I've been away for a while, huh? So long that a 20oz diet Coke is now $2.25 in the pop machine!
Clay didn't feel the mattress jostle, he didn't open his eyes or hear a thing, but he knew all the same when Cerberus lifted his head and noiselessly thumped his tail once, twice, that he was no longer alone.
He hadn't heard the door open, or anyone enter, but a voice was talking quietly, so….so much for his powers of observation.
"Hey, doing okay?" He was asked.
No. No, he was not okay. His head had split in two and only by laying still, could he keep the grey matter of his brain from leaking out of his skull. It was doing its best to escape and if it did, it'd kill him….of that, he had no doubt.
"You okay?" He was asked again – for the third time. Fourth? Who the hell knew?!
At least, he assumed it was he who was being asked. He doubted anyone expected a dog who was squirming in anticipation of ear scratches to answer. Cerberus curbed his enthusiastic greeting but didn't jump down so Clay assumed whoever had entered, had approached the bed.
"Hey buddy, who's a good boy?! You a good boy?"
He licked his lips, swallowed, managed without moving a husky, "Yeah," swallowed again in a weak attempt to work saliva into his extremely dry mouth. He didn't know what questions he was responding to...was he okay? Or was he a good boy?
Didn't work.
"You sure about that?"
Brow furrowed in confusion; he smacked cracked lips. Who had come back? Who was talking? Was he buddy? The good boy? Or was the dog? There was a dog, right?
"Mmmm…hmmm."
"Liar." Brock teased.
Well, Clay sure as hell wasn't going to admit he was confused as hell, unable to identify the intruder and dizzy lying flat on his back in his own bunk, alone in a quiet room and the last thing he remembered was Jeff taking him for a popsicle.
"We….got….?" he rasped, cleared his throat. "….going out?" And his brief moment of clarity had up and...well, gone somewhere.
Was something oozing out his ears? He was quite sure something was slithering out of both ears, his nose, maybe his eyes but he didn't raise a hand to find out. He didn't dare move.
"Even if we were, you wouldn't be." Brock played with the dog, gave him a bit of jerky. "Blackburn's on it, it's taken care of."
"…..not…eeee….?" Stop making the damn dog move or I'm gonna expel something you've never seen in your life from every orifice in my body."…then….ooo?"
"Ray's gone out with Dutch. You don't look so good, Doc put you through the ringer, huh?"
He didn't look good? Good. 'Cause he felt like shit.
"Talk to me. How you feeling?"
How did he feel? Well, now...ummm…..huh…..damn….Talk to him? Who was he talking to? Why was it so hard to think? Feelings? Feel what? Focus, focus, focus….he could do this…he would do this. Ringer? What did that mean? Doc? He should remember, he would remem….
!*!Gasp!*!
He didn't! He didn't remember! The last, uh, several hours were…..a blank. A complete and utter….nothing. Fisting the sheet, he tried to concentrate…tried to think….tried to recall something, anything...anything at all.
He tried to keep the contents of his skull – which he was sure at this point, was liquefied brain – contained. Tried to quell the rising pit in his belly and not panic….tried…aanndd….oh FUCK!
"Hey, relax." He was quietly told in a patient, comforting tone when he…uh….whimpered? Had it been him? Maybe it'd been the dog…..no…no, oh no…..shit, it'd been him. He'd whimpered! "All's good."
All. Was. Not. Good.
Because suddenly….he did remember!.! He remembered. Oh yes, he indeed remembered now...and he sure as hell wished he hadn't.
He grimaced as disturbing memories started to surface, though everything pretty much remained a blur….
OhGodOhGodOhGod….ohdearohdearohdear…...GAWD!
He couldn't recall what events had actually happened, and the flashes of memories assailing him weren't in any kind of order – most certainly not in the order in which they occurred…..if they'd happened at all….but yeah, they were definitely memories:
Headache, cafeteria, something about dishes, hard to breathe, couldn't breathe…..Sonny….Jeff…..Trent…..Doc….stabbed in the leg….bright lights….something over his mouth…..noise, motion, chaos…familiar scent, warmth, safety.
"….finally let you go."
He thought maybe he had walked somewhere with someone, but remembered being picked up and carried by someone who wasn't the someone he'd taken a walk with. Was that right? That was right. Right?
"….but by the looks of you, dunno if I agree with that."
Picked up and pulled away from….Jason….whose lap he'd been – ohohoh – laying in - the hell?! Oh, Christ, he was going to be sick.
