by Unknown
Grier has noticed, too. He stands up, staring at Slate with rapt attention. "What happened?"
"I don't know how they got there," Slate insists, as though Grier hasn't spoken. "One second, we were alone. The next, all hell broke loose. Kilik, he—he tried to—" Slate cuts off with a groan, one hand flying to clasp his neck. Eric reaches for him out of habit, but Slate moves away, backing into the closed door. "No—no. I dream it every night," he says desperately. "Don't make me—"
"Easy," Eric says, reaching out again.
Slate withdraws further into himself, but he does shoot Eric an imploring look. "Don't make me."
"You were ambushed," Grier surmises, coming around the desk. "Attacked from behind by men who shouldn't have been there. Your partner was killed." This provokes a pathetic, mewling sound from Slate, who nearly doubles over. "What happened next?"
Slate looks like he wants to back right through the door. His eyes are wide and haunted, seeing things that may or may not be there. His right hand hangs loosely at his side, twitching like he's contemplating violence. "I," he sounds breathless, "I…"
"Major," Eric protests, fixing Grier with a glare.
Grier is undeterred. He takes a step forward, keeping his eyes on Slate. "What do you remember? It could be anything—any insignificant detail could bring us something of value."
Slate goes suddenly very still. His eyes remain unfocused and empty, and for a moment Eric is afraid he has forgotten how to breathe. Then he deflates, sliding down into an undignified heap on the floor.
"Major, that's enough!" Eric snaps, coming between them. "Sir," he adds when Grier levels a measured look his way. "With all due respect, you're doing more harm than good here."
"More harm than good?" Grier comes closer, until Eric can smell the coffee on his breath. "Is that what you said, Warrant Officer?"
Eric holds his ground, staring up at Grier with confidence. "With all due respect." Their gazes lock for a few moments before Grier gestures with his chin. Eric glances over his shoulder. Slate has his head between his knees, and he appears to be doing some breathing exercises. "This could develop into a serious case of PTSD," he murmurs.
"Is that what you think it is?" Grier asks, speaking just as quietly. Eric raises a questioning eyebrow. "He lost his partner, yes. I'm not belittling that, Archer. Not in the least. But I don't think that's what wrong here; it's more than that." He points one thick finger over Eric's shoulder. "He knows something. Deep down, he remembers, and this line of questioning is triggering a physical reaction."
Eric takes a step back. He attempts to patiently explain, aware he's treading on potentially insubordinate ground. "Psychological trauma is still psychological trauma, sir. I advise you against forcing him. What if you send him into an episode and he never recovers?"
Grier moves his finger from Slate to aim at the evidence board. "We've been chasing the Order since the nineties, Archer. You know what's at stake here. This is practically confirmation that Magenta is in bed with the Adeptus somehow. If there's a clue in Slate's memories, we need to have it."
"I'm right here," Slate says. Eric turns around, finding he has gotten back on his feet. He looks angry, staring them down with a stormy expression. "Don't talk about me like I'm not in the room. Sir."
From their years working together, Eric can tell when Grier's patience has thinned. He steps in before things turn ugly. "We all understand how important this is, Major. However, I encourage you to be patient. It's barely been a week. Let him—" He stops himself and glances at Slate. "We need to let you recover on your own first."
"Do you understand?" Grier wonders. He starts to pace, arms locked behind his back. "We were closer to the Order than we've ever been—and as much as I want to believe that's because we are getting better, my gut is telling me that we just got lucky. That they slipped up because they were in the middle of something." He stops to give them a piercing stare. "And I want to know what that 'something' is before it's too late."
Eric falls silent, briefly dropping his gaze to avoid Grier's intensity. It's Slate who answers in a tight, controlled voice.
"Yes, sir."
*~*~*
When they leave Grier's office, the tension is coming off Slate in waves. Eric has to walk faster to match his pace. They rush down the empty halls like they're on a mission.
"Does he think I don't want to remember?" Slate demands angrily. "Do you think I can't handle it?"
