst enemy and it appeared the events of the day had finally caught up to him.
McG doubted the rest of the team realized just how many hits Dalton had taken to get the job done today. Their leader was the first one to put himself in the line of fire and was then downplayed it whenever he got burned. It happened all to often for the team's taste but had also gotten to the point where it barely even raised eyebrows anymore.
Top had proven time and time again that he could push through just about anything when required to get the job done ….and today had certainly required.
Firstly, the director had been in the field with them and ensuring her safety had been of the utmost importance when the prison riot broke out.
Then, there had been the mission objective itself. Failure to obtain the intel in a timely fashion could have lead to another bombing and the loss of more innocent civilians...more kids...and more of their own fellow servicemen.
All combined, the stakes had been astronomically high and the cost of failure not one they were willing to pay again anytime soon.
So it really shouldn't have been surprising that Top had once again jeopardized his own health and safety to ensure he got them all out safely with the intel in hand.
Unfortunately the man wasn't as invincible as he seemed to think he was.
In fact when he first joined the man's team McG had quickly learned to catalogue potential injuries throughout the mission and to follow up on them later on. Top wasn't always impressed with his medic's thoroughness but McG could deal with a little annoyance if it meant the man stayed in one piece.
He shuddered as he thought back to how close they had come to losing him today and flashed back to the panicked moment when he'd crested the first flight of stairs and had caught sight of Adam on his back on the ground. For one awful moment he'd thought the worst and it had paralyzed him, making him thoroughly incapable of advancing past the landing where he stood.
It was only when Dalton stirred, feebly raising a struggling hand to his chest to check his vest, that McG's legs cooperated to climb the last set of stairs. Once at the top his own hand had been equally as shaky when he reached down to confirm for himself that the vest wasn't hiding some catastrophic damage underneath. The medic wasn't remotely ready to deal with another chest wound on another teammate. The feeling of the Elijah's blood pooling around his hands was still entirely too fresh.
This time the plate had managed to stop the bullet from penetrating. A remarkable feat considering that the presumed shooter lay less than 10 feet away. But regretfully even the best ballistic plating money could buy didn't stop the impact from hurting like hell.
McG knew from experience that catching a slug in the chest was like that was like getting hit by a truck. Your entire torso screamed in such intense pain that for a moment it was completely impossible to narrow down the source. For a moment you had know idea if the vest had actually done its job or if your vital organs had been punctured. It was only when you were still alive moments later and finally managed to take in a few agonizing breaths that you started to realize you weren't bleeding to death and that you had actually been "lucky."
Adam hadn't had a whole lot of time to process what had happened, or even to try to let the fire in his chest subside to a manageable level.
The voices is their comms had incessantly reminded them of the imminent taliban arrival.
Patricia was still being held hostage by a fanatical american traitor.
Oh, and there was the small matter of a couple thousand prisoners with nothing to lose who had been hunting them inside the prison walls they couldn't escape.
Just another day at the office right?
Time was not a luxury they had and even gasping for air on the prison floor, Top knew it. As soon as he could grit out words, he was ordering McG back to the director and insisting they continue on with the plan. So McG had unhappily hauled the man to his feet far too soon and
Firmly ignored the guttural grunt and the way Adam's face drained of any remaining colour.
The medic's stomach tensed anxiously as he turned his back on the injured man to go back downstairs. He couldn't stop himself from peering back over his shoulder as he descended and his last view was of his captain lurching haltingly away with the bucket of detergent swinging precariously in his grip.
The next time he saw Dalton, the man was barrelling into the laundry room, pausing briefly to assist the Director in navigating out of the rubble before climbing into the humvee. The few minutes apart had apparently been enough for him to put his game face back on and other than the bullet hole barely visible below his radio it was as if nothing had happened.
McG had crawled into the back of the Humvee with Nate, fingers applying and tightening the tourniquet without conscious thought. Instead his eyes had been locked on front seat scanning Top's movements as he settled into the seat with a mostly concealed grimace. His scrutiny hadn't gone unnoticed and Adam had caught his eye in the rearview mirror, and shaken his head quickly in dismissal. Now was not the time as they hightailed it away from the prison hoping to escape the incoming insurgents.
They hadn't.
Things had gotten even shittier after that which he hadn't thought was even still possible at the time.