Oh. Dear. God. Fuck. Me.
He swallowed, would have been a gulp, had he had any spit in his mouth.
"…hate to make you go back though."
Back? Go back? Go back where? The woods? He didn't want to go back to the woods, he'd had enough of the woods with its smoke and cold water and fire and fights. Hell, he didn't even want to move!
"….trust me with you, right?"
Now that he'd mentally pushed past and forgotten the obstacle of the image of laying in his boss's lap, buried it forever, memories came flooding back….fast and relentless.
Oh. Dear. Fucking. God. Fuck. Me. Twice.
Despite his protests, Bravo's medic had merely snapped his fingers and Clay had been whisked away; lifted, picked up, carried off, deposited on a table in the infirmary and left alone with Doc and Trent who proceeded to poke and prod, penetrate and stab, stick him with needles and tubes until he'd been in tears….yeah, they'd made him cry.
He hadn't been able to make 'sorts or sense' out of what was being done to him and only the familiar voice and blurry, hazy sight of Trent had stopped him from fighting for freedom.
"…gave him a hard time, but Trent said your head was hurting and…."
And then, a cool, wet cloth had wiped his, uh, cheeks?…?…..say what? Oh. Yeah. Right. His head.
He'd whined – whined – that his head hurt.…moaned it was killing him, said they were taking too much fucking blood because he was light-headed and dizzy and if they took anymore, he was gonna pass out because the light made his head hurt that fucking much.
"…. Sonny won't be around."
He'd sternly been told to shush, his jaw lightly smacked but the light had dimmed, and he'd been given something via a needle in his hip that hadn't taken long to wrestle the pain in his head into obedience where it had merely throbbed in protest, but oh hell, it was kicking up again now….so meds must be wearing off.
Or maybe it was, uh, just - what he was remembering. *gulp*!
"…in the kitchen. Jason won't let him leave."
He'd been made to sit down, stand up, squat down, stand on one foot, touch his nose, bend over, lay down, roll over, move over; sit up, cough, hold his breath, blow it out, or some such nonsense. Christ, it'd been a sobriety test…..wait, kitchen? What?
"….burn said Poland. Doc will have access to run tests…."
Test? What tests? More tests? What the hell test was left to do? Bravo had to go to Poland and burn what? Was that the test?
"...Trent can though."
He'd been subjected, including but not limited, to: ultrasounds, cat scans, mri's, x-ray's, sonograms; nasal swabs, spit collection, drawing of numerous vials of blood; he'd been introduced to something he'd later be told was spirometry and methacholine, he'd coughed and inhaled and exhaled deep breaths until he'd passed out; woken up to a tube in his mouth and a mask over his face with Trent sitting next to him, telling him he was okay, to just relax and breathe, then telling Doc something about flushed cheeks, wet bangs and 5 year-olds growing out of chubbiness…the hell?!
"….no adverse reaction to the shot of epinephrine….."
Right, he'd been monitored for; redness, swelling or warm skin at or around the injection site, confusion, chest pains, irregular heartbeat, dizziness, vertigo, fainting, seizures.
"…modern enigma, Doc calls you."
Finally, finally, after no serious side effects had been identified and no further medication – whatever that might have been – or treatment had been deemed necessary, Doc had declared him 'symptom free' from the allergy medication and fit to be released.
Symptom free maybe, but he'd felt, and still did, like shit.
"….intrigued."
He'd been patted on the head, told he could get dressed, was helped into his pajama pants and t-shirt, and released to the custody of a dog – Yeah, no…seriously, a dog – because apparently, Cerberus qualified as a 'Claysitter'.
The four-legged team member had escorted his human companion back to barracks where they'd gratefully sought his bunk and he'd slept until someone entered, started asking him questions and talking non-stop.
Everything may or may not have occurred or happened in the order which he remembered.
"…..anyway, Blackburn put Ray on it." Brock moved about the room quietly, making as little noise as possible. "Took Dutch and his team with him. Sonny wanted to go, but he's confined to the kitchen until Jason's in a better mood."
Who on what? Oh, Sonny went away? Good, 'cause his headache was horrible. Just horrible. And being around Sonny always made him feel worse. Who was Ray?
"…..Chuck and Greg…..started a pool, I've got.….."
A pool? He didn't want to go swimming. Was he dirty? Did he smell? Did they want him to bathe? In a pool? He supposed he could manage to float, paddle about a bit….
