Well, here ends another...tried to meet your expectations "F."

Brock sat in the dark, empty cafeteria. It was closed, well past the hours of operation – whatever the hell time that was – and he was alone, sitting on a counter, his feet dangling, nursing a bottle of what passed as maybe apple juice.

His hand was glued, taped, wrapped, taped some more, splinted, secured in a brace via Velcro and buckles, and rendered completely immobile courtesy of Trent. His arm was held tight against his stomach, supported by a sling that went over his opposite shoulder and around his waist. He couldn't remove his arm from the sling without unbuckling a couple straps but he wasn't in extreme pain, just slight discomfort and he could ignore that. The plastic bag of ice nestled inside the sling on his wrist pretty much kept it numb. Trent hadn't wanted to stitch or stable the wound - this isn't a cut Brock, it's a fucking wound - on his thumb due to the skin that had been damaged by the doctors attempt to cauterize it.

Whatever.

It hadn't been a wound at the village when Trent had applied Dermabond, but now, here at the hospital, the medic acted like Brock had severed his thumb. Eh, he was too tired to care. If Trent said glue, with the addition of steri-strips would hold it this time, who the hell was Brock to argue?

He took a drink, tried despite being told not to, because doing the opposite is what men did, to wiggle a finger. Any finger. But nope, the way Trent had his hand bandaged and wrapped and taped, he couldn't even bend or spread his fingers. Didn't know why that was, it was his thumb that was supposedly the problem, but yeah, whatever. Trent had probably told him, but he'd been to 'out of it', to remember if the medic had.

Man, he didn't feel well.

His stomach was in knots, there was a pit in his gut that could be pain, despair, grief, hell he didn't know. He was waiting for his transport coming from the base, arranged by Blackburn, to take him to the air field where he would board a medical transport - whatever that was - to a hospital in Germany where he would have surgery on his thumb.

Surgery!

Yeah, that would make anyone despondent. When and why Trent had decided that? Again, if he'd been told, he didn't remember and now, sitting here sulking in the dark, he wondered how Trent had been able to make that decision.

Did it matter. No. Not really.

All they needed to leave was, 'permission'. Sure Bravo could force, fight, their way out of the hospital, but if they were met with hostility or gun fire, they risked an international incident and Blackburn preferred to avoid that if possible. Their commander was being obedient, waiting for the phone call to come from the brass that their way to leave was clear, but if the call came in first that the flight to Germany had been cleared for take-off, come hell, high water or gun fight, Bravo would be leaving.

Because of him.

He'd been told by Trent he likely faced weeks, probably months, possibly half a year, of physical rehab. Great. And he may or may not, regain full use of his hand. A surgeon would be able to tell him more after tests and scans and x-rays and evaluation. That was all beyond Trent's abilities. Apparently, what was included in the medic's abilities were: make the decision Brock needed to be flown to Germany for surgery.

So, his fault his team would be short-handed, down a shooter until his status was known because Jason would wait for him. It's what made Bravo so unique; their leader's willingness to operate without a full team due to his reluctance to run with other operatives from another unit.

He shifted his weight, repositioned the bag of ice. He was alone. Both in his thoughts and in company. Bravo was scattered, everyone doing something somewhere. He couldn't help but think….Clay wasn't alone. Someone would definitely be keeping an eye on Bravo's 'rookie' and Brock would bet no one could even guess where to find him.

He'd woken up on his back, on the floor in an awkward position that was strangely both comfortable and comforting. Ray had been sitting on a table strewn with magazines nearby, but watching him, not reading and Trent had been on the floor next to his hip, holding Brock's injured hand in his lap, busy snipping and clipping, scraping with a scalpel.

Yeah, that hadn't felt good but he'd been told it was his own fault the wound had to be 'debride' since he'd allowed the good doctor to burn his hand. Oh yeah, Trent was the master of sarcasm.

When Trent was finally done, he'd tried to lower his feet to the floor, but too many hands to count had appeared in his blurry vision and stopped him. He'd been offered water, allowed to come up on his good elbow to drink, and Trent had taken the opportunity to take a cold, wet cloth and vigorously, ruthlessly scrub the dirt from his neck, behind his ears, throat and face. Uh-huh, that'd been fun, trying to drink while his head had bobbed all over the place. Now he knew how Cerberus felt when he toweled the dog down after a swim.

