Baywatch fic: Rocks and Hard Places (6/10)

[faye_dartmouth]

PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
PART SIX
PART SEVEN
PART EIGHT
PART NINE
PART TEN



The good humor had done wonders to diffuse the tension building on the island, but the silence loomed when Mitch lost the rhythm. He wasn’t sure what to say, whether to express comfort or consolidation. He was still trying to figure it out, when Brody broke the silence for him.

“The news -- they never -- never said -- did they?” he asked, pausing again while he dredged up a breath. His expression grew somber again. “Wh-what I’d done?”

The truth was, Mitch had hardly paid attention. He’d stopped caring at all about Matt Brody when he puked on his anchor leg of the relay. He had decided, in a single race, that Brody wasn’t worth his time or attention. His further fall from grace had just seemed like par for the course.

That was, until he showed up on Mitch’s beach.

Then he’d been so busy disliking Brody to give a shit about the reasons. He’d been too busy anticipating Brody’s next screw up to worry about his previous ones.

“Part of the deal, right?” Mitch assumed. “I mean, I assumed the point of cutting the deal was to protect what little reputation you had left.”

Brody nodded. “But y-you’re curious,” he assumed. “Everyone is.”

“Well,” Mitch said, because he couldn’t deny that he’d had an idle thought. He couldn’t pretend like he hadn’t heard the speculation when someone recognized Brody on the beach. “People will always say shit.”

“B-but you want to know,” Brody said, even more persistent than before. His pale visage was somehow determined now, though Mitch wasn’t sure why this was a point he wanted to make. “Right?”

Mitch had tortured Brody enough for one trip; he wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t ask for some deathbed confession. “It’s none of my business.”

Funny enough, this one wasn’t Mitch’s choice. With drawn features, Brody gave a feeble shrug. “Drugs.”

He said it so flatly, so matter of fact that Mitch wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“L-like not performance ones,” Brody clarified for him. “J-just, you know -- recreational. And me -- I-I only used a-a little. A-after the relay, I-I figured what the hell. There w-was -- a week left -- in Rio. I had this week. A-and it was something t-to do. Something t-to forget.”

Mitch wondered if this confession was for his benefit, or Brody’s. Somehow, he suspected it might be for both of them. In either case, Mitch kept his mouth shut, not daring himself to speak, not when the confession seemed to take so much from Brody, not when he seemed so intent to finish.

“A-and these people,” Brody said, almost sheepish now. “E-everyone else - they hated me. I was -- I was toxic, man. But w-with the d-drugs people d-didn’t care. N-no, they l-loved me. They offered me -- money, man. A-and they told shit -- th-that I was good. Th-that I could help. Th-that they needed -- they needed me.”

This time, when he paused, it was a worn out exhalation. He wasn’t looking at Mitch anymore, but his eyes were fixed on the crashing waves against the beach in the afternoon sun.

“I-I knew -- I was a joke,” he said, and the words were raw, like it still hurt to admit. “I-I knew I’d blown it all. A-and they made it seem like -- like -- I had a choice still. Fame, fortune. Family. That -- was all gone. But they gave me a choice.”

The way he said that, like that choice mattered, like he was used to looking at a world where opportunities closed in on him instead of expanding.

It wasn’t a world Mitch knew anything about.

Not until the past three days.

“So, what?” Mitch said. “You bought the drugs?”

Brody looked at him, more sheepish than before. “Worse,” he said. “I-I took a-a shipment. B-back to the US. They promised -- a cut -- or whatever. I thought -- one time. What the hell?”

Mitch hadn’t expected any of this, but that one made him stop stupid. “You tried to smuggle drugs back in?”

Brody’s expression was somehow forlorn, like he knew he couldn’t justify any of it but he had no other explanation to give. “It seems -- stupid now,” he admitted. “Then? I-I don’t know. I didn’t know -- shit -- what else -- to do.”

The confession was halting and strained; it was also raw and honest. Where Brody found the strength for it, Mitch couldn’t be sure.

He also couldn’t be sure what the hell to say when your coworker admits to drug smuggling. “Well, it seems to me like you could have picked any other option that didn’t involved selling drugs,” he said candidly. “Any option would literally have turned out better than the one you picked.”

Brody nodded, a bit more vigorously now -- at least as much as he could manage while still immobilized on his side in the sand. “Th-that’s the point!” he said. “Rocks. Hard places. Th-that shit? I get. I can do shitty choices. But good ones? Easy ones? I have no -- idea -- what to do with those.”

“Yeah, here’s a hint,” Mitch said. “Don’t deal drugs.”

The flatness of it made Brody smile. “Yeah, probably.”

The silence between them stretched again, and Mitch felt compelled to add. “And maybe limit boat rides in the future.”

This time, the smile that stretched across Brody’s face was wide, brightening his exhausted features with a hint of life Mitch hadn’t seen in two days. “Noted.”

The banter did feel good, but Mitch knew it was a stopgap. It didn’t change the reality of their situation. Not really. Because the horizon was still quiet, and Brody was still sick.

And Mitch was still sitting there, waiting on his ass for things he couldn’t control.

When Brody spoke, his voice was quieter again. The energy had faded. His eyes had dulled, and his breathing had grown even more shallow. “I-I wish I got it, though.”

Mitch didn’t completely follow the turn in Brody’s thoughts. “What?”

Brody was showing signs of exhaustion again, the spirit draining slowly out of his eyes as the flush in his fever seemed brighter. “How to do life -- l-like you,” he said, before pausing to feebly fill his lungs with air. “You see everything as -- like -- a p-possibility. And you -- you know how -- t-to make something -- out of n-nothing. Your choices, man.” He had to stop, forcing himself to inhale. “They’re not p-perfect, but -- they’re right. You can s-stand behind them. E-every time.”

It was something Mitch wanted to be true. Something he’d aspired for his whole life.

Something that the last three days had brought into a difficult focus. “Not every time,” Mitch corrected gently. He nodded toward their surroundings on the pristine and empty beach. “I mean, this choice has ended up in a disaster.”