Their flight from the taliban was short lived. They barely hit double digits of miles between them and the prison before the first of several explosions sent their humvee spiralling out of control. Luckily the armoured car did its job and they escaped the first blast relatively unscathed, pushing their way out coughing and choking from the smoky and sandy interior of the stalled humvee.
Once out of the vehicle though they were fully exposed. There was nowhere to run, and minimal cover in the barren Hellmand landscape. When they fired back at the Taliban soldiers surrounding them they weren't fighting to win, it was a desperate fight to stay alive until the air support could get to them. It was a disconcerting feeling for the team to not have the upperhand. And if that wasn't bad enough, a few short minutes into battle a well placed RPG blast hit home far too close for comfort and knocked their leader out of commission.
For the second time that day McG stared down at Dalton's unmoving form on the ground.
With heavy fire pinning them down all he could do was grab his dazed teammate's vest and drag him backwards to relative safety before resuming cover fire in an effort to keep the Taliban from overtaking their position. He snuck quick glances at the man out of the corner of his eye and was relieved to see him shake off some of the fog and begin to call out commands and redirect his team to counteract the Taliban movements.
"Punch right, Punch right."
McG followed orders, distancing himself from the Dalton and the Director as he reloaded a magazine.
From his new perch ledge he tried to focus on scanning and picking his targets, but found it increasingly difficult to tune out the terse tones in his ear explaining the exact timing of the drone and the air supports arrival.
"Birds away"
That meant 40 seconds to impact.
McG got the tactical maneuver. He understood why the Director had called for the strike to their location, because it was coincidentally the same location as all the bad guys. It was their only chance against the overwhelming numbers.
He had also heard and agreed with Hannah's assessment that the team was still far too close. That Noah was signing their death warrant when he relayed the order to the drone operator.
They needed to clear out if they had any chance at making a safe distance.
And yet...nobody was moving.
Looking towards the vehicle he could still see Top standing guard. Patricia next to him urgently working the prisoner determined to get the intel. Neither showed any signs of giving in.
30 seconds...
The entire team was still in the blast zone. Holding their positions. Waiting for the signal. Playing a very dangerous game of chicken.
His gaze travelled over to where Preach was crouched and the older man met his gaze grimly, evidently sharing the conclusion about what the director and Dalton were willing to do. His lips pulled into a flat smile, his expression serene and resolute and McG knew the other man's intention without a doubt.
They were leaving as a team or not at all.
20 seconds…
He agreed wholeheartedly, right until he shifted his focus to his left and studied the female member of his team. McG's resolve faltered and he tilted his head in the direction of safety. Urging her to go. Imploring her to save herself.
One of them should go at least, one of them should survive this.
He knew it shouldn't be different, but it was. His mom had raised him to say "yes ma'am" and to hold doors for women. In this moment, staring at the female sniper who was the little sister he never wanted, he was all for that old fashioned rule about women and children in the lifeboats first. Who said chivalry was dead?
But Jaz was Jaz. She rolled her eyes back at him, not budging an inch.
10 seconds….
Finally he heard it.
"Bagram, the food crates are rigged at Bagram"
They had done it. The intel they needed to save another base, another team from a fate like what they had suffered.
But there was no time for relief. Or for celebrating the fact that the trio was finally moving away from the humvee and the incoming strike.
Instead he peeled away from his position, slip sliding in the loose sand in his haste to join in behind them as they tried desperately to put distance between them and the target.
His mind continued to count down each second as each stride took the bedraggled crew one foot further away
5 seconds…
4 …
3….
His brain was still counting 2 even as he sailed through the air and landed hard in the dirt.
Apparently his count had been a little off.
The adrenaline rush from somehow surviving that kind of large scale blast had him slightly hysteric and he found that thought absurdly funny as he rolled over and spat out some sand from his mouth.
Technically they were on the winning side of the game of chicken they had just played, but barely. It sure didn't feel like it for a second.
But, when the dust settled it was clear that they had fared better than the other side.
If they were all sporting a few good bruises it was certainly preferable to the alternative. Remaining there as sitting ducks, in that canyon, surrounded by that many guns and rocket launchers... Suffice to say that if they were all a little sore tomorrow they would live with it compared to the alternative.
Top looked the worst for wear out of all of them as they staggered to their feet.
