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Joint Recovery Operation - Sigma: Day 0
It is highly unfortunate that a prominent American weapons manufacturer has gone missing in Afghanistan. This is a fact that can be agreed upon. Such facts are rare in discussions between British and American soldiers.
Consider, thinks John, (the narrating voice from one of his dad's old war documentaries echoing in his head) the famous Christmas Day truce between British and German soldiers during World War One. Be duly amazed that those soldiers, separated by language and on different sides of a war, could at least agree that the game they were playing was called football (okay, fussball ).
Sitting as unobtrusively as possible in the command tent, John watches the argument ( negotiation ) unfolding between the British and American liaisons and pushes the historical whimsy out of his head. He's not sure what to make of the situation before him, but he doesn't particularly need an opinion on the politics of it. If the joint operation is approved, he'll - likely, given his current location in the decision marquee - be the medic for the British side of the team.
"He's a high value target", drawls one of the Americans. "We've got to make his recovery a priority."
John watches James Sholto's jaw tighten, before the Major stiffly replies, "We have no actionable intelligence regarding his location. We can't just grid search the whole province."
The American air force representative, Colonel Rhodes, breaks in "We can cover a lot of the area with UAVs initially." John sits back and watches the air force guy. Apparently, he has some sort of personal link to Stark. Which must make advocating impartially for his rescue fucking challenging. John silently salutes his efforts, he seems to be doing a better job at remaining calm than his US army counterparts. John shudders slightly, realising he'd just concluded a member of the air force, any air force, had some level of superiority over an army man. Crush that thought and crush it well.
Colonel Rhode's first name was James too, wasn't it? Sholto and Rhodes seem to get along fairly well, and John supposes he'd also work fine with the American. He typically likes the kind of men Sholto does.
John has not previously been involved in any direct actions to recover prisoners of war, if that's what Stark is - it's a bit unclear. He has been involved in some harrowing stop-gap medical care, before shipping home victims of torture and various ill treatment. He knows he's a good fit for the proposed job. He's done a number of off-base missions and has worked with quite a few rescued or returned prisoners. Additionally, he is but a cog in Sholto's excellent unit, and the unit as a whole seems to have been sacrificed on the altar of negotiations with the Americans.
He realises he's been staring at Colonel Rhodes. Sholto quirks an eyebrow at him as the American army guy continues to gesticulate emphatically while saying nothing new. John stares instead at his hands, clasped around the clipboard. His nails are clipped to the bed and his joints are slightly reddened from too much scrubbing. It's an endless battle to get rid of the ever present grit while trying to maintain a sterile environment in the medical building. Another battle that seems entirely impossible to win. There's no long term solution to the sand. Just effort, attrition and repetition.
John stands slightly too slowly as the assorted coalition forces file out of the temporary (but it's been here three years) marquee. The decision's been made. The joint recovery operation is a go.
John brushes shoulders with Rhodes as they exit the marquee door. He has barely considered asking Rhodes and his team to join him and Sholto in the mess, before Rhodes has departed. He's striding rapidly towards the American contingent vehicles, eyes firmly fixed on the horizon. Perhaps he's already planning out the UAV deployment in his head. Or, maybe, he's just looking for his friend, as though he'll miraculously appear on the horizon at any moment.
Day 2
John’s driving and Sholto’s mainly looking at the view; the rains have come and gone, leaving behind acres of swaying wildflowers, the mountains still snow-capped in the far distance. Sholto side eyes him, watching as John takes a rare turn at driving. The integration of the American team has led to some slightly unusual assignments. They’re in the front of an equipment transport, boxes jolting in restraints behind them.
"Looking forward to this one, John?"
"Sure. Been a while since I've been off base. Really missed… the wildlife." That derails Sholto for a moment. He is more tense than most when it comes to camel spiders. Though, to be fair, most are very tense.
They're the only passengers in this transport.
"How about the company?", Sholto continues.
“Missed the company too”, John replies, nudging Sholto’s shoulder.
The corner of Sholto’s mouth crinkles in a quiet, pleased expression.
“Likewise. Now. Come on. What do you make of these Americans?”
“Ah. Well-”
Day 4
They’ve established a camp for the next few days, where they’ll stay while the techs set up this quadrant of the aerial grid search. The camp is more firmly in the desert than much of their drive was, but it’s still unusually vibrant. John’s been stationed mainly in Afghanistan for three years now, and late Spring is hands-down the best time of the year. Not too hot to get to sleep in the relatively insect free canvas tents, not so cold that he wishes his sleeping bag was actually rated for winter comfort. And a whole desert biome of wildflowers, weird looking cactuses and certain creatures that don’t particularly bother him, but greatly bother Sholto.
