Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rotors of the helicopter thundered overhead, a constant thrum that rattled through Eric's skull like a second heartbeat. Hot wind from the open side door slapped at his face, bringing with it the scent of sand and fuel. He sat stiffly, hands clenched around the edges of his seat, staring at a scuffed patch on the floor just past Clarice's boots.  

She sat across from him, legs spread comfortably, fingers tapping idly on her knee. She hadn't said a word since they’d lifted off, and neither had he. Eric was grateful for the silence. Anything spoken might echo too loud, break whatever fragile control he was holding onto.  

He should have been thinking about the mission. Double-checking the intel. Running through the logistics in his head—airspace clearance, terrain layouts, fallback protocols. That was what a good CO would be doing. But his mind refused to focus.  

Because she would be there.  

Rachel .  

CENTCOM wasn’t supposed to be personal. It was orders, operations, strategy—clinical, like surgery. But this time it had history. The kind that couldn’t be locked away in a file cabinet or buried under mission briefings.  

It had been a year since she'd walked out. A year since the conversation that never really ended. Since she’d said his name like it hurt and left without looking back. And he’d let her go, because what the hell else could he do?  

Since then, things had slipped. More than he liked to admit. Meals skipped. Sleep optional. He’d poured every drop of energy into tech development and theoretical models, as if perfecting a satellite system could somehow make up for the collapse of his personal life.  

Now, he was heading right into it again. CENTCOM was the staging point. She was part of the team. This was happening.  

He exhaled slowly through his nose, adjusting his grip on the metal bench. No gear bag at his feet—just the bare essentials. The mission was meant to be in and out. No overnights. No lingering. No time to peel old scabs open and see what still bled.  

Just quick, clean, surgical.  

If only his nerves would believe it.  

The ride to the base had been mercifully short. The second his boots hit the tarmac, Eric felt the tension ratchet tighter in his chest. He followed Jason’s lead through the corridors, their footsteps echoing off concrete and metal. Clarice stalked behind them, silent and unreadable.  

The CENTCOM briefing room was sterile—cold lights, a projection screen already humming to life, chairs arranged with military precision. But none of that registered.  

Because Rachel was already there.  

She stood near the far end of the room, in conversation with a young marine, arms folded, her posture casual—but he knew her well enough to see the edge in her stance. She looked the same. Or maybe not the same—something about her seemed sharper. Tired in a way that went beyond physical.  

Eric’s feet moved before his brain caught up. He walked in, spine straight, eyes locked onto hers for one long second.  

“Rachel,” he said, nodding.  

“Eric.” Her voice was neutral. Not cold. Not warm. Professional.  

Good. That was what he needed. What they both needed.  

He set his briefcase down at the front table and flicked the latches open. A few papers, a tablet, a laser pointer—enough to run through the briefing without stumbling. His hands moved automatically, arranging everything into neat rows, each motion a defense against the thousand things he couldn’t control.  

Behind him, Clarice muttered something sarcastic to Jason, and the two shared a low laugh. Eric let the sound wash over him, grounding him for just a second.  

Then Rachel’s voice was at his side.  

“I read the dispatch,” she said quietly, eyes scanning the briefing materials. “CENTCOM really put you in charge of this op?”  

He didn’t look at her right away. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the relevant document, offering it to her without a word.  

She glanced over the orders, her jaw ticking slightly.  

“Didn’t think they’d go that route,” she muttered. Then, softer: “Makes sense, though.”  

“I—” Eric hesitated, throat dry. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I wanted to talk before—about before. About us.”  

Rachel cut her eyes toward him. Sharp. Quick. And then she turned away, her expression unreadable.  

“Now isn’t the time, Eric,” she said, already moving.  

He watched her walk to the other side of the room, where she struck up a conversation with the same marine from earlier. Her voice was casual, even light.  

Eric stared after her for a moment too long, jaw clenched. The hollow feeling in his gut swelled and twisted like a cold pit opening inside him.  

No time. Right. Always no time.  

He turned back to the table, forcing his focus onto the files in front of him. Target coordinates. Risk assessments. Extraction windows.  

It was just a mission. That’s all it had to be.  

He could fall apart later.  

---  

The mission had collapsed faster than Eric could've predicted—faster than anyone could've planned for.  

The silo they were supposed to storm hadn’t existed. Instead of a weapons cache or hidden bunker, they'd found a cluster of shepherd huts and empty desert. Nothing but sand, wind, and the creeping sense that they'd been played.  

And then the Iraqis had hit them.  

Gunfire cracked through the air, sharp and vicious. Bullets snapped past the walls Eric pressed his back against, dust raining from the cracked mud bricks above his head.  

He risked a glance around the corner.  

Three marines were down in the open. Unmoving. Beyond them, across the narrow alley between huts, he spotted Jason, Nick, and Merwin hunkered down behind a collapsed wall, firing toward the hills. But there was no sign of Rachel.  

Eric ducked back behind the wall, heart pounding.  

“Rachel!” he shouted, his voice nearly drowned by the gunfire. “Rachel, where are you?!”  

No answer.  

His stomach clenched. He tried again, louder. “ Rachel! ”  

Still nothing.  

His hand tightened around the grip of his pistol as he looked toward the nearest hut. If she’d taken cover, maybe she was in there. Maybe—  

A sharp, rolling tremor passed beneath his feet.  

The gunfire faltered. Even the shouting seemed to die for a breath.  

The ground rumbled again, harder this time. Loose stones and debris clattered from rooftops. A low groan echoed under the earth, unnatural and deep, like something ancient shifting far below.  

Eric’s blood went cold.  

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered. “Could this get any worse?”  

As if in answer, a crack split the ground right behind him with a violent snap , the earth tearing open like fabric. He bolted forward on instinct, stumbling away—but his foot struck a weak patch, another hidden fracture beneath the sand.  

The ground crumbled under him.  

He shouted—“ Oh, shit! ”—and then he was falling, arms flailing, the light from above vanishing as the world gave way beneath him.  

Eric hit the ground like a sack of bricks.  

The impact punched the air from his lungs, pain blooming across his back and shoulders. He gasped, but no breath came. For a terrifying moment, he just lay there, winded, vision swimming in the dark.  

Move. Come on. Breathe.  

His lungs finally seized air, sharp and ragged. He sucked it in, then another, each breath feeling like it scraped through his ribs. His whole body ached, sand and grit pressing into his skin and sticking to the sweat on his neck.  

For a moment, he didn’t move.  

Part of him wanted to stay there—just give in, let the weight of everything crush him where he lay. The mission, Rachel, the silence from the radio, the gunfire above. It was too much.  

But the part of him that had survived a hundred setbacks and field tests—the part that had designed weapons to save lives—told him to get up.  

He rolled to his side with a groan and sat up slowly, every joint protesting. First things first—he reached down and checked the metal joint where his prosthetic leg met his thigh. Still locked, still stable. He flexed it once, just to be sure. It held. Relief washed over him in a wave so sudden it made his hands shake.  

His sunglasses hadn’t been so lucky. One lens was cracked in half, the other completely shattered. He pulled them off and tossed them aside, blinking in the dim, dusty light that filtered down from the crack above. Just a sliver of sky now. No way out the way he came.  

His pistol was still holstered. He drew it, checked the magazine. Still full. That was something. He tapped his radio, trying to raise anyone on the surface.  

“Jason? Rachel? Come in.” Nothing. Just static.  

He tried again. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Eric King. I’ve fallen below ground. Respond.”  

More static.  

Eric grit his teeth. Of course there was no signal. They had no idea what they’d stumbled into. He’d assumed this mission would be a clean in-and-out, but everything had gone sideways from the second they touched down. Now he was god-knows-how-far underground, cut off, and alone.  

He looked up again. The edges of the hole were too unstable. Any attempt to climb back would likely bring the whole thing down on top of him. He wasn’t willing to take that gamble.  

Turning away from the light above, Eric scanned the chamber. It wasn’t just a pit—it led somewhere. A tunnel stretched out in front of him, partially collapsed in places but still open. Dust hung thick in the air, catching faint glimmers of light from the surface. It was narrow, ancient-looking. Worn. Man-made?  

Or not, a quiet voice in his mind offered.  

He shoved that thought aside and pushed to his feet. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it. Pain was better than panic.  

If there was any chance of getting out—of getting back to the team, to Rachel—it was forward.  

He gripped his pistol tighter and stepped into the darkness.  

---  

They ran, boots pounding the stone floor, gunfire echoing off the walls behind them.  

Rachel led the way, head low, moving fast despite the narrow ledge beneath their feet. The path hugged the cavern wall, barely wide enough for one person. The gorge beside them dropped into nothingness—an abyss of darkness and dust.  

Eric stayed close behind her, heart thundering in his chest. The Iraqi soldier chasing them had fallen behind for now, likely slowed by the same treacherous route. But they weren’t safe. Not yet.  

They edged around the final curve, and Rachel stepped out onto a broader platform of rock. Eric followed, boots skidding slightly across the loose stone.  

Then the earth groaned.  

A deep tremble shook the walls, the platform, everything. Eric staggered, throwing himself backward against the rock face for balance. Rachel wasn’t so lucky.  

She lost her footing with a sharp gasp, tumbling down the slope that led toward the open chasm.  

“ Rachel! ” Eric shouted, dropping to his knees as she managed to grab a jagged rock jutting from the edge, her feet swinging out over the void.  

“I’ve got it!” she shouted back, though her knuckles were white, her legs kicking against open air.  

Eric didn't hesitate. He grabbed the rope he’d tied around his waist, and tossed it down to her. “Clip in!”  

Rachel struggled for a second before managing to attach the carabiner to her belt.  

Eric braced himself, boots scraping against the stone, and pulled.  

Nothing.  

His legs were sliding. His arms screamed from the strain. Every inch of muscle burned as he tried to haul her up. Dust rained from above. His palms were slick with sweat, his fingers barely gripping the rope.  

Then—crack.  

The rock Rachel had been holding splintered and broke loose.  

She dropped.  

The line went taut, jerking Eric violently forward. He hit the edge with a grunt, barely catching himself before he, too, went over. The rope burned against his hands. His arms trembled, his prosthetic leg scraping uselessly against the uneven stone.  

He was slipping.  

He couldn’t hold her.  

Not like this. Not anymore.  

His hand fumbled to his belt. Found the knife.  

There was no time to think. Only the unbearable weight, the fire in his limbs, the sick understanding that he wasn’t strong enough.  

The blade slid clean through the rope.  

Rachel’s scream echoed through the cavern as the tension snapped, the sound of her fall vanishing into the abyss below.  

Eric lay still for a moment, face pressed to the stone, panting.  

Then the weightlessness hit him.  

He scrambled backward, away from the ledge, dragging himself up with shaking arms. His whole body felt like it had been crushed. Not by the fall, but by what he’d just done.  

He sat with his back to the wall, head down, heart hammering so hard it hurt. His muscles were still spasming, still twitching from the failed effort.  

His knife clattered from his fingers.  

Rachel was gone.  

Gone because he couldn’t hold on. Because he wasn’t strong enough. Not anymore.  

Eric hunched forward, pressing his head between his knees, trying to keep down the rising nausea. But there was nothing in his stomach. There hadn’t been for hours. Maybe days. Meals had become optional. Control had become survival. Except now… now he couldn’t even save her.  

He was supposed to be her husband.  

Supposed to protect her.  

All he'd done was let go.  

And for the first time in a long time, Eric didn't know if he was going to recover from it.  

---  

The cavern was quiet now.  

No gunfire. No screaming. Just the distant drip of water echoing off ancient stone, and the soft static from the busted radio in Nick’s hands.  

He was hunched over it on the table, brow furrowed in concentration, fingers working at the panel like he could will the damn thing back to life. Jason stood nearby, leaning against a rusted crate, his rifle cradled against his chest, eyes sweeping the shadows.  

Eric said nothing.  

He leaned against one of the tent poles, trying to look casual, like he was just resting. But every nerve in his body was screaming. The socket where his prosthetic joined his stump was on fire— sore, rubbed half raw from hours of uneven terrain and too much strain. His shoulders ached. His hands were still trembling from the effort of holding the rope. From the choice he’d made.  

You cut the line.  

He clenched his jaw and stared at the floor, eyes locked on a crack in the stone, following it like it might lead anywhere but back into his own mind. His breathing was shallow. His body felt hollowed out. Weak. Like one good shove would knock him over and he’d never get up again.  

But he couldn’t show it.  

Not here. Not now.  

He was still the highest-ranking officer in the room. Still the one they were supposed to look to for answers. For strength.  

So he stayed still, using the tent pole to take the weight off his ruined leg, keeping himself propped up without looking like he was collapsing. He could’ve stood straight. Could’ve turned a few inches and seen the ledge—the gorge—where Rachel had fallen.  

But he didn’t.  

Jason’s body blocked the view, and that was fine. That was perfect . He didn’t want to look. Couldn’t. He already knew what was down there. Nothing he could face with his eyes would be worse than what was already chewing through his gut.  

His fingers flexed involuntarily at his side, still feeling the rope, the weight, the snap as it went slack. The scream.  

God, the scream.  

He swallowed hard, tasting ash and bile. His stomach cramped, empty and unforgiving. He hadn’t eaten since—when? The day before he left for the mission? And that had ended in the toilet. His body was falling apart faster than he could hide it.  

And all he could think, over and over, was: I killed her.  

He’d cut the line.  

He told himself there was no choice. Told himself he would’ve died too. That it was the only option.  

But the guilt didn’t care about logic. It didn’t care about command or rank or necessity. It just sat there. Coiled inside him like something alive.  

Nick swore under his breath as sparks popped from the radio.  

Jason didn’t move.  

And Eric… Eric stayed exactly where he was, leaning on a splintering pole, hiding from the gorge—and from the men he was supposed to lead—because if he moved even an inch, he wasn’t sure what part of him would break first.  

A sharp click from the radio cut through the quiet.  

Nick jolted forward, tapping something on the battered control panel. A new sound emerged—faint, warbled, like a voice half-lost in static.  

Jason straightened off the crate. “You getting something?”  

Eric’s head lifted, heart giving a tired, tentative thump of hope. Maybe they could finally reach CENTCOM. Maybe they weren’t alone down here after all.  

Nick frowned. “It’s not real. Ghost signal. All radios pick up on something, just a random frequency.”  

Eric swallowed his disappointment, nodding slowly. “Right. Keep trying.”  

He didn’t let the reaction show on his face, but the weight settled deeper on his shoulders. He hadn’t expected a rescue. But hearing something , only for it to be nothing, still stung like hell.  

Jason ran a hand down his face. “Nick, get that thing fixed, or we’re gonna be stuck here till those things eat our faces.”  

Then the radio shrieked.  

A high-pitched, teeth-grinding squeal, loud enough to make all three of them flinch. Nick swore and slapped the side of the box, trying to kill the sound, but it just twisted and morphed into something worse—inhuman screeching, echoes from below, sharp and guttural and close.  

Too close.  

All three men tensed.  

Jason grabbed his rifle and stepped forward. Eric followed suit, though his fingers fumbled at the strap of his weapon. His legs trembled, a flare of pain flashing up his prosthetic, but he forced it down.  

“Eric,” Jason snapped, glancing over, voice low and urgent. “Get inside the temple. Cameras. Now.”  

Eric didn’t argue.  

He wanted to. Wanted to say I can’t run , I’m not ready , I need a goddamn second . But he said none of that.  

He just nodded, jaw tight, and turned toward the stairs.  

Each step was a fight. The ground felt uneven beneath his feet—slippery, spinning. His lungs burned, his balance off. He tried to push through it. He just had to make it to the top, to the screens, to do something useful.  

He was halfway up the stone stairs when something slammed into the side of his head.  

The world tilted.  

His knees buckled and he hit the ground hard, shoulder first, then cheek against the stone. His vision went black for a moment, then pulsed back in slow waves of dull gray and red. A groan slipped from his lips, barely audible.  

He tried to move. Tried to sit up.  

Then he froze.  

A bootstep echoed beside him. A click of a rifle being cocked.  

Eric forced his eyes to focus—and saw the Iraqi soldier from earlier, the one who’d chased him and Rachel across the ledge, now standing over him, rifle aimed squarely at his chest.  

Eric’s breath hitched. He blinked slowly, trying to force away the blur, but it was no use. His head was swimming, his ears ringing, his whole body caught in a trembling haze of pain and exhaustion.  

Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hands and laced them behind his head.  

Then shifted onto his knees.  

It wasn’t surrender. Not entirely.  

It was just all he could manage.  

His head sagged forward, not out of fear, but because he couldn’t hold it up . The pressure in his skull throbbed with every heartbeat. His vision spiraled at the edges.  

He breathed shallowly through his nose, sweat dripping off his brow.  

This wasn’t how he thought he’d die.  

But honestly… he didn’t have the strength left to stop it.  

Gunfire cracked through the air.  

Bullets smacked into the pillar just inches from the Iraqi’s head, chips of ancient stone raining down. The man flinched, twisting his rifle away from Eric’s chest to return fire toward Jason and Nick.  

Eric didn’t move.  

Every part of him screamed to run, to dive for cover, to do something , but the rifle still wavered in the Iraqi’s hands, tracking between him and the others. Then the soldier barked something harsh in Arabic, the barrel snapping back toward Eric—just for a second, just long enough to freeze him in place.  

Don’t run. Don’t move. Don’t die.  

The Iraqi turned again, firing at Jason’s position.  

Eric stayed kneeling. Every breath was a fight. The pressure in his skull made it hard to think, but through the swirl of blurred edges and static-filled hearing, he caught movement: Nick, circling wide, rifle steady.  

Another shot cracked out—Nick’s, this time—hitting a lantern above the Iraqi’s head and shattering it in a shower of sparks and glass.  

That was his cue.  

Eric bolted.  

He half-ran, half-fell down the stairs, boots skidding against stone as he tumbled toward cover. His limbs felt too long, too slow, barely coordinated. When he hit the bottom, he shoved himself toward the rock beside Jason, collapsing behind it with a ragged gasp.  

His chest heaved.  

He pressed his back to the stone, hands shaking, forcing his eyes to focus— just breathe, breathe, come on —but his vision kept tunneling in and out. He blinked fast, trying to force away the black spots. He felt weightless and heavy all at once.  

From above, gunfire thundered again.  

The Iraqi scrambled backward into the temple, retreating under the combined fire from Jason and Nick.  

But the danger wasn’t over.  

From the gorge, that awful sound came again. Screeching. Skittering. Claws on stone. The sound was closer now. Much closer.  

Jason spun around, voice sharp. “Inside! Now!”  

Eric didn’t hesitate.  

He pushed off the rock, dragging one leg behind him as he sprinted forward, falling into step with Jason. Every stride sent pain up his side. His lungs burned, his chest clenched. He reached the top of the stairs, his boots slipping slightly—  

And there was his gun. Still lying on the ground where he’d dropped it.  

He crouched to grab it—  

And the world went black again.  

He staggered, barely catching himself on one knee, but didn’t stop. He clenched his teeth, forced himself upright, and stumbled forward. Keep going. Just move. One more step. Then another.  

He knew what this was. It wasn’t just the hit to the head. If it were, he’d be steady by now.  

It was his body giving out. Running on fumes. No food, no rest. Just adrenaline and desperation.  

He didn’t have time to think about it.  

Jason and Nick were already pushing the heavy stone door shut. The creatures’ shrieks echoed louder, reverberating through the cavern like they were already halfway up the wall.  

Then—  

“ Wait for me! ”  

Eric froze.  

He turned sharply, blinking against the haze, unsure if he’d imagined it. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him, dredging her voice up from his guilt.  

But then she ran through the narrowing doorway.  

Rachel .  

Breathless, dirt-smeared, alive.  

Nick rushed forward, throwing his arms around her in relief, dragging her away from the entrance.  

The door slammed shut behind her, stone grating on stone as the weight sealed them in.  

And Eric?  

He just stood there.  

Staring.  

Everything inside him roiled. Shock. Disbelief. A sharp, stinging heat that settled in his chest and bloomed outward.  

Nick was still holding her.  

Eric’s fists clenched at his sides. Something ugly and furious twisted in his gut, but he was too tired to do anything about it. His legs trembled. His stomach curled in on itself, empty and cramping. His body screamed to lie down, to give in.  

But he didn’t.  

He just stood there, fists clenched, breathing through gritted teeth, while every nerve in him burned with pain and fury and the unbearable realization that the woman he thought he’d killed was alive—and wrapped in someone else’s arms.  

Eric didn’t know what hit him harder—the staggering wave of relief that Rachel was alive , or the surge of anger that came right after. Anger at her for falling. At himself for cutting the rope. At Nick for being the one she ran to.  

He didn’t even know what he was angry about , not really.  

But it didn’t matter.  

Because the creatures slammed into the door behind them with bone-rattling force, and the stone shuddered.  

Jason turned sharply, gun up. “We gotta move! Now!”  

No one argued.  

They ran.  

Eric’s legs barely obeyed. He stumbled into motion after the others, his prosthetic thudding hard against the stone floor, every step sending sharp jolts of pain through his stump. His lungs scraped for air. His body was done , but he kept pushing anyway. The corridor spun with every flicker of the overhead lights.  

Rachel turned as they reached the next hall, breath ragged. “We can’t lose the generator! If it dies, we’re blind in here!”  

Before anyone could stop her, she bolted down the stairs.  

Nick swore and followed her, footsteps echoing.  

Jason hesitated at the next door—an ancient slab of stone on rusted hinges. He slammed his shoulders into it with a grunt, then shoved hard, straining to push it shut.  

It wouldn’t budge fully.  

“Come on,” Jason growled, teeth clenched.  

Eric didn’t think. He just moved.  

He slammed his shoulder against the other side of the door, every muscle in his already failing body protesting at once. It took everything he had to hold his feet steady, to keep pushing as the hinges screeched and the door edged closed.  

Then—  

SLAM.  

Something on the other side slammed into it. Hard.  

Eric nearly lost his footing. He shoved back with what little strength he had left, teeth bared. The impact shook through his spine.  

Jason barked over the noise, “Hold it! Just hold it a second!”  

Another slam. Then another.  

Eric could feel his legs buckling. His arms quivered. His back screamed.  

The creatures were on the other side of the door, furious and relentless.  

His body wanted to give up.  

But Eric wasn’t going to let go. Not yet.  

Not while they were still breathing.  

Not while Rachel was still alive.  

He dug his feet in harder, grinding his shoulder into the stone.  

The door shuddered again.  

And he kept pushing.  

The creatures slammed into the stone door again, the entire frame juddering beneath Eric’s weight. His boots scraped helplessly against the floor.  

Jason cursed under his breath. “I think now’s about the time we bug out.”  

Another slam. Harder. The sound of claws dragging along the stone set Eric’s teeth on edge.  

Then the door cracked open just enough for a clawed limb to slam through.  

Eric cried out, falling forward as the door jolted loose beneath him. He barely caught himself, stumbling back before the creature could grab him.  

“ Go! ” Jason shouted, already turning to run.  

Eric didn’t waste a second. He staggered after him, boots thudding against the stone as they barreled down the stairs. His legs felt like rubber. His vision tunneled again, but he forced himself onward, blinking furiously.  

They reached the generator room just as Rachel flipped through the camera feeds, her fingers moving fast over the controls.  

She looked up, sharp and breathless. “We have to go down, into the catacombs . It’s the only way!”  

Nick gave her a look like she’d lost her mind. “In case you hadn’t noticed, down ain’t the way out.”  

Jason didn't hesitate. “It’s either that, or we die where we stand.”  

That shut everyone up.  

Nick turned toward the east gate, already clambering over the pile of rubble blocking it.  

Eric forced his body into motion. Each step felt like it took more out of him than he had to give. He reached the rocks and grabbed hold, trying to lift himself.  

His arms trembled violently. His shoulder gave a sharp jolt of pain. It took two tries to haul himself high enough, knees dragging, prosthetic snagging on the debris. For a second, he thought he might just slide right back down.  

But he made it over. Somehow.  

Jason crouched behind cover, laying down bursts of suppressing fire as the vampires swarmed into view. One of them knocked hard into a fuel drum, sending it careening into a broken lamp.  

The instant the flame hit the fuel, it roared to life.  

Boom.  

Fire spilled across the chamber in a wave.  

Rachel swore under her breath and dove for the mounted gun, firing into the swarm. She let out a breathless yell as the heat from the growing blaze surged around them.  

Jason grabbed her arm. “ Go! ”  

They scrambled through the gate together, Rachel diving in just ahead of the flames.  

Eric pushed forward on unsteady legs, following the group as they sprinted into the corridor beyond. Heat licked at his back. The blast was right behind them.  

Jason shouted over the roar, “ Keep to the middle! Watch for traps!”  

Eric barely heard him. His whole world was narrowed to the rhythmic pounding of his heart, the shaking in his legs, the way each step sent white-hot pain through his side.  

They cleared the corridor just in time.  

BOOM.  

The blast behind them sent a wall of fire chasing through the stone hallway, lighting it up like a furnace. The heavy door groaned as it slammed shut behind them, choking off the fire just seconds before it reached them.  

Silence. Just the sound of heavy, ragged breathing.  

Eric leaned hard against the nearest wall, his legs ready to give out. His whole body buzzed with exhaustion. He swallowed down bile as the heat clung to his skin, trying not to let his knees buckle.  

No one spoke for a moment.  

They were still alive.  

But Eric didn’t feel it.  

He was shaking. His body was screaming. His mind? Numb.  

He stared at the floor, trying to get his vision to stop tilting.  

And still—beneath it all—he could feel the weight of her . Rachel. Alive. Nearby. Untouchable.  

He clenched his jaw.  

And forced himself to stay standing.  

Chapter Text

Eric felt like he was going to die where he sat.  

He didn’t even know how he was still conscious.  

After the vampires had swarmed them—after he’d grabbed Nick’s arm and pulled him out of the grasp of that thing —after he’d been lifted off the ground by his head , his skull compressed in a grip that felt like it could have popped it like a melon—  

He didn’t know how he’d survived.  

He barely remembered kicking out, connecting with something. The creature had dropped him, and he'd hit the floor hard before running, stumbling, blinking through a tunnel that twisted and spun.  

And now he was here.  

Collapsed. Slumped against the rough wall of a narrow passageway deep underground, his lungs gasping at the stagnant air like he was drowning on dry land.  

His body screamed for rest. His head throbbed, white-hot pain pulsing behind his eyes, through his temples, down his neck. It felt like someone had cracked his skull open and left it to burn. From the fall. From the blow. From the crushing pressure of that creature’s grip.  

His stomach turned. He dry-heaved, but there was nothing left in him to lose.  

His stump throbbed in sync with his heartbeat—angry, raw. He hadn’t taken the prosthetic off in far too long. Every step now sent shocks of pain up his leg, stabbing and relentless.  

This wasn’t what he was built for. Not anymore.  

And still…  

Still.  

He couldn’t stop.  

He didn’t even know why he was still going. Was it duty? Was it guilt? Was it the constant gnawing ache of failure in his chest that wouldn’t let him rest?  

He didn’t know.  

But he wasn’t dead yet.  

And if he sat here long enough, if he gave in… he would be.  

Maybe that would be a good thing.  

He’d wanted that, hadn’t he?  

Eric let his head fall back against the stone wall, wincing at the pain that lanced through his skull. He blinked, trying to force the double vision away. His arms trembled as he shifted, searching for a grip. His breath came in short, shallow pulls.  

“Come on,” he whispered hoarsely. “Get up.”  

His own voice sounded foreign in the quiet. Thin. Shaky.  

He braced a hand against the wall and tried to push himself upright. His legs shook, the muscles weak and unsteady. His prosthetic foot scraped against the stone, slipping once, but he caught himself.  

One deep breath.  

Then another.  

He forced weight onto his feet. It felt like lifting a corpse.  

Slowly, one agonizing step at a time, Eric stood.  

Not straight. Not strong.  

But he stood.  

And with the wall as a crutch and agony trailing behind him like a shadow, he started forward again.  

Because as much as he felt like he should have died back there… he hadn’t.  

And until he did—he had to keep moving.  

Each step down the corridor felt like it was using energy Eric didn’t have left.  

His legs trembled beneath him, every footfall heavy and dragging. His breath rasped loud in his ears, echoing off the narrow walls like a dying engine coughing its last.  

This was his own fault. All of it.  

The skipped meals. The few bites he did manage, only to purge them later, hunched over cold porcelain, shaking with guilt and shame. The sleepless nights, hours spent staring at the ceiling with his jaw clenched and thoughts gnawing at his insides like rats in the walls. The way he’d let himself rot from the inside out while trying to pretend he was still a man worth following.  

And now here he was.  

A hollow shell in a place full of monsters.  

The UV lamp in his hand swung unsteadily, the beam bobbing with his sluggish gait. He barely had the strength to hold it. His fingers were numb, curled around the handle more from instinct than control. The weight of it might as well have been a lead pipe.  

He didn’t know how he was supposed to make it out of this place.  

Maybe he wasn’t.  

Maybe he was meant to die here. To rot in these tunnels, in the dark he’d helped lead them into.  

But even that thought— even that —wasn’t enough to make him stop.  

Because they were still down here.  

Jason. Nick. Rachel.  

The team he led.  

The team he got stuck down here.  

Even if Rachel wouldn’t look him in the eye. Even if Jason was too focused to say it, but knew Eric was falling apart. Even if Nick had every right to hate him for the way he'd frozen, the way he kept failing to measure up.  

Even if all that was true—  

He still had a duty.  

He still had them .  

Eric dragged one foot forward. Then the other.  

He couldn’t see the end of the tunnel, but he could hear his heartbeat in his ears, the throb in his temple matching the jolt of pain in his leg with every limping step.  

He clenched his jaw, raised the UV lamp just a little higher, and forced himself forward.  

One more step.  

Just one more.  

And then another.  

Because he wasn’t getting out of here unless they all did .  

And if he had to collapse the second they were safe?  

So be it.  

He’d earn that collapse.  

He'd make sure they lived .  

Or he wouldn't leave at all.  

Eric stepped into the room—barely.  

He leaned on the wall for just a second, just long enough to make sure his legs would hold. The UV lamp flickered weakly in his grip, casting jagged shadows across the stone. His lungs dragged in breath like he was drowning.  

Gunfire had torn through this space not long ago. Screams. Screeching. Panic.  

Now?  

Silence.  

Except for them.  

Rachel and Nick.  

Standing in the center of the room.  

Kissing.  

The sight slammed into Eric like a punch to the gut. His body was already shaking from exhaustion, from pain, but this—  

This was something else.  

Anger surged hot through him, white and blinding, roaring in his ears louder than any gunshot. His teeth clenched. His fingers tightened on the lamp until the cracked casing groaned under the pressure.  

But he didn’t move.  

Didn’t speak.  

Didn’t let it show.  

He forced his hand off the wall, squared his shoulders, and stood up straight—straighter than he had in hours. Even if his spine ached. Even if his head swam and his stomach twisted so violently it hurt.  

He wouldn’t let them see.  

Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing what this place—what they —had done to him.  

Rachel turned, eyes widening slightly as she saw him.  

He opened his mouth, some strangled attempt at professionalism forming on his tongue—  

But it died instantly.  

Because the creature stepped out of the darkness behind them.  

The same one. That one.  

The one that had lifted him like a toy. That had nearly crushed his skull. The one whose claws he could still feel ghosting against his scalp, against the edge of his prosthetic.  

Nick shouted something—maybe a warning, maybe just run —  

Eric didn’t think.  

He moved.  

Adrenaline flooded his veins like fire, white-hot and brutal. His legs found strength they didn’t have. His vision sharpened—not by much, but enough.  

Enough to run .  

He bolted, boots slamming against the stone, UV lamp swinging wildly in his grip. He didn’t know if it was working. He didn’t look back to check. He just heard Rachel behind him, the slap of her footsteps close, too close, but he didn’t stop.  

Couldn’t stop.  

If not for the adrenaline, he’d be on the ground already. On his knees. Done.  

But fear was stronger than pain.  

Shame was stronger than exhaustion.  

And guilt—guilt was stronger than anything else.  

He knew this was his fault.  

He'd led them down here. Into this nightmare.  

And now all he could do was keep running.  

Keep going.  

Until the adrenaline burned out.  

Until his body gave in.  

Or until the creatures tore him apart.  

Whichever came first.  

---  

Eric sat slumped on the crate, every muscle in his body screaming. The flickering yellow light from one of the makeshift lanterns overhead painted deep shadows under his eyes, across the gaunt lines of his face. His uniform was stiff with blood—some of it his, some not—and the fabric around his leg felt too tight where his prosthetic connected, the pressure radiating an angry, bone-deep throb. His head pounded in time with his heartbeat, a constant, suffocating reminder that something inside was wrong.  

Concussion, probably. The logical part of his mind was still ticking, even if the rest of him was hanging on by threads. He should be lying down. Should be asking for help. Should at least tell someone that his vision kept swimming if he turned his head too fast.  

But he didn’t.  

Because he was still the commanding officer. And commanding officers don’t fall apart in front of their team.  

Not even when the team is barely more than rubble and ruin.  

His gaze drifted across the room—slowly, so the nausea didn’t spike again.  

Rachel and Nick stood off to the side, heads bowed in quiet conversation. Every now and then, Rachel would touch Nick’s arm, a fleeting gesture of familiarity, of comfort. Eric forced himself to look away before the weight of it could dig in too deep.  

At the center of the room, Salim— that was his name, Eric reminded himself, he needed to stop forgetting it—was hunched over a stone table, thumbing through one of the ancient books they’d salvaged. His lips moved slightly, silent murmurs, maybe prayers, maybe just thoughts. Eric wasn’t sure. He hadn’t asked. He didn’t plan to.  

Jason was nearby, half-kneeling beside his pack, muttering under his breath as he searched for something. Ammo, maybe. A med kit, if they were lucky. Eric didn’t have the strength to call out and ask. Even sitting up straight was a test of sheer will.  

He leaned back slightly, just enough to relieve some of the pressure on his lower back, not enough to look like he was relaxing. His arms were folded over his abdomen, fingers pressed to the inside of his elbow where the skin still twitched from the adrenaline wearing off. He kept his breathing slow and controlled, head tilted down just a bit to hide the way his eyelids kept threatening to fall closed.  

He couldn’t fall asleep.  

Not now. Not here.  

Not with the image of Rachel in Nick’s arms still carved into the back of his eyelids.  

Not with the weight of Joey’s stillness. Of Merwin’s last scream. Of Clarice’s infected face, even though he hadn’t seen her, her blood on his hands even though he wasnt there. Of everything they’d lost in the dark.  

He swallowed hard, the movement dry and painful. His stomach turned again, empty and cramping—he hadn’t eaten in days. Not that there was anything to eat. Not that he’d have been able to keep it down even if there was.  

He exhaled slowly through his nose, then sat a little straighter.  

Still the CO.  

Still had to be something.  

Even if everything in him was ready to give out.  

Jason finished rummaging in his pack, pulling out a weather-worn protein bar and a crumpled ration packet. With methodical care, he broke the protein bar in half, then split the larger ration bar into three uneven pieces. Without a word, he popped one piece of the ration bar into his mouth, chewing as he moved.  

Eric watched, his vision slightly blurred around the edges. He blinked a few times, trying to clear it. His whole body felt like it was humming from the inside out, like his nerves couldn’t decide if they wanted to shut down or burn out.  

He didn’t have the energy for either.  

Jason walked across the room to where Rachel and Nick stood, deep in another low conversation. He handed each of them a piece of the protein bar. Nick gave a quick thanks, Rachel offered a tired smile.  

Then Jason moved over to Salim, handed him one of the pieces of the ration bar. Eric saw Jason say something to him—too quiet to make out. Salim nodded in reply, and Jason ducked back toward his pack. He retrieved his canteen and offered it to Salim, who accepted it with an exhausted but grateful nod and took a long drink.  

The small gesture was a reminder.  

Eric’s hand drifted down to the canteen on his own hip. He hadn’t touched it in hours. The thought of drinking anything had made his stomach twist, but watching Salim triggered a sliver of logic that managed to get through the haze of exhaustion.  

He unscrewed the cap and took a sip.  

The water was lukewarm, metallic from the canteen’s lining, and it hit his stomach like a stone. A cramp tightened in his gut almost instantly, and he had to grit his teeth to keep the reaction off his face.  

He'd made a mistake drinking that. But he couldn’t undo it now.  

Jason was moving again, like Eric knew he would. His boots scuffed softly against the stone as he approached, hand outstretched with the final piece of ration bar.  

"Here," Jason said. “You should eat something.”  

Eric didn’t even look at the bar. He shook his head once, curt and automatic. “I’m fine. Someone else should have it.”  

Jason didn’t move. “Come on. You’re running on fumes.”  

“I said I’m fine.” His voice was flat, forceful enough to push the air from his aching chest. His head throbbed at the effort.  

Jason frowned, clearly not buying it. “Eric,” he said, low but firm, “you’ve barely kept upright for the last hour. Just eat it.”  

Eric sighed through his nose, the breath tight and strained. The tension in his chest made it feel like his ribs were caving in. He reached out, took the ration piece without looking at it, and forced a quiet, “Thanks.”  

Jason gave a brief nod, then turned and walked over to the table where their scattered gear lay. He didn't look back. Probably assumed Eric was eating.  

But Eric didn’t.  

He let the bar rest in his palm for a moment, stared at it like it might suddenly vanish. Then, moving carefully so it wouldn't be noticed, he slipped it into the side pocket of his pack.  

He couldn’t eat it. Not here. Not now.  

The guilt would hit like a sledgehammer the second it touched his tongue, and he couldn’t afford to deal with that—not with everyone watching. He didn’t want to have to disappear into some dark corner of this cursed temple just to empty his stomach into the dust and come back looking worse than he already did.  

He told himself he wasn’t hungry anyway. And that much, at least, wasn’t a lie.  

He was just… exhausted. Hollowed out.  

In pain.  

He knew it was bad. He knew he should eat, that he should be keeping it down, taking care of himself—especially now, especially here. But logic had never been enough to fight off the grip around his throat, the one that made food feel like poison, like a mistake waiting to happen.  

His body didn’t need more pain right now. It needed rest. Silence. Escape.  

But none of that was on the table.  

So instead, Eric sat there, silent, and tried to look steady.  

Even as he felt himself slowly coming undone.  

Chapter Text

Eric didn’t know how he was still upright.  

Every inch of him burned. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the pain like a spike driven behind his eyes. His stomach was cramping again, sharp and hollow, and his leg—his goddamn leg—felt like it had been scraped raw where his stump met the socket. It pulsed with pain every time he shifted, every time he so much as breathed too deep. And yet, somehow, he was still here. Still crouched low behind the jagged edge of the pit with the others, watching Nick creep slowly through the forest of cocoons below.  

Eric didn’t understand how his body hadn’t given out yet. He figured he was probably running on nothing but adrenaline, residual fear, and some bitter cocktail of guilt and spite. And maybe prayer. Not that he believed in anything anymore, not since the accident, especially not after this . But something had to be keeping him moving, even as everything inside him screamed to stop .  

