For the whumptober prompts #1- shaky hands and #2- explosion. Takes place at the end of episode 3.01 "Welcome to the Refuge", though I don't think it really spoils much. Read at your own risk.

Seven months. That's how long it's been since he spun up with Bravo, since he felt like himself. Well, six months and twenty-three days if he really wanted to count it out. He's sure he could figure out the hours too, but that might be going a little overboard. Suffice it to say, it's been a hell of a long time since he felt like he belonged in his own skin. Who knew he'd consider a hammock in the back of a C-17 and the eight by eight space of his cage more of a home than his own apartment. He breathes in deep and takes it all in, feeling that knot of tension that's been sitting in his chest uncurl.

Everyone wants to know how he's doing, if he's okay. His standard answer is "leg is good" because what else is there to say? They don't know, they weren't there for most of it. He went through months of hell, through a series of surgeries that were hail-mary attempts to get feeling back, went through months of anguish as his previously damaged nerves began to heal. He spent days shaking with pain even the strongest meds couldn't touch as his damaged nerve spent spikes of agony up and down his leg with every beat of his heart, in so much pain he'd cried and almost begged for someone to put him out of his misery. Almost. He spent weeks learning how to use his leg again, using a walker or a cane like an old man. He'd spent nights lying awake in his bed, fear and guilt and anger eating up his gut because he was stuck here while his brothers were out there fighting, protecting, avenging without him.

It's not that Clay blames them, not at all. They had missions to focus on when out in the field and families to attend to when they were back on home soil. He gets it. But that doesn't mean it gets erased either. He had Swanny in his corner up until his demons got the best of him. And sure Bravo checked in on him when they could, but for the most part, Clay got through it the way he got through everything else in his life. Alone. They will never know what he had to do to get himself back. They will never understand and he's okay with that. He'd never wish that kind of hell on his brothers. That's the reason he fought so hard to get back to them, so he could have their backs once again and make sure they all came home.

He can see the questions in their eyes when he gives them his flippant remark, catches the way their eyes skirt down to his leg, like they can see the damage through his pants, through his scarred flesh. Without fail, their gaze always jerks back up, embarrassed at getting caught looking. They want to say more, ask more, but they never do and he never tells them. So while they ask if he's okay, he knows they aren't just asking about his leg, they're asking about his state of mind. Is he mentally ready to throw himself back into the fray again? Can he keep a level head when the bullets are flying or is he going to remember the pain and hell he went through and freeze? Is he ready to go through it all again if it comes down to it?

He doesn't have an answer for them. He wants to say yes, to say that his training is ingrained too finely into him for it to be overridden so quickly. He wants to tell them not to worry about him, that nothing has changed. The problem is, he can't. Everything has changed and they all know it.

It isn't until Cerb sits outside the door that it hits him what it all means. Explosives. There's a bomb on the other side of that wall. There's no time to think about the implications though because Jason's already got his hand on the door knob. Instinct kicks in and Clay flies across the empty space between them just as the door cracks open. He hits Jason with a full body blow, knocking him to the side and out of the way.

Behind them, the room explodes, debris catching his back and legs as they hit the ground. There's a loud ringing in his ears that mutes everything else out for a moment, but the moment he can, Clay rolls to the side and off of Jason's chest. There's a hand tugging at the back of his vest, pulling him clear and sweeping over him looking for injury. It takes another moment before the ringing clears enough for him to hear the gruff voice behind him asking questions.

"Six? You with me?"

"'m good, Son," Clay mutters, turning his eyes to where Trent and Ray are easing Jason up to a sitting position.

Jason looks just as dazed as Clay feels, eyes sweeping over the damage around them before they settle on Clay. Clay holds his gaze, feeling a small burst of pride when Jason gives him a slight nod before he turns away, speaking into his radio. Taking a deep breath, Clay turns back to find a frowning Brock kneeling near him while Sonny looks displeased. He manages a weak smile in their direction as he pushes to his feet.

"That was some quick thinkin' there, Goldilocks," Sonny grumbles, helping Clay up. He sounds annoyed, but Clay can read the undertone of concern there. "Saved the Boss's bacon, I reckon."

"Case of beer?" Clay asks, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

Sonny chuckles and shakes his head. "I don't know," Sonny nudges Clay's shoulder to get him moving. "First mission back and saving Bravo One? More like two don't ya think?"

Clay does his best not to roll his eyes at Sonny as they stack up at the door and prepare to head for the roof.

Everything is fine.

They make it to exfil and get the hell out of dodge without encountering any resistance. After that it's sitting through a rough AAR. It's no one's fault really that this mission went belly-up. It was really just a series of fucked up events that screwed them in the end. Once they get through it all, Blackburn releases them to clean up and rack out.

Clay stows his gear like normal, making sure everything is ready should they get spun up quickly once again. By the time he's done, most of the guys have already moved off in search of food or showers. After a moment of indecision, Clay opts for a shower and some sleep. While sleep is something hard to come by lately, he feels tired enough now to knock out for several hours. He's not gonna fight his body on it.

He lets the warm water cascade over his body, letting it loosen up stiffening muscles. He runs his hand down his right thigh, feeling a tender spot of bruising on the back, collateral from pushing Jason out of the way of the blast. If that's the worst of it, he's mighty lucky, the thinks to himself. It isn't until he reaches for the soap that he realizes that there is a tremble running through his fingers. He blows out a breath and clenches them tight into fists.

Just breathe, he tells himself, closing his eyes. Just breathe in and out. But behind closed eyelids he sees fire and mangled flesh, his mangled flesh, and fights the urge to gag as the scent of burnt flesh fills his nose. He sucks in a deep breath as his eyes fly open. Fixing his gaze on the tile in front of him, he feels his heart thunder in his chest, beating relentlessly against his ribs. His breath hitches as the tremble in his fingers turns into full blown shakes consuming his hands.