He’s the only doctor on the team, supported by a nurse and a mixed group with various levels of field medical training. Regardless, he gets his own small tent, or at least a tent shared only with one or two other officers, default Sholto. John does not typically leave the camp, so he gets something of a rotation of bedmates when foot patrols depart. No not like that, head out of the gutter, John. Sometimes like that, occasionally like that.
They’re a relatively small team, so the barriers between the British and the Americans have rapidly disintegrated. John’s had a thrilling day so far, he really enjoys dealing with weeping blisters. And idiots who wear the wrong size boots because they’ve, through some convoluted mess, lost one of theirs and don’t want to admit it. He should have just delegated the problem to the nurse, Sgt. Shah, but admittedly he was rather bored, auditing the medical supplies he’d catalogued and packed just last week.
Rhodes joins him at their impromptu mess, which is better described as a couple of rickety camp chairs and some portable gas stoves. John is hunched over his…soup? Possibly, optimistically, it could be classed as soup. He’s missed being more field based, yes, but not the rations.
“Long day?”
“God, yes.” John sighs. Then stops. He’s not about to start complaining about blisters or bureaucracy to the man whose best friend is a probable prisoner of war. He re-directs, “How’s the setup going?”
Rhodes sighs, “Yeah we’re all good for tomorrow.” He frowns, gaze fixed, as it typically seems to be, on the horizon. “I’d just like to get on with it.” Needs to get on with it , thinks John. He appreciates the play of evening light across Rhodes’ face, his jaw in its usual state of tenseness. He wonders what he’d look like smiling. Are those laugh or frown lines? What time do you get off? He doesn’t say that.
He does say, “Soup?”.
Rhodes’ groan is a very appropriate response.
He does say, “Have you been stationed here long?”
“I haven’t, actually. Last few years I’ve been in the States, Iraq before that.”
John doesn’t ask him why he’s here now, that’s fairly evident. Instead he sweeps his hand towards the desert vista and says, channelling Harry during her few years as a travel rep for various Spanish party islands,
“Well it’s the best time to visit. You know, just before the tourists really come flooding in; glorious weather, excellent like minded company, fantastic food and drink, fully catered, all inclusive accommodation.”
Rhodes snorts ungracefully, his stern expression finally breaking. “Oh yeah? Tell me more.” He says, one eyebrow slightly raised. John thinks for a moment,
“Well I haven’t even started on the adventure tours…how much adrenaline are you after here? Because we have skydiving, safaris, extremely high stakes hide and seek?”
“Sounds like my kind of place”, Rhodes replies, smirking slightly. They do seem to be laugh lines.
“Yeah, mine too”, answers John.
Day 7
They’re still at the same forward base. Rhodes, Sholto and about half the team, have just returned from an overnight excursion to a site that pinged some activity on the aerial survey. It was a false alert, no insurgent activity. The private with the ill-fitting boots appears to be having fairly bad luck on his first major mission and has been stung by some sort of scorpion. Thankfully it wasn’t a dangerous one, so there’s not much to do beyond hand out painkillers. And to be grateful that Lieutenant Mazur, who saw the offending creature, is the team’s wildlife buff. His helpful guide to desert flora and fauna is permanently in his pocket and ready for rapid deployment. Good god, John swears he can draw that thing faster than his pistol.
There’s a pretty major divide in their squad between the majority, like Sholto, who would rather the fauna stayed far away, and absolutely do not want it pointed out to them. Watching for enemy guns, surveying for landmines, that’s enough stress, thank you very much. Then there’s the disruptors, like Mazur and John who are fairly fascinated by the wildlife and particularly keen to share that fascination with the others. Because ignorance leads to fear and fear leads to hate and hate leads to the darkside. Or something. John has only said that last bit to Sholto. He’s not keen on being the weird medic who’s into sci-fi. He had enough of that at school, and there’s only so much that being really good at Rugby can fix.
The whole team looks tired, and Rhodes’ stern expression is firmly back. Matthews, the highly unfortunate private, is the only one smiling, and that’s in relief, as John had confirmed that yes, he would be fine. And that no, he shouldn’t listen to the other guys about the wildlife, unless they’re Lt. Mazur, and possibly not even then.
In their tent, once Sholto has done his best with a very rudimentary shower set-up, John asks him,
“So how was it, really?”