"I didn't say that," Eric says. He steers them away from the lounge and cafeteria. Slate follows, to his relief. The gym is a more appropriate place for this discussion. "I just don't want you to get overwhelmed too soon."
Slate shoots him a disgusted look. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but that sounds exactly like you don't think I can handle it." He pushes the door to the stairs open with more force than necessary. It bounces loudly against the wall; Slate keeps it at bay with one hand.
Eric follows him down to the gym. "I know the Major can be difficult, but he means well. He's been fighting this war for a long time."
"You said he'd explain everything," Slate says, rounding on him. Illuminated only by the emergency lights, he looks tense and dangerous. "All I got from that is that Grier thinks I have all the answers to his questions, and that I'm no good to him otherwise."
Eric raises his hands in a placating gesture. "Slate—"
"Do you think I'm hiding from it?" he asks, shaking with rage. "Do you think I'm scared to find out what they were doing with me?"
"You are scared," Eric says. "You're trying to act like you aren't, but you are. It's all right; it's understandable. You want to get to the bottom of this just as much as Grier does."
Slate balls his fists up at his sides. "And what about you, Archer? You've been stuck to me like a burr ever since I woke up. What's your angle? Do you really care about pushing me, or do you just want to make sure you don't break my precious memories?"
Eric grits his teeth. Dawn Division is more lax about regulation than the Marine proper—with their size, they have to be—but Slate is crossing the line. He steps closer; nose to nose, he stands half a head taller than Slate. "This is bigger than you."
"I know that!" Slate shouts, shoving him away.
Eric staggers back, stunned. Slate looks surprised, too. He stares at his trembling hands before curling them into fists again. Before he can do anything, Eric takes two long strides forward and shoves him back. If Slate wants a fight, Eric will give him one.
Slate stumbles backwards. Once he regains his footing, he comes at Eric like a freight train. Eric braces for impact and lets it happen. Slate rams into him, a full-body tackle that takes them both to the ground. It knocks the breath out of him. He takes advantage of the confusion and rolls them, trying to pin Slate.
Eric hasn't seen combat in years. Slate, being a sniper, has the upper hand. He uses the momentum to keep them rolling, grappling, trying to get a good grip on Eric's hands. On his back now, Eric pushes at Slate's chin. He bucks, and they roll again. This time, Eric gets an elbow across Slate's throat, pinning him down with the full length of his body.
"Still angry?" he asks, breathless and flushed.
"Angrier," Slate bites out. He jabs two fingers between Eric's ribs, finding a pressure point that sends electric agony shooting up his veins.
Eric grunts, loosens his grip, and Slate squirms free. Eric manages to knee him in the gut before they scramble to their feet. Slate retaliates by punching him in the solar plexus. Eric doubles over, pain giving way to anger. He launches himself at Slate with a roar, aiming a right hook across his jaw.
Slate sees it coming. He dodges fluidly, and uses Eric's own follow-through to slip behind him. Before Eric realizes it, he's in a painful headlock. He tries to frame Slate's chin, but Slate tucks his head in and prevents it. With no recourse, Eric throws all of his weight backwards, sending both of them back to the floor. Slate grunts painfully when all of Eric lands on him. Eric doesn't waste any time, rolling away before Slate
can react.
But Slate's done. Eric can see that now. He watches Slate slowly sit up. They're both hot, sweaty, and short of breath. Their uniforms are rumpled, shirttails pulled from their slacks.
"Feel better?" Eric asks.
Slate doesn't look at him. "Yeah."
*~*~*
Jason's insides are on fire. He wakes up with a hoarse shout, clawing at the blankets and ripping them away. His fingers fly to his left arm, trying to pull out the syringe.
There's nothing in his arm. Slowly, awareness returns. He's in Washington, in the Dawn Division's base. His new room is empty and dark. A dream, then. The particulars are already fading. He tries chasing the memory to no avail; it slips through his fingers and disappears.
A wave of nausea washes over him. Jason groans, rolling onto his side. He curls into the fetal position and waits for the unpleasantness to pass. Suddenly, the ghost of a recollection flits through his mind. They'd given him something that made him sick. It had torn him up and made him pliant.