"…..no way he's gonna leave you, that means Jason isn't going anywhere either….so, no worries."
What did that mean? What worries? Should he worry? Worry about what? Worry about who was gonna leave him? Leave him where? His nose scrunched because he wanted to frown, and his face wouldn't make the required movement to do so.
"…so, Ray's got it. Like I said, he has Dutch with him. They're gone, and….."
Ray again. Should he know him? He had who? Gone where? Gone dutch at dinner? Had Bravo wanted to go? Hadn't been able to? Because of him?
"…..you should be asleep."
Sleep? Ha! Nope. And why? Because he was cold and in a fight with his head and nauseated from a stomach that cramped every time he moved, and he was afraid he'd vomit, so he remained stationary and awake, didn't move so much as a finger.
"…..sleep you'd feel better."
Duh! Trying to do just that and oh, and yeah, thanks dude, for reminding me again, that I feel like shit.
"….Doc thought you'd be tired enough, exhausted really, he wouldn't have to give you…."
He was cold. So cold. But the slight motion of lowering his hand in search of the blanket somewhere around his knees sent such spikes of pain through the back of his skull he'd spent the next several moments trying not to puke….or had that been because of memories….no, no, not going there…..no, nope….just nope.
So even though Cerberus was on his feet and the blanket was free, he remained cold.
"Dozed…..some." He swallowed. "….a bit…." He felt the absurd desire to fight tears. His emotions were all over the place and hard to control now that he had accepted what he remembered.
"Any more shortness of breath?"
Is that what they were calling it? Oh, Clay begged to differ. Try complete and utter failure to draw breath and breathe.
He stuttered, "Nooo..nnn..no." Thumping, racing heart didn't qualify, did it?
Brock noticed Clay didn't move or turn his head towards him, didn't even open his eyes, sent Trent a text, then dug through a bag sitting on the floor next to Trent's bunk, withdrew and discarded several bottles before unscrewing the cap on one.
"Feeling a little shaky?" Brock asked quietly.
"I'm…..goo'ed." Head cleaved in two and leaking grey matter didn't qualify as shaky, did it? Right?
"Yeah, you sound it." Brock's tone was wry, yet patient, comforting. "Take some of this. Should help you feel not so much like you wanna puke."
Eh? Puke? Who? Blah, he was too tired to try and make sense of whatever the hell his teammate was saying…..whichever one it was.
"Whah…ut?" Clay licked dry lips, debated. He really didn't want to have to ask anyone for anything, accept anything from anyone, except…..well, a ski hat. He thought maybe it might keep his head together….you know, all in one piece, and if it failed to do that, it should keep his head warm...some part of him should be warm while he died, right?
"...take this..."
Because he did wish for the contents of his head to remain within his skull where they belonged, and he was convinced if he could fall asleep, that would be accomplished…. he really, really, wanted that damn elusive blanket because sleep wouldn't come while he was so cold.
His lips flapped, tongue darting out, dry and white….dammit, he was thirsty….soooo thirsty…..and his mouth was dry. Sooooo dry, it was hard to swallow.
He. Was. Parched.
Maybe someone could get him some water, and maybe, just maybe, whoever did that would….stick around….not leave him alone…..like everyone else had…..the pricks.
"Rath…um…" he smacked his lips, "…..some water?" smacksmacksmack…..double smack….licketysmacksmacklickety.
He should have brought water back with him or taken a drink from the bathroom sink or grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge…..except, he hadn't, and he didn't know where to find the fridge, or where the bathroom was. He hadn't thought to do anything except crawl into bed.
"It's just Emetrol." Brock sent another text. "Will help."
What would help what do what?
"….just a bit." Brock coaxed. "No, not for you Cerb."
Course, his damn teammates could have come back sooner. He hadn't expected Trent, the team medic would be holed up with Doc for hours, but he'd expected Jeff or Randy, hell someone, to pop in, check on him. He certainly hadn't expected to be left alone and ignored for hours. Not after all the fuss and buss Doc had put him through….though when he was done, the man had been eager for him to leave….no reluctance there.
Oh, wait. Right. Doc had let him leave with a dog as an acceptable escort and a jaunty wave!
He continued to lick dry, cracked lips. He wanted the blanket, the offered medicine, water. Just….he didn't want to move. And he didn't want to accept help from anyone who'd gone and ignored him for hours.