Brody was too sick to concede the point, maybe. Or he just believed in what he was saying too much. Either option made Mitch a little more uncomfortable than he wanted to own. “Still. You know -- h-how to-to do it. How to do it -- r-right,” he said, the words becoming even more halting as he made great effort to pronounce them with breathless punctuation. “Me? Shit, I m-make my own problems. M-my own worst enemy.” He shook his head, something like wonder in his eyes. “Y-you face down -- anything -- and m-make it better.”

The vast ocean in front of him seemed to contradict that point.

The damn ocean.

Mitch was oceanic, but that didn’t always mean what he wanted it to mean.

For all he knew, at this point, maybe it didn’t mean anything at all. “It’s luck, sometimes.”

But Brody shook his head, adamant even as his gaze became glassier and his breathing stuttered more often. “Nah, it’s you,” he said, the words taking on almost a dream-like quality now. “It’s how you can see -- see the ocean a-and be, like -- amazed. Even though i-it’s your d-damn day job. Y-you’re just -- amazed.”

“I’ve already told you,” he said. “That part is normal. We can all look out and see wonder. We can all see the vastness of the ocean and see its possibilities. It’s not unique to me.”

Brody’s expression darkened ruefully. “D-did you m-miss the part -- where I c-confessed -- to sh-shipping drugs?”

“No, I heard it, and more,” Mitch said, and he was the one to be adamant now, willing Brody to fend off his exhaustion a bit longer. “I mean, you said it yourself. You were presented with two shitty options after that, and you made the better choice, no matter how hard it was. And you moved on. That takes guts.”

“Or stupidity,” Brody quipped weakly.

But this wasn’t the time for banter now. The day was fading; Brody was fading. Hope was fading. Mitch didn’t get infinite chances, but he had the choice right here, right now. “You get credit for the good choices, no matter why you make them, just like you have to take ownership of the shitty ones,” he said. He gestured at Brody. “Come on, you know you turned it around. You had a rocky start at Baywatch, but you didn’t quit. You didn’t let it break you. You screwed up more than most of us, but you learned how to be part of the team. Thorpe wanted you to be a publicity stunt, but you’re the one who chose to make it more than that. You pushed your choice. You pushed your opportunity. You pushed yourself, man. Your plea deal got you into Baywatch, but it was your choice to join the team. And here you are.”

When Mitch said it, he intended it as a rousing invective.

The words echoed strangely off his lips, however, bolstered by the ebb and flow of the waves against the shore.

The irony was not lost on either of them, but Mitch didn’t know how to fix it.

Brody tipped his lips up in an approximation of a smile. It wasn’t quite regret. It wasn’t exactly solidarity. Both, maybe. More. “Here I am,” he agreed, the words barely louder than a whisper.

Before, when Brody had made choices, they had been his choices. It was what Mitch had accused him of after his disastrous play at the Huntley club. He’d been the one to lay it bare, that Brody was selfish, to tear him down to the bastard that he was.

It had been that dressing down that had revealed who Brody was.

And showed that it wasn’t so simple.

Because Brody had never learned how to make choices with other people in mind. He’d never existed in a world where choices could have shared consequences and deserved shared consideration.

He’d changed, however.

He’d learned the lesson?

Had Mitch?

Had he really?

If he’d understood that choices were never singular, would he have insisted on this boat trip? Would he have accepted Brody’s strange ambivalence about the ocean? Would he have chosen differently?

This was a string of bad luck, and Mitch knew that. But his choices weren’t any more singular than Brody’s were, and the consequences were still unfolding. And Mitch could rail and rage and regret and revise, but he couldn’t take it back.

Did he want to take it back?

Did he want to give up on Brody?

His love of the ocean, his place on this team? Could he give up one without the other?

He didn’t know.

He just knew that the ocean as vast, the sky was clear and Brody was watching him with tired eyes.

Some choices were hard.

Others really weren’t.

He smiled back at Brody, reaching over to pat him on the arm. “It’s okay,” he said, because even though it wasn’t okay -- nothing was okay -- things were okay between them. When Mitch could control nothing else, he would take that with more than a grain of salt. “You just rest now.”

Brody nodded minutely, the advice washing over him like the tide. He startled briefly, though, eyes clearing long enough to pin Mitch with a lasting, coherent look. “You can stay,” he said.

Three words; one choice. Infinite meanings.

Mitch swallowed hard, because he knew what it meant. He knew that staying diminished their odds of a fast rescue. He knew that three days ago, they’d faced a similar choice and picked different. The cauterization had been their best bet, and they’d gone with it.

Today, they weren’t picking the rock.

Today, they were picking the hard place.

Mitch’s own voice was failing him now, hoarse with emotion as it struggled out of his throat. “You want me to stay?”

Brody smiled faintly. Tired and feverish as he was, he wanted to make it known that he knew what he was saying. He knew the choice he was making. He understood it in its fullest and harshest implications. “You should stay.”

Mitch wasn’t sure it was the choice he wanted to make. He wasn’t even sure it was the one he would make, if it were up to him.

But there it was.

“Okay, the choice is made,” he said, the words forming like rocks on his tongue. His eyes burned, and he steadfastly didn’t blink, not breaking eye contact with Brody. “We’ll make it work.”

He said it like a promise.

He could only mean it as a hope.

Brody, however, believed him.

It was the last, fleeting coherent thought as he succumbed once again to the infection ravaging his body.

Brody believed him.

That was good in a lot of ways. Mitch needed that belief, more than he knew how to say. He needed Brody to believe him, to count on him, to need him -- that was the only way Mitch was going to dredge up enough fortitude to see this trip through to its end.

But shit, he thought as Brody faded back into sleep. Brody believed Mitch.

When Mitch was just some asshole on a beach, stranded in the middle of the ocean.

Brody believed him.

Even when all the evidence suggested that he unequivocally should not.

-o-

Despite Mitch’s progress with the cool cloth, the fever quickly regained the upper hand. Mitch reminded himself that fever naturally peaked in the afternoon and evening; the fact that Brody was burning through the compresses faster than Mitch could provide them was to be expected.

That certainly didn’t make it easier.

Brody was shaking now, sometimes so much that Mitch worried he was having a seizure. The sweat was drenching now, soaking through his hair and dripping off his face. Even in unconsciousness, his teeth chattered, and he cried out at a pain Mitch had no way of treating.

Mitch tried to keep him cool; Mitch kept his eyes on the water. Mitch waited.

