My sincerest thanks to my two nurse friends: to Laura, who has spent many hours going back and forth with me about all the medical details and really bringing this Clay whump to life. And to Lauren, for your never ending encouragement and beta work. ❤

Recap: It was Clay's first mission back since the bombing in Manila that nearly sidelined his career, and he was feeling an insurmountable pressure to regain his brother's confidence in his abilities. Bravo and Alpha Team's (with OC's Dustin Fossett, Keith Shorey, Mike Fellows, and Jimmy Torres) had hiked through the Wakhan Corridor, Afghanistan and over the border to Tajikistan to get to an enemy compound. The mission was simple but went sideways and Clay was viciously attacked by an enemy insurgent (Ashur). Clay is now barely lucid and in and out of consciousness from his injuries, and has been hallucinating the explosion from Manila. Their evac is delayed due to the storm, and the boys have learned that Ilyos got in a phone call to his uncle. Enemy insurgents are on their way to the compound just as they leave... That's where this chapter picks up…

He inhaled, deep and tremulous. The snow was falling harder and heavier, and the only thing visible within a two foot radius was a wall of virtually impenetrable snowdrift and chinks of black night. They couldn't see a damn thing with their NODs or thermal cameras; blizzards did that, they squelched all ambient light which made their goggles useless - so they were left to navigate the land without any visual aids or headlamps. All around them the wind howled, angry and untameable, whipping snowflakes like pellets and sapping any warmth despite their heavy winter gear. The icy air was so thin that it cut into their lungs like razor blades.

Less than two hours ago, they'd been near this very spot, creeping through the calm mountainside to the compound; a mission that'd gone perfectly from infil to breach. It somehow seemed a lifetime away. How had things gone to hell so fast? And what would happen going forward? Jason trudged through the calf-deep snow and thought of the mission, of the decision to leave the compound, and the unknown dangers that lurked in every direction of this wretched country. Glancing backwards to check on the inky shapeless masses that he could barely make out of his team, his expression reflected a mingle of shock and exhaustion.

Behind him, Metal was angrily hauling a bound and hooded Ilyos, while Keith Shorey and Mike Fellows each shouldered the bodies of their expired American hostages. Jimmy Torres took point, and at the very back, Derek, also of Alpha Team, was at the rear, dragging a thick branch which would hopefully hide their tracks from any unfriendlies. He'd always trusted Alpha, but as they took point and rear, creating a cocoon of sorts around Bravo and their downed kid, he felt a new sort of gratitude towards them. It meant Bravo could keep their sights on Spenser.

Spenser, who was doggedly clinging to consciousness.

Spenser, whose coherency waxed and waned, sometimes fighting against the paracord that restrained him, and slurring out broken sounds that sounded something like:

"Ash, stop…

Ash, lemme go…

There's a bomb.

Help.

Hurts.

Jace!"

Spenser, their normally fearless, true pipehitter, kid brother, seemingly slipping between flashbacks and the present; reduced to whimpers and mewls and a childlike countenance that had Jason itching to gather him up and make him whole again. If only it was that simple.

He heard it first.

It was nearly impossible to see at first because of the storm, but they'd finally reached the fast-flowing, glacial Pamir River. Its wild, black surface roared as they cautiously approached the steep riverbank.

Jason studied it while the others gathered behind him, discussing Clay's status, with the medics doing brief health check-ins and demanding their men take healthy sips of water from their hydration packs. Last thing anyone needed was dehydration.

He checked his watch for his compass and reoriented himself. Recalling the map from the brief, he recreated it in his head and approximated the remaining distance they'd need to reach the farmhouse. They'd use the river as a guide and follow it northeast; if they did this, they'd hit the backside of the home in another half klick. As a contingency plan, in case they encountered hostiles or if the weather turned south, they could hike to the mountainside which likely housed naturally-formed caves and take shelter there.

Whatever route they chose, they'd have to stay vigilant; steep drops and crevices surrounded this river valley and it would be easy to lose footing on the slippery, rocky shale.

He thumbed his comm and said, "Havoc, this is Bravo One."

Heavy radio static.

"Bravo One to Havoc, how do you copy?"

Nothing.

"Dammit."

They'd been warned about the steep region interfering with their communications.

Snow crunched behind him, and then Ray was squeezing his shoulder. "Hey, Jay."

"How's Clay doing?"

"He's hanging in there, Trent said he's stable for the moment. How we looking?"

"On target for now," he replied. "If we can keep up the pace and the weather holds, I think we can make it in an hour. We got a problem though, we've lost contact with base."

