Dressed in full gear, rifle cradled easily in one arm, Dutch trudged into the camp with a wide grin. "Hey all," He greeted affably, not at all put out over being woken up in the middle of the night to hike out and retrieve a prisoner – after all, it was kinda his job. "What we got here?" Seth and Matt were on his heels, two men from Support's Tier Three Team behind them.
"Took your sweet time." Sonny retorted, tone a mixture between accusation and annoyance, in way of greeting. "Ya stop and smell the roses along the way?"
Unperturbed, Dutch shrugged. "Eh. Wasn't told there was any urgency. Hey Spenser, you go swimming?"
"No." He snapped crossly. "I was dropped." Dressed in a long-sleeve Henley and jeans, he was sitting on Jason's sleeping bag, his own around his shoulders, the small towel in his hands used to wipe at drips from his hair that wasn't drying from the warmth of the fire. "By an asshole."
"You wiggle too damn much." Sonny accused sourly, "Told you to hold still."
"I couldn't breathe Sonny." Clay pushed to his feet, went to Dutch who was holding an arm out, sought and received the hearty hug being offered. Somehow, it was comfort he needed. He'd been told he'd be returning to base with Dutch and he was ready to go. He would have walked back on his own, had Jason not forbidden it. Hell, his boss had looked so incredulous when Clay had suggested it, he'd clacked his mouth shut and sat right down where he'd stood without another word.
He'd never been on a team before where going off on his own had been met with disproval.
"You good?" holding Clay's hands rebandaged in dry ace wraps, Dutch's voice was warm with genuine concern. "This serious? You hurt anywhere? Trent sent some Tramadol, you need it." Clay shook his head, Dutch nodded, accepted his decision, didn't push. "Davis didn't have much detail," he shot a look of reprove at Sonny, "attacked in your sleeping bag?"
Jason stood near the prisoner who had regained consciousness but refused to talk, watched the easy camaraderie between his rookie and his Support Team Leader and came to the conclusion, he didn't like it.
When the hell had that gone and happened?
Clay was always guarded and defensive with the men on Bravo, never laid back and easy going like he was with Dutch, Randy and the rest of Support's Tier Two team; those men each selected for their unique abilities.
"Don't go pissing him off." Sonny warned, earned a scowl, look of disgust from Clay and a muttered – 'fuck you'. "He'll go and crack your skull."
"That sounds more like something Trent would do." Seth laughed. "You sure you're okay Clay?" He waved a hand over the built-up fire, waggled two fingers to count the sleeping bags Clay had been huddled on and into, motioned at his curled, wet hair. "Thought the fire would dry those curls."
"Water was cold." Since his hands were bandaged, Sonny had knelt beside him at the creek to splash water in his face, and when Clay had started coughing, choking on smoke that wasn't there, Sonny hadn't been prepared to catch him, and by the time he'd managed to, he'd ended up dropping Clay face first into the cold water. "And no one's skull's been cracked," he paused, cast a meaningful glance over, "Yet."
"Woo-hoo, that a threat?" Sonny demanded. "Come at me, I'd love to see you try, gimme all you got."
Matt tossed him a look of contempt, turned his attention to Clay. "You went swimming?" He questioned. "Thought you tumbled through the fire?"
"Not by choice." Clay muttered, paused. Fire? Oh, right. "Did, I'm okay."
"Yeah, 'bout that." Dutch found Jason, gave him a look. "Care to explain?"
Explain what? How his rookie got attacked in their camp while he was within shouting distance? How his highly-trained, capable 3rd in command managed to let the kid fall into cold water? How he'd decided they could take care of Clay and had failed twice?
"He was wearing his cammo's." Jason supplied shortly. Everyone knew their cammo's were fire retardant.
"Ask Sonny." Clay began to gather his belongings when he really preferred to curl up in his sleeping bag near the fire and go to sleep. "Prick." He was on his knees, stuffing a comb, toothpaste, soap bottles of shampoo, mouthwash and whatnot into his backpack.