“Not, bad. But…I don’t know how we’re going to find him. And, doesn’t seem like the kindest thing. To have his friend on this mission.” Sholto’s mouth twists unhappily. “I suppose-”. He trails off and John gives him the space to think
“I think I’d want to be on the team, if I were him. But should I be? Would I be able to prioritise the safety of my team over someone like that?” He looks at John and looks away, at the canvas ceiling, “Someone I cared about that much?”
John answers slowly, his thoughts a bit sluggish with tiredness, and low key relief that everyone, on their team at least, is for the moment okay. “I guess, it’s easier, back there isn’t it? In England, I’d never be allowed to do surgery on my friends, because I’d be too close. If you came into A and E, I couldn’t treat you. But here, that’s my job. Hard to find the lines.”
John takes his turn staring at the ceiling and their breathing gradually falls into tandem. “I don’t know if that’s helpful though, because treating a person I care about, that might not be ethical, but it doesn’t have the same, I dunno”, John flails his arm around a bit trying to find the words, “implications? As balancing one person against others. Not usually.” John tries to shut down that line of thought, because he has a fairly good imagination, and it’s not helpful to think about worst case scenarios.
Sholto’s still looking thoughtful, so John thinks a bit and continues,
“I guess it comes down to trust. I trust that you’d put the team first, because you care about them, er us.” He quickly corrects. Not going to assume he’s Tony Stark in this scenario. That’s unfair to John and to Sholto, they’ve made no promises.
Sholto sighs. “I don’t know if I trust myself. To do that”. To do that to you. John hears.
The mood is getting heavy, so John says, upbeat, “Well I guess, Major, that we just have to trust the higher ups have put the right people in charge”.
“What are you trying to say, Captain? They always do”, replies Sholto, solemnly. Before they both break into quiet laughter.
Day 8
John is actually rostered on the next away mission. The planned route takes them through a village where they’ve offered outreach medical care before, as there’s been an on-off British presence for the last few years. He’s pretty excited to leave camp, though practised at hiding it. He thinks, not for the first time, that perhaps he should have just been a soldier. If he had been less competitive, less set on proving to Harry, to his Dad, his teachers, that he could do this. Amount to something. God it's not a bad life, the surgery, the travel, the people. But sometimes, sometimes he does wish.
He matches his pace with Colonel Rhodes and climbs into the same transport. He’s still thinking about his and Sholto’s ethics chat from yesterday evening, and he didn’t exactly sleep well.
“So, the Major said you played Rugby?” Rhodes surprises John by starting a conversation instead of brooding.
“Er, yeah, that’s right.”
“Think you’d be any good at Football?”, says Rhodes, too innocently.
“I’m excellent at Football”, replies John, archly, refusing to rise to the bait.
Rhodes hmphs, seems to accept defeat for now, and changes direction,
“Visited this place before then?”
“Yeah last year. Had a temporary clinic for a couple of weeks. I liked it.”
“What, no travel brochure this time?”.
“Hah. No. I only moonlight as a tour guide, you know. I’m on the clock now. Serious mission specific discussions only, Sir.” John straightens his back and considers a salute, but draws the line at that. Not only is he a medic, Rhodes is Air Force. And American. And, most key, seems to actually be a nice person.
Rhodes snickers. “As you were, Captain.”
The drive is a fairly long one, made slower by the mine sweeps the front vehicle has to carry out.
“So where next for you? How long have you got left on tour?” asks Rhodes. It’s not quite, when do you get off. It’s getting there, maybe. Rhodes hasn’t made much of an effort with small talk with anyone else. Sholto said as much last night. Pointedly. It bears repeating, often, at least in John’s head, that Sholto is one of John’s favourite people.
“Few months, but I’m planning to do at least another. I do-. I like it here. Sometimes. Too much probably”. John shuts up. Has to remember he doesn’t actually know Rhodes that well so far, shouldn’t just run his mouth.
Rhodes looks at him curiously. “I don’t really see it, got to be honest. Hah. Up there with my absolute least favourite places. Worst trip ever, maybe. Zero stars, would not recommend”. He looks at John, deliberately un-tenses, “Well, half a star? One, at most.”
“Anything I can do to change that?” John flirts, reflexively. Looks at Rhodes, “Or not, sorry.” Fixes his eyes on the road, stares at the kaleidoscope of colours as the flowers blur past the windows.
Rhodes is silent for a moment, then half smiles at John, “There might be.” John grins back, enjoying the little wave of attraction and excitement.