Brock waited, watched the emotions flicker across the kids face. Master of hiding his emotions – aka Jason Hayes – he was not: Indecision. Reluctance. Debate. Yearning. Anger.
Anger? The hell was that about?
The kid had goosebumps, shivered but didn't even move a finger towards the blanket.
Brock received a text, made his decision.
Clay flinched when he felt warmth against the skin on the back of his neck, but the touch was gentle not punishing and he resisted the urge to press into it, seek it further. Fingers splayed into his curls, but didn't tug, so his companion wasn't Sonny.
No, the warm hand was light, cradled his head at the crown without pressure, lifted it from the mattress. A bottle with a pop-up tab, nudged his lips.
"Bruise faded, jaw still hurt?" It'd been what, four days? Five? A week? The kid's beard was growing back, so it was hard to tell how bad the bruising still was. "Hands healed good, ass didn't bruise, did it?"
"Mmpph." Yeah, he'd had a hard week. "Fffummph?" He refused to be treated like an invalid, gritted his teeth, and tried to go up onto an elbow…failed. Holding his head slightly aloft with support was doable but rising even enough to drink from a bottle of water, was just not gonna happen.
"It's just me here." He was told quietly, patiently. "You don't gotta get up, don't hafta move. If your head is too heavy to hold up, let me do it, you need some water, something for the nausea." Clay shivered. "You cold?" Brock pulled the blanket up to Clay's shoulders, juggled the bottle under his chin, stretched over and across, added another snatched from Sonny's bunk. "Just you and me, okay?"
"….M'm'I'noo'd…"
Brock adjusted the second blanket over Clay with one hand, then reoffered the bottle of water. "You'll warm up in a bit, small sips, okay?"
Once he conquered the 'complex design' of the tab on the bottle – after patient, amused instructions to stop licking and sip through his lips – Clay drank as much as he was allowed every time it was offered, grateful it wasn't set aside until he'd had enough and refused more.
"Yeah, fucked-up bottle, I know." Brock said lightly. "Sorry, was all Davis could get over here."
Half aware, he expected his head to be returned to the mattress, but it wasn't. A tiny, plastic cup nudged his lips. It took him a second or two to understand, then he parted them, took a sip, made a face at the taste, flapped his tongue repeatedly, smacked his lips a time or two.
A soft chuckle and his head was returned to the welcome comfort of a blessed pillow. Mmmm, had he known a mere pillow would have relieved some of the pressure of his cease-all-motion headache, he would have braved the onslaught of nausea and sought one earlier.
"Don't like that taste, huh?"
And finally! he placed the voice - Brock. Should have known by the dog's reaction. Would have…...maybe…he didn't feel like shit.
"Should help though. Trent warned you might react to the allergy shot, no big deal, you'll feel better, you get some sleep and wake up." Brock gave his knee a pat. "I got delayed or wudda been here when you came in, didn't mean for you to come back to an empty room, but 5 minutes wasn't so bad, right? Eh, I'm here now, not going anywhere."
Whether it was the warmth of the blanket, the quench of a thirst he hadn't known he had, the consumption of medicine or the company, Clay neither knew nor cared, he didn't feel as queasy or as uneasy, his mouth was no longer dry, the pillow stopped the constant attempt of seepage from his skull and if anyone dared to try and take his blanket, they'd lose their fingers.
His eyes remained closed, but he heard Brock move about the room, make a phone call, let the dog out – all sounds of familiarity and routine – wait, 5 minutes? He'd only been left alone 5 fucking minutes?
***000***
"I'll need Trent." Doc, lazily lounging in a hammock outside Blackburn's quarters said with no fear of being laughed at or denied. He sipped from a bottle that he claimed was beer but Eric, the lieutenant commander of the Navy's best 'elite' assault team, labeled it what it was; a fuckin' sissy drink.
"You don't need, you want." Eric corrected. Silence. Then, "That'll put me down two men."
"Support's here."
"Jason won't like it." Eric hadn't yet figured that out. Bravo One barely tolerated the kid's presence, yet when faced with him away from Bravo, Jason Hayes threw a fit. When it had been suggested Delta or Echo would happily take the kid off his hands, it had taken Eric an hour to peel his Master Chief from the ceiling.
"You said you wanted to keep this kid."
Oohhhh…ohohoh….oh-oh….well, yeah! Duh! He was theirs. Eric dared anyone, go ahead, to try and take from Bravo what they claimed as theirs. They didn't give up, they didn't back down, they didn't let go, they didn't give back.