After the administration of a cocktail of medications; steroid for inflammation, oral meds for pain, shot of antibiotic, muscle relaxant, antiemetic patch, he hadn't much cared what Trent was doing. He'd felt nauseated, woozy and dizzy, must have been given Dilaudid, Trent's preferred oral pain medication due to how fast it worked – on him anyway - and had been content to remain on the floor, even if he didn't like his feet up on the table next to Ray who had tried to talk to him about what had happened at the village and later, here at the hospital, but had been firmly shut down by Trent.

And when Ray had complained, backed up by Jason.

Trent hadn't by any means left him alone, but his questions had had nothing to do with the episodes at the village or the hospital. It had been all about his hand, what treatment the doctor had given him, how was his pain, did his elbow hurt, could he feel his shoulder, did he have a wrist, did his palm itch, tingle? All nonsense to Brock, but whatever kept the medic happy.

He still had no idea what medications he'd been given when, but the feeling of wanting to vomit was still there, held at bay by the patch behind his ear. He'd been awake when Trent had applied the patch and at first, he hadn't understood why. Still groggy, he thought it might have been due to strong pain meds, or the combination of too many meds mixed too soon, but then he'd caught a glimpse of his hand.

Oh yeah, Trent knew him well.

By bandaging it tightly, ignoring it and focusing on Clay, he'd been able to believe it was a mere cut on this thumb that simply wouldn't stop bleeding. The sight of his swollen, discolored skin, burst stitches, dried, clotted blood and gaping 'wound' that was raw and red from the recent, thorough cleaning of burnt skin, and the removal of threads and glue, had roiled his stomach. He'd thought the 'wound' was because he was missing his thumb, thought hysterically that Trent had been too gung-ho, and had accidentally snipped and scalped it away. He'd thought he was going to puke. He nearly had, but Trent had assured him he still had his thumb, had given him yet another shot and soon, he'd felt less like up-chucking and more like sleeping.

But Trent hadn't allowed that, because well...he was Trent.

The medic, who had been in a shitty mood, had applied the patch behind his ear, then just sat beside him until the obvious signs of nausea - sweating, compulsive swallowing, drooling, lip licking - had ceased. He hadn't wanted any help from Ray who had offered to squirt the saline and dab the blood away numerous times. Jason had finally had to tell Ray to let it go. Ray hadn't been happy but another word from Jason and he'd finally fallen silent.

Once the meds had kicked, and Trent was finally finished with his hand, he'd helped him sit up, offered him some Gatorade and made him eat a protein, chocolate covered granola bar. He hadn't felt good at all: dizzy, weak, nauseated, shaky, disoriented. Trent never gave him pain meds on an empty stomach, so the only way to avoid eating the snack would have been to pass out again and that hadn't been an option, though now, Brock wondered what would have happened, had he done so.

Trent had watched until he'd consumed the entire bar, then had helped him off the floor and made him sit in a chair and drink more water.

Ray had started an argument with Jason, Vic had been annoying and a call had come through on Blackburn's sat phone for Trent, so Brock had just melted away. No one had called after him, no one had followed him. He doubted anyone even knew he was gone until after he'd left.

Was he pouting? Jealous? He didn't think so. His sniffed, nose runny, eyes watery. And he wasn't crying either. He was just tired, heavily medicated and stressed over the last, well, however many hours. And there were still so many unanswered questions that weren't his to answer, but bothered him all the same: Why had someone jumped Clay? Why try and take him? Why try and kill him here at the hospital? Or had they merely been trying to render him pliable in order to whisk him away? Did they want him dead? Or did they just want him? That all sounded funny even to his own ears.

How the hell had anyone even gotten inside the hospital with all the security? And who the hell were they?

He sipped the juice, didn't taste it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had something to eat other than the granola bar. He wasn't hungry but thought maybe Clay would be...right, the kid wasn't his problem anymore. The team was here now.