The silence pressed in around them, broken only by the soft crackle of the UV lamp and the distant, muffled sounds of movement below. The stillness felt like it could snap at any second, tension drawn tight like a wire in his chest.  

Nick was careful—Eric would give him that. He moved slow, measured, steady. Avoiding the slick ropes of flesh and the twitching things barely held inside them. Eric watched the path Nick took, memorized every step, even though he knew he wouldn’t be the one to make that walk. Couldn’t. Not like this.  

He hated it.  

After the infection scare, after holding Rachel’s hand and aiming the UV lamp at her and watching her scream as the parasite writhed under her skin, he’d already been wrung out. He should’ve offered to go. He was the commanding officer. It should have been his responsibility, his risk, his life.  

But he’d known. Deep down. He knew he wouldn’t have made it three steps through that mess before alerting every last vampire in the chamber.  

So he’d kept quiet.  

Jason and Salim crouched just ahead of him, eyes focused on Nick’s slow progress. Rachel was beside him, her body tense, her hands trembling slightly despite how hard she was trying to hide it. Eric didn’t look at her, didn’t speak. He wanted to say something. Anything . Something sharp, maybe. Or soft. He wasn’t even sure anymore. But every time he opened his mouth, nothing came out.  

She’d chosen Nick.  

She could say it wasn’t like that, could explain it as pragmatism or some cold kind of logic—Nick was the stealthiest, the least likely to trip, to cough, to die. But Eric had seen the look she gave him when she'd told him to be careful. It wasn’t just about duty. Not anymore.  

They were still married, sure. On paper. In name.  

But that didn’t mean anything now.  

Eric shifted slightly, trying to relieve the pressure on his leg. The movement sent a jolt of pain up his spine, and he clenched his jaw to keep from gasping. His fingers were trembling where they gripped the UV lamp, but he forced them to still.  

Commanding officer. He had to be strong. Had to look like he could still do something, like he wasn’t unraveling at the seams.  

He stared down into the pit, watched Nick inch forward, and waited.  

Waited for the explosion, for the mission to end, for the whole place to come crashing down.  

Waited for something— anything —that might make him feel alive again.  

Eric squinted, his breath shallow, eyes locked on Nick as he placed the last charge. The small dot of a man down in the pit moved like a ghost between the sleeping horrors. Eric's muscles were rigid, coiled with tension, eyes scanning for any twitch of movement, any shape that didn’t belong.  

Jason was beside him, fingers white-knuckled around the detonator, his other hand braced on the ground. Salim leaned forward, eyes narrowed, tracking Nick just as intently. Rachel shifted beside Eric, silent now, though he could see her hand clenched tightly in the fabric of her shirt.  

Nick was almost at the wall.  

Just a few more steps.  

He reached the base of the rock and began to climb—hands and boots steady, efficient. He was maybe thirty seconds from being clear.  

Eric’s eyes caught movement.  

A silhouette peeled away from the shadows, its long limbs uncurling from behind a cocoon. That creature. The same one that had nearly crushed Eric’s skull between its hands. Its form was massive, its mouth splitting open as it stalked toward Nick’s retreating back.  

Salim saw it too. "Now!" he barked.  

Jason didn’t hesitate.  

His thumb slammed down on the trigger.  

The explosion cracked through the chamber like thunder in a tomb.  

The shockwave hit them hard, dust and heat slamming into their faces. Eric stumbled back a step, barely staying upright. His ears rang, and pain spiked behind his eyes as the pressure burst outward and rock rained down from the ceiling. He squeezed his eyes shut against the light and grit, his head swimming from the concussion. He tasted copper and dust and fear.  

But when he opened his eyes again, Nick was still climbing—soot-covered, coughing, but alive.  

Rachel stood as he approached, and Nick immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close as if he needed to confirm she was still there. Eric’s chest tightened, and he looked away.  

The cave began to shake—this time not from dynamite, but from structural failure.  

Jason was already shouting, “Move! Go, go, go—get to the elevator!”  

They all broke into a sprint.  

Eric's body screamed with every step, but he didn’t stop. Couldn't. The growls and screeches of the vampires echoed behind them, the creatures awakened and angry.  

One of them was right beside them—its claws raking across the stone, nearly grabbing Salim. The man veered right, instinct pulling him away from the group.  

Eric didn’t think—he reached out and grabbed Salim’s arm, yanking him hard to the left, keeping him with them. Salim looked at him, startled, but didn't fight it. Eric just nodded once, tight and quick.  

He didn’t have to. He wasn't one of them , not officially—but Eric trusted him now. He wasn’t going to let him die here.  

They piled into the elevator, wood groaning under the strain. Jason slammed the control lever down, and the platform shuddered, beginning its slow rise.  

Eric pressed back against the wall, trying to slow his panting, his chest heaving like a furnace. His legs trembled so violently he had to lock his knees to keep from sliding down the wall. Sweat ran in cold rivulets down his spine, soaking into his shirt. His head throbbed with every heartbeat, and black spots danced at the edge of his vision.  

Jason let out a sharp breath and looked at Nick. “That explosion was a godsend, good job, Nicky.”  

He gave him a light punch to the arm.  

Nick grinned, wide and boyish and relieved. His arm slid back around Rachel’s waist, pulling her close again.  

Eric looked away.  

His hand slipped to the railing, gripping it hard.  

He said nothing.  

Let them celebrate.  

He was just trying to stay conscious.  

The elevator ground to a halt with a groan, and the gate swung open. The moment Eric stepped onto solid ground, his knees nearly buckled. He clenched his jaw, forcing his legs to lock, to move, to pretend like they could hold him. His balance wavered, the tunnel around him swimming in a dull, pulsing haze. His eyes flicked around, trying to ground himself, and he caught Salim looking at him—quiet, observant.  

The only one who seemed to notice just how close Eric was to collapsing.  

Ahead of them, Rachel and Nick had already moved toward the ropes, starting to climb to the upper levels of the cave. Jason hovered nearby, gun raised just in case, scanning the shadows.  

Eric lingered. His eyes were drawn to the waterfall in the far corner of the cave, the stream of moonlit water cascading down into the darkness. For a second, something shifted—barely a flicker behind the fall, a shadow or movement that didn’t belong.  

He squinted.  

“Eric?” Salim’s voice came soft behind him. “What did you see?”  

Eric blinked, dragging his eyes away. The tunnel spun slightly as he turned his head. “Nothing,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Just… concussion playing tricks.”  

He took a single step back.  

That was all it took.  

A blur of motion shot from behind the waterfall and slammed into him, knocking the air from his lungs. He hit the stone floor with brutal force, stars bursting behind his eyes as the breath was driven out of him. His limbs wouldn’t respond, his head pounding too loud to think. He tried to lift his arms—anything—but his body was done listening.  

Something snarled above him.  

He blinked, struggling to focus.  

Clarice.  

Her face was barely recognizable—twisted, grey-veined, eyes black as pitch and filled with madness. She’d turned. Fully infected. Her hands were claws now, scrabbling at his chest as she opened her mouth to scream.  

He was going to die. He knew it. And honestly, part of him didn’t even have the strength to fight it.  

But then— a crack , a metallic thud .  

Salim’s pipe collided with her side, knocking her violently off of Eric. She hissed, her back arching as she stumbled, then lunged again—only for Salim to swing again, full force. The blow drove her backward, off the edge of the gorge. Her shriek faded into the darkness below.  

Eric sucked in a ragged breath and tried to sit up. His elbow gave just enough support to keep him upright, but his whole body screamed in protest. He was dimly aware of the rope sliding nearby—Jason had come back down, abandoning the climb to check on him.  

Jason crouched beside him and hauled him up, arm around Eric’s back. “You good?” Jason asked, breath tight.  

Eric nodded, though his vision was threatening to vanish entirely. He pulled away, shaky but upright. He had to be upright. He forced his spine straight, his jaw clenched to keep from shivering. “Fine,” he said hoarsely.  

Salim gave him a long look, like he didn’t believe it any more than Eric did. “You’re not fine,” he said, quiet but firm.  

Eric didn’t respond.  

There was no time.  

They had to climb.  

The ropes loomed in front of him like an impossible challenge, but the others were already at the top—he had no choice. He grabbed the rope, his arms protesting even the first tug. His body was too light, too frail, and still it felt like he weighed a thousand pounds. Each pull upward burned through his arms like fire. His prosthetic leg scraped awkwardly against the rope, slipping again and again, the metal never meant for this kind of exertion.  

He climbed.  

Slipped.  

Climbed again.  

Slipped worse.  

Below him, Salim climbed carefully, silently. After watching Eric flounder for another minute, the man reached one hand up, settling it beneath Eric’s foot on the rope—not pushing, not forcing—just a silent support, keeping him from sliding further.  

It was enough.  

Eric bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and kept climbing. He hated this— hated needing help—but some distant part of him was grateful that it was Salim, and not one of his own men. Not Rachel. Not Nick.  

At least with Salim, the help felt quiet. Earned.  

And Eric knew—he wouldn’t make it out of this cave without it.  

Eric’s hands shook as he grabbed the last length of rope, his fingers slipping once, then catching. He dragged himself over the top of the statue, knees scraping over stone, breath ragged and shallow. The second his boots touched solid ground, his legs almost gave out again.  

Salim climbed up beside him a moment later, breathing hard but steady. Eric swayed, chest heaving, the world tilting dangerously again—until a hand closed gently around his upper arm. Salim steadied him wordlessly, and Eric clenched his jaw, not trusting himself to speak. Whether it was gratitude or shame burning hottest in his chest, he couldn’t tell.  

There was no time to dwell.  

The ground trembled again, a thunderous groan echoing through the chamber as more rocks crashed down behind them. Jason’s voice cut sharp through the chaos.  

“Move! Into the next room, go!”  

Eric didn’t hesitate. He ran, legs aching, the pounding in his head so severe he thought he might black out mid-step. Rachel and Nick were ahead, Jason already halfway into the tunnel, and Salim right beside him, never more than an arm’s length away.  

They burst through the passage into a wide-open room, the heart of the ancient temple. The space was bathed in ethereal light—sunlight pouring through a jagged crack in the ceiling above. For a split second, it felt unreal. Beautiful, even.  

Salim pointed. “There—look. A way out.”  

Eric’s heart surged, hope cutting through the exhaustion like a blade.  

Jason glanced up, shielding his eyes. “We can climb the statue—get high enough to reach it.”  

No one questioned it.  

They ran.  

The statue loomed before them, towering and weathered, its arms outstretched like it had waited centuries to offer them salvation. One after the other, they began to climb.  

Eric didn’t know how he was going to make it. His limbs were barely listening to him. His hands couldn’t grip for long, and his arms trembled uncontrollably as he pulled himself up. Every movement felt like it might be his last. Like his body was screaming enough .  

But he climbed.  

He had to.  

He was still the commanding officer. That had to mean something. Even now.  

Salim climbed beside him, keeping pace when Eric knew he didn’t need to. Could’ve already been at the top. Could’ve left him behind.  

But he didn’t.  

Eric couldn’t decide if that made him grateful—or ashamed.  

At the top, Eric barely managed to swing a leg over the last outcrop of the statue. He collapsed onto the stone, chest heaving, every breath a struggle. Salim reached out a hand and helped pull him up, steadying him again as the edges of Eric’s vision went dark, swimming with sparks.  

Jason was already moving, yanking a coil of rope out of his pack. Without hesitation, he stepped up, threw the rope through the sunlight-blasted crack above, and gave it a testing tug.  

“It’ll hold,” he said, voice hoarse but certain. “This is it. We’re almost there.”  

Eric’s hands clenched into fists. His body was wrecked. His brain barely holding on.  

But he was almost there . Almost free.  

And if he could just survive a little longer—maybe, just maybe—he could figure out how to live with everything he’d done to get here.  

Rachel climbed first, swift and practiced, her boots disappearing into the bright cut of sunlight above. Nick followed, muscles tense, eyes flicking down once toward Eric—toward where he still stood, trembling. Jason was next, hauling himself up like the weight of the last few hours hadn’t touched him, though Eric knew better.  

Then Salim stepped forward, his eyes meeting Eric’s. He didn’t say anything, just gave a small, quiet nod, and gently placed a hand on Eric’s shoulder, guiding him toward the rope.  

Eric stepped up to it, grabbed hold, and began to climb.  

Every inch was a battle.  

His arms shook violently with the effort, muscles long past the point of failure. His legs weren’t faring much better—one constantly slipping, the other nearly useless where the prosthetic caught awkwardly against the rope. He couldn’t control it properly anymore. Could barely feel anything beyond the firestorm of pain running through his limbs and the pounding in his skull.  

He slipped.  

But then there was Salim, again. Always just behind him, always just steady. Salim’s hand braced beneath Eric’s boot, stopping the slide. Giving him something to push off. Something solid.  

And it was enough. Just enough.  

Slowly—agonizingly—Eric climbed.  

He wasn’t sure how he made it to the top. It barely felt real when his hands hit the stone edge and someone—Jason, maybe Nick—grabbed his arms and helped haul him the last foot upward. He collapsed, the sunlight searing through his closed eyelids, his chest heaving as if he’d run for miles.  

The rock beneath him was warm and solid. He wanted to stay there. Just breathe. Just be still. But beside him, Jason sat, sweat and dust coating his face, voice ragged and dry.  

“You alright, Colonel?”  

Eric’s body screamed no , but he pushed himself upright anyway, blinking through the spinning dark at the edge of his vision. He nodded once.  

“Fine,” he said. His voice was thin, but it held.  

He reached for his radio, pulling it from his vest with fingers that barely moved. The button stuck briefly beneath his thumb, and for a moment he thought he might drop it. But then the static crackled to life.  

“This is Colonel Eric King,” he said, forcing strength into his voice. “Requesting immediate extraction. Coordinates transmitting now.”  

The response was crackly, distorted by the cave’s broken geometry—but clear enough.  

“Copy that, Colonel. We’ve got your beacon. Air support is five minutes out.”  

Five minutes.  

Eric let the radio drop into his lap.  

His head bowed forward. Eyes shut. Just for a second. Just a second.  

The sunlight was warm on his skin, and the nightmare below them was finally— finally —almost over.  

He just had to hold on a little longer.  

When the darkness behind his eyes deepened, Eric thought he was finally passing out. His body certainly felt like it—barely tethered to consciousness, his muscles trembling and mind slipping. But then he heard Jason mutter something, heard the scrape of boots shifting on stone. The others were looking up.  

Eric blinked his eyes open, vision swimming, and tilted his head toward the light.  

The sun was disappearing.  

The moon was sliding over it, smooth and silent, casting a creeping shadow across the world. The warm gold faded to a muted, cold gray. Darkness spread like a tide.  

Eric’s breath caught.  

An eclipse. Of all the times—  

A shape tore through the sky, black wings cutting across the dying light.  

A vampire. It shrieked as it dove, silhouetted against the false night.  

Jason’s voice rang out sharp and urgent: “Make for the huts!”  

Salim was already at Eric’s side, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him upright. Eric stumbled, legs screaming in protest, but the adrenaline hit like a shot of fire, and it gave him just enough to run. He didn’t look back. Didn’t have to. He could hear the creature behind them, shrieking like some ancient fury as its wings beat the air.  

They sprinted through the dust and rocks, stumbling toward the cluster of abandoned shepherd’s huts. Rachel was just ahead, Nick close behind. Jason brought up the rear, rifle up, scanning.  

They crashed through the door of the first hut. Nick slammed it shut behind them with a heavy thud , and Jason immediately grabbed the nearest table, wedging it up against the window. Rachel mirrored him on the other side, dragging a shelf down across the second window, her breaths short and fast.  

Eric leaned against the wall, his legs trembling again now that the adrenaline was draining. Salim was beside him, also catching his breath, eyes sharp and scanning the shadows outside.  

“How long is this eclipse gonna last?” Jason barked, his tone tight, almost accusing.  

Eric forced his brain to work, clawed through the pain and fog. Numbers. Time. Orbital mechanics. Something—anything.  

“Six minutes. Max,” he managed.  

Rachel gave him a look that was all edge and tension. “Six minutes? That’s too long.”  

Eric spread his hands slightly, breath still catching in his throat. “I can’t rush the damn moon.”  

The silence that followed was tight with dread.  

Outside, the vampire screeched again, closer now. The shadow of its wings passed over the window.  

The first slam against the hut wall made the wooden boards groan. The second hit splintered the edges. Shadows moved outside like hungry ghosts, flickering between slats in the wood.  

Then came the shrieking.  

Rachel fired first—short bursts through the cracks. Jason was next, then Nick. Eric raised his pistol and tried to aim, but his vision swam so violently he nearly stumbled. He fired anyway. Missed. Fired again. Another miss. His arms trembled, and every time he moved his head, the room tilted. But he kept shooting.  

Just keep them back. Keep them away.  

He didn’t care if he hit anything anymore. All he cared about was keeping the monsters outside and his team inside.  

But then the click of an empty chamber echoed louder than the gunfire had.  

Eric looked down. Out of ammo.  

He wasn’t panicked—yet. Jason and the others were better shots right now anyway. More likely to hit something in this state.  

But then Rachel cursed. Jason’s rifle clicked. Nick’s weapon went silent.  

No more gunfire.  

Eric’s heart seized in his chest.  

He scanned the hut, eyes dragging like they were underwater, and they locked onto a pair of ammo crates shoved into the corner. He pushed off the wall and stumbled forward, but before he could take two steps, Salim saw where he was headed and rushed past him, dropping to his knees. He flicked one crate open, then the next.  

“Shit,” Salim muttered, and Eric’s heart dropped with the word.  

The crates were full of flares. Only flares.  

“Where the hell are the bullets?” Nick snapped, panic inching into his voice.  

Jason didn’t even hesitate. “We work with what we have.”  

He grabbed a flare and yanked the cap off, brandishing the dull red stick like a torch. The others followed his lead, grabbing flares and the knives off their belts.  

Eric reached for his own knife—  

But his hand landed on empty air.  

His holster was empty.  

Shit. He’d dropped it when he cut Rachel loose. And he hadn’t picked it back up.  

“Here,” Salim said quickly, holding a flare out to him.  

Eric took it with a nod of thanks, jaw tight. One flare wouldn’t do much, but it was something.  

He looked toward the crate again and bent to grab another, needing the backup, but as he lowered himself, his vision went black.  

He forced through it. Don’t you dare pass out now.  

He grabbed the second flare, staggering upright again, hand braced on the wall as the hut trembled with another hit.  

They were running out of time.  

The darkness outside pressed in.  

So they lit the flares—one by one—until the red glow painted their exhausted, dirt-streaked faces in flickering light. Shadows danced on the walls. The creatures screamed outside.  

And they waited.  

The wall shattered inward with a scream.  

The first vampire crashed into the hut, all claws and jagged limbs, and Nick didn’t hesitate—he rammed his flare into its chest, smoke hissing from burned flesh as he slashed wildly with his knife. The creature howled, flailing back, and then another vampire was crawling through the broken window, snarling as it launched at Rachel.  

Then chaos broke loose.  

Red light danced across the room. Screams—human and not—bounced off the splintering walls. Jason tackled one of the creatures with a roar, jamming his flare into its eye. Salim moved like he'd been born in war, blade flashing, flare swinging in wide arcs that kept the monsters at bay.  

Eric did his best. His flare trembled in his grasp, barely held upright. Every time he moved, the world swam, and he had to blink hard just to keep the vampires in sight. One rushed him and he slashed toward it, but it danced back, shrieking, stalking instead of striking. Eric realized grimly that he was no threat—and they knew it.  

Then one of them slammed into his side like a sledgehammer.  

The impact sent him flying, crashing into the dirt-hard floor. The flare flew from his hand, rolling into the shadows. Pain exploded through his ribs and skull. His prosthetic twisted beneath him awkwardly. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, just hurt .  

He forced himself to sit up, scrambling backward until his back hit the wall. He groped for the other flare with shaking hands. It was still there—but his arm barely lifted it, his muscles screaming in protest. The flare cast a small, flickering glow in front of him, weak and useless.  

Two vampires stalked toward him, silhouettes of death in the red smoke.  

Eric shut his eyes.  

He tilted his head away and braced for it.  

This is it.  

A talon tore across his forearm—a flash of pain, white-hot and blinding. Another slash at his leg, just above the knee. He gritted his teeth, refusing to scream, though the pain forced a whimper through his throat.  

They were toying with him. Drawing it out.  

He waited for the final blow.  

But it didn’t come.  

Instead—screeching.  

Agonized, furious screeching.  

Eric opened one eye.  

Sunlight—real, blessed sunlight—was cutting through the cracks in the hut’s broken wall. It burned through the gloom like fire. One vampire staggered back, its skin smoking as it retreated toward the shadows. The other hissed and flinched away, then vaulted through the window into the open, only to ignite mid-air, reduced to ash by the rays of the returning sun.  

The eclipse was over.  

Eric sagged back against the wall, trembling. The flare slipped from his hand, rolling to the side and fizzling out.  

His hand rose weakly to his injured arm, pressing down on the fresh slash, fingers barely applying pressure. It wasn’t deep—more a taunt than a kill shot—but it burned like hell.  

He stared at the sunlight bleeding across the floor.  

They’d survived the eclipse.  

Somehow, they were still alive.  

But he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it up.  

Salim dropped down beside Eric, breathing heavily as he leaned against the wall. Dust and smoke still hung in the air, filtered now by golden shafts of sunlight slanting through the shattered hut.  

“You alright?” Salim asked, his voice low and edged with fatigue.  

“I’m fine,” Eric said automatically, voice flat and hoarse. He didn’t sound fine. He didn’t feel fine. But admitting otherwise felt impossible.  

Salim nodded slowly, unconvinced. He looked down. “Your leg’s bleeding.”  

Eric followed his gaze. Blood was soaking through the torn fabric just above his knee, dark and steady. It hurt, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it. He forced a shrug. “It’s shallow. I’m fine.”  

Salim didn’t push. He just gave a small, doubtful noise in the back of his throat and turned his gaze forward, breathing in ragged gasps beside him. Probably too tired to argue. Eric appreciated that.  

Rachel and Nick were sitting across from them, shoulder to shoulder, silent in the aftermath. Eric glanced their way—and then quickly looked away, that same heat spiking through his chest. Rage. Grief. A bitterness he couldn’t put words to.  

Jason stood across the room, but even he wasn’t immune to the exhaustion now. He leaned against the wall, head tipped back, arms slack at his sides. No one was celebrating. No one could.  

Eric’s radio crackled to life, and he lifted a trembling hand from his wounded arm to answer. Before he could say a word, Salim’s hand slid in, steady and strong, taking over the pressure on the gash without a word. Eric startled slightly at the contact, then just nodded faintly in thanks, too tired to say anything out loud.  

“Air support,” the voice on the radio said. “We’re one minute out.”  

Jason’s head came up. “Then we’re moving. Outside—now.”  

Rachel and Nick both pulled themselves to their feet. Salim followed, rising unsteadily. He held out a hand.  

Eric hesitated for half a second before taking it. There was no point pretending anymore. His legs were trembling so hard they felt like jelly, and one of them was slashed open, the other stiff and raw from too many hours of punishing movement in a prosthetic socket that hadn’t been fitted right in months.  

Salim pulled him up gently. Eric swayed, breath catching, and pressed his hand back against the wound in his arm as they moved together out of the hut.  

Every step was a scream. His legs burned, each footfall like being stabbed from the inside. His prosthetic dragged at him, throwing his balance off, and blood was running freely now down his other leg, soaking into his boot.  

The chopper landed in a roar of wind and dust, and hands waved them forward.  

They stumbled inside.  

Eric all but collapsed into the seat closest to the door, his whole body giving out as soon as the weight was off his legs. His head thunked back against the wall. His hand slipped off the wound on his arm.  

He flinched when someone touched him again.  

But it was just Salim.  

He was sat beside Eric, one hand steadying his arm, the other pressing firmly on the still-bleeding gash. His own skin was streaked red now, blood smeared up his wrist, staining under his nails—but he didn’t look away, didn’t pull back.  

Eric blinked at him slowly, his own hand twitching in a half-hearted attempt to help. Salim gently batted it away.  

“Rest,” he said quietly. “You’ve done enough.”  

Eric’s eyes burned, but he didn’t argue. He let his head tip back again and closed his eyes.  

He didn’t care anymore that blood was soaking into his sock. That he probably had a concussion. That the pain in his ribs was making every breath feel like it might be the last.  

They were alive.  

And for now—that was enough.  

The helicopter ride passed in disjointed flashes—light and dark, heat and cold, noise and silence. Eric couldn’t tell if he was passing out or sleeping. Every time he opened his eyes, something had changed: Jason’s position, the angle of the sun, the buzz of voices around him. His head lolled against the wall more than once, and each time he came back to himself, he was less sure of how much time had passed.  

Then the ride was over.  

He didn’t even register the landing until someone was gently shaking his shoulder. He blinked awake, heavy and slow, and allowed himself to be helped out of the helicopter. His legs nearly gave out the moment he stood, pain flaring in sharp waves up both sides of his body, but hands kept him upright, guiding him across the tarmac into a stark gray facility.  

They were split up at the entrance. Jason went left, Rachel and Nick were taken straight ahead. Salim glanced back over his shoulder as he was pulled to the right, his eyes briefly catching Eric’s, and then he was gone too.  

Eric didn’t have the strength to ask where they were going.  

He was ushered into a cold, white room that reeked faintly of disinfectant and metal. The door shut behind him with a heavy click.  

A medic was already waiting, dressed head-to-toe in a sterile hazmat suit, face hidden behind a fogged visor. Eric didn’t protest as he sank into the chair.  

The medic knelt beside him and began checking him over without a word.  

They worked quickly—removing his blood-soaked bandages, cleaning and redressing the slash on his arm and the gash on his leg. His prosthetic was taken off briefly to assess his stump, and he barely held back a wince as they probed too deep. Then came the pressure cuff, the flashlight in his eyes, the muttered comments he couldn’t make out.  

They handed him two painkillers and a bottle of water.  

Eric swallowed the pills dry, then remembered the water and took a long sip, immediately regretting it when his stomach clenched hard enough to make him shudder. He forced himself to breathe through it. Just keep going. One step at a time.  

The medic stood without a word, gave him a curt nod, and stepped out.  

A few minutes later, the door opened again.  

Another figure entered, also in a hazmat suit—this one carrying a clipboard and a hard, clinical posture. They sat across from Eric and began without preamble.  

“Colonel Eric King, confirm your identity.”  

“Colonel Eric King,” he muttered, voice gravelly and dry.  

“Location of last engagement?”  

Eric blinked, the light too bright overhead. “Temple ruins. Below the shepherd's hut. Coordinates—” He trailed off, brow furrowing. “They’re in my report. I logged them. Before we lost comms.”  

“How many survivors?”  

He hesitated. “Five. Myself. Lieutenant Jason Kolchek. Sergeant Nicholas Kay. Rachel King. Salim Othman.”  

There was a pause. The interrogator made a note. “The foreign national, Salim Othman—what was his role?”  

Eric looked up at that, eyes dull but sharp beneath the haze. “He saved my life. Multiple times. He was instrumental in stopping the threat.”  

More scribbling.  

“How did you neutralize the creatures?”  

Eric dragged a hand across his face. “UV light. Sunlight. Explosives in the central hive chamber. Nick Kay placed the charges. Jason detonated. Eclipse ended. We fought off the rest.”  

“Are you infected?”  

“No.” A pause. “Rachel was. Briefly. We removed the parasite using UV exposure. No signs of recurrence.”  

More notes. The questions kept coming.  

Dates. Numbers. Strategic decisions. Creature behavior. Tactical choices. Losses.  

Eric forced himself to think through the fog of the concussion, through the haze of exhaustion and pain. He gave the facts. He gave what they wanted.  

What he didn’t give them was how much of it had been held together by fraying threads. How many times he’d almost collapsed. How much of what kept him alive was luck—or Salim.  

They wouldn’t want that in their report anyway.  

The interrogator clicked their pen, closed the clipboard, and gave Eric a short nod. “That’s all for now, Colonel. You and the others will be held in a quarantined wing of the base until we can confirm there’s no remaining infection.”  

Eric nodded once, sluggishly. “Fine.”  

He didn’t have the energy to argue. He didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed. He just wanted to lie down somewhere and not think, not feel.  

The door opened again, and the same sterile escort was waiting outside. They didn’t speak, just gestured for him to follow. Eric rose unsteadily to his feet, every part of his body groaning in protest. He staggered slightly as he stepped forward, but caught himself against the wall, jaw clenched hard.  

They walked down a narrow corridor lit by cold fluorescent lights. The air smelled cleaner here, more filtered—but still not fresh. Nothing felt fresh.  

Eventually, they reached a steel-reinforced door with a keypad beside it. The escort tapped in a code, then opened it and waved Eric through. The door shut behind him with a definitive clunk , and a second later, he heard the click of a lock sliding into place.  

He was alone.  

Eric stood in the middle of the hallway, swaying faintly, blinking slowly like he might fall asleep on his feet. He looked left, then right. More dull metal walls. He spotted a door partway down the corridor with a faded label above it: Barracks C .  

He started toward it with slow, dragging steps.  

The door was unlocked. He pushed it open.  

Inside were two bunks—basic, stiff-looking military beds with folded blankets and thin mattresses. The room smelled faintly of bleach and rubber. He didn’t care.  

He crossed to the nearest bed and collapsed onto it heavily, barely catching himself on one elbow long enough to unfasten his prosthetic. He let it fall with a soft thud to the floor beside the bed. The moment his head touched the pillow, his body gave out completely.  

Sleep hit him like a wall.  

There was no transition, no drifting.  

Just black.  

Chapter Text

When Eric woke, he felt like absolute shit.  

His head throbbed in a dull, pulsing rhythm that made him nauseous just lying still. His arm ached sharply under the bandages, and his leg—the one with the deep gash—burned with every small twitch. His stump felt raw and overused, like fire licking beneath the skin where prosthetic met flesh. Everything else hurt in vague, indistinct ways, like his entire body had been used as a punching bag and then tossed into a fire for good measure.  

He didn’t move at first.  

He just lay there, eyes shut, feeling the pain settle deep in his bones like old smoke. The thought of getting up flickered faintly through his mind, but he didn’t grab onto it. What would be the point? There was nothing left for him out there. Nothing waiting. No purpose now that the mission was over and his body felt wrecked beyond repair. He let the thought go, let it drift away like so many others.  

Still, after a long moment, he sighed and rolled onto his side, slow and reluctant. He wasn’t ready to move—he wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready—but at some point he probably would. Later. Not now.  

He cracked one eye open, squinting against the dim light that filtered in through the slats in the door. His vision blurred, then cleared slowly, and it took him longer than it should have to register what he was seeing.  

Salim was asleep on the other bunk.  

He was sprawled on his back, arm dangling off the edge of the bed, breathing slow and even. His chest rose and fell beneath a thin blanket he’d had probably thrown over himself before passing out. One of his boots had fallen off, and his hair was mussed in a way that made him look a little younger. A little less like a soldier.  

Eric blinked again, staring without really seeing, then shut his eye and buried his face back into the pillow. He didn’t want to think. About Salim, about how he got here, about why his chest hurt in a way that wasn’t entirely physical.  

He just needed sleep. Real, deep sleep.  

So he let himself drift again, body aching and heavy, mind mercifully quiet.  

---  

The next time Eric woke, everything still hurt—but it was different now. Sharper. More focused.  

A violent cramp twisted through his stomach like someone had reached in and squeezed his guts with both hands. He let out a low, strained groan and curled in on himself, arms wrapping instinctively around his middle as he pressed his forehead into the mattress.  

He didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t want to.  

Which was why he didn’t realize Salim was awake until the man’s voice came, quiet but clearly alert.  

“You alright?”  

Eric blinked, squinting against the pain, and forced his eyes open. The light hadn’t changed much—still a dull, institutional glow—but Salim was upright on the other bed, elbows resting on his knees, watching him.  

Eric mumbled, “’M fine,” even though he clearly wasn’t.  

He pushed himself upright, every movement dragging protest from his joints and muscles. His head pounded, his arm throbbed, and the ache in his leg flared white-hot as he shifted. Still, he leaned over the side of the bed, dragging his pack toward him. His fingers fumbled with the zipper until he found what he was looking for.  

The ration bar. The one Jason had given him what felt like a lifetime ago, still wedged into the side pocket, half-forgotten. He stared at it for a second, then peeled the wrapper back and took a small bite.  

The taste was dry and cloying, and the texture like chewing on chalky rubber. His stomach rebelled instantly at the intrusion, but the cramps demanded something. Fuel. Anything. So he forced himself to swallow, then took another small bite.  

He didn’t want to eat. Every instinct screamed against it. But he knew if he didn’t, the cramping would only get worse. He could feel Salim’s eyes on him the whole time, steady and unreadable.  

“Why didn’t you eat that earlier?” Salim asked eventually, voice quiet in the stillness of the room. “When Jason gave it to you.”  

Eric’s hand paused halfway to his mouth.  

He hesitated, then muttered, “Wasn’t hungry.” It wasn’t a lie. Not really. He hadn’t been hungry in days. Not in any way that mattered.  

He took another bite. Forced it down. Swallowed.  

Salim didn’t push. He just nodded slightly, his expression unreadable, and turned his gaze forward again. His shoulders were slumped with fatigue, his posture loose, like a man running on fumes and nothing else.  

Eric kept chewing slowly, fighting the nausea and the cramps. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to think, but the silence between them was oddly companionable. They were both still here. Still alive. That was something. Maybe not enough. But something.  

Eric forced himself to finish the ration bar, chewing each dry, flavorless bite like it was made of glass. Every swallow was a struggle, but he got it down. When the last of it was gone, he unscrewed the lid of his canteen and took a small sip, just enough to wash the lingering taste from his mouth. The water was lukewarm, almost metallic, but it helped a little. His stomach still ached, a constant twisting pain in his gut, but it wasn’t quite as sharp now.  

He didn’t try to stay sitting up. The moment the food was down and the water settled in his gut, Eric let himself lie back down on the bed with a slow, shaky exhale. His arm came up to rest loosely across his midsection, the other curled beneath his head. Every part of him ached—his head, his leg, his stump, his arm—but worst of all was the nausea, curling cold and persistent in the back of his throat.  

He curled in slightly on his side, drawing his knees up just a little, his breathing shallow as he rode out the wave of queasiness. He wanted to get up. Wanted to stumble into the bathroom and throw up, just to get it out of him. But he didn’t. He couldn’t afford to. His body needed the fuel, no matter how badly it rebelled against it.  

His skin was clammy with sweat, and he could feel the trembling in his muscles again, like he was on the verge of collapse even now. Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The pain, at least, was something he could focus on. A constant reminder that he was still here. Still breathing.  

As much as he hated showing weakness, as much as his pride told him he should sit up, tough it out, pretend he was fine—his body made the decision for him. He lay there, curled on his side, letting the pain speak louder than his ego.  

Across the room, Salim hadn’t said a word, but Eric knew he was watching. He could feel it. And for once, he didn’t care.  

Salim’s voice broke the silence, soft but firm. “You should eat more than that.”  

Eric didn’t open his eyes. His jaw tensed for a moment before he exhaled slowly and said, “I’ll eat later.”  

There was a brief pause, then the bedsprings creaked quietly as Salim shifted. “Alright,” he said simply, the word carrying no judgment—just quiet understanding.  

Eric heard Salim settle back down, the soft rustle of fabric as he turned onto his side. The room fell into silence again, but this time it felt less heavy, less sharp around the edges.  

Eric’s guilt gnawed at him, dull and low in his chest. It wasn’t like he wanted to lie, not to Salim. But what was he supposed to say? That he hadn’t eaten a full meal in months? That even the smallest bit of food made his stomach churn and twist until he couldn’t tell if it was hunger or pain anymore?  

No. There wasn’t really a way to say that.  

He let out a slow, shuddering breath and turned his face into the pillow, letting the quiet of the room and the weight of exhaustion wash over him. His body was heavy, leaden, sinking deeper into the mattress. Everything still hurt—his leg, his arm, his head—but sleep was stronger now, dragging him under.  

The last thought that crossed his mind before the darkness took him again was that maybe he’d eat later. Maybe. But right now… right now he just needed to rest.  

This time, Eric’s sleep wasn’t deep or peaceful. His body had given out the moment his head hit the pillow, but his mind never followed.  

In his dream, he was back in the temple—dark, echoing, full of dread. Vampires snarled in every shadow, their screeches splitting the air. He moved through it like before, fighting beside the others, adrenaline surging uselessly through him.  

He saw Jason get dragged away down the corridor, just like before. Nick ran after him, shouting, only to be blindsided by the infected creature. Eric knew what came next—he knew it like muscle memory, like pain etched into the deepest part of him—but he still ran over. Still shone the UV light. Still got knocked down when Nick’s body was hurled into him.  

And then it was just like before. The creature lifted him by the head, talons digging into his skull. But in the dream, it didn’t drop him. Instead, it lifted him higher, higher, the grip around his head tightening until it felt like his skull was being crushed from the inside out. The pain was indescribable—sharper and deeper than the moment he’d lost his leg.  

He kicked out, desperate, but nothing worked. The pressure built, white-hot and unbearable.  

Then—  

A touch. Soft. Grounding. A hand on his shoulder, slowly moving up and down.  

Eric jolted awake, eyes flying open as he sucked in a ragged breath. He wasn’t crying, thank god, but his chest heaved like he had been. His vision blurred, and he blinked hard, willing the tears back. His heart pounded in his ears.  

Beside him, Salim sat on the edge of the bed, hand still resting on his shoulder. His expression was calm, gentle.  

Eric sat up, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Thanks,” he mumbled, voice rough.  

“You’re welcome,” Salim said, then paused. “You were lashing out in your sleep. Making these… quiet sounds. Distressed. Was it a nightmare?”  

Eric hesitated, but then gave a small nod, the movement barely more than a tilt of his head.  

Salim didn’t press. He just nodded too, his hand still lightly resting on Eric’s shoulder, steady and warm.  

Eric hesitated again, fingers curled loosely in the blanket on his lap. He glanced sideways at Salim, then back down, voice quiet. “Sorry for waking you up.”  

Salim shook his head gently. “It’s alright,” he said. “I was already awake.”  

Eric just nodded, not sure what else to say. The awkwardness settled between them like dust in the air—light but noticeable, impossible to brush away. He wasn’t used to this, to someone seeing him like that. Not teammates. Not Salim.  

He shifted slightly, adjusting his blanket with slow, careful hands more to keep them busy than anything else. Salim didn’t say anything more, just sat there beside him, his presence steady, unpressing.  

The silence wasn’t exactly comfortable—but it wasn’t heavy, either. It was… bearable.  

Salim took his hand off Eric’s shoulder, the touch lingering just a second before falling away. He sensed the tension there, the stiffness under his palm—not fear, exactly, but something brittle and guarded. Instead, he rested his hands in his lap, giving Eric space.  

Eric hesitated, his mouth dry, then said, “I’m gonna go get cleaned up.”  

