Chapter Text
The sight of a six-foot-two female marine with a shaved head climbing onto a plastic lawn chair was not something one could easily miss.
“And then the Scarecrow just casually jumps off a cliff,” Mother explained to her audience, using her position of height as a demonstration, landing on the ground easily.
Her audience were the closest friends and colleagues of the man in question, Shane ‘Scarecrow’ Schofield. They were seated in Mother’s backyard (well, most of them were seated) to celebrate her birthday. The team had just returned from a recon mission in Iceland and were utilising the gap in their schedules as best they could.
“Sounds like something he’d do, the crazy bastard.” Book II glanced at Schofield with a mixed look of admiration and sadness. He’d not been a part of Schofield’s team then, but his father had been; his father had also died on this mission.
“The best part is, it was supposed to be a simple routine mission. Except, nothing’s ever simple with you, is it honey?” Mother asked, giving him a meaningful look.
Schofield opened his mouth to protest. "I have no idea what you're--" he managed to get out before Fairfax cut across.
“Sounds like his other simple routine mission in Siberia. When he, you know, blew up a Typhoon submarine. No big deal.”
Schofield tried again. “I feel like—“
“Face it, Scarecrow. You’ve got your methods and they’re completely fucking crazy – and that’s coming from me – but if they keep you here, we’re good for it,” Mother finished, using her seat in a more appropriate way.
“Hey, I could be sitting here, but I might not be in one piece,” Schofield said wryly.
“No need to worry. I’m sure your friends would collect only the most attractive pieces of your corpse.” Schofield turned to see Aloysius Knight holding two beer bottles. He glanced over at Mother, who simply raised an eyebrow. Schofield rolled his eyes and took the beer, eyeing Knight as he took a seat beside him.
Knight had offered his assistance if Schofield ever needed it in the past but showing up at Mother’s birthday dinner did not constitute help. No one was dying (yet), nothing was exploding (yet), there was no plausible reason for him to be here. And yet here he was. Schofield wondered if the fact that the other man’s presence wasn’t bothering him was the reason he minded so much.
“And you wouldn’t?”
Knight took a sip of his beer. “I’d take the pieces of you that’d be most likely to win me the bounty. Something recognisable, those eyes of yours have become awfully familiar,” he said, winking at him. Schofield rolled his eyes, trying to focus his attention away from the other man, while still feeling startlingly aware of him.
Completing the circle was Sanchez, Bigfoot, Rebound, Astro and Trinity. David Fairfax and now apparently Knight. Ralph, Mother’s husband, stood diligently at the barbeque, at ease cooking for the group.
Now that Mother’s story had slowed to a close, the natural chatter that surrounded group dynamics returned. Fairfax seemed to be speaking passionately with Bigfoot, gesticulating wildly as the Marine looked on, bemusedly. Fairfax had removed one of his ubiquitous pairs of converse to demonstrate his explanation.
Astro and the latest addition to their group, Trinity, were engaged in a competitive match of badminton in the corner of the backyard. From the sounds of it, Astro was losing immensely and Trinity was taking far too much glee in the matter.
Beth “Trinity” Childs made up the other half of the females in their team. She was a sharp contrast to Mother, with tight curves rounding a muscular and lithe body. She appeared to be capable as any other marine, but Schofield had discovered how brilliant of a tactician she was. It had taken time for her to fully be accepted into the group with her pragmatic and hostile way, but she was now as one of them as any other; furthermore, she’d formed a particularly close attachment to Astro.
Schofield’s eyes fell on the space where Libby Gant should have been sitting, but in actuality, there was only an empty space. There should be three females here.
Schofield pushed the thought of Libby out of his mind, a habitual action that he didn’t even consciously recognise he was doing anymore. It had been hard at first, but now, it was shocking how easy it was. He glanced across at Knight. The other man reclined in his seat, looking perfectly at ease with the marines. There was a sort of fluidity in him, however, that gave Schofield the impression he could – and would – bolt at any moment.
He was just about to ask where he’d been when Ralph announced that dinner was up, manoeuvring the food onto large platters and placing them on the table. The marines surged forward, filling their plates hungrily.
Once gathered around the circle again, the conversation on the topic of "Strangest and Most Inventive Callsigns" was struck up.
“I once knew a girl with the callsign ‘Jailbait,’” Rebound said, shaking his head in disapproval.
“That’s…” David Fairfax's expression said it all.
“That's a ridiculous callsign. It doesn't make any sense. The rare exceptions of age waiving excluded, you have to be at least 18 to serve, the same age at which sex is legal, meaning that any Marine wouldn’t actually be able to be jailbait,” Trinity said, rolling her eyes.
"Maybe she was the exception," said Sanchez, deliberately riling her up.
Trinity rounded on Rebound. "Was she?" she demanded aggressively.