Ellis, for all her ways and powers of persuasion in the art of interrogation, had nothing. Course, she had yet to get her chance with the man Bravo had in custody. Neither did Davis, and Blackburn had both of them, along with Randy, working on it. Answers would soon come. He knew that, because while he was being tortured on the floor under the guise of Trent rendering care, he'd heard Blackburn tell Jason.

Their permission to leave the hospital would soon come and Bravo would return to the base, while he went in a separate transport to an air field…..alone.

He sighed, dismayed to find his breath was shaky, his lips quivery. Was it exhaustion? Medication? Adrenaline crash? Or was he vulnerable and…..his feelings were hurt?

Sonny had been an ass.
Jason had been disinterested.
Ray had been dismissive.
Metal hadn't even come out to see him.
Vic was an annoying asshole.
Blackburn had been up to his ears in red tape and bullshit.
Trent had been, and still was, mad.
Clay was…..

"So, I'm grounded."

Brock jumped, flushed in guilt. He'd been so lost in his own musings and self-wallowing, he hadn't heard anyone enter the room and approach.

"Again."

Brock continued to swing his feet, heels kicking gently against the wall beneath the counter. Rat-a-tat-tat. Thump. Rat-a-tat-tat. Thump-thump.

"How can you ground a grown man?" Clay, wearing boxer briefs, t-shirt and socks, easily hoisted his weight onto the counter next to Brock on his right side, knocked shoulders. "We get home, I have to go stay with Trent. Think maybe you can pull your best friend card, get him to let me stay with you?"

"Dunno if that's Trent's decision."

Clay snorted.

Brock shook his head. Right. Injuries and illnesses, Trent made the rules. "Where are your clothes?"

"I dunno."

His feet now swung sideways, the gentle thud of his heels hitting the wall too loud in the silence between teammates. Brock had had to use a chair as a step and hang on with his good hand to gain his seat on the counter. Not Clay. Bad arm, fever, medicated, whatever, he'd placed his palms flat behind him and just pulled/pushed himself up.

Prick. The kid's agility never ceased to astound him.

"Just, he has nine kids…." Clay was saying, called Brock's attention away from the beat of the drummer, drumming in his head. "Like all the same age and they're sooooo noisy."

"Five."

"And I don't think all of them are his." Clay continued. "Every time I go over there and try and count, none of them are the same."

"Janine shares custody with her ex."

"I never see the same kid twice."

"He doesn't have twins."

"Familiar then." Clay corrected. "I dunno how you know only five are his. One time, they were all girls."

"You were undoubtedly medicated."

"They were Asian."

"You tend to hallucinate, you're given meds."

"I don't even know which ones are actually his."

"Not all of them are."

"Or how many are girls. Or boys."

"Janine's two are girls."

"They all call him Dad."

"He's raising them."

"And Janine and his ex-wife are like, best friends."

"First ex-wife, yeah." Brock felt the ice in the pit of his stomach begin to thaw, felt warmth trickle in, spread. Talking utter nonsense with Clay always made him, somehow, feel better.

"I think some of those kids are hers." Clay continued. "The ex-wife's, but not Trent's. That make sense? Like, when it's his turn to get his kids, she sends hers as well, you know?"

"Janine doesn't mind."

"He got any kids with the 2nd wife?"

"No."

"How many with Janine?"

"Just one."

"Dunno how you know that."

"What are you doing here?"

"Taking a break."

"From?"

"Lopez is an asshole, Metal tried to throw him out the window…."

"From the third floor?"

"Ray complained to Jason."

Brock's lip curled towards a smile.

"Jason told him to open the window first." Clay took the bottle of juice from Brock's hand, took a drink. "Apple?" He wrinkled his nose, made a face. "Ugh."

"Suppose to be."

"You do like your shit sweet." Clay mocked, handed back the bottle. "It's warm."

"How'd you get away?"

"Sonny's snoring." He replied simply, implying Sonny had been his babysitter and had fallen asleep. That wouldn't go over well with Jason. "They're still arguing over what to do with me while Trent's gone."

