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Patterson had crashed into Schwetje fist-first…
...and Nate had missed it.
Fucking Iraq.
Mike had tracked him down after the football game had been called, shirtless and sweat-dripping, and told him about Patterson taking Schwetje down like a wolf attacking a shire horse before other Marines broke them up.
“I like to think I moved in as soon as I could…” he’d drawled.
“Who won?”
“Well…”
Ray had tackled Rudy to the floor.
Rudy had started punching Ray.
And then the other guys had broken up the tussle, with maybe more urgency than when Barrett and Mike had wrestled Patterson off Schwetje.
Ray had thrown off Garza’s restraint, storming away and wiping the rage from his face.
The tears.
Ray had provided comic relief for the Platoon, if not the Company, for the entire tour, whether they wanted it or not.
And Nate doubted he was the only one who felt this way, but personally, Ray’s antics had been needed.
Nate leaned on his loyal steadfast Gunny, he leaned on Brad’s faith in him, but he knew that Ray was keeping Brad afloat in turn.
Trombley shot those Iraqis on Brad’s orders, and Nate had been worried.
Walt had shot that man at the roadblock and disappeared into himself.
And Ray had brought them both back, and fuck, Nate was grateful.
He could stop his men being sent out into a dangerous city at night for no good reason, could do what he could to protect their bodies, but he couldn’t protect them from themselves.
“Is he doing okay?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen him since. Brad started following him off the field, but didn’t follow through. I haven’t seen either of them since.”
Nate made a beeline for Doc.
-
“You okay?”
That was stupid, of course he wasn’t.
But Brad had to say something to his out-of-character RTO.
Brad had a gun, had the kind of ease in the field that came with years of experience, a personality that naturally leant him towards implacable calm, but he couldn’t do anything to fight the enemies in the heads of the people he cared about.
Poke.
Eric.
Walt.
Nate.
And now Ray, out of fucking nowhere.
Brad stopped and just watched him walk away, paralysed by his own helplessness.
He allowed himself that one weak moment before forcibly wrenching his attention over to the things he could do.
Okay, he couldn’t get into Ray’s head and fuck up whatever it was that was fucking him up, but he could go find Doc and ask him for something to deal with whatever injuries Ray might have. He hadn’t seen blood, but he was pretty sure there was going to be bruising.
And maybe Ray would snarl at him for trying to baby him, but Brad had to do something.
At least he was useful in that he knew Ray, and easily hunted him down to the room he’d retreated to in the building they’d taken over.
He was pacing and Brad watched him go for a moment, not sure what to say.
Of course Ray broke the silence.
“Fuck off, Brad.”
Brad sighed and came in, putting his gathered things down and then snagging hold of Ray.
“Don’t be a bitch.” he chided gently, squeezing at Ray’s upper arms and turning him towards the table.
Ray’s body was hard and tense for a few minutes, his jaw clenched, his lip curled in some predator-threat, before he eventually gave and sagged in Brad’s hold, sinking down to perch on the edge of the table like a sulky kid.
Brad gave him a sharp nod and then reached to take Ray’s chin between his finger, tilting his face from side to side, checking out the damage. His touch was careful, like Ray was fragile.
Ray allowed this, even if he still seemed irritated.
“What hurts?” Brad asked, not finding any blood, as he’d thought, but pretty sure part of Ray’s jaw was starting to swell.
“Nothing.” Ray said, shortly, mulish.
Brad sighed and let Ray go. He picked through the things he’d brought up and handed Ray a couple of little white tablets and a bottle of water.
Ray’s expression was a question as he took them.
“Painkillers. Rudy had some in his snivel gear.”
Ray studied them where they lay in his hand for a moment, then swallowed them back with a swig of water.
Brad had picked up and bent an ice pack to activate it, and he reached over to hold it carefully against the worst of the redness on Ray’s face.
He cupped his other hand against Ray’s other cheek, thumb stroking fondly.
Ray was frowning. “I fucked up.” he said softly, eventually. “My heart feels like a bird trying to punch out of my chest.” he closed his eyes. “All I wanna do is sleep.”
His voice came out fractured.
Brad’s hand pushed around to clasp against the back of Ray’s neck, as Ray’s forehead dropped to rest against Brad’s shoulder.
-
Nate found his point team’s driver and TL in a lonely office somewhere at the back of the building.
Ray was perched on a desk, an ice pack on the floor in a pool of condensation.
Brad stood between Ray’s legs, and Ray had hooked his heel against the back of Brad’s knee so he was close, enough for Ray to rest against him.
One of Brad’s large hands was pushed up under Ray’s shirt, rucking it high: tracking Ray’s heart beat, Nate realised.
The other lay against the back of Ray’s neck, fingers smoothing there softly as Brad murmured to him, something too soft for Nate to make out.
Brad turned his head to rest his face against the top of Ray’s head, and caught Nate watching.
They held eye contact for a long moment before Ray moved, reaching out and putting a hand against Brad’s waist, holding tight.
Brad didn’t look away from Nate. “We’ll be alright, Ray. It’ll all be okay.”