"Tell me what his problem is." Eric had known Doc for years. A career Navy doctor, they'd met during Eric's first year of service after the Academy and when the need for Bravo to have a personal physician had become evident, he'd reached out with the lure of an 'easy path to retirement'. "What am I in for and can it be handled?"
But most importantly? Trust. He trusted Doc, and Doc trusted him to never undermine his authority when it came to issuing a medical diagnosis.
"It's an allergy." Doc replied simply with a nonchalant shrug.
Of course, funding was an issue. It'd become apparent that Clay Spenser wasn't going to be cheap to, uh, keep….heeheeheee….ugh.
"You're sure about that?"
"Yup."
"Not asthma?"
"Allergy induced asthma maybe."
Maybe? Eric sat forward on his chair, stoked the fire. The night was chilly, but dressed warmly with the fire, they were comfortable. He reached over the arm of the chair, snagged a log with the make-shift wood poker, rolled it closer, picked it up, tossed it on the fire, watched the flames flicker greedily.
"To what?"
"I'll find out."
"When you do, this will go away?"
"The asthma symptoms? Yes."
"Why now?"
"May never know."
"Will it affect his ability to operate?"
"No." Doc said firmly. "I'm fine with it going on his official medical record once we identify what the allergy is to."
"Can it….he be cured?"
"Of an allergy? No." Doc was quiet. "Doubtful. He can build an immunity to it." Silence. "Perhaps."
"Like a kid can outgrow a food allergy?"
"He's a bit old for that." Doc said wryly. "Depending on what the allergy is, maybe immunotherapy."
"I've heard that can be miserable."
"If Trent and I decide that is the course of treatment, will you give Spenser a choice?"
"Nope." Eric plopped back into the chair, stretched his legs, crossed his ankles. "All the units, the platoons, both coasts, and I get the most fucked-up group of men ever assembled into a SEAL team in the history of the Navy."
"And yet, here you are."
"Huh," Eric grunted. "There's a reason, I guess."
Unspoken, but understood, a team led by Jason Hayes and his; attitude, insolence, arrogance, conceit, stubbornness….his bullheadedness…..his tactical mind…
"He came with Ray." Doc offered, meaning Jason. "No?" he added when Eric didn't respond. "Would you rather not have Ray?"
Eric slumped further in the chair. "I'm as grey as you are, you know."
"But….but medic extraordinaire!" Doc joked. Trent. "Dog whisperer." Brock.
And Eric brooded. "Quinn?"
Getting that his pal wasn't in a mood to be teased, Doc comfortingly said, "Not a bad thing Eric, I've read their files, this team is best when they circle and mother-hen one of their own. Spenser is young, let them cackle."
"And when Spenser rebels?"
"You crack the whip." Doc waved a hand dismissively, grinned at the incredulous look cast his way. "It's too late Eric. Whether they realize it or not, that kid is theirs." He paused, chuckled. "Speaking of Quinn, he still doing dishes?" They both knew he was. "Do you need further proof?"
Finally, Bravo's Lt. Commander nodded. "If I can pry him away from Hayes, I'll send him to Poland with you."
"And if you can't?"
Eric put his head back, let his eyes close. What had he ever done to deserve this? "Then Bravo goes to Poland." Somehow, someway, he'd find a way to make that happen.
Do chuckled, finished his fucking sissy drink, leaned over, punched Eric heartily in his deltoid muscle.
"Eh, just messing with you." He'd wondered how far his ole buddy would go to keep this team intact. Now he knew. And now he knew how complicated his job was likely to get. "I can test him for allergies right here. Kid doesn't have an aversion to needles and good thing, something tells me he's gonna get poked a lot."
"Just. Messing. With. Me." Eric cursed, sighed. "When?"
"Give him a couple days to rest."
***000***
Maybe Clay should have paid closer attention to…well, everything and everyone. Maybe he should have tried harder to wake up alert and aware. Maybe he should haven't been lulled by Brock's easy manner into accepting offers of aid and help from…well, everyone. Maybe…just maybe, he would have been wise to recall the warnings from Chuck and Dutch about Bravo's tendency to imitate hens.
But he didn't. He didn't do any of that.
And why was that?
Why…..because!...because, because, because!
His traitorous head had resumed its mission to see him dead and Bravo was there to stop it….and oh, if only – if only – he'd been aware of that, he might have – would have – behaved quite differently.
But he wasn't. So, he didn't.