It was the choice Brody had made.

The choice Mitch was beginning to question already.

-o-

Unconsciousness was bad.

But Mitch was starting to dread when Brody opened his eyes more.

Despite his lucid conversation earlier in the day, Brody seemed to be living in a world that was disparate from reality. He was awake, but questionably so. Instead, he seemed to be wracked with hallucinations, rambling deliriously about things Mitch struggled to piece together. Sometimes he seemed to be talking about a childhood home; other times, he seemed to think he needed to get back to training for the Olympics. He had long stretches were he rambled about the beach outside of tower two and the exploits he saw there.

Then, sometimes Brody talked about Mitch like Mitch wasn’t sitting right there next to him the whole damn time.

“But -- you have t-to tell him,” Brody said insistently as he tried to sit up. Mitch had to reach out to keep him from rolling over on his back, exposing his wound to the sand.

“He’s got it,” Mitch said, trying to sound patient when he felt like all his own raw nerves were exposed and agitated now. “Trust me.”

But Brody shook his head, eyes looking at Mitch but not seeing him at all. “It’s Little Mitch.”

That was a new one. Foster care, the Olympics, Baywatch, even Mitch: those things made sense for being on Brody’s mind. But Little Mitch? Really?

The worst part of it was how utterly sincere Brody was in his desperation. “You have t-to save -- L-little Mitch.”

Little Mitch was back on the mainland. Besides for the fact that the fish around him might be dying because no one was there to feed them, Little Mitch was fine. Fish tanks couldn’t be shipwrecked or marooned, after all.

Logic was not the best route right now.

Mitch offered a sympathetic smile to Brody instead. “Little Mitch is fine.”

The brush off only made Brody more adamant. “B-but he’s -- depressed.”

Little Mitch was literally a plastic sculpted toy that Mitch had had personally made for him to reflect his own mood. Was that weird? It hadn’t seemed weird until Brody was rambling on the beach about him. “How do you figure that?”

Brody seemed to have thought about this, and not just in his delirium. “He can’t -- he’s not -- he isn’t,” he said, trying to formulate words into thoughts and failing as the words tripped im up. “There’s no ocean!”

The utter conviction in that statement might have been downright hilarious under other circumstances. Even now, dire as it was, Mitch still found a wisp of a smile on his face. “He’s got plenty of water,” he said. “And the fish are good company.”

It wasn’t clear if Brody was actually listening to his words. He shook his head again, face contorting in absolute distress now. “But Little Mitch!” he all but pleaded. “H-he wants -- wants the ocean!”

It probably said something about Mitch’s relationship with the ocean and his affinity for Little Mitch that Mitch considered this as a marginally valid point. “We can look into moving the tank,” he said diplomatically. Then, he remembered the task at hand, leaning closer to will Brody to make sense of this much. “When we get back home.”

Of course, Brody didn’t hear that last, reassuring part. Instead, in his fevered state, he focused only on the first. “No, h-he told me.”

Though Mitch was dedicated to calming Brody down, he was having trouble following this particular conversation. “Who?”

Brody rolled his eyes, heaving a breath in exasperation that he struggled to get back. “Little Mitch!”

“He told you what?” Mitch asked, not sure if he could attribute all this to a fever or if some of it had to do with an unnatural affinity for Mitch’s fish tank.

“Over th-the radio,” Brody said, like that made total sense. “The CB.”

So now Mitch’s plastic figurine in his lighted fish tank was talking to Brody over the CB radio. It was possible that Mitch might have to consider upgrading Brody’s sleeping conditions if he didn’t find his own place soon.

And assuming they got off this damn island.

Mitch patted Brody now, calm. “Right,” he said, because a denial at this point would be too much validation.

There was clearly no right tactic when it came to Brody in delirium. “You have t-to find -- the right ch-channel,” he said, making some effort to enunciate the words, as if this was a point he wanted to make sure Mitch understood.

“For Little Mitch?” Mitch clarified despite himself. In his defense, it had been a long day. He had had one lucid conversation the whole time. The fact that he wanted to make sense of this one could be understood in that context.

Brody looked somehow relieved that Mitch understood that point. Mitch just wasn’t sure what that point actually was, but Brody’s face smoothed out as he reached out to cling to Mitch hopefully. “Yeah,” he said, a short and breathless word of relief. “Otherwise -- p-people -- they’re just t-talking shit.”

“On the CB,” Mitch concluded for him, trying to piece together these disparate conversation threads. “About what?”

Why did he ask the question? Because he was stranded, that was why. Because he was desperate, that was why. Because he’d been waiting for rescue for three damn days, and he couldn’t do anything else for Brody but validated his delirious ramblings.

Brody’s eyes widened until the blue irises were nearly eclipsed by the black of his dilated pupils. “Summer’s boobs.”

Mitch had endeavored to take Brody seriously, not because he made any sense but because it mattered to Brody.

This one, however, caught him off guard.

“Her -- what?”

“Boobs,” Brody said, louder than was necessary. Mitch found himself flinching even though he knew the beach was deserted. Brody gave an emphatic tip of his head, which seemed to be all he could manage in his weakened state. “They -- b-bounce. You know?”

This seemed to be a conversation that would veer dangerous close to sexual harassment. Still, they were lifeguards. Their office was the beach and their uniform was a swimsuit. They all thought about boobs in one form or another.

At least Brody was technically her boyfriend.

Still, there was minimal confirmation that Mitch could give that didn’t make him sound utterly creepy. “I guess,” he ventured noncommittally.

Eyes burning with fever, Brody reached up, pulling Mitch down closer to him. “You can f-fix it, though.”

This blind trust might have been something.

But really, Mitch wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Her boobs?” he asked.

Brody didn’t hear him, and Mitch lost the line of the conversation entirely now. “Give L-little Mitch -- the ocean,” he pleaded. “The ocean.”

Nonsensical, weird and off beat. Those words had always vaguely described his relationship with Brody. And to think, this was the first time he’d seen him delirious.

And hopefully the last.

Faintly, he smiled, patting Brody on the arm. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll work on that when we get back home.”

It was all Brody needed.

Mitch kept smiling as he faded back to sleep and he eased the younger man back to the sand.