"Hey, here now." Sonny protested adamantly; finally aware Clay wasn't teasing. "I told you not to lean so far over the water but you had to go coughing up your other lung and when I tried to grab you, you had a sporadic choking fit. Not my fault you ended up in the water."
Dutch had meant why Clay had been alone to be attacked, but apparently, everyone was sore about the dunk in the creek.
Yeah, it was, Clay thought sourly, 'cause if you'd held onto me, you would have caught me before I lost my balance and fell in….but yeah, that wudda required you noticing I was shaky and having trouble kneeling steadily on my knees, so whatever…..
"Gonna revoke your baby-sitting privileges," Matt joked. Sonny flipped him off as the gunner picked up Clay's backpack and handed it to Dutch. "He's got it Clay, you can leave the rest."
"Hey, I fished his ass outta the water." Sonny pointed out defensively, stifling his guilt the kid had fallen in the cold creek. "Didn't let the current sweep him away, now did I? Eh?"
"It's a creek Sonny." Clay rolled his eyes. "You waded in to get me, water reached, what, your ankles?"
"Shins." Sonny corrected, turned his head so no one would notice the flush creeping up his neck. True, his beard hid his face, but still…..He cleared his throat, "I don't need your sarcasm. I picked you up, carried you to shore, I don't get thanks for that?" The water, though not deep, had been cold and though Clay had struggled to his feet without any help from Sonny, he'd been soaked. Sure, they each had a change of clothing, but even so, the kid was chilled through.
"Shore?" Seth repeated dubiously. "Of a creek?"
"Carried him?" Matt added, sounded just as doubtful as Seth. "You sure about that Sonny?"
"Bank then, whatever." Sonny huffed impatiently, waved it off. "Christ," He hadn't paid much attention to Clay's harsh coughing, hadn't noticed the kid was unsteady and having trouble breathing, hadn't been at all prepared for him to face plant in the creek. "And yeah, I helped him."
Clay hesitated, glanced at Jason, unsure whether he should be listening to Matt who had no authority to give orders, but his boss nodded permission so he accepted Seth's hand, got to his feet.
"You can drown in a creek you know." Sonny pointed out. "And you fell in on your face."
"Didn't knock myself out." Clay snapped. "Your help wasn't required."
Sonny made a face, bit his tongue. True or not, he certainly didn't need, nor like, that being thrown in his face. Yeah, his help wasn't wanted, but Dutch's was.
Dutch took the backpack, adjusted the straps, let Matt held guide his arms through them, hoisted it onto his back. He hadn't brought one of his own, he was returning to base, not camping out.
Jason gave instructions to the two men who had accompanied Dutch and would be escorting the prisoner back to base while Dutch kept an eye on Clay.
"He okay?" Dutch asked Jason as Clay sloppily rolled his sleeping bag into a small bundle, awkwardly buckled the strap that would keep it rolled, slung it over his shoulder.
"Stopped coughing," finally, Jason sighed. "Dunno, yeah guess so."
Sonny, face still flushed with guilt, stared at the sky. Once Clay had been placed on dry ground, he'd remained on his knees, spitting water, coughing and choking, gagging. Sonny hadn't liked that, but hadn't known what to do about it. Jason had finally come, walked Clay back to the warmth of the built-up fire where he'd helped him change into dry clothes, rewrapped his hands, offered him hot coffee to drink.
"Doc landed a while ago." Seth was telling Clay who looked perplexed. "Guess Trent didn't take kindly to the infirmary doctor telling him he didn't need to know what was wrong with you. Took Blackburn to get answers."
Clay's face fell. Great, just great. What kind of trouble was he in now?
"Hey, all's good." Matt said quickly. "Seth just meant, when Dutch gets you back to base, Doc will be taking care of you, that's a good thing, okay?"
"Sure." Clay yawned. Doc, huh? Oh. Well, then. Ugh.
"Wish I could tell you, you get to go to bed, we get back," Dutch began as Clay rubbed his eyes with the back of his knuckles, stifled a curse. Right, the kid had burned his hands – he shot a glare Sonny's way who flipped him off – yet another mark against the mouthy Texan.