Frowning, Brock licked his lip, hesitated. "Uh, why's that?"

"Oh, he's making Blackburn understand he's going with you to Germany." Clay shuddered, sat up straight, stretched his back, slumped. "Ain't no way in hell, I'm staying at Trent's without him."

"I'm not gonna be home for a couple weeks."

"Neither's Trent."

"Can't you stay home with Rebecca?"

"Jason babbled something like; 'she ain't Lassie, you get lost in a well, you're gonna die there, 'cause she ain't never gonna find you." Clay extended his arm. "Your bandage is bigger than mine." He joked. "Metal offered to take me home but Jason yelled at him. Guess he lost me once in his own house and his dingbat wife-wanna-be didn't remember letting me in."

"So, that leaves Jason." Brock teased. No one would ever consider Sonny a safe, reasonable babysitter. Not even for an adult male highly trained in the arts of survival. Proof of that was sitting right here next to him. And Ray? Pfft...yeah, Bravo 2 was never a consideration for the job of babysitting Clay. Huh, wonder why that was. "Who says you can't stay home alone?"

"Jason." He said morosely. "Trent. Blackburn. They do know I'm almost 30, don't they?" He was silent a moment. "I don't get it."

"You even clear to fly home?"

"Not yet." He cupped the bandage on his arm, winced. "When my fever goes under 100, I can board a plane and deal with air pressure or altitude sickness, I dunno, something. Stopped listening to Trent babble." He waved a hand about. "Whatever."

"Guess." He really, really wanted to go lie down somewhere. He guessed Trent had given Clay something stronger than Tylenol for his fever because he was unusually chatty.

"Ain't your fault."

"I took my eyes off you for seconds Clay. Turned my back and you were stabbed. Let an EMT see my hand and you were sedated. Went to get coffee, someone tried to smother you." Brock said bitterly. "And because you were sedated, you weren't in any condition to fight off your attacker. That's on me. That's my fault."

"All's good." Clay said easily. "Just…thanks, you know?" Brock blinked, his breath hitched. The kid was thanking him? What the hell for? "Risking your hand, 'cause of me. Wish you hadn't, but you did, so yeah, thanks." He shrugged. "Shit happens Brock, we can lay blame on Metal for leaving us to go get the Humvee. On Trent for not making you go back with Ray and Sonny and...yes…" He held a hand up with Brock opened his mouth to argue. "He cudda made you." He nodded when Brock accepted the chastisement. "Or maybe it's Ray's fault for letting us stay and help. Jason's for getting his bell rung. Davis' for the wrong intel, Ellis' for the op going sideways, the shit show that followed. Blackburn for…"

"I get it." Brock cut in. "I get it."

"Trent said, with surgery and rehab, you'll be good as new."

And how the hell would the 'mere medic', who hadn't known that an hour ago, know that now? He sure as hell hadn't been reassuring and comforting while he'd scolded and chastised as he snipped and clipped; not even when he'd finished cleansing with saline and began the arduous task of applying many, many steri-strips.

"He's been on a conference call with Doc and the surgeon you're gonna see in Germany." Clay added. "You were, uh, unconscious, and he sent photos. Doc got on the phone to the hospital. He can make shit happen, he wants to." Clay pushed at his bangs that curled damply. "He's decided I have to remain at the infirmary until we fly home," He made a face. "Because he's going with you to Germany too."

Aah, Doc. He had the most experience with Clay, but was the team doctor who, most times, traveled with the team. One of the reasons Blackburn had chosen Doc to become Bravo's doctor was his connections in the medical field. Brock wasn't surprised he'd been able to contact the surgeon in Germany, just...was surprised anyone had thought to let him know so he could do so.

"And you?" Guess the good medicine man had decided Jason and crew were capable of watching Clay while he and Trent accompanied Brock to Germany.

Clay huffed, rolled his eyes, waved a hand about in a dismissive gesture of teenage angst.

"Get jumped, engage in a fight, suffer a flesh wound, experience a near smothering, and run a fever after going missing at a house party while you have the flu and you're remanded to the infirmary and aren't capable of staying home alone." He put the back of his hand against his forehead in a display of over-wrought-mother. "Geez." He gave Brock a friendly punch in his hip, sighed. "Truth? I feel like shit. Ready to go back to the base, go to bed, you know?"

