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It’s hot. Everything around him is burning. His arm is caught under something. He doesn’t know what it is. He does know. It’s Kyle. Was. The mangled former man at the 50mm, well, he’s not there anymore. Except he is. Isn’t. Was. James doesn’t know what words to try for. His brain is trying to spit them out, but his mouth is full of something thick and slimy that’s making him gag.
He’s moving. Someone’s dragging him, rolling him onto his side and something is very, very wrong. The voice he’s hearing doesn’t belong in the heat of this place. He coughs wetly, and a long string of something foul drips from the corner of his lips. The medic is whacking him on the back, a firm hand coming down between his shoulder blades and it loosens the gob of chyme stuck in his throat. The mess rushes up and out, but it sounds wrong when it hits the sand.
The voice is still wrong. Everything is wrong.
Something wet touches his face. It’s cold, and gross, and he tries to pull away from it. Where the hell did the team medic get a washcloth anyway? He flings a hand out to shove the clammy cloth away, and his fingers brush against a slim arm that feels too fragile to belong to a medic.
Tasha. He’s home.
Heat rises in his throat again and oozes over his tongue. Tears are forcing their way out of his eyes, but the phantom images are fading now that he’s placed the hands caring for him.
“Breathe, Jamie,” she coaches.
He tries. He really does, but sucking in a deep breath reminds his gut of how angry it is after the hellish memory/nightmare. He gags hard, bile burning his throat as his stomach tries to empty what no longer exists.
Someone is lifting him up, and there are too many hands, too many people, too much everything. He can’t find his voice, can’t remember how to make words if he could, and the only thing he can do is lash out with arms that – oh. Arm. Singular. Or arm and bicep.
The movement throws him off balance, and he teeters on the edge of the bed for a long second before hitting the floor. Steve’s cursing, Tasha’s yelling, and James curls into the smallest ball he can manage. There’s wet sludge beneath him but he doesn’t care.
He can still feel the weight of Kyle’s body pinning him to the sand beside a ruined semi-armored vehicle. The smell of burnt flesh and vomit mingles in his sinuses and he retches helplessly, bringing his knees in tighter in an effort to try to calm the flashback. It’s been a long time since it’s been this bad.
He can hear Tasha again, telling Steve to back off. Her voice is softer now. Still close, but not within reach. She knows better. He’s never hurt her. He would never. But he could. And she knows it.