The bandages did not feel at all soft against red, smoked-sore eyes and Clay grimaced, bit his lip, stared balefully at his traitorous hands. They just had to go and catch him by surprise by flaring up now, in sudden pain, in front of everyone.
"But hate to tell you, ain't gonna happen. Gotta see Doc, then go debrief." Dutch finished, smiled ruefully at Clay's discomfort. "Sorry kid."
"I'm good." Clay insisted. He was damp, cold, his hair wouldn't dry. "Why doesn't anyone ever believe me?" His throat hurt, his chest ached, his hands stung, but hey, yeah, he was right peachy!
"Kid," Dutch clasped Clay's collarbone, gave it an affectionate squeeze. "Know when Cerb gets a new squeak? He carries it everywhere he goes, won't let it outta his sight?"
"I'm a toy?" Clay responded despondently, stumbled, regained his balance with a steady arm from Dutch. He fought the urge to lay his head against Dutch's shoulder. That just wouldn't do!
Jason stood across the fire, arms crossed, glowering.
Sonny, arms crossed, stood glaring.
The two sailors shifted their weight impatiently, stared at the ground.
Seth slouched against a tree, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Matt paced in circles.
"Yeah kid," Dutch grinned. "And Trent ain't letting go anytime soon."
"Great." Clay hunched a shoulder. "Yay."
"Seth!" Jason barked. He'd had quite enough of watching his rookie bond with the men from Support, time to break it up. "Go get eyes on the site, Sonny, walk him through it. Dutch?" Confident his orders would be carried out immediately, he turned, lowered his voice, "Call me when he's in Trent's hands. I'll get with Doc later, by then Mandy should've gotten somewhere with him." He jerked a thumb in the direction of the prisoner who was on his feet, hands tied behind his back, a hand on either elbow by his two escorts.
"Right you are." Dutch agreed. "Round 'em up boys. Clay, you ready? Let's get you back."
()()()
By the time they reached their transportation, Clay was truly lagging. The hike out of the woods had been set at a pace due to Clay's lethargy, not the prisoner's injuries.
He and Dutch trailed behind the men walking the prisoner between them, and though Clay did cough a time or two, Dutch failed to see any of the 'sporadic choking' Sonny had claimed caused his plunge into the creek, with 'a current so strong, Sonny had had to carry him to shore'.
BahWahHah!
He thought it more likely Sonny hadn't been paying attention, hadn't taken Clay's condition as serious, had been put out he'd been tasked with the chore of helping Clay hadn't been prepared for the kid to fall in the water, and there was absolutely no excuse for that to have happened.
Sonny had known about the attack and winner of fight or not, Clay had been rattled, shaken from nearly being killed while asleep in his sleeping bag, supposedly protected by his teammates, and Sonny should have acknowledged that.
He cast yet another glance sideways; Clay trudged on, head down, hands held up and out. Most likely, letting them hang by his sides made them throb. Dutch didn't think the burns were serious, or Jason would have told him.
Hell, Jason would have demanded – and received, the big boss was Blackburn after all – medical transport for the kid if he'd felt the burns had demanded more care than he'd been able to give at the campsite.
Dutch shook those thoughts off, turned his ire back on Sonny who should have kept a close on the kid, been ready to catch him, should he falter. 'Cause, Christ-a-mighty, Clay had just seen a doctor, like, what – twice? and just been in, you know, the infirmary?
If Jason didn't set Sonny to running, he'd somehow see to it himself.
They finally reached the Humvee and Dutch took the wheel, Clay riding shotgun. By the time Dutch turned the Humvee around and the heat kicked in, the kid was asleep.
***000***
Having received confirmation from Dutch that they were less than 10 minutes out, Doc took himself off to the infirmary, Trent trailing along. He strode into the small but adequate medical facility like he had every right to be there, and every intention of taking charge.
The staff, however, felt very differently.
"Sir?"
Eric glanced up, massaged his forehead with finger and thumb, very gingerly set down his cup of coffee. A sailor from Bravo's Support Tier Three Team stood at attention in the doorway.