***
It's an interesting day for John. He remembers some of the villagers from last year, they seem to recall him too. He attempts very rudimentary Dari and then relies heavily on his interpreter. The atmosphere is more agitated than he recalls, the equilibrium disturbed by the UAV team with their unfamiliar tech. John has great situational awareness, but he also trusts his team. Allows himself to spend most of the day focused on the potential patients. With the same sinking feeling clinic work always gives him, he divides the ailments into yes, can fix easily in this twenty minute period and fuck.
Is Rhodes having more success than John, as he searches for Tony Stark in the desert? John is having zero success curing cancer, or giving an ultrasound, and limited success offering vaccinations. God, he wishes he had X-ray vision, ultrasound vision, the force? Or just a team member with decent maternity training. Tony Stark gets an army and so, so many man hours. These villagers get a couple of days of John and some army lads who’ve done a few weeks first aid training. John tries not to think about politics, over here. It’s too much, it doesn’t help. These villagers only get John today, because Tony Stark is missing. Is there any meaning in that? He wants to ask Sholto, who isn’t here and won’t know either. He gets on with it. He does his job.
***
It’s not safe to stay overnight in the village. They set up camp a few miles away; they’re all a lot more on edge than even at the forward base. There are at least three small cacti directly under John’s shitty foam roll mat. And an uncountable number of small, sharp rocks. They keep him on edge too. The deluxe package , he imagines Harry saying, voice echoing from a time when she was mostly happy.
He and Rhodes are sharing a tent. Fortuitous, that. John may have offered to sort out camp assignments so Lt. Mazur could go and ogle those really weird looking lizards.
John is tired, he’s frustrated, and somewhat angry. But there’s no one to blame. He chose to be here, even wants to be here. But. Sometimes his job is failing to help pretty much an entire community of civilians. People, whose situation he can’t see improving. What the fuck is the point. There’s no rescue there, they’re already home. He wants to punch something.
Rhodes ducks into the tent.
“Ever been to Ibiza?”, asks John. Because what the hell, he needs this restlessness to go somewhere. Rhodes, dusty and stern as he is, looks as attractive as he did this morning, as he has since John first saw him at the main base.
“Yeah, I have. Man, that is very much Tony’s scene”.
“Not yours?” Asks John, lounging as much as the cactuses will allow.
“Can be.” Says Rhodes, eyeing him.
John wonders if he needs to be more overt. What he does, and with whom, it matters. There’s propriety and regulation, rank and power dynamics. But officially, mostly, he could be out, though he’s not, not properly. A few people know, mostly the ones he’s slept with. Rhodes, on the other hand, has Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. And he’s the senior officer, the one with something approaching an actual public profile.
John considers. To hell with it, one last try before he goes outside and offers to patrol, to find something to hit. “So, Rhodes, did you think about it? Anything I can do to push your rating past half a star?”
A silence while he considers, then Rhodes replies “Yeah I can think of some things”
He manoeuvres himself to lie down on the adjacent roll mat. “And call me- fuck ow. Did they pitch this on spikes?”
“It’s comfier over here, Fuckow”, says John, grabbing Rhodes’ shoulder and encouraging him to roll closer.
***
It’s quick and quiet. John is still thrumming with something adjacent to anger, Rhodes to grief. And yes there’s space between the tents, but not that much space. John’s breathing hard. He’s got his hand around the both of them, and he can still feel those damn rocks and cacti stabbing along his whole right side. These are not the kind of marks he likes on his body after sex.
They’ve both got their shirts mostly off, and John pushes his chest against Rhodes, gasping into his mouth as he enjoys the feeling of skin on skin, never mind the dust and the sweat. They’re half kissing and half just breathing in each other’s space. John’s orgasm comes over him quickly. He resists the urge to mark up Rhodes’ shoulder, instead uses his free hand to pull them tighter together, appreciating the feel of the muscles tensing in the other bloke’s back. He has to gather himself for a moment there, more half hearted in his palming of Rhodes’ cock as he disentangles himself a bit, breathing hard.
Rhodes is shaking slightly, body tense and probably just as uncomfortable as John on the terrible roll mats. John jacks him off faster, and he gasps, pulling John close again to kiss, and to give his mouth something to do other than verbalise. John catches the taste of blood as Rhodes shudders through his orgasm, their teeth clashing. They both just breathe for a minute.
“Fuck”, murmurs John, drawing it out, satisfied.