"Even if it's in the infirmary?" So, the kid had parroted what he'd heard. Brock laid odds on the speaker having been Jason. And yeah, no Trent and no Doc, the infirmary it would be.

"Blackburn said he'd put a guard on my door."

"Kid, the ways we've lost you."

"Yeah, yeah." Clay grinned, blew him off. "One harem, a house party….."

"A bet."

"Charlie cheated."

"The snow."

"That was the hippy's fault." He rubbed his eyes, man, he was soooo tired. "Jeff's flying home with us."

Aah, Bravo's Tier Two team medic. Guess Doc didn't trust Jason and crew to look after Clay.

"Does anyone know where you are?" Despite the meds Trent had him on, he grinned. Clay hadn't yet experienced the terror of a missing teammate, but someday he would lead his own team, most likely some variation of this one, and boy-oh-boy, if history indeed repeated itself, he'd be blessed with a reincarnated him and then, just wait. Brock, if he wasn't dead, would be retired but still a part of Clay's life. He'd hear the stories firsthand.

Clay was quiet, chewed on a lip. "Uh….yeah, sure?" He didn't move and Brock soaked in the moment, relished the feeling of sitting, sharing the company of someone he knew and trusted who wasn't mad at him, yelling at him or wanted something from him. It felt good. "Think…I shouldn't have gotten up here." He hissed. "Ow."

Brock didn't know why he was smiling. His position on the team was in question, his career was in jeopardy, his life upended. He wasn't ready to deal with Sonny, didn't know when he would be and that would cause discord among the team. He faced surgery and months of rehab, likely wouldn't know the success of either for some time. He really didn't know if any of it was worth it.

He looked down as a heavy weight settled against his shoulder and Clay itched a cheek against his sleeve.

There. This. That. That right there. The complete and utter confidence, the trust their youngest had in his teammates; his ability to unwittingly give comfort while he sought it for himself….that was worth fighting for, worth protecting.

"Let's get you back." Whether it was Clay had known were to seek him out, knowing Trent wanted to go with him or hearing that Doc had said he would be okay, he suddenly felt a whole lot better. "Don't want Trent coming after you."

Minutes ago, he'd been wallowing because he thought he'd be going to Germany by himself. Granted, he wasn't thinking straight, was still smarting from Sonny's verbal attack, and was confused over Trent's attitude, but yeah, knowing he wouldn't be alone, made the entire situation a little more bearable.

"Eh." Clay waved a limp hand in dismissal. "He's got more things on his mind then Sonny losing me."

"Uh-huh." Oh yeah, kid was definitely on something. He was blunt and honest, while normally, he'd be argumentative and downright impossible to deal with. No way in hell, would Clay just casually talk about his teammates babysitting him or discuss they had a habit of losing him. Sometimes, Brock suspected Trent medicated him so they wouldn't have to deal with him. Hahaha.

"He's mad 'cause he didn't realize you were hurt worse than me." Clay explained. "And three of us have stitches in our left arm. Dunno why that makes him cranky, but he threw it in Ray's face, so it must bother him."

"No one tried to kidnap me." Brock returned. Man, the kid was warm. "Or kill me."

"Yeah, but he knew you'd hurt your thumb at the village. Hell, the look on Blackburn's face when Trent told him he was going with you. Ray suggested he ask for permission and Trent actually bared his teeth at him." Clay chuckled tiredly. "And then he hogged the sat phone, talking to Doc which made Blackburn demand access to cell service. Once Doc got the surgeon via video, Blackburn gave up the phone as lost."

"Thought you were confined to bed in your room." Even three years later, the one thing Bravo continued to do was underestimate what the kid was capable of understanding when he was 'under the influence' of meds. It never ceased to amaze Brock, what Clay could figure out even when he couldn't tell you what number followed two.

"Got ears." He sighed. "It's hot. Why's it so damn hot in this fucking place?"