Salim nodded and stood, stretching with a quiet groan. “I’ll see where we can get food around here,” he said, his voice low, unintrusive.  

Eric leaned over the side of the bed to grab his prosthetic. The motion sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him, and his vision narrowed into darkness at the edges. He gritted his teeth and rode it out, refusing to let himself falter. He wouldn’t let himself. Not now.  

He strapped the prosthetic on with practiced, mechanical movements. The socket felt loose against his thigh, the weight distribution all wrong. It had been getting worse—ever since the weight had started falling off him, piece by piece. He grimaced, adjusting it as best he could, then pushed himself upright.  

Pain shot through his leg, up into his hip, and he leaned a hand against the wall to steady himself. He stood still for a moment, just breathing.  

When he finally looked up, Salim was gone. He must’ve left quietly, not wanting to interrupt Eric’s struggle or call attention to it.  

That made it easier, Eric supposed.  

He let out a slow, shaking breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped out into the hallway.  

Eric wandered aimlessly down the corridor, moving on autopilot, barely aware of the quiet hum of the overhead lights or the distant thrum of base activity muffled through the walls. His body felt hollow and heavy all at once, every step weighted like dragging himself through tar. When he finally reached the shower block, he paused in the doorway, exhaling slowly, like just getting here had taken all the strength he had left.  

He ducked into the toilets first, going through the motions—using the bathroom, washing his hands—more out of routine than anything else. The sink mirror caught a glimpse of him as he turned to leave, and he barely recognized the man staring back. Pale, unshaven, with sunken cheeks and blood crusted along the side of his temple.  

He didn’t stop to look again.  

Back in the shower section, he glanced around. The space was better stocked than he’d expected—neatly folded stacks of towels, spare clothes sorted into labeled cubbies, a few bins of bandages and antiseptic wipes. His gaze swept the room, searching, until he spotted it—the last shower cubicle had a plastic chair folded down against the wall.  

Thank God.  

He peeled off his filthy clothes with shaking hands, the fabric stiff with dried blood and dirt. He shoved them into the laundry chute one piece at a time, then unwrapped his bandages carefully, his fingers fumbling with the tape. The discarded strips went into the nearby bin, a small pile of red-stained gauze that he tried not to look at for too long.  

Stepping into the last cubicle, he removed his prosthetic and set it just outside the door. His balance wobbled as he braced himself against the tile, lowering onto the chair with a quiet grunt.  

He turned the water on.  

It hit him like a slap—scalding at first, then soothing as his skin adjusted. But the pain from his wounds lit up instantly, hot spikes along his arm and leg. He clenched his teeth and let it wash over him. He deserved it, didn’t he?  

Still, getting clean felt like a blessing he hadn’t realized he’d needed. He scrubbed hard—his arms, his chest, the grime embedded in every crease of his skin. He scrubbed until his knuckles were red and raw, as if he could scrape away the memory of that place, those creatures, the deafening silence after every scream.  

But it wasn’t going to work. He could feel it, coiled beneath his skin, lodged behind his ribs.  

He’d step out of this shower, towel off, and go back into that room. He’d see Nick’s face, Rachel’s eyes. He’d see what was left of the people he'd led into that nightmare, and he’d be reminded with every glance that the rest of them hadn’t made it out.  

He hadn’t saved them. He hadn’t saved Clarice. Or Joey. Or Merwin. He hadn’t even saved himself.  

The water ran pink at his feet. He dropped his head against the cool tile wall and sat there, letting it run until the heat had all but drained away.  

Eric forced himself to move.  

His limbs felt like dead weight, his head heavy with exhaustion, but he reached out and turned off the water. The sudden silence in the cubicle rang louder than the water had. He stayed seated for another few seconds, blinking water out of his eye, before bracing himself and carefully pushing to his feet. He held onto the wall, taking his time stepping out of the cubicle so his wet foot wouldn’t slip on the tiled floor. Every movement felt like it required precise calculation just to avoid collapsing.  

He sat down heavily on the bench just outside the cubicle and grabbed one of the clean towels. His hands were trembling as he dried himself off, the towel dragging gently over raw, battered skin and bruises that covered half his torso. When he was dry enough, he wrapped the towel around his waist and leaned over to grab a roll of bandages from the nearby medical supplies.  

His hands fumbled with the gauze and tape, wrapping his arm first, then his leg, slow and clumsy but careful. He wasn’t as neat as the medic had been, but he made do. Just another thing he had to do for himself now.  

Once that was done, he reached for the folded clothes—plain fatigues, fresh and scratchy but dry. He dressed slowly, pausing once to sit down again when his vision started to swim. His fingers trembled as he reached for his prosthetic and fitted it back onto his leg. It was still loose, still rubbed in all the wrong places, but he tightened it as much as he could and locked it into place. There was no fixing that right now.  

Even showering had wrung him out completely. His whole body was trembling again, muscles weak and aching. He sat there for a moment longer, just breathing, grounding himself.  

Then he forced himself to stand.  

The world tilted slightly, but he steadied himself with a hand against the wall and took a slow breath. One foot in front of the other. That’s all it ever was.  

He left the shower room without looking back, exhaustion dragging behind his ribs like a second spine.  

Eric was tempted to go straight back to bed. His legs were already aching again, his shoulders felt like someone had driven nails into the joints, and every step felt like it took effort he didn’t have. But his throat was dry, and his canteen had barely anything left in it.  

With a reluctant breath, he turned down the hallway and made his way back to the barracks—his and Salim’s now, he supposed. He picked up his canteen from where he’d left it beside the bed, then turned back the way he hadn’t yet explored.  

As he moved down the corridor, he passed two other barracks. One of the doors stood wide open, and even a quick glance told him what he didn’t want to know: the beds inside had been pushed together. His jaw clenched. He didn’t need to look closer. That had Rachel and Nick written all over it. Eric ground his teeth together and kept walking, trying not to picture them curled up together like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t left him behind. Like he hadn’t been the one dragging their broken team out of that hellhole.  

He passed another room, hesitating just long enough to nudge the door open and peer inside. It was a simple, empty meeting room—white walls, a plain metal table, a few chairs. Probably an old debrief room that had ended up inside the quarantine perimeter. Eric made a mental note of it. If he needed space, a place to breathe without being watched, that room would do.  

Further down the hallway, he came to a set of double doors. He pushed through them, blinking under the slightly brighter fluorescent lights inside. A canteen. Functional, with a basic cooking area, a few appliances, a fridge, and some long metal benches.  

He didn’t care about the food.  

His gaze went instinctively to the left—Salim was sitting at one of the benches, eating with Jason, Nick, and Rachel. All of them were bent over plastic trays, clearly microwave meals, talking quietly. Eric didn’t try to catch the words.  

He moved to the water dispenser instead and filled his canteen, taking a long, deep drink. It was cold and bitter against his dry throat, but it helped, at least a little.  

Salim looked up and spotted him. “There’s meals in the fridge,” he called, his voice casual but laced with that gentle insistence he always seemed to have.  

Eric tensed, jaw tightening. He didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to sit with them. But if he didn’t grab something now, Salim would notice. Would ask . Would probably insist . So Eric gritted his teeth, capped his canteen, and walked toward the fridge.  

He opened it slowly, trying to look like he wasn’t deliberately avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room. Inside, the shelves were lined with neatly stacked microwave meals. But tucked in the corner of the top shelf was a row of beers.  

Eric stared at them for a second longer than he meant to.  

He’d never been a drinker, not really. Beer had always tasted like piss to him. But seeing Rachel and Nick sitting there so comfortably, close enough that their shoulders brushed, just lit something in his chest—anger, bitterness, a hollow ache. A beer would numb that. Just a little.  

His hand twitched.  

Then he grabbed a meal and closed the fridge again instead.  

He made his way to the microwave, set the plastic tray inside, and pressed the buttons mechanically, watching it slowly spin. The soft hum of the microwave was the only sound he focused on, drowning out the voices behind him.  

He’d come back later. When the others were gone. Then he’d grab a beer. Maybe two.  

He just needed to make it through this meal first.  

The microwave beeped, sharp and final. Eric pulled the tray out, the plastic warm in his hands, and turned back toward the others.  

He walked over and sat beside Salim, setting the meal down on the table. No one said anything, for which he was quietly grateful. He forced himself to pick up the plastic fork and take a bite.  

It tasted good—warm, seasoned, probably chicken and rice—but the second it hit his tongue, nausea curled in his gut like smoke. Still, he chewed. Swallowed. Took another bite.  

Every motion felt mechanical. Like muscle memory. He didn’t want the food. Didn’t want to be eating. Each swallow came with a rising tide of guilt that he couldn’t push back down. The cramping of his stomach had eased slightly, but in its place came a new, sharper discomfort—shame.  

He didn’t deserve to eat. Not after everything. Not when it was his fault they’d been down there in the first place. Not when so many were dead.  

But somehow, he finished the entire thing.  

Eric stared at the empty tray, fork still in his hand. His chest tightened, and the guilt turned cold and heavy, like a weight pressing down against his ribs. He had eaten all of it .  

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, unmoving, eyes fixed on the empty space in front of him, until he blinked and looked up. The table had cleared. Rachel and Nick were gone, their laughter faintly echoing from somewhere down the hall. Jason stood by the sink, washing up trays and utensils in silence.  

Salim was still next to him.  

When Eric looked over, Salim gave him a small, unreadable glance, then reached for the tray in front of Eric and stacked it on top of his own.  

“I’ll take them,” he said simply, standing up and walking them over to the sink.  

Eric watched him go for a second, then said, “I’m gonna go wash my hands.”  

Salim nodded without looking back.  

Eric stood quickly, the movement making his legs throb, and slipped out of the canteen. The moment he hit the hallway, he let out a slow, shaky breath.  

He didn’t go back to the barracks.  

Instead, he headed for the bathroom.  

Eric stepped into the bathroom, the harsh fluorescent lights making everything look sterile and cold. Relief washed over him when he saw it was empty. He moved quickly, slipping into the nearest toilet cubicle and locking the door behind him.  

He dropped to his knees on the cold tile floor, his stomach already knotting with anticipation. He took a deep breath, bracing himself—then forced his fingers down his throat until his body convulsed, gagging violently. His knuckles scraped against his teeth, pain sharp but distant. He didn’t fight the wave when it hit. It came up hard and fast, the microwave meal returning in a hot, bitter flood.  

Afterward, he sat back against the wall of the stall, panting, arms shaking faintly. His throat burned. His stomach cramped again, but this time with relief instead of guilt. It wasn’t healthy. He knew that. He knew this wasn’t a solution—but it was the only control he had left.  

Eventually, he forced himself to stand. He opened the stall door and went to the sink, rinsing his mouth out thoroughly and washing his hands with more aggression than was probably necessary. The mirror above the sink caught his eye for a second. He looked away.  

He stepped out of the bathroom, intending to head straight back to the barracks—until he remembered his water. He’d left the canteen in the cafeteria.  

Eric cursed under his breath and turned back the way he’d come, trudging toward the dining area. His body was heavy, each step a reminder of how little energy he had left to give. His jaw clenched as he reached the doors and pushed them open.  

Just his luck—Salim was still there, leaning against the counter, talking quietly with Jason. Both men looked over when Eric entered, but neither said anything at first. Eric walked straight to the table, grabbed his canteen, and turned to leave again, hoping to escape unnoticed.  

He wasn’t fast enough.  

Salim pushed off the counter and fell into step beside him as he walked out.  

Eric kept his expression neutral, trying not to let his tension show, though he could feel it stiffening his spine. He didn’t want to talk. Not right now.  

“How was the shower?” Salim asked casually.  

Eric shrugged, eyes ahead. “It was alright. They had a shower chair, which I didn’t expect.”  

Salim raised a brow. “I didn’t notice that. But that’s good. Makes things easier.”  

“Yeah,” Eric muttered. “Other than that, it’s a pretty average CENTCOM facility.”  

They reached the barracks not long after, and Eric slipped inside without waiting for a reply. He went straight to his bed and sat down heavily on the edge, utterly drained. Every part of his body felt frayed at the edges, like he was being held together by nothing more than stubbornness.  

Salim followed him in, quieter now, and sat on his own bed with a soft groan, leaning back against the headboard.  

Eric took his prosthetic off with practiced movements, the momentary flare of pain at his stump dulled by how long it had been constant. He set the prosthetic aside, rubbing his thigh absently before lying back across the mattress.  

He didn’t speak, and neither did Salim.  

For now, silence was the closest thing to comfort either of them had.  

Eric was exhausted—every cell in his body ached, his limbs heavy, his head pounding softly with the dull echo of strain—but he didn’t want to sleep. Not yet. He couldn’t face that again. The moment his eyes shut, the temple would come back. The screams. The blood. The searing pressure in his skull. The guilt.  

So instead, he leaned his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, resting without sleeping. His breath was slow, almost meditative if not for the constant throb in his leg and the quiet churn of his stomach.  

Across from him, Salim had gone quiet as well—until he glanced sideways, a flicker of casual curiosity in his voice.  

“Apparently Jason found a room with some books and board games,” he said, voice low but not heavy. “Could be fun to check it out later.”  

Eric blinked one eye open, the fluorescent ceiling light above them casting a faint halo across Salim’s face. He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at him.  

“Yeah,” Eric said, voice rough. “We could check it out later.”  

He shut his eye again. He didn’t know if he meant it or not, but it was easier than saying no. Easier than explaining that he didn’t remember the last time something had felt fun.  

Salim didn’t push. He just leaned back a little further, folding his hands over his stomach.  

The silence settled between them again, not tense, just... quiet. For now, that was enough.  

Eric’s stomach cramped again—deep, hollow, like it was punishing him for throwing up what little he’d eaten. He clenched his jaw, trying not to show the pain on his face. His hand pressed lightly to his side for a moment, then fell away just as quickly. Salim was still sitting on his bed, thumbing tiredly at the hem of his shirt, but his eyes flicked over as Eric moved.  

Eric waited—slowly counting out minutes in his head, waiting long enough that he was sure Jason had probably left the canteen by now. Then he sat forward, groaning faintly under his breath as he reached for his prosthetic. He locked it in place with practiced, weary movements.  

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he said, standing up.  

Salim looked up and nodded. “Alright.”  

Eric gave him a tight nod, then stepped out into the corridor. But instead of turning toward the bathrooms, he headed the opposite way—down the hall and back toward the canteen.  

He couldn’t be around them right now. Not around her. Not around Nick.  

Grief, guilt, and anger twisted inside him like barbed wire, pressing against his ribs. Every time he saw Rachel, it was a stab to the heart. But when she was close to Nick—laughing softly, brushing his arm, standing with him like they were some united front— that felt like the knife was twisting. And twisting. And twisting.  

He pushed open the canteen doors and breathed a sigh of relief when he found the room empty. The silence was a balm, cool and clean. He crossed to the fridge and yanked it open, grabbing a beer without thinking too hard about it. The glass was cold in his hand as he sat down on a bench in the far corner, away from the door, where no one would look at him unless they were trying to.  

He cracked the bottle open and took a long swig. It tasted like shit—bitter, sour, and far too warm in his gut—but he welcomed the numbness it promised. The quiet buzz. The edges of everything dulling.  

He stared at the far wall, bottle clutched in his hand, jaw tight.  

He couldn’t handle this anymore. Couldn’t handle the way Rachel looked at Nick now, like she hadn’t once promised things to Eric. Like she hadn’t kissed him. Like he didn’t exist.  

He brought the bottle back to his lips, chasing that buzz, hoping it would be enough to drown the ache that had settled somewhere deep in his chest.  

Before Eric realized it, he'd downed four beers—one after the other, barely pausing between them. The empty bottles sat on the table like proof of something he didn’t want to name. His head was already swimming, the edges of the room soft and warm, like everything had been wrapped in cotton. His stomach, painfully empty before, now churned with the mix of alcohol and acid, but it was dulled—just another ache in the background noise of his body.  

He stood, swaying slightly, and crossed back to the fridge to grab another. His coordination was starting to slip—his hand fumbled against the door, and he had to blink hard to steady himself. He popped the cap off the fifth bottle, telling himself this would be the last one —just like he'd said for the last two.  

He took a long swig.  

Silence.  

Not peace, exactly, but a quietness in his head that was better than the guilt gnawing at him every second he was sober. No memories of Nick being thrown into his chest. No blood in his eyes. No Rachel looking at Nick like she used to look at him. Just quiet. Just fuzz.  

He knew this wasn’t healthy. Knew that, like everything else he’d been doing lately, this was just another spiral, another loss of control he’d wrapped up in the illusion of coping. But right now, he didn’t care. He couldn’t afford to care.  

He took another pull from the bottle, slumping back down onto the bench in the corner, eyes half-lidded, and let himself dissolve into the warmth of the alcohol and the beautiful, blissful absence of thought.  

Eric finished the fifth beer and set the bottle down beside the others, lining them up like he was building a small, pathetic graveyard to his own self-control. His head felt too heavy, his limbs uncoordinated, and the room swayed ever so slightly when he tried to shift his weight. Still, he knew he couldn’t leave the bottles just sitting there—Jason might come through here at any moment, or worse, Salim. And if anyone found them, they'd know exactly what he was doing.  

It took him longer than it should have to muster the energy, but eventually, he pushed himself to his feet. He leaned hard against the wall, sliding one hand along it for balance as he scooped up the empty bottles and dumped them into the bin. The clatter they made sounded far too loud in the quiet room, and he winced, as if the noise itself might draw someone in.  

When he turned around, he glanced at the clock on the far wall. 8:00 PM.  

He frowned. They’d arrived that morning—early, after the helicopter. And they’d all crashed hard not long after being processed. Had they really slept the whole day? It felt like he’d barely been awake at all. Or maybe he’d just been sitting here longer than he thought, the time swallowed up by the blank, distant haze the alcohol had given him.  

Eric blinked hard, trying to will his body to function properly again. The weight of exhaustion was creeping back in now that the buzz had stopped climbing. He felt dizzy. Sluggish. His stomach cramped again, sharp and miserable, but dulled by the alcohol enough that he could mostly ignore it.  

He thought briefly about heading back to the barracks—but the thought of stumbling in reeking of beer, barely upright, while Salim was still awake made his gut twist with anxiety. He didn’t want to see that look on Salim’s face. Didn’t want the questions. Didn’t want to be seen.  

So, instead, Eric grabbed another beer from the fridge and went back to his spot in the corner. He opened it slowly, letting the fizz bubble up quietly, and took a sip—just a small one this time. He didn’t even want it, not really. But he needed something to fill the space between now and when it was safe to go back.  

So he sat there again, drinking slowly, eyes vacant, thoughts mercifully drowned out, doing the only thing he seemed to know how to do lately: avoid.  

Eric’s head drooped forward, chin nearly resting on his chest as he blinked slowly at the table. The bottle in his hand had gone warm, mostly full, forgotten. His thoughts were muddled and distant, the soft hum of the overhead lights becoming more like a lullaby than anything else. He swayed once, then caught himself with a sudden jerk.  

Time to go, he thought, eyes half-lidded.  

He pushed himself to his feet, wavering immediately. The floor tilted and he reached for the table, then the wall, fingers brushing along it as he started down the hallway. He kept close to the wall the entire way, dragging his feet, shoulders bumping gently against the solid surface as he moved. His coordination was a mess, his body feeling far too detached, but he managed.  

At the barracks door, Eric reached for the handle with hands that barely seemed to obey him. His fingers fumbled, the knob slipping once before he finally got a grip and turned it. He eased the door open slowly, cringing at every soft creak of the hinges, as though they might explode into gunfire-loud noise in the quiet.  

Inside, Salim was asleep, his breathing even and soft in the dim room. Eric let out a shaky breath, equal parts relief and nausea, and shut the door behind him with as little sound as possible.  

He crossed the room, pausing briefly to steady himself at the foot of the bed, then sat down heavily. Reaching for his prosthetic, he fumbled again—this time with the straps, the pressure, his own uncooperative fingers. It took far longer than usual. His vision wavered, the room shifting around him like it was caught in slow, lazy waves. He forced himself to finish, finally slipping it off and setting it down.  

With a heavy exhale, he lowered himself onto the mattress. His stomach lurched, a sharp, sickening roll that had nothing to do with hunger or guilt this time. It was purely physical—alcohol, exhaustion, and an empty gut conspiring against him. He grimaced, curling in on himself slightly, but made no move to get up. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.  

He pulled the blanket around his shoulders and buried his face in the pillow, shutting his eyes tight against the spin of the room. He was asleep before he even realized it—no lingering thoughts, no regret, no constant self-loathing narrative playing on repeat in his skull. Just silence. Blessed, heavy silence. The kind only exhaustion and alcohol could give.  

Chapter Text

Eric woke up feeling like absolute shit.  

His skull throbbed with the intensity of a war drum, every beat echoing in the hollow space behind his eyes. His stomach twisted, lurching in protest the moment he moved, and bile rose uncomfortably high in his throat. The nausea clung to him like a second skin, sour and heavy. All the silence from the night before had shattered. The guilt, the anger, the grief—they were all back, pressed against the inside of his ribs like they were trying to claw their way out.  

He groaned and rolled onto his back, instantly regretting it as the ceiling spun. Cracking his eyes open, he winced against the thin beams of morning light spilling in through the slats in the door. Every sliver was a needle in his skull. Salim’s bed was empty. Of course it was. Eric had no idea what time it was, but it was late enough that maybe, hopefully , breakfast had come and gone. That was one conversation he didn’t want to have.  

He stayed there for a minute, breathing through the nausea, then blindly reached for his canteen. His fingers curled around the cool metal, and he brought it to his lips with a shaky hand. The water was lukewarm, but it helped flush the taste of stale beer from his mouth, at least a little. Still, the pounding in his head remained brutal, his stomach sour and rebellious. He figured the lingering effects of his concussion weren’t doing him any favors either.  

With a sigh, he rolled to the edge of the bed and fumbled for his prosthetic. It took longer than usual, his coordination shot to hell, but eventually he managed to strap it on. Each buckle felt like a small battle. He stood on unsteady feet, bracing himself against the wall for a moment before shuffling down the hallway.  

The fluorescent lights in the corridor felt like they were burning through his skull.  

When he stepped into the bathroom, thankfully empty, he went straight to the medical shelf. His hands were clumsy as he grabbed the small bottle of painkillers. He didn’t bother with water—just tossed two into his mouth and swallowed hard. They caught in his throat for a second, and he grimaced.  

Dragging himself over to the sink, he gripped the porcelain edge with both hands and stared down at the basin for a long moment. His reflection in the mirror above was a blur of shadows and light, too harsh to look at directly. He turned the tap, cupped cold water in his palm, and splashed it on his face, trying to wash away the last of the night.  

Then he grabbed one of the toothbrushes from the shelf, squirted on toothpaste, and started brushing his teeth. Viciously. Desperately. He could still taste the alcohol. Still smell it on his breath. Still feel it in the back of his throat.  

He rinsed, spat, and leaned forward, palms flat on the counter, breathing through his nose.  

Nothing had changed. Not really. All the hurt was still there.  

But at least now he could pretend, for a little while longer, that he still had control.  

Eric made his way back into the shower area, footsteps sluggish, body still aching with every movement. He grabbed a fresh set of clothes from the shelf—plain CENTCOM-issue sweats and a loose t-shirt. Not exactly comfortable, but clean, and better than what he had on. He peeled off the beer-stained clothes with a grimace, the stale smell clinging to them enough to make his stomach churn all over again. Without hesitating, he shoved them down the laundry chute and didn’t look back.  

Changing was slow, more from the hangover dragging on his limbs than anything else. His hands shook slightly as he re-bandaged his wounds, the skin around them still tender and stinging. The new clothes felt better against his skin—cool and clean, not soaked in sweat and shame—but that didn’t do much to lift the weight pressing into his chest.  

He didn’t bother lingering. Didn’t check his reflection. Just turned and left the bathroom, head down.  

The hallway was thankfully quiet. CENTCOM had a way of always feeling a little sterile and empty, but right now, Eric appreciated it. The quiet was a relief. No Rachel. No Nick. No questions from Jason. No careful, too-gentle looks from Salim. Just silence and the low buzz of overhead lights.  

When he stepped back into the barracks, he reached for the light switch instinctively—then paused. Thought better of it. Instead, he closed the door softly behind him and left the lights off. The dim light filtering through the slats was more than enough.  

Eric limped over to his bed, eased himself down with a quiet grunt, and pulled the blanket over his legs. He rested his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, staring at nothing. The dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes had lessened, barely, and the nausea had settled into a low simmer rather than a rolling boil.  

He still felt like shit. Not physically sick anymore, not quite—but raw, empty, scraped hollow from the inside out. He hated that this was what normal felt like. That a moment of peace, or silence, only meant waiting for the next storm to hit.  

But at least in here, with the lights off and the door closed, he could pretend the world had narrowed to just this room. Just the cool air against his face, the distant hum of the base, and the heavy thud of his heart slowing down.  

Maybe, if he stayed still long enough, he could feel human again. Or at least, less like whatever he’d become.  

Eric hadn’t realized he’d drifted into sleep until the sound of the door creaking open pulled him sharply back to awareness. His heart gave a hard thump in his chest, and he jolted slightly, blinking as the dim light filtered in. Salim stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the hallway lights. His eyes swept over Eric—his slouched posture, mussed hair, pale skin, and slightly unfocused eyes—before stepping inside without a word. He sat on the edge of his own bed and unscrewed the cap of his canteen, taking a long sip before speaking.  

“You came back late last night,” Salim said casually, but there was an edge of something in his voice—concern, maybe, or curiosity masked as nonchalance.  

Eric scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed, still blinking away sleep. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I… needed time to think.”  

Salim raised an eyebrow, lowering the canteen to rest in his lap. “Does that have anything to do with the empty beer bottles in the canteen this morning?”  

Eric’s face flushed with heat, and he looked away, jaw tightening. Of course Salim had seen them. Of course someone had.  

Salim huffed a soft, amused breath. “You were passed out when I got up this morning. I could tell you were drunk, even without the evidence.”  

Eric groaned under his breath and let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud . “I didn’t mean to get that drunk,” he said, voice rough. It was the truth, mostly. He hadn’t gone in planning to drink himself stupid—it had just… happened.  

“I believe you,” Salim said after a pause. “But I hope you know that’s not exactly sustainable.” His tone wasn’t scolding, just matter-of-fact.  

Eric let out a bitter laugh. “Nothing about me right now is sustainable.”  

That earned a brief silence. Salim didn’t argue with him, which was maybe worse than if he had.  

Eventually, Salim leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You want me to leave you alone for a while?” he asked quietly, not unkindly.  

Eric hesitated, then shook his head. “No. It’s fine. Just… don’t expect me to be good company.”  

Salim gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment and sat back again, content with the silence.  

And Eric was grateful for that—for not having to explain himself further, for not being pushed or pitied. Just someone sitting nearby, not asking him to be anything other than what he was in that moment. It was more than he deserved, but right now, he was too tired to refuse it.  

After a long stretch of quiet, the pounding in Eric’s skull had dulled to a manageable throb, and the nausea had retreated far enough that he didn’t feel like he was teetering on the edge of puking with every breath. He shifted slowly, carefully, and leaned over the side of the bed to grab his canteen. The movement made the room tilt slightly, but he steadied himself and took a long swig, the lukewarm water a small comfort as it washed the bitter taste from his mouth.  

Salim cracked one eye open and glanced at him. “Have you eaten anything yet?” he asked, voice low and slightly hoarse.  

Eric shook his head, then muttered, “Woke up too late. I’ll grab something later.”  

Salim made a faint sound—half hum, half exhale—and leaned back against the wall, his eyes slipping shut again. “Alright,” he said simply. No judgment, no pressure, just quiet acknowledgment.  

Eric appreciated that more than he could say.  

He set his canteen down on the floor beside his bed and exhaled through his nose, long and slow. His stomach gave a faint, petulant cramp in protest at being ignored—half-empty and abused after the beers, and now ignored again. He winced slightly, pressing the heel of his hand to it.  

He knew he should eat. Even a ration bar, even a few crackers. But the thought made his throat tighten with queasy resistance.  

Across from him, Salim looked like he was drifting in and out of rest himself. His shoulders were slouched, his breathing slow. Eric figured they were all running on fumes at this point. Even the military-grade adrenaline they'd all been operating on had to burn out sometime.  

So Eric leaned back again, resting his head against the cool wall, eyes half-closed. Maybe later, he told himself. He'd eat later.  

It was always later.  

---  

Later in the day, after what felt like hours spent stewing in his own head, Eric finally stirred. He’d been sitting on the edge of the bed with his arms limp at his sides, stuck in that numbing middle space between exhaustion and unrest—too worn down to move, too restless to sleep. The kind of low where time blurred and slipped by without meaning.  

Eventually, though, a faint sense of resolve stirred in him. Not purpose, not motivation. Just the grim push of habit, of needing to do something—anything—other than sit there feeling like a hollow shell.  

Quietly, Eric reached for his prosthetic, careful not to make a sound as he attached it. Salim had drifted into sleep at some point, still slouched against the wall, head tilted slightly to the side. His quiet breathing filled the dim barracks room, steady and deep. Eric didn’t want to wake him. He was grateful for the company, but even more grateful for the silence.  

He slipped out of the room, shutting the door gently behind him, and turned down the hall—not toward the canteen, though his stomach twisted with hunger, but toward the bathroom. He felt grimy, his skin sticky with dried sweat, his shirt clinging to him uncomfortably. Maybe, he told himself, if he showered first, he could eat after. Maybe, if he just took things in small steps, it wouldn’t feel so impossible.  

The bathroom was blessedly empty.  

Eric stepped inside and let out a slow breath, relieved. He knew it was an odd time to shower—midday, maybe late afternoon? He hadn’t checked—but the quiet was a mercy. He wasn’t sure how he would’ve handled it if Nick or Jason had been in here. And Rachel… he didn’t even want to think about that.  

He grabbed a towel off the shelf, set it aside, and began to peel away the bandages that wrapped his wounds, each one stiff and clinging uncomfortably to dried blood. He winced as they came free, then carefully deposited them in the bin. His movements were slow, methodical—anything to keep from looking in the mirror.  

Once he was undressed, he made his way to the last shower cubicle, the one with the built-in shower chair. Sitting down, he unlatched his prosthetic and set it outside the cubicle, then reached up to turn the water on.  

The water hit him with a warm rush, and Eric shut his eyes, letting it run over his face, over his sore limbs and his aching back.  

With his eyes closed, it was easier not to see. Not to see the way his ribs stuck out sharply, or the shadows under his eyes, or the way his shoulders looked too narrow now in the reflection. Easier not to feel disgust at what he’d become. Just water, and warmth, and white noise.  

He rested his head back against the cool tile and stayed like that for a while, the water masking the slow, steady throb in his temples. It wasn’t peace—not even close—but it was quiet.  

Eric took his time getting washed—not because it felt good, not because he wanted to savor it. He just didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to move on to what came next. The quiet, the isolation of the empty bathroom, the warm water... it was a delay tactic, and he knew it. But it was easier to sit there under the spray than to face food, or people, or himself.  

Eventually, though, the water began to cool, and the guilt began to creep back in. He couldn’t justify staying any longer.  

With a reluctant sigh, Eric shut the water off. The sudden absence of noise made everything feel sharper. He sat there a moment, dripping, then reached out for the towel and began to dry off, slow and mechanical.  

Once mostly dry, he wrapped the towel around his waist and stood, one hand braced against the wall of the cubicle as he carefully stepped out. The tiled floor was cold beneath his foot, and his balance still felt off, but he made it to the bench without slipping.  

He sat heavily, catching his breath, then picked up fresh bandages from the shelf beside him and began to wrap his wounds again. His movements were a little steadier now than they’d been days ago—less trembling, less flinching. The worst of the open wounds were scabbing over. A few bruises had started to yellow at the edges. Healing.  

That was something, at least.  

Eric secured the last bandage with a quiet sigh, then pulled on a clean shirt, trying to ignore how loose it felt around his shoulders. His pants came next, and then, with familiar care, he strapped on his prosthetic. It felt less like a part of him these days and more like armor—necessary, but heavy, and cold.  

Fully dressed again, he sat on the bench for a moment longer, just breathing, staring blankly at the floor.  

He didn’t want to go back out there.  

Didn’t want to go to the canteen. Didn’t want to run into anyone. Didn’t want to force food down his throat and pretend it didn’t make him sick, or pretend everything was okay when nothing about it was.  

But he couldn’t hide in the bathroom forever.  

Eventually, he stood, slow and steady, dragging his fingers through his damp hair to push it out of his face. The towel he folded and tossed into the laundry chute. No more excuses left. Nowhere else to hide.  

Time to face the next thing—whatever it ended up being.  

Eric’s footsteps echoed dully as he made his way down the hall, every step heavier than it should’ve been. The familiar tension coiled in his gut—not just hunger, not just nausea, but dread. He reached the canteen door and hesitated, his hand on the handle.  

Please be empty, he thought, but the second he opened the door, he knew fate wasn’t on his side.  

Of course they were here.  

Rachel and Nick sat together at one of the benches, eating and talking in low voices. They didn’t look up. Didn’t even notice him. A small mercy, but it didn’t do much to stop the twist in his chest. They were too close. Their arms kept brushing. Nick leaned in to say something, and Rachel laughed—not loud, not obnoxious, just familiar. Comfortable. Like they fit.  

Like they had taken what Eric lost and made something new from the pieces.  

He turned away from them, forcing his focus toward the kitchen area. His stomach cramped again, reminding him why he’d come here in the first place. He opened a cabinet, ignoring the fridge and the thought of a meal entirely, and searched until his fingers closed around a protein bar.  

It felt like cheating. Like a weak attempt at normalcy.  

He didn’t open it. Not here. He didn’t want to sit in the same room as them and pretend to be fine. Couldn’t bear the sight of Rachel’s hand brushing Nick’s again. Couldn’t breathe in a space filled with the ghost of what he used to have.  

So he left.  

His prosthetic clicked softly on the floor as he turned down the hall, heading for the empty briefing room he’d found the other day. It was just as he left it—dim, silent, untouched. He closed the door behind him and sat heavily in one of the plastic chairs near the back.  

The room smelled faintly of dust and old air conditioning. It didn’t matter. It was private. It was safe enough.  

He sat there for a moment, elbows on his knees, head cradled in his hands. His breath came slow, deliberate. He needed to calm down. Needed to not let his thoughts spiral again. But his brain, ever cruel, kept flashing images in front of him—Nick and Rachel together in the sand, Rachel reaching for Nick when the creature attacked, their embrace back at the site. Her lips on Nick’s. Not his.  

His fingers clenched around the protein bar.  

Eat. Just eat, he told himself.  

He sat upright and slowly unwrapped the bar. The smell alone turned his stomach. He took a small bite anyway.  

It stuck in his throat almost immediately. His body screamed to spit it out, to get rid of it, but he forced himself to chew, to swallow. The bar scraped down his throat like punishment.  

But he did it.  

Another breath. He didn’t move to take another bite. Just sat there, the half-eaten bar in one hand, the other clenched on his knee.  

He told himself he wouldn’t throw it up this time. Told himself it wasn’t about control, it was about fuel . About keeping himself functional. About not drawing suspicion.  

Not about guilt.  

He didn’t believe it. But he swallowed it anyway—just like the food—and stared at the opposite wall in silence, letting the quiet fill the cracks in him that no one else seemed to see.  

Eric stared at the half-eaten protein bar in his hand, his jaw clenched. He couldn’t take another bite. His stomach was already churning, the taste lingering like a challenge he hadn’t won. Slowly, almost with a sense of defeat, he wrapped the rest of it back up and slid it into his pocket.  

I’ll eat the rest later, he told himself.  

He wouldn’t. He knew he wouldn’t. But the lie helped. Gave him a way to stop without it feeling like failure.  

He stayed in the chair a moment longer, arms resting heavily on his knees, head bowed. Now that the food was gone—if you could even call that eating —his mind had nothing to latch onto. No distractions. No routine to keep the thoughts at bay. Guilt crept in like it always did, slow and steady and suffocating. He could feel it behind his eyes, like pressure building. A dam ready to break.  

You survived. They didn’t. You’re wasting it.  

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing out through his nose. He needed to move. Do something . Sitting here was going to tear him apart.  

He considered going back to the barracks, seeing if Salim was awake. Maybe they could find that games room Jason had mentioned, play something— anything —and pretend they weren’t stuck in a building full of ghosts. But if Salim was still asleep… Eric didn’t want to wake him. Salim needed rest just as much as he did. Probably more.  

Still, Eric couldn’t stay in this chair another minute.  

With a soft grunt, he stood, joints stiff, balance just slightly off thanks to the dull throb in his head and the ever-present fatigue in his limbs. He smoothed a hand over his shirt, more out of habit than anything, then walked to the door.  

He pushed it open slowly, trying not to flinch at the brighter light in the hallway outside.  

And then he stepped out.  

Eric wandered aimlessly down the corridor, scanning the walls for a door he didn’t recognize. He passed the familiar ones first—the barracks, the bathroom, the cafeteria—his footsteps echoing softly in the quiet hallway. The corridor curved, looping back toward the barracks again, but just before he reached them, something caught his eye. A small, unassuming door off to the side, one he hadn’t noticed before.  

He hesitated in front of it, then reached out and pushed it open.  

Inside was the games room—just as Salim had described it. Books lined one shelf, board games were stacked haphazardly on another. A couple of couches sat in the middle of the room, worn but comfortable-looking, centered around a low coffee table. Jason was already there, lounging on one of the couches, a deck of cards in hand. From the quick glance Eric gave them, it looked like some form of solitaire.  

Eric stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him, but Jason noticed him anyway.  

“Hey, man,” Jason said, glancing up with an easy grin. “You wanna play?”  

Eric hesitated, unsure. He shouldn’t have been—it was just a game. Just Jason. But still, his body felt tense, every muscle too tight. He nodded after a beat. “Yeah… What’re you playing?”  

“Just solitaire,” Jason said, starting to gather the cards back into a deck. “But we can play anything.”  

Eric crossed the room and sat stiffly on the couch opposite Jason. His elbows rested on his knees, fingers interlocked. His shoulders were rigid, like he was bracing for something. He didn’t know why he felt like this—like he was being watched, judged—even though Jason wasn’t even really looking at him. He was just shuffling the deck with practiced ease, comfortable in his own skin in a way Eric couldn’t remember being in his.  

Eric cleared his throat. “You can pick what we play.”  

Jason tilted his head a little, then grinned. “You know how to play Go Fish?”  

Eric gave a short, humorless laugh. “I think I’ve played it once or twice.”  

“Perfect,” Jason said, already starting to deal. “Nice and easy. No pressure.”  

Eric watched the cards slide across the table. He tried to relax, to remind himself this wasn’t a trap, wasn’t a test. Just a game. Just a friend. But his body didn’t seem to get the message. He sat there, stiff and silent, trying to pretend he belonged in this moment. Trying to remember how to just be .  