It wasn’t all Brody needed.

It was, however, all Mitch could give.

-o-

The third day was rapidly coming to a close.

Mitch could do nothing to stop it.

That was another thing in a growing list of things Mitch was helpless against.

So, he resolved in the waning hours of daylight, he would do all he could. Brody needed to get off the island. Tonight. Brody might not make it another night.

Mitch wasn’t sure if he’d make it another night, either.

Rescue was out there, Mitch had no doubt about it. He just had to make sure they had the biggest target possible.

With that in mind, Mitch threw all the wood into the fire, growing it beyond its current pit. He raided the forest, grabbing anything and everything he could find that would burn. It all went on the fire until the flames reached as high as Mitch dared. The billows of smoke were massive, spreading out over the island with a plume that Mitch watched with some satisfaction.

Someone had to see that.

Someone had to come.

Hope rose with the fire.

It dissipated with the smoke.

When darkness fell anyway, it took the vestiges of Mitch’s hope with it.

-o-

It wasn’t easy that night to do the necessary tasks. Mitch felt numb when he collected more fire wood, and he didn’t bother to stack it neatly anymore. He tossed it in a pile, unkempt and haphazard. Frustrated, he drank directly from the stream, only filled the cups for Brody’s purposes. He didn’t bother to tidy camp; he didn’t bother to think of it as camp. Instead, he ate roots, leaves and oranges without tasting any of it, staring out across the horizon with something like contempt.

When he was done eating, he restocked the food cache with the sensitivity of a bull. He counted the oranges and pulled the closest edible plants he could find in the firelight.

With those tasks complete, he turned his attention to Brody.

It seemed wrong to say he’d been putting it off, but he had been putting it off. Maintaining the other tasks was hard enough; facing Brody?

Shit, Mitch hated it.

He hated to feel the fever and know that there was nothing he could do. He hated to make Brody eat and drink when he knew that the other man couldn’t do it for himself anymore. And he hated looking at the wounds that Mitch knew were at least partially his fault.

He’d been on this island too long. The degrees of blame no longer mattered much to him. He felt the weight within him. Because he knew if he went back to the mainland by himself, he’d never really forgive himself for it.

That was more reason he had to keep up his ministrations with Brody.

Even when he hated every guilt-racking second.

Mitch was a man of duty, however.

He’d made a promise.

He was going to keep it until there was no one left to hold him accountable.

There were no pretenses about it anymore. It was awkward and messy, and Mitch spoke just enough to rouse Brody to some state of awareness. Though Brody didn’t know what was going on, Mitch made sure he ate part of an orange. He didn’t make it through a whole orange this time, despite the fact that Brody needed the fuel more than ever. It was such a drawn out process that he settled for half and focused on liquids instead. Getting Brody to drink was somewhat easier, if only because Brody remembered to swallow so he didn’t drown.

Brody wasn’t aware that the task was over, but Mitch neatly transitioned into the next thing. In the firelight, it wasn’t as easy to see as in the day, but he was getting good at this process now. He didn’t need a lot of help in removing the bandages and taking them to the stream for washing.

Deftly, he used the clean bandages to flush out the wounds as best he could. In the dark, he could still see fresh pus rising from the mottled skin. When it was washed away, Mitch cleaned the bandages one more time before draping them over the wounds for the night.

With that arduous task complete, Mitch took the makeshift compress, soaking it in the cool night water before returning to Brody to apply it. He washed it over Brody’s face, running it back through his hair before resting it on his forehead. When he sat back, he was ready to settle in for the long night.

He was surprised, therefore, to find Brody watching him.

There was no reason to get excited. Brody had watched him on and off throughout the day. Most of the time, Brody thought he was someone else, someone from his past who wanted something from him. Other times, he didn’t see Mitch at all, eyes vacant.

“You’re doing fine, buddy,” Mitch said, keeping his voice upbeat and positive, even if the words had ceased to have any meaning for either of them. “Got you all ready for the night.”

Mitch expected Brody to nod faintly and close his eyes again. But his brow furrowed, almost like he’d heard Mitch speak.

Mitch sat forward, just to be sure. “Everything okay?”

That question was hilariously understated. Nothing was okay, but relativity was increasingly something Mitch had come to rely on during this trip.

Brody swallowed with a shudder, eyes watering as he looked at Mitch almost in wonder. “Mitch?”

“Yeah,” Mitch replied, not daring to let himself feel optimistic. They were too far along in this disaster for that.

“I’m -- awake?” Brody asked, and he sounded as if this was more impossible for him to believe than it was for Mitch to witness.

Mitch tipped his head, trying to assess just how cognizant Brody was at the moment. He looked self aware. He seemed to know who Mitch was and what was going on. This seemed impossible to Mitch, given how the day had progressed, but he should have learned not to discredit Brody. The son of a bitch was full of surprises. When Mitch was ready to write him off, he came back swinging. “Yeah,” he said again, inching a little closer. “You are.”

Brody was slow to process this, but he did process it. His brow darkened with apparent concern. “Not -- a dream?”

“Not this time,” Mitch said, choosing not to elaborate. Brody was coherent, but that didn’t mean he needed to know every detail of how the day had gone.

The look on Brody’s face suggested he remembered more than Mitch gave him credit for. He looked like he’d had this conversation before, even if it was the first time for Mitch. “I--” he started, and stuttered to a stop. “You sure?”

Wouldn’t that be nice -- to have this be a dream. A horrible, vivid, complicated dream. Mitch chuckled ruefully. “As far as I know, this is the real deal, buddy.”

Brody looked about as disappointed as Mitch felt. “Damn.”

Mitch arched his eyebrows. “You missing your hallucinations?”

Brody sighed pathetically. “Maybe.”

“Why?” Mitch asked.

Brody’s expression looked more pained than before. It wasn’t physical discomfort this time. Instead, he looked embarrassed. “I think -- I think--” he started, coming to a shuttering stop as he tried to take a deep breath. “I -- pissed myself.”

In the long list of terrible things that had occurred, that occurrence was not one Mitch had kept prominently in his mind. “You what?”

Brody flushed a deeper red, and not just from fever this time. “I pissed,” he said. “My pants.”

