Work Text:
When he was younger, he'd always been able to fall asleep so easily; maybe too easily.
After losing his parents, he'd found rest on a UNSC rescue barge.
After seeking vengeance for their deaths, a child conscripting himself to a life of war, he'd slept en route to Camp Currahee.
Even the demanding experiences of his Spartan training hadn't dulled his capacity to flip the switch.
After Onyx, it was like he'd forgotten.
Lines beneath his eyes were bringing attention to his frustrations, and the more he bristled about it, the deeper they'd become. Ash knew he was feeling haunted by the fear, knowing that just behind the cover of dark, he'd be ambushed.
That last look to Commander Ambrose; the dirt on his hands as he buried Dante and the memory of Holly.
Hours of repetitive vexing would have him succumbing to little more than an exhaustive crash for a few hours before waking, breathing heavy and wet with sweat. Once there'd been tears that fell for an hour. Once there'd been blood from a deeply bitten lip.
Whenever he thought he was close to catching the rhythm, to force the torment into a place where it could become numb, the situation would evolve and he'd have no defense against it's new shape.
Flashes of shattered SPI burned carbon black, and leaking hydrostatic gel, pooling purple-tinged, thick with clotting blood.
When the medics had torn Veta's cold, heavy, body from his arms and carted her away, he was left standing alone in the hallway, certain that the moment was another clipped horror to endure on playback.
Red-frothed biofoam had oozed from between fractured plates and migrated into the joints of his gauntlets.
The images subsided when Ash blinked a few times into the dark of the room, and drew in a long breath.
Veta had lived.
He exhaled slow and turned onto his side, closing his eyes as he inhaled, quiet and deliberate. The breathing exercises he'd been practicing were marginally helpful, never taking the teeth out of the stalking memories, but seemed to soothe the bite. He slid a folded arm under his pillow, and brought his other hand up to his eyes, rubbing them deeply, as the pressure created bursts of abstract figments in rainbow colours behind his eyelids; amorphous shapes that expanded and swirled across the black. Without knowing exactly why, the strange aspects were oddly comforting.
Mark and Olivia's even metered breathing assured him that they were still asleep, though he was never too worried about waking them. He'd gotten remarkably good at hiding all of this from them. There was a small yearning part of him that desperately sought their comfort each time he broke away from another acidic thought, but the pleading fragment always wilted under a looming shame that stole his voice each time.
Determined to recalibrate, Ash turned his thoughts back to Veta, and the relief that they'd not lost her. Of course, that consolation abutted the reality that even despite comprehensive treatment, she could still slip away, and he hated the thought of her dying alone in an infirmary bed. Veta was not a Spartan like them, but she was a remarkable person. Someone who, at the very least, deserved better than to fade away, stapled and sutured, under a tangle of tubes and wires.
He felt a cruel smile pull at his lips as he realized his attempt to console his thoughts had dredged up a new vein of anguish. What route do you take when the enemy is yourself?
She had still been intubated last time he looked through the glass; the sight of the ventilator had made him feel ill.
She would know what to say to him and he'd feel better. She always knew what to say.
Like a mom.
His smile smoothed out a little as the bitterness melted away, and he sighed again; lighter, more content.
The sound of footsteps just beyond the door stole his attention, and Ash leaned slightly over the edge of his bunk to stare at the flat metal plate. The steps sounded armored, heavy, and purposeful...and then sounded like they were passing, heading further down the hall without a single hesitant step. Pulling himself back, he swallowed and felt a little silly.
Would the Op have turned out differently if Blue Team had run security for them? He huffed and turned his face down into the pillow. They couldn't always lean on the Lieutenant and expect Blue to pull them out of the fire any time something went awry. They were still learning this new method, and there were bound to be errors along the way, but the whole purpose of the Ferret Team was to quietly manage dark operations with more subterfuge and less firefights. Carting around with a Spartan task force didn't exactly highlight the directive.