The longer they played, the more Eric felt his muscles slowly unwind. He wasn’t entirely relaxed—not yet—but the sharp edges inside him dulled with each passing hand. It was nice, just sitting around playing a card game, no stress, no pressure to act a certain way or make the right call. No impossible decisions. Just the shuffle of cards, Jason’s easy banter, and the rules of a game simple enough to follow without thought.  

Eric didn’t think Jason had noticed how tense he’d been when he first walked in, or how slowly he was easing into the moment. He was grateful for that. He didn’t think he could handle the looks—pity, concern, or anything in between.  

They finished another round, Jason chuckling as he gathered the cards back into a messy pile. He started shuffling again, when the door creaked open.  

Eric tensed, reflexive and immediate—but he exhaled as soon as he saw who it was.  

Salim stepped inside, blinking against the light for a second before spotting them. Jason grinned and waved him over. “Hey man. Want to join us?”  

Salim gave a small smile and nodded. “Sure. What are you playing?”  

“Go Fish,” Jason replied, spreading the cards into a neat stack before beginning to deal again. “Super easy. I’ll walk you through it.”  

Salim sat down beside Eric, close but not crowded. His presence was familiar, grounding. He glanced at Eric as Jason focused on the cards. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to.”  

Eric met his eyes briefly, then looked down at the table. “Went to shower. Grabbed something to eat.” He gestured vaguely. “Then came here.”  

Salim gave a quiet nod. “Good.”  

That was it—no probing, no questions, just simple acknowledgment. Eric appreciated that more than he could say.  

Jason finished dealing and started explaining the rules again for Salim’s sake, his voice light and steady. Eric let the words wash over him, and for the first time in what felt like a long while, he wasn’t dreading the next moment. Just this—cards on the table, Salim beside him, and something close to peace settling in his chest.  

They played a few more rounds, the atmosphere light and easy. Jason won most of them, not that either Eric or Salim seemed to mind. Salim was still getting the hang of the rules, often forgetting whether to ask for pairs or single cards, and Eric’s mind kept drifting—always half-elsewhere, tangled in thoughts he couldn’t quite shake. But still, they played.  

Jason leaned back with a stretch after another win, then glanced at the clock on the wall. “Damn, it’s getting late. We should probably grab some dinner soon.”  

He began packing the cards into the worn box, the familiar scrape of cardboard and plastic a comfortable sound. Salim stood with him, rolling his shoulders.  

“You coming?” Salim asked, glancing toward Eric.  

Eric hesitated. He didn’t want to eat. The idea of food made his stomach curl in warning. “I ate not long ago,” he said quietly, hoping it sounded casual. “But I’ll come with you guys.”  

He stood, smoothing his hands over his pants to give them something to do. The half-eaten protein bar was still in his pocket, pressing against his thigh like a quiet accusation. He knew he should eat more of it. Knew his body needed it. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to stomach anything.  

Still, he followed them, walking a step or two behind as they made their way down the corridor toward the canteen. Jason and Salim were talking about something—board games, maybe, or something dumb Jason had seen in a supply closet—but Eric barely registered it. He just kept walking, trying not to feel the weight of the wrapper in his pocket or the weight of guilt pressing even heavier on his chest.  

Eric stepped into the canteen behind the others, his shoulders tight with tension. But it was empty. Relief surged through him like breath finally let go. No Nick. No Rachel. No tight smiles or glances that made his stomach knot worse than it already did.  

Jason and Salim headed straight to the fridge, chatting about something that barely reached Eric’s ears. He drifted over to one of the benches and sat down stiffly, trying to ignore the sharp edge of the protein bar wrapper pressing into his thigh. His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the table, the low hum of the microwave only making the queasiness in his gut worse.  

Salim was the first to join him, a steaming tray of food in his hands. He sat beside Eric and dug in without hesitation. The scent of the meal hit Eric instantly—warm, heavy, and nauseating. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to breathe through his mouth. Don't think. Don't react.  

A minute later, Jason slid into the seat across from them, his own meal releasing the same sharp scent of sauce and heat. It doubled the weight in Eric’s stomach. He stood abruptly, muttering something about water, and walked over to the dispenser. The cold glass gave him something to focus on, and the first sip helped—until the second one sent cramps shooting through his abdomen.  

He returned to the bench, glass in hand, and eased himself down. Salim glanced at him, then tilted his head slightly.  

“What’s in your pocket?” he asked, tone casual but curious.  

Eric stiffened, eyes darting down. He cursed himself inwardly. “Just... half a protein bar,” he said, forcing the words out. “I started it earlier. Was gonna finish it later.”  

Jason looked up from his food. “If you’re not gonna eat a meal, you should at least finish that. Can’t run on fumes, man.”  

Eric’s jaw tightened. His first instinct was to refuse. But Salim was watching him now too, and Eric couldn’t afford their suspicion. He didn’t have the energy to deal with concern or questions or worse—the pity.  

So he pulled the bar from his pocket, peeled the wrapper back, and took a bite.  

The moment it hit his tongue, nausea rose like bile. His throat closed around it, and the guilt surged up beside it, sharp and choking. But he forced himself to chew. Forced himself to swallow. One bite. Then another. He felt sick. He felt dirty. He felt like a liar.  

But he kept eating.  

Not because he wanted to. Not because it helped. But because Jason was still watching, and Salim would notice if he didn’t.  

He’d throw it up later. He already knew that. But for now, he was playing the part. Holding it together with fraying threads.  

And hoping no one saw how close they were to snapping.  

Eric waited until Jason and Salim were both scraping the last bites of their meals from their trays before he moved. He stood, quietly, and muttered something about going to wash his hands—just an excuse, flimsy and hollow—but they didn’t question it. That was all he needed. He slipped out of the canteen before either of them could offer to come along or ask if he was okay.  

The moment he was out of sight, his pace picked up. Fast, near frantic. He walked the corridors like a ghost with a purpose, eyes fixed ahead but seeing nothing. He didn’t stop until he reached the bathroom. He didn’t even lock the stall behind him. His body dropped to the tile, knees jarring hard against the cold floor, and his fingers were already in his mouth.  

It didn’t take long.  

His stomach was empty enough that the protein bar came up in a few sharp, painful heaves. The taste of bile stung the back of his throat and left his mouth sour and burning. He stayed there for a moment, slumped over the toilet bowl, eyes shut, chest heaving like he’d just run for miles.  

Then he forced himself up.  

He flushed the toilet and staggered to the sink. His hands trembled as he turned the tap on and washed them, scrubbing like he could rinse the whole moment away. He cupped water into his mouth, rinsed, spat. Again. Again. It didn’t help. His throat still burned. His chest still ached. The cold water did nothing to chase away the exhaustion gnawing at his bones.  

He thought, briefly, about going back to the canteen. Back to the games room. Back to something. But the thought of facing Jason or Salim—of pretending again—made his stomach twist. He couldn’t do it. Not now.  

So he turned in the opposite direction. He headed toward the barracks, but even that thought soured. Salim might still be there. If Eric wanted what he really wanted—a beer—he’d have to sneak past him again. And he didn’t have the energy for that kind of subtlety.  

He was halfway down the hall when he passed them.  

Nick and Rachel.  

They didn’t even look at him as they walked by, fingers laced together between them. Laughing softly. Rachel’s head tilted close to Nick’s shoulder.  

It hit like a gut punch. Like a blade sliding slow beneath the ribs.  

He kept walking, stiff and silent, but it burned. God, it burned.  

He diverted again, feet dragging him to the only place he could think to go: the briefing room. He slipped inside, the door whispering shut behind him, and didn’t bother with a chair this time. He slid down the wall, back pressed against the cold surface, knees tucked tightly to his chest. He buried his face there, arms wrapped tight around his shins.  

He missed her.  

So much it felt like a living thing gnawing at the inside of his chest. He loved her. Still. Always. And yet she'd moved on so effortlessly, like he’d been a chapter that didn’t matter anymore. Like all the history they’d shared was just dust.  

He saw them every day. Saw how happy they were. And each time, it cracked something deeper inside of him.  

He tried to hold it in. Swallowed hard. Blinked fast.  

But the tears came anyway.  

Hot and silent, streaking down his face as he sat curled against the wall, breaking quietly in a place no one could see.  

Eric didn’t know how long he sat there, curled up on the floor of the briefing room with his arms around his knees and his tears soaking the sleeves of his shirt. Time slipped sideways when he felt like this—broken open, empty, and numb all at once. Eventually, though, the tears stopped. They always did. Not because he felt any better, but because he simply ran out.  

His throat was raw, tight and burning from crying and the bile he’d coughed up earlier. His eyes stung, and he scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand, wiping away the worst of it. Then, slowly, he stood, using the wall to keep himself steady when his vision swam and darkened at the edges. He swallowed hard. His mouth tasted awful. He needed water. He needed to stop shaking.  

He also needed to forget.  

Eric slipped out of the room and down the hall, doing his best to walk straight. The closer he got to the canteen, the more he hoped—begged—that it would be empty.  

It wasn’t.  

Rachel. Nick. Jason.  

Of course.  

They were all seated at one of the benches, deep in conversation. Rachel laughed at something Nick said, her head tilting toward him. Jason looked relaxed, like they were just killing time. Eric froze for a half second in the doorway, then forced himself to move. None of them even looked up at him. That was something, at least.  

He walked to the water dispenser and filled a cup. The water was cool, and it helped soothe the fire in his throat, though it did nothing for the pit still rotting in his stomach. He drank slowly, finished the cup, then turned to the fridge.  

It had been restocked.  

Good.  

He grabbed four beers, sliding two into his pockets and carrying the others in his hands. The others didn’t say a word, too wrapped up in their own little world to notice him. Eric didn’t linger. He left quickly, the beers cold and heavy in his hands.  

Back in the briefing room, he closed the door behind him and lowered himself to the floor again. The chairs sat around the table, stiff and formal, but he didn’t look at them. A voice at the back of his mind whispered that he didn’t deserve a seat at the table anyway. He wasn’t sure if it was self-pity or truth, but either way, he didn’t argue.  

He sat on the floor, legs outstretched, back against the wall, and cracked open the first beer.  

It tasted just as bad as he remembered—cheap, bitter, and metallic. But that wasn’t why he was drinking. He took a long swig anyway, letting the awful taste wash over his tongue and burn its way down his throat. He could already feel it buzzing faintly at the edge of his mind, dulling the sharp corners.  

Good. He needed it.  

The first bottle emptied faster than he’d meant for it to. He opened the second without hesitation. The hiss of the cap coming off felt too loud in the quiet room, but he didn’t care. He drank again. He wanted the numbness. Wanted to drown the thoughts clawing at his brain—the guilt, the memories, the ache of Rachel’s laughter echoing down the hallway with someone else's name on her lips.  

He swallowed another mouthful.  

It still tasted like piss.  

But he kept drinking.  

Eric finished the last bottle quicker than he'd intended, but by then, he didn’t care. The warmth from the alcohol spread out like a dull, heavy fog, and with it came the silence he’d been chasing all day. The relentless noise in his head—the guilt, the doubts, the questions that twisted like barbed wire—quieted to a low, distant hum. He couldn’t hear the voice asking why he was still alive when so many others weren’t. He didn’t want to hear it.  

He leaned his head back against the cold wall, eyes blinking slowly as he stared up at the ceiling. He felt nothing. Or maybe he felt too much to sort through. Either way, it was better than before.  

He just wanted to sleep.  

Eventually, he pushed himself up, swaying slightly as he stood. The empty bottles clinked softly on the floor beside him, but he left them where they were. They didn’t matter. Nothing did, really. He used the wall to steady himself as he left the briefing room, the corridor tilting slightly beneath his feet.  

By the time he reached the barracks, his limbs felt heavy and sluggish. He eased the door open, praying Salim would already be asleep.  

No such luck.  

Salim was propped up against the headboard of his bed, reading a book—probably something he'd found in the game room. The low lamplight cast shadows across his face, but Eric didn’t miss the glance Salim shot him as he stepped inside.  

Eric shut the door behind him quietly and walked to his bed. He lowered himself onto the edge, slipping off his prosthetic with the slow, practiced movements of someone who didn’t trust their coordination at the moment. He tried not to look drunk, but he could feel the way his body tilted slightly to the side when he sat. He could feel the way his hands fumbled a little too much.  

Salim didn’t even try to hide his suspicion.  

"Are you drunk again?" he asked, his tone more tired than accusing.  

Eric paused, blinking slowly. The question took a moment to sink through the haze in his brain. Then he muttered, “No.”  

Salim sighed—a long, quiet sound—and turned back to his book without pressing further. That probably stung more than an argument would have.  

Eric shifted and flopped down onto his stomach, burying half his face in the pillow. The mattress dipped beneath him as the room tilted slightly again. His stomach churned—not from hunger this time, but from the sheer amount of alcohol sloshing around inside him. He ignored it, hoping sleep would come quickly.  

And if it didn’t… well, at least the thoughts weren’t screaming at him anymore. Not yet.  

Chapter Text

It took Eric far too long to fall asleep.  

At first, it was just the sickly churn of his stomach and the sluggish burn in his limbs that kept him from drifting off. Then the thoughts started creeping in again—quiet at first, like a whisper in the dark. They always started like that. Guilt curling like smoke. Memories slipping in through cracks. Faces he couldn’t forget.  

Eventually, exhaustion won out. But sleep didn’t bring peace.  

He was back in the temple.  

The air was stifling, thick with dust and the metallic scent of blood. He was running—always running—down dark, twisting tunnels. The light was gone, completely, and the blackness around him was suffocating. Every breath felt like it dragged in more shadows. His hands scraped along the uneven walls, guiding him forward with desperate, fumbling touches.  

Behind him, he could hear them.  

The vampires.  

Their claws clicked and scraped against the stone, the sound unnervingly fast, inhuman. Their snarls echoed through the tunnels. One of them hissed his name. Or maybe he imagined that.  

He ran harder, his breath ragged, heart slamming against his ribs, until—  

He hit a wall.  

The impact knocked him off his feet and stole the air from his lungs. He barely had time to cry out before they were on him. Claws tore into his arms and shoulders, searing pain ripping through him. He tried to fight, but his limbs were slow, heavy, useless. His pistol was gone. His knife too. All he could do was scream.  

And then he was awake.  

Eric jolted upright with a gasp, heart pounding so hard it hurt. His eyes darted around the room, trying to make sense of the shadows. The barracks were pitch dark. Salim must have turned the light off when he went to sleep. Rationally, he knew that. But right now, it didn’t matter.  

The dark wasn’t safe.  

His breath came in short, panicked bursts. His skin was damp with sweat, and the weight of the nightmare still clung to him like damp cloth. The sound of claws scraping stone still echoed faintly in his ears.  

He scrambled back until his spine hit the headboard, then curled up, arms wrapped tight around his knees. He buried his face into them, trying to focus on the rhythm of his breathing. In and out. Slow. Deep. He couldn’t panic. He wasn’t in the temple. He wasn’t in the tunnels.  

But the fear was still there.  

It wrapped around his ribs, dug into his chest, made him feel like a child hiding from monsters in the closet. The dark had never bothered him before all this. Not really. But now, it was unbearable.  

He knew the vampires couldn’t get to him here.  

He knew that.  

But knowing it didn’t make the fear go away.  

Eric sat there for several long minutes, shaking, breath coming in shallow gasps that wouldn't slow no matter how hard he tried to focus. The dark pressed in from all sides, swallowing up what little calm he’d managed to cling to. Every second that passed just made it worse.  

He couldn’t stay here.  

With a strangled noise in the back of his throat, he threw the blanket off and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He didn’t even try to reach for his prosthetic. The idea of staying in the dark any longer made his chest seize. Panic was a roaring wildfire inside him now, and he needed out.  

Now.  

He hopped unevenly to the door, barely keeping upright as his hand fumbled for the handle. He didn’t care if he made noise, not really—though some instinct still tried to make him quiet, as if silence would protect him. His fingers slipped once, then found the knob and wrenched the door open.  

The hallway was dim—lit only by the faint glow of emergency lights—but compared to the pitch black of the barracks, it was a floodlight. Eric stumbled out and let the door shut behind him with a soft click, then immediately sagged down against the wall, the cool surface grounding him just a little.  

It wasn’t much.  

But it helped.  

A little air.  

A little space.  

Still, his breathing wouldn’t even out. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and he pressed them to his face, his knees drawn in close, trying to make himself as small as possible. His ears were ringing with phantom sounds—claws scraping against ancient stone, the sickening wet click of vampire jaws, the high-pitched screeches that echoed through his nightmares.  

He knew— knew —that he was having a panic attack. That there were ways to breathe, to count, to ground himself. But logic couldn’t reach him right now. His thoughts were a tangle of fear and memory, looping on repeat. There was blood again—so much blood—on his arms, under his nails, seeping through his uniform, not his not his not his —  

He pressed his forehead against his knees and clenched his eyes shut, the corridor spinning even behind closed lids.  

He just wanted it to stop.  

Just for one minute, one fucking minute.  

The door beside Eric opened with a soft creak, and he flinched violently, eyes snapping up, wild and glassy. His hand shot to his hip out of instinct—reaching for a sidearm that hadn’t been there in days, that wouldn’t be there again for who knew how long. But it wasn’t a vampire. It wasn’t CENTCOM, or one of the others.  

It was Salim.  

He looked like he’d just woken up—his eyes were puffy, and his hair slightly mussed—but his gaze was sharp the moment it landed on Eric. No trace of grogginess in his expression. Just quiet alertness. Concern. Readiness.  

Eric’s eyes dropped immediately, back to his lap. He clenched his jaw, trying and failing to even out his breathing. His shoulders shook with each uneven inhale. He couldn’t speak. Could barely think .  

Salim didn’t say anything right away. He just stepped forward and lowered himself down beside Eric with quiet ease, his movements unhurried, unintrusive. He didn’t touch him at first, didn’t press, just was there . And that alone… helped.  

A little.  

The spinning started to slow. The air felt a fraction less thin.  

Eric squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his forehead to his knees again, his breath catching in his throat like it was trying to claw its way out. His chest still felt too tight, his head still loud with phantom screeches, but he wasn’t alone in it now.  

Salim shifted beside him, and then—after a moment of hesitation—he slid an arm around Eric’s shoulders. He didn’t press or grip tight. Just a steady, anchoring presence. A small point of warmth and pressure in the chaos.  

Eric didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. His body didn’t relax much, but it didn’t tense any more either. The contact helped. More than he wanted to admit.  

“Was it a nightmare again?” Salim asked gently, voice rough from sleep, but low and kind.  

Eric nodded, barely. Then, with a wheezing breath that scraped raw up his throat, he managed to get out, “Vampires… tunnels… room was too dark…”  

Salim’s arm stayed steady. “You’re safe now,” he said. “No tunnels here. No vampires. Just a shitty corridor and a friend who can’t sleep.” There was a faint smile in his voice, and though it was clearly forced, the effort mattered.  

Eric didn’t look up. Couldn’t. He pressed his head harder into his knees, as if trying to shut everything out.  

“You’re doing okay,” Salim added, softer now. “Just breathe. I’m here. Nothing’s going to get you. Not here.”  

Eric tried. He really did. He dragged in a slow breath, shaky and shallow, but a bit deeper than before. His hands had stopped trembling quite as violently. The pressure in his chest hadn’t gone—but it was no longer crushing.  

His stomach was still cramping, his body sore and sick and worn down to the bone, but the panic wasn’t winning anymore. Not completely.  

Salim’s presence kept him tethered. And even if it didn’t fix anything, even if the fear and the memories still loomed like shadows at the edge of his mind, Eric could breathe now.  

And that was enough.  

For the moment.  

When Eric had calmed enough to speak without his voice catching in his throat, without the looming threat of tears burning behind his eyes, he slowly lifted his head. His arms were still tight around his knees, but he dragged one hand up to rub at his face, wiping the dampness from his cheeks with the back of his knuckles.  

“Thanks,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.  

Salim gave a quiet hum. “It’s alright,” he said, voice soft. “Nightmares are a bitch. Especially after…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.  

Eric didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes on his lap, staring at his hands like they weren’t his. He was trying not to focus on Salim’s arm around him, on the way it offered comfort instead of judgment, on the fact that it felt good to not be alone. He hated how much he needed that right now.  

The silence stretched between them for a few seconds before Eric broke it again, voice just as quiet as before. “Sorry I woke you.”  

Salim shook his head. “I hadn’t fallen asleep yet,” he said. “It’s alright.”  

Eric gave a faint nod, not trusting himself to respond. His thoughts were still heavy, still too loud. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up—pretending he was fine, holding everything in like it wasn’t tearing him apart. He was so tired of pretending.  

The pounding in his head had grown sharper, a rhythmic throb behind his temples that made his stomach twist. Dehydration, probably. Or the alcohol. Or both. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain—but the darkness behind his lids was worse, a canvas for his memory to paint the vampires’ faces on.  

He opened them again quickly, dragging in a thin, shaky breath. His chest still hurt. His limbs ached. He knew he should get up, stop sitting here like this, like some shattered thing too far gone to pick itself back up—but he couldn’t do it. Not yet.  

He was still trembling, still fighting off the echo of the nightmare in his skull. And moving felt like it might shatter the fragile hold he had on himself.  

So he stayed there, pressed against the wall, with Salim’s quiet presence beside him like the only solid thing in a world that wouldn’t stop spinning.  

When Eric’s heartbeat finally slowed enough that each breath didn’t feel like a battle, when he could close his eyes without instantly seeing claws and fangs and endless dark, he let out a shaky exhale. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t fully gone, but it was bearable now—survivable.  

“You can go back to bed, if you want,” he said, voice rough and hoarse from crying and vomiting and the panic attack that still clung to his ribs like a bruise.  

Salim glanced at him, then shook his head. “I’ll go back when you do.”  

Eric hesitated at that. He didn’t want to keep Salim up—he already felt guilty enough for waking him in the first place, even if Salim said he hadn’t fallen asleep yet. And honestly, he was exhausted. Bone-deep, brain-fogged exhaustion that made his limbs heavy and his thoughts sluggish. He nodded, just once, then pushed his palm against the wall, starting to haul himself up.  

The effort of standing was harder than he wanted to admit. His body wobbled off-balance, his knee threatening to give. Before he could stumble, Salim was there, grabbing his arm to steady him.  

Eric flinched—not from the touch, but from the shame that flared in his chest. He hated that he needed help just to stand. Hated that he’d gotten this bad. But he didn’t shake Salim off. He couldn’t .  

He muttered a quiet, “Thanks,” and, with Salim’s help, hopped back into the room.  

The dark was a relief to his aching head, the dimness soothing compared to the hallway lights—but the quiet brought its own weight. The nightmare still clung to the walls. He tried not to think about it. About them .  

Eric sat down on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall for a few long seconds, then slowly shifted to lay down, flat on his back, eyes locked on the ceiling like it might give him something to hold on to.  

Salim sat on his own bed, watching him. “You alright now?” he asked softly.  

Eric hesitated. Alright was a loaded word—one that hadn’t really applied to him for a long time now. Not since before the temple. Not since Rachel. Not since everything .  

But right now? Right now he wasn’t drowning. Right now the panic had dulled enough that he could breathe. That was something.  

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks.”  

Salim didn’t push. Just gave a nod, then laid down too—this time facing Eric instead of turning away like he had before.  

Eric stared at the ceiling a moment longer, trying to keep his thoughts from circling the drain. Trying to push away the guilt, the fear, the ache.  

Eventually, he turned, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face into the pillow. The fabric smelled like laundry detergent and something faintly metallic—hospital air or military sterility. It grounded him. Just a little.  

He closed his eyes, not because he was ready to sleep again, but because he didn’t have the energy to keep them open anymore.  

His body gave in quicker than he expected. The exhaustion that had clung to his bones for days—weeks—finally won out, dragging him down into a heavy, dreamless sleep. There were no nightmares waiting for him this time, no tunnels or shadows or screeching monsters. Just nothingness. Silence. The kind of sleep that felt more like unconsciousness than rest.  

When he woke, the room was quiet and dim. His head throbbed faintly, but the hangover wasn’t nearly as brutal as he’d feared. Just a dull ache behind his eyes, a dry mouth, a sore throat that reminded him of last night’s panic and bile. He groaned quietly and rolled onto his back, stretching stiff limbs as best he could.  

Across the room, Salim was still asleep, sprawled out haphazardly on his bed. One arm was flung over his eyes, chest rising and falling slowly, evenly.  

Eric stared at him for a moment, debating if he should get up—go get water, find something to occupy himself with, maybe even shower. Do something .  

But the thought of moving made his limbs feel heavier. He was too tired. Not just physically—something deeper than that. Like his soul hadn’t caught up with his body yet.  

So instead, he rolled back onto his side, facing the wall. He shut his eyes again. Not to fall back asleep—he wasn’t sure he could —but just to rest. To be still.  

For once, there was no crushing guilt in that stillness. No urgent, gnawing voice in the back of his head telling him to do more , to be more , to fix it all . Just quiet.  

Just rest.  

Eric lay still as long as he could, but the dryness in his throat had become unbearable—a scratchy, burning irritation that refused to be ignored. With a quiet sigh, he pushed himself upright, blinking blearily at the dim room. He reached for his canteen where it always sat beside the bed.  

Empty.  

Of course it was.  

He let out a low grunt of frustration through clenched teeth, then leaned forward to grab his prosthetic. His movements were slow, deliberate, trying not to make any noise. Salim was still out cold, the kind of deep sleep Eric had seen only a few times since the temple. He didn’t want to be the reason to end that rare peace.  

He clicked the prosthetic into place and stood, steadying himself for a second before slipping quietly out of the room. The hallway outside was still and quiet, dimly lit by the same soft glow that always buzzed in the background. He didn’t bother checking if anyone else was around—it was too early, or maybe too late, he didn’t know anymore.  

His steps were quiet but purposeful as he made his way toward the cafeteria, the canteen loose in his hand. The cold from the corridor floor seeped through the metal of his prosthetic with every step, but he barely noticed it.  

He just needed water. Something clean. Something real. Something that didn’t make his stomach twist or his thoughts spiral.  

The silence followed him the whole way there—comforting this time, rather than oppressive. For once, it didn’t feel like the walls were closing in.  

The peace shattered the instant Eric stepped into the canteen.  

Rachel and Nick were already there, sitting side by side at one of the tables, eating from mismatched bowls—probably cereal, judging by the faint crunching sound and the faint scent of milk in the air. Rachel glanced up as the door opened, her eyes meeting his.  

“Morning, Eric,” she said, her voice neutral but not unkind.  

Eric swallowed down the sudden spike of emotion clawing at his throat and forced his voice to stay even. “Morning.”  

He kept his gaze down as he crossed to the water dispenser, focusing on the mundane act of unscrewing his canteen’s cap. The sound of water filling the container was the only thing he could concentrate on, a thin barrier between him and the ache quietly carving itself through his chest. He didn’t look at them—couldn’t. Not when every glance was another reminder of everything he’d lost, everything that had slipped through his fingers like dust.  

The door opened again, and Jason stepped in, stretching slightly as he made his way toward the small kitchenette beside Eric. He grabbed a bowl and started pouring cereal, moving with the lazy ease of someone who hadn’t spent the night being hunted by nightmares.  

“Morning,” Jason said.  

Eric nodded. “Morning,” he replied, voice clipped.  

He capped his canteen and took a long swig, the cold water burning slightly down his raw throat. He could feel Rachel and Nick still talking behind him, a low murmur he couldn’t tune out fast enough. He turned on his heel before the nausea could come crawling back and made for the exit, not trusting himself to look at any of them again.  

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, he exhaled shakily.  

He didn’t know where he was going—nowhere, probably—but his feet carried him anyway, out of the canteen and down the familiar corridors, until he found himself back at the barracks door. He hesitated only briefly before slipping inside.  

It was still quiet. Salim was awake now, sitting on his bed and thumbing through the same book from the night before. He glanced up as Eric entered but didn’t say anything, and Eric was grateful for it.  

Eric sat on the edge of his bed, then let himself fall back with a heavy thump, staring blankly at the ceiling like it might have answers he hadn’t already tried to wring from himself. The ache in his chest was still there, dull and lingering, but here—at least for now—it didn’t feel like it was going to consume him.  

Here, he could pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist for a little while longer.  

The silence stretched a little too long before Salim finally spoke.  

“You alright?”  

Eric hesitated. The automatic response hovered on his tongue before he pushed it out with a breath. “I’m fine.”  

It was a lie, of course, but one that he didn’t have the energy to explain. He didn’t want to dig into the mess in his chest—the ache that came from hearing Rachel’s voice and seeing Nick beside her. It was easier to pretend it didn’t exist, easier to pretend he wasn’t slowly unraveling every time he saw them together.  

Salim didn’t push. “I’m gonna go get some breakfast soon,” he said casually. “If you want to come.”  

Eric almost winced at the thought. Facing the canteen again, facing them again—he couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. “I already ate,” he said instead, and then added quickly, “I was thinking about taking a shower.”  

Salim nodded like he believed him, though Eric had the uncomfortable feeling he didn’t. “Alright,” he said, standing and stretching his arms over his head. “Catch you later, then.”  

Not wanting to be left alone with his thoughts in the dim, stale air of the barracks, Eric stood too, shifting his weight slightly as he adjusted his prosthetic. He followed Salim to the door, meaning to head toward the showers, but as they stepped into the hallway, Jason appeared from the other direction.  

“Morning,” Jason said, glancing between them.  

“Morning,” Salim replied, casual as ever.  

“Off to grab some food?” Jason asked, eyeing Salim’s empty hands.  

“Yeah,” Salim replied with a small shrug. “Didn’t mean to sleep in so late.”  

Jason’s gaze flicked to Eric hovering behind him. “Eric not going with you?”  

Salim didn’t miss a beat. “Said he already ate.”  

And just like that, Eric knew the lie was about to catch up to him.  

Jason tilted his head, brow furrowing. “Really? I just saw him a few minutes ago getting water. Must’ve eaten earlier then.” He shrugged, apparently letting it go, and turned to keep walking.  

Eric stood rigid in the doorway, his jaw tightening. He could feel Salim turn to look at him, and when he glanced over, the raised eyebrow said it all.  

“I’m not hungry,” Eric muttered, even though the hollowness in his gut told a different story. The words sounded weak even to him.  

Salim didn’t say anything—just kept giving him that same look.  

Eric sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. I’ll come.”  

Salim nodded, calm and unsurprised. “Good.”  

He turned and started down the corridor without another word. Eric followed reluctantly, dragging his feet just a little. He wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed at being caught in a lie or at himself for lying in the first place. Either way, the knot in his chest only tightened as they walked, the weight of everything still pressing down, heavier than it had been even a few minutes ago.  

Eric hadn’t meant to make it this hard on himself. It would’ve been easier to just eat a small bowl of cereal when Salim asked, then excuse himself politely and move on. But no—he had to lie first, get caught, then drag himself through the guilt of it like barbed wire.  

By the time they stepped into the canteen, the tension in his chest was a pulsing weight. But when he saw the space was empty—Rachel and Nick gone—a small, fragile sense of relief bloomed in his chest. A miracle. He didn’t question it.  

Eric followed Salim to the kitchen and reluctantly began making a bowl of cereal. He wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing—just going through the motions—and by the time he finished pouring, the bowl was almost overflowing. Too much. Way too much. But it was done now. He couldn’t just scrape it back into the box.  

He sat at the bench, opposite Salim, who was quietly eating his own breakfast. Eric’s stomach twisted at the sight of the food, but he forced himself to take a bite. Then another. Chew. Swallow. He didn’t let himself think. Didn’t let himself stop.  

His mind drifted, fogged over as he stared into the bowl, not even tasting what he was eating. He blinked—and the bowl was empty. His breath caught. He hadn’t even noticed himself eating it all.  

The realization made his stomach cramp, heavy and full in a way that made his skin crawl. The fullness felt like a violation, a failure, a loss of control. Guilt clawed up his throat, thick and choking.  

He stood abruptly, grabbed the bowl with shaking hands, and carried it over to the sink. He rinsed it off, set it aside to dry, and mumbled, “I’m gonna go shower.”  

Salim, scraping the last spoonful from his bowl, nodded. “Alright. I’ll head that way too, once I wash up.”  

Eric nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He stepped out of the canteen and let the door fall shut behind him. Then he moved fast. Almost ran. His boots echoed in the corridor as he made a beeline for the bathroom.  

His hands were already trembling as he stepped inside. He didn’t even make it fully to the toilet before his fingers were down his throat. He gagged once, then again—and then everything came up. All of it. He collapsed against the wall beside the toilet, chest heaving, mouth sour with bile. His throat burned, and tears clung to his lashes, but a strange calm settled over him. Hollow. Clean. In control again.  

He flushed the toilet, rinsed his hands under scalding water, scrubbing hard at his knuckles. The evidence had to be gone.  

Eric grabbed a towel from the stack and set it outside the farthest shower cubicle. His clothes were peeled off next, dropped into the laundry chute with a hollow thunk , and he tossed the used bandages in the trash. Then he stepped into the cubicle and closed the door behind him.  

He sat on the small shower bench, unclipped his prosthetic, and slid it outside beside the towel. The floor was cold against his skin. He reached for the handle and turned the water on. The noise was a comfort—white noise that dulled everything else.  

He had barely tilted his head back into the stream when the door to the bathroom creaked open. Heavy footsteps followed—measured, familiar. Salim.  

Eric stiffened for a heartbeat, but didn’t speak. The last thing he wanted was conversation. At least he’d gotten rid of the evidence in time.  

Salim didn’t say anything either. Just moved quietly through the space, the soft clatter of bowl against sink echoing, then the muffled thump of clothes into the chute. The silence stretched again, filled only with the rush of water. Eric closed his eyes, leaned back against the wall, and focused on the heat as it hit his skin.  

Maybe—just maybe—he could pretend none of this had happened. At least for a little while.  

Eric scrubbed at his skin with a harsh intensity, as if he could scrub away everything else—the exhaustion, the guilt, the hollow ache in his chest. He was fast, efficient, barely careful around the still-healing wounds on his arm and leg. The scabs stung when he passed the cloth over them, but he didn’t flinch. Pain was better than the fog. Pain made him feel real .  

He had to move quickly. He didn’t want Salim seeing him like this. Didn't want to risk the glance that might turn into a frown, or worse, another quiet conversation about eating, about getting better. Eric couldn’t stomach that—not today.  

He turned the water off and grabbed his towel, drying off just enough to not drip before wrapping it tightly around his waist. He stepped carefully out of the cubicle, hopping over to the bench with practiced ease and sitting down with a quiet grunt of effort. His body still ached—exhausted muscles, fragile joints, an empty stomach that churned with leftover acid.  

He pulled on a shirt first, not bothering with bandages. The wounds were mostly scabbed over now anyway, and the long sleeves would cover them. He didn’t want to look at them. Didn't want the reminder. Next came his boxers, then pants, dragging them on with the same rushed motion as everything else.  

He had just started reattaching his prosthetic when he heard the clack of the water shutting off from Salim’s shower. Eric inhaled slowly through his nose, trying to calm the jitter in his chest. He grabbed his towel again and started rubbing at his damp hair, drying it messily.  

A moment later, Salim stepped out of his cubicle, towel low on his waist, moving casually as he crossed the space to grab his clean clothes. Eric kept his gaze fixed on the ground, towel still working through his hair, but despite his best efforts, his eyes flicked upward for a second—just a second.  

Salim’s chest was lean, scarred, defined. Strong. Real.  

Eric yanked his gaze away immediately, jaw clenching. Don’t be fucking weird. He’d seen other guys shower and change a hundred times back in CENTCOM. This was no different. He wasn’t some teenager—he knew how to keep it professional.  

He stood up, muttering something incoherent under his breath, and tossed his towel into the laundry chute. Then he ran his hands through his damp hair, trying to smooth it down, though it stuck up in awkward places. He didn’t bother fixing it too much. Didn’t really matter.  

He turned to grab his boots, focused on the motion, on staying busy—on not thinking.  

Eric finished tying the laces on his boots, fingers moving automatically, worn leather pulling tight beneath his hands. When he glanced up, Salim was still seated across from him, just finishing tying his own. Eric had half a mind to get up and leave—head to the barracks, lie down, spiral a little in private—but something stopped him.  

He didn’t really want to be alone. Not with his thoughts. Not when his body still felt hollow, his mind frayed at the edges. As much as part of him wanted to be alone, the thought of sitting in silence, trapped with his thoughts again, made his stomach twist.  

Salim was quiet, steady. Comforting, even if he didn’t say much.  

So Eric stayed.  

Salim straightened, glancing over at him with a small tilt of his head. “You want to go to the games room or something?” he asked, casual but not indifferent.  

Eric paused a beat, then nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”  

They both stood, and Salim led the way out the door, his gait steady and quiet. Eric trailed behind him, dragging just slightly, not because he didn’t want to go, but because he was tired—bone-deep, soul-deep tired. Like every step was a quiet act of resistance against the weight of everything he carried.  

But the silence between them wasn’t heavy. Wasn’t awkward. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything from him. And maybe that was why Eric followed—why he didn’t make an excuse or veer off to disappear somewhere.  

He didn’t have the energy to fight himself right now. And maybe, for once, he didn’t need to.  

The hallway was quiet as they walked, and Eric didn’t mind the silence. It was the first time in what felt like days that it wasn’t oppressive.  

They reached the game room in companionable silence, the soft hum of overhead lights and the low whirr of a distant air vent the only sounds. Salim headed straight for the shelf of board games, and Eric followed, drifting a half step behind and just to his side, his hands stuffed into his pockets.  

Salim scanned the shelves, then pointed to the worn box housing the chess set. “Want to play?”  

Eric hesitated for a beat, then nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”  

Salim pulled the box free and walked it over to the coffee table, setting it down with practiced ease. Eric sank onto the couch opposite, his body moving stiffly, hands folding in his lap, fingers knotting together.  

Salim upended the box, letting the pieces spill out onto the table with a soft clatter. Eric leaned forward and began methodically placing the pieces on his side of the board. His motions were steady, but a little too precise, like he was focusing harder than the task demanded. He didn’t particularly like chess—never had the patience for it—but it was something to concentrate on, something to think about that wasn’t nightmares or hangovers or food or the way his chest ached when Rachel looked at him like a stranger.  

He watched Salim as he set up his own side, calm and unfazed as ever, like he was immune to the chaos that kept whirling in Eric’s head. Maybe that was part of why Eric didn’t mind being around him—Salim didn’t look at him like he was broken, didn’t talk to him like he was fragile. He just was . Steady. Solid.  

And right now, that was enough.  

Eric finished placing his final pawn and leaned back a little, hands returning to his lap. “You want white or black?” he asked, voice quiet.  

Salim gave a small smirk. “I’ll let you choose. Might give me an advantage.”  

Eric huffed something close to a laugh. “Alright. I’ll take white, then.” He moved a pawn forward, simple and safe, and tried not to think about anything else.  