"For Christ Sake, what now?" Eric snapped irritably. Dutch was on base and he very much wanted to join Mandy at their first go with the prisoner he was bringing in – even if it was while the man was handcuffed to a hospital gurney – but it didn't look like he was going to get his wish.
The young man blinked, not used to such a response and not sure how to respond.
"Seaman Recruit?" Eric prompted. The, eh, prisoner had dared to attack one of his men. Had snuck into camp and…and what….? Had he wanted to kill Spenser? Kidnap him? Had he smelled the fire and wanted to ask for a cup of coffee? He wanted blood and he wanted answers.
Didn't look like he'd be getting either anytime soon.
The sailor gulped nervously, stammered a time or two before finding his tongue. "There's a disturbance in the infirmary sir, your presence is required."
Eric shot an irritable glance at Randy when he had the nerve to laugh out loud.
"Ever since Jason into drafted that blonde menace, I haven't had a good night's sleep." He said to the room, spun on his heel, strode across the floor and out the door when the sailor stepped aside who then dogged his heels.
He muttered under his breath the entire walk down the steps, through the hall, out of the building, across the compound and into the infirmary: something about his wife and combs and grey and bless Davis for an unlimited supply of the good pink stuff.
"Blackburn." Doc hailed cheerfully when Bravo's Lt. Commander flung open the door to the room he'd been directed to. "Donut?" He held out a box, munching on a toasted coconut, set it down on a table when Eric refused the offer.
"Why am I here?"
"Why, to tell this here jackanapes, he's not getting anywhere near Petty Officer Spenser." Doc said jovially. "You tell him Clay is my patient, and he's not going to see him this time or any other."
"You couldn't do that?"
"Tried." Doc finished the donut, wiped first his fingers on a napkin, then his mouth. "Apparently, he outranks me."
"Didn't matter before." Eric pointed out, referring to the heated conference call he'd been forced to sit through without offering anything to it from earlier. He needed a bubble bath. Yes indeed, a bath with bubbles. In the dark. Maybe a lavender scented candle. Some Motown to sooth the silence for company.
"He didn't know then." Doc rubbed his palms together, interlaced his fingers, cracked his knuckles. "And now he won't give me unlimited access," he waved an arm to encompass the room, "….here."
"You," Eric pointed at the infirmary doctor. "Will see to the prisoner, Doc will deal with Spenser, and do so," he imitated Doc's wild, exaggerated wave of the room, "… here. Understood?"
"This is my infirmary. I will decide who is treated by whom based on severity of injury….." the doctor began...aanndd... was shut down by…Just. One. Look.
"Understood?" The tone of authority was unmistakable and left no room for argument. He didn't need to add he outranked everyone in the room, the infirmary doctor knew it.
Lips pressed so tightly together, they disappeared, the bespectacled man sniffed his displeasure, tilted his chin in acquiescence.
"Trent, Dutch said Spenser's in a 'mood'," Eric heaved heavily. "See what you can do to tease him out of it. We need him to debrief and I prefer him civil." He waited while Trent transited from scowling to frowning to nodding. "Do I need to stick around?"
"We're good." Doc shoo-shooed, flapped an imaginary apron. "Be on with you…oh now hey, look at this…." Distracted by a scanner of some sort, he didn't even see Blackburn leave.
"If you'll excuse me," with another haughty sniff, the infirmary doctor took his leave.
Doc looked at Trent with a cheeky grin, held his hand up for high-fives. Trent grinned back, smacked palms.
"In here…." Dutch popped in, popped right back out, snagged a feet-dragging Clay, propelled him into the room. "Hey you, come back here! You missed the turn….man, you can wear a guy out….that's it, in there. Yup, in you go, thru the door." He huffed, "dude."
"I'm good Dutch." He complained. Steered by Dutch, he stepped one foot through the open door. "I just wanna go lay down. Jason fixed my….oh," He saw Doc, let his shoulders sag. "Hey."
"Aaah, young Mr. Spenser." Doc put on his glasses, moved over to pull latex gloves from a box on a counter. "Have a seat, my good man." He nodded toward the exam table. "Hop right on up there."
