Work Text:
Simon's the first to notice how your eyes have gone distant. You're sitting cross-legged on a chair, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. Steam rises dreamily upward, and he watches the pale wisps float before the breath from your nose slashes through them each time you take a slow sip.
There's cuts and bruises all over you. Dirt and blood stain your rolled up sleeves and cargo pants, and your fingertips leave behind rust coloured prints on the porcelain cup. Simon looks roughly the same, although his bruises and cuts are well hidden.
The rest of the team is in bad shape, too.
Soap sits next to Simon, but he’s turned his chair backwards, arms folded across the back. His chin digs into his forearm as he watches Laswell, Kyle, and Price—who are all standing around the debriefing table. He's quiet, which is always a sign of something wrong, but luckily, the lieutenant thinks the demolitions expert has just maxxed out all of his possible energy and adrenaline reserves.
Kyle's usual sprinkle of suggestions between the Captain and Laswell's discussion has been minimal, and his hand has been locked around his chin in thought for a while, a funny resemblance to the Captain (which, if you weren't dead on your feet, you'd whisper a comment about to Simon). There's also dry blood crusting just above his left eyebrow, which Simon is sure you'll be inspecting later on.
Price is probably the worst. He's stretched thin, Simon can tell. There's darker circles beneath the small, piercing blue eyes, and the frown between his eyebrows has been nothing but permanent. He's been snappy, too—worse than Simon. Quick to bark orders without much care for the state of the team.
If he regrets it (which Simon is sure of), he doesn't say anything about it.
Finally, Laswell. Unflappable as ever. Solid as a rock. Her hair is neat and tidy, her jeans and puffer jacket clean. The manila folder tucked between her torso and elbow has been opened and displayed multiple times, and her focus has been entirely on Price, whose feet can't seem to stay still.
Simon finds it all a bit comical, but in a dark, depressing sort of way. Most Ops are taxing, and if anyone ever complained about the hard work, then they should never have joined the SAS. But there are days when the brutality of the job presses down on them all with suffocating force, and it results in this: workaholics all sent into a near comatose state, stuck inside a small square room that offers little reprieve, hearing the same things over and over.
Well, Simon most definitely appreciates that no one is shooting at them inside this room, and he's certain everyone would agree with him if he were to say that out loud.
His focus zeroes in on Laswell when she calls out your name. In fact, she tries to get your attention several times.
"Doc? Sergeant...? (Name)?"
You blink suddenly and gaze at Laswell with a dazed expression. "Huh?"
Laswell sighs, though her face remains neutral. "I asked if you're sure your supplies will carry you over to the next stop in Botswana?"
Simon watches as you close your eyes in thought, no doubt mentally cataloguing what you have left in terms of medical gear.
"I should be set until then. Will there be a supply drop or a cache when we get there?"
Laswell shakes her head, blonde bangs shifting. "It's too soon to tell. The ZNA will escort you to the checkpoint, and they might offer you a restock on supplies."
Laswell must have been expecting some sort of affirmation, a simple 'okay' from you, because her eyes dart back to your form when you don't say anything at all.
Simon has to hold back a chuckle. Your eyes haven't opened again, apparently still in thought, 'cataloguing'. Your lips are hovering above the rim of the cup, shoulders sagging with fatigue.
"Aye, don't go fallin' asleep in ya tea," Soap comments, his own lethargic gaze twinkling with slight amusement.
Both Price and Kyle look at you, and the sergeant scoffs quietly, shifting his focus from the captain and Laswell, to you.
"Doc. Earth to Doc?"
"Hang on, I'm just..." you mumble, one hand moving to rub at your eyes. "This tea is just so good. It's so warm and like, I'm hyper-focused on that right now."
Soap laughs, the sound tired but deeply amused. "Bloody Brits."
"That's the saddest thing I've heard in months," Kyle says, and Simon has to agree.
Laswell shakes her head, lips flickering into a rare smile.
Price rolls his shoulders, eyes flitting across each member of his team. Everyone's been run straight into the ground, and your head is beginning to nod forward.
"Get yourselves sorted, yeah?" Price says, dragging a callused hand down his face. "Rest. Eat. We'll be up and moving again by 0400."
His voice would sound gruff and cold to anyone else, but Simon and the rest of you can hear the softening around his grizzly phonics. The release of a knot that had been tied inside his chest.
"And oi, Sunshine," Price looks at you pointedly. "You drop that cuppa, and you're cleaning every drop."
"Aye-Aye, Captain," you slur, standing on your feet with a slight wobble, still holding your tea close to your chest.
Simon stands with you, laying a heavy hand on your shoulder to guide you to the door. Soap and Kyle follow behind him like loyal hounds.
"I wasn't gonna drop it," you mumble while you all walk down the hallway leading to the barracks.
"Sure you weren't, Doc," Kyle appeases, walking up beside you to gently take the cup out of your hands.
thank you for reading, God bless <33
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