The first game didn’t last long. Eric was never particularly good at chess—never had the patience for long-term strategy, not when his thoughts were constantly racing ahead to things that weren’t on the board. But he was right about one thing: it stopped him from overthinking. He couldn’t spiral when he was too focused on remembering what pieces could move where, trying to guess what Salim might do next.  

Salim won without much effort, but he didn’t gloat, didn’t even comment on it—just smiled slightly and began resetting the board.  

Eric helped, sliding pawns and bishops back into place, and found himself saying, “Again?”  

Salim nodded. “Of course.”  

They played another. Eric lost again, but he lasted longer this time. The game stretched out, their conversation quiet and sparse between moves, never pressing. Something about the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Maybe it was the soft sounds of pieces clicking on the board, or the way Salim sometimes leaned back and studied the board like it mattered, like they weren’t just two exhausted men passing time in a locked-down facility.  

They reset the board again.  

By the third game, Eric was starting to get the rhythm of it, finding patterns, making moves that weren’t immediately terrible. He surprised himself when he cornered Salim’s king after a quiet, tense endgame.  

Salim blinked down at the board and then let out a soft chuckle. “Well, would you look at that.”  

Eric stared, disbelieving. “Did I just… win?”  

Salim leaned back with a smirk. “You did.”  

Eric huffed a laugh and rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed but pleased. “Guess even a broken clock’s right twice a day.”  

“I think that was more than luck,” Salim said, already resetting the board. “You’re learning.”  

Eric shrugged, but there was the faintest ghost of a smile on his face. Maybe he didn’t hate chess as much as he thought. Maybe it was just the company. Or maybe, here in this cold, silent place where everything else felt so heavy, the simplicity of black and white squares and clearly defined rules was exactly what he needed.  

They played a few more rounds—Eric losing most, winning one more by a fluke he couldn’t replicate if he tried. But it was something. And it distracted him, which was the important part.  

After another game ended, Salim leaned back and glanced at the clock. “Almost noon,” he said, then looked over at Eric. “You want to go get some lunch?”  

Eric shook his head. “Still full from breakfast,” he lied, voice even. “I’ll grab something later. But I’ll come with you.”  

Salim gave him a small smile. “Alright.” He stood and Eric followed, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs. His stomach gave a sharp cramp, hollow and aching, and he bit the inside of his cheek. He thought by now he’d have gotten used to the constant hunger, but he hadn’t. It never got easier—just more familiar.  

They walked together down the hall, Salim talking about something light—he always managed to find something to talk about. Eric tried his best to follow along, answering when it felt right, nodding when his mind slipped too far into itself. He appreciated that Salim didn’t seem to expect more than that.  

When they stepped into the canteen, the familiar pressure settled instantly in Eric’s chest. Rachel, Nick, and Jason were already there, clustered around one side of the table, eating and talking. Eric forced his eyes away from them and crossed to the water dispenser, filling a cup to give his hands something to do.  

After a moment’s hesitation, he reached into the cupboard and grabbed a protein bar. He slid it into his pocket, telling himself he’d eat it later. He actually meant it this time. He hadn’t kept down breakfast, and he knew his body needed something, even if he didn’t want it. Even if the thought made his stomach turn.  

He turned from the counter and headed for the table. The only seat left was across from Salim, unfortunately right beside Rachel. It was either that or sit across from Nick. He chose the lesser of two evils.  

Rachel didn’t even glance his way as he sat. She was mid-conversation with Jason and Nick, her laugh too loud in his ear, her voice too bright. It sent a pang through his chest, sharp and aching. He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t.  

Eric wrapped both hands around his cup of water, hiding the way his fingers trembled, trying to focus on the feel of the cool condensation against his skin. His gut twisted, and his thoughts spiraled. Sitting here, next to her, listening to her laugh and talk like nothing had ever happened between them—it felt like dying slowly. Quietly. Painfully.  

He hated this. Hated the hollow ache gnawing at his insides. Hated the silence in his chest where her voice used to be. Hated that he’d lost the one thing that had meant something to him, and that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find his way back to it.  

He stayed quiet, staring down into his water, letting their conversation pass over him like static. Just trying to breathe. Just trying to exist.  

Eventually, Eric couldn’t take it anymore.  

The sound of Rachel’s laugh. The warmth in her voice that wasn’t meant for him anymore. The ache in his chest that only grew heavier with every second he sat there. It all became too much.  

He stood abruptly, the scrape of the bench legs against the floor loud in his ears, but he didn’t care. He didn’t mutter an excuse. Didn’t look at anyone. He just turned and walked out.  

Only Salim noticed. His eyes followed Eric to the door, concern in his expression—but he didn’t get up. He didn’t follow. He must have known that Eric didn’t want company. Not this time.  

Eric walked back to the barracks on autopilot, his steps quicker than they needed to be, chest tightening with every turn down the hallway. When he reached the room, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it, hands clenched into fists at his sides.  

Then, slowly, he slid down the wall, knees bending, back dragging along the surface until he was sitting on the floor with his arms around his legs. His breath hitched, once, twice—and then the tears broke free.  

He buried his face in his knees, muffling the sobs that tore out of him, raw and aching. His shoulders shook, body curling in on itself like he could fold away from the pain. He missed her. God, he missed her so much.  

Rachel wasn’t dead. She was right there, alive, well, happy even. But she was still gone. Gone in every way that mattered. Gone from his arms. Gone from his future. Gone from the fragile hope he used to hold onto, back when things still felt salvageable.  

He loved her more than anything. More than himself. Always had. And losing her—really, truly losing her—felt like someone had reached inside his chest and hollowed him out.  

The worst part was knowing it was his fault. That there was no fixing it. That no amount of trying, no apology, no sacrifice, would bring back what they’d had. What he’d lost.  

He held his knees tighter, sobbing harder now, choking on every breath. Mourning his marriage like a death. Mourning Rachel like a ghost. Mourning the only thing that had kept him grounded in this nightmare of a world.  

Without her, he didn’t know how to keep going.  

Didn’t know if he even wanted to.  

Eric sobbed until his lungs burned, until he was gasping more than breathing, every breath a stuttering wheeze through clenched teeth and a torn-up throat. His face was soaked, his eyes stung, his chest ached like something had been broken open inside him and left to rot in the open air.  

Eventually, the tears stopped—not because he felt any better, but because he had nothing left to give. He was dry, empty, scraped out from the inside. The pain didn’t go away, didn’t fade. It just sat there, quiet now, like coals instead of flames. No less dangerous. Just slower. He sat against the wall, trembling, arms still wrapped around his knees like if he let go, he’d fall apart entirely.  

Then, after a long, still moment, he pushed himself up.  

His limbs felt heavy. His head pounded. But he stood anyway, staggering slightly, dragging himself across the room like a man three times his age. He didn’t bother to wipe the tear streaks from his face. What was the point?  

He collapsed onto the bed and curled up, knees to his chest, arms wound tight around himself. He didn’t take off the prosthetic—didn’t even try. He just lay there, letting the weight of it dig into the mattress, feeling its cold, awkward presence pressing against his side. It hurt, a dull throb through his whole leg, but he didn’t care.  

He yanked the blanket over himself, cocooning himself in it like it could keep the rest of the world out. He buried his face in the pillow, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut. He wasn’t crying anymore, but the threat of it still lingered, sitting heavy in his chest, tightening his throat.  

He tried not to let it break through again. Tried not to sob again. Tried not to think. Not to feel. Just to be still, and quiet, and alone.  

The blanket muffled the sounds around him, made the room feel smaller, safer somehow. But it didn’t make the pain go away.  

Nothing did.  

Eric lay there until the knot in his chest loosened enough that he could breathe without the threat of tears rising again. His eyes still burned, his body still ached with that exhausted, hollow throb that always followed crying like that. But he was composed now—at least enough to sit up.  

He hated this. Hated how every time he saw Rachel, even from across a room, it wrecked him. Every conversation she had with Nick, every glance that passed over him like he wasn’t even there—it all felt like another wound reopening. He couldn’t take it much longer.  

He unwrapped the blanket from around himself and sat up properly. The familiar weight of the protein bar in his pocket shifted as he moved. He pressed his hand against it, debating pulling it out, opening it, maybe taking a bite just to settle the ache in his stomach. But he couldn’t bring himself to. Not now. Not like this. Instead, he left it there, a quiet reminder he told himself he might actually listen to later.  

He ran a hand down his face. The tear tracks were dry now, but they’d left behind that puffy tightness in his skin, a soreness in his eyes. He sighed and pushed himself to his feet, running a hand through his hair to try and make himself look less like a wreck. Then, without letting himself think too hard, he left the barracks.  

The walk to the bathroom was slow. His legs felt heavy, like each step took more effort than it should. When he pushed open the door, the quiet sound of someone inside one of the stalls reached his ears. He didn’t care. He just went to the sink and turned on the tap, splashing cold water on his face. It felt like a slap, but it helped. He scrubbed at his cheeks, trying to wipe away the remnants of what he’d just gone through, trying to look normal—like a man who hadn’t just broken down alone in the dark.  

A toilet flushed behind him, and a moment later Salim stepped out of the stall. Of course it was Salim. Eric wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than the alternatives. He walked over to the sink beside Eric and began washing his hands. Eric avoided looking at him, focusing instead on the water swirling down the drain.  

Salim glanced sideways at him. “You alright?”  

Eric's voice cracked as he said, “Yeah.” It came out hoarse, ruined from the crying. He winced and cleared his throat quickly, trying to force the rawness out of it, to make himself sound like someone who hadn’t just spent an hour sobbing into a pillow.  

Salim didn’t say anything for a second. He just nodded, slowly, then reached for the soap.  

Eric stared at his reflection in the mirror, not liking what he saw—bloodshot eyes, pale skin, jaw tight with the effort of keeping everything locked inside. But he nodded back, almost absently, and reached to turn the water up.  

Salim didn’t say anything for a moment, just washed his hands in silence beside Eric. The room was quiet except for the running water and the soft hum of the lights overhead. Eric kept his eyes fixed on the sink, watching the water swirl down the drain, as if staring hard enough would pull him out of his own head.  

Eventually, Salim dried his hands and leaned slightly against the sink, looking at Eric in the mirror. “You don’t have to say you’re alright if you’re not,” he said quietly.  

Eric let out a slow breath through his nose. His throat still felt raw, his chest hollow and bruised. “Yeah, well…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “I’m fine enough.”  

Salim gave him a look—somewhere between skeptical and understanding—but didn’t press. “You disappeared pretty fast.”  

Eric nodded. “I just needed some air.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to ground himself. “Didn’t mean to be rude.”  

“You weren’t.” Salim reached for a paper towel, dried his hands a little more thoroughly. “They didn’t even notice you left. Except me.”  

That landed heavier than Eric expected it to. He didn’t know if it was meant to make him feel seen or forgotten. Maybe both. He nodded again, silently.  

Salim tossed the towel in the bin, then glanced over at him once more. “You want to walk for a bit? Might help. Get out of your head.”  

Eric hesitated, then nodded. He didn’t trust himself to say much—his voice still felt too thin, too fragile—but the idea of sitting alone again was unbearable.  

They stepped out of the bathroom together, the corridor cooler than Eric expected. He shoved his hands into his pockets, fingers brushing the edge of the unopened protein bar. He didn’t pull it out.  

He didn’t know where they were walking. He didn’t care. Just being beside someone who wasn’t asking too many questions was enough for now. Enough not to fall apart again.  

They walked in slow loops around the circular corridor, past the same identical doors Eric had memorized weeks ago—one for each of the barracks, one for the canteen, one for the briefing room, one for the damn games room. The rhythm of walking, the dull scuff of boots on tile, gave him something to cling to. It grounded him just enough.  

Salim spoke, lightly, casually, telling some story about his son—Zain—trying to outsmart a bedtime rule by setting up a “trap” in the hallway, convinced his dad would fall for it. Eric let out a quiet chuckle at the right moment, a real one, and offered a small, crooked smile. He forced himself to respond here and there, short sentences, a few words at a time. Enough to keep the conversation alive. Enough to keep the silence from swallowing him.  

It was easier than it should’ve been. Normally, he’d be bristling at the vulnerability, the shame of being seen like this. Every part of him wanted to shove it back down, put the mask on, keep pretending. But Salim wasn’t prying. He wasn’t looking at Eric like he was broken glass. He wasn’t pitying him.  

And that… that was something Eric hadn’t known he needed.  

Salim wasn’t acting like Eric was some fragile thing he had to tiptoe around. He wasn’t ignoring the pain either—he saw it, at least part of it—but didn’t treat it like it made Eric any less of a person. It wasn’t some awkward weight between them.  

Just quiet understanding. Like a calm hand on a frayed rope.  

Eric surprised himself by not resenting it.  

After a while, they reached one of the corners of the corridor again and slowed to a stop. Salim leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely. Eric stood beside him, arms still jammed into his pockets, fingers tapping nervously against the protein bar.  

Salim didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, quiet, comfortable in the silence.  

Eric finally broke it, voice quiet. “Thanks, by the way.”  

Salim looked over, brow raised slightly.  

“For… just talking,” Eric said. “Not treating me like I’m... I don’t know. Shattered glass or something.”  

Salim gave a small, warm huff of amusement. “Didn’t think you’d appreciate that.”  

Eric shrugged, gaze fixed on the floor. “Didn’t think I’d appreciate this either.”  

Salim’s voice was gentle. “We’ve all got our damage, Eric. Doesn’t make you any less.”  

Eric nodded once. Swallowed hard. He didn’t say anything more, but he stayed where he was, beside Salim, in that quiet corner of the world where—for just a minute—he didn’t feel like he had to run from everything.  

Chapter Text

The games room was quiet save for the occasional shuffle of cards and the soft rustle of a turning page. Jason sat at the small table, flipping through a deck, playing some solo card game he hadn’t named. Salim sat nearby in one of the armchairs, reading a thick novel, brow occasionally furrowing at a line or phrase. Eric sat curled up at the end of the couch, a paperback resting open in his lap, but his eyes weren’t moving across the page.  

He hadn’t turned it in almost twenty minutes.  

He was too on edge to focus—his thoughts circling the drain again, knotted tight in his gut alongside the persistent emptiness and ache of hunger. It had been gnawing at him all afternoon, but just the idea of eating made his chest tighten. Still, he knew he had to try. If he didn’t eat something , Salim would eventually push. And Eric didn’t have the energy to come up with another excuse.  

He set the book aside with careful quiet and stood. Salim glanced over the top of his novel.  

“Bathroom,” Eric mumbled before the question could come.  

Salim nodded and went back to reading.  

Eric slipped out of the room, but as soon as the door shut behind him, he turned the opposite direction. He made his way to the barracks, footsteps soft and deliberate, and eased the door open. The room was empty, obviously. Good.  

He sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled the protein bar out of his pocket. The wrapper crackled in his hands as he unwrapped it. Just the sight of it turned his stomach, made bile rise in the back of his throat—but he forced himself to take a small bite. It was dry and chalky, but he chewed it anyway, jaw tight, and swallowed.  

It sat in his stomach like a stone.  

He waited. When the cramping didn’t immediately spike, he took another bite. Then another. Slowly, with long pauses between, he finished the whole thing. By the end, his hands were trembling, and his jaw ached from how tightly he’d been clenching it. The guilt followed like clockwork, sharp and suffocating, crawling down his spine like cold sweat. He stared at the empty wrapper in his hand and swallowed hard against the urge to run to the bathroom and get rid of it all.  

Instead, he laid back on the bed, breathing slow, trying not to panic. He stared at the ceiling, let the silence press into him. The guilt didn’t leave—but it dulled. Enough to bear.  

Eventually, he sat up again. Took a long sip from his canteen, then shoved the wrapper into his pocket and stood. The moment he stepped into the hallway, he knew he had to be careful. If he saw Salim now, if Salim asked if he’d eaten, and Eric hesitated… he’d end up eating again just to keep the lie, and then he would lose the protein bar with the rest of it.  

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, stood, and slipped back out of the barracks.  

The games room was empty when he returned. Jason and Salim were gone, and judging by the time, Eric figured they’d gone to the canteen for dinner.  

He hesitated.  

He knew if he ran into Salim now, he’d be cornered into eating dinner. Salim would ask. He’d encourage. And if Eric caved, it’d all come back up—protein bar included. That bar was the only thing in his body that he’d kept down in a while. He couldn’t lose it now.  

So, he turned around and headed in the opposite direction, winding through the halls with the ease of repetition, until he came to the briefing room.  

The door creaked softly as he stepped inside. It smelled faintly of old paper, disinfectant, and stale beer. The bottles from before were still scattered near the wall, untouched. No one else ever came in here. That suited Eric just fine.  

He shut the door behind him and sank into one of the chairs, stretching out his legs and letting his head fall back against the wall. In this room, there was no Rachel and Nick, no Jason, no Salim gently coaxing him toward food, no judgment. Just quiet.  

Just the hum of the vents and the familiar ache of being alone with himself.  

Eric waited in the quiet of the briefing room, slouched in the chair, one arm draped over his stomach. The stillness gave him space to think, though he didn’t want to. He stared at the floor, letting time blur until the edges of the world softened and his thoughts began to fog. The last slivers of sunlight through the blinds had long since disappeared, replaced by the low hum of fluorescent lights and the weight of fatigue pulling at his limbs.  

He figured it was late enough now. Salim would have eaten, finished up, maybe even gone to his bunk. It had been hours since Eric last saw him, and the heavy guilt from earlier—the nausea, the spiral—had passed sometime during his half-doze.  

He pushed himself up, back stiff from the chair, and stretched, arms over his head until his shoulders popped. As he shifted, his gaze fell on the clutter in the corner—those same beer bottles from before, still where he’d left them.  

A hollow ache settled in his chest. He knew he shouldn’t. Knew this wasn’t the way. But he wanted it.  

He wanted the silence.  

He wanted to not feel.  

He wanted to forget.  

Rachel’s voice still echoed in the back of his mind, even though she hadn’t spoken to him properly in days. Even though she hadn’t looked at him in days. Just through him.  

He left the room, not bothering to glance around, walking through the corridors like a ghost. The canteen lights were still on when he got there, but the place was deserted. Chairs pushed in, trays stacked. Not a single sound besides the hum of the fridge.  

Eric went straight to the fridge and opened it. Grabbed four beers. Stared at them. Then grabbed two more. Six in total. Maybe it was too many. But he didn’t really care. He’d given up caring about what was too much a long time ago.  

He tucked them into the crook of his arm and left, retracing his steps through the quiet base until he was back in the briefing room. The door clicked shut behind him, locking the world out.  

He slumped back into the chair, lined the beers up neatly on the table like soldiers in formation, and popped the cap off the first one.  

It tasted like piss. Still. But it went down easier this time. Easier than it used to. He didn’t flinch at the bitterness anymore. Maybe that was worse. Maybe that meant he was getting used to it.  

Or maybe he just didn’t care anymore.  

He took another sip. Let the warmth start to bloom in his chest, chasing away the gnawing cold under his ribs. The silence in his head didn’t last long—never did—but the alcohol softened the edges, made the thoughts just a little harder to hear.  

He hated this.  

Hated that this was his new routine.  

Survive the day. Pretend he was fine.  

Lie through his teeth, fake smiles, fake appetite, fake strength.  

Then come here, alone, to drink until the world dulled.  

Rinse. Repeat.  

He took another drink. The bottle clicked against the table as he set it down, harder than he meant to.  

He didn’t even flinch.  

It wasn’t long before the last bottle joined the others—empty, hollow, and clinking softly as Eric set it down with a clumsy hand. Six. He wasn’t counting them as he drank, not really, but his mind kept a fuzzy tally in the background, just enough for him to know he’d crossed that line where sobriety blurred into nothingness.  

The alcohol hit harder than usual. It always did now. He was a lightweight on a good day, and this wasn’t one of them. With barely anything in his stomach to slow the burn, it surged through him like fire, dulling everything it touched—shame, grief, hunger, heartbreak.  

He slumped in the chair, leaning to one side, head lolling slightly. His eyes were half-lidded, gaze unfocused, trained vaguely on the far wall like it held some secret only he could see. A faint, crooked smile tugged at his lips. Not joy, not even amusement. Just…relief.  

His thoughts had gone quiet.  

Finally.  

No Rachel. No Nick. No memories of gunfire and blood.  

No ache in his chest. No guilt screaming that he should’ve been better, done better.  

No voice whispering he wasn’t worth saving.  

He existed in the silence now, floating in the haze, the sharp edges of the world softened by alcohol and apathy. He could just be here, in this moment, without feeling so much.  

A breath left him, half a chuckle and half a sigh, like the exhaustion of everything he’d carried was finally giving up on him too. His arm dangled over the side of the chair, fingers brushing the floor, loose and relaxed.  

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt relaxed. Not like this. Not in any way that didn’t feel like a lie.  

For now, it was quiet. For now, the pain was muffled.  

He closed his eyes.  

And let the silence hold him.  

The creak of the door opening barely registered in Eric’s haze, his brain swimming somewhere between fog and numbness. He blinked his eyes open slowly, the dim lighting of the room blurring as his vision struggled to focus. Eventually, a figure sharpened into view—Salim, standing in the doorway with a furrowed brow and the door now shut behind him.  

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Salim said, his voice a low mix of frustration and concern.  

Eric blinked lazily at him, slurring, “Been here for ages.”  

Salim stepped further in, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight before him. “You’re drunk.”  

Eric gave a crooked grin, attempting to straighten in the chair, though his body still leaned heavily to one side. “You want a beer? There’s probably some left.”  

“No, I don’t want one,” Salim snapped. “And you shouldn’t be having them either.”  

Eric tilted his head, his eyes glassy, voice airy and loose. “What’s the big deal?”  

Salim exhaled sharply, jaw tight. “The big deal is you getting drunk out of your mind every night and not realizing how bad that is.”  

Eric gave a lopsided shrug, the motion uncoordinated, just a sloppy lift of one shoulder. “Makes the thoughts stop.”  

Salim moved closer, eyes scanning the beer bottles on the floor, then the ones lined up on the table. “Jesus, Eric… did you drink all of them tonight?”  

Eric squinted at the bottles, then shook his head—instantly regretting it as the room spun—and leaned further to the side, barely catching himself before he tipped out of the chair. “Nah. Floor ones are from yesterday.”  

Another sigh. Salim stepped forward, crouched slightly, and hooked his arms under Eric’s. “Alright, you’re going to bed.”  

Eric grumbled under his breath, but his limbs were too heavy and uncooperative to resist. His legs stumbled more than stepped as Salim half-dragged, half-carried him through the corridor, one arm locked tightly around Eric’s to keep him upright.  

By the time they reached the barracks, Eric was slurring nonsense, still trying to protest. Salim guided him to his bed and let him flop backward onto the pillows in a sprawl, arms thrown wide like he’d landed there by accident.  

Salim sat down on his own bed across the room, rubbing his hand down his face in quiet frustration before glancing up. “Don’t forget to take your leg off.”  

Eric blinked slowly, then gave another drunken smile. “Right,” he mumbled, dragging himself upright with great effort. His fingers moved clumsily over the prosthetic, fumbling with the release before finally getting it off. The moment it was off and set beside the bed, he collapsed again with a sigh, flopping onto his stomach and pressing his face into the pillow.  

Salim watched him for a moment, then shook his head and said quietly, “You’ve gotta stop doing this, Eric. You need to start taking care of yourself.”  

Eric turned his head slightly, his expression unfocused and far-off, but somehow still content. “I feel great,” he slurred.  

Salim gave a small huff of disbelief. “You’re too drunk for me to get a proper conversation out of you, aren’t you?”  

Eric just grinned against the pillow.  

Another sigh. Salim leaned forward and pulled the blanket up over Eric’s shoulders, tugging it gently until it covered him properly.  

A moment passed before Eric mumbled something, voice muffled by the pillow. “Thank you.”  

Salim sat back down slowly, watching him for a moment longer before replying. “Just go to sleep, Eric.”  

Eric was already drifting, his body sinking deeper into the mattress, limbs loose and heavy under the blanket. The alcohol buzz softened the world around him, blurring the edges until nothing felt sharp anymore. His thoughts were slow and quiet, like gentle waves lapping at a distant shore.  

As he lay there, the last flicker of clarity that passed through his mind wasn’t guilt or pain or the usual churn of self-hatred.  

It was Salim.  

How he’d come looking for him. How he hadn’t yelled or scolded him like Eric might have expected. How he didn’t treat him like a screw-up, even when Eric was sprawled drunk in a chair, surrounded by empty bottles. Salim had just helped him up, brought him to bed, pulled the blanket over his shoulders like it meant something.  

That quiet, steady concern. No judgment. Just… care.  

It was nice.  

That was his final thought before the weight of exhaustion and alcohol pulled him under completely—how nice Salim was being. How it had been so long since anyone had taken care of him like that.  

Chapter Text

When Eric woke, it felt like his skull was trying to split open from the inside. His head throbbed with every heartbeat, and the dim light seeping into the room made his eyes ache. He blinked one eye open, immediately regretted it, and groaned as he buried his face deeper into the pillow. His mouth was dry, his stomach was churning—protesting the six beers on an empty gut—and he had to breathe slow and deep just to keep himself from throwing up.  

From across the room came a low, amused chuckle.  

Eric cracked one bloodshot eye open again, just enough to glare in the direction of the sound.  

Salim was sitting on his own bed, leaned back against the headboard, arms folded across his chest and a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. He looked far too smug for this early in the morning.  

"It's not funny," Eric mumbled into the pillow, voice rough and muffled.  

"It kind of is," Salim said. "You brought this on yourself."  

Eric groaned louder, dragging the blanket up over his head like it might shield him from the sound of Salim’s voice and the migraine drilling through his skull. "It was a good idea at the time."  

"It’s never a good idea," Salim replied dryly.  

Eric shifted slightly under the covers, muttering something unintelligible, but what came out sounded suspiciously like, "Goody two-shoes."  

Salim laughed outright at that, warm and unbothered. "I'll take that as a compliment. Someone here has to have functioning brain cells."  

Eric flipped a lazy middle finger out from under the blanket without lifting his head.  

Salim snorted. "Get some water, before you die."  

Eric groaned again but didn’t move, deciding death might be less painful than standing up.  

Salim huffed a quiet laugh and pushed off from the headboard, crossing the room to where Eric’s canteen sat on the floor. He picked it up and held it out wordlessly.  

From under the blanket, Eric squinted blearily at it like it was a foreign object, then reached out and took it. He managed to half-sit up, wincing as the motion made his head spin violently and his stomach lurch. He took a cautious sip of the water, then grimaced and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, willing himself not to throw up.  

“If you’re going to puke,” Salim said, watching him with dry amusement, “at least do it in the bathroom.”  

Eric groaned again, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, then started fumbling for his prosthetic. Leaning forward to attach it only made the dizziness worse, and he muttered under his breath, “Where’s my wheelchair when I need it…”  

Somehow, through sheer stubbornness and maybe a little luck, he got the prosthetic on and stood shakily. He wobbled slightly but didn’t fall, and started trudging toward the door like a man heading to his own execution.  

Salim fell into step behind him. Eric glanced at him sideways, too tired and hungover to question it out loud.  

“I don’t trust you not to give up halfway there and crash on the floor,” Salim said simply.  

Eric snorted. “I have more dignity than that.”  

Salim raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, just pushed open the bathroom door ahead of him.  

Eric headed straight for the medicine shelf, grabbing the bottle of painkillers and dry-swallowing two without hesitation. Then he moved to the sink, brushing his teeth with sluggish, zombie-like motions before splashing cold water on his face. He blinked at his reflection, water dripping down his cheeks, pale and gaunt and exhausted.  

Salim stayed leaned against the wall the whole time, arms crossed, watching with that same look of quiet amusement, like he was observing a particularly slow-loading program.  

After a while, when Eric just stood there staring at the counter like he couldn’t remember what came next, Salim asked, “You want coffee?”  

Eric hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Yeah… yeah, actually. Coffee sounds perfect.”  

Salim laughed softly at Eric’s answer, shaking his head as he turned and left the bathroom. Eric followed, dragging his feet a little but managing to stay upright, even if his head still pounded with every step. He found himself wondering why Salim was bothering—why he was making sure Eric was actually functional this morning. Maybe Salim had noticed more than Eric had realized. Maybe all those careful glances and lingering silences weren’t just polite concern.  

As they turned the corner toward the canteen, Salim said, “Shame we don’t have the stuff for a proper greasy breakfast. That’s what I always used to do after a hangover back in college. Eggs, toast, sausages… the works.”  

Eric grimaced at the very idea. “Yeah, I don’t think my stomach would agree with that right now.”  

“Shame,” Salim said sarcastically, grinning as he pushed open the canteen door.  

It was empty, which didn’t surprise Eric—it was that awkward limbo between breakfast and lunch when the place usually sat quiet. He went straight for the coffee machine, fingers still sluggish but steady enough now to work the buttons. Behind him, Salim headed for the cupboard, pulling out a box of cereal and a bowl with the ease of routine.  

“You want anything?” Salim called over, pouring the cereal with one hand and reaching for the milk.  

Eric didn’t even turn around. “I’ll grab something later.”  

Salim hesitated a moment, then said nothing, and Eric felt a wave of relief. He wasn’t sure he could stomach a bite, and he definitely couldn’t stomach the guilt that would follow if he did. The hangover was bad enough without that added layer of shame.  

He poured himself a mug of coffee, the smell strong and bitter, grounding in a way he hadn’t realised he needed. “You want one?” he asked, turning toward Salim.  

Salim shook his head. “Nah, I’m not a huge coffee fan.”  

Eric nodded faintly and brought the mug over to the bench, sitting down opposite Salim. He took a slow sip, then another, the warmth curling into his stomach like something close to comfort. The painkillers were starting to kick in too, the pounding behind his eyes dulling to a manageable throb. His stomach still protested a little, but at least it wasn’t trying to flip itself inside out anymore.  

For the first time since he’d woken up, Eric started to feel almost human again.  

When Eric finished his coffee and Salim scraped the last of his cereal from the bowl, the silence between them settled into something heavier than before. Salim set his spoon down with a quiet clink against the ceramic, then looked across the table at Eric with a calm, steady expression.  

“You’re not drinking tonight,” he said, voice level but firm.  

Eric tensed, just slightly. The mug in his hands felt heavier all of a sudden. He didn’t respond immediately, instead keeping his gaze low and nodding after a beat. “Yeah, okay.”  

He didn’t mean it. Not really. He figured he’d just slip away later, like always. Salim would be none the wiser, and Eric could get drunk enough that the ghosts in his head would finally shut up for a while. He didn’t know what he’d do if he had to spend another night lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling while his memories looped over and over like some cruel punishment.  

Salim, however, wasn’t buying it. “I mean it,” he said, eyes narrowing just a little. “No drinking. You can’t keep getting drunk every night, Eric. It’s not healthy. It’s not a good coping mechanism.”  

Eric nodded along mechanically, eyes drifting to a smudge on the table. The words bounced off him, barely registering. He wasn’t sure why Salim cared so much anyway. Maybe he was just tired of Eric stumbling into the barracks half out of his mind, maybe it was just an inconvenience to him. Maybe tonight, Eric would just stay in the briefing room again after drinking. That way, he wouldn’t disturb anyone.  

He didn’t notice how long he’d gone quiet until Salim said, sharply, “Are you even listening to me?”  

Eric blinked, looked up, and tried to focus through the cotton-stuffed fog still clinging to his thoughts. “Yeah,” he lied easily, “I won’t drink tonight.”  

Salim didn’t look convinced, but he sighed and said, “Good.”  

Eric gave him another nod, then pushed up from his seat and walked over to refill his coffee, the motion slow, deliberate. His hands were steadier now, but his mind was still in that dull, distant place where promises like that didn’t feel real. Where pretending he was okay was easier than explaining why he wasn’t.  

---  

The rest of the morning passed in a blur for Eric. He remembered vague pieces—sitting with Salim in the games room, pushing wooden chess pieces across the board without really thinking about any of it. The coffee had helped dull the hangover, but not the exhaustion clinging to his limbs, or the fog in his mind. By the time lunch rolled around, he felt like he’d been walking underwater all day.  

Salim had dragged him back to the canteen, and now Eric stood leaning against the counter, arms folded tightly across his chest as he watched the microwave meal spin in slow, dizzying circles. His stomach was already turning, and he hadn’t even touched the food yet.  

Salim had already gone to sit with Jason, who was halfway through his meal, chatting between mouthfuls about something that Eric couldn’t hear—or focus on—over the low hum of the microwave. When it finally beeped, Eric pulled the tray out and carried it carefully over to the table, like it might burn him if he wasn’t careful.  

He’d picked the smallest meal he could find. Something basic. Safe. He didn’t want to overdo it and end up hunched over the toilet again, and he definitely didn’t want Salim to see that. Not after how hard he’d tried to get Eric to eat something real today.  

Sliding into the seat across from Jason, Eric didn’t speak. He picked up the plastic fork and prodded the food a bit first, then finally scooped a tiny bite into his mouth. He chewed it longer than he had to, slow and deliberate, his stomach already protesting even that.  

He swallowed.  

It stayed down.  

That in itself felt like a win.  

He took another small bite—not quite as hesitant this time—and glanced across the table. Jason was still talking, Salim was listening, and neither of them were watching him too closely. He was glad for that. He didn’t want praise. He didn’t want attention. He just wanted to feel like a normal person for a few minutes. One who could eat lunch with people without spiraling.  

The silence on his end stretched, but he kept eating, one slow, cautious bite at a time.  

Eric managed to eat about half the meal. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—enough to take the edge off the gnawing hunger that made his hands tremble sometimes, enough to keep the nausea at bay without tipping him over into panic. The guilt still crept in at the edges, whispering that he shouldn't have even eaten what he had, that he’d wasted food again when it ended up in the toilet, that he was doing everything wrong. But it wasn’t loud—not yet—and that was good enough.  

He waited until Salim got up to wash out his tray before he moved. Quick, practiced, and quiet, he scraped the rest of the food into the bin and tossed the tray in after it. His stomach flipped a little at the sight of it going to waste, but he didn’t let himself think too hard about it. He’d done what he could. It was a step. That had to count for something.  

He turned back to the table just as Jason looked up and asked, “You guys wanna go play some cards?”  

Eric didn’t answer immediately. He looked to Salim, watched him dry his hands on a paper towel and glance back over.  

“Sure,” Salim said easily.  

Eric nodded a moment later. “Yeah. Sounds good.”  

He didn’t dislike Jason—never had. But there was something about being around him alone that drained Eric more than he could handle right now. Jason always meant well, but he had a way of filling silences that Eric couldn’t keep up with, not today. Maybe not any day recently. It was easier when Salim was there, someone to help carry the weight of the conversation.  

Together, the three of them left the canteen and headed down the corridor toward the game room. Eric walked slightly behind the others, hands shoved in his pockets, his mind heavy but quieter than it had been this morning. Maybe the food was helping. Maybe the company was. Maybe it was just easier to keep going when he wasn’t alone.  

Eric wasn’t used to this—being around people so much. After Rachel left, he’d cut himself off entirely. No calls. No visits. He’d buried himself in silence, convinced it was easier that way. Safer. The more distance he put between himself and others, the less they’d see of the mess he’d become. He didn’t want pity, didn’t want concern, didn’t want anyone to know how bad things had gotten.  

But now… Salim was always around. Somehow, he’d pushed past the walls Eric had put up, not by forcing his way through, but by just being there—quietly, steadily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And even Jason, with his rough charm and loud energy, had become something like a constant. A buffer, maybe. It helped, in its own way.  

Humans are meant to be together, a voice whispered in the back of Eric’s head. He didn’t know if it was something he’d read once or just the part of him that hadn’t given up entirely. But it made sense. Isolation had nearly killed him. Maybe proximity could help him survive.  

They stepped into the game room, and Jason grabbed a deck of cards from the shelf, shuffling them with practiced ease. Eric sat down, watching the cards flick and snap between Jason’s fingers, and tried to focus. Tried to stay present.  

But his mind drifted.  

Back to Rachel.  

Back to the moment she walked out.  

He’d been spiraling even then, but he’d clung to the threads of hope like a lifeline. They were still married. Still something. He still had the satellite project—something meaningful, something that gave his days shape. Something to throw himself into, to distract from the grief gnawing at him from the inside out.  

But now…  

Now he had none of that.  

Rachel was gone. Really gone. His marriage was just a memory. The satellites had failed. His career, his purpose, all of it was just ash in his hands.  

Each morning, dragging himself out of bed felt harder than the last. Some days, he didn’t even know why he bothered. He could feel the ground crumbling under him again, pulling him back toward the same dark pit he’d clawed his way out of once already.  

He blinked hard, forcing the thoughts away.  

Jason was dealing cards. Salim glanced at him.  

Eric straightened, cleared his throat, and reached for his hand. He didn’t want to go there again—not tonight. He knew what waited at the end of that train of thought. Knew how hard it had been to climb out last time. He couldn’t afford to go back. Not again.  

So he focused on the cards in front of him. On Salim’s quiet presence beside him. On Jason’s easy banter. On now. Just for a while.  

---  

Salim hadn’t left Eric’s side all day. Whether they were in the game room, walking the hallways, or sitting quietly in their shared room, Salim had stuck close, gently trying to keep Eric present. Engaged. Distracted. It didn’t really work—Eric still felt the weight of everything pressing in around him—but he appreciated the effort. Salim never said it aloud, but Eric could tell he was worried. That he’d noticed the cracks.  

When it got late enough for dinner, Salim had herded him toward the canteen again. Eric hadn’t had the energy to come up with an excuse to skip it, so he followed without protest, letting himself be led like a passenger in his own body.  

At the counter, he grabbed a microwaveable meal—one of the smallest he could find—but Salim caught the choice with a narrowed glance and raised brow. Eric sighed and switched it out for something larger, knowing Salim wouldn’t let him get away with it.  

He was the first one to sit down at the table, but he didn’t start eating immediately. He just sat there, staring at the steam rising from the tray. A few moments later, Jason flopped down opposite him, and then Salim slid into the seat beside him. Only then did Eric pick up his fork and begin to eat, slowly, carefully, trying to keep it controlled. Trying to be good for once. Trying to take care of his body.  

But everything started to unravel when Nick and Rachel entered the canteen.  

Eric didn’t look up at first. He kept his eyes on the tray, on the food in front of him, focusing on chewing and swallowing and pretending he didn’t feel the familiar dread building in his chest. But then he caught movement in the corner of his vision. Laughter. Their laughter.  

He risked a glance and saw Rachel sitting beside Nick, so close their arms brushed. Saw her smiling, her shoulders relaxed, her eyes bright—lighter than he remembered them being when they were still together. She leaned toward Nick as he said something, laughing again.  

It felt like a knife twisting in his chest.  

He didn’t realise he’d completely zoned out until his fork scraped against the plastic tray, hitting nothing but emptiness. He blinked, his stomach turning over sharply as he stared at the now-empty container. He’d eaten all of it without even noticing. The guilt rushed in fast and choking, crawling up his throat like bile. His body tensed, the nausea already rising.  

