Summary: In which painful feelings are felt because there are tears and Wolffe has unprocessed trauma while trying to comfort a younger brother.
Wolffe walked through the dark barracks. He passed rows of bunks filled with his men. His wolfpack. Safe and sound. The troopers slept in a gradient from veteran to shiny. He stepped slower and quieter when he approached the bunks of sleepers who might not be used to his footsteps. The ship’s vents mingled with sighs and muffled snores to create a quiet thrum.
A sniffle cut through the barracks night noises. Wolffe stopped. He backtracked and searched for the source of the sound. Most of the men stretched out with limbs easily hanging off the side of their beds. A pile of blankets shifted on a lower bunk. Wolffe moved to the other side to get a better view. A young vod lay curled up with his eyes screwed shut. He bit down on his fist. The other hand covered the bandage stretching from ear to chin.
Wolffe mentally counted backward to figure out who occupied this bunk. The CT number eventually surfaced. He had seen him in the medical bay last week when checking up on the troopers. A piece of shrapnel had caught the side of his face in their most recent engagement. The medics said he was lucky to be alive. Another inch to the right and well…
Wolffe gathered in a deep breath and sat down on the bunk. The mattress sank under his weight. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. The muscles under the fabric of the blacks coiled tightly, ready to react at a moment's notice.
“It’s just Wolffe. It’s just me,” he whispered.