Rhodes rolls onto his back, grimacing at the new spikes. He brings his hand up to feel his slightly bloodied lip. He smirks at John, catches his eye and says, very deliberately, “Ow.”
John knows he falls fast and falls easily. He can’t stop smiling even as he smacks at Rhodes' exposed shoulder. “James”, he says in a tone he’s not sure he can define, though it’s definitely fond.
Day 10
The aerial search from near the village has also proved to be a bust. They return to the main forward base. John leaves behind instructions that will not be followed and vague promises of a future visit, which he in turn knows he cannot keep. What is the point of any of this? What?.
Both him and Rhodes are doing better than they would be otherwise, but that’s a pretty low bar. John enjoys off-base missions, he does, but the clinic ones are trying. Especially ad-hoc like this. It’s so much harder to achieve anything in a couple of poorly planned days than in weeks-long properly targeted campaigns. Wow John, what an amazing insight. Truly revolutionary. John supposes (hopes) that it’s better than nothing. Maybe Tony Stark has inadvertently saved, or at least marginally improved (John isn’t that arrogant) a few lives. He does not voice this thought to Rhodes.
They’re in the same transport again, though this time Lt. Mazur and an intimidated looking Matthews are also along for the ride. No surprises that Matthews pulled the short straw to ride with the officers instead of his squaddies. John doesn’t sigh. Matthews stares firmly at the floor. Lt. Mazur is driving, John will offer to switch out with him soon, give himself something to do beyond stare at Rhodes’ ear and idly wonder what it tastes like. Not the time or the place, John, seriously.
“Hey Mazo, still a fan of the cacti after that camp?”, asks John, trying to break the tension Matthews is fervently radiating.
“Who did the layout plan Captain?”, replies Mazur, “That one’s not on me, and neither are those poor squashed cacti!”.
Rhodes looks very pointedly at John who tries to suppress a flush. Eh, what the hell, it’s hot enough in here his face is probably already an unattractive splotchy red. And anyway, John’s pretty sure Rhodes had no complaints about the tent assignments. Nor has John been particularly subtle in his interest.
“I’m sure they’ll be fine”, says John, “They bloody well fought back hard enough”. Even the cacti are unrelenting, and ultimately undefeated. They’ll probably outlast the whole goddamn coalition. Fuck but he’s circling things he doesn’t want to think about far too often at the moment. He hopes the next mission is not a clinic. And promptly feels guilty.
Lt. Mazur sighs sadly, he really does like the cacti. John refuses to feel guilty about them too. He refuses. He absolutely does not think about Harry’s money plant with its little bobbly eyes. Her dead money plant. Fucks sake John.
He’s relieved when they finally roll back into the forward base, though perhaps not as relieved as the practically vibrating Matthews. It’s a tiny group of tents, but it seems like home in comparison to the past few nights. A home filled with many fantastic amenities, like the hastily rigged shower tent. Sholto’s there and John feels a bit lighter. Rhodes eyes Sholto too, then abruptly heads towards the American tech vehicle, which has just pulled in behind them. John’ll address that in a bit, if it needs any addressing. Right now he just needs food, a wash and some sleep, with Sholto’s grunting snores as background noise.
What he gets is unloading and auditing the supplies, while Sgt. Shah catches him up on the lack of medical emergencies while he’s been away. Some of the American contingent have the shits. Fantastic news Shah, fan-fucking-tastic.
***
Much later than he’d like, he’s curled against Sholto, his back pressed to Sholto’s chest. They don’t need to talk about it, they’ve said no vows. And even if they had, they know each other.
“That bit was good, at least?” asks Sholto, quietly.
“Yeah”, says John, just as quiet, smile in his voice. The smile drops as he continues “Was just, you know, the rest of it.”
Sholto hums against the back of his head in agreement, breath warm in John’s hair. He lets the silence settle, lets John decide whether to organise his thoughts, or just drift off to sleep. What does he want to say? What do all the dark thoughts from this mission come down to, really? Can he just let this go without picking at it? I don’t know if we’re doing the right thing.
The words have been simmering, nearly boiling over. He has to say them. James, I don’t know if we’re doing the right thing. Sholto’s arm tightens around him. He breathes in the dusty smell of him. Thinks about the clinic that wasn’t and about the other James staring at the sky. I don’t know- . Thinks about this being Matthews’ first real mission and about cacti that may be older than he is. I don’t-. Thinks about one man, creating so many fucking ripples and about Rhodes on a crappy bed of thin foam. I-.