"I relinquish him to your care." Dutch told Trent with a laugh. "He's tired, he's cranky and he's your problem now."
Trent flipped him off, clapped a hand on the back of his shoulder, and after a good look at Clay, who was tired, flushed, red-eyed and looking quite pissed-off, called 'wait for me' and walked out with him. The young sailor who had fetched Blackburn, was told to stand outside the door and not let anyone who wasn't part of Bravo, in.
"All you're gonna find is, I'm fine." With bandaged hands, Clay shed his pants, easily hoisted himself onto the gurney, toed his boots off, removed his shirt. "Just tired. Wanna crash is all."
"Did you or did you not, roll through a fire?" Doc asked. "Lemme see your fingernails. Guess you aren't in too much pain." He'd watched Clay undress, hadn't noticed a wince or hiss, or any other sign of discomfort. Yes, his hands were bandaged, but his fingers were free.
"I, uh, yeah, did." He blinked. "My what?" Doc picked up his left hand. "Why?"
"Right then, nothing looks blue." Doc put his stethoscope in his ears. "Heart beat is normal, not rapid." The metal chest piece was cold against his skin, but Clay obediently breathed, inhaled, took deep breaths, exhaled repeatedly. "Open and say aah." Doc waggled a tongue depressor. "Wider. Wider. That's it."
Trent was back, Clay cast him a look, but the medic had taken a seat, crossed an ankle over a knee, got comfy. The white Styrofoam cup with a plastic lid and straw the medic held in one hand, piqued his curiosity. He suddenly wanted to know what was in that cup.
"Don't look at me. You're all his." Trent teased, "You be a good boy, and you can have this when he's done." He waggled the cup, confirming it was for Clay.
"It's not spinach, is it?" Clay asked warily. He was too tired and worn out for jokes and pranks.
"It's not green." Was all Trent would say.
Clay wrinkled his nose, refrained from sticking out his tongue – but, oh, he really, really wanted to – and with a sigh, and the promise of a treat, submitted to Doc and his very, uh, thorough examination.
"Do you have a headache?"
"I didn't hit it."
"Not what I asked."
"No." Clay squirmed uneasily, Doc's hands roamed.
"Nausea? Jason reported you vomited."
"Not anymore."
Doc accepted fat cotton on the end of a long stick from Trent. "Head back, going up your nose."
"Why?"
"Looking for soot." Doc said simply. "Your chest hurt?"
Clay stared. Doc waited. A Mexican standoff ensued.
"Sooner we get through this, sooner you can get a shower, warm clothes and seek your bed." Doc, understanding Trent's hand motions, sweetly informed his irritable patient, "After a lengthy debrief, of course."
"No." Clay ground out, tipped his head back. "Little, maybe." Ugh, awful feeling, a stick stuck up your nose.
"Experiencing any shortness of breath?"
"Uh, not anymore."
"Jason said Sonny told him you coughed up first one lung, then the other. Any mucus?"
"Say what?"
"Did you happen to notice what color?
"What color what?"
"Eyes still burn? Smart?"
He obviously couldn't deny that, they were so red and puffy, so he nodded.
"You don't sound hoarse and Jason didn't mention it. Any whistling through your nose when you breathe?"
"Eh?"
"Jason said you were alert, had no apparent confusion, and fainting was not the reason you fell into the water."
Jason, Jason, Jason. Clay was getting fairly sick of hearing that name. His boss hadn't let him out of his sight once he'd retrieved his rookie from a clueless Sonny and returned him wet, dripping, coughing and choking to the fire. When the hell had he had time to rat him out to Doc?
"I don't faint." He snapped crossly.
"Just a camp fire, correct? No added chemicals? No charcoal?"
"Just wood."
"Gonna draw some blood, check some levels, send you for an x-ray. I don't feel you need a bronchoscopy, it's been some time and you appear to be breathing alright." Doc offered him an oxygen mask. "Not saying you need it, don't scowl at me," he scolded. "Just want to see if you think you can breathe easier with it."