He stood abruptly, grabbing his tray and walking to the sink with quick, unsteady steps. He tried to breathe through it, tried to focus on rinsing the tray, tried to pretend he hadn’t just lost control again. But it wasn’t working.  

Salim came up beside him to wash his own tray, giving him a quiet look. Eric mumbled, “Gonna go shower,” barely audible, and slipped out of the room before Salim could respond.  

As soon as he was out of sight, Eric all but ran.  

The nausea had crested into something sharp and unbearable by the time he reached the bathroom. He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, barely getting the lid up before he shoved his fingers down his throat and purged everything he’d just eaten. His stomach heaved, his body shaking with the effort.  

When it was over, he slumped back against the cold wall tiles, breathing heavily, eyes stinging. He just hoped the little he’d managed to eat earlier had already digested. He’d tried. He really had. He’d wanted to do something good for himself. But he couldn’t take the guilt—not after seeing Rachel like that. Not after being reminded of everything he’d lost.  

After a few more deep breaths, he forced himself to his feet and flushed the toilet. He washed his hands, his face pale and drawn in the mirror. Since he was already here, he figured he might as well shower like he’d told Salim he would.  

He grabbed a towel and draped it outside the cubicle with the shower chair. Stripping out of his clothes, he shoved them down the laundry chute, then sat on the chair and took off his prosthetic. The moment he turned the water on, the warm spray hit his skin, and he slumped back, exhausted.  

He sat like that for a long while, the water pouring over him. He could use a beer—God, could he use one. But he didn’t know how he was going to get away from Salim long enough to grab any. Maybe, if he waited until Salim was asleep, he could sneak out. Just one beer, maybe two. Just enough to dull the ache in his chest. Just enough to quiet the noise in his head.  

Eric took his sweet time getting through his shower. The warm water poured over him in a steady stream, comforting in its simplicity, in its silence. He sat hunched under the spray, letting the minutes tick by unnoticed. The longer he stayed, the longer he could avoid going back out there—back to the smiles and small talk, to the reminders of everything he’d lost. In here, no one expected anything of him. In here, he could just be .  

Eventually, the water began to cool, and his skin had started to prune, fingers wrinkling like paper. He sighed, a quiet sound swallowed by the tile walls, and finally reached forward to shut the water off. For a moment, he just sat there, water dripping from his hair, chest rising and falling in slow, tired breaths. The silence pressed in, heavy but not unwelcome.  

Then he grabbed his towel and began drying off. He wrapped it around his waist and hopped carefully over to the nearby bench, reaching for his clothes. He’d just pulled his shirt halfway over his torso when the door creaked open.  

Salim stepped in.  

Eric flinched, tugging the shirt down in a rushed motion to cover his ribs, which jutted out too sharply beneath his skin. He didn’t know if Salim had seen—didn’t want to know—but the other man said nothing, just gave a glance around and said, “I’m surprised you’re still here.”  

Eric turned away slightly, reaching for his prosthetic. “Took my time showering,” he said, trying to sound casual.  

“Fair enough,” Salim replied with a shrug. Then, after a pause, he added, “Jason’s got the others roped into a game of Monopoly, if you want to join. I told him I was coming to shower first.”  

Eric stiffened.  

The last thing he wanted was to sit across a game board from Nick and Rachel. To pretend he was fine. To watch them sit close and share private smiles like she hadn’t once been part of his world.  

“Nah,” he said, busying himself with fitting the prosthetic back on. “I’m pretty tired. Think I’ll head to bed instead.”  

Salim looked at him for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he gave a short nod. “Alright.”  

Eric nodded in return and slipped past him out the door.  

But he didn’t go to the barracks. Not yet.  

Instead, he veered off down the hall toward the canteen. It was blissfully empty now—Jason had dragged everyone into that game, and Salim was occupied. Eric moved quickly, grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge and tucking them under his arm. The ache in his chest dulled slightly at the thought of their familiar weight, at the promise of stillness they offered.  

He itched to crack one open right there, but he didn’t. He wasn’t stupid. Salim would check on him, would find him if he lingered too long. So instead, he made his way to the briefing room and stashed the beers on a chair tucked behind the door, out of sight unless someone really went looking.  

Then—and only then—did he return to the barracks.  

He took off his prosthetic and laid down on the bed, settling onto his side in a position that he knew would look convincingly like sleep. His body ached, his mind churned, but he stayed still, waiting. Soon enough, everyone would head to bed. The lights would go out. And then—then he could drink in peace.  

It took a while, but Salim eventually returned.  

Eric kept his eyes shut and his breathing even, feigning the deep, easy rhythm of sleep. He listened as Salim quietly moved about the room, the rustle of fabric and the soft creak of bedsprings as he lay down. There was a brief stretch of shifting—Salim getting comfortable—then stillness.  

Eric waited.  

He counted slowly in his head, focusing on the sound of Salim's breathing. In. Out. Steady. Calm. He waited until it had been slow and even for long enough that he was sure the man had drifted off.  

Then, slowly, carefully, Eric sat up.  

He moved like a ghost, silent and methodical as he reached for his prosthetic, sliding it on with practiced ease. Every movement felt exaggerated in the dark, the faint creak of the joint or the whisper of fabric sounding impossibly loud in the quiet room. He glanced over once at Salim’s bunk—still, unmoving—then slipped out the door.  

Once outside, he stood for a moment in the dim hallway, letting out a long, slow breath. The tension bled out of his shoulders. No one had stopped him.  

He started down the corridor, footsteps quiet on the cold floor, until he reached the briefing room. He pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, then closed it behind him with a soft click .  

The air in the room was still and stale, untouched since earlier. He walked straight over to the chair where he’d hidden the beer and retrieved them, then slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his back pressed to the cool concrete.  

With a sigh, he cracked one open.  

The first bottle was gone fast—almost too fast. He didn’t sip, didn’t savour. He just drank, practically chugged it, his throat working quickly until the bottle was light and empty. His stomach twisted a little, protesting the sudden shock of alcohol, but he ignored it.  

He just needed to stop thinking .  

His mind wouldn’t stop playing it all on loop—Rachel and Nick, the way she’d leaned in so close to him, smiling, laughing like it was nothing, like it wasn’t a knife in Eric’s ribs. Somehow, that was worse than the images from the temple, worse than the screams and the blood and the tearing . At least those had a reason, had a name.  

This? This just hurt .  

Eric’s hand trembled slightly as he opened the second beer. The bottle hissed softly as the cap came off, and he took a long pull from it, not even flinching at the taste.  

No more thinking tonight.  

He leaned his head back against the wall and took another drink.  

By the time Eric finished his fourth beer, the haze he’d been hoping for still hadn’t come. His thoughts were stubbornly persistent, looping endlessly, a relentless reel of images and memories that refused to dull.  

Four hadn’t been enough.  

He should’ve known. Should’ve brought more.  

With a frustrated groan, he hauled himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he stood. He didn’t think about what he was doing—just acted, guided by impulse and desperation. He needed more beer. Needed something to fill the growing ache in his chest, the sharp edges in his mind that wouldn’t dull no matter how much he drank.  

He slipped out of the briefing room, not bothering to close the door properly behind him. The hallway felt longer this time, the floor uneven underfoot, his balance faltering with every few steps. His fingers trailed along the wall as he went, searching for stability, his legs moving out of sync as he forgot to adjust his stride for the prosthetic. He stumbled once, caught himself, cursed under his breath.  

The canteen was silent and empty, lights dimmed.  

He beelined to the fridge, yanked it open, and grabbed a cold bottle with shaky hands. The cap came off with a pop, and he didn’t even pause—he just tipped his head back and drained it in a few long swallows. The cold liquid hit his stomach like a stone, but he didn’t care. He threw the empty into the trash with a clatter and reached back into the fridge, grabbing two more. One went into each pocket, the glass bumping against his hips. Then he grabbed a third and kept it in hand, already cracking it open as he turned and headed back down the corridor.  

His feet dragged more now, his steps uneven, almost shuffling. He sipped from the beer as he went, barely registering the taste—bitter and stale, like piss—but the warmth that chased it down his throat was what he wanted. What he needed . Something to drown it all out.  

But the memories still clung to him like smoke. Rachel’s smile. Nick’s hand on her arm. The sound of her laughter. The flash of pain in his chest every time he looked at them together. It wouldn't go away, no matter how much he drank.  

That had to mean he needed more .  

Eric made it back to the briefing room and let himself fall to the floor again, heavier this time, his body sagging against the wall like it couldn’t hold him up anymore. The room spun gently around him, but not enough—not yet.  

He finished the beer in his hand and pulled out one from his pocket, fumbling slightly before he got it open.  

Six? Seven? He’d lost count.  

It didn’t matter.  

He wasn’t drinking for the taste—God, no—it was awful. But he didn’t care. He lifted the bottle again, and took another long swallow, chasing that slippery feeling of oblivion that still hovered just out of reach.  

All he wanted was to forget.  

When Eric finished the last beer—his eighth, he thought, though the count had gotten fuzzy—he let the empty bottle slip from his hand. It rolled across the floor with a soft clink and came to a stop somewhere in the dark.  

He couldn’t move. His limbs felt like dead weight, his head heavy, swimming. His body sagged, boneless, against the wall. The buzz was there—warm, dizzying—but it hadn’t dulled the thoughts like he needed it to. They were still there, louder now somehow, screaming inside his skull on a loop.  

Rachel smiling at Nick. Nick’s hand on her back. The sound of her laughter. The way she hadn’t looked at him once.  

A tear slid down Eric’s cheek before he even realized it. It traced a warm path over his skin, and then another followed, and another—until he was shaking with silent sobs, curled in on himself with his arms wrapped tight around his knees.  

He hated this. Hated feeling so broken, hated being broken. All he wanted—all he had wanted for months—was to forget. Just for a night. Just one night where the weight of the guilt and loss and loneliness didn’t crush him from the inside out.  

But the beer hadn’t helped. Nothing helped.  

His breath hitched as he cried harder, quietly, shoulders trembling. The briefing room was so damn empty, the silence pressing in on him like a vice. A part of him, buried deep under the alcohol and despair, wished Salim had come looking for him tonight. Not last night—tonight. When everything hurt more. When the guilt felt unbearable. When he needed someone.  

He didn't want to be alone. Not really. Being alone meant being stuck with his thoughts. It meant being reminded of all the ways he’d failed.  

And he had failed. At everything.  

He’d promised Salim he wouldn’t drink. Had nodded along with the lecture, agreed to stay sober, and then turned around and lied. Tricked him. Snuck off the moment his back was turned.  

Because he couldn’t do anything right. Couldn’t even keep a promise. Couldn’t hold onto his wife. Couldn’t keep his team together. Couldn’t keep himself together.  

Eric dragged his sleeve across his face, smearing tears and snot. His throat ached from crying, from the bile earlier, from the endless shouting of his own thoughts.  

He tucked his face down into the crook of his arm, knees pulled up tight to his chest like a shield. He felt like a failure. Like he was fifteen again, hiding in a dark room from a world that didn’t want him.  

The truth settled into his gut like a lead weight, heavier than the alcohol, heavier than the guilt:  

God, he couldn’t do anything right.  

Eric wasn’t sure how long he sat there like that—arms around his knees, face hidden, body curled up on the cold floor of the darkened briefing room. Long enough for the ache in his back to deepen into a throb. Long enough for the bitter taste of bile and alcohol to settle into his throat like rust. Long enough for memories he thought he’d buried for good to start surfacing from the blackest corners of his mind.  

Memories he never wanted to see again.  

Not just Rachel. Not the mission. Not the temple or the blood or the monsters or the deaths. No—deeper. Older.  

His father’s shouting. The sharp crack of a bottle breaking. The silence that always followed, thicker and heavier than any blow.  

Eric squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force it back down, to shove it back into whatever box he'd stuffed it into years ago. But it was too late. The lid had cracked open. The smell of stale cigarettes and whiskey filled his head. That old, familiar fear he hadn’t felt in years crept through his ribs like cold water.  

He shuddered, gripping his own arms tighter, trying to anchor himself to the present—to the floor beneath him, the walls around him, the quiet hum of the facility’s power still running overhead. But even that felt far away now, muffled and distant.  

He wanted to leave. Wanted to stand up, walk out, go back to the barracks, crawl into his bed next to Salim’s and pretend none of this was happening. Pretend he was okay. But his body wouldn't respond. His limbs were lead. His head felt too heavy to lift. Every part of him was drained—physically, emotionally, completely wrung out.  

So he stayed where he was.  

Tears dried on his face, salty trails down cheeks that hadn’t stopped burning since the moment Rachel had walked into the canteen.  

Eventually, the exhaustion won.  

His breathing slowed. His thoughts blurred. His shoulders sagged as his body began to fold in on itself, like a dying flame curling into embers.  

Surrounded by the empty bottles, the stink of beer, and the ghosts of things best forgotten, Eric slumped sideways against the wall. His head lolled to the side, chin resting on the crook of his arm.  

Sleep crept in—uneasy and restless, but unavoidable.  

And as he drifted off, still curled on the cold floor, the last coherent thought in his mind was how badly he wished someone— anyone —had come looking for him.  

Chapter Text

Eric woke to someone shaking his shoulder, the motion gentle but insistent.  

“Eric,” a voice said, low and steady.  

He blinked his eyes open, only to groan and squeeze them shut again against the unforgiving brightness of the room. His head throbbed like it was caving in from the inside, and his mouth felt dry as sandpaper. His stomach churned ominously.  

“Eric,” the voice said again, softer this time.  

He cracked one eye open.  

Salim was crouched in front of him, a hand resting firmly on his shoulder. The expression on his face was tight with concern, though there was a glint of something else there too—disappointment, maybe, but tempered by something more gentle.  

Guilt surged through Eric immediately, sharp and suffocating. He looked away, his voice barely above a whisper.  

“I’m sorry.”  

The disapproval on Salim’s face softened the moment he really saw him—really saw the tear tracks on Eric’s cheeks, the way his hands trembled faintly in his lap, how broken he looked slumped against the wall, surrounded by empty bottles like shattered glass memories.  

Salim sighed, deep and heavy. “It’s alright, Eric.”  

Eric blinked slowly at him, eyes still hazy, struggling to believe it. Salim wasn’t mad?  

Salim gave his shoulder a small squeeze. “Come on. Let’s get you sorted out.”  

Eric nodded, but the moment he tried to push himself up, the room tilted violently around him. His legs wobbled, and his stomach turned in protest.  

Salim was up in a flash, catching him before he could go down again. His hand stayed firm on Eric’s shoulder, the other gently bracing his elbow, steadying him as Eric found his footing. It wasn’t graceful—nothing about this morning was—but it was enough to get him upright.  

Eric realized, too late, that he was leaning into Salim. Just slightly, just enough to feel the warmth and steadiness of someone there . Someone who hadn’t walked away.  

The moment he became aware of it, he tensed and leaned back, trying to make it look casual as he subtly pulled away.  

Salim didn’t comment on it. He just gave a small nod, keeping close in case Eric swayed again.  

“Come on,” he said quietly, guiding Eric toward the door. “Let’s get some water in you. Maybe a painkiller or two. You look like hell.”  

Eric gave a soft, humorless huff. “Feel like it too.”  

Salim didn’t laugh. He just glanced at Eric with that same soft, unreadable look.  

But he stayed close. He didn’t let go.  

Salim guided Eric down the hallway with a hand firm and steady on his arm, like he was afraid that if he let go, Eric might vanish into thin air again. Eric didn’t resist—he didn’t have the strength to, physically or otherwise. His legs moved automatically beneath him, his body aching with each step, his head pounding with every heartbeat.  

They reached the bathroom, and Salim finally let go, though he lingered by the door, arms folded and gaze watchful. Eric shuffled over to the toilet, used it, then shuffled to the sink. He splashed cold water over his face, scrubbing at the tear tracks that clung stubbornly to his skin like ghosts he couldn’t wash away. He leaned over and drank straight from the tap, the water doing little to soothe the raw burn of his throat or the heaviness in his chest.  

When he looked up, Salim was there with two painkillers in his open palm. Eric took them silently, popped them into his mouth, and swallowed them dry without hesitation. It scratched going down, but he welcomed the discomfort. He deserved worse.  

Salim’s hand returned to his arm as soon as he’d straightened up. “Come on,” he said, voice low but not unkind. “You’re going to lay down for a while, let the painkillers kick in. Then you’re eating something.”  

Eric didn’t argue. He didn’t even nod this time—just moved where Salim steered him, too drained to do anything else.  

They made it back to the barracks in silence. Salim let go of him when they entered, and Eric sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, cradling his head in his hands. The silence stretched between them. He didn’t need to look to know Salim was watching him—he could feel it, the weight of it. Concern. Disappointment. He wasn’t sure which felt worse.  

After a moment, Eric lifted his head, blinking slowly. He reached down and unfastened his prosthetic, setting it to the side with a small sigh of relief. The limb always left him sore after too many hours, but especially after a night like this—where it had felt more like a shackle than a tool.  

Then he lay back, folding into the bed without a word, face buried in the pillow. The mattress creaked beneath him, the coolness of the sheet a quiet balm against his skin. He didn’t cry. He didn’t have the energy for that now.  

Behind him, Salim let out a long breath, the kind that was more tired than angry. Eric heard the springs of the bunk across from his shift under weight as Salim sat down. A pause. Then silence again.  

For now, that was enough.  

Eric lay still, curled slightly into himself, face buried in the pillow as he waited for the painkillers to start dulling the edges of his hangover. His head still pounded in a slow, throbbing rhythm, and his stomach twisted uneasily. But it was the guilt that weighed heaviest—thicker, more suffocating than the pain.  

He knew Salim was at least a little annoyed. He deserved that. He’d lied. He’d snuck out. He’d drunk himself into a pathetic mess on the floor of the briefing room after promising he wouldn’t. But what Eric hadn’t expected—what he still couldn’t quite believe—was that Salim was still here. Still helping. Still caring .  

Eric didn’t deserve the soft touch on his arm. Didn’t deserve the patient, guiding hand or the quiet, steady voice. He especially didn’t deserve the look Salim had given him when he’d seen the tear tracks dried to his cheeks—something like disappointment, yes, but softened with concern. With… compassion.  

His throat tightened suddenly, and he blinked hard against the sting in his eyes. He didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not again. He was already so drained from the night before, wrung out in every way a person could be. There was nothing left, and still the tears threatened.  

He pressed his face harder into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. You don’t deserve to cry. Not after what you’ve done. He tried to breathe deeply, but his chest hitched, and he had to bite down on his lip to stop the sound from escaping.  

From across the room, he could feel Salim watching him. The other man was trying to be subtle about it, but Eric could sense every glance, every shift of weight on the bunk. Like Salim was afraid he might fall apart if left unattended too long.  

Eric squeezed his eyes tighter. Don’t look at me like that. He didn’t want to be seen like this, didn’t want to be someone Salim pitied. And yet, a traitorous part of him—small and buried deep—ached at the thought of Salim walking away. Of being left alone again.  

But he didn’t deserve the sympathy. He knew that. He wasn’t someone worth worrying about. He was just a burden, dead weight being dragged along because no one had figured out how to let go of him yet.  

Still, Salim stayed. Silent. Watching. Not judging. Not yet walking away.  

And that—more than anything—was what made the tears burn all the harder behind his closed lids.  

By the time the painkillers had kicked in, Eric could finally breathe without feeling like his chest was being crushed from the inside out. The dull throb in his skull had faded to something tolerable, and the tight ache behind his eyes had eased just enough to stop the tears from gathering again. He pushed himself upright with a quiet grunt, scrubbing a hand down his face. His skin felt rough, dry. He reached for his canteen and took a long sip of water, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing.  

He could feel Salim watching him again. Not hovering exactly—just present, steady in the way he always was. The guilt twisted in Eric’s stomach again, heavier than the remnants of the alcohol still clinging to his bloodstream. He didn’t know why Salim was still here. He wouldn’t have stayed for himself.  

Eric set the canteen down and kept his eyes on his lap. His voice came out low, roughened by exhaustion and emotion. “I’m sorry.”  

Salim exhaled through his nose, a quiet sigh. “It’s alright, Eric.”  

Eric shook his head slowly, not looking up. “No, it’s not. I lied to you. I looked you in the eye and told you I wouldn’t drink, and then I went behind your back and did it anyway.” His voice cracked near the end, and he swallowed thickly.  

Salim moved before Eric could say more, cutting him off gently. “Eric,” he said, his voice soft but firm, “really. It’s alright. You’re suffering. People… they do what they can to cope. It’s normal. But this—” he gave Eric a meaningful look, “—this isn’t a healthy way to handle it.”  

Eric nodded, eyes still fixed downward, but this time, he was listening. Really listening. The words didn’t bounce off the way they usually did. They settled into him, familiar but different, coming from someone who meant them. Who wasn’t judging. Who was just… there.  

It was ironic, really—Salim warning him off one unhealthy coping mechanism while having no idea about the other. Eric almost let out a bitter laugh at the thought, but it caught in his throat, soured by how true it was. If Salim knew… well, he wouldn’t still be here, would he?  

Then Salim reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder again. Solid. Reassuring. Forgiving.  

“Let’s go get some breakfast,” he said quietly, “and put all this behind us. Start fresh.”  

Eric hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.” The last thing he wanted was food. He could already feel his stomach twisting at the thought of it. He’d probably throw it up again—but at least this way Salim would stop looking at him like he was one wrong word away from breaking in half.  

And maybe… maybe pretending to be okay was the first step to actually getting there.  

Eric started strapping on his prosthetic, his fingers moving slowly and numbly, his mind elsewhere as muscle memory took over. Each strap, each click and adjustment, happened without thought, as though his body were simply going through the motions. Once it was secure, he stood and paused, testing his balance. The room tilted slightly around him, the dull pounding in his skull still present, but bearable.  

Salim rose from his bed and crossed the room to the door, opening it without a word. He stepped out into the corridor, and Eric followed a moment later, pulling in a deep breath and steeling himself to hold together just a little longer.  

The walk to the canteen was quiet. Eric didn’t have the energy to think of anything to say, and Salim, thankfully, didn’t push. The silence felt like a reprieve—space to breathe without the weight of conversation. Every step echoed in Eric’s bones, every breath felt heavy, but at least he wasn’t alone.  

When they entered the canteen, it was empty. That strange time again, too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. Eric was grateful for it. He didn’t want an audience.  

He headed straight to the counter and poured himself a bowl of cereal, keeping the portion small—barely enough to be considered a meal. He told himself it was better this way. If he ate less, maybe the guilt would stay manageable. Maybe he wouldn’t end up crouched over a toilet again, trying to erase the evidence.  

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Salim looking at the portion, but the other man didn’t say anything. No lectures, no disappointed looks. Just silence, for once, and Eric was thankful for it.  

He took his bowl and sat down at the nearest bench. The cereal looked unappealing—too bright, too soggy, too much —but he forced himself to take a bite. He chewed slowly, methodically, trying not to focus on the growing weight in his stomach.  

Salim joined him a moment later, sitting across from him with a bowl that was easily twice the size of Eric’s. They didn’t speak. It wasn’t an awkward silence, though. It was… respectful. Quiet in the way that meant I see you, but I’m not going to push.  

Eric finished his small portion after Salim did, despite the size difference. The guilt was there, clawing at the edges of his mind, but it wasn’t overwhelming this time. Just a quiet reminder. A dull ache. He could handle that.  

He stood and took his bowl to the sink, rinsing it with cool water and setting it aside to dry. The feeling of food sitting in his stomach was almost as bad as the cramps of hunger—uncomfortable, wrong. He hated it either way. It was never right.  

He rubbed at his temples, trying to soothe the fading but persistent headache. The painkillers were working, but not fast enough, not thoroughly enough. Another thing he couldn’t control.  

Behind him, he could feel Salim’s eyes on him again, steady and patient. Watching, but not judging.  

Eric didn’t turn around. He just stayed there a moment longer, bracing himself against the counter, and tried to breathe.  

---  

By lunchtime, Eric felt like he was coming apart at the seams. His head was too loud, packed with memories he didn’t want—flashes of blood and sand and screaming, the temple walls pressing in, Nick’s voice echoing through the dark, Rachel’s eyes brimming with something he couldn’t name, not anymore. It was all back, looping endlessly in his skull.  

He’d spent the late morning in the games room with Salim, sat on one of the couches with a book open in his hands. He hadn’t taken in a single word. The text blurred every time his eyes tried to focus, his thoughts fracturing too fast, too violently. But Salim hadn’t pushed. Just stayed nearby, close enough to be a tether. A lifeline. Still, the quiet was unbearable.  

When lunchtime came, Salim had gently nudged Eric up and steered him back toward the canteen. Eric tried to argue—said he wasn’t hungry, that breakfast had been enough—but Salim just gave him a flat, unimpressed look.  

“You need to eat something,” Salim said simply. Not unkindly, but firmly.  

So Eric gave in. Now he was sitting at a bench, staring at the protein bar in his hand like it had personally offended him. Jason sat across from him, chatting absently with Salim about something Eric couldn’t focus on. It felt like he was underwater, everything muffled and far away.  

He forced himself to take a bite of the bar. Chewed. Swallowed. It felt like eating chalk. It sat wrong in his stomach.  

Rachel’s laugh rang out from the kitchen area, too bright, too sharp.  

Eric’s head turned before he could stop it. Rachel and Nick stood at the counter, waiting for the microwave to finish. She leaned in and kissed Nick on the cheek, smiling up at him like it was the most natural thing in the world.  

It felt like being gutted. A punch to the gut, a knife to the heart. A reminder of everything he’d lost, everything he couldn’t have.  

He stood so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. The protein bar dropped from his hand, landing forgotten on the table. “Gonna… hit the bathroom,” he muttered, not meeting anyone’s eyes.  

Salim frowned, starting to rise, but Eric was already gone.  

He did go to the bathroom—but only to hunch over the toilet and empty what little he’d eaten. He gagged and choked until his stomach cramped and his eyes watered, desperate for that horrible, twisted sense of control. He flushed and rinsed his mouth at the sink, but he didn’t look in the mirror.  

He couldn’t bear to see himself right now.  

Instead of going back to the others, Eric wandered to the briefing room again. It was empty, silent. The empty beer bottles from the night before still littered the corner where he’d left them, a pathetic little graveyard of bad decisions.  

He slid down the wall beside the door and sat heavily, curling into himself, knees pulled up to his chest. The tears came before he could stop them, silent at first, then louder—heaving, broken sobs muffled into the sleeves of his shirt.  

He couldn’t do this. Not anymore.  

He couldn’t keep pretending that he was fine, that seeing Rachel with Nick didn’t hollow him out every time. Couldn’t keep lying to Salim, couldn’t keep choking down food just to throw it up ten minutes later, couldn’t keep waking up every morning wondering if today would finally be the day he couldn’t drag himself out of bed.  

He didn’t like where his thoughts were going. But he couldn’t stop them.  

Didn’t really want to stop them.  

He was so, so tired. Tired of pretending, tired of hurting, tired of surviving just to suffer.  

He just wanted the thoughts to stop.  

He just wanted everything to stop.  

Eric wasn’t sure how he ended up back in the bathroom.  

One minute he’d been curled on the floor of the briefing room, the next he was standing in front of the sink, a razor gripped in his trembling hand. His reflection stared back at him with hollow eyes, cheeks gaunt and eyes rimmed red. He blinked, just once, staring at the razor like he’d never seen it before.  

He couldn’t do this anymore. Couldn’t keep pretending he was holding it together. Couldn’t keep carrying all this weight—Nick, Rachel, the temple, the lies, the guilt. Himself.  

His hand shook as he stepped into the tiled shower cubicle. Mechanically, he stripped off his shirt, not wanting it to be in the way. Somewhere in his mind, he thought it would make things easier—cleaner. The blood would wash away, and maybe, so would everything else.  

He stood in the cold, sterile silence, shutting his eyes for just a moment. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, he felt… something like calm. A grim stillness. Peace, maybe. The anticipation of an ending.  

Then he opened his eyes.  

And before he could stop himself, he pressed the razor to the top of his forearm. The skin split almost too easily under the blade. A bright, vivid line of red opened up, and the pain came after, sharp and clean.  

The blood came faster than he expected.  

His hand fumbled, slippery, as he tried to switch the razor to his other hand. He couldn’t get a grip. His fingers were numb. Everything was shaking. He barely lifted the blade again before the bathroom door opened.  

He froze.  

Salim stood in the doorway.  

Time stopped for a moment—just a breath. Salim’s eyes went wide as he took in the scene: Eric standing half-naked in the shower, blood streaming down one arm, the razor clutched weakly in the other. And then Eric swayed on his feet.  

Salim snapped into motion.  

He was across the room in seconds, catching Eric before he could fall. He eased him down to the cold tile, hands already working to press against the worst of the bleeding, trying to stem the flow. “Eric,” he said, voice tight with panic. “Stay with me. Please—just stay with me.”  

Eric’s half-lidded gaze found Salim’s. There was a silent plea in it—something tired and resigned and heartbreakingly hopeless.  

Then his eyes fluttered shut.  

Salim swore under his breath. His hands were slick with blood, his mind racing and scattered. He scrambled to his feet and tore open the nearby medicine cabinet, yanking out gauze and bandages, then returned to Eric’s side. He pressed the gauze firmly to the wound, wrapping his arm tight, trying to stop the bleeding. It was messy. Too much blood. Too much.  

He should have seen this coming.  

He should have known Eric was hurting this badly. The warning signs were all there—the drinking, the weight loss, the silences. He’d known Eric was struggling, but he hadn’t known it was this bad.  

Once the bleeding was under control, Salim sat back on his heels for a moment, breathing hard. His hands trembled as he finally looked down at Eric—really looked. The man’s chest rose and fell shallowly, ribs stark beneath pale skin. He was too thin. Alarmingly thin. Salim had noticed he wasn’t eating properly, but this—this was something else. It was starvation. A slow erasure of himself.  

Salim forced himself to move. He couldn’t leave Eric here, not like this.  

Carefully, he hooked his arms under Eric’s and lifted, dragging him gently from the shower cubicle. He disposed of the razor, rinsed the worst of the blood from the tiles, moving on autopilot, not letting himself think too hard about what he was doing. Not yet. Later, he knew, he’d be haunted by this image—Eric’s bleeding arm, the way his eyes looked just before they closed.  

Later would come. But not now.  

Now, Salim slipped his arms under Eric’s legs and back, expecting more resistance than there was. Eric weighed almost nothing. For a grown man, a soldier, it was alarming how easy it was to lift him. Salim’s jaw clenched. This wasn’t right. None of this was right.  

He pushed the bathroom door open with his foot and carried Eric down the hall, trying to ignore how easily it was to walk with him in his arms. His focus was razor-sharp now. He didn’t stop until they reached the barracks. He laid Eric down in his bed, as gently as he could, then pulled the blanket up around him like it might keep him safe.  

Salim stood for a moment, then dragged his own bed closer, so he could stay close.  

He sat on the edge of it, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.  

He should have seen this coming. Should have asked harder questions, pushed Eric when he brushed things off. Should have done something.  

But he hadn’t. And now all he could do was stay. And help. And make sure Eric made it through the night.  

Because no one else was going to save him.  

Chapter Text

Eric woke slowly.  

His body felt heavy, like he’d been weighed down with sandbags, and his mind was stuffed with cotton. Every thought came sluggish, like he was underwater. But even through the fog, one singular, hollow truth rose to the surface:  

He’d failed.  

He blinked his eyes open, sluggish and dry. The room swam into focus slowly—dim, quiet, familiar. He was in his bunk. A blanket was pulled up around his chest. He blinked again and forced his vision to settle.  

Salim was there.  

Sat on the edge of his own bed, which had been pulled close beside Eric’s. His hands were clasped tightly together, his eyes closed in silent prayer. His posture was tense, like he’d been frozen there for hours.  

Guilt twisted in Eric’s gut like barbed wire.  

His throat burned when he spoke. “I’m sorry.”  

Salim’s head snapped up, eyes flying open. He muttered something quickly in Arabic—thankful, shaken—then said in English, voice trembling, “Thank Allah you're awake.”  

Eric looked away.  

He couldn’t meet Salim’s gaze, couldn’t face the weight of what he’d done. Of what Salim had seen. Of what he’d nearly left behind.  

It wasn’t until Salim leaned forward that Eric saw it—the tears staining his cheeks, the redness in his eyes. He’d been crying. And not just recently. Eric didn’t know what to do with that. He hadn’t expected… this.  

The guilt twisted deeper, sharper.  

“I’m so sorry, Eric,” Salim said softly. His voice cracked. “I should have noticed earlier. I should have seen the signs, done something. I shouldn’t have lectured you about the drinking—I thought I was helping, but I wasn’t listening.”  

Eric blinked quickly as his own eyes welled with tears. He wasn’t used to this. To someone caring this much. He hadn’t thought anyone would cry for him.  

“It’s not your fault,” he mumbled. “I didn’t want anyone to see. I didn’t want you to see how… broken I am.”  

Salim’s hand came to rest gently on Eric’s shoulder. “You’re not broken, Eric,” he said, firm but gentle. “You’re suffering.”  

That was it.  

Something inside Eric cracked—split wide open. He couldn’t hold back anymore. The sobs came hard and fast, rising from deep in his chest, raw and gasping. He covered his face with one hand like it might hide the tears, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop it.  

“I can’t do it anymore,” he choked out between sobs. “I can’t—I can’t take it. Seeing Rachel with Nick—it’s like a knife in my chest, every damn time. We’re still married. And I have to smile and pretend like it doesn’t kill me. I have to live with it. With all of it. With what happened in the temple. With… with knowing that I got half my team killed. They trusted me, and I got them killed.”  

He couldn’t breathe. The words tumbled out like they’d been dammed up for too long.  

Salim didn’t speak.  

He moved forward and wrapped his arms around Eric, pulling him close without hesitation. Eric didn’t resist. He leaned into the embrace like he was collapsing, burying his face into Salim’s shoulder. He didn’t care how pathetic or weak he looked. He was too tired. Too empty.  

Salim’s arms were firm and warm around him, solid in a way nothing else was right now. One hand moved slowly up and down Eric’s back, steady and grounding, comforting in a way that made the pain even sharper. Because it meant someone saw him. Someone stayed.  

Eric cried harder.  

And Salim held him through it all, saying nothing, just letting Eric fall apart in his arms, until there was nothing left but shaking breaths and the quiet hum of grief in the air between them.  

Eric stayed leaning against Salim, even as his sobs faded into silent, shuddering breaths and the tears slowed to a quiet stream down his cheeks. His body felt heavy and limp, like all the fight had drained out of him. He was exhausted in every sense of the word—physically, emotionally, spiritually. It was only the steady presence of Salim, the comforting rise and fall of his chest, the hand moving gently along his back, that kept him grounded at all.  

He didn’t try to move. Didn’t want to.  

Salim still held him close, one arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders, the other steady at his back. Neither of them said anything for a long time.  

Eventually, Eric found his voice, quiet and hoarse against Salim’s shoulder. “How long was I out?”  

Salim tensed slightly, his hand pausing for a moment before it resumed its slow motion. “A while,” he said carefully. “Ten hours. Maybe more.”  

Eric stiffened faintly, guilt coiling in his stomach.  

Salim added, voice softer now, “It worried me. It’s not meant to last that long. But your body…” He hesitated. “It’s already weak.”  

Eric flinched—not visibly, but Salim felt it, the way his body went slightly rigid in his arms. Eric knew it was true, knew he hadn’t been eating enough, hadn’t been sleeping properly, had been dragging himself through the days like a ghost. But hearing it out loud still stung. It made it real.  

“I’m sorry,” Eric whispered again, his voice barely audible.  

“Stop apologizing,” Salim said gently.  

Eric just nodded, the movement slight against Salim’s shoulder. He didn’t pull back. Didn’t try to hide. He didn’t have the energy for it—and truthfully, he didn’t want to. Being held like this… it felt good. It felt safe. Something he hadn’t realized he needed until he had it.  

And Salim didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let go.  

He held Eric with a kind of fierce protectiveness, like letting go might mean losing him again. Feeling Eric here—alive, warm, breathing—settled something deep and primal in his chest. That gnawing, terrified voice that had been screaming What if I’d been too late? was quiet for now. Still there, but soothed.  

He exhaled slowly, his hand still resting at Eric’s back, grounding them both.  

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not alone.”  

And for the first time in a long time, Eric believed it.  

Eric, still curled against Salim’s chest, his body warm and slack with exhaustion, mumbled something barely coherent—soft, defeated.  

“I don’t think I can keep doing this.”  

Salim’s hand stilled on his back for just a second before it resumed its slow, steady motion. His chest tightened, breath catching in his throat. He swallowed thickly, forcing himself to breathe, to stay calm, even as the ache in his heart grew heavier. He thought for a long moment, trying to find the right words, the right way to reach through the numbness and pain that had taken hold of Eric.  

“Just because you feel this way now,” Salim said gently, carefully, “doesn’t mean it’ll always feel like this. It can get better. We’ll be out of quarantine soon—you won’t have to keep seeing Rachel and Nick every day. You’ll go home, back to your own routine. Back to something that feels normal. And it will get better.”  

Eric let out a quiet breath that sounded far too close to a sob, though he didn’t cry again. His voice came numb and flat, barely more than a whisper.  

“My apartment still has Rachel’s stuff in it… from before she walked out.”  

That single sentence gutted Salim. He closed his eyes for a second, his arm tightening around Eric, holding him just a little closer, like maybe if he held on tightly enough, he could shield him from everything—past, present, and future.  

His voice cracked when he spoke again. “Eric… please. Don’t kill yourself. Please.”  

There was no answer. Just silence, heavy and dreadful.  

Salim’s grip tightened once more, more desperate now, almost begging. “Two weeks. Just two weeks. Give me that much. Let me prove to you that life is still worth living. Even if it hurts, even if it’s full of guilt. Just… let me try. Please.”  

For a moment, he thought Eric wouldn’t respond at all. But then, finally, he felt the slow, reluctant nod against his chest. Just once.  

“Okay,” Eric whispered. It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t hope. It was a delay. A quiet surrender, not to life, but to Salim. Because he knew it wouldn’t work. He knew it. But he didn’t say that part.  

He was just so, so tired.  

Salim didn’t say anything else. His hand kept moving in soft, soothing strokes along Eric’s back. And this time, Eric didn’t resist the pull of sleep. His body sagged completely in Salim’s arms, his breathing slowing, steadying, as unconsciousness claimed him again.  

Once Salim was sure Eric was asleep, he shifted carefully. Gently, he eased Eric down onto the mattress, adjusting the blanket to tuck around him securely. Eric’s face was pale, drawn, the bandage on his arm stark against the thinness of his frame. Salim brushed a hand through Eric’s hair, just once, before pulling his own bed closer again and sitting back down.  

Two weeks.  

It wasn’t much.  

But it was something.  

And he would fight like hell to make sure Eric saw the end of it.  

---  

The next time Eric woke, the fog in his mind had lifted slightly. He still felt sore, exhausted, and vaguely hollow, but he wasn’t as disoriented as before. His body ached with the dull weight of recovery, but his head was clearer—enough to register the soft rise and fall of breathing nearby.  