Astro gave her a sideways smile. “Callsigns aren’t designed to make sense, Beth.” Schofield noticed a couple of his team look up when Astro used her first name and he cracked a smile; it wasn’t exactly common in a world where callsigns became so much of one’s identity. “I mean, look at yours. It makes no sense at all.”
Before she could launch into an elaborate defence, Bigfoot cut across. “You know, as they go, Pancho’s pretty weird,” he said jokingly of his closest friend.
Sanchez scowled. “You got your callsign entirely because of the size of your feet, I wouldn’t say that’s much better.”
“Speaking of better,” Astro interjected, “Picture this: a five foot-whatever Arab guy, who’s as wide as he is short, with a penchant for blowing stuff up. His callsign? Pooh Bear.” The entire circle broke into raucous laughter at the image. "He was named by a ten year old, I'm not sure what he was expecting."
Schofield joined in, hoping if he forced a laugh, his body would be tricked and the feeling of dread would go away. He glanced over at Book II, whose callsign was a painful reminder that there was a Book before him, and he was no longer here.
“Why didn’t Rufus ever get a callsign?” he asked Knight, turning to face him, in case anyone was going to bring up the hereditary callsign factor.
Knight raised an eyebrow as he considered this. “I don’t know. He’s just Rufus. It’s all encompassing.” Schofield couldn’t deny that he agreed. The name did seem to fit the large pilot incredibly well.
“Where is he tonight? You two are normally attached at the hip,” Mother observed dryly.
“He’s doing some work on The Black Raven tonight. And I don’t think he felt entirely comfortable crashing your party.”
“You clearly had no such moral qualms,” Mother remarked and Knight grinned.
“I’m a bounty hunter; do we really want to go into my morals?”
Fairfax raised a beer in his direction. “Touché.”
The playful banter slowly faded out to background noise for Schofield. Suddenly, all he could hear was his heartbeat, crashing heavy and hard against his chest. He felt like he’d split down the middle and the world was pouring in. Muttering an excuse, he stood and moved towards the house as quickly as he could.
Once he’d stepped into the much cooler building, he found himself gripping the metal sink, staring at his warped reflection and unable to think past anything but the thoughts and the feeling of tightness that constricted him. He’d labelled these things as ‘glitches’ and they were much more common than anyone knew. He knew he should tell someone but a part of him stopped him everytime, feeling as though he’d just be told to pull himself together. They’re not serious, anyway he reasoned to himself. Instead, he’d done the opposite and gone out of his way to cover them up as well as possible. He knew that Mother still worried, especially when she caught him sitting there with a thousand mile stare.
The thought focused on one word -- Mother -- before morphing into memories that almost hurt more than his chest.
-- Mother’s whispered words, telling him that Libby was soft on him --
Schofield pushed away from the sink, breathing heavily. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the thoughts away.
-- Libby’s eyes locking with his, nowhere near resigned to her fate as she silently pleaded, pleaded, pleaded with Schofield to save her --
“Fuck,” he swore, trying to catch an impossible breath. I can’t breathe, I need to breathe.
Schofield had been a marine for a long time. He’d heard the talks and he knew the risks. He also knew that he probably hadn’t dealt with Gant’s death in the right way largely because he hadn’t dealt with it. He just acted in the way he always did after the initial involuntary shock: buried it deep and kept on going. Grief didn’t expire he figured, he could always go back and visit it later. But the opportunity had never felt right and now Schofield was cracking up because of it. Submerging his feelings about Gant was the straw that broke the camel’s back in a vast library of friends and lovers that Schofield had lost.
“Needed to get out of there for a moment?” Schofield took in a deep mouthful of air, hoping that would settle him for a moment when Knight spoke behind him. He turned to face him, leaning against the bench.
“Yes, that was the plan,” he replied, praying to someone above that his voice was steady. “But now it seems ‘there’ has followed me in,” he said, somewhat more pointedly. All he wanted to do was get out of there, splash some water on his face and rejoin the party.
Knight shrugged. “Mother wanted to make sure you didn’t miss out on the dessert.” Knight held his gaze before reaching up to remove his amber glasses, wincing slightly as the light hit his damaged retinas. There was a pregnant pause. “You okay?”
Schofield forced a harsh, sharp laugh out, thinking the other man was joking. He didn’t know completely where he stood with the Black Knight. A complicated man with a complicated past, but he’d helped Scarecrow, immeasurably and they’d formed a deep mutual respect and understanding of each other that only comes from saving someone’s life. Their paths crossed only intermittently and the circumstances varied, but somewhere along the line, Knight had become a friend.
When Knight’s expression didn’t change, Schofield looked at himself through Knight’s eyes; flushed skin, wide eyes, startled movements; all very obvious symptoms for being not okay. He felt as though a thousand tiny pins were prickling over his whole body, even as he stood there. But it was his problem to deal with and no one else’s, no matter how badly he might be hiding it right now.