"Are you poisoning me?"
"No, don't. Don't!"
Jason sucks in a gasp. It feels like he's been socked in the gut. He reaches out, groping blindly for the phone on his nightstand. It can't dial outside the complex, but the person he needs is programmed to the first button.
Archer answers on the first ring. "Slate?" He sounds half in the bag.
"I asked them—" He stops to swallow. He needs water. "I asked them if they were poisoning me."
There's some rustling on the other end; Jason pictures Archer sitting up. He certainly sounds more awake when he replies. "Are you okay, Slate?"
He can see it now: blue fibers and faded scrubs. "A blue mask. He was, the doctor was wearing a blue mask. He gave me—something." He swallows, tasting bile. "It hurt. Fuck, it hurt." He curls up tighter, trying to disappear, trying to hide from the agony.
There is ice in his veins, so cold it burns, traveling from his toes to the tips of his fingers. He can't move. He's strapped down. Helpless. They can do whatever they want, and he can't stop it. He can't stop it.
"—Slate? Slate, are you listening to me?" He must make some kind of sound, because Archer curses. "I'm coming over there."
The call drops. Jason refuses to let go of the receiver, clutching it to his chest as though it can protect him. He grips it so hard that his muscles quiver with the effort. He can hear the dial tone's faint, methodic drone; he focuses on that—it's better than the bitter cold, better than the pain.
He waits an eternity before the door bangs open. Someone flicks the light on, and Jason winces. They're back. More needles. More drugs. He can't—he can't.
"Slate!" they snap, shaking his shoulder. "Slate, it's me!"
Jason tries pulling away, but the other man is having none of it. The mattress dips, and then Jason finds himself yanked up by the shoulders. He's brought face to face with the stranger, the phone receiver still tangled between them.
"Jason. It's not real. You hear me? It's not real. You're okay."
The grip on his shoulders is like iron, rivaling the one he has on the phone receiver. It's not a restraining hold, though; it's a comforting one. Slowly, Jason relaxes, and the silhouette morphs into a recognizable face. "Eric?"
Archer—Eric—sighs with relief. "Yes. God, are you okay?" He frowns, forehead creasing with concern. His gaze drops pointedly to the receiver.
Jason glances down at it. He's holding it so tight that his fingers have turned white. When he makes no move to loosen his grip, Eric reaches over to pry it out of his hands. Without something to hold, his fingers start to tremble. Eric sets the phone back on its cradle and takes Jason's hands into his own.
"You're freezing," he says, and Jason stills.
—Ice shooting through my veins—I'm going to die—
"Jason!" Eric pulls him into an embrace, wrapping warm, strong arms around his back. They're only wearing boxers, but Eric is like a furnace compared to Jason. "Don't."
Jason blinks, staring at the open door from where his chin is hooked over Eric's shoulder. "Don't what?"
Eric gives him a reassuring squeeze. "You were going away again." One hand drifts up to rub through his buzzed hair.
Jason's eyes flutter shut. "Sometimes, I feel like it's just out of reach. Like if I stretch my arm just a little farther, it will all come back."
"Don't force it," Eric cautions.
Jason pulls away roughly. "I want to force it. I mean—shit, Eric, they killed Kilik. They kidnapped me. They—who even knows what else they did? But they did something to me, I know it." He scrubs his head vigorously, as though he can shake out the needles in his skull. It's not phantom pain. It's not a side effect of the recurring nightmares. There's something inside him. Every now and then, he can feel it prickling the back of his brain. He's been violated. They violated him. "I can feel it."
"The tests came back negative," Eric assures him in a soft voice.
"Then why didn't they kill me?" Jason demands, and Eric visibly falters. "Why didn't they have their fun and put a bullet in my head, like they did to Kilik? You keep saying the Order is some all-powerful terrorist organization with their hands in everything. Then how am I their one loose end?" Jason twists the bedsheets in his hands. "Of all the close calls Grier has made over the years, why am I the lucky break? What made me deserve it, Eric?" His voice cracks; he swallows the lump and keeps going. "Why me and not Kilik?"