Ray grimaced. "Mandy warned us about comms problems."

"We can't afford another problem, Ray," Jason scrubbed his face in frustration. "We need to get the farmhouse, reestablish contact with Havoc, call for a CASEVAC, and then get the hell outta -"

Over the wind, Trent was suddenly yelling, "Hey, hey, hey! Put him down! Something's not right."

His heart dropped to his stomach. Locking eyes with Ray for just a second, they tore away from the riverbank and rushed to Six's side; it was plain as day why their medic had suddenly panicked. The oxygen saturation monitor clipped to Clay's finger was shrilling in warning at an increasingly steady rate.

"His O2's at 85," Dustin reported. "What the fuck, he was just at 94. Pulse is elevated. Someone grab my stethoscope!"

"Spenser, what the fuck are you doing?" Trent desperately said, immediately thinking this was a tension pneumo. He started ripping open the straps and blankets that covered him. "Don't do this to me."

"What's happening?" Sonny watched horrified as Clay was laid bare.

"Hurry, Jason!" Trent barked at his leader, who was scouring Dusty's med bag.

"Here, here -" and Jason shoved the stethoscope into Dusty's reaching hands.

"Hey guys, grab a blanket and hold it above us, try to keep some of this snow off the kid," Dustin said.

"Can't see a damned thing. Someone turn on their light!"

"I got it," Brock said as he snapped on his headlamp. Clay came starkly into view; his mouth was parted in a small "o" as he gasped in fast, unregulated breaths. Lips dusky and face grey-ish white, he was nearly as pale as the snow beneath them; pupils swallowed the blue of his eyes as they darted back and forth to the faces above him.

Jason shoved in closer and he stared as Clay struggled for air. "Trent, Dusty, talk to me, what's going on?"

"Tuh.. Treh.. nt," Clay said breathlessly, the word coming out weak and watery…

Watery?

He leaned close to Clay's face - his little brother whose expression looked horrified yet transfixed right on him - and that's when he heard it again… "Okay, I think I know what's going on, alright, buddy? Open up a little more, I'm gonna check your airway. Brock, get in here, shine your light at his mouth," he used his thumbs to part Clay's lips and his insides twisted when he saw the fluid at the back of his throat. Basics of head trauma: if he was leaking cerebrospinal fluid out of his ears, it was just as possible it'd be trickling into his airway. "Alright, he's got some cerebrospinal fluid leaking into his throat…"

"What -" came the breathless gasp from Sonny.

"... he's too weak to clear it on his own and that's why he's having trouble breathing. He's gonna aspirate on it if we can't get this taken care of," and then he muttered, "of all times not to have suction."

"Suction? You usually carry around a portable suction in there?" Dusty asked with a raised eyebrow, all the while ripping through his bag of equipment.

"You have to carry everything with these kids, they're damn trouble magnets," Trent muttered.

Below them, Clay was shuddering from the cold. "Treh..nt," followed by an unspoken but clear plea: help.

"Shh, shh, I know, brother, we're gonna help you. Guys, I need your help, let's roll him and try to clear out this fluid. Nice and steady, careful with his head."

Clay was rolled sideways, multiple hands carefully guiding his head and bracing his abdomen.

Trent ripped off his winter gloves and replaced them with rubber ones. Quickly, he slipped his fingers inside Clay's mouth, using his fingers to hold down Clay's tongue and sweep away the fluids obstructing his airway. A thin trail of CSF dripped out of Six's mouth and into the snow. He whimpered and gagged a little.

"There we go, brother," Trent reassured him, knowing full well that he was still conscious enough to know what was going on - and terrified.

"Wanna try bagging him? We might be able to push away some more of this stuff," Dusty said, already having a hand on the bag valve mask.

"Good idea. Let's try it."

They laid Clay back flat and held the mask on his face, giving him five puffs of air. Clay's eyes were starting to glaze over and stare at nothing; the effort to simply breathe was tiring him very quickly.

"His oxygen's still low, at 87," Brock warned as he looked at the pulse oximeter.

"You can do better than that, Spenser. Stay with us," Dusty demanded. Clay was slipping and verbal cues weren't working to keep him conscious, so next he went for a painful stimuli. He couldn't rub Clay's sternum because of the IO in place there, but he could go with a peripheral stimulation instead. Clay grimaced when his ear was pinched harshly. "That's it. You feel that? I'm gonna keep that up until you wake up and give me better breaths, you hear?"

