Baghdad...she's a mean old town...
There's comfort in routine. In the morning, he rolls out of his rack and he dresses, pulls on heavy camos in the dry, desert heat. He scrubs both hands back over his hair and, as pretty much always, he thinks about Will and Johnny. He wonders if the baby's been born. He wonders if Johnny's managed to kill himself yet. In his kit-bag, there's a bundle of letters from home. The ones from Gemma are written in a cramped, regular handwriting. Will's are full of doodles in crayon and crossed out curses. Neither of them really tell him anything about home, though, and Johnny never writes at all.
He's not sure if it's better or worse.
It's a routine patrol, the same route that they took yesterday. So maybe they're complacent or maybe they're fucking exhausted or maybe there's no predicting anything could happen on a day when the sky is so very blue. He hears the bullets before anyone calls out; a zip that means it's close to his ear. He slams his back against the wall as everyone's shouting, rifle up, ready, and then an RPG demolishes a car no far from him and everything goes to shit.
He knows what to do. He's trained for this.
But all the training in the world won't save him from the sudden hot explosion in his knee that takes his feet out from underneath him and puts him on his back in the dust. Dimly, he's aware that he can feel his heartbeat in his thigh, he can hear someone screaming for a medic, but the blue of the sky is so, so distracting and he's thinking about the last time he spoke to Gemma on the phone and the last letter he got from Will and then he never said goodbye to Johnny. Jesus fucking Christ, he never said goodbye.
He closes his eyes and tries to swallow, his mouth suddenly so dry, and there's no pain, not really any pain, just this strange absence and this sullen ache, and he can hear the sea, and he remembers day outs at the shore with Will and Johnny when they were just kids and things didn't hurt so badly.
If he's got to stay somewhere, maybe he'll just there for a while.
He thinks they were fifteen or sixteen. Sometime back when Will still made Heather smile.
Somebody speaks to him and he forces his eyes open again.
"How bad is it, Doc?" he asks.
His mouth tastes of dust and blood.
He's not sure if it's better or worse.
It's a routine patrol, the same route that they took yesterday. So maybe they're complacent or maybe they're fucking exhausted or maybe there's no predicting anything could happen on a day when the sky is so very blue. He hears the bullets before anyone calls out; a zip that means it's close to his ear. He slams his back against the wall as everyone's shouting, rifle up, ready, and then an RPG demolishes a car no far from him and everything goes to shit.
He knows what to do. He's trained for this.
But all the training in the world won't save him from the sudden hot explosion in his knee that takes his feet out from underneath him and puts him on his back in the dust. Dimly, he's aware that he can feel his heartbeat in his thigh, he can hear someone screaming for a medic, but the blue of the sky is so, so distracting and he's thinking about the last time he spoke to Gemma on the phone and the last letter he got from Will and then he never said goodbye to Johnny. Jesus fucking Christ, he never said goodbye.
He closes his eyes and tries to swallow, his mouth suddenly so dry, and there's no pain, not really any pain, just this strange absence and this sullen ache, and he can hear the sea, and he remembers day outs at the shore with Will and Johnny when they were just kids and things didn't hurt so badly.
If he's got to stay somewhere, maybe he'll just there for a while.
He thinks they were fifteen or sixteen. Sometime back when Will still made Heather smile.
Somebody speaks to him and he forces his eyes open again.
"How bad is it, Doc?" he asks.
His mouth tastes of dust and blood.