"I don't need x-ray's." Clay insisted. "I'm good. Didn't cough once when you made me breathe, lemme go debrief so I can get a shower and go to bed."
"Don't give him a hard time." Trent spoke up.
"Don't tell me what to do." Clay said sharply. "You aren't….."
"Someone missed his nap." Doc announced as Trent made a decision, pushed to his feet, approached the table. "Careful, he might bite." He teased.
Clay tensed, bandages or not, his hands curled into fists, clenched, but Trent didn't approach in anger, merely handed Clay the cup who hesitated, then oh-so-slowly reached to accept it.
"I'm only gonna say this once," Trent said quietly, with a sincerity Clay had never heard before in his tone. He released his hold on the cup. "This team is tight. We're built on trust, loyalty, commitment." He sat down on a wheeled stool, knee to knee with Clay, who didn't like his personal space invaded, but tolerated it. "We'll always have your back, defend your life with our own. We'll protect you, retrieve you, never leave you." He paused, waited. "Orders don't matter when one of us is trapped, taken, lost, hurt…..you getting me?"
Clay, the straw trapped between his teeth, took a tentative snip, nodded.
Milkshake.
Chocolate.
Cold.
Oh God, it felt sooo good on his abused throat. His eyes closed at the creamy, sweet taste….he'd never wanted ice cream and milk more in his life than he did right that very moment.
Encourage Clay wasn't interrupting, arguing or even scowling, Trent continued: "I'll help you escape Ellis, avoid the brass when you're shot to shit, but you can't make my life difficult by always arguing with me and refusing to cooperate. You gotta work with me." He waited until Clay blinked, nodded. "Our pace is too hectic, our decisions too spur of the moment, I don't have time to beat the truth outta you." Clay nodded again. "Lives depend on me knowing what is wrong and I can't have you lying to me."
Silence. Trent wondered if he'd ever get through that stubborn attitude. Or hell, if he even had the kid's attention, who seemed to be focused on slurping the milkshake.
"I'm asking you – when it's your health, an injury – never to lie to me, don't withhold information I need to know. Your private life doesn't concern me…..just, don't put your live, our lives, on the line," He swallowed, winced, made a decision. "I've already got Ray and I don't need another Nate. I really don't."
Clay was quiet, held Trent's gaze, made a mental decision to grill Davis on this Nate dude. He swallowed, set the cup aside with a look that said anyone who reached to take it, would pull back a bloody stump, put the oxygen mask over his face, laid down.
Odd, he did find it easier to breathe. Dammit.
"Well." Doc beamed. "My." He huffed, patted his palms together. "I do say, I believe you finally managed to silence the little imp."
Imp? Clay frowned. Who was an imp? Him? Oh, he thought not! Wait, what exactly, was the definition of imp anyway?
Clay dosed until someone came and stabbed him. OW. He raised his head with a frown, and with eyes that were barely open, searched until he found the reassuring sight of Trent.
"Just drawing blood." He was told in a quiet, comforting voice. "No one is trying to stab you."
Oh-Oh, had he said that out loud? And Trent had heard him? Oh. Dear. Uh. Damn.
"…..wouldn't let them." A hand on his forearm, a comforting squeeze accompanied the promise. He let his head drop, his eyes close.
Awww….now why did that make him all weepy-eyed? What the hell had Trent put in that damn milkshake to make him all emotional? 'Cause it had to be the milkshake, right?
"….after the x-ray?" Trent asked.
"Long as his lungs are clear, take him to debrief, try and keep it short, then let him go to sleep. Best thing for him is rest. You good to keep an eye on him?"
Doc didn't mean, would you or can you. He meant did Ops or Blackburn require his presence elsewhere. They didn't.
"We've got him covered." Trent promised.
"Alright then, before they come take you for x-rays, let's get a gander at your hands."
Gander? Where he came from, 'gander' was a male goose, Clay thought drowsily! He was gonna need a Doc to English dictionary.
***000***
Finally free from Doc and debrief over – no one poking him, no one pricking or stabbing him, no one asking him questions, no one demanding answers, no one making him do things he didn't feel like doing – Clay was finally free to do whatever he wanted, and what he wanted, was to return to barracks, crawl into his bunk, lay down with a cold, wet cloth over his smarting eyes, pull the blankets over his head, and shut every noise.
