A/N: This collaboration resulted from a conversation between me and AZGirl. "Jason's Burden" takes place after "The Call" (AZGirl) but the stories can be read on their own.

Swanny was dead. The words had made Jason want to vomit.

The transition from the armed forces to regular life was often a difficult one, with veterans unable to cope with the humdrum existence of civilian life. They continued to crave the adventure, structure and camaraderie that had been the hallmarks of their existence for so many years and found nothing in the normal world that could compare. Jason smirked as he recalled a previous commander's comparison. "It's like exiting a world full of movement and color, and entering one that's slow, dull, and filled with never-ending shades of gray." He'd laughed when he'd originally heard the officer's words, but today he had a new and deeper appreciation of them.

Sometimes the transition to normal life was further hampered by injury, as was the case with Swanny. The man had had a hard time of things, but never, not even for a moment, had Jason ever considered that his friend would fail. He'd thought back to the night at the bar prior to their latest deployment. Swanny had seemed to be doing well; surrounded by women hanging on his every word, and the life of the party, as always. His actions weren't those of a man drowning and barely keeping his head above water.

The memory had spurred another wave of guilt, so strong that it had compelled him to leave the base for the nearest watering hole - but it wasn't the nearest one that he'd ended up at. His guilt and grief weren't for the prying eyes of his fellow teammates, so he'd sought out the darkest, seediest bar he could find, praying the drinks weren't so watered down that they would stop him from getting completely, blindingly drunk.

When he'd sat down on the rickety stool and rested his forearms on the sticky bar, the look in his eyes must have telegraphed his intentions. Without asking, the thin, greasy-haired bartender placed a mostly clean glass in front of him before filling it to the brim with cheap whiskey. Another look at his latest patron had the man leaving the bottle before turning away to wipe an empty glass with a stained bar towel.

The strong alcohol had helped, for a while, but his thoughts churned unceasingly, reminding him of his numerous shortcomings. His inability to keep his wife safe; his mediocre performance as a father; his poor leadership of the team, which had lately come under scrutiny by some officer with too much time on his hands and a rulebook shoved up his ass. He'd slammed the empty glass down in front of him as his breathing sped up in time with his temper.

The sharp edges of his guilt had begun to dull, but the reminder of his failures as a husband, a father, a leader, and now as a friend had brought things rushing back into focus at a dizzying rate. Pushing away from the counter, he stood unsteadily, letting his palms rest on the edge of the bar while he searched for his absent equilibrium. His blurred vision had scanned the faces of the establishment's patrons, landing seconds later on a loose group of three tough-looking men. He was moving towards them a moment later.

"Hey," he called as he approached, ensuring he had their full attention. He was, after all, still a military man, bound by honour and the rules of engagement. Besides, his alcohol-dulled brain knew enough that he'd need the shield of deniability if word of his evening escapades ever reached the base. That meant no unprovoked attacks – self-defense, however, was a different matter.

As he'd hoped, the men had no desire to have someone interrupting them, especially not someone who was so clearly inebriated. Immediately, the men formed a loose triangle, with the man closest to Jason forming its tip. The SEAL met the man's gaze, wondering if he'd need to say something more to provoke his desired opponents, but as the lead man clenched his fists, Jason understood that nothing further would be required.

Keeping his body loose, he continued to approach, narrowing his gaze at the closest man before shifting his expression to a smirk. He'd been told before that this look was particularly maddening and could provoke even the most tolerant of individuals. As he stopped advancing, he prayed that was still the case.

Silence seemed to descend on them as the few conversations around the group trailed off. From the corner of his eye, Jason could see patrons distancing themselves, though no one headed for the exit, clearly hoping to watch as the drunken warrior was beaten by the other three. Jason cocked his head to one side in an unspoken question. "Well," he thought to himself, "are we doing this, or what?"

The lead man turned and stretched his head in one direction and then the other, cracking his neck loudly enough for the sounds to carry through the quietness. No doubt, the action was meant to be intimidating, but Jason simply grinned more widely as he continued to stare at the other man.

Emitting a short battle cry, the lean man charged, followed closely by his companions. The unexpectedness of the attack combined with Jason's slowed reflexes had him immediately off balance and on the defense. He found himself surrounded by flying fists, his own driven into constant motion as he blocked, deflected, and delivered blows of his own.

The men were faster and more skilled than he'd anticipated, and for a moment, Jason wondered if he'd miscalculated. The fleeting thought had fresh feelings of remorse washing over him as he considered the prospect of losing his team and failing his children.