He didn't know what he did, though he thought maybe he slept – later, much later, he'd realize, yeah, he hadn't – so whatever he did – Whine? Whimper? Cry? Beg? Complain about murdering heads? All that? – resulted in being shushed and petted and tucked in all comfy and warm, fed slushy, flavored ice from a spoon that was held for him by….someone…..usually Brock, and…
Oh. God.
The room was dim, swathed in shadows and though he swore his eyes were open and able to focus, he didn't see anything more than movement….but maybe, just maybe, that was because it was the way he, uh, wanted it.
He was offered, and he accepted, help. His was held so he could drink water, sip milkshakes, swallow Advil; If he was cold, there was a blanket; If the blanket listed to one side or a foot escaped, it was straightened and all of him was once again covered; If he were hot, there was a cold cloth. If his cheeks were wet, they were patted dry; If he tongued his lips, they were 'wetted.' If the light was too bright, it was dimmed; If dim shadows made him anxious, they were banished; If the noise bothered him, silence reigned; If it were too quiet, a radio played 70's classic rock songs.
Advil eased his headache, though maybe whatever Jeff babbled about eating something cold helped….hell, he didn't know...he was fed enough ice and ice cream that maybe there was something to it. It also abolished the ache in his chest from being deprived of, you know, the ability to breathe. So, either the consumption of unlimited gel-caps or the vast amount of sleep he'd been allowed to have, had made the aches and pains from being repeatedly stabbed with a needle and made to cough up a lung, go away.
Something was wrong. Something was not right. This…this…this….he should get up, get going, get away…..he should….should do something….anything…..
Noise and activity continued to buzz around him but all was muted and he could neither make out words nor identify sounds, everything remained hazy and distant. Whenever he opened his eyes to try and see what was going on around him, he saw bursts of white lights, so he stopped opening them and kept them closed. He thought maybe his ears and eyes had ceased to function properly but was assured by some faceless voice or another that his head had not succeeded in killing any of his senses, all was good, he was fine, he just needed to sleep.
So, he slept.
Time passed, 'days and nights' blurred, but he never woke up alone and he never had to ask for anything, it just miraculously appeared. Hell, he was offered things he didn't even want and rarely, was he allowed to refuse it.
He was asked countless questions by numerous voices: Was he cold? Hot? Thirsty? Hungry? Did he need to get up? Pee? Were his hands better? How'd his jaw feel? His teeth? Did he need help? Did his head feel better? Could he breathe? How did his chest feel? Did his leg burn? Did he need anything? Want anything? Could they do something for him?
Or maybe he dreamed all that…..he simply didn't know anymore.
"…..no more," he heard someone say. "Just let him sleep."
No more what?
"Why's his head hurt so much? Is that normal? It isn't, is it? Right?"
"Just a reaction to the allergy shot."
"…..be like this, he gets a shot again?"
"No."
"How do you know that?"
"We should ask Doc."
"Yeah….you know, just to be sure…..in case…."
"Because we'll know what he's allergic to."
"…..sense does that make?"
"Trust me."
"….hours though."
"Yeah, and he needs sleep. He just got tossed from the infirmary, let him sleep, see how he feels tomorrow."
Hours? Tomorrow?
"…..just, seems like the ibuprofen….."
"Yeah, and he's had 4 in 8 hours, no more."
Hours? Uh, no, it'd been days. Days, Trent, days. Ya hear me? Days! He'd been sleeping and eating ice and swallowing gel-caps for DAYS! Not hours. Didn't they get that? They should get that.
Elite team indeed. Pfft.
"….yeah, but…he's uneasy and…."
"He's fine."
"…..who's gonna take night shift?"
Night shift? The hell?
Was it day or night? The room had a window, he'd just look out and see if it were dark outside…..aaannddd soon as he could lift his head up from the pillow and find the window….he would.
"Hey there, you awake? He's awake. Trent?"
Funny, Clay had no problem placing the voice this time. Ray.
"Relax Ray."
Ray? Couldn't be Ray. Ray had gone…..gone dutch. Brock had said so. So, he must have gone out to eat somewhere with someone.
"Yeah, well, wouldn't be the first time I blinked, and he was gone."
Of course, days had passed so, it was certainly likely Ray and the team he'd take with him had returned…..'cause, it had been days!
"Where's he gonna go?"
Sounds of jostling, shoving, cat-fight slapping, hushed whispers and Trent wheeled over in a chair.
"Hey."