So, ignoring that Brock was trailing along behind him trying to act like he wasn't, that is exactly what Clay did. He didn't know what time it was, and he didn't care.
His chest ached, his muscles hurt, his palms stung, his head was killing him. He was no longer coughing but his throat still felt like it wanted to swallow smoke that was stuck in his mouth. It was a feeling he didn't like and wished would go away, but no amount of coughing, clearing his throat or numerous drinks of water – he'd been denied alcohol – made it lessen. The only thing that had given him any kind of relief from that nagging-stuck-in-my-throat feeling had been the chocolate milkshake.
And he didn't know where to get another one.
Doc said it would go away. Told him to get plenty of rest, and to sleep on his back with his head on a pillow….whatever.
A pitter pat, a whoosh, a lithe leap, weight on the mattress, warmth on his feet – Cerberus was joining him for a snooze. He didn't mind, 'cause it meant Brock was nearby and would be sticking around.
"Who's babysitting?" Eric accepted a beer from Brock who was sitting outside. He slouched in the chair, laid his head back. "What. A. Fucked-up day."
"Cerberus."
So, the dog. Eric didn't even blink. "Trent?" He popped the lid off the bottle by hitting it on the edge of the chair arm.
"Working out. Get anything from the prisoner?"
"Not yet. Doc read me in."
"And?"
Eric took a drink, swallowed. "Long as he isn't short of breath or has bouts of coughing, he's cleared to return to operating tomorrow night."
Okay, so that meant: sleep, breakfast, shower, work out, shooting practice. And they'd let him, but they'd restrict him from strenuous activity - 'they', being the team.
"He's gonna be work." Eric yawned, set the half empty bottle aside. He really wasn't in the mood for a beer. He'd come to check on Clay, and that duty done, he wanted a bath and bed. He pushed to his feet, slapped Brock on his back. "And you thought training a dog was time consuming." Chucking, he moved off.
Brock made a face at his back, collected the abandoned beer, headed inside. He expected Clay to still be asleep, but when he walked past his bunk to scratch a furry ear, Clay shifted, eased onto his side.
Eyes closed, he murmured sleepily, "Tell me about Nate."
Brock sat down on Sonny's bed – didn't care the Texan would howl about it – because it was closest to Clay's.
"Nate was a decent guy. Good shooter but not better than Ray."
So, Clay surmised, a sniper.
"Jason always sent him high and we knew he had our backs." Brock rewet the abandoned cloth from a bottle of water, "But he was bull-headed and did what he wanted to. Sometimes, you just couldn't get through to that guy. He never endangered the team though, so he was accepted."
But, Clay thought, Trent made it sound like he was tolerated.
"Trent didn't complain, never said anything, just dealt, but Nate had issues with how rough he is. He'd rather see some random dude at an infirmary, even on a base that wasn't ours, than let Trent at him."
Aaaand there it was.
"Don't worry about Nate." Brock stood up. "No one is gonna compare you to him. You missed dinner, something to eat? Steamed rice and potatoes, but can probably get you a hotdog."
His stomach growled, demanded sustenance. Steamed rice didn't sound at all appealing. Neither did potatoes that would likely sit heavy in a belly that had been denied food all day and suffered an upset of smoke.
Brock waited, watched Clay lick his lips, hesitate. He knew Clay wanted to ask for something, was deciding if he should. Knew if he pushed, Clay would shut down, say no, he was fine, go hungry. So he waited. He was good at that. Waiting.
Hand on his belly, hoping Brock didn't hear it voicing its displeasure over being empty, he waged a mental battle. Brock was always patient, never pushed, just remained quiet and waited. Just like he was doing now.
"Scrambled eggs, maybe?"
Brock nodded, that he could do. He knew where to find eggs, a frying pan. He could even make the kid some toast.
"Be good boy Cerb, watch." With a final pat on Cerb's head, who rested his snout on his paws, Brock departed.