He turned his head and saw Salim, sprawled across his own bed, which was still pulled up beside Eric’s. The blanket lay untouched beneath him, and his body was slumped like he hadn’t intended to fall asleep there. His head rested against his arm, his other hand loosely curled on the mattress. Eric blinked, surprised. He hadn’t expected Salim to still be there—especially not like this.  

He stayed still for a moment longer, trying to decide whether to move or just lie there and let the silence wrap around him. He didn’t have the energy to move. Not really. His body hurt, his arm ached dully beneath the bandages, and he still felt too weak to care about much of anything.  

But then he realised he needed to piss.  

It wasn’t a sudden or urgent sensation, just a slow, insistent reminder that he hadn’t moved in hours. It made sense—he’d been unconscious for over ten hours.  

Eric pushed himself upright with a wince, sucking in a sharp breath as he instinctively braced with his left arm. Pain flared and he hissed, cradling it to his chest. He reached with his right hand to grab his prosthetic, maneuvering it onto his lap. Strapping it on one-handed wasn’t impossible, but it was slow, awkward. He fumbled with the metal, trying to get the socket to sit right.  

He tried to use his left hand to steady it, but his fingers felt clumsy, uncooperative—half-numb. The prosthetic slipped out of his grip and hit the floor with a muted thump .  

Salim stirred immediately.  

He’d only been lightly sleeping, half-alert, listening for any signs of movement. His eyes blinked open, and he pushed himself upright with a groggy hand to his face. “Eric?” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “You alright?”  

“I’m fine,” Eric muttered through clenched teeth, though the frustration was already clear in his tone.  

Salim rubbed his eyes, focusing more now. “Where are you going?”  

“Bathroom,” Eric bit out. “Trying to go to the damn bathroom, but I can’t get the fucking prosthetic on.”  

Salim was already swinging his legs over the bed. “Let me help.”  

Eric hesitated. The instinct to push everyone away, to stubbornly handle it himself, flared up. But then he exhaled, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “…Yeah. Okay.”  

Salim came around to the side of the bed and crouched, lifting the prosthetic and holding it steady. With his help, Eric managed to slide the socket into place, using his good hand to fasten the straps.  

Once it was on securely, Eric sagged back against the wall behind his bed, his left arm still cradled against his chest. “Thanks,” he said, low.  

“Don’t mention it,” Salim replied gently, then turned to pick something up from the floor. “I brought your shirt back. Figured you wouldn’t want to be walking around shirtless.”  

Eric took it with a nod, his cheeks burning slightly with shame. He hated that Salim had seen him like that—ribs jutting out beneath skin, like something fragile and starved. The reminder twisted in his gut as he carefully slid the shirt on, movements stiff and awkward.  

“…Thanks,” he said again.  

Salim simply nodded and stepped toward the door, pulling it open.  

Eric stood slowly, his legs shaky beneath him. For a moment, the room tilted ever so slightly, and he paused to find his balance, breathing through the wave of weakness. Then he followed Salim out into the hallway, the quiet hum of the base filling the silence between them.  

Neither of them said anything.  

But Salim stayed close, just a step ahead.  

And Eric kept walking.  

Salim pushed open the bathroom door, stepping aside so Eric could enter first. Eric moved wordlessly toward a cubicle, shutting the door behind him. He reached for his zipper automatically with his left hand—only to fumble and miss. His fingers wouldn’t close properly around the fabric, numb and trembling. He gritted his teeth, biting back a curse as he tried again, failing just as miserably.  

The frustration flared hot in his chest. Everything about him felt like a failure—his body, his mind, his decisions. He’d already fallen apart once, and now he couldn’t even do something as simple as use the damn bathroom without struggling.  

Eventually, after a few awkward, clumsy tries, he got the zipper down and relieved himself. When he flushed and stepped out, Salim was seated on one of the benches by the sink area, a small kit laid out beside him: a roll of gauze, clean bandages, and a tube of antibacterial cream.  

Eric paused in the doorway of the cubicle, unsure for a moment whether to just walk past. But he lingered—and after a moment, quietly walked over and sat down beside Salim.  

Salim looked up, his eyes tired but calm. “Do you want to do it yourself,” he asked softly, gesturing to the supplies, “or… can I?”  

Eric hesitated again. Part of him wanted to say he’d do it himself. That he could manage. That he didn’t need anyone else’s help.  

But another, quieter part—the same part that had leaned into Salim’s arms the night before, broken and sobbing—was too tired to keep up the act.  

“…You can,” he said, voice barely above a murmur.  

He held out his arm, eyes fixed firmly on his lap. He didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want the image of the damage burned any deeper into his mind. It reminded him too much of when he’d first lost his leg—how he’d refused to look at the stump for days, maybe weeks, as if avoiding the sight could change the reality of what was gone.  

Salim unwrapped the bandages carefully, gently peeling away the layers one by one. As he removed the last of the blood-soaked gauze, he grimaced.  

The wound looked worse now that it had stopped actively bleeding. The depth of it was more visible. The skin gaped slightly, angry and red, with cut nerves and torn muscle beneath. Salim forced himself to look away, swallowing down the nausea rising in his throat.  

He dipped a clean cloth in water and started to wipe away the dried blood. When Eric flinched or stiffened under his touch, Salim murmured apologies under his breath, hands as careful as he could manage.  

“I’m sorry… I’ll be quick… I know it hurts.”  

Eric didn’t respond, just kept his eyes on the floor, jaw tight and shoulders rigid.  

Once the wound was cleaned, Salim applied a thin layer of antibacterial cream and began wrapping the fresh gauze around Eric’s arm. His movements were practiced, efficient, but still gentle. When he finished, he taped the last edge down and gave Eric a small nod.  

Eric took his arm back wordlessly and pulled his sleeve down immediately, hiding the bandage beneath the fabric like it was something shameful. He didn’t want anyone else to see. Didn’t want them to look at him with pity—or worse, see how badly he was unraveling.  

Salim watched him for a moment, then said, “You should eat something.”  

Eric grimaced, the thought of food making his stomach churn. He remembered how violently he’d thrown up after lunch the day before. He didn’t have the energy for that again. “I’m not hungry,” he muttered.  

“At least eat one of the protein bars when we’re back in the barracks,” Salim said, firm but gentle. “Even half of one.”  

Eric hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”  

Salim stood, and Eric followed, moving stiffly. He still cradled his left arm against his chest as they left the bathroom. The hallway was quiet, their footsteps the only sound.  

Eric didn’t know why Salim was still helping him, why he hadn’t just handed him off to CENTCOM medics and walked away. But he was secretly—deeply—grateful.  

Because even if he couldn’t quite say it yet, the truth was simple:  

He didn’t want to go through this alone.  

And thanks to Salim, he didn’t have to.  

When they got back to the barracks, Eric moved slowly, carefully, and sat down on the edge of his bed. He rested his injured arm gently in his lap, cradling it like something fragile. Salim crossed the room to the corner, where he crouched down and pulled a protein bar from a half-empty box tucked beside his pack.  

Eric watched him, his brows furrowing slightly. “Why do you have a box of protein bars?” he asked quietly.  

Salim paused, then glanced over his shoulder. His voice was soft when he answered. “I didn’t want to have to keep leaving to go eat,” he said. “So I brought some back here. That way I could stay beside you. So you wouldn’t have to wake up alone.”  

Eric blinked, caught off guard. The words made him freeze, his chest tightening. He hadn’t realized—hadn’t even considered—that Salim had stayed the entire time he’d been unconscious. Not just checked in. Stayed.  

Salim came back over and handed him the bar. Eric took it with his good hand, then tried to peel it open with his left. His fingers still felt clumsy and numb, and after a few seconds of struggling, he let out a sharp breath through his nose and ripped it open with his teeth instead.  

He took a bite. Small. Mechanical. He chewed and swallowed, even though his stomach protested. Even though he didn’t want to eat at all.  

He managed about half the bar before the rising tide of guilt twisted in his gut again—guilt for eating, for existing, for taking up space—and he set the rest aside on the nightstand. He picked up his water bottle and took a careful sip, hoping it would help settle the sick feeling gnawing at him.  

The cramps had dulled since earlier, enough that he could breathe without doubling over. He shifted back on the bed, swinging his legs up and leaning against the headboard. He didn’t bother trying to take his prosthetic off—it was too much effort, and he was still too tired.  

Across from him, Salim had settled onto his own bed again, the frame still pulled up close beside Eric’s. They were only a couple of feet apart, so close their knees would have touched if they both sat forward.  

Eric looked at him for a long moment, then said, “You… didn’t need to stay with me the whole time I was out.”  

Salim looked over at him, expression unreadable for a moment. Then he asked, gently, “If you had woken up alone… would you have freaked out? Maybe hurt yourself again?”  

Eric hesitated, his gaze dropping to his lap. He thought about it. Thought about the weight of waking up in silence, with only his thoughts for company. About the shame and emptiness that would’ve swallowed him whole.  

He gave a small nod.  

Salim’s voice softened even more. “Then I’m glad I stayed,” he said. “I don’t mind. If it helps you—I’ll stay.”  

Eric nodded again, unable to say much more. He wanted to. Wanted to say that it did help. That Salim being there made everything feel just a little less heavy. But the words got stuck somewhere behind his teeth.  

He looked down, fingers curling loosely in the fabric of his shirt. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes again, and he blinked rapidly to keep them from falling. He was still embarrassed - embarrassed about crying into Salim’s shoulder, about breaking down, about needing someone so badly.  

But… it had helped. Just being held. Just not being alone.  

He wanted to say everything spiraling in his head. The guilt. The shame. The constant noise that never let him rest. But the words stayed locked away.  

So instead, he just sat there, trying to keep it together, as Salim stayed close in silence—offering him space, but never distance.  

Eric sat still for a long time, his gaze fixed on the ceiling above, the sharp edges of overhead lights dimmed by the haze behind his eyes. He could feel the small, solid weight of the half a protein bar settling uneasily in his stomach. It wasn’t much, but it was more than he’d kept down in days. He tilted his head back, breathing slowly through his nose, trying to distract himself from the nauseating sensation, from the guilt clawing up his throat. He didn’t want to throw it up. Not because he wanted to keep it down—he didn’t—but because he didn’t have the energy to deal with the aftermath.  

His arm throbbed faintly in his lap, wrapped and hidden, like the rest of him. He could feel Salim’s presence just beside him, steady and quiet. And he was grateful—truly grateful—that Salim hadn’t run, hadn’t looked at him like a bomb ticking down, like something broken beyond repair. Salim still looked at him like he mattered. Like he could be saved.  

But deep down, Eric knew. He knew it wouldn’t work.  

Not in two weeks. Not in two months. He’d already been broken long before this. But back then, he’d had little things holding him together—Rachel, his work, the belief that he still had a purpose. Now it was all gone. He didn’t see a way back from that. Couldn’t imagine one. The best he could hope for now was that, when the two weeks were up, Salim would let him go without trying to stop him again.  

He blinked slowly at the ceiling, jaw clenched. He hadn’t meant to agree to the two weeks. He didn’t even know why he had. Maybe it had been the desperation in Salim’s voice. Maybe it had been the simple act of being held when he was breaking apart. But now that he had agreed, it felt inevitable. Like a countdown had begun. A final deadline.  

His thoughts were drifting, dark and quiet, when Salim’s voice cut gently through the silence.  

“You know… no one ever really told me everything that happened. Between you, Rachel, and Nick.”  

Eric tensed, a subtle shift of his shoulders. He sucked in a slow breath through his nose, then let it out carefully. “Rachel and I got married,” he said, his voice flat and tired. “Three years ago.”  

Salim frowned, visibly trying to piece the timeline together. “But her and Nick…?”  

Eric let out a bitter, humorless laugh, one that scraped against his throat like broken glass. “She walked out last year,” he said. “Didn’t give a reason. Just left. I kept hoping she’d come back. I held onto that hope for a year. It was all I had.” He swallowed thickly, blinking fast. “Then I found out—in the tunnels, of all fucking places—that she’d been cheating on me. With Nick.”  

His voice cracked at the end, and he couldn’t stop the tears that welled up again, couldn’t stop the familiar ache from spreading through his chest like wildfire. Every time he thought about her, about everything she’d meant to him, it still hurt just as bad.  

Salim’s hand came to rest gently on his shoulder. “Oh, Eric,” he said, and his voice was so full of quiet, heartfelt sympathy that Eric shattered all over again.  

The sobs hit hard, sharp and shuddering, tearing out of him like he was being split open. He doubled over slightly, his good hand clenching in the blanket as he cried. He couldn’t stop it—didn’t even try to. Salim pulled him in again, arms wrapping around him without hesitation, grounding him in the moment like he had the night before.  

Eric leaned into him, letting himself collapse into the warmth and comfort, too broken to care how it looked, too exhausted to be anything but honest in his grief. His body shook with every breath, the sobs coming fast and hard.  

Between gasps and broken sounds, the words spilled out of him: “When I lost my leg… it was Rachel that kept me going. I kept thinking, at least I still had her. At least she still loved me.” He dragged in a shaky breath, voice cracking further. “Then when she left, it was my work. And the hope that she might come back. That maybe I hadn’t lost everything. But now… now the satellites have failed. She’s with him. I don’t have anything left, Salim. Nothing left to live for.”  

Salim held him tighter, like he could physically keep him from slipping away. His hand moved slowly up and down Eric’s back, grounding, steady. He leaned his head against Eric’s and whispered, “Then find something, Eric. Anything. It doesn’t have to be big. It doesn’t have to fix everything. Just something small to hold on to. A reason to wake up tomorrow.”  

Eric didn’t respond—not with words. He couldn’t. He was too lost in the storm. But he nodded faintly against Salim’s shoulder, even as more tears spilled from his eyes, soaking into Salim’s shirt.  

Salim kept whispering. Comforting things. Gentle things. That he wasn’t alone. That he was still here. That there was still time. That Salim wasn’t going anywhere.  

And for now, that was enough.  

Somewhere in the middle of the sobs wracking his body, somewhere in the way he clutched at Salim like he might fall apart entirely if he let go, Eric had a fleeting, splintered thought:  

He didn’t know how much longer he could keep doing this.  

Forcing himself to get up. Forcing himself to eat. Forcing himself to breathe when it felt like his chest was collapsing inward. Pretending, even for Salim, that he could survive the day without coming undone. He didn’t know how to hold himself together when everything inside him felt like it had already shattered.  

Two weeks felt like an impossibly long time. Not a gift, not a promise—just a slow kind of torture, a delay before the inevitable. He didn’t want to live like this, dragging himself through each hour, every breath a battle, every night another chance to lose the fight inside his head.  

Part of him wondered—hoped, even—if maybe Salim would see just how broken he really was. If maybe Salim would understand that keeping him alive was just prolonging the pain. Maybe if Salim saw him like this enough times, if he really saw the cracks spreading through every inch of him, he’d stop trying to fight the inevitable. Maybe he’d let Eric go.  

But as Eric trembled in his arms, as the grief poured out of him in raw, gasping sobs, Salim didn’t pull away.  

His arms were still around Eric, solid and grounding, like an anchor in the storm. His hand still moved slowly up and down Eric’s back, a gentle rhythm that said I’m here, I’ve got you, you’re not alone. And in that steady, unwavering presence, Eric knew—knew with a quiet, painful certainty—that Salim wasn’t going to give up. He wasn’t going to stop fighting to keep him alive.  

Salim wasn’t going to let him go.  

Eric didn’t know whether to feel grateful for that or exhausted by it. Maybe both. Maybe it didn’t matter.  

All he knew was that, for now, Salim was holding him together in the places he couldn’t do it himself. And for tonight, that was all he had.  

When Eric finally ran out of tears to cry, all that remained was the exhaustion—a deep, bone-heavy weariness that settled into every inch of him. It wasn’t just physical; it was the kind of tired that sank into the soul, the kind that didn’t go away with sleep.  

He was already tired of the routine.  

Wake up. Break down. Go back to sleep. Repeat.  

It felt like that was all he was now—grief on a loop. Some broken, failing thing barely functioning. And it was his own fault. He knew that. If he ate more, he might have a little more strength. If he hadn’t tried to bleed out on the barracks floor, maybe his body wouldn’t be using up what little energy he had trying to patch itself back together.  

But none of that changed how limp and useless he felt now. He didn’t even have the strength to sit up straight. He was draped against Salim like a rag doll, face pressed into the other man’s shoulder, and the worst part was that he didn’t care. Not about how pathetic he looked. Not about his dignity. It just didn’t matter anymore.  

And Salim hadn’t moved—not once. His arm was still around Eric’s back, his hand still moving in slow, gentle strokes that ran from between his shoulder blades to the small of his back. That motion was oddly soothing. Steady. Grounding. It reminded Eric, distantly, of being comforted as a child—of safety, even if he didn’t feel safe anymore.  

The warmth of Salim’s body, the subtle rhythm of his breath, the quiet comfort of being held—it all tugged at Eric’s frayed edges, lulling him into a dazed, heavy calm.  

He was just so, so tired.  

His eyes slipped shut again, and this time, he didn’t even try to fight it. He let himself rest against Salim fully, surrendering to the comfort, the quiet, the temporary stillness.  

Just for a little while.  

Salim could feel the weight of Eric slumped against him, warm and still, half asleep, maybe more than half. He didn’t move, didn’t try to shift Eric into a more proper position or ease him down onto the bed. He just kept holding him.  

Having Eric in his arms like this was proof—solid, breathing, trembling proof—that he was still here. Still alive. That Salim hadn’t been too late. That he hadn’t found Eric’s body cold and still on the barracks floor. That there was still time—two weeks. Two weeks to keep him breathing. Two weeks to convince him not to let go.  

His hand kept moving slowly, rhythmically, up and down Eric’s back. He hoped it was comforting, even in sleep. He’d noticed how Eric responded to touch—how it grounded him when his thoughts got too dark, how it helped draw him back from the edge. So Salim kept going, kept stroking his back gently, quietly.  

Every pass of his hand up Eric’s spine made him ache a little more. His fingers could feel the sharp jut of bones—shoulder blades, spine, ribs too close to the surface. He was too thin. Worryingly thin. Salim had seen him skip meals before, brushing it off with a distracted wave or a quiet “not hungry,” but there had been other times—times Eric ate normally, clearing his tray like it was nothing.  

It didn’t add up. Something didn’t make sense.  

But Salim didn’t need all the answers to act. He knew one thing for sure: Eric needed food. He needed strength. Even if it was just a little at a time. Even if it was slow. Salim could handle slow. He would start making sure Eric ate something every day—something small, something manageable. Just enough to stop him from wasting away.  

Eric shifted then, a tiny movement—barely more than a twitch—but his cheek brushed deeper against Salim’s shoulder, nuzzling closer in his sleep. Salim felt his breath catch for a moment.  

He didn’t move.  

Didn’t tense.  

Didn’t flinch.  

He knew Eric—knew how tightly he held himself together when he was awake, how much shame and embarrassment he carried. He’d never allow himself this kind of closeness if he were conscious, if he were thinking clearly.  

But now, in sleep, that wall was down.  

And Salim wasn’t going to betray that trust—not even by accident.  

He simply stayed where he was, silent and steady, anchoring Eric the only way he knew how. And in the quiet hum of the barracks, with Eric breathing softly against him, Salim promised himself again: two weeks. He would fight for every single day.  

After a long stretch of silence—just the faint hum of the lights and the soft rhythm of their breathing—Eric twitched.  

It was a small, jerking movement at first, barely enough to stir Salim from where he'd slipped into his own thoughts. But then it happened again, sharper this time. Salim blinked and looked down, suddenly alert.  

Eric’s face was scrunched up in distress, his brows drawn tight, his mouth slightly open like he was trying to speak or cry out but couldn’t. His body gave another twitch, like he was trying to lash out or run, caught in the grip of something invisible and awful.  

Salim gently started rubbing his back again, repeating the motion that had calmed him before. His voice was quiet, steady, barely above a whisper as he murmured, “You’re safe… you’re alright, you’re here with me… it’s just a dream… I’ve got you, habibi…”  

Eric jolted awake with a sudden gasp, chest heaving, eyes wide and wild. He looked around in a panic, as if he didn’t know where he was or what was happening. Salim didn’t move, didn’t let go. He just waited, his hand still moving slowly across Eric’s back.  

Gradually, Eric’s eyes focused. Recognition dawned. His shoulders began to drop, the tension melting away in stages, like someone slowly exhaling after holding their breath too long.  

He let out a long, shaky breath. “Sorry,” he mumbled.  

Salim shook his head. “Don’t apologize. Are you alright?”  

Eric nodded, not meeting his eyes. “Yeah. I… I was back in the tunnels again.”  

Salim’s expression softened, his voice quiet but firm. “We’ll never have to go back there. The vampires… they’re gone. We’re not infected. We made it out. We’re safe now.”  

Eric didn’t answer for a moment. Then, slowly, like it took effort, he leaned his head back against Salim’s shoulder again. The contact was warm, grounding, and the words Salim had said helped more than Eric wanted to admit.  

Safe. Out. Alive.  

He closed his eyes again. He wasn’t ready to face sleep again just yet—not with the way it dragged him back into the dark—but leaning against Salim like this, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, the gentle hand still moving over his back… it made it a little easier to breathe.  

After another few minutes of quiet, Salim’s voice broke the silence—gentle, almost tentative. “Do you feel up to going to get something to eat?”  

Eric tensed immediately. Salim felt it through the contact, the way Eric’s shoulders went rigid, the way his back stiffened slightly against his palm. Eric’s voice was low and hoarse when he answered. “I don’t… I don’t want to eat right now.”  

Salim didn’t push. He just nodded, his hand never stopping its slow rhythm up and down Eric’s back. “Alright,” he said softly. “But you need to eat something today. You were unconscious a long time. Half a protein bar isn’t enough—not for healing, not for anything. Your body needs more than that.”  

Eric nodded against him, even though the words barely registered. He wasn’t going to argue. He knew Salim was right. He knew exactly how little fuel his body had left, how every movement felt like dragging himself through sludge. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t eating to heal. He wasn’t healing at all.  

He didn’t say any of that out loud, though. Just nodded like he agreed, like he was taking it on board.  

He couldn’t bring himself to leave the room anyway. The thought of walking out that door and running into Rachel—or Nick—made his stomach twist in something far worse than hunger. The shame was unbearable. Knowing they were out there, knowing they knew he’d failed… he couldn’t face that.  

And even worse than that was the fact that he was still here. That he'd woken up. That Salim had found him and pulled him back from the edge. That he'd agreed to try, even though deep down he knew he wouldn't make it two weeks.  

He stayed where he was, leaning against Salim, letting himself sink into the comfort he didn’t deserve. It was selfish—he knew that. But he didn’t have it in him to pull away. Not yet. Not when the warmth of another person was the only thing holding him together.  

Salim didn’t say anything else. He just held him, like he knew Eric needed it more than anything right now. Like he’d keep doing it for as long as Eric would let him.  

When it got late enough that the empty silence between them started to feel heavier than usual, Salim finally spoke again, his voice quiet but clear. “If you don’t want to eat anything,” he said gently, “would you like to go to the games room? Play something for a while?”  

Eric didn’t even need to think about it. He shook his head immediately. “I don’t want to see Nick or Rachel.”  

Salim nodded, unsurprised. “Alright,” he said, thoughtful. “What if I go get something? A deck of cards, maybe. Or the chess set?”  

Eric hesitated, torn between wanting to stay buried in the comfort of stillness and knowing he couldn’t sit here forever, unmoving, unthinking, with his brain looping like a broken reel. Eventually, he nodded, voice low. “Yeah, okay… but not chess.”  

“Not chess,” Salim agreed. He waited a moment, giving Eric the space to move away first. Eric slowly pulled back, and Salim unwrapped his arms, standing and stretching his stiff back with a faint groan.  

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, and with one last glance back at Eric, slipped out the door.  

The room felt strangely hollow in his absence.  

Eric sat there in the silence, the weight of it pressing down on him. He tipped his head back and stared up at the ceiling, barely noticing how dim the lights had gotten. This was the first time he’d been alone since waking up. Salim had made sure of that, hovering quietly, staying close, like he knew exactly what Eric would do the second the door shut behind him.  

Eric looked down at his arm. His sleeve had slipped up a little, and he stared at the fresh bandages, at the way his skin looked thin and pale around them. He flexed his fingers. They trembled faintly. Then he tried to curl them into a fist.  

It barely closed. Weak and trembling.  

He must’ve cut through something—nerves, tendons, muscle. It hadn’t hit him before, not really, what lasting damage he might’ve done.  

He stared at his hand, as if it belonged to someone else, then looked back up at the ceiling, hollow and expressionless.  

If he hadn’t hesitated.  

If he’d been a little faster. A little more decisive. He wouldn’t be sitting here right now.  

But then Salim would’ve found him. Salim, not someone impersonal. Not a medic. Not a stranger.  

Eric swallowed hard, a sharp ache blooming in his chest. He didn’t want that. Didn’t want Salim to find him like that. Not when he’d held him, stayed up with him, not when he was still trying so damn hard.  

So, when the two weeks were up… he’d have to go somewhere else. Somewhere far enough that Salim wouldn’t find him. Wouldn’t see what he’d done. Wouldn’t have to carry that weight.  

Eric dragged in a breath and held it until it hurt, then let it go slowly.  

The quiet in the room stretched thin around him. Waiting.  

Eric sat there, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling, his body aching in that deep, tired way that went beyond flesh and bone. The second the door had clicked shut behind Salim, the silence had come roaring in, thick and suffocating. And with it—like it always did—came the thoughts.  

He hated it. Hated how, as soon as he was left alone, his mind turned against him, how the idea of finishing what he’d started just a day ago pulled at him like a current under the surface, relentless and familiar. The bathroom was only a few steps away. He knew where the med kit was. He knew how to do it better this time.  

His hands clenched, shaking. His heart thudded too hard in his chest.  

Salim would be disappointed in him.  

That thought struck harder than he wanted it to. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched, willing the images and the pull and the noise in his head to go quiet.  

Just two weeks.  

That was what he'd said. What he’d promised. It wasn’t that long. He just had to hold it together for two more weeks.  

It shouldn’t have felt like such an impossible stretch of time.  

Eric let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his pants, nails digging into the worn material. He couldn’t just disappear the second Salim left him alone. That wasn’t fair. Salim didn’t deserve that—not after all of this, not after everything he’d done.  

The man was trying so hard. Harder than anyone else ever had.  

And for what? For someone who could barely eat half a protein bar without breaking down? For someone who spent more time crying than speaking? Eric didn’t know what Salim saw in him, what made him keep trying, keep staying. He didn’t deserve the comfort. He didn’t deserve the warmth of those arms wrapped around him, the quiet sympathy, the way Salim never looked at him like he was pathetic.  

He didn’t deserve any of it. But he’d been given it anyway.  

And that, more than anything, kept him rooted to the spot. Not because he believed he could be saved. But because if he broke his promise now—if he made Salim carry the weight of finding him, of wondering what he could have done differently—that would be the cruelest thing of all.  

So Eric stayed exactly where he was, trembling, exhausted, his chest tight and aching.  

Two weeks. Just two weeks.  

He could do that.  

Maybe.  

Salim returned quicker than Eric expected.  

He hadn’t even made it through a full spiral before the door opened again with a soft click and Salim stepped back inside, holding a deck of cards in one hand, a couple of things tucked beneath his arm. Eric blinked at him, almost startled. He’d half-expected—or maybe half-hoped—that Salim would take his time, maybe stop somewhere, get something to eat, give himself a break from the burden that was Eric.  

But, of course, that wasn’t what Salim was like.  

Eric was still getting used to that.  

Without a word, Salim walked over and dropped the deck of cards at the end of Eric’s bed. Then he moved to the wall, where he smoothed out a small piece of paper and taped it up with a strip of duct tape he must have picked up from somewhere. He marked a single, short line across the top corner of the page.  

Eric heard him murmur, “Two weeks.”  

The words hit harder than Eric expected. His chest ached with it—how seriously Salim was taking this, how hard he was trying to keep Eric alive. Hard enough to make a tally. One mark. One day survived.  

It felt both comforting and crushing.  

Eric reached for the deck of cards, fumbling with the box. His fingers barely worked, stiff and slow, the nerves in his left hand still a mess. He was never good at shuffling even with both hands working, but now it was near impossible. Cards slipped from his grip, scattered to the floor in a quiet flutter.  

He sighed in frustration, bent to gather them up awkwardly, then gave up and handed the whole thing to Salim.  

Salim took them with a small nod and sat down beside him on the edge of the bed. The space was so tight their knees brushed again, but neither of them shifted away.  

“Any game you like,” Salim said gently, starting to shuffle the cards like he did it all the time. His movements were calm, unhurried.  

Eric watched the cards move through Salim’s hands, then glanced up toward the tally on the wall. One day.  

He could survive one day.  

Maybe.  

He looked back down at the cards. “Uh… blackjack?”  

Salim gave a faint smile. “Blackjack it is.”  

And for a moment, the quiet between them wasn’t so heavy.  

To Eric’s surprise, the card game actually helped .  

Not in some grand, miraculous way—he wasn’t suddenly cured of the constant ache in his chest, or the thoughts pressing at the back of his skull like a tide waiting to rise again—but it pulled him out of his head. For the first time all day, maybe longer, he wasn’t thinking about the bathroom, or Rachel, or the tunnels, or the impossible weight of the two weeks ahead.  

He was just thinking about the next card.  

Salim dealt smoothly, and Eric played. At first he fumbled, had to pause to remember the rules, but Salim helped him along without mocking him, just a soft, steady patience that Eric wasn’t used to. They played again. Then again. Then again.  

Too many rounds to count.  

Eric didn’t win all of them—far from it—but he wasn’t losing every round either. That alone felt like a small, strange victory. He’d never been particularly good at blackjack, always overthinking the numbers, counting too many possibilities and getting lost in them. But now, with half his brain tied up in the background noise of pain and fatigue and everything else, the overthinking faded. His decisions were quicker, simpler.  

And, weirdly, more effective.  

Salim seemed genuinely pleased to see him engaged in the game, to see him thinking about something else . He didn’t push, didn’t comment on it or make it feel like a big deal, but there was a quiet satisfaction in his eyes each time Eric leaned forward, or let out a frustrated breath when he lost a round. Like it meant something—that Eric was still here. Still playing.  

And it was nice. The simplicity of it. The quiet back-and-forth. No one yelling, no one crying. No masks or walls, no expectations. Just two people, close enough for their knees to bump, trading cards and glances under the low hum of the barracks lighting.  

Eric was enjoying himself.  

He was —even if he would never admit it, not even to himself.  

He didn’t deserve to. Not after everything.  

But still… he let the next card drop onto the pile, and when Salim cursed under his breath and tossed his own down, Eric found himself smirking, just a little.  

Just enough.  

Eventually, it got late enough that Salim set his cards down and said, gently but firmly, “We need to eat something now.”  

Eric tensed. Salim noticed.  

Before he could say anything, Salim added, “It’s late enough that everyone will either be in the games room or asleep.”  

Eric nodded, grateful—but the tension hadn’t come from fear of seeing the others. Not entirely. That wasn’t the part that made his stomach twist. It was the idea of eating at all, of forcing food into a body that didn’t want it, of enduring the inevitable guilt and nausea that would follow.  

Still, he stood when Salim did, stretching carefully. His shoulder ached with the movement—every minor shift pulled at something raw or bruised—but he didn’t mind the pain. He welcomed it. He deserved it.  

They walked the short hall to the canteen, Salim talking about something—nothing too heavy, just enough to keep the silence from creeping in. Eric tried to follow the conversation, tried to nod at the right places, even managed a quiet hum of agreement now and then. He wasn’t sure if he was making sense, but Salim didn’t seem to mind.  

Salim pushed open the canteen doors, and Eric's chest loosened slightly at the sight of an empty room. Just as Salim had promised—no Rachel, no Nick, just them.  

Salim went to the fridge and grabbed a microwave meal, and Eric trailed after him, hovering for a moment before reaching in and selecting the smallest meal he could find. Something labeled for lunch, maybe half the calories of the others. His eyes lingered for a second too long on the top shelf—on the row of beer bottles glinting beneath the fluorescent light. It would be so easy.  

But he looked away. Shut the fridge door.  

He followed Salim to the microwave, unwrapped the plastic film, and put the meal in. When he reached to shut the microwave door with his left hand, his fingers barely responded—he could press, but not grip, and it frustrated him more than it should have. He had to stop, switch hands, and shut the door with his right.  

Another reminder of his failure. Not only had he not succeeded—he’d made everything worse. He was stuck here, broken, useless, and now even inconvenienced by the body that had refused to die.  

He stared through the glass as the tray slowly turned. The hum of the microwave filled the silence in his head for a moment. When it beeped, he pulled the food out carefully and brought it over to the table, where Salim was already sitting.  

He took the seat opposite him. For a moment, he didn’t move—just stared down at the tray, at the plastic container with its congealed edges and chemical smell. It felt like his chest was hollow. He wasn’t hungry. He never was anymore.  

But he felt Salim’s gaze, soft and steady.  

Eric picked up his fork and took a bite.  

The food felt foreign in his mouth, the texture all wrong, the taste too strong and not strong enough at the same time. It was wrong . But he chewed. He swallowed.  

His stomach immediately rebelled, twisting on itself in protest. He clenched his jaw, breathing through his nose, and forced down another forkful.  

They ate in silence for a long time. Or what passed for silence—there was the distant hum of the fridge, the occasional buzz of a flickering light, the soft clink of metal on plastic as their cutlery hit the trays. Just enough sound to keep it from being unbearable. Just enough to keep the quiet from swallowing him whole .  

Every bite was harder than the last.  

Eric focused on moving the fork. Stabbing the food. Bringing it to his mouth. Swallowing. Repeat.  

The food sat in his stomach like stone. It didn’t feel like nourishment—it felt like weight. Like guilt. But he kept going, mechanically, because Salim was watching. Because he didn’t want him to ask questions. Because some small, fading part of him didn’t want to disappoint the only person who still gave a damn.  

Even if he didn’t deserve it.  

Eric finished the entire tray, every last bite. It wasn’t much—barely enough for a lunch portion, let alone dinner—but the moment he set his fork down, the guilt surged hot in his stomach, heavier than the food itself. Like swallowing shame in solid form.  

He stood, his tray in hand, and moved to take it to the sink, but Salim stood too, already done with his larger meal.  

“I’ve got it,” Salim said gently, reaching out.  

Eric hesitated, guilt tangling with weariness in his chest. Then he gave a small nod. “Alright.”  

He passed the tray over and watched as Salim turned toward the sink, running the water. The sound of it filled the quiet space, oddly loud. Eric waited a beat, then said, “I’m gonna go wash my hands.”  

Salim paused slightly, the tension clear in his posture. He turned his head just enough to glance at Eric, worry flickering behind his eyes. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Alright.”  

But Eric saw it anyway—the hesitation, the way Salim clearly didn’t like the idea of him going to the bathroom alone. Not after last time.  

Eric ignored it.  

He turned and slipped out of the room, walking quickly down the hall to the bathroom. As soon as he stepped inside, he shut the door behind him and dropped down in front of the toilet, the cold tiles biting into his knees. His body moved on instinct, familiar motions seared into muscle memory.  

His left hand rose automatically toward his mouth—but the second it lifted too high, his arm flared with pain. A sharp, hot stab that shot from shoulder to elbow.  

Eric winced, the pain making him suck in a breath. Even this —even this terrible, destructive habit—was harder now because of his failure. Because of how badly he’d messed everything up.  

He shifted and brought his right hand up instead. It was clumsier, less practiced, but it worked. His stomach lurched, and a moment later, he was heaving into the toilet, everything he’d just eaten coming back up in a rush. It burned. His throat ached. Probably the protein bar too, gone now, lost to the bile.  

He stayed hunched over for a few moments, breathing heavily, eyes stinging. Then he stood shakily, dragging himself over to the sink and turning the tap on. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.  

He was just finishing rinsing his mouth when he heard the bathroom door creak open. His heart stuttered in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm.  

Salim stepped in, and the second he saw Eric standing there, calmly washing his hands, his whole body eased. His shoulders dropped, the tension bleeding out of him in one slow breath.  

Eric saw it clearly—how tight Salim had been, how close to panic.  

He’s probably traumatized, Eric thought, from finding me like that.  

The thought made his stomach twist again, even emptier now. A deep, hollow guilt spread through his chest.  

Of all the people Eric had hurt lately, Salim was the only one still trying. And Eric hated himself for making even that harder.  

Eric dried his hands slowly, dragging the coarse paper towel over his skin like it might wipe away more than just water. He folded it tightly, then tossed it in the bin. His eyes flicked over to where Salim stood now, leaning casually against the wall just inside the door. He didn’t look casual, though. Not really. There was still a faint crease between his brows, a residual tightness in his shoulders that hadn't quite let go.  

Eric crossed the room to him, every step feeling heavier than it should. When he stopped in front of Salim, he hesitated for a beat, then said, voice low and quiet, “Sorry. For, uh… making you worry.”  

Salim’s expression softened immediately, a gentle smile spreading across his face. “Don’t apologize,” he said simply. “I worry about everyone I care about.”  

Eric’s heart did a strange little flutter at that, his breath catching in his throat. The words stunned him more than they should have. Care about. Someone cared about him. It was like hearing it in a language he’d forgotten he spoke.  

For a brief, startling moment, something cracked open inside him—wide and raw. He wanted to say everything —to confess it all. That he made himself throw up after every meal. That he hated the way he looked now, hated the way his body felt wrong, unworthy. That he felt like he was rotting from the inside out, and no one even noticed because he smiled and said “I’m fine” like a reflex.  

He wanted to spill it all into Salim’s hands and beg him not to be disgusted. Because if anyone could understand, it was Salim. And the idea of keeping those parts of himself hidden from someone who genuinely cared—someone who had stayed—suddenly felt unbearable.  

But the moment passed.  

Eric swallowed it all down like bile, pushed it back into the place where all the other secrets lived. He just nodded, eyes flicking away. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else.  

Salim didn’t press. He tilted his head toward the door and said, “It’s late. And you’re still healing. We should get some sleep.”  

Eric nodded again, more muted this time, and followed Salim out of the bathroom. The hallway was quiet, dimly lit, humming faintly with the soft sounds of night settling over the compound. They walked in silence, side by side, the space between them filled with things neither of them said.  

When they got back to the barracks, the air inside felt still, almost heavy with the weight of the day. Eric moved wordlessly to his bed and sat down on the edge, reaching for his prosthetic. His left hand was still mostly useless—fingers barely responding, clumsy and shaking—so he ended up fumbling through the process more than helping himself. Still, it came off easier than it had gone on earlier, and he set it aside with a soft clunk against the floor.  

He leaned back against the headboard with a soft exhale, letting his eyes flick sideways. Salim had taken a seat on his own bed, though notably, he hadn’t pulled it back to its original place. It was still pushed up close to Eric’s, not quite touching, but nearer than it needed to be. A precaution, Eric figured. Salim wasn’t going to say it outright, but it was clear what this was. He was on suicide watch.  

