Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing here. The hot afternoon sun that has been streaming through the large glass panels of the hangar has slowly turned into the golden glow of another sunset.

Staring at the eight pine boxes each draped with the American flag, his heart breaks for the loss of these men and for their families that are being notified at this moment, that their husbands, their fathers, their sons are not coming home. Slowly, he makes his muscles move, makes himself step to every single one of these caskets, saying a quiet goodbye to every single one of them. The pain runs deeper for some, the ones he’s known the longest. But he remembers every individual journey, and how they all struggled to get their position on one of the best DEVGRU teams there’s ever been.

He stops at the one casket at which base a large Belgian Malinois lies, softly whining, mourning its handler. He squats down, talking quietly, and pets the dog, careful to not disturb the layer of bandages wrapped around the torso of the large dog. Big soulful eyes look up to him, and he can see his own grief reflected in the dog’s eyes. He remembers reading about dogs needing to sniff their owners when they are dead to accept that they are gone, and he’s glad that someone clearly knew about this. Giving the devastated dog a last pat, he gets back up to his feet and finishes his round, coming to a halt at the last casket, the casket of the youngest Bravo member.

He knows that there had been friction within Bravo in the last months since the kid returned to the team after Manila – the newest rookie being one of the big topics –, but it has smoothed out over the last weeks. And now he stands here at that casket, mourning the loss of this young man who didn’t even get the chance to develop his full potential.

He returns to his former place, his eyes wandering over the eight boxes, standing a silent vigil as his mind wanders back 24 hours when this nightmare started.

Bravo had been sent to a small and remote outpost to start their mission from there to rescue the wife of one of the most notorious terrorist leaders and her six-year-old son. Farrah Shalik had offered to share everything she knows about her husband’s activities in exchange for a safe passage to the US for her and her son. Bravo had moved quickly to the base with minimal support, even leaving their commander and intel officer at the larger FOB supporting them with intel and ISR as much as possible. Their mission had been successful, and Farrah and her young son had been brought back to the little outpost to transport to this bigger FOB in the morning. And that’s when everything went south.

The little outpost had been attacked. Overrun to be more precise. The few men stationed there supported by Bravo had held the outpost as long as they could. Even though help had been deployed almost immediately, it had taken them until morning to arrive. And it had been too late. The picture that had presented itself as he had stepped off the Chinook had been gruesome. And with every body they recovered, his heart had broken a little more.

The doors to the hangar are being pulled open, the last light of the day streaming in, bathing the caskets with their flags in a glowing light. On the tarmac beyond the hangar doors, their C17 waits for their long flight home, and he can make out the many injured being loaded into the hull. His gaze returns to the flag draped caskets, and he’s just glad that at least, the woman and her son are safe. All those sacrifices have not been made in vain.

Men in uniform step into the hanger and position themselves at the first casket.

Eric Blackburn steps away from his position of honor at the side of the caskets, assumes his position as Bravo’s Lieutenant Commander and starts the protocol of transferring all eight caskets into the waiting C17.

It’s time to bring his men home.

Chapter Text

A sudden jolt throws him backwards, away from Sonny, and Clay finds himself staring up at the slowly lightening sky, his NODs long gone, millions of stars still twinkling down on him. There is a sudden silence around him. No more gunfire, no shouting, no explosions. Just silence. And the darkness slowly hinting at the return of light, the faintest idea of purple at the edge of his vision, promising a new sunrise just beyond the horizon.

He wonders what happened, why he’s suddenly lying on his back, unable to move. He doesn’t have time to stargaze, needs to get back up, needs to help Sonny, or Sonny will die. And he can’t lose Sonny, too. His heart can’t take another loss. He can’t be the last one left on Bravo. And they still have to protect Farrah and her son. Because their reinforcements are not here yet. Until they are, he and Sonny are the last line of defense for them.

His brain screams at him at the need for oxygen, and he’s suddenly aware that his chest isn’t moving, that he isn’t even breathing. Concentrating hard, he wills himself to draw in a shuddering breath. Pain explodes from the middle of his chest, radiating through his torso and pulsing in waves to the tips of his fingers and toes. With the next intake of air, he starts to cough, spraying blood everywhere. As he watches the drops of red curve in the air to fall back down, splattering his face and chest and the ground around him, a weird thought flitters through his mind. This must be how the canvas of a Jackson Pollack painting must feel as the paint makes contact with its surface. The involuntary chuckle that tries to bubble up from deep within him at this absurd thought, is drowned in the blood that is leaking out of his mouth. His brain still screams for oxygen, so he tries to calm down despite the agonizing pain radiating through his body, spits out the blood in his mouth and tries to draw in another breath. But every slow and wheezing intake of air feels wet and coppery and like it’s not enough. Still, he struggles to keep breathing.