“I’m fine,” he said darkly, submerging the feelings as best he could and pushing forward to move past the other man. Knight turned and caught Schofield by the arm, as if to hold him back. The pressure was barely anything, more of an indicative gesture than actual intent, but Schofield reacted violently. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to move, run, go and he wrenched his arm away from the mercenary with much, much more force than was necessary
Scarecrow stalked off, not back outside to the food, but down into the hallway to the depths of the house, feeling Knight’s eyes on him every step of the way.
Schofield stood in the guest bedroom, bright hot sun shining through the curtains and saturating the room in a red glow. All he wanted to do was to climb into the shower and let the water pound on his back until he forgot his own name, and everything else. But that more than anything would be a sure sign that he was not fine. Which he was. Hah. Another part of him was still buzzing with adrenaline that came from nowhere and wasn’t necessary right now. Schofield had always been able to trust his body and mind in times of trial and now it seemed they were failing him. In his indecision, he simply stayed still, almost paralysed, and tried to clear the thoughts that had frozen him there.
Not for the first time, he thought to the option of medication that he’d declined. He had already tried nearly every form of therapy there was under the sun. For a while there, he had bounced back, and life had seemed worth living but without even realising, it seemed like the small foundations he’d built from the ground up were already cracking away beneath him.
He gave himself an ultimatum then and there; either he would have to resign from the Corps, for fear of putting any of his team at even more risk because of his failed leadership or he would have to go back on his resolution and try the drugs if he wanted to stay on, with no guarantee they would even completely work.
Both options made him feel like he had no escape, which was illogical. He took a deep breath, and pushed the thoughts away, submerging them with everything else he couldn’t face today. The glitch was over. He was in control of his mind and body. No one else.
Knight walked back outside, and sat beside Mother, picking up his beer from where he’d left it on the ground. She glanced at him in expectation, and Knight just shook his head, his eyes very far away in thought.
“Damn,” Mother sighed, looking more weary than he’d ever seen her before - and Knight had seen Mother in some pretty tiring situations. “I was hoping he’d talk to you, if he wasn’t going to talk to me or anyone else. Shared experiences and all that.”
“I don’t understand,” Knight said in a low voice. The chatter continued around them and while the unit had surely noticed their leader’s disappearance, they hadn’t reacted to it in any undue way. Schofield was a private person; not cold and icy, but he just kept to himself a lot of the time. “A couple of months ago, he was doing well, he’d returned to service and he was making great headway, right?”
Mother nodded. “Yeah. The Corps were just feeding him small things, nothing like he’s used to, teaching and gentle recon missions. It’s not like the Scarecrow not to apply himself fully to any mission he’s been given. But this last one, in Iceland. God, it was like he was a shell of himself and it’s scary, almost scarier than how he was at the beginning.”
“Well, it can only go one of two ways,” Knight mused. “He can get better or he can get worse. And we hope for the best but plan for the worst. Time will tell.” He felt Mother’s gaze on him and felt that she wanted to say something more, but they both caught a movement at the fringe of the group and looked up to see Schofield had returned.
He looked better than he had in the kitchen, but there was still something taut and harsh in the way he was holding himself, and Knight couldn’t easily forget the brutal way Schofield had ripped himself out of Knight’s light grip. He still carried the knowledge from a military talk he’d been to when he was still in Delta, and Schofield seemed to be displaying most of the symptoms for PTSD. Knight was no doctor, and he knew that Schofield had been consulting with some of the most expensive shrinks the Corps could offer, but he also knew that in that sort of simulated, clinical environment, it was easy to put on a facade and fool them.
Schofield turned the group and slid into the chair beside Knight. The sun was slowly lowering in the sky but most of the Marines were comfortable in cut off t-shirts, not having to be restricted to their utility uniform. The group had gathered into a circle, with Astro’s well thumbed and ubiquitous pack of cards littering the hands of the Marines.
“Would you like to play, Captain?” Astro asked, placing three cards down with a grin and causing the rest of the party to groan. Astro was notoriously good at cards, much to the chagrin of Trinity.
Schofield raised an eyebrow. “What are we playing?” he asked, his voice even. “I’m not sure I want to take my chances with you tonight, it seems like you’ve got a decent head start on me.”
Astro chuckled. “This noble game goes by many names. President, Kings, Warlords―”
“But we generally just call it Asshole,” Sanchez interjected impatiently, placing his own cards down on the pile.
Astro mock glared at him. “Hey, don’t ruin the sanctity of a card game with your filthy mouth, Sanchez.”
Schofield nodded. “Sure, deal me in the next round. And prepare to get your asses whooped.” He jerked his head at Knight. “Deal him in as well, and we’ll show him how the Marines can show up bounty hunters in terms of deviousness.”