He was fine. He is fine. There's nothing wrong, he tries to tell himself. It's just an adrenaline dump. It'll be over in a moment.

Except it isn't. He waits a few moments and while his heart rate slows down a little and his breathing levels out closer to normal, the shakes never go away. He struggles to finish his shower, washing the worst of the dirt and debris from his skin. As he steps out, he's glad to see that the rest of the guys have finished up and he's alone. He doesn't want anyone to see him like this.

He sits on his bunk in shorts and a hoodie, unsure of what to do now. He's too keyed up to sleep and while his stomach is grumbling, the last thing he wants to do is go and eat with the rest of the team while his hands are shaking so bad. They'll take one look at him and he'll be back stateside in a shrink's office before dawn. He's not sure where that leaves him besides huddled up on his bed, hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie to keep them hidden.

Before he can make a decision either way though, Trent shuffles in, scrubbing a hand over his face. At the sight of Clay, he diverts from his original path towards his bunk. He squints his eyes as he gets closer and Clay does his best to lock everything down.

"How's the leg, Spense?" Trent asks, easing himself down on to Sonny's bunk across from Clay. He continues before Clay can get a word in edgewise. "You hit the ground pretty hard."

Clay's shoulders relax at those words. He nods, taking a steadying breath before he trusts himself to speak. "Just a bruise or two," he answers honestly. "Nothing I can't handle."

Trent nods, giving him a tired smile. He makes a move to stand, but hesitates. His eyes sweep over Clay again, his brow wrinkling the longer he looks. Clay does his best not to shift, clenching his trembling hands together in his pocket to keep them as still as possible. Somehow though, Trent's eyes still land there.

"You okay, Clay? First mission back and all ..." Trent trails off, giving Clay a chance to come clean. When he doesn't take it, Trent sighs and sits forward, on the edge of the bunk, dangerously close to pushing into Clay's space. He looks undecided for a moment before he blows out a breath."It wasn't the first mission back for me."

Trent leans closer and purposely rolls up his long sleeves, slow and methodical. "I was too full of repressed anger that first spin up and too eager to prove to everyone I was okay. No, for me, it was the third." As the sleeve comes up on his right side, Clay can see the damage to his arm, the tale of surgeries and survival carved into his skin. Clay stares at that roadmap of scars and, knowing what his own leg looks like and what his own journey was like, can only be both terrified of them and in awe of them.

"A grenade landed near me and it was instinct that got me out of the blast radius. Thought I was good to go. Faced my enemy straight on and beat it," Trent continues, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Except every night for weeks after that, I woke up screaming, feeling like my arm was on fire again."

Clay snaps his attention back up to Trent's face at that revelation. Trent is such a strong, steady presence, unruffled in even the worst of situations, it is hard to image him waking up screaming from a trauma induced nightmare. There's no faking that look of raw vulnerability in his eyes though. While Trent isn't tight-lipped about his life, he isn't exactly an open book either. He only divulges information when it has a purpose and right now that purpose is to help Clay. He won't deny that gift.

"My hands won't stop shaking," the words tumble off his lips before Clay can think about them. If anyone understands, it's Trent. He yanks his trembling, traitorous limbs out of his pocket and drops them in his lap. There's no condemnation from Trent, so he keeps going. "I was fine. I saw Cerb sit and knew what it meant, but there was no time to think. I just reacted. I was fine through exfil and the AAR. It didn't hit me until the shower, when I felt the bruise on my leg."

Trent nods in understanding. As he talks, Clay starts to fidget, moving his hands restlessly in another fruitless attempt to keep them still. He tucks them up under his arms for a moment before dropping them back to his lap into balled fists. He clenches them together then digs his fingers into the fabric of his shorts. Finally, Trent leans forward and stills Clay's hands with his own. He gently takes hold of Clay's wrists in his hands, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

"How do I get it to stop?" Clay asks, voice nearing desperation. Now that he's given attention to the situation, he wants desperately to fix it.

"It's gonna take time, Clay," Trent tells him softly, keeping him grounded with a hold on his arms. Clay's hands still tremble. "There is no quick fix. It's not just your leg that needs time to heal, it's your mind too. We focus on the physical and forget that our minds need to get right after an injury too. Sometimes that takes even longer than our bodies to heal."

Clay sighs, head dropping in defeat as exhaustion and fear and frustration crash over him all at once. He thought he was over the worst of it. He was back with the team, he was supposed to be moving on, getting back to a normal life. If he reacts like this once, is it going to happen again the next time he goes out? How about the tenth time? Can he even be trusted to go out like this?

As if sensing his spiraling thoughts, Trent gives his wrists a squeeze, drawing Clay's attention back to him. "This isn't forever, Clay. It's just another small bump in the road back."

Clay swallows thickly around the emotions that are trying to bubble up again, emotions he spent weeks burying when he was in the hospital. He doesn't trust himself to speak again so he nods hesitantly, letting Trent know he hears him.

"We'll get you through this, Clay. I promise," Trent releases one of Clay's wrists as he shifts from Sonny's bunk to Clay's, sitting hip to hip with him. He wraps his free arm around Clay's shoulders, a reassuring weight that lets him know someone has his back. "I'll stay here with you until it subsides."

Clay wants to protest, tell Trent he's fine to ride this out of his own, but if he's being honest, after months of battling alone, it feels good to have backup. Trent's warm weight pressed against his side, his hand keeping Clay's steady, are all the grounding presence he needs to feel like maybe he'll be okay. If Trent tells him this will pass, Clay believes him.