He can feel something warm and sticky pooling beneath him, and he knows he would find it gross to lie in his own blood like this, if he wasn’t too busy concentrating on sucking in enough air. His right hand sluggishly tries to find his radio, to tell Jason that he needs help. But his hand stills as he remembers that Jason won’t answer his calls anymore. That Jason died, dropped by a bullet to the head as he was guiding Farrah and her boy to the caves, to safety. Dead like the others.

Dead like Ray and Vic, who had been up high on overwatch, using the antenna tower of this small outpost as their perch. Killed by an RPG that took out their radio communication. Clay remembers finding them, finding Vic whose body had been ripped apart by the force of the explosion, torn off limbs, a split-open chest, and his brown eyes staring unseeingly out of his surprisingly unmarred young face. Finding Ray. Or what was left of him. Burnt beyond recognition, the charred blackened body fused with his M2 by the heat, giving the impression that even in death Ray is watching over them. The image is burned into Clay’s memory even sharper than that of Adam.

Dead like Trent and Metal, who have been crushed by a collapsing building that was brought down by a rockslide caused by an RPG. Trent, who had successfully pulled all the injured to cover, had been buried beneath large slaps of stone. Sonny and Clay hadn’t been able to reach him or Scott beneath the rubble, had only seen Scott, covered in blood and dust, impaled by a piece of metal through his torso and a big headwound dying his head a dark crimson.

Dead like Brock. And Cerberus. He loves all his brothers the same, but watching helplessly from the distance as their hair missile attacked to defend a downed Brock, who had been shot multiple times, the last bullet spraying his brains into the dirty ground, watching as that dog was being shot twice, slumping lifelessly to the ground, was the hardest he had ever witnessed. His useless denying cry didn’t even carry over the noise of the gunfight he was still immersed in. It just broke his heart. Even now he refuses to accept that they are all gone, despite the images of all of their dead bodies playing on repeat in his mind.

They all died to defend Farrah and her boy. Because her intel will help capture her husband and dismantle his organization. It will save thousands of lives.

Farrah! His wandering mind snaps back to what has to be done. He has to tell Blackburn where she is, how to find her, to get her out of here and finish what they all died for. His hand moves up and presses the button of his radio, but the words that come out of his mouth are only incomprehensible soft murmurs, drowned out by the bubbling of the blood that is still trickling out of his mouth. There is no sound over the radio. No crackling, no static, just silence. And he remembers that there hasn’t been anything since he found Vic and Ray. Since the antenna blew up. Despair creeps through him, knowing that he won’t be able to defend her, knowing that there won’t be anything keeping the enemy from finding her to take her back to her cruel husband where she and her boy will be punished for her attempt to escape, will be tortured and eventually killed.

They have failed.

His fingers don’t have the strength to keep pressure on the button and slide uselessly down his chest. And that’s where he finds the source of the pain, the reason the air tastes like copper, the cause of the blood leaving his body in an alarming rate. There’s a hole in his body armor, almost center mass but slightly to the right, as big as his fist. A bullet from a sniper rifle, his mind supplies. Automatically, he tries to press down with his hand, but he doesn’t have any strength left. The blood just bubbles through his fingers, slowly but steadily.

He knows he has already lost too much blood, feels the cold slowly creeping into his body, the heaviness of his limbs, the pull of the darkness, but he tries to hold on a little longer. He knows a wound like this is usually fatal, has killed like this himself numerous times. But even though he knows that this is the end, he feels oddly at peace. All of his brothers are gone. It’s only fair that he’s allowed to go, too. Not that he would have chosen to go if it was up to him. There are so many things he would still like to do in his life. But if this is the end, he won’t fight it.

He turns his head to the side and gets a glimpse of Sonny lying next to him. They nearly made it to the caves. He can even see the well concealed entrances carved out of the mountain here at the backside of the small outpost. Sonny had already sported a gunshot wound through his thigh, hobbling alongside him when the Texan was suddenly hit by a barrage of bullets, jerking his body around before he slumped to the ground. Clay had taken out the hostile responsible even before Sonny had hit the ground. But there were just too many holes in his best friend to plug effectively. He tried, he really did. And just when he thought he had it under control, he found himself lying flat on his back. As he glances over to his best friend now, he can see that Sonny’s chest doesn’t move anymore.

Tears start to pool in his eyes, and he tries to blink them away, but they slip down his face anyway. His hand moves closer to Sonny, and it takes him three tries to get a hold of the Texan’s hand, but when he succeeds, he holds it tight in his own. And even though he knows Sonny is already gone, it makes him feel like he’s not alone at the end.