It was hardly surprising, 3 close proximity explosions in under an hour was bound to take its toll no matter how much you pretend otherwise. He had rallied after each one, returning to battle, coordinating the helo exfil, ensuring his team was safely on board and headed away from the danger zone. However you didn't have to be a medic to start to see some of the cracks in his facade as some of the longer term symptoms reared their head. The occasional staggering steps, the unfocused eyes, the slightly slurred speech, it all screamed of a concussion to anybody who was looking closely.
The other big clue that Top couldn't hide despite his best efforts was that his ears apparently continued to ring long after they escaped the desert and the last explosion. Everyone on the team caught onto his predicament pretty quickly on the plane ride back after he gave them some bizarre responses to their questions.
McG had initially been concerned the confused answers were a sign of a deteriorating head injury, maybe a possible brain bleed, but was relieved when he realized the man just simply couldn't hear the questions.
The team hadn't been able to resist having a little fun at his expense and even Patricia had gotten in the fun, asking Dalton if he thought they should change the BDUs to a hot pink leopard print pattern. Top had responded "yah, fine" much to everyone's great amusement.
Their CO had gamely played along, long past the point where he had to have figured out what was going on. McG wasn't sure if it was a stubborn refusal to admit weakness or just a willingness to be the butt of the joke if it helped his team unwind after a stressful mission, but either way Top had let it go on for a good ten minutes before he finally admitted that he couldn't actually hear them.
When they finally got back to base and he handed Nate off to base medical McG had been relieved to finally be able to focus on Adam without interruption and address some of his concerns from throughout the day.
He tracked the man to his quarters and entered the room without any preamble purposefully giving Adam no time to try to put on a brave face. Caught unprepared he found the man sitting on his bed, still in his fatigues, slumped forward with his head in his hands. When Top looked up in a delayed reaction to his entrance, the man's face was drawn and visibly grey under a coating of dirt that lined the creases in his neck and face.
Here, in private, every ounce of misery and fatigue was showing after the long, rough shitty day.
After a few quick tests, McG had officially diagnosed a concussion to which Dalton had just shrugged. It wasn't the first time and probably wouldn't be the last time in their line of work.
McG also made him remove his vest so he could check on his ribs. There were some impressive bruises forming but remarkably nothing seemed broken. The man had to be a mess of aches and pains, well beyond a little normal post mission soreness, but it would heal eventually. McG prescribed a couple days of taking it easy and Top agreed readily enough even though they both knew Adam had no intention of actually following through on it.
Case and point, as McG left the room he suggested that Top take a nap and that they would bring some food to him when dinner was ready so he didn't have to move. Adam nodded softly, evidently agreeing to a brief rest. His body would have overruled him anyways even if he tried to argue as the man was already half asleep on the bed before anything was said.
It was never that simple though with Top.
Just as McG flicked off the lights, and turned to leave the man in peace he caught the quiet but firm
"I'll be out when dinner is ready."
And rolled his eyes in exasperation.
Sure enough their stubborn leader had rallied after less than an hour later and joined the team and Patricia for a celebratory dinner. After a quick nap and a shower he looked almost human again and he put on an even better show.
He laughed and joked around easily throughout the rest of the night and the only signs he wasn't feeling a hundred percent was a minimal appetite and stiff posture in the otherwise comfortable chair. He stuck it out late into the evening, gamely participating in the rounds of storytelling and and visiting and only allowed himself to retire after the director called it for the night.
The man was a glutton for punishment. And he was paying for it now.
By the time McG entered the bathroom in his COs quarters Adam had already expelled most of the meager dinner he managed to eat. His body wasn't satisfied though and he was still hunched over the toilet, shoulders shuddering with great painful dry heaves, that were determined to bring up whatever was possibly left.
McG grimaced in sympathy. Adam's already bruised and battered torso really didn't need to be put through this ringer. In a perfect world head injuries would be considerate enough to make that kind of discrimination.
It's also unfortunate that there really isn't much he can do to help right now other than to let the concussion and the resulting nausea run its course.
McG wasn't sure whether Dalton was actually finished, or whether his white knuckled grip on the cold porcelain toilet seat just finally gave out, but either way the man sank back bonelessly on to the floor. He settling back heavily onto his knees with his head bowed and chest heaving.