Knight didn’t display his surprise, but he’d hardly expected Schofield to speak favourably towards him after the incident in the kitchen. When he had arrived earlier, he wondered if it had been a bad idea, given that Schofield would always associate him with Libby Gant, and her death; something Knight suspected was the undoing of him.
“You know, Fairfax, for a cryptanalyst, you really suck at cards,” Bigfoot commented as he played his hand and Fairfax stared morosely at his cards, before signalling he had nothing to play.
“Yeah, whatever happened to no code is unbreakable? Don’t you have that phrase tattooed above your ass?” Mother quipped from her vantage point.
“I still live firmly by that maxim, but codes cannot be compared to playing cards with a bunch of cheating Marines and one established criminal,” he retorted.
“Hey, nerd, don’t even think about impugning the honour of the United States Marine Corps,” Rebound replied. Astro swept the cards into his hand with skill and began dealing them out again, this time adding a pile for Knight and Schofield.
Knight ignored the jibe to his profession, knowing it was their way of including him. Soldiers were infamous for picking on one another, and clearly Fairfax had been spending too much time around them. He grabbed his pile of cards and fanned them out. He’d played a fair few card games in his time - most people who served in a military organisation had - but this one wasn’t one he was familiar with. Rather than asking for the rules, he just adjusted his glasses and watched to see how it was played.
It was well into the night before Mother announced she was going to bed, and anyone who was crashing at her house instead of returning to the barracks for the night better get their bony asses inside and not make a noise. Ralph had an early shift tomorrow, and it was the last night Mother would get to spend with him for a while.
Rebound, Fairfax, Knight and Schofield moved towards the house, while Astro, Trinity, Sanchez and Bigfoot opted to return to the uncomfortable bunks at the Base. Married officers were allowed houses on the outskirts of the base so it wasn’t very far.
A lot of soldiers developed the ability to fall asleep anywhere, and to maximise on minimal space, perfectly happy to sleep with two or three others in the room.
Knight had never been able to develop this ability, but it wasn’t something he overly regretted. He’d adapted to running on very little sleep. Soft snores floated down the hallway from the guest room that Fairfax and Rebound had claimed. In theory, it should have been offered to their commanding officer but Schofield deferred to Mother’s Rules in Mother’s house, and Mother’s Rules were the same in every aspect of life: First in, first served.
That’s how Knight ended up in that strange stage between sleeping and waking, with Schofield on the couch across to him. He wondered if part of the reason for his insomnia was his hyper awareness to the other man. Knight planned on disappearing early in the morning, even earlier than Ralph. He’d done what he’d been asked to do, and like he’d told Mother, the only thing they could do now was wait. They couldn’t force Schofield to talk about what he was going through, no matter how much it might hurt to watch it.
He’d finally slipped into sleep when he was awakened by strangled breathing and a voice crying out. He sat up, orienting himself instantly and realised that Schofield was having a nightmare.
“Fox.... no... not in the guillotine... no.... NO!”
Knight winced at the terror in Schofield’s voice and swung his legs over the side of the couch, wondering if he should go and wake Schofield, bring him out of the horror he was stuck in.
He waited for a while longer and it seemed like it had subsided, before Schofield thrashed on the couch, and Knight made the decision. Stealing silently across the room, he placed his hand gently on Schofield’s shoulder, reminiscent of their earlier encounter
“Scarecrow. Wake up,” he said in a low but firm voice, shaking him just a little. “You’ve got to wake up, Schofield, you’re having a nightmare."
And still, he twisted in his sleep. Knight applied slightly more force, remembering back to the days where Rufus had been the only one around to do this for him, after his wife had died, and how he'd found no relief in waking. Still, being awake was better than whatever hell Schofield was living through now.
Finally, his eyes snapped open, and the same terror that had been in his voice was plain to read all over his face. He stared at Knight for a moment, his eyes questioning, panicked, wanting to flee, before he realised who he was looking at and he sunk into the couch.
His breathing was the only sound that filled the room, still heavy but slowly being brought under control. Knight went to move away, to give him some space, but Schofield suddenly reached out and grabbed his hand. He didn't say anything but Knight could read the wordless plea in his eyes, so he settled against the coffee table that sat parallel to the couch, ready to stay there for as long as he was needed.
Knight didn't offer his help freely, but for this man, he would give it anytime.
He could feel Schofield's pulse in his wrist, his hands clammy. Every time he shifted, Schofield's grip on him tightened briefly and Knight wondered if Schofield even knew that he was doing it. He also wondered why, with an entire team that loved their captain, he was the one sitting here with Schofield. Part of it was circumstantial, but Knight thought that if he had have been anyone else, Schofield would have forced down his breathing, and left the room, claiming he was fine. He'd seen it happen before.
Knight watched him until his eyes closed and he slowly slipped back into oblivion, before he grabbed his bag and slipped out the back door of the house. There was no need for him to be there in the morning.