Chapter Text
“Alpha! Bravo! Delta! I need eyes on November-Two-Three!” Your commander’s voice blasted your comms, though barely over the gunfire of Al Qaeda men ambushing your squadron. Not much could be seen through the dust kicked up by the approaching tanks, but faint figures - of which you couldn’t distinguish as American or Arab - were crumpling left and right. Gears were whirring in your head, eyes trying to locate the asset, but foot soldiers on either side clouded the air with powder and smoke, and there was no doubt in your mind that Khalid al-Habib, the internal ops commander of Al Qaeda, was long gone.
Still, orders to attack were orders, and you picked up your gun and fired at anything that moved in designated target buildings. Bullets after bullets joined a frenzy of warfare, and it was impossible to tell when one hit flesh and another hit concrete. The knockback kicked your shoulder to the ground, despite all of your training, and after several rounds of reloading and aiming wildly, it ached beyond belief.
“Delta? Where the fuck are you?!” Your commander screamed again, and you swallowed a dry lump full of dust and ash from dying bodies, waiting for your team leader. When neither he nor anyone else replied, you yelled back with, “Two clicks south of Bravo, Sir!”
“Get out asap! These fuckers shot our bird and we’re heading to our emergency pick up site! Hurry your asses over!”
“Wilco,” you hurriedly replied, ducking into an alley to reload quickly. A groan alerted you to several men from your team lying awkwardly in the middle of the crossfire. Assessing the situation, the trucks were about 30 yards away, and they were easy enough to get to with cover, but with the weight of both gear and soldiers on your back, you had roughly only 40 seconds to get in and out.
Running and firing as fast as you could, you hoisted your team leader’s arm over your shoulders and lifted him by the waist while trying to shoot nonstop with an M16 pressed against your waist. Blood dripped from his head onto your sleeve, while his left arm was chunked out and oozed a trail of fluid behind the two of you. If not for the Al Qaeda men trying to gun you down, you would have thrown up from the grotesque sight right then and there. You steeled yourself and kept running, hastily shoving the wounded male into the back of the truck once you got through the crossfire. “Reyes,” he whispered weakly as other soldiers rushed to his side.
You turned to look back at him, directly into his clouded green eyes. “Reyes,” he strained to say again. Your stomach flip-flopped, the idea of heading back into the gunfire churning your insides to mush, but you nodded. You would leave no man behind. Steadying your gun against the crook of your shoulder and collarbone, you ran back in, shooting wildly, but at least giving yourself some cover. You grabbed Reyes, throwing his arm over your shoulders just as you did earlier, and hustled back over to the trucks. He was only 20, buff, but not much when compared to the brawn of the other men, and you saw holes in his abdomen and right arm. You half-jogged, half-limped forward briskly when a sharp pain hit you in the chest. It took almost everything in your power not to collapse, and you pushed through the excruciating pain to get to the remaining members of the Delta team. As soon as Reyes was taken by the team medic, you collapsed on a seat and blacked out with the sound of gunfire ringing in your ears.
--
Hot desert air stifled your lungs, and everything felt so dry. Dry enough that words burned in your scratchy throat before they could reach your brittle, shriveled tongue. You felt like human jerky, dried to the bone, and the stiffness in your joints was nothing compared to the sharp sting in your chest every time you tried to squirm into a comfortable position on the godforsaken cot. It took a while to adjust to the light, but no doubt you were in the infirmary, patched up with some barely passable meds.
“Goddamn, soldier, you really did a number on us.” A familiar voice spoke on your left.
“Commander,” You greeted, sitting up with a wince, wanting to be polite.
“Thanks to you, Reyes and McMahon are alive and well, being dumbassess in the mess hall right now.”
“I just did what any soldier would do,” you said.
“Not many 19-year-olds would jump into crossfire to help two wounded men.” He chuckled. “I don’t know if you’re brave or reckless.”
“Probably reckless, Sir.”
“And why is that?” he asked, a smile on the corner of his lips.
“I almost shit my pants helping Reyes,” you admitted truthfully. “I was terrified and I didn’t really want to, but I knew I would let down my team if I didn’t.”
“Well, look where that got ya. How’s that chest wound?”
“Pretty okay, Sir. I’ve had worse days.”
The commander raised a brow. “What’s worse than almost getting shot in the heart?”
“Periods, Sir.” You deadpanned.
He nodded slowly, a bit embarrassed. You held back a grin; the mention of a period made even one of the toughest men at base awkward. The commander cleared his throat. “Hang in there, kid,” he managed before making a quick exit.
You sighed and leaned back down gingerly, ribs and chest aching even with the slightest movement. Even something as small as your stomach rumbling sent dull waves of pain through your torso. Damn, you really wanted some food. Forget the bullet that scraped your right lung; you desperately wanted something to eat, desperate enough to eat army food and like it. Your grandparents’ burgers sounded heavenly right now, and you could hear the sizzle of patties slapped fresh on the grill and the sound of ice clinking together as your grandma poured a glass of lemonade.
“-fornia! California!” Someone grumbled your nickname, ingeniously crafted from the state you were trained in. “You hearin me? Or did you get your ears shot too?” He gently grasped your wrist and shook your arm, bringing you out of your brief daydream.
“Oh hey, Reyes.” You shot him a small smile. “How’s it goin’?”
“Peachy.” he said, not bothering to match your smile. “I got you lunch.” He shoved a tray into your lap. “Thanks for saving me, I guess.”
“Wow. McMahon was right. You really don’t like talking to people.” Your nose scrunched up as you peeled away the foil and saw another serving of mashed potatoes and creamed spinach. “You could’ve brought me some cookies as thanks, ya know.”
Reyes glared at you, though hardly intimidating with the visible bandages bulging slightly through his thin, army green T-shirt. “Shut it, California.”
“Hey! I got seriously injured saving your ass! Don’t tell me to ‘shut it,’” you frowned and leaned forward to punch him in the arm, regretting it as soon as your weight shifted to the left and caused your lunch to tilt and topple to the floor, alongside the shockwave of pain punishing your every move.
“You’re such a kid,” he tsked, sighing as he began cleaning up your mess.
“You’re only a year older than me, Reyes,” you shot back, “You don’t have any room to talk.”
Reyes looked up at you and raised a brow. “Wanna bet?” He turned back to the creamed spinach lying sadly on the floor and wiped it up with a grimace. “Remember your first day on this base? You cried for your mom.”
“I didn’t do that,” you denied lamely, “I was crying because of all the dust that got in my eye.”
He gave you a look, and you sighed. “Ok. I did cry, but it was because I was so intimidated by the commander. I didn’t think I’d last a week.”
“Baby,” he mumbled under his breath.
“What was that?”
“You’re a baby,” he repeated, loud enough for you to hear.
“Dammit, Reyes, if it wasn’t for my stupid injury, I’d have socked you in the face already! If I was a baby, your ass would be all the way back in some terrorist town in the middle of nowhere,” you growled.
“Okay, okay.” Reyes raised his hands to concede. “I admit, you’re not a baby.”
“Thank you,” you huffed.
“But you’re still a kid,” he said, smirking.
“Lord have mercy on your soul because once I’m done with this dumbass hole in my chest, I’ll make one in yours,” you tried to say threateningly, but it wasn’t close to how menacing you wanted to sound after you groaned and laid down on your cot from another surge of pain.
“I’m so scared,” Reyes replied, rolling his eyes again.
“Try me, bitch.”
“Oh, I will.”