Clay blinked until he could keep his eyes open. It was obvious even to his blurry stare by the look on the medic's face, an answer was expected so he mumbled a barely audible, "Aye."
"Aye? The hell that coming from? Since when do you say aye?" But he wasn't looking at Clay, his gaze was over his head, "No need to guard the door Ray, he's not gonna make a break for it."
"How about you worry about what you're doing." Ray retorted, and Brock laughed. "And not what I'm doing."
"Any pain in your thigh?" Trent reclaimed Clay's wandering attention.
His what? His leg? Uh, no. No, there was no pain in his thigh. His head? Yes. But his leg? No. Just his head.
"No." He licked his lips and was offered orange Gatorade. After several sips, he felt marginally better and his eyes finally focused and he could see Brock teasing Ray at the door that led outside. He looked around, pleased his head didn't revolt, saw Jason lounged in a ratty recliner, staring at him, fingers of one hand tapping his knee, the other resting on the arm of the chair.
Oh. Oh-oh.
"He's been sleeping all day." Jason stated. The dog was between his feet, looking for all the world like he was asleep….'cept, he wasn't.
"He's had a rough day." Trent countered. "You done nappin'?" He asked Clay who looked around as if expecting to confront an out-of-control mob bent on creating a riot. "Support was here, Jason chased them out 'cause all they do is ask questions. Just us now."
Nap? Nap? What the hell did he mean, nap? Wait…rough day? Day? As in, one day? It'd only been one day. Really? No fucking way.
"…..going to do?"
"Do Ray? I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Nothing. I'm going to let the kid sleep 'cause it's what he needs. You got a problem with that?"
"Yeah, actually, I do."
So….this odd, disturbing dream had been reality? All those questions and fussing hadn't been spread out over days but hours?
"Stow it Ray."
That came from Jason and had the required effect. Ray stopped nattering at Trent and both he and Brock fell quiet while Trent asked Clay several more questions….nauseated? Cold? Hot? Achy? Dizzy? Confused?
When Clay apparently answered the medic's questions to his satisfaction, he was patted on the knee and told to go back to sleep.
Jason sent Ray and Brock to relieve Sonny from kitchen duty with instructions to tell him not to return to their barracks while he remained and quizzed poor, tired Trent who only wanted a nap of his own.
"We gotta do this now?" Trent asked wearily, thumbing red eyes.
"No." Jason said sourly. "We don't. Every SEAL Team Master Chief in the U.S. Navy has to deal with a rookie…"
"Fine." Trent snapped. "What do you want?"
Jason bit his tongue so hard over the curt tone directed at him, he drew blood, tasted copper, grimaced and swallowed. Right, right….there was a time for in-depth interrogation, and it wasn't now. Soon though, come hell and high water or torture, he would get answers about the long-term future of his team.
"I'll keep an eye on him while you get some sleep." He paused. "Mandy has something for us to go on…."
"All by herself?" Trent couldn't help but drawl sarcastically. "Without dogging Spenser 'til he faints at our feet?"
Jason glared but chose to let it go. For now. "Why was he complaining about his head hurting?"
"Lack of oxygen. Suffocation. Exhaustion. Reaction to the allergy, the shot from the EpiPen." Trent shrugged. "Any of it, all of it. Dunno."
"Yeah, 'bout that. Rather, quite the risk, don't ya think?"
"Doc was right there."
"We gonna go through this every time he encounters what he's allergic to?"
"No."
"And why's that?"
"Cause he said he's never had this reaction before and we'll know what the allergy is and can give him meds if he interacts with it before it gets so bad, he throws a life-threatening reaction."
What the hell had his medic just said? "Is that so?"
"That is so."
"That can be done?" Jason pressed. "Sounds like a bunch of mumbo-jumbo."
"Yes." Trent said confidently.
"Really?" Jason was still full of doubt.
"Yes. Like with seasonal allergies and you pop Benadryl before going outside."
"It's easy as that?"
"Yes."
"That simple?"
"Yes." His teeth were gritted, making his jaw ache. "Boss." He added.
"Mmmmm."
"Soon as we figure out what the allergy is, we're good." Trent insisted. "Doc says once we know what it is, he can help Clay build up a tolerance for it."
Jason nodded, waved his medic off to seek his own bunk. He was waiting for the return of Ray or Brock so he could go in search of his Lt. Commander when Blackburn strode in with turkey sandwiches and took a seat.
"We gotta talk."