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A boot taps against yours deliberately from under the table, and you jolt back into awareness, looking to the culprit.
Gaz raises an unimpressed eyebrow at you, nodding his head towards the front of the room where Captain Avalos is giving her briefing.
“-received reports of snipers in the area. They’ll be gunning for the higher-ups, so no rank display and no outdoor saluting until further notice.”
You catch the tail end of the message that was apparently important enough to warrant the large number of personnel crammed into this tiny space.
Seems simple enough, and you cringe at the grating sound of some fifty-plus people ripping off the rank velcroed to their chest in unison.
You pocket yours as Avalos dismisses the congregation, nodding to Gaz and Soap before weaving your way through the sea of bodies.
-
The days pass in a watercolor blur, people from every department scrambling to locate the enemy lurking in the woodwork and redoubling their efforts with each unsuccessful scouting op.
You and the rest of the one-four-one haven’t had a single moment of downtime since that first report, and the power naps you’ve been forced to resort to are no longer cutting it.
Fatigue is beginning to weigh on you; something’s got to give soon, and you can only pray you’ll be able to mitigate the fallout.
The stack of papers in your hand flutters in the wind as you speedwalk across the base, mentally going over how you’re going to break the news to Avalos and Price.
Word from the latest mission had come in, and it’s not good.
You glance up as a figure approaches you, looking equally as scattered.
Oh - you recognize her.
“Hey, Lieutenant Hale.” You give her a polite nod and the best facsimile of a salute you can manage-
Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open. She reaches for your hand.
“Don’t-“
A single gunshot echoes across the courtyard and Hale drops like her strings had been cut.
Flecks of…something…wet your cheeks. Frantic shouting is quickly overtaken by the ringing in your ears.
A substantial force collides with your shoulder, and then you’re shoved towards the nearest building. You don’t even recognize the person who probably just saved your life, all you can do is stare out the glass door at the crumpled form now staining the pavement.
Listless fingers drag through the mess on your cheeks, and you numbly take in the blood now smeared on them.
Your gaze flicks back to the body. You did that. She was alive only seconds ago and now she’s been reduced to that and it’s your fault.
Someone ushers you down the corridor as you retreat into the quiet recesses of your mind.
-
You don’t know how long it’s been. The trip to medical had taken far longer than it should have, especially considering there’s nothing physically wrong with you.
An entirely unhelpful portion of your mind laments the fact that the medics tended to you when they should’ve been working on Hale.
But you were a first-hand witness, perhaps the only witness, to the exact reason why she’s not in medical.
You anchor your hands into your hair, back pressed uncomfortably into your nightstand.
No, she’s not in medical. She’s in the morgue, and you may as well have wheeled her in there personally.
You almost wish it were you on that slab, with a toe tag and a white sheet draped over you.
Clamping your hands over your ears doesn’t drown out your thundering pulse, but it’s easy to pretend the rhythmic thudding is the sound of shovelfuls of dirt being thrown over top of you.
If you were buried alive, at least the death weighing on your conscience would be cosmically justified.
You freeze when someone knocks at your door. A low, throbbing burn in your lungs is your only indication that you’ve stopped breathing altogether.
There’s another knock and you remain exactly where you are. A rather cynical part of you imagines it’s Hale on the other side of that door, coming to exact her revenge. You think you’d let her.
A soft voice filters through the wood. “Whenever you’re ready.”
You will Ghost to walk away, and he does, footsteps receding down the hallway.
How can you look him in the eye when you were directly responsible for the death of one of his rank?
Did he know her? Was she friends with a member of your team?
Holy shit, did you just kill someone your teammates were close to?
You curl into yourself, tightening your fingers around the roots of your hair.
-
Life continues, in spite of the way your world stopped spinning days ago.
Sinking into the detached routine of your job, however, is second nature to you.
You keep your gaze resolutely locked on the clenched fists resting on your thighs, ignoring the way Gaz and Soap throw sidelong glances at you every few seconds.
Ghost just exchanges infuriatingly knowing looks with Price, which is somehow worse.
“We’ve managed to track down the sniper responsible for Lieutenant Hale’s death,”
You know in your heart of hearts that Price’s words are not meant to wound you; they’re not even directed at you. But each syllable is an ice pick through your chest and you bounce your leg to offset the stabbing pain.
The sniper isn’t the only responsible party. It’s a fact everyone in this room is viscerally aware of and a volatile rage rises within you.
Why is Price trying to protect you from this? Why hasn’t he yelled at you, screamed at you for what you’ve done?
You feel terribly patronized, and instead of demanding the catharsis of punishment, you grind your teeth and glare at your hands.
“He gave us some good intel, so we’ve got another team in the field looking into his leads. I’ll update you all as soon as I have more info.”
The team nods, and this would usually be the part where Soap says something snarky. But he doesn’t.