"C'mon, kid," Trent whispered. He bagged him a few more times, then dropped the mask. He needed Clay to rouse to a more alert state so he could take deeper breaths and clear his throat of the secretions that were essentially drowning him. He took Dusty's lead; knowing the kid hadn't hurt his upper limbs, Trent lifted his arm and pinched his tricep muscle. Clay winced again. "Come back to us." He pinched harder. "C'mon! Look at me."

"Look at me."

"Tr'nt?" Clay mouthed, not having the strength to say it aloud.

Hardly aware of what was happening and why, he took a gasping, ragged breath through lungs that felt full of water. He tried to focus, blinking at the blurriness, and was dazzled by a canopy of shining silver above him… and when some of that haze cleared, he realized that the glimmering color above him was an emergency blanket.

Transfixed, he stared at the silvery material billowing in the squall. It was all he was capable of. He was nothing, nothing but pain and fear and the half-realization that he tenuously existed in a ruined and broken body. Every inch of him was in terrible pain and he couldn't breathe and this was it - here, right here, this was where he was going to die…

The world swam before his eyes, and Clay's awareness then fractured. His body and mind became disconnected as he lost time for the second time that night. Time passed… or did it?… and he stared at the silvery blanket until everything darkened… he eyes slipped closed…

He was back in Manila again, where silvery debris floated down from the night sky…

The air was hot and thick from a recent rainstorm, but now also pungent from the smells of smoke and burning flesh from the first explosion. He rushed along a dark cobblestone street towards a woman, fifty yards ahead of him at the very end of the road, clutching her foot and screaming…

But a ringing made him falter. He turned and saw the backpack, and he felt a white hot fear that stole the very breath from his lungs. Knew what it meant. There was no time; not even for one simple step backwards that would help him gain distance…

His world burst open and all he could see was fire.

Then, as his senses came back to him in jarring flashes, he first could hear nothing but a piercing screech. He was soaking wet… blood?

"Conscious, not breathing…"

He blinked and then his team was there; he saw each blurry face as they moved in dizzying succession. Sonny and his wild blue eyes locked into his own, inches from his own and fervently saying over and over and over,

"Breathe… breathe, Clay…."

His stomach was hard and clenched and wouldn't let his lungs draw in air and his mouth was open, gaping like a fish out of water.

"Help," he gasped. He couldn't breathe!

"Breathe, Clay. C'mon, brother, breathe."

"Breathe!"

The streetlights above him cast a warm amber glow; Clay's gaze lazily slipped past Sonny's to stare up at it. The sky was falling. Its light caught the pieces of shining debris that floated down from the sky; they twirled, danced in the air, glimmered and sparkled. He looked back at Sonny; there was a piece of it caught in his beard.

"Look at me, Clay. Look! Don't you do this!"

"Don't do this!" he heard in the dark recesses of his foggy brain; its accent was familiar and thick and pleading to him.

"Sson… ?"

He was dizzy and everything was slipping away. There was no more thinking, there just … was.

A blue shawl, iridescent in the glow of the blaze, covered his chest.

The smell of burnt flesh, singed hair… Sonny's hand, carding through it.

An ambulance, wailing.

He still couldn't breathe.

"Ple..ase… I can't."

"Bag him again!"

He was jerked back to consciousness when Trent shoved a broken pool cue between his belt and pants, twisting it. Pressure. Pain. Painpainpainpainpain. And the pain spread, diffusing out to his arm, twisting, muscle deep… Stop. God, stop. Stop stop stop…

"Stop," he panted and begged, eyes still closed. "Stop. Yyy - you're hurting me. Stop."

"Come on, brother. I know it hurts, we're gonna take care of that, okay? We're gonna take care of you. But you gotta wake up. Open your eyes and I'll stop pinching you."

"What are you doing to him?" Sonny's voice floated above him. "Trent, quit it, you're hurting him."

"Painful stimuli, he needs to wake up and take deeper breaths. Dammit, Clay, open your eyes."

Brock was threading a cervical collar around his neck, his hands were shaking and filthy and smelled like soot. There was a sudden, horrifying realization that Cerb was absent… Where was Cerberus? In the bar? Was he in the explosion, too?

"Stay with me, Clay, come on, brother," Brock said.

Sonny was begging above him, "Open your eyes. Open your eyes, Clay!"

"Open your eyes!"

A sliver of the billowing silver blanket and Sonny's bright blue eyes appeared, as his own eyes fluttered open and he fought for awareness. Fire and soot and the smell of burning flesh faded - and the faces of his brothers, aghast and white, replaced them.