Having ears and the ability to hear, didn't explain how Clay had seen Blackburn's face, but his uncanny way of knowing things was what made him the excellent sniper he was.

"Uh, guess they got the heat on." Time to return Clay to the care of Trent, get him a cold cloth, something to drink.

"Think memmbe Katie will make that sponge cake?" Clay didn't move, though his fingers twisted and tugged on the loose end of Brock's belt.

"Thinking maybe you're jumping the gun assuming you'll be allowed to go home with me." Oh yeah, Brock would fight his way back to his team. No doubt. "It's dry as dust, dumbass. No icing."

"Hey, we all can't eat sweets like you can and not gain a pound or five." Now that he had Brock within his sights and the teams dog-handler was upright and talking, his body was taking delight in making him feel every ache and pain he'd accrued digging in the village. He might not remember everything that had happened and what he did recall, certainly wasn't what actually transpired in the order it had occurred, but even while medicated he'd known Brock had been hurt. "Those cookies though," he made a face, "yeah, she doesn't need to make them. Oatmeal, blah." He felt like shit, bet Brock felt just as bad – maybe worse. "Sonny's an ass." He offered, knew it was time to go. "Someone outta toss him outta a third story window."

Yeah, it was gonna be a while before Brock would even feel like thinking about forgiving Sonny. And how the hell did Clay even know about any of that?

"He might put up more of a fight then Lopez." Brock went quiet, felt the warmth of his teammate against his side, sighed shakily. "He uh...I dunno Clay...gonna take some...time."

"He's a pansy-ass little bitch." Clay murmured. He was feeling the effects of the activity in the village, the fight, the stabbing, the medication. His must-keep-going train of thought was derailed now that he was with Brock. "He feels like shit for getting on your back about what happened to me, but he's Sonny, you know?"

"You get jumped, stabbed, smothered, and I'm the one getting surgery." Brock was relieved that Clay didn't push it further or try and make Brock see and accept it was just Sonny's way, to let it go and move on. He couldn't do that. Not yet anyway.

"Been there." Clay replied quietly. "Not fun, nearly losing a leg, learning I'd keep it, but maybe not return to Bravo. Sucks." He itched his chin against Brock's sleeve, slumped against his side. "Just remember, you're not gonna go through this alone." He lifted his head, reluctantly sat up. "Even though you got a fight coming with rehab, not gonna be so bad." He'd be there every day, help Brock with the exercises, he owed him that because his friend probably wouldn't be facing surgery and rehab at all, he hadn't dove over the bed and tackled the would-be murderer to the floor, engaged in a wrestling match - you know, saved his life. "Guess we should go."

His clumsy slide to the floor made Brock smile. The kid wasn't so spry and agile now that he'd been up awhile.

"I'm sorry." Clay said seriously, helped Brock slide off the counter, gain his balance. "I know you gave me the meds the doc gave you, and even though Trent said they were inadequate for your injury, still you..."

"I took the pain meds, gave you the antibiotic." Damn, how did Clay know all this?

"Infection though, won't be good for you...oh-oh." Clay bit his lip. "Guess we took too long."

Jason had somehow appeared in the doorway.

"Done with your little sulk?" He asked Brock, reaching for a hug, held tighter than necessary, longer than expected. "You." He poked Clay in the chest with one finger, his other arm around Brock's shoulder. "Didn't have permission to leave your room, let alone the floor."

"Wanted to see Brock." Clay quipped. "Wasn't taking anyone's word he's okay, 'til I saw him myself."

"Trent told you he was fine."

"Trent was throwing a fit."

Jason ran a hand through his hair to hide his expression. True that. He and Ray had been speculating where Brock might have gone when Sonny had emerged from Clay's room, all sheepish, and reported the kid was gone.

Metal and Lopez had been no help, Ray and Sonny had taken to arguing and Jason had just ordered the interpreter to start a search when Trent had ceased his conversation with Blackburn to tell them Clay had gone after Brock. How he'd known that, Jason still didn't know.

When the medic had been met with silence, he'd huffed and pointed out Brock would most likely have gone to the place he always found comfort – anywhere there was food. Leaving his team to collect the prisoner and get ready to leave, Jason had set off in search of the cafeteria.