He’s unnervingly silent as Price dismisses you all. You’re on your feet in an instant, wanting nothing more than to sequester yourself in your room until you can throw yourself headlong into the next op.
“Not you, Y/N. You hang back.”
You miss the subtle nod Ghost directs at Price as you begrudgingly return to your seat.
The others have gone, but Price remains quiet, crossing his arms and leaning against his desk.
You focus on your breathing until he breaks the intolerable silence.
“If being hard on yourself ever worked for anyone, I think it would’ve worked for you by now, hm?”
That’s not at all what you wanted to hear. A dishonorable discharge is what you deserve at the very least. It would shred you inside, but the universe would inch that much closer to equilibrium. This can’t go unpunished.
You don’t look at him. You wouldn’t be able to take the pity you know you’d find in his eyes.
Price sighs heavily, dragging an empty chair in front of yours and sitting down, your knees nearly brushing his. In your periphery, he tilts his head, trying to catch your gaze.
“You can’t internalize this shit, Y/N,” He interlaces his fingers loosely between his knees, “I’ve seen what it does to people and I’m not about to let that happen to you.”
You still don’t look at him.
“I’m benching you,” He says, and your eyes snap to his reflexively. There’s no pity, only empathy. “You’re expected in Reynolds’ office in an hour.”
You clench your jaw until it aches and it’s a genuine struggle to keep the vitriol festering in your gut out of your expression.
“Shit like this happens, it’s part of the job. But it’s not gonna go away on its own. Accept the help.”
“That an order, sir?” You’ve spoken up before you can bite back the words and Price doesn’t chide you for the bitterness in your tone.
“Does it need to be?” He raises an eyebrow. You don’t respond.
Price sends you away with a muttered, “Don’t be late,” and you elect to rot in your bed until your appointment.
-
Two hours later, you’re back in your room and stewing over what Dr. Reynolds had said to you. Mostly, you remained quiet and let her talk, but whenever you chimed in with your disparaging two cents, she took it in stride.
She keyed into your outlashings instantly.
“Emotions are like driving with children,” She had said, eternally patient, “you can’t stuff them in the trunk, but you also can’t let them drive.”
Okay. Easy enough - don’t let the kids drive.
You sit at your desk. Don’t let the kids drive.
The debilitating guilt lingers on the edges of your consciousness, circling like a starving wolf searching for a flaw in your defenses.
This is what you deserve. Your ledger is stained with Hale’s blood and the wolf has caught the scent.
The kids are driving.
You press your forehead into the cool wood of your desk, choking on oxygen and burying your hands in your hair.
There’s a knock at the door and you pray to whatever god pities you enough to listen that it’s Hale on the other side. You hope she brought her gun.
Your hitching breaths are bordering on hysteric now and you can’t hold back the pathetic whine that crawls up your throat.
Soft rattling and the click of your door unlocking fade into ambivalence, but the hands suddenly gripping your shoulders have you rearing back.
Ghost’s eyes flicker across your features, and you shudder to imagine what you look like in this moment.
You feel your expression break, and Ghost tugs you gently out of the chair and onto the floor where he kneels in front of you.
He pulls you to his chest and you collapse into him, sobbing into his neck and babbling incoherently.
“I can’t-“ Sniff, “I can’t fucking do this, Gho-ost.”
He rubs a hand up and down your back. “You will.” And he says it with so much certainty that you almost believe him.
“I mean it. You will.” He pulls back slightly so he can level you with fierce resolve. “It’s gonna suck, and it’s gonna hurt like,” He thumbs away the tear tracks staining your cheeks, “like resettin’ a broken bone.”
“But it’s necessary.” He grips your shoulders, shaking you slightly to emphasize his point.
“And you’ll get through it.” A finger curls under your chin, bringing your face up to meet his eyes. “I’ll make sure of it.”
You tip forward, thoroughly worn out, and Ghost merely holds you as the last dredges of your emotional episode drain out of you.
-
It gets easier, after that.
Well, it doesn’t get easier, but it doesn’t take as long to regain control of the car when the kids take over.
Coping skills need to be honed just like every other skill, as Dr. Reynolds will readily remind you. And hone them you have - extensively.
Ghost makes himself available whenever he’s able - to listen, to offer advice, to talk you down, or to just sit in amicable silence while you both fill out paperwork. It’s immensely helpful, a fact you make abundantly clear to him.
He saves you a seat at mealtimes, and the others are back to their usual selves when you join them at the table. At one point, you try to apologize for your tetchiness, but they won’t hear it.
Normalcy begins to settle again after a few sessions with Reynolds. Price unbenches you.
It becomes more of an automatic reflex to wrestle the kids back into their carseats, and they become progressively more likely to stay there.
Some days, though, the wolf closes in; the kids bounce around the car, hang out the windows, and Hale follows you around like a shadow.
On those days, the people in your corner step up to bat without question. They shoulder the burdens when your muscles threaten to fail.
And you accept the help.