“James, are we doing the right thing here?” He blurts out. Lances the festering wound. He should qualify. He means this mission ( Does he only mean this mission? ). He stays quiet. Sholto tightens his arm around John.
“I hope so,” says Sholto, still quiet. Serious and steady, the way John needs him to be, in this moment.
More words fall out, his voice higher and faster than he’d like, as he grasps Sholto’s hand, “Is something always better than nothing?”
He knows it’s an impossible question. He means Afghanistan, he means them, he even partly means Rhodes, the clinic, Tony Stark. He feels his chest tightening and his eyes getting hot. Because he means Harry, who isn’t happy, he means being an army doctor . And maybe, somewhere, he means his Dad too. God he doesn’t want to cry here.
Sholto just pulls him close and says “John.” And if he shakes apart a bit, Sholto will hold things together, just for a minute.
Day 11
Up sticks, this quadrant is as complete as it’s going to get. John and Shah audit the medical supplies, again, as they dismantle camp. They have not changed overnight. Mazur, packing up parts of the mess equipment, has prepared an appallingly thick coffee-sludge that John slurps down gratefully. It’s 0400.
As they depart, John surveys the desert in the dawnlight and swears to God he sees a fucking boot shoved on the end of a particularly phallic cactus. He’s in the front of one of the larger troop transports today. Matthews and his mates are in the back, along with some of the Americans. He hears snickering. He is too tired for this and he’s not their direct commanding officer.
He likes the desert more than he’d ever imagined he would. Not that he’d done much thinking about desert life, growing up in rural Essex. He’d never really conceptualised a place that wasn’t wet, and pretty flat until his teens. They hadn’t travelled much, when John was a kid. He’d gone with Dad and Harry to a couple of caravan parks at the coast. And then his school did some trips to London, when he was a teenager. It was so, so much better than Essex. And sure, he’s not an idiot, John’s always known that places beyond his experience exist. It’s just his childhood dreams didn’t run more specific than not Essex. And, later - London: fuck yes.
London came with strings though. For sure, he could have done it some other way. Maybe. But the Army gave him a straightforward path, and they believed him when he said he was smart, fit and driven enough to do it. Just like that. He said he wanted to be a doctor. And they said, if you can prove yourself, if you can hack it, then it’s a yes. Welcome home, John.
London was fantastically exciting. But it wasn’t just London. When it eventually sunk in, that he was actually doing this, actually succeeding, a whole world slowly opened up. The kind of world that he’d previously put in the same category as Star Wars for direct relevance to his life. He could aspire to an endpoint beyond getting the fuck out of Essex. He could travel. He could actually make money and build a life somewhere, anywhere, that he wanted to be. He could talk to Harry and Dad or he could just…not. He could sleep with whichever kinds of people he pleased.
The desert can be so open, the sky big in a way that actually reminds him of the skies over the salt marshes where he went on holiday as a kid. But then he’ll look to the horizon and there’ll be mountains. Or the flat landscape will break up into the kind of bad-lands canyons that are a logistical and safety nightmare , but god they’re beautiful. John was shot at, in those canyons, last year. He’s killed there and believed he’d die. Somehow they’re still beautiful. The sun’s starting to rise properly and the coffee sludge is oozing through his veins.
“-Tony Stark?”, he hears, from the back, and is broken out of his early morning musings. He glances backwards.
“Nah none of us did, including Lee, so don’t listen to his bullshit”, says one of the Americans, putting his neighbour into a friendly headlock.
Lee (presumably), extracts himself and says “Apparently, the Colonel knows him really well though, and he’s met all the brass too. And, Clarky. I fucking did meet Stark. Right, I was in Vegas-”. A tussle breaks out and Lee is shouted down.
John’s barely heard of him. Reading the news has never been much of a priority. He’s vaguely aware of the guy, but he’s more keyed in to people with actual cultural presence, like Alan Sugar. He misses watching the Apprentice. He’d caught bits and pieces of the first series just before his initial deployment. Makes more of an effort than he’s willing to admit to anyone to find catch ups when he’s back in the UK. Alan Sugar would not have travelled to a hostile foreign country.
***
Later that day, he’s talking to Rhodes as he sorts out the medical supplies. He’s tired, and he slightly resents having to brief a man he’d really like to sleep with again on his team’s diarrhoea issues.
“Yeah only two of them need to stay on bed-rest. Shah’s getting them sorted.” Rhodes nods, and John has, thankfully, nothing more to add on the shits. While he’s been setting up their very rudimentary medical tent, Rhodes has spent the afternoon prodding at one of the UAVs.