"There we go," Trent said raggedly.

"You with us now?" Dusty asked. He checked the pulse ox. "O2's rising. That's it… breathe a little deeper for me."

"Cerb, um, Cerb?" was all he could speak. Worlds had collided and braided together. He knew not where he was - Manila or Afghanistan or even Virginia Beach - just that everything was dark and he hurt, God, he hurt. And Cerberus? His last thought had been that their very special K9 was not at Brock's side and that was wrong. "He um… where, Cerb?.. there's a, ruck."

"He ain't making sense," Sonny's own heart was pounding against his ribs.

"Bomb," Clay slurred, insistent. More clearly than anything he could make out around him, he could only feel fear, real fear. He brought up his hands, still bound together with gauze to keep him from injuring himself further, and pawed weakly at Trent. "C, cerb."

"Cerb's right here, Clay," Brock reassured him, and allowed his K9 to nudge in closer to Six's side.

"He's still hallucinating. He was doing this back at the compound, too, talking about the bomb," Trent said.

"You think he's remembering Manila?" Jason asked.

"Must be."

"Confusion and disorientation are hallmarks of severe head injuries," Dusty added in calmly as he repacked the bag valve mask. "We can reassess him closer at the farmhouse, but there's not much else we can do for him here. He's breathing steadier, O2 is 92," then to Clay, "We're in Afghanistan, Spenser. You're feeling a little scrambled, aren't ya, bud?"

Sonny tore his eyes away from Clay for a second, feeling a little vexed that the medic could be that detached from Clay's obvious suffering, but took a breath, held it in. Realized that someone had to be calm and collected while helping his brother, and it sure as shit wasn't him. He watched as Clay's eyes opened a little more. The kid coughed a little and swallowed, took a few gulping breaths - but this time, he didn't sound as congested.

"Trent… " Sonny dared to ask. "He okay?"

Trent reached up and touched Clay's forehead. Cool and sweaty - shock - something he'd be fearing from the second he saw the severity of his injuries. He patted his forehead gently, and then, jaw set, answered, "He's gonna be fine." Like it was an order to Clay, not an answer to Sonny. He glanced at the pulse ox: 93. Getting better, but not great. "Dusty, let's insert an NPA to secure his airway. It might ease the strain and buy us some time until we can get to that house."

"Read my mind," the other medic agreed.

Jason exhaled, his breath puffing out like white smoke. There was a suspended moment of uncertainty where he looked around; all he could see was a wall of thick snow, and just beyond that, complete darkness. The wind howled, drowning out any sounds that could alert them to an enemy attack or ambush. Wholly blind to his surroundings and cut off from Havoc, the urge to keep moving festered and roiled deep in his belly.

Fear flared. They'd been there too long.

Trent had worked with Jason long enough to see tension brewing beneath the surface, didn't need words to know his boss was itching to get to safety. Didn't blame him, either - they were blind and sitting ducks out in the open without ISR or their optical devices. "Almost done, bossman, this'll just take a minute," he reassured him. Then to Clay, as he tore open a small packet, he said, "Hey, hey, listen, Spenser. I'm going to slip an NPA into your nose to help you breathe, alright? I bet you won't even feel it," he said, as he lubricated the small, hollow tube and then threaded it through his right nostril. The nasopharyngeal airway would sit in his nasal passageway and end at the base of his tongue; it acted as a splint which would keep his tongue from occluding his airway, if he became too weak or fell unconscious again. "Easy does it…" Clay winced and coughed against the intrusion. His hands came up again to push weakly at Trent's forearms. "It's almost over… Alright, it's in, that should keep his airway patent…"

Satisfied with its placement, he secured the flange that rested against his nostril with tape.

"O2's holding at 93," Dusty said. "Let's get him in the recovery position to maintain that airway and prevent any aspiration. If he keeps leaking CSF, at least it'll drain easier."

Jason moved up to Clay's head, supporting his c-spine as they carefully rolled him to his side. While Trent and Dusty shifted his limbs into position and tied him back down, Jason leaned close, and when his eyes locked with Clay's big, doey blue ones, he felt a protective streak so fierce that felt like a suckerpunch.

The words nearly stuck in Jason's throat, but he managed to whisper, "I promise you, kid, you're gonna be fine. I'm gonna keep you safe and get you through this. I promise."

Jason held the bag of saline between his teeth and then they were off again, jogging.

It was fine, he said to himself. It was fine…

Up until it wasn't.

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