For all that Brody was mortified, Mitch was actually relieved. The reason this hadn’t been prominently on his mind was that it didn’t matter. He deemed in inconsequential this morning. The priority was keeping Brody alive and comfort, making sure he ate and drank, keeping the fever in check. The fact that Brody was worrying about his urinary habits meant that things didn’t have to be dire this whole time.

This time, Mitch offered him a wider smile. “Lucky for you, you’re still in swim trunks,” he said. “It’ll dry; you’ll be fine.”

Brody’s look of misery was one Mitch welcomed. It wasn’t his agony from impalement or cauterization. It was the look Mitch recognized when he gave Brody back to back shifts or when he insisted on extra training during the day off. “Man,” he said, the distinctive whine notable. “I feel s-so gross.”

“Honestly,” Mitch told him lightly. “We probably have bigger concerns right now.”

Brody was hardly mollified by this sentiment. Instead, he screwed up his face, badly trying to suppress a shudder. “Ugh,” he moaned, teeth chattering again. “I-I’m cold.”

The night was pleasantly cool; the fire was actually a little on the warm side. Those weren’t points worth bringing up. Instead, Mitch reached over, grabbing another piece of wood and throwing it on the fire. It crackled, and Mitch nabbed one of the blankets he’d dutifully salvaged and cleaned from the wreck. It had dried yesterday, but Mitch hadn’t wanted to cover Brody too much due to the nature of his injury and the fever.

Was it wrong to do it now? Mitch wasn’t sure. But Brody looked so damn uncomfortable that Mitch couldn’t sit idly by when he had a way to make it better.

“Here,” he said, easily draping the blanket over his shaking form. “Try this for a little bit.”

Brody accepted it gratefully, his fingers weakly clasping at it to draw it firmly around his chest. “T-thanks,” he chattered.

Despite the fact that it wasn’t nearly enough to do anything, Mitch mustered up a wan smile. “No problem.”

They were quiet for a few moments, the sound of fresh embers on the fire competing with the constant movement of the waves. Mitch had pined for conversation most of the day, but he found himself at a loss for words now. He was out of platitudes. He’d given up on demands and invocations. He didn’t know of apologies were worth anything now.

Brody’s breathing hesitates, and when he spoke, he wasn’t looking at Mitch at all. His gaze was fixed instead on the dark water that stretched away from the shore. “It r-really bothers you,” he rasped. “Doesn’t it?”

Watching Brody, Mitch worried that he’d lost him again. That his momentary awareness had slipped away again, just like Brody himself was slipping away from him hour by hour on the island. “What?” he asked, hoping to drag Brody back to him, just for another moment more.

Brody still didn’t look at him, almost transfixed by the water now. “That I d-don’t love it,” he said, the words growing fainter. “The ocean.”

Mitch’s stomach clenched so hard that he felt physically ill. Shit, he wanted this to be delirium, because he couldn’t have this conversation now. Not after three days of this. Not when he knew why this started. “We don’t need to talk about that now,” he said, hoping to dismiss those concerns, at least for now. Maybe forever.

“No, w-we do,” he said, bringing his gaze sluggish back to Mitch now. “Might not g-get to later.” He drew a long, hard breath which grated wet in his chest. “I w-want you t-to know.”

Mitch hated it. He hated that it had mattered so much. He hated that it didn’t matter now. The ocean, so vast and wild, was supposed to bind them together, not rip them apart. He had just assumed, Brody would fall in line. He always fell in line. “Brody.”

But Brody was determined now, holding onto this point like it was the last thing to keep him afloat in the expanse. The irony was that it might be the one thing that could sink oceanic Mitch Buchannon.

“You want me,” he began but had to stop to catch his breath. “T-to love it. You w-want m-me to l-love the ocean.”

Three days ago, it had seemed so important. Mitch couldn’t remember why anymore. “I guess,” he said. “It just seemed so obvious. I thought you had to get it.”

Brody raised his eyebrows, his curiosity both exhausting him and anchoring him. “Just me?” he asked. “Or would y-you be l-like this - w-with anyone.”

Given the circumstances, it was probably a fair question. One Mitch had failed to properly consider before strong arming Brody into the ocean excursion from hell. “Not everyone is on my team,” Mitch explained. “And most of them don’t crash in my spare room.”

Brody nodded, face fully concentrated on this discussion. “So it’s a p-prerequisite,” he concluded, not illogically. “Loving the ocean. It’s a t-team r-requirement.”

“Honestly, I didn’t think it needed to be,” Mitch said. “I just couldn’t imagine anyone joining the team without loving the ocean.”

Mitch was calm and reasonable, but this particular answer caused him visible distress. “You d-don’t think I’m g-good?” he asked, anxiety hitching in his strained voice. “On the team?”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” he said, hoping to dispel the doubt quickly. “It’s just…”

What did he want to say? How could he explain it? Why did it suddenly seem so complicated when three days ago it had been so clear?

Brody was just as uncertain as Mitch was, and much less capable of controlling it. “Just what?”

It was Mitch’s turn to look out over the water. The ocean had provided the answers before, his whole damn life. “Well, it’s just that it’s why I joined Baywatch,” he said, finding the simplest truth he had. “I joined because it let me close to the water, and I stayed because I found a team of people who loved it as much as I do.”

When he looked back at Brody, he seemed to understand it. “And I joined b-because I loved the team,” he said, making the contrast suddenly clear. “And I liked the ocean b-because they l-loved it so much”

They were so close in the motives, closer than Mitch had realized. Did it matter which came first? Did it change anything? Mitch had grown up longing for the ocean. Brody had grown up longing for a family. They ended up in the same place. It probably didn’t matter how or why.

And yet Mitch had made the difference punitive. He’d made it a problem. But Brody had understood Baywatch just as well as Mitch. Maybe better.

Since he needed to feel worse.

Brody looked out across the water again. “I j-just wanted you t-to understand,” he murmured, the words almost gone now, buried under the sound of the waves. “I’ll love it s-someday. You know?”

Mitch’s eyes were on Brody now, watching as he stared out at that undefinable point where the ocean met the sky. “Yeah,” he said, willing his own voice to carry. “I know.”

He was still watching as Brody’s eyes went glassy, slipping out of focus. He stayed steady as Brody’s eyes finally closed, lulled the sleep by the rhythm of the tide. He remained, steadfast as he was able, when Brody fell asleep again.