"No," Eric says firmly. He reaches out and puts a hand over one of Jason's. "No, you listen to me: Kilik was not your fault. It will never be your fault." Jason opens his mouth to reply; he doesn't even know what he was going to say, but Eric speaks over him. "You're a soldier. Start rationalizing like one. I'm sorry about Kilik—I'm sure he was a great man—but you have to stop feeling guilty, or it will eat you up inside. Would Kilik want you looking like this? Or would he want you back on your feet, exposing the people who gunned him down?" Eric gives his hand a squeeze. "The best thing you can do is move on. Don't let his death be in vain."
Jason stares at Eric for a long time, letting all of it sink in. He watches Eric's fingers stroke over his knuckles. Eric has been looking after him since day one. He shouldn't have to do this. Jason shouldn't be buckling under the pressure; being calm under pressure is supposed to be his job. "The Major has you minding me, doesn't he?"
"Yes," Eric says simply. He doesn't stop the soothing motions. "I'm a warrant officer in special service to Major Grier. But that doesn't mean I'm not genuine," he adds pointedly.
"I know," Jason says quietly, curling their fingers together. He doesn't feel strange doing it, and Eric doesn't pull away.
*~*~*
When Eric's face is smushed against a rough floor mat, he begins to regret this entire thing. "All right, you win!" he grunts, trying to wiggle out from under Jason.
Jason actually laughs, letting him go and giving him some space. "Come on, Eric. The poisoned head case is mopping the floor with you."
"You haven't been poisoned in weeks," Eric says, climbing to his feet. "Still a head case, though; it's given you super strength or something."
"Or," Jason retorts, "you're just awful at grappling."
Eric rolls his eyes and rotates the kink out of his left shoulder. "Okay, head case, round two."
Jason is fully recovered—physically at least. He's all lean muscle with not an ounce of flab, and he gets better every day. They're both wearing black shorts and white t-shirts, but Eric feels that Jason fills them out better.
Eric feints to the right, trying to distract him. It almost works. While Jason pivots around him, Eric goes left and tries to shove him to the floor. Jason hops backward, watching Eric stumble. He laughs again, but Eric isn't finished.
Throwing all of his weight into it, Eric turns the stumble into a full-blown dive. He rolls into Jason's legs, testing their foundation. Jason grunts, his knees giving way. When he hits the mat, Eric climbs over him. He secures Jason's powerful biceps to the ground.
&nbs
p; "One for me," Eric says, only slightly out of breath. Then he yelps in protest when Jason rolls them over. He struggles, disoriented, and when his back hits the mat it knocks the breath out of him.
"Wow," Jason muses, grinning down at him. "How long has it been since basic training?"
Eric gets a hand free and pokes Jason hard in the ribs. "Go to hell."
Jason only grins wider. "Had enough?"
With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Eric nods. "Let's hit the showers." When Jason stands up, he offers Eric a hand. His palm is sweaty, but Eric grips it tight. "Want to grab some breakfast?"
Jason pauses, staring down at Eric's hand. He looks up shyly. "About that." Eric has a feeling he knows what's coming. He schools his face into neutrality. "I was wondering if we could go out for dinner or something."
Eric takes a deep breath. It breaks his heart to refuse, but orders are orders. "Jason." His face falls, anticipating Eric's reply. "We can't. I'm sorry. It's too risky."
Jason drops his hand and pulls away with an aggrieved sigh. "Burgers and fries are too risky?"
Eric reaches out to him without thinking, but he manages to hold back at the last moment. "We can't guarantee your safety. We can't guarantee that the Order doesn't have spies all around us. The moment you set foot outside of this base, you could be compromised. We can't risk that." Jason aims a glare in his direction. "I can't risk that," Eric emphasizes. "Please understand that it's for your own safety."
"Is it?" Jason asks, pulling off his sweat-soaked shirt. His abs are glistening in the light, and Eric tries not to stare. Damn it, the more time he spends with Jason, the farther he falls. Jason wipes his face with the white fabric. "I've been cooped up in here for almost three months. I'll go stir-crazy before I remember anything useful again."