In any case, the last several Ops had gone over remarkably well, but the sneak run on Gallant had snags from the start; intel so spotty it turned the whole thing into a moonshot long before they'd ever made planetfall. They'd taken some precautions, bringing along suits of SPI in case it all went sideways. He turned onto his back and looked long into the plated ceiling above, sideways...more like upside down and inside out.
His hands were toying with the edge of the blanket, kneading it between his fingers while he stared into the slats of an air vent above.
Would they ever know about this?
If Veta died tonight...what would they tell Fred?
He had no personal experience with romance, or desiring another person's affections, but he was sure he could recognize it when it was in front of him. He felt extra certain when he'd been telling Veta not to say goodbye, as she'd laid on the blood pan in the Turaco; she'd taken his hand, and fought to speak Fred's name.
When she and the Lieutenant were together, they were...different. Just barely.
Ash closed his eyes, resting a forearm over them, while he raised his other arm straight and held it there. The feeling of the blood steadily running from the limb was another strange comfort, as he struggled to push back the memory of their last extraction.
Her helmet crushed inward the diameter of a human fist; flakes of polarized armor glass filling her eyes and stuck to her skin.
A bright splash of boiling plasma filled his mind's eye, and - Holly, no - there'd been nothing left but the atomized carbon prints where she'd been standing.
No. No.
The needles had burst and torn away a section of his torso, but he was still fighting; Dante was still fighting-
He pulled his arm back and pressed both palms into his tightly closed eyes, feeling the warm wetness of tears against his skin, trying to refocus and stretching out every breath; each shaking a little less than the last.
Counting back, he fought to find a more balanced place, honing in on the subject of love; it was such a many faceted thing, paradoxically complicated and simplistic. The gamble beat out the creeping barbs of Onyx, only to replace one suffering with another. Like coalescing voices, all shouting over one another in an echo chamber, he felt overwhelmed by the kaleidoscope enigma of 'love'. Such an utterly present keystone of all sentient life, and yet no clear definition existed.
Love wasn't just something written or spoken that brought comfort and joy - it could be destructive and painful, building a strong home, just as readily as it erodes the foundation. He was struggling to control his breathing this time, sliding his hands away while wiping at his eyes, and letting them lay flat against his chest as he felt his heart beating heavy just beneath.
Love was why he couldn't sleep anymore. It was why, when he finally did, he woke up crying and gripping his fists shut. Was love actually just worth it's weight in tragedy?
He searched the ceiling again, and rolled onto his right side, a brittle chill working over the exposed skin of his arms, and burrowing down through his rib cage as he gripped the material of his shirt. He was shrinking, hands moving to cover his ears, as the heated thump of his heartbeat grew louder and louder, unyielding like a metronome, focus - focus. He felt like he may drown, separating his lips, brow knitting tightly. This was one of the worst ones so far...he couldn't shake it off tonight. What if he started screaming? How would they-
A sudden unintelligible mumble broke the silence, and blew the fuse.
His eyes widened in surprised, feeling the vice loosen, staring at the source of the sound - Mark, still fast asleep in the top bunk opposite him.
Another garbled moan came out of the boy, and Ash nearly jolted back. Steadily, his expression changing to one of unfurled adoration, allowing his eyebrows to slowly rise as a revelation bloomed, quieting all the howling ghosts beneath the surface.
There really was so much more to it, wasn't there? It was all about as comprehensible as the sounds coming out of Mark.
He'd been hunted by the bloodied recollections of everyone he'd lost, and had allowed the stains to obscure everyone he had. It wouldn't resolve every ounce of pain, but his breathing was slowing again, and he was starting to feel...better.
With a last look, Ash turned, curling onto his left side, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders.
Love was the comfort of Mark's mumbling.
Love was being afraid for Veta.
Love was knowing how painful it is to lose.
Love was remembering to take care of himself.
Tomorrow, he would talk to Mark and Olivia, and maybe...well, maybe then he'd be able to sleep again.