On the sand, next to Brody, Mitch held fast, right where he promised.

Right where he belonged.

-o-

The darkness took hold, but Mitch refused to relinquish himself to it. He refused to relinquish Brody to it.

See, Brody had made a choice. A choice that mattered more than cauterization or swimming for it or even plea deals. Brody made a choice to be part of the team.

Mitch was going to respect that choice and hold Brody to it.

Hold him to the team, even against the burning of fever, the ravaging of fever, the might of the ocean.

Hold him to it even when Brody’s hands were too weak to do it for himself.

Mitch was going to hold him fast, keep him clinging to life even if require all the brute force of his own bare hands.

Mitch was oceanic, after all.

He’d pulled off more impressive feats.

He was a damn force of nature.

He would do this.

Because if he didn’t, he didn’t think he could live with the alternative.

-o-

It was night, but Mitch had no intention of resting. Instead, Mitch decided it was time to get organized.

He’d been somewhat organized before, but in the cool night, his efforts seemed decidedly haphazard. He would never run an operation on the bay like he had out here. He needed to be purposeful, definite and sure.

First things first, he created a to-do list. He detailed all the necessary tasks and then prioritized them. Once he had a mental grasp on the full range of things he needed to accomplish, he considered how often these items needed to be done. Some tasks, such as gathering food and water, needed to be done consistently. However, other tasks, such as tidying their food cache and straightening the HELP sign needed to only be done sporadically. By cataloging these items, he was able to chart a rough timeline.

The timeline was broken down into several components. First, he created a big picture timeline, which included important keystones like meals and beach cleaning duties. Then, he broke the timeline down on a much more minute scale. On this level, he included an hourly routine that covered the necessary consistent tasks, allotting himself a small amount of flexible time for unexpected needs that would arise.

His own rest was of a secondary concern, and he classified it as flex time. He would take those moments when they presented themselves. It was perhaps ambitious; some might call it misguided since it both depended on rescue and worked under the assumption that it could be days before said rescue occurred. This fact was unnerving, which is why he did not preoccupy himself with it.

In truth, the schedule was designed entirely to circumvent the reality. If he could keep their minutes busy, then he could manage their days effectively. If his days were managed, then he could deal with the prospect of more days. All he had to do was get through each minute at a time.

And the days would fall in line until rescue occurred.

Ambitious, over the top, naive: Mitch didn’t care. To him, it was all part of being in charge.

It was all part of surviving.

That was how a mere lifeguard became a true guardian of the bay. That was why he was the most trusted figure on the beach. This was how he’d taken down Leeds, won Ellerbee’s trust and more. This was what made Mitch Mitch.

He had nearly lost a lot on this trip, and maybe he still would. But one thing was certain: he was not about to surrender any of it.

With the schedule firmly in his mind, Mitch got to work.

To start, he tended the fire. He had prioritized the fire as a lower concern during the night; he did not want to waste the wood or his energy on building a massive flame. Such things needed to be reserved for the daylight, when rescue was more likely to spot the plumes of smoke. Moreover, he wanted to save the best wood and the largest flames for the peak hours, which would be the midday and late afternoon.

Still, the fire needed to be maintained. Starting it from scratch would be too time consuming. Besides, he did not want to give up the heat it provided. The night wasn’t cold, but Brody was chilled. If the fire provided any relief, then it still had merit.

Satisfied that the fire was appropriately tended for the next hour, Mitch got up to clean out the water cups. He wanted to maintain as much sanitation as possible. Some might deem that moot at this point, given that Brody had already succumb to infection. Still, Mitch knew that meant Brody needed protection even more. Mitch wanted to minimize as many other dangerous elements as possible while Brody’s immune system was weakened.

Plus, water was the first and last resort during any survival situation. Water would be the thing that sustained them, more than any other element.

Well, more than any other element except Mitch’s volition.

Before finishing this task, he stooped by Brody long enough to lift his head. Brody did not rouse fully, but Mitch managed to help Brody successfully take a few small sips. This would now become a regular tasks. As Brody was less able to drink the water independently, Mitch would offer him drinks more frequently in order to compensate for the lessened amounts. Staving off dehydration was another critical way to make sure Brody stayed alive.

The next hourly task was fever maintenance. Without drugs or medication, Mitch had little to treat the fever. However, the cool compresses had worked well enough over the course of the day. Even if they lowered the fever a degree or two, it would still have some impact both on Brody’s overall wellness and his resiliency. At this point, Mitch would provide any edge he could.

When the cloth had been refreshed, Mitch tended to Brody’s other physical comforts. He took the time to repack the sand around him, lifting his head up to bolster the pillow he’d created from the granules. Brody was still shivering, so Mitch left the blanket where it was.

With these tasks done, Mitch settled back down on his chair, which was poised not far from Brody’s prone position. The fever was still climbing, Mitch knew. But Brody was still alive. He was still fighting.

And damn it, so was Mitch.

Until one of them breathed their last, so was Mitch.

-o-

Mitch maintained the routine every hour throughout the night. The hourly cycles grew somewhat redundant, but he learned to streamline the process, efficiently stoking the fire and gathering fresh water. Making Brody drink was always the slowest part, and he let himself linger over the cool compress, trying to see if the fever had risen or fallen in the hour since he’d last completed the cycle.

This allowed him small pockets of rest throughout the night. As a result, he was not well rested when dawn broke, but he did not let that stop him. Mitch didn’t need sleep. He just needed a duty to complete.

And he had that.

With the sun rising over the deserted beach, Brody did not stir as the fire crackled nearby. The ocean in front of them was as empty and vast than ever.

Mitch definitely had that.

Daylight, in his mental schedule, was a time to take stock and replenish. He would afford Brody a little more rest this time, opting instead to refresh their supply stock. They still had enough oranges, so Mitch focused his efforts on gathering fresh leaves and roots for himself. He was increasingly less discerning in this practice. For starters, it was getting easier for him to identify plants that would serve as an appropriate food source without killing him. Perhaps more importantly, he cared a little less about whether or not he lived or died and picked whatever the hell looked clean.