The fist that buried itself in his midsection had him folding nearly in half, and he reached blindly for support, his hand miraculously finding the back of a chair that prevented him from dropping to his knees. In that moment, the world slowed around him, and he forced all thoughts of failure from his mind. He was a SEAL – trained in tactics that could disable and kill, and conditioned to never give up.

With a painful inhale, he rose to his full height, unleashing the complete force of his fury on the unlucky men. He wasn't even consciously aware of his actions, only retaining enough awareness and control to ensure that no life-threatening injuries were caused. It was the thud of his last opponent's body hitting the ground that brought him back to himself enough to realize the fight was over.

Stumbling, he took several steps back from the carnage he'd created. The men he'd fought were sprawled in various states of disarray and levels of consciousness, lying amidst the remnants of spilled drinks, broken bottles, and a broken chair. Raising a trembling hand to his head, he ran his fingers through his sweaty hair, unknowingly leaving it standing up messily and pointing in all different directions.

Shifting his hand from his head to his stomach, he winced at the sore spot that marked one of men's lucky hits, certain that it would not be the only reminder of the evening's altercations. Inhaling shakily as he tried to recover his breath, he turned away from the chaos he'd created to search out the bartender. The man he sought was still behind the bar, his wiry arms now resting against its edge as he waited for Jason to speak.

Wordlessly, the SEAL approached, stopping a couple feet away where he dug out his wallet. He pulled out every last bill he had and dropped the stack in front of the bartender, watching the man carefully as he did so. With a flick of his eyes to the pile of money, the bartender offered a curt nod of acceptance. Jason dipped his chin in return and then turned on his heel, walking straight for the door and out into the night.

He'd been fortunate not to run into any of his team when he'd returned to the base, heading directly back to his room and falling into bed. Although his body ached with tiredness, sleep eluded him, and he woke not even two hours later with the remnants of a nightmare still lingering at the edges of his thoughts.

Recognizing that he wouldn't be getting any more rest, he dragged himself from bed and staggered into the small bathroom attached to his room. It was a rare privilege afforded to him as team leader, and as he caught sight of himself in the utilitarian mirror above the sink, he thanked God that he'd have the chance to lick his wounds in private.

His face was drawn and pale, his eyes shadowed by dark circles that told the story of his poor sleep. Gripping the hem of his t-shirt, he dragged it up and over his head, revealing the full array of colors that marked the locations of each of his hurts. Letting the shirt drop to the floor, he let the fingers of his right hand trace the bruises that blossomed on his left upper arm, ribs, and midsection. Miraculously, his face had escaped damage, allowing him to cover the evidence of what his grief had wrought.

Ripping his eyes from his reflection, he turned the water on in the narrow shower, waiting only a moment for it to change from cold to hot. Stepping under the spray, he let the scalding water pour over him for as long as he could stand, feeling the heat seep into strained and sore muscles to offer him a modicum of relief. Dropping his head to his chest, he closed his eyes and let his defenses fall.

He swallowed thickly and once more pressed a hand against his middle. The throbbing pain there had dulled, but the spot was still tender to the touch. It was nothing compared to the ache in his head and his heart as the two dominant organs fought for the rights to his overwhelming guilt.

Clay's words echoed loudly through his skull, as though he'd just heard them instead of nine hours having passed. "He killed himself." Jason pressed the fingers of one hand into his eyes as if to push away the headache that was pounding between his temples.

"Damnit," he exhaled on a sob, closing his eyes more tightly against the tears that threatened as he braced himself against the walls of the tiny space. For over a minute, he fought for control, finally managing to wrestle his emotions under control. Heaving in a deep, cleansing breath, he straightened and opened his eyes, blinking away the residual moisture.

Adjusting the water temperature, he quickly washed up, rinsing away the sweat, grime and self-loathing that had driven him to seek absolution in a bottle and in other men's fists. Turning the water off, he efficiently dried before striding out of the room to dress in clean clothes.

His moment of self-pity was over, and he had a responsibility now to inform the rest of the team. It was his burden, but it was one he would carry without complaint, if only so that none of the others would have to feel its crippling weight. Snagging several glasses and a half-empty bottle from the top of a chest of drawers, he exited the room, ready to face the others and toast their most recent fallen brother.

End.

A/N: Veterans can talk with a trained counselor through the Veterans Crisis Line: 1-800-273-8255 (Press 1) or send a text message to 838255 to connect with a VA responder.

Many thanks to AZGirl for proofing this story; any remaining mistakes are mine.