“Didn’t realise you were on tech”, says John “Thought you were here to lead the op.”
“Aw yeah,” shrugs Rhodes, “I’d usually say it’s for fun, but I just need to know those babies are flying at their best.”
“And you’re the man for the job?” He knows some pilots are engineers, but that doesn’t mean being qualified for drone repair.
“One of. I’m an engineer, and I’ve kept my hand in, you know. Worked with Tony on and off on a couple of projects.”
“A man of many talents then? I like it”, John smiles.
Rhodes glances around, but there’s no-one close. John decides to keep it toned down, he’s not trying to cause the bloke any stress.
“Did you always want to be an engineer, or a pilot? Both?”, wonders John.
“Hah yeah, I guess I’d have been anything that got me on a full ride out of Philly. Philadelphia.”, he glances at John, who nods. He can do that much US geography. “But yeah. Since I knew it was a thing people could do, I always wanted to fly. And that kinda became wanting to know how planes stay up, too.”
“Makes sense. And yeah, pretty great you can swap from command to drone fixing. Is Philadelphia still home?"
Rhodes huffs “Wow you say that strangely. Try Philly? Yeah kinda. Family’s there. But Tony’s in Miami, and man if I told you where the Air Force sends me the rest of the time, I’d have to kill you. So.”
“So.” Echoes John, in the same tone, smiling up at Rhodes.
“So. Same questions, Watson. Where’re you from?”
“Essex. Pretty near London”.
“Ha what a name. Reminds me. Back in the 90s Tony decided we needed to do a dirty Britain tour. I’m very certain he thought it was something else. Turns out it was ticking off these tiny little towns with bizarre names. Penistone wasn’t really his vibe,” sniggers James.
John’s never heard of it, so yeah. “Can’t imagine it would be, no.”
“Also. I’m very sure we are never, ever welcome back there.”
“You get banned from many places?”
“Fewer than Tony!” exclaims Rhodes. Then shakes his head, laughs. “So, anyway, you always want to be a Doctor?”
“Well I mainly wanted out of Essex. But it wasn't like I always knew. I guess - I like people and I like helping them. With the obvious exception of your idiots who didn’t fucking listen about the water. And if I’m a Doctor - which, to reassure you, I am - here’s a pretty good place to do it.”
“I feel that,” agrees Rhodes. He looks at John contemplatively. “I remember you said you liked it here. Help me see it?”
John looks around and thinks. Are there words for this? Words I'm willing to actually say, to put out into the world?
He's pretty easy to talk to, Rhodes. And part of that is the knowledge that their interaction is inherently time limited. He doesn't always share much with the people he sleeps with. Emotional intimacy isn't often a thing he needs and if he wants it at all, he's usually a lot slower with that part. Rhodes isn't quite a one night stand, but he's not Sholto either. Oh there's definitely something there, but it would take months they don't have for it to grow into anything like what it could be.
But. Also. Maybe Rhodes needs something resembling closeness right now. Okay, what the hell.
"It's not one thing. I guess a lot of it's the place. Some of it's the people I'm with, the things we do. The place - have you ever been somewhere like this? Maybe you have with Iraq? Not with the fighting, but just in a place where there's lizards, or cacti. Did you know they can live over a century? I just…it's beautiful is what I think. Like, have you seen mountains like that before? Or the flowers? You don't get them all year, but there's just a few weeks in the spring. And there's people here and a history that I barely know. I want to know, I think. But then some of the old sites we've passed through. You know, the Taliban, they destroyed them, a lot of the places. Sometimes you see these shards of stone and there's a bit of the most intricate pattern, or tiny piece of a picture that isn't anywhere anymore. I'm a bit in love with it, to be honest." John shrugs, he's not sure he's articulating this well and it's uncomfortable saying some of it outside his own head.
And it all comes back to what he's spoken about with James, won't voice to anyone else. Because these feelings don't seem to have any place in what they're doing here, in this country. And maybe he shouldn't feel any of them, when part of the reason he's here is the adrenaline kick of offbase operations, or for the more exciting parts of his role as a doctor. And the fact that coming here isn't exactly a choice he made, but a consequence of some other very related choices, from back when he was even less certain of what he wanted from his life than he is now.
Rhodes is looking at him, still curious, trying to parse what he's said into any kind of sense probably. John's no eloquent storyteller.
"Iraq was similar in some ways. But I didn't think about it the way you do. Wasn't on the ground as much by any stretch."