To be efficient, he ate as he foraged, piling up the rest of his stash in the protected cache in the sand. He then took to refilling the water cups, drinking plenty for himself before lining up both cups near Brody on the sand.

After this, Mitch took to the woods to build up their wood supply. He had decided to perform this task several times a day. This allowed him to spread out the work without requiring too much focused time away from the camp. He wanted to minimize how much time he spent away for two reasons. First, rescue might come and Mitch wanted to be ready. Second, Brody might need him.

That motivation made him work faster than he thought was possible.

With his wood reserves appropriately supplemented, Mitch decided that it was time to focus on Brody. Drinks were an hourly event for the sick man, but Mitch had kept the meals to a minimum. Over the last day, Brody’s ability to eat had diminished significantly. This made eating an effort for both of them. While Mitch could endure it, he wasn’t entirely sure that Brody could. That meant he wanted to keep such efforts in check without abandoning them completely.

That was the logical thought process he had approaching the breakfast hour.

The emotional response he had was much less reasonable: he really didn’t want to do it. He hated seeing Brody like that, getting weaker every time. He hated the indignity of it, the way Brody could barely even chew his own food without support. He hated that Brody wasn’t even aware enough to be embarrassed, and he hated to think that Brody might never recover enough to realize what Mitch had done for him.

These thoughts were superfluous.

Mitch had his duty.

And he would perform his duty.

The fact that he was so determined was good, because Brody’s condition had deteriorated even more over the night. This time, he never quite opened his eyes, and chewing was almost impossible for him. Mitch had to prod along every movement, and Mitch only got Brody to eat a few pieces of orange before he conceded defeat. Brody needed food, but he needed rest as well. After making sure Brody got at least one cup of water, he directed his attention to the wound.

Wound care was something he’d slated on his schedule more often than meals. He did not, however, make it as frequent as drinks. The way he figured, the wound was mostly out of his control. He could clean away the pus and other debris that accumulated, but that would have a marginal effect on the overall infection. Mitch knew that without antibiotics, that fight was Brody’s.

Mitch just had to give Brody a chance to keep at it.

Besides, wound care was unpleasant for both of them. At this point, Mitch knew that keeping Brody comfortable had real merit. This wasn’t exactly palliative, but Mitch wasn’t going to torture Brody just so he could track every inch of the infection’s hold on his body.

In the daylight, Mitch was able to see the wound clearly for the first time in hours.

What he saw shook his resolve.

The wound had been red and inflamed yesterday.

Today, it had clearly advanced. Streaks of red were now running from the wound, highlighting the inflamed blood vessels connected to the site. It was in the blood now.

That explained why the fever had not abated. Mornings were supposed to be the best time for a fever, but Brody’s had climbed higher over the course of the night. His skin was red and slicked with sweat. More ominously, his breathing was wetter, and each effort seemed to be shallow. Every now and then, for no apparent reason, Brody’s breathing faltered altogether, and it was a torturous few seconds before he remembered to breathe again.

In short, all of Mitch’s planning and organizing didn’t change the facts of the situation. Mitch had made his plans with the prospect of days.

Days were no longer an option, Mitch feared.

Shit, he wasn’t sure if they had hours.

Sitting there, Mitch stared at the wound, stared at Brody’s drenched hair, stared at the uncertain rise and fall of his chest. For a moment, for a horrible, terrifying moment, Mitch thought that maybe that was it. That maybe it didn’t matter of Mitch was oceanic. Maybe it didn’t matter if had plans and organization and the force of nature behind him. Maybe this was one of those battles you had to lose.

Maybe he’d already lost it the moment he made Brody get on that boat to prove some kind of point.

But how was that fair? If not to Mitch, then to Brody? Why did the universe continue to offer shitty choices when he had so clearly earned a good one every now and then? Why did Mitch work so hard just to be thwarted?

Was he supposed to give up?

Was he supposed to resign himself to this?

Was this it?

Did Mitch choose the ocean over Brody? Was this the unintended consequences of that rash decision? Was he so different from Brody, who threw away his gold medals for a drug sale that would never fly? Was he taking all his good choices and throwing them away for the stupidest ones possible?

Brody said that things usually worked out.

But sitting there on the beach that morning, his hands poised over Brody’s wound, Mitch didn’t know how this one would work out.

He could maintain that routine. He could stick to it doggedly.

And Brody was still going to die if rescue didn’t come soon.

He stopped at that, and closed his mouth, swallowing back the swells of fear and doubt.

If rescue didn’t come.

Mitch looked out to the ocean, daring it to disagree with him.

He looked to the sky and taunted it to try him on this one.

Rescue had to come.

And Mitch would do everything he could to make sure it did.

-o-

The fire was the only option.

That was what Mitch kept telling himself, over and over again like a mantra.

He had to use the fire.

The fire was his only choice.

If he said it enough, he might believe it would work.

He might also believe that it was actually his only option.

The ocean drew him -- it always had -- and he felt more confident than ever that he could make the swim to shore. He wasn’t in peak condition, but he was still strong. More importantly, he was motivated. He’d make it to shore because he had to make it to shore.

But the ocean wasn’t the only thing that drew him.

He had to contend with that reality.

The team was just as important. More important.

And Brody was part of that team.

Mitch had let Brody make the choice, and he’d promised to adhere to that decision. Brody wanted him to stay, and after all this, Mitch owed Brody that. Even when all his instincts screamed for the water instead.

His instincts could do what they wanted.

Mitch had made the choice.

And that meant that the fire was his only recourse.

So Mitch would build the biggest fire in the whole damn Pacific.

That meant: timber.

Lots of it.

Mitch had scavenged for wood for three days now, but his approach was more visceral today. Fueled by his rage, he tore into the woods, ripping down trees with his bare hands. They were small trees, but still. Mitch didn’t even need his pocket knife as he wrestled down massive branches and yanked up saplings by the roots.

Within a half hour, Mitch had tripled the size of his lumber pile. As his anger simmered, he started to add more to the fire, methodically expanding the fire from the original pit until it was a hungry and expansive flame.

He built it higher and higher, willing the flames to the sky and the smoke to spread like a dirty smudge over the horizon. He let it rage until it eclipsed his own rage. He let it roar until he couldn’t hear the call of the ocean, even as it pulsates deep in his bones.

