Reader who is passively suicidal. Who maybe doesnβt even realize it, but it bleeds into everything.
Youβve always had a dark, dry sense of humor that was easy to brush aside, but the first time this habit was glaringly obvious was on an op when you were almost hit by an enemy vehicle.
In this line of work it was natural to contemplate your death. Maybe you did it too much. So when that car was speeding your way, your first thoughts werenβt how to get out of the way, or survival, but rather how painful this death would be. Not because you wanted to avoid death, but that ideally it wouldnβt be that bad. So you didnβt move.
Instead of the unforgiving force of the car, you were hit with the warm body of Ghost shoving you out of the way. You both land hard on the dirt out of the road, but thereβs no moment to speak as youβre immediately under fire once more. Itβs like the impact kicked you back into gear, refocusing you on the objective and letting you continue fighting.
It doesnβt mean the boys didnβt notice. And it doesnβt mean they let you off easy. Once youβre back to safety, Simon drags you into the makeshift war room, basically tossing you in.
βWhat the hell was that, sergeant?β His voice is hard. Loud. Heβs mad.
The rest of the team trickles in with varying degrees of dread on their faces.
You donβt feel much of anything. βWhat was what?β
Simon scoffs, looking away in exasperation briefly before crossing his arms and stepping into your space to look in your eyes, βyou know exactly what.β
Youβre confused. Why the hell would he care that much? Your eyebrow barely twitches. βLook I get I fucked up okay, Iβm sorry you had to save my ass.β You really donβt give two shits that he saved you. If that had been the end of the line for you, you wouldβve been okay with that.
Everyone releases their air heavily, the room shifts. You donβt get why, itβs not like they havenβt had incidents like this themselvesβclose calls.
βI donβt give a ratβs ass that I had to cover you, thatβs what Iβm here for, sergeant. I care that it looked like you werenβt going to do anything.β Heβs speaking softer now likeβ¦like youβll break. That just pisses you off.
βSo what, I froze?β You take a step back, arms crossing over your chest, angling away from them.
βYou donβt freeze.β
Thereβs a heavy silence that sneaks its way into every corner of the room before Johnny breaks it.
βItβ¦it looked like you wanted to get hit.β
The scoff that leaves you is unconvincing. βI wasnβtβ¦β you canβt finish the thought. Honestly you donβt know what you were thinking. You just know sometimes you get tired. And sometimes you think the easiest way to get rid of the ache is leaving.
Youβre not looking at them when Simon comes back and grabs your shoulder. He forces you to look at him, ββs not happening again. Clear? We need you.β
They begrudgingly let it go. Who among them isnβt a little fucked up? But from then on youβre under a tight watch. All they find are more red flags.
You donβt take care of yourself, leaving eating and sleeping and showering to the last minute. You donβt seem to do anything you enjoy, no hobbies outside of duty. When you have time off they donβt see you and they assumed you left base, but then they see you emerge haggard from your room three days into their leave. Had you even been out of your room before then?
They donβt say anything because they know youβll deflect and scatter, but theyβre scared. Yes, you were their teammate but itβs become more than that. Even with the lack of energy you seem to display, youβre still unrelentingly there for them.
When Johnny got shot and miraculously lived, semi-paralyzed, and had to do months of PT, you were there. At every appointment, staying with him to take care of him and make sure he did his exercises.
When Simon went to his own dark places, you were there. Finding him half-delirious from nightmares in the rec room and making sure he made it back to his room. Giving him water and someone to talk to, making sure he didnβt go too deep. Which is why he was confused you couldnβt recognize the signs in yourself.
When Kyleβs mom unexpectedly passed, you were there. You booked the flights, packed his bags, kept him standing during the funeral. You negotiated for his extended PTO, never letting anyone mistreat him when he was down.
And when John was court marshaled for what happened with Shepherd, you were there. You helped Simon keep the team together, coordinated with Kate to keep him informed, you even helped formulate his case.
They might say loyalty was your fatal flaw. They just wished you could see these signs in yourself and give yourself the same treatment you gave others. But if you couldnβt, they would.
It was easier to see the signs now. You volunteering for the risky roles on ops, offering to be bait, choosing hand-to-hand encounters when you couldβve easily used your gun.
Theyβre lost. They donβt know what to do. If they stop you from taking these roles, chances are youβll say theyβre coddling you. If they take you off duty entirely, they might lose you forever. How do they balance supporting you and helping you?
They start with words. Making sure you understand how much the risks youβre taking affect them.
Itβ¦confuses you again. You didnβt realize they gave this much of a shit if you lived or died. You kinda just thought you were teammates. Any deeper feelings toward them you pushed down because you knew it wouldnβt be possible.
But when youβre strapping in to be repelled off a cliff, Johnny stops you. He grabs your shoulders and forces you to look in his eyes. βYer cominβ back, ya hear? We need ya.β
You donβt even get time to respond before Kyle is swooping in and kneeling in front of you, finishing strapping your harness and double-checking the other connectors. He looks up at you and you try to ignore the image that invokes. βYou heard Johnny, love, we need you to come back.β Heβs smiling that blinding-white smile that could probably cause world peace.
You figure your COs will be as stoic as always, but instead, John places a heavy, warm hand on your head, giving it a pat. He takes a deep breath before his hand comes down to the back of your neck and tells you, βwe trust you sarge, come back to us.β
Your brain is basically empty trying to process all the excess affection when Simon brings a hand up to fix the hair John just rustled. Heβs never done that before. You never imagined him ever doing that. You can feel the warmth of his skin on your forehead through the glove. βWe need you back. Rog?β
You canβt even think before youβre nodding and saying βrogβ back.
Youβre halfway down the cliff before you even register half of what happened. Your chest is warm, and you think your cheeks are too. You canβt place the feeling but it feels almost like the ice in your body is thawing, like youβre coming back to yourself after being gone for too long.
It doesnβt cause too much permanently the first time, but they keep doing it. Every single time before an op, every time you volunteer for some risky procedure, hell even randomly at lunch now. Some of it is starting to worm into your brain that maybe you have people that care about you. That would care if you were gone.
Itβs not a cure, not a quick fix, but itβs making you rethink some of the things you had taken as factβlike that you are expendable. They keep insisting, silently and loudly and in all the space between, that you arenβt. Maybe you should start to listen.