John huffs out a laugh.
Rhodes continues, "But I think I'm seeing the risk and the danger more than anything. I mean obviously a part of me likes that, but I'm seeing mostly those things. Dunno that I'd want to focus on the rest, not all the time. Seems like you're making it hard on yourself."
John feels a bit gutted. It must show in his stance, he's trying not to let his expression move.
"Sorry, not my place to say. I don't mean that what you're doing is wrong. I've just, hell you didn't ask me for advice, tell me to fuck off if you want."
John shakes his head, unsure but not necessarily looking for an out yet.
"I've been doing this longer than you. Just. Just make sure you've got something you care about that isn't here. That's all." Rhodes shrugs with unusual awkwardness. "And really, Watson. John. Thanks for telling me the stuff about the desert. It's something to be able to see it like that, it really is."
John and Rhodes make brief eye contact. John's still feeling rather stripped bear.
"Uh thanks. So. Dinner?", he asks.
They walk towards the mess area in the fading light.
Day 12
"Why are you friends with him?"
"Tony? I don't know, man. He's a good guy, really. Sometimes. He's a lot of fun"
"From what you've said, it seems like he just causes you trouble."
"Yeah…" James rolls away to lay flat on his back, folding his arms over his chest.
John turns so he can see how much the other bloke has closed off and says, carefully "We can talk about something else you know, or just sleep, not trying to push".
They lie in silence for some minutes. John feels his breathing even out and listens to the rustle of wind on canvas. He drifts a little, imagines the cavernous insanely bright night sky beyond the shelter. James abruptly begins to speak.
"It's just, he's the worst person in the world, sometimes. He'd tell you that too. But, he's my worst person." James idly traces patterns over John's exposed hip, watches his slight quiver.
"Never tell him I've said this, but he’s brilliant. Like, I'm a damn fine engineer, but what he does is something else. Watching him work, no - watching him think ." James clamps down a little harder on John's hip.
"And then sometimes he's an absolute prick. He says he won't do it again, but he gets high and somehow I'm the one dropping everything and flying across the country. And it's like college except come on man, because surely it's time to grow up now."
James is speaking louder, hand gone from John's now cool skin, gesturing sharply at no one present. He's certainly not looking at John, eyes roving wildly around their limited canvas abode.
"He rearranges my life, my career on a goddamn whim because he's lonely. I hate him for it, sometimes". His voice falls to a near whisper, slows.
"But he's Tony. He can't be gone. It's Tony ." He says his name like a benediction. "There's no way. No way he's gone." James' voice is firm, his breathing perfectly even. But John cannot see his face, as he turns away from view.
John doesn't say anything, immediately. Because what can he say? It's not grief and it's not really hope. He knows, he's pretty certain, that James is a good man. He only really knows Stark through James.
He says, when James' breathing is less utterly uniform. "Stark's lucky to have someone who's so certain of him." He thinks, to hell with it. Puts a hand on James' shoulder. "I don't know about him, but you're a good man. He's lucky to have you."
Day 13
The next day, they find him.
Tony Stark falls from the sky, and he’s like an answered wish and the shooting star all in one. And, maybe, he’s like a meteorite, because there’s a crater and so much fallout.
And then two Americans leave the desert, while two British men and their squad - they stay.
John and Sholto watch the helicopter disappear over the horizon as they begin a long drive back to the forward camp. There’s a card in John’s pocket. It has a hastily scribbled address and a phone number with a US dial code. Rhodes had passed it to him that morning, after they’d picked up a strange radar ping, and rushed to find it. Rhodes radiating confidence and a desperate sort of hope.
In the end, John had barely been needed in his capacity as a doctor. The US military were dramatically efficient in their recovery of Stark. Rhodes had given him and Sholto a wave, as the helicopter door slammed closed. And Sholto, seeing whatever expression John was making, fixed his kind eyes on John and put an arm around his shoulders, saying, innocuously,
“Good job. Back to base now.”
They are not alone, on the drive back to base, once the forward camp has been dismantled. There is also a nurse who is exceptionally pleased to see the back of a bunch of diarrhoea ridden Yanks. And a Lieutenant who loves life of the non-human kind with particular passion. He is hunched into his seat, thumbing the book that lives in his pocket and looking longingly at the desert. There’s quite a group of them actually, in Sholto’s unit. They’re a good unit. Right down to their newest member, barely a man and really looking forward to finally getting his replacement boot (those bastards ).