The exhausted figure in front of him sways dangerously from side to side and tips forward towards the floor. Top's abdominal muscles are apparently on strike after being forced to violently expel his dinner and are not quite up to the task of steadying him at this moment.
Just as McG is about to reach out to try and stop the man from face planting, Adam braces himself, pressing one arm down onto his knees and the other wrapping firmly around his chest both in an effort to keep himself upright and to ease the pressure on his battered ribcage.
McG busies himself instead, finding a towel and wetting it to drape around the man's neck. That gets the first response from Top, a hoarse muttered moan of relief at the cold liquid against hot sweaty skin. His eyes stay firmly shut but he pulls his arm from his chest and reaches up to grab the cloth from his shoulder, tugging it slightly to the side in an effort to free enough fabric to reach up to wipe off his face.
McGs waits until the man regains a bit of his equilibrium and then heads out of the room to the kitchen. His quest for pizza is long forgotten and this time he is in search of other supplies.
When he comes back with a glass of water and his med kit he sees that Dalton has managed to settle into a slightly more comfortably position. He has sunk his butt to the floor and scooted backwards so that he is sitting on the bath mat with the cold tub pressed against his back as support.
He has also managed to detangle himself from his sweaty shirt and is sitting shirtless with his head tilted back and resting on the edge of the tub, McG can clearly see that the hours have not been kind to the developing bruise on his chest.
As he slept, traumatized tissue hemorrhaged tiny amounts of blood that created near perfect rings of colour ranging out from the central impact point. There are now varying shades of blues and purples so distinct that the patterning on the man's chest could practically be used a dart board if one was so inclined.
McG grimaces at the sight, easily able to imagine how painful it was to breathe right now, let alone move in any way.
He crouches down in front of the man, and is finally rewarded with eyes that cracked open to blearily study him. Adam's eyes are red rimmed from exhaustion and prolonged exposure to the Afghanistan sand. They struggled to focus on him for a second and the medic can practically see the way the world is spinning before them. Probably for that exact reason they quickly close again, throat swallowing thickly against the resulting wave of nausea.
He sighs and purposefully waits a second for the man to collect himself before starting his exam.
"Alright, you know the drill. Scale of one to ten how bad is the headache?"
Adam barely considers for a second before giving his standard answer.
"Four"
McG studies the pinched features in front of him, the tight lines where Dalton's eyes are screwed shut, the white line formed where his lips are pressing hard together. He is pretty confident in calling bullshit on that one.
"Liar."
It gets him a small upwards quirk of the lips that could almost be a part of a smile.
"How about the ribs"
"Peachy?"
The sarcasm is actually reassuring. He finds the presence of a person's normal personality and mannerisms to be a much more effective gauge of their cognitive status then asking them standard questions about the president or what day it is. If Dalton suddenly became the model patient and gave him cookie cutter answers and didn't try to downplay his injury then he might start to worry.
Here take these.
Adam clumsily palms the tylenol and dramamine and shoves it in his mouth without any sort of finesse. He doesn't look to see what he is taking, or protest that it's unnecessary, which gives McG a better gauge on where his headache is actually at.
Just to be sure he takes another round of vitals...blood pressure… pulse. They still haven't improved much but they also aren't any worse either so he is satisfied enough for now that there isn't anything more serious going on. It's just a concussion running its course. It sucks, but it's not critical.
He clears his throat, waiting until Adam cracks an eye open in response
"You done here? Want to try going back to bed?"
Dalton considered for a moment but apparently decides against attempting any additional movement at this point in time.
He gives a minute shake of his head, not even lifting it off the tub wall.
"Nope."
His eyes slide closed again, even that slight movement making his throat work hard against the riising stomach fluids trying to escape.
McG surveys the man, and gives a short nod that goes unseen. He pivots around and parks himself shoulder to shoulder with him, leaning back against the tub in a similar position to the man next to him.
The bath mat ends a few inches short of where he is sitting and the tile floor is cold and hard under his butt. It's a familiar discomfort reminiscent of too many bad nights spent this way after bad decisions in college. He shifts around for a few seconds trying to find a comfortable position that won't eventually lead to his legs going numb or his back seizing up. Soon enough he gives up and accepts that inevitable outcome.
There isn't much he can do medically to help Top out right now. But he can sit here and keep him company as he rides it out.
It's not much... but hopefully it's something.