He watches the sun slowly rise over the horizon. If it wasn’t for war, this place would be beautiful. The little outpost hugging the mountain, a good place to defend with a small crew, overseeing the green valley. A small river glints in the first rays of the morning sun, untouched and beautiful nature all around. He blinks away the tears that are still streaming down his face and focuses on the ever fading darkness and the still glowing light of Venus in the sky.

With dawn, reinforcements should arrive. Maybe they are already here, because he thinks he can hear gunfire again. Distant but familiar popping noises. Yelling and shouting, too. Maybe there’s still hope for Farrah and her son. Maybe, just maybe, they did it, held out long enough. And his and Bravo’s death will count for something.

A smile tugs at his bloody mouth as he watches the sun painting the morning sky in beautiful colors, listening to the gunfire coming closer all the time. It gets more and more difficult to draw in the next breath or to keep his eyes open. With every blink, his vision greys out more at the edges, and every wheezing breath takes more effort. At least the pain is gone now.

Suddenly, there are people around him, unfamiliar people. He tries to raise his weapon, but all his hand does is twitch. Someone pulls his weapons out of his grasp and he doesn’t even have the strength to hold on to them. People are talking to him, shouting at him, but he doesn’t understand words anymore. All he can focus on is the American flag on their uniforms.

Not the enemy. The woman and her kid will be safe. Mission success after all.

He can let go now. To be with his family.

And he does.

Chapter Text

“Alright, all done. You all comfortable now?” The young nurse looks at him expectantly, giving him one of her bright and enthusiastic smiles that make it really hard to not smile back.

“Yeah, thanks.” His smile is more perfunctory and doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t think he will ever be able to give a genuine smile again.

The nurse doesn’t notice though, nods and moves towards the door of his ICU room. “Rachel will be here in about half an hour for your PT.”

He doesn’t look back at her, just nods. It doesn’t matter anyway. Doesn’t matter if he makes a full recovery or not. There is no one waiting for him. His team is gone, so why should he make an effort? Not that the docs seem very optimistic anyway as far as he understood it.

According to the docs, he’s been in this ICU in Germany for almost three weeks, his condition too unstable to be transported back home. They only removed the breathing tube yesterday and it’s been a struggle ever since, making him sleep from exhaustion more than being awake, even though his sleep isn’t restful. Going through nightmares every time is taking a toll on his already broken body, and every time he wakes up, his reality is even worse.

He’s been awake for a few days now, but his lungs haven’t been strong enough to allow the docs to wean him off the ventilator until yesterday. One of the doctors tried to tell him what the damage is, but his mind hasn’t been able to follow a conversation longer than a few sentences before he drifts off or falls asleep. But he got the overall picture. He was shot through the chest, a bullet ripping through his lungs, his blood leaving his body in unhealthy amounts and he almost died. He was in a medically induced coma for nearly 3 weeks. The doc didn’t say it, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the odds of him ever returning to active duty, let alone a tier one team are abysmal to non-existent.

He stares out the window, trying to adjust his position in the nursing chair a little, but just sitting here is exhausting and every breath feels like running a marathon. Closing his eyes, he tries to concentrate on steady breaths, tries to ignore the wheezing sounds he still makes when he does more than just lie in bed motionless. But as soon as he closes his eyes, images of his last fatal mission flood his mind, and he nearly chokes on them. The deaths of his brothers are playing on repeat and in multicolor and surround sound through his mind, breaking his heart over and over, threatening to steal his breath and bring tears to his eyes again.

The nurses tell him that Blackburn has tried to call a few times, and he’s glad he missed those calls. As inevitable as he knows it is, he doesn’t have the strength to deal with the reality of what Blackburn will tell him. About his brothers. And the medical discharge that awaits him.

He opens his eyes again, trying to distract himself from the agony of his own mind, the pain of his memories, the deep-rooted grief over the loss of his brothers, his family. His thoughts stray to Rebecca. She’ll probably be over the moon when she hears that his days on active duty are over, and she will milk it for what it’s worth, trying to push him into a social role he isn’t completely comfortable with, trying to elevate him into a public political figure. Now that his medical discharge is just a phone call away, he realizes that he doesn’t really want Rebecca’s dream of their future anymore. That he never really wanted it. And he dreads the conversation, the argument he’s sure they’ll end up having.