It was an impressive fire. It would be visible for miles.

It didn’t make him feel better, though.

It sure as hell didn’t make Brody feel better either.

But it was the only damn choice left.

-o-

He was nearly possessed with his need to act by midday. He had spent the morning slavishly devoted to his schedule, but all his downtime had been dedicated to his bonfire. Still, with the sun overhead, Mitch returned his attention to food.

Mechanically, he fed himself, all but inhaling his food without tasting it at all. The, he peeled an orange with nearly vicious efficiency, sitting down next to Brody to get down to business.

That was what it was now. If Mitch allowed this to be an emotional process, he’d probably never get through a day that seemed so doomed to failure. Duty was key. Duty would allow him to do what his emotions threaten to compromise.

After three days, Mitch knew how to approach the mealtime. He had accounted for everything as best he could.

It was no longer enough.

As with breakfast, Brody could not be properly roused to eat. Mitch had grown somewhat used to this; he had mastered the art of propping Brody up with one hand while guiding the food to his mouth with another. It wasn’t a process he enjoyed particularly; it was a process he was confident Brody wouldn’t remember. But it was grounded by necessity.

As he attempted to repeat the procedure for lunch, however, Brody responded even less than normal. Most meals, Mitch was able to elicit at least some minimal response -- some opening of the eyes, a few moans, or similar actions. Brody remained stubbornly still this time, the red flush of his face darker and the slick on his skin more pronounced.

It wasn’t a good sign, but Mitch had taken most of the bad news on this jaunt in stride. What else was he supposed to do? He persisted.

That was all he could do.

The thought of quitting was something he could not bring himself to accept.

Maybe he should.

Mitch could tell from the first bite that things were not going to go well. He had to physically open Brody’s mouth for him, using his fingers to awkwardly make his jaw open enough to push in a piece of orange. When he removed his fingers, Brody did not make any effort to close his mouth around the orange. Instead, it fell to the ground.

Stifling a curse, Mitch reached for the next bit of orange. This time, after pushing in the orange, he made a point to close Brody’s mouth for him. This kept the food inside, but Brody did not take up the task of chewing. Somewhat vexed, Mitch attempted to manipulate Brody’s jaw into a chewing motion, although without knowing where the food actually was in his mouth, he questioned whether or not it was going to be a successful venture.

Worse was swallowing. With Brody lacking all situational awareness, it seemed like the younger man didn’t even have the knowledge that he had food in his mouth. Therefore, he had no way of knowing when it was time to swallow or even that he was supposed to swallow.

Still, Mitch knew, this was the task. This was the duty.

Brody needed to eat, and Mitch had to make that happen.

He considered taking out the orange and mashing it up himself -- sort of like how a mother bird eats the worms before regurgitating them back up, without the actual disgusting process of regurgitation -- but that seemed unsanitary, which was another issue he’d committed himself to addressing.

There was the possibility of removing the piece in Brody’s mouth and replacing it with another, one that he mashed in advance after re-cleaning his hands more thoroughly.

Decisions were a hell of a thing on this trip.

But as he was trying to make this one, all the factors changed.

Dramatically.

Terrifyingly.

Because before Mitch could remove the orange, Brody seemed to have allowed the chunk to slip back. Mitch had made the chunks small, but they weren’t tiny. They needed to be chewed. Brody’s lax tongue had not finished this step, and the full piece fell back in Brody’s mouth, lodging at the entrance of his throat.

This was all something Mitch could not see, since it was inside Brody’s mouth. Oceanic though Mitch may be, he wasn’t psychic, and he did not realize what had happened until Brody’s body convulsed.

He was confused at first, thinking maybe it was a side effect of the fever. But then, Brody made a deep, unconscious gagging noise as his body convulsed again. It took several more seconds -- and more gagging -- before Mitch recognized the signs he should have spotted instantly.

He was a trained lifeguard, after all. He taught CPR lessons. He knew what it looked like when an airway was impaired.

And he knew what happened when something was lodged in the airway and the body wanted to get it out.

Brody was unconscious, sure, but under duress, his gag reflex kicked in.

Hard.

Mitch had to move quickly, rotating Brody so he was facing the sand, using his fingers to pry open Brody’s mouth. Brody was actively choking now, and Mitch had to act quickly before he managed to vomit. If he vomited while the food was still in the airway, aspiration could occur. And throwing aspiration pneumonia on top of a blood infection?

Shit, Mitch didn’t want to even consider it.

Instead, he reached in -- thoughts of sanitation were gone now -- and he swept his finger to the back of Brody’s through, clearing the tongue, mindful of his teeth. Brody convulsed again, the gagging sound even more guttural than before as his face started to discolor from lack of oxygen.

Mitch was running out of time. There had been days, then there were hours.

Was he down to minutes?

Seconds?

Because if Brody stopped breathing out here, what were the odds of successfully using CPR at this point?

He didn’t want to do that calculation.

Putting it out of his mind, Mitch repositioned himself, using one hand to steady Brody and propping him up with his body to keep his face down but still elevated of the sand. Using his finger again, he made a second sweep, getting deeper than before.

Then, he felt it. Lodged at the back of the throat, a chunk of orange. Mitch caught it with his finger, pressing it to the roof of Brody’s mouth to maneuver it away from the airway. He made it just far enough that when Brody finally did bring up vomit in a desperate attempt to clear the blockage, there was nothing to impede it. In fact, the vomit pushed out the orange and Mitch retracted his finger, using his hand to further stabilize Brody as a second wave of vomit made its way up.

Once the body started this process, it usually continued until the stomach was cleared. This, of course, meant that all of Mitch’s efforts had been completely in vain and he was starting from square zero. Now Brody’s stomach was completely empty and Mitch knew for a fact that trying to feed him was no longer a viable option.

Plus, Mitch was covered in vomit.

Somehow, all of Mitch’s plans, and he’d ended up worse off than when he started the day.

Sitting there, holding Brody’s limp, heat-ravaged body, he wanted to think that this couldn’t get any worse.

He gently rolled Brody back to his side, looking at the red-streaked wound that had been uncovered in the chaos. He listened for the wet rasps of Brody’s breathing and he looked out at the empty ocean around them.

It could get worse.

It could still get a lot worse.