"Can we leave yet?" Brock asked. He really wanted his bed back on the base. Thin, lumpy mattress it may be, but it was comfort and familiar and he wished to seek it. He slumped when he remembered he wouldn't be going back there. Guessed a shower was out of the question as well.

"Waiting on Dutch to come get you, he's on his way." Jason steered his missing duo away from the elevator. "He'll take you to the air field, Chuck and Greg are already there - they found transportation to Germany. You'll be in good hands."

Chuck and Greg were on Bravo's Tier Team with Jeff and were Bravo's preferred pilots. He knew them well, called them friends. At least he wouldn't be totally alone in Germany. He didn't recall Clay telling him Trent and Doc were going with him.

"Cerb..."

Jason sighed. "Forget the damn dog Brock." He snapped. "Focus on yourself."

Brock licked his lips, turned away. He was focusing on himself. The 'damn dog' offered unconditional love and comfort. A nudge from his furry head, a lick of a warm tongue, the weight of his nose on his thigh, the soothing task of scratching his ears - all offered silent support that Brock desperately needed right now.

"...cell calls are getting out now...take him home with us," Jason was saying. "...he'll listen to Clay, but Doc agreed to take him to the air field."

"Doc?" Clay questioned dubiously. "And Cerb?"

"Once Davis got Brock's duffel, packed up his shit - you can shower at the air field before the flight," he told Brock, "Cerb didn't let it out of his sight."

"Not alone though, right?" Clay pushed. "Boss?"

"Alone." Jason confirmed. "Chuck and Greg left for the air field before Doc."

Shower? How? His hand was braced and wrapped and immobile and secured securely against his side via bandages and a sling. And he still didn't know where Trent had found the medical supplies or had known what he needed.

He didn't say anything but his face must have reflected what he was thinking, because Jason patted his shoulder.

"Won't be the first time Trent's helped you shower. Davis is sending food, get you something good to eat, then you can sleep on the flight."

"Doc's scared to death of that dog." Clay laughed. "Outta be a tense ride."

"Laugh now, blondie." Jason teased. "Gonna be a long flight home and you ain't gonna like it when we get there."

"I can call Rebec..."

Jason reached out, tousled his rookie's hair, tugged an ear. "Sure dude, you can call her. But Betty Lou will be picking you up when we land in Virginia Beach."

Clay stumbled to a halt. "Say what? Who? Bet...Betty...BLACKBURN? Aww, hell Jay!"

"We land, we got debrief. Then want to follow up with Mandy. She's staying here to crack the guy who tried to kill you."

"But the Commander's wife?" He protested aghast. "What'd I do?"

"Ran away from Sonny."

"Then punish him! Not me!"

"Oh." Jason's grin was terrifying. "Done deal."

"How long do I have to stay there? Can't Katie take me home? Don't say it's until Trent and Brock come home. No way. Nuh-nuh, not fair. This is Sonny's fault."

"You're the one who left without permission, without telling anyone where you were going. Sonny's going swimming and you're going home with Betty Blackburn. Suck it up and deal with it."

Brock stared at his shoes, the emotions rolling through him threatened to make him cry. "He's medicated, huh?" He jerked a thumb in Clay's direction.

"What was your first clue." Jason sighed. "He's hard enough to keep track off when he isn't high as a kite. Tell Brock good-bye Clay, gonna be a week or so before you see him again."

Clay didn't speak, he grabbed hold of Brock, hugged him so tightly, he was clinging.

"You got this." Clay patted him on the back, gave him another tight hug. "I'm okay, thanks to you. I'm a pro at rehab and I'll be at your house..." He stuck out his tongue at Jason. "To help you."

"The others wanna say good-bye." Jason opened a door, let Brock and Clay exit first. "Sonny's been sent outside with the men from the base with the prisoner. You can catch up with him later."

Yeah, Brock thought, this was all worth fighting to keep.

…***END***

Happy Summer into Fall, y'all! It's only July and I've had enough of Maryland's hot, humid, muggy, it's-air-you-wear, weather...