His eyes stare out of the window, the weather outside stormy and rainy, just as dark as his mood. Everything hurts in some way, and after lying in that bed for almost three weeks, he doesn’t have the strength to move much. His eyes roam over the park outside his window, over the trees moving in the wind, over the few people hastening through the rain to get inside, but his mind returns to the images of his dying brothers. To Sonny, lying pale and still next to him in the dim light of morning. To Ray and Vic, torn apart and burnt beyond recognition by that RPG. To Trent and Metal, crushed by debris, covered by dust and dirt and blood. To Jason and Brock and Cerberus, downed in halos of red mist. His chest feels tight, and with enormous effort he pulls in another shuddering breath, tries to clear his mind of those gruesome images of his dead family, tries to conjure up a picture of their last team BBQ at Ray’s house. Ray, looking proudly at Naima and their kids, clinking beer bottles with Jason, who’s gaze wanders around the garden, smiling proudly at his men, his second family. Sonny, standing at the grill, waving the big tongs around, lecturing Vic about the right way to roast some kind of special beef. Trent, Metal and Brock, standing together, cold beers in hand, watching Cerberus jumping happily through the garden, chasing after the kids.

The image of the dog pulls at his heart heavily. Cerb has always had a special place in his heart. The dog had accepted him right from the beginning when the rest of Bravo was still a little wary of him. He tries hard to keep that image of the happy dog in his mind, tries to breathe away the ache in his heart and his chest, tries to concentrate on the soothing pattering of the raindrops against the window. They almost sound like the clicking of paws on linoleum, a sound he’s heard so many times after missions on the plane or in their barracks on deployment. The sound has always been followed by a soft huff, a lick on his hand or a cool and wet nose nudging him for attention.

A sad smile pulls at his lips when he thinks of their hair missile, his soulful eyes gazing up at him, the cold and wet nose begging for more cuddles. If he closes his eyes, he can even feel the warm breathy huff against his right hand, and his fingers itch to scratch soft fur and get a satisfied whine in return.

When a wet tongue licks along the outside of his fingers, he lets out a surprised wheezy yelp, his eyes whip to his side. His gaze lands on Cerberus, sitting right next to him, panting happily up at him.

“Hey, buddy. How are you doing?”

His eyes shoot up at the familiar voice, away from the dog sitting in front of him to the man standing right behind it.

“B-Brock?” His lungs seize at that lonely word, his whole body tensing up into a frozen position.

Cerberus inches closer, the wet nose pushing against Clay’s unmoving hand, demanding ear scratches. And just like he had imagined, the dog starts a low whine when Clay still doesn’t move. But his eyes are glued to the tall man stepping next to him. A hallucination, for that he must be. There is no way Brock is still alive. Clay saw him get shot. Saw Cerb lunging at the hostiles to protect his handler. Saw both of them go down in sprays of blood.

A hand lands on his bare arm, callused and warm. “Yeah. We heard that you were finally stable enough to wake up, so Blackburn pulled a few strings and Lisa worked her magic, and here we are.” The smile on Brock’s face widens even more. “We missed you, little brother. Trent and Sonny nearly went AWOL to be here sooner, and Blackburn had to pull rank. Wasn’t pretty, I can tell you.” Brock chuckles at the memory.

“W-what?” Clay feels his chest tighten, struggles to draw in the next breath. He closes his eyes. There is only one explanation. He must’ve finally cracked. His mind must’ve given in to the stress and the trauma and the grief and broken down. And he doesn’t even know if it’s a bad thing. Who cares if they call in the men with the straight jackets to send him away forever. It’s not like he’s any use to anyone anymore. Might as well live in this fantasy where at least Brock and Cerb are alive to keep him company.

“Clay?”

He opens his eyes again to a worried looking Brock and gives him a bright smile. He can hear alarms going off in the background, but he ignores them. He just keeps staring at Brock and Cerberus. They look good. Healthy. Just like he remembers them from their last BBQ. Not dirty or bloody or missing pieces. And he’s grateful for that. Because that is how he wants to remember them.

“Clay, you need to calm down. Come on, buddy, take a deep breath for me!”

Brock kneels in front of him now, his eyebrows pulled down in worry. Clay doesn’t even notice that the wheezing in his chest has intensified, doesn’t even notice that it’s getting harder and harder to get air into his lungs. All that matters is that Brock is here.

Suddenly, there are more people around him. Nurses and doctors. But there’s also Jason, giving Brock’s shoulder a squeeze, looking as concerned as Brock. And between the two big bodies, he can just get a glimpse of Ray.

Ray. Who had watched over them until his end.

In his mind the pieces finally click together. He hasn’t gone crazy. His team, his family, is just here to be with him, to guide him. To take him home. So he can be with them again.

No man left behind.

And with a smile, he closes his eyes and lets himself fall into the darkness.