Eric didn’t blame him.  

He tried not to think too bitterly about it, even if part of him burned with quiet humiliation. This was the consequence of what he’d done. He’d made this mess. Now someone else had to clean up after him.  

He slipped his legs under the blanket, pulling it up to his chin like a shield, and turned onto his side. Normally, he slept on his stomach, arms tucked beneath the pillow, face buried in the cotton. But with the pain still burning in his left arm, he couldn’t risk laying on it. It throbbed dully even when he wasn’t moving. So he curled in on himself instead, cradling the wounded arm to his chest like something fragile.  

Across from him, Salim had laid down too. On his back, head tilted slightly toward Eric, eyes soft in the low light. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer any reassurances or tell Eric everything would be okay. Eric appreciated the silence.  

He shut his eyes and turned his head into the pillow, sighing quietly. He didn’t want to sleep—was afraid of the nightmares waiting for him, always too vivid, too real—but he knew better than to stay awake all night. If he didn’t sleep, he’d unravel completely. The thoughts would get louder. Sharper. More convincing.  

And then Salim would notice. And he’d get that look again. The one that was half disappointment, half worry. The one that made Eric feel even more like a burden.  

So he tried to breathe evenly, tried to let the warmth of the blanket and the quiet sound of Salim’s breathing lull him into something close to rest. He didn’t deserve comfort, but he was grateful for the illusion of it—grateful for the nearness of someone who cared, even when he couldn’t understand why.  

Chapter Text

Eric woke up more times than he cared to count.  

The first time, it was with a sharp inhale, his body lurching upright like it had been pulled by some invisible string. His shirt clung to him, soaked through with cold sweat, and his heart thudded against his ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. His mouth was dry, his throat tight. The shadows in the room looked different, darker, almost alive. But it was just a dream. Another one. He wiped a shaking hand across his face, lay back down, and forced his eyes shut again.  

The second time, he gasped awake with a quiet noise that still felt too loud in the stillness of the room. He froze when he heard Salim stir in the bed beside his. Eric quickly pressed himself flat against the mattress, cradling his throbbing arm close, and tried to steady his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Slow, quiet, even. Just sleep. Pretend to sleep.  

He heard Salim shift, the rustle of fabric, the creak of the bed frame. Then, after a pause, Salim rolled over and settled again, his breathing deepening into something more rhythmic. Eric didn’t move. He didn’t dare. He lay stiff and silent, like he could disappear into the mattress if he tried hard enough.  

He woke up again after that. Then again.  

By the fourth time, he didn’t even bother trying to go back to sleep. He was tired—bone-deep and aching—but he was more tired of the nightmares, of jolting awake into a dark room with his pulse pounding and that sick taste of fear in his mouth.  

So he lay there. Still. Quiet. Awake.  

The ceiling was faintly illuminated by the dim light of the hallway leaking in under the door, casting pale shapes overhead. Eric stared up at it like it might change, like it might offer something different if he kept looking. But it was always the same.  

His arm throbbed, a deep, nagging ache from wrist to shoulder, and he shifted slightly, holding it tighter against his chest. The pain didn’t bother him—it was something real, something grounded. Something he could control. He leaned into it, welcomed it, even. It was better than the emptiness. Better than the nightmares.  

He kept his eyes open and didn’t move. The quiet sounds of Salim breathing just a few feet away grounded him, reminding him that he wasn’t alone. But that didn’t mean he could rest.  

Tonight, sleep felt like a battlefield he’d already lost.  

It was only because the beds were so close together that Eric even heard it—a sharp rustle of skin against fabric, quick and tense. He turned his head slowly, blinking in the dark though it made no difference; everything was shadows and soft outlines. Another twitch followed, then a muffled sound—Salim mumbling something in Arabic, the tone sharp and distressed.  

Eric sat up, hesitating for a moment. His first instinct was to stay back, give space. But then he remembered Salim shaking him awake after a nightmare, grounding him with calm words and gentle hands. Holding him when everything inside him had cracked wide open.  

So Eric leaned over and reached out, his hand hesitating just above Salim’s shoulder before making contact. He gave a soft shake. “Salim,” he said, voice low, careful. “Hey. Wake up.”  

Salim jolted upright with a sharp inhale, his hand snapping out and latching around Eric’s wrist before either of them could think. Eric froze, tense, not out of fear but instinct. The grip wasn’t painful—just tight, reactive. But then Salim blinked rapidly, realization settling in, and his fingers slowly loosened and fell away.  

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Thank you,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and something heavier.  

Eric, not sure what else to say, rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “It’s alright. It… wasn’t your fault.”  

Salim’s hand stayed pressed to his face for a moment before he let it drop. “Sorry for waking you.”  

“I was already awake,” Eric replied quickly. Too quickly.  

Salim’s gaze slid toward him in the dark, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”  

Eric hesitated a beat too long. “Couldn’t get back to sleep. After the nightmares.”  

Salim’s expression softened, the edge of tension in his shoulders ebbing slightly. He leaned back against the headboard and tilted his head, looking up at the ceiling like he was reading something written there.  

Eric sat back as well, propping himself against the headboard as well. His arm ached more now from moving it so much, but he didn’t mind. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, not really. There was something steadying about it.  

Salim’s voice came after a moment, quiet. “They still come, the dreams. The tunnels. The things down there.”  

Eric nodded, even though Salim wasn’t looking at him. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t think they’re going anywhere anytime soon.”  

He didn’t say that some part of him didn’t want them to. That the nightmares felt like punishment. Like penance.  

Salim didn’t press. He just sat there beside him, close enough that their shoulders might touch if either of them shifted even slightly. Eric found himself grateful for that—just the quiet presence of someone else who understood.  

Eric drifted, despite himself.  

He didn’t want to fall asleep—had been so sure he wouldn’t—but the weight of exhaustion settled over him like a heavy blanket, pinning his body down even as his mind floated free. He slouched slightly against the headboard, his aching arm cradled in his lap, head lolling forward then jerking up again. He never quite fell fully asleep—he hovered somewhere just beneath consciousness, half-dreaming, half-remembering.  

Flashes of the tunnels surfaced behind his eyes: the wet crunch of footsteps, the hiss of movement just outside the light, the blood. It played on repeat, disjointed, looping. Faces flickered and blurred—Rachel’s scream, Nick’s gunfire, Salim’s frantic voice yelling his name from the dark.  

Each time Eric blinked awake again, the barracks came back into focus. Safe. Dim. Still. Salim was always there beside him.  

Sometimes Eric would glance over to find Salim sitting up, eyes open and distant, staring into the dark like he was trying to outlast something. Other times, Salim’s head would be bowed, chin nearly resting on his chest, his breathing slow and even in sleep—tense sleep, twitchy sleep, but sleep nonetheless.  

Neither of them moved back to their pillows. Neither of them said much. It was just easier this way, sitting side by side, trying to wait out the night like it was an enemy to endure rather than a natural rhythm of the world.  

At one point, Eric let his eyes close for longer than usual, his head tilting slightly toward Salim’s. Just the faintest contact—a brush of warmth where their arms touched. He didn’t mean to do it. Didn’t even really register it.  

But Salim didn’t move away.  

And in that moment, that small quiet moment amid all the wreckage inside him, Eric let himself believe—just briefly—that he wasn’t completely alone. That he could rely on someone else.  

By the time the lights creeping in through the slats on the door turned on, Eric already felt the weight of the day pressing down on him like a vice. Day two. Just day two. It felt like he’d lived a week inside his own skull already.  

He sat still on the edge of the bed, awake for a while now, staring at the wall across from him and trying not to think about the fact that there were twelve more days to go. Twelve more mornings like this. Twelve more nights of nightmares and barely eating and pretending like everything didn’t hurt—physically, emotionally, all of it.  

Beside him, Salim shifted suddenly, jerking slightly in the half-disoriented way people sometimes woke when they weren’t sleeping well. His shoulder brushed Eric’s, a small point of contact that grounded Eric more than it should’ve.  

Salim exhaled, running a hand through his hair to smooth it down before glancing over. “You want to get some breakfast?” he asked softly. “It’s still early. We should be alone.”  

Eric hesitated. The knot in his stomach made the thought of food unbearable, but the idea of eating in front of Nick or Rachel was even worse. He didn’t want their questions, didn’t want their eyes on him, full of pity or worse—understanding. He nodded. “Yeah… okay.”  

He shifted forward and reached for his prosthetic, the now-familiar struggle beginning again. His left hand barely worked, fingers curling weakly, unable to grip the sleeve properly. He tried anyway, fumbling with the straps until he finally gave up and wedged the limb between his thigh and the bedframe to get enough leverage to slide the socket on.  

It went on with a click and a muted thud. He flexed his knee, testing it. Loose. Looser than yesterday. Just more proof of how much weight he’d lost.  

He hated the way his body betrayed him—every weakness, every falter a reminder of the choices he’d made. The things he’d done to himself.  

He stood slowly, letting the prosthetic take his weight. It was bearable. For now.  

When he looked up, Salim was already at the door, waiting without pushing. He offered a quiet nod, one Eric returned before they stepped out together.  

The hallway was silent, the air cool and still. Eric didn’t say anything as they walked—didn’t need to. Salim didn’t press him for words. The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was steady. Supportive in its own way.  

Still, Eric found himself bracing internally. Another day of forcing himself through the motions. Of shoving food down when it made his stomach curl, of pretending he was getting better, of trying not to let Salim see how hollowed out he felt inside.  

He just had to keep going. One more day. Twelve more to go.  

They reached the canteen, and just as Salim had promised, it was empty. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, and the long rows of empty tables gave the space an echoing quietness. It was still early—too early for most people to be awake. But Eric and Salim had already been up for hours, sleep stolen from them by nightmares and the restless ache of thoughts that didn’t stop when the world went dark.  

Salim moved with an easy familiarity, heading over to the cupboard and pulling down a box of cereal, pouring himself a bowl like it was just any other morning. Like everything was normal. Eric followed, slower, reluctant. He picked a different cereal box at random, something bland, and poured a small amount into the bowl. Barely enough to call a meal.  

He didn’t look up, but he felt Salim watching him.  

“You could put a bit more in,” Salim said gently, not demanding—just quietly encouraging, like he had every right to care.  

Eric’s fingers hesitated on the box. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want any of it. But he added a little more. Just enough to make it seem like he was trying. Like he was cooperating. He hated how much that felt like a betrayal of how he actually felt inside.  

He didn’t say anything. Just grabbed a spoon, added some milk, and followed Salim to the nearest table.  

They sat across from each other. The silence wasn’t as easy now. Eric stared at his cereal, stirring it around with the spoon until it was soggy, then finally lifted a bite to his mouth.  

The texture was awful. It sat thick and swollen in his mouth before he forced himself to swallow. His stomach immediately cramped in protest, and for a second he thought he was going to be sick right there. But then it passed. Settled. Barely.  

Salim didn’t say anything, just quietly ate his own breakfast. But every time Eric paused for too long, he could feel Salim’s eyes flick up to him. Watching.  

Not judging. Not suspicious. Just concerned.  

It was worse.  

Eric didn’t want to be watched. Didn’t want anyone looking too closely, afraid they might see just how thin the threads holding him together really were.  

So he forced himself to eat. Another bite. Then another. Slowly. Mechanically. The cereal turned to paste in his mouth and sat heavy in his gut, but he kept going.  

Because Salim was watching. Because it was easier to lie with actions than to explain the truth. Because he didn’t know what else to do.  

He just had to get through it. Just one more meal. One more day.  

Eric was only halfway through his meagre bowl of cereal when the door to the canteen creaked open. The sound alone made him tense, shoulders stiffening as his grip tightened around his spoon. He glanced behind him, dread coiling in his gut—and there they were.  

Nick and Rachel.  

They didn’t even look his way as they crossed to the kitchen area, chatting quietly between themselves like it was just another morning. Like the world hadn’t fallen apart. Like nothing had changed.  

Eric forced himself to take another bite, but it tasted like sawdust now. He tried to tune out their voices, tried not to look, not to listen, but he couldn’t help it. Every word carried weight, every familiar rhythm of their conversation dragged him deeper into a place he didn’t want to go.  

Salim noticed it immediately—how rigid Eric had gone, how he wouldn’t lift his gaze from his bowl. Salim quickly finished his own cereal, shoveling the last few bites down with subtle urgency, ready to leave the moment Eric gave any sign.  

But Eric didn’t say anything. He just kept eating, each bite heavier than the last, like gravel in his throat. His stomach churned with every swallow, and the quiet clink of cutlery from Rachel and Nick felt thunderous in his ears.  

Then, he heard it. Rachel’s voice, soft and sweet:  

“Pass the milk, sweetheart.”  

Eric froze. The word hit like a knife to the ribs. Sweetheart. That’s what she used to call him. The bile surged up his throat without warning.  

“I— I need to go to the bathroom,” Eric muttered, pushing his chair back with a screech and stumbling to his feet.  

He didn’t wait. Didn’t glance at Salim. He just bolted.  

He didn’t hear the chair behind him scrape back, or the quick footsteps that followed. His mind was locked on the bathroom, on getting there now .  

He crashed through the door, barely making it to the toilet before dropping to the floor. He didn’t even bother closing the stall door. He fell forward, and this time, he didn’t need his fingers. Everything came up in a violent rush—cereal, bile, the thin thread of stability he’d been clinging to.  

A moment later, the bathroom door opened again. Then soft, rushed footsteps.  

Salim crouched beside him, one hand rubbing small, steady circles into Eric’s back. He was breathing heavily, like he’d run, heart still racing.  

Eric continued dry heaving until there was nothing left. When it finally stopped, he sat back on his heels, gasping for breath, tears stinging his eyes. His throat burned. His whole body trembled. He didn’t look at Salim. Couldn’t.  

Salim’s hand remained firm and grounding on his back.  

“What happened?” Salim asked quietly, voice rough with concern.  

Eric hesitated. He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to admit how much it hurt.  

Then, voice hoarse and barely audible, he said, “Rachel… she called Nick ‘sweetheart.’ That’s what she used to call me.”  

His voice cracked, and he blinked hard, but the tears came anyway.  

Salim didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Eric, pulling him close, holding him there on the cold bathroom floor. Eric buried his face into Salim’s shoulder and cried—big, wracking sobs that shook his whole body. He didn’t care how pathetic it looked, didn’t care that they were on the floor of a bathroom, didn’t care that his tears were soaking into Salim’s shirt.  

He was too broken to care. And Salim just held him tighter.  

Eric sobbed until there was nothing left in him—no more tears, no more noise, just hollow, aching silence. His body felt heavy and empty all at once, and still Salim held him. Quiet. Patient. Unmoving.  

He let Eric have that space, that closeness. No pressure. Just the simple, steady presence of someone who wasn’t going anywhere.  

Eric’s face was buried in Salim’s shirt, hot with shame and exhaustion, the fabric damp beneath his cheek. His breathing had evened out, shaky but slowing. He was tired of this already. Tired of breaking down, of losing control every single day. Tired of not being able to keep himself together for longer than a few hours at a time.  

He mumbled against Salim’s shoulder, voice low and raw, “Sorry. That was stupid.”  

Salim shook his head, arm still wrapped around him. “It wasn’t stupid,” he said gently. “You’re hurting.”  

Eric didn’t respond right away. He just nodded against Salim’s chest, not trusting his voice. He didn’t know how to argue with that. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he didn’t even want to.  

He felt drained. Like the emotion had ripped through him and taken everything with it. There was a leaden weight in his chest, but it wasn’t new. Just heavier now.  

Salim shifted slightly, his voice soft. “Let’s get you some water. Then we can go sit in the barracks for a while, if you’d like.”  

Eric nodded again, too tired to do anything else. Slowly, he leaned back, peeling himself away from Salim’s shoulder. His eyes were red, his face blotchy, the front of Salim’s shirt stained with tears and spit and regret. But Salim didn’t seem to care.  

As Eric moved to stand, Salim kept one hand steady on his back, grounding him, ready to catch him if he swayed. Eric’s legs wobbled slightly under him—he hadn’t realized how much energy he’d lost just crying—but the steady pressure of Salim’s palm helped him stay upright.  

He exhaled shakily, scrubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, not sure what to say, not sure there was anything to say.  

He just stood there a moment, letting himself be held steady.  

After a moment, Eric moved over to the sink and turned the tap on, rinsing his mouth out, the taste of bile still bitter on his tongue. He let the cold water run for a second longer, then cupped his hands and drank straight from the tap. It was easier than trying to find a cup. Behind him, he could feel Salim hovering—close enough to intervene if needed, but giving him just enough space that it didn’t feel suffocating. Like he was still figuring out how to help without overwhelming him.  

Eric ran a hand through his hair, dampening it slightly with the water left on his fingers. He avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t want to see what he looked like right now. He could feel it well enough—drained, weak, humiliated.  

He turned away and made his way toward the bathroom door. Salim followed him out, a step behind. Just as they passed into the hallway, Salim slowed, then hesitated.  

“I should go wash up the dishes in the canteen,” Salim said, voice careful.  

A fresh wave of guilt surged through Eric. Of course Salim had left their bowls behind, too focused on Eric to bother with them. “I can go do them,” Eric offered, even though he didn’t want to.  

But Salim shook his head. “It’s alright. I can do them,” he said gently. “You can go back to the barracks if you want to.”  

Eric glanced at him, tired. “I’m probably gonna go lie down for a bit.”  

Salim nodded once, like he expected that. “I’ll be back in a minute.”  

Eric gave a quiet, barely-there nod in return and started down the hall. His footsteps echoed softly, everything around him quiet now that the world had resumed its early-morning stillness.  

He thought about Salim’s words. If you want to. Salim said that a lot. He gave Eric space to make choices—when he could. But when it came to things like food, water, or rest, Salim would just say let’s get you some, like he wasn’t going to leave room for argument. It wasn’t controlling. It was careful. Gentle. Deliberate.  

Eric had noticed it. Every time.  

And what surprised him the most was that he didn’t hate it. Part of him—one of the parts he tried not to listen to—was grateful. Relieved, even, to not have to fight every step of the way to take care of himself. For once, someone was just… doing it for him.  

It was disarming. But kind. He didn’t know what to do with it.  

He stepped into the barracks, leaving the lights off, and dropped down onto his bed with a soft, tired sigh. The mattress dipped under his weight, familiar now. Safe, in a strange way. He rolled carefully onto his stomach, easing his damaged arm beneath the pillow in a way that wouldn’t press down on it too hard.  

Then he buried his face into the pillow and exhaled sharply, the breath shaky.  

It wasn’t even midday yet. And he was already done with the day.  

Eric was half-asleep when the door creaked open. He stirred slightly at the sound, lifting his head just enough to see Salim stepping inside. His eyes were blurry with sleep, unfocused, and he blinked groggily at him.  

Salim paused in the doorway. “Didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said quietly, almost a whisper in the dim room. Then he crossed over and sat down on his own bed, moving as silently as possible.  

Eric let his head drop back down to the pillow, adjusting it slightly with his good hand. He didn’t answer, just exhaled softly and let himself sink back into the haze of near-sleep. His body begged for rest, heavy and aching, but his mind remained tangled, thoughts spinning too fast and too loud.  

He tried to let go. Tried to let his breath even out, to let Salim’s presence—solid and quiet—be enough to calm him.  

Eventually, slowly, it worked. He began to drift. The spinning thoughts faded to a low hum. The edge of consciousness slipped away. And for a few short moments, it was peaceful.  

But it never lasted.  

The nightmare crept in the way it always did. Familiar. Brutal.  

He was back in the temple. Back in the main chamber, the air choked with dust and dread. The shrieks of vampires echoed off the stone. The flares of gunfire, the crackling UV light—chaotic, terrifying. He saw Nick. He saw him get grabbed, saw the creature looming behind him with its talons piercing flesh. Eric’s whole body screamed to run, to leave Nick behind. But he didn’t. Couldn’t.  

His legs moved of their own accord, dragging him toward the fight. He raised the UV lamp. The creature threw Nick at him. Just like before. Eric hit the ground hard, the shock jolting through him—and then the claws were on him, wrapping around his skull.  

He screamed.  

The pain was unbearable. Worse than losing his leg. Worse than anything. The creature’s grip crushed tighter, and tighter, as if trying to crack his head open like a shell. Eric lashed out, struggling violently—but this time, it didn’t work. He didn’t break free.  

The monster lifted him, still squeezing, and dragged him down the hallway. His vision blurred, his screams echoed off the stone walls, and all he could do was thrash helplessly.  

Then hands touched him again—real hands—and Eric jolted awake.  

He flinched violently, still half in the nightmare, and lashed out without thinking. His left arm shot forward—  

Salim caught it just in time.  

There was a sharp, searing flare of pain through the healing wound as Salim’s hand closed around it. Eric gasped, the pain ripping through his shoulder and chest, and he doubled over, cradling the arm to himself as Salim instantly let go.  

“I’m sorry—! Eric, I’m sorry—” Salim said, panic and guilt in his voice, crouching down beside him.  

Eric’s teeth clenched against the pain, his breathing ragged. “Not your fault,” he managed to grit out. “I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have tried to hit you.”  

Salim sat on the edge of the bed, looking stricken. Gently, he placed a steadying hand on Eric’s shoulder. “You were having a nightmare,” he said, voice low and firm. “It wasn’t your fault either.”  

Eric said nothing, just nodded slightly, his eyes shut tight. He forced himself to take a slow breath, and then another. He focused on the feeling of Salim’s hand on his shoulder—warm, solid, steady. It grounded him. Kept him tethered.  

The pain in his arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and his body was still shaking faintly from the nightmare, but… he was here. He was awake. Salim was here. He wasn’t alone.  

That part mattered more than he could admit.  

After another long moment hunched over, Eric’s breathing finally started to slow. The pain, sharp and blinding at first, dulled to a steady throb that pulsed in his arm like a heartbeat. It wasn’t gone, but it was manageable now—just enough to let him straighten up.  

His movements were slow, stiff, and he kept his arm tucked carefully to his chest. His eyes were still half-lidded with pain, exhaustion dragging at every blink, but he sat up. Salim’s hand was still on his shoulder—steady, warm, grounding.  

Eric swallowed hard, throat raw from both sleep and crying, and said quietly, “Sorry.”  

Salim tilted his head at that, frowning gently. “For what?”  

Eric gave a half-shrug, almost too tired to answer properly. “Dunno.”  

Salim let out a soft huff of laughter, the sound low and quiet in the stillness of the barracks. “It’s alright, Eric,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring. “You don’t need to apologize.”  

Eric nodded faintly, but didn’t respond. His mind was still tangled in the remnants of the nightmare—dark stone halls, the crushing pressure on his skull, the helplessness. He hated how real it had felt. Hated that some part of him still believed it could happen, even now. But through all of it, what lingered most was the touch on his shoulder. Salim’s hand hadn’t left. It was still there. Still steady.  

He didn’t know how to say he was grateful for it. Didn’t know how to explain how much it meant not to be alone when he woke up in the dark, not to have to pretend he was fine in silence. But he felt it—deep in his chest, somewhere sore and fragile.  

Without thinking, Eric leaned into the touch ever so slightly.  

Salim adjusted without a word, his hand shifting to better support him, firm without being possessive. He didn’t make a big deal out of it. He didn’t say anything at all. He just… stayed.  

And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.  

After sitting in silence for a while, Eric slowly exhaled through his nose, his breath shaky but beginning to steady. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his good hand, trying to blink the fog of the nightmare away, trying to be present again. He was still tired—exhausted, really—but sleep didn’t feel like a safe option anymore.  

“…You wanna play some cards or something?” he mumbled, voice hoarse but quieter now, less ragged around the edges.  

Salim looked at him, surprise flickering briefly across his face before it softened into something almost like relief. Eric was reaching out—tentatively, quietly, but he was reaching. Salim gave a small smile, nodding. “Sure,” he said warmly. “What game do you want to play?”  

Eric hesitated, trying to think. His mind came up blank except for blackjack, and even that felt too effortful. “I dunno,” he admitted. “You pick.”  

Salim nodded once, his expression still soft, still open. He lifted his hand from Eric’s shoulder and stood, stepping over to the small box of cards they’d been using. He crouched to pick it up, then returned to his bed, sitting down with the box in his hands. As he settled, his knees lightly bumped against Eric’s. Neither of them moved away.  

Salim opened the box and began shuffling through the deck, the soft shuffle of cardboard filling the quiet space. “How about something easy?” he offered. “Go Fish?”  

Eric gave the faintest huff of laughter, not quite a laugh but close enough to be something. “That’s a kid’s game.”  

“Exactly,” Salim said, giving him a look. “No thinking. No pressure. Just cards.”  

Eric gave a slow, tired nod. “Alright. Go Fish it is.”  

It felt dumb. It felt small. But it also felt safe—and maybe right now, that was enough.  

They played round after round.  

At first, it was slow—Eric fumbling with the cards slightly as he held them, his movements sluggish and half-hearted. Salim played gently, not drawing attention to Eric’s silence or his slowness, just keeping the game moving with quiet patience. The first few rounds passed mostly in silence, save for the occasional muttered “Go fish,” or “Got any threes?”  

But something shifted.  

Eric started winning a few rounds. And then Salim won a few in a row. The small jabs began—light teasing, sarcastic groans of defeat, subtle jests about luck and cheating. And Eric, without even realizing it, started smiling. Then he laughed—actually laughed—when Salim made a dramatic show of handing over a fourth matching card, groaning, “You are definitely cheating, I can see it in your face.”  

Eric smirked. “How exactly would I even be cheating, genius? You’re the one dealing the cards.”  

“Exactly. You’re manipulating the deck with your mind , clearly,” Salim said with mock accusation, narrowing his eyes.  

“Right,” Eric said dryly. “Because that’s the part of me that’s magic. Not the robot leg.”  

Salim laughed, and Eric smiled again. It was tentative, unsure, but real.  

As the rounds continued, their jokes built, the teasing got sharper, warmer, safer. Eric started talking more. Salim matched his energy easily, happy to let the game stretch out into something that took up time and space—a distraction, sure, but also a kind of connection.  

By the fifth or sixth round, Eric was fully into it. When Salim won again, Eric groaned dramatically and flopped back onto his pillow, scattering his cards across the bed.  

“I demand a rematch,” he muttered, eyes half closed.  

Salim chuckled, gathering the cards. “You say that every time.”  

“Yeah, well. I mean it every time.”  

Salim just smiled and reshuffled. He was just glad Eric was still playing—glad he was still here. Even after the morning they’d had, after the breakdown and the nightmares and the pain, Eric was here. Laughing. Teasing. Living.  

And that, to Salim, was more than enough.  

They played far longer than either of them meant to—long past the point where time usually starts to drag. But it didn’t drag. Not today. The minutes slipped by quietly, filled with card shuffling, quiet laughter, and the kind of easy company that neither of them had realized they were starved for.  

Eventually, Eric leaned back on his elbows, cards forgotten beside him, and let out a long breath. His muscles ached in that dull, manageable way. For once, his chest wasn’t tight with panic or nausea. For once, his thoughts weren’t dragging him down into spirals of guilt and memories he couldn’t escape. It was still all there—he knew it was—but it felt like it was tucked just far enough away that he didn’t have to drown in it right now.  

Salim noticed it—the way Eric’s shoulders had dropped, the lines on his face not quite so tight. He hesitated before speaking, not wanting to shatter the mood. It was past lunch by now, stomachs probably reminding them both, but food could wait. Eric being okay—even if just more okay—was rare enough to preserve.  

Salim watched him quietly for a second, then reached over to gather the cards and tuck them back into the worn cardboard box. He glanced at Eric again, debating for a moment before he asked gently, “Want me to grab a different game? Or maybe some books? We could just hang out here for a bit longer.”  

Eric blinked slowly, then rubbed a hand over his face. “I think I might go shower,” he said. “Feel a bit gross. Sweaty. Sticky.”  

Salim nodded, standing and stretching his arms above his head. “That’s a good idea,” he said. “I didn’t shower yesterday either, so—mind if I come too?”  

Eric gave a small shrug and mumbled, “You can do whatever you want to.”  

It wasn’t dismissive. If anything, it was tired and soft—like Eric didn’t quite know how to say he didn’t mind, or maybe even appreciated the company, but didn’t have the words to say so without it sounding wrong. And Salim knew that tone well enough by now not to take it the wrong way.  

The mood was still light. A little fragile, maybe, but steady. The weight hadn’t come crashing back down on Eric just yet—and Salim would do everything he could to help it stay that way for as long as possible.  

Salim smiled a little at the answer—not because of the words themselves, but the tone. Not dismissive, not distant. Just Eric being Eric. A small piece of him reaching out, even if he didn’t realize it.  

“Alright,” Salim said, standing. “Let’s go stink up the place a little less.”  

That earned him a soft huff of a laugh from Eric, who slowly got to his feet. It wasn’t a full reset—not a magic fix—but it was something. The weight Eric carried was still there, but maybe, for today, it didn’t have to crush him.  

Eric stood slowly, pushing himself upright with a slight grunt as his back cracked and his spine stretched out. He arched instinctively, trying to work out the stiffness, and immediately winced as it pulled on his arm. The pain flared, sharp and biting. He hissed through his teeth and instinctively cradled it again.  

He kept forgetting to be careful with it. Which felt ridiculous—how did you forget about a wound that hurt this much? But he did. Over and over. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe he just wanted to pretend it wasn’t still a problem.  

Salim was watching him—quiet, but not hovering. Just noticing. He didn’t say anything, but there was understanding in his eyes.  

He opened the door instead, stepping into the hallway. “Come on,” he said lightly. “Let’s go wash the shame of your blatant cheating off.”  

Eric blinked, then huffed a short laugh as he followed. “Cheating? You’re the one who asked for a six three times in a row.”  

“That was strategy,” Salim replied, eyes forward, but his smirk was obvious in his voice. “You, on the other hand, kept somehow drawing the exact card I needed just before I could get it. Suspicious.”  

Eric grinned—an actual grin, teeth and all—and fell into step beside him. “Maybe you’re just bad at Go Fish.”  

Salim gasped. “I’ll have you know, I once went undefeated for a whole deployment.”  

Eric laughed again, light and easy, the sound echoing softly in the empty hallway. He felt light. Unburdened, for once. It wasn’t that the guilt was gone—it was still tucked somewhere behind his ribs, curled up like a sleeping animal—but it wasn’t clawing at him right now.  

He wanted to keep it that way.  

He didn’t know how long the feeling would last, but he was going to hold onto it as long as he could.  

The second they stepped into the bathroom, the low hiss of running water met their ears, echoing off the tiled walls. Eric’s good mood faltered slightly, like a cloud skimming over the sun—but it didn’t disappear. He could hear the occasional shuffle of movement, the thump of a shampoo bottle being set down. Someone else was already in the shower. Probably Jason. Eric didn’t know for sure, but logic pointed that way—Nick and Rachel were likely still off somewhere together. They usually were.  

Eric's steps slowed, and he silently reminded himself of the plan: get in quick, wait for Jason to be done, and only come out once he was sure the coast was clear. He could handle this. It wasn’t new. It was just easier when it was only Salim.  

He didn’t care about Salim seeing him. Salim had already seen him at his worst—broken, bleeding, sobbing on the floor. He’d seen the weight Eric had lost, the sharp lines of his ribs and hips, the way his shirt sagged on his frame. And Salim hadn’t turned away. That counted for something.  

Eric moved toward the towel rack, grabbing one and tossing it just outside the end cubicle—the one with the shower chair, which had quietly become his by default. He peeled off his shirt and dropped it into the laundry chute. The motion made his arm ache, but he gritted his teeth and said nothing.  

He hesitated for a second, just a moment, standing in his undershirt and shorts. The shower continued to run nearby, a reminder that he wasn’t alone. This was normal. Military life meant shared spaces. It wasn’t the first time he’d changed around others.  

But it still felt different with Salim.  

Not bad. Not uncomfortable. Just… different.  

He looked over his shoulder. Salim wasn’t watching him. He was by the sinks, humming quietly, polite and patient. Respecting the space.  

Eric exhaled slowly, shoved down the tight feeling in his chest, and finished undressing. He set his clothes aside, then reached down to unstrap his prosthetic. His left hand fumbled like it always did—grip still weak, movement clumsy—and he had to brace the prosthetic between the bench and his foot to get it loose.  

Finally, it came free. He set it carefully outside the curtain and pulled the shower curtain closed, then turned the water on.  

Warm water poured over him, and Eric tilted his head back, letting it run down his face and chest. For a moment, he just stood there, eyes closed, the heat soaking into his sore muscles. His arm still throbbed, but it was a dull ache now, not sharp.  

This was okay. He was okay.  

Even if part of him still felt like he had to hide, even if the fear of being seen too closely hadn’t gone away, he had a little pocket of safety. At least for now.  

The soft splash of feet on wet tile and the sound of a third stream of water starting up told Eric that Salim had stepped into one of the cubicles. It was only a passing detail—until Eric realized which one. Salim had chosen the stall furthest from the one where Eric had tried to kill himself. The one that still felt like it held echoes of that moment.  

Guilt twisted in Eric’s chest like a knife being slowly turned.  

He hadn’t meant to hurt Salim. He hadn’t been thinking about anyone but himself in that moment—not really. But the aftermath had made it painfully clear: Salim had been hurt. And still, he was here. Still trying. Still offering quiet care in a hundred small ways. That had to mean something. Eric just didn’t know how to carry the weight of being cared about without feeling like a burden.  

He drew in a shaky breath and reached for the bar of soap.  

He started to clean himself with mechanical movements, scrubbing hard at his skin like he could wash away the heaviness pressing into his bones. His left arm he left untouched—the bandages were still tight, still doing their job. He didn’t want to disturb them.  

When he reached for his right arm, his clumsy fingers betrayed him again. The soap slipped from his grip and clattered against the tile with a loud slap . Eric winced and quickly caught it with his other hand.  

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, the sound drowned out by the running water.  

His fingers were tingling now, the nerves unreliable. He forced them to hold the soap long enough to wash, jaw clenched in frustration. When he was finally done, he set the soap aside and let the water rinse him clean.  

A few seconds later, one of the showers shut off.  

The sound of water lessened, muffled now, and Eric guessed it was Jason. It made sense—Jason had been in there first. Eric stayed seated, leaned back in the shower chair, letting the hot water beat down on his shoulders. He didn’t want to come out until Jason was gone. Didn’t want to deal with questions or with being seen.  

So he waited, letting the steam cloud his thoughts, the water his armor. For a few minutes longer, he could just exist. Quiet. Invisible. Alone—but not alone.  

Salim was still here, just down the row. Still steady. Still present.  

And Eric held onto that, even as he closed his eyes and let the water run over his face, rinsing away more than just soap.  

Eric waited, tracking time in the rhythm of water hitting tile and the distant shuffle of movement. Jason, if it even had been Jason, had to be gone by now—at least almost. Long enough that the odds were in his favor.  

He reached out and shut off the cold water first—instinct, muscle memory. His left hand reached automatically for the hot tap, but it was weak, trembling, and couldn’t get the grip to turn it.  

The moment the cold shut off, the remaining stream of hot water scalded him.  

“Shit—!” he hissed, jerking back. The heat bit into his skin like fire before he scrambled to shut the hot off with his right hand. His fingers twisted the knob quickly, water sputtering to silence. He stayed still for a beat, catching his breath, steam still thick in the air. The lingering burn on his shoulder throbbed, but it wasn’t serious—just enough to jolt him, frustrate him.  

Eric exhaled shakily and leaned forward, cracking the curtain open a sliver. His towel was just outside, folded over the bar where he’d left it. He reached out with his left arm, wincing at the stretch.  

His fingers wouldn’t close properly. They fumbled once, then again, brushing against the towel uselessly. “Come on,” he muttered. He clenched his jaw, forcing the numb hand to try again. This time it caught, barely, and he managed to pull the towel toward him with a quiet sigh of relief.  

He wrapped it around his shoulders, taking a long moment to just breathe . The burn on his skin stung in the cooler air, and the ache in his left arm felt louder now that everything else was quiet.  

Eric began drying himself off, moving slow and methodically. His right hand did most of the work. He was careful around his left arm, dabbing gently at the areas near the bandages without pulling at them. He didn’t want to disturb the healing—but more than that, he didn’t want Salim seeing fresh blood and worrying.  

It was weird, he thought, how much that mattered now. Not causing Salim distress.  

The bathroom was quiet again, save for the distant creak of the exit door. Jason was gone. He was sure of it now.  

Eric drew in another breath, bracing himself to stand and dress. Part of him wanted to stay in the steam forever, where things were muted, warm, and simple. But there was a weight to Salim’s presence down the row. A silent promise that someone was there waiting—not rushing, not forcing. Just there .  

And Eric figured… maybe that was worth drying off for.  

Eric wrapped the towel around his waist and pulled the shower curtain back. Just as he’d thought, whoever had been showering earlier was already gone—probably Jason, or at least, that was who Eric decided to believe it was. Easier to think of it that way. Less volatile.  

The water from Salim’s cubicle shut off with a heavy clunk , and Eric knew he needed to get moving. He stood carefully, bracing a hand against the wall, then hopped out onto the wet floor. His bare foot slid slightly, but he caught himself and made it to the bench without falling. He sat with a long, slow exhale, then started pulling on his boxers and pants with slow, deliberate motions. His body ached, stiff and sore, but he ignored it. Just one more thing to push through.  

He was reaching for his shirt when Salim stepped out of his cubicle. The brief moment of peace Eric had carved out for himself faded a fraction—not because of Salim, but because of what he saw in Salim’s eyes.  

Salim tried not to let it show, but the look still crept in. His heart broke all over again when he saw Eric shirtless—thin to the point of frailty, ribs stark under pale skin, shoulder blades jutting out like fragile wings. He’d felt the outline of those bones before, when Eric had clung to him, but seeing it was something else. Seeing it made it real in a different way.  

Eric tugged his shirt on quickly, hiding what he could, and only then turned to glance at Salim. Salim was grabbing his own clothes and sat down on the bench beside him to dress, neither of them speaking for a moment. Eric focused on attaching his prosthetic, fingers slightly trembling—not from fear, but from the need to do something.  

When Salim was dressed, he glanced over and said softly, “We should probably change those bandages. They’re wet now.”  

Eric just nodded, already resigned to it. The dull throb in his left arm hadn’t gone away, and he knew it would only get worse. Salim stood and grabbed some clean bandages from the medical shelf, then sat back down beside Eric. Wordlessly, Eric held out his arm, gaze fixed on his lap.  

Salim worked slowly, carefully unwrapping the sodden layers. Eric still refused to look. He didn’t want to see it—not the dried blood, not the angry red edges, not the ugly truth of what he’d done. He could feel the cold air prickling against the exposed wound as the last layer came off.  

Salim tilted Eric’s arm gently, inspecting the gash. It wasn’t healing. The skin remained open, stubborn, the edges too far apart to close on their own.