Chapter Text
It was the smoke that saved her, even as it tried to kill her.
Subtle at first, it grew stronger and stronger, steadily weaving itself down into her lungs until her breath was no longer air but ash, a dark cloud that built in her chest and then exploded outwards, her body choking and retching her brain into consciousness.
With a rough, shuddering gasp, Remi twisted half onto her side, her helmet strap like a noose around her neck. Fumbling with the catch, she ripped it free and tossed it away from her, her eyes and nose streaming, her throat turning to damp sandpaper as she hacked up glob after glob of soot-stained phlegm, ridding her body of the poison that had nearly succeeded where the helicopter had failed.
Rattling out a last, violent cough, she swiped at her eyes and then her mouth, her fatigues rough with sand and grit. The roar in her head had pitched and changed, growing louder and more insistent as it transferred from inside her skull to the world around her, and at last she shakily raised her head, squinting towards its source with stinging, watery eyes.
It sat barely fifteen yards away, the mangled, fiery ruin of the helicopter that had been carrying her entire squadron. It was all but obliterated, barely distinguishable from a pile of burning scrap metal, and it didn't take more than a single glance at the destruction to know that she wouldn't be finding other survivors. Even the smoke itself told her the same; after all, it wasn't just fuel and metal she could smell in its fumes.
No, she was on her own.
Pushing back the sudden flare of a different kind of pain— one she had no time for right now— Remi braced her trembling arms, then drew a deep, ragged breath.
Ignoring the sting of sand on her scraped palms and the sharp protest of her undoubtedly broken ribs, she forcibly pushed herself almost into a sitting position, her teeth immediately sinking into her lip as she stifled the scream that wanted to rip from her throat. Her leg was on fire— not like the helicopter behind her, but abruptly aflame with agony as her brain only just now registered the foot-long shard of metal that had impaled itself through the inner side of her thigh, effectively pinning her to the ground beneath her.
Panting hard, she let her upper body slump back against the sand, her mind already racing, calculating and assessing. She'd have to pull it out. There was no choice. Every second she lay here was a second closer to death, regardless of whether it was the smoke or the insulated reserve tanks blowing or even an enemy combatant drawn by the blaze. It was all only a matter of time, and everything in her gut told her she was nearly out of it.
So... fuck it.
Gritting her teeth, she reached out blindly for her rifle, her fingers scrabbling in the sand before closing around the strap. She may be pretty much fucked, but she'd still been twice lucky; as a door-gunner, she was required to have her weapon strap attached to her belt at all times while in the air, and somehow, the connector had survived the fall with her.
Her position saved her life, and now— as long as she didn't bleed out sometime in the next minute— it had given her the means to stay that way.
Pulling the rifle close, she turned her head and put the strap between her teeth, her eyes staring out into the smoke and wreckage as she curled both hands around the jagged metal.
One.
She took a deep, smoke-tainted breath through her clenched teeth, then let it out.
Two.
Another deep, steadying breath, then—
Movement.
A figure was stumbling through the haze, the large, dark shape of a man, his hoarse coughs faint over the roar of the inferno. Instantly releasing the metal, she yanked the rifle strap from her mouth, her hands closing around the stock and pulling it against her. Twisting to prop herself on an elbow, she held her breath and lifted the barrel, the screaming of her nerve fibres relegated to a muted background keening as she took aim at the shape moving through the smoke.
How long had she been out? Not long, she was certain, but still easily long enough for an enemy with a vehicle to reach the crash site if they'd already been in range. Even with the danger of the blaze, the potential payload of weapons and supplies— and survivors to capture or kill— would undoubtedly be too great of a temptation for the local militias to pass up.
Which meant that right now, Shepherd's teaching was true: everyone was an enemy until proven otherwise.
Even with her disadvantage, Remi felt no fear; kill or be killed had been her life's default mode for as long as she could remember, and the fact that she was here right now showed that she had never been on the losing side. Lifting her sights to chest height, she squinted through the burning haze, unable to discern much more than a broad chest covered by tattered clothing stained red-black with blood. Tightening her finger on the trigger, she steadied her breathing, waiting the final few seconds for the figure to emerge.
Almost...
Almost...
There.
They recognized each other at the exact same time; she knew it, because her finger released the trigger at the exact same moment his voice pierced the air.
"Briggs!"
Suddenly shaky, Remi abruptly lowered the rifle, her head dropping and a ragged breath escaping her lips as he moved towards her through the debris. It was a purely reflexive response, she knew, nothing more than the natural relief of being faced with an ally rather than enemies when already vulnerable and in hostile territory.
It certainly wasn't relief that he had survived, nor was it horror that she'd been half a heartbeat from killing him— after all, her squadron was nothing to her, aside from an inconvenience that she had to endure. They were not friends, because she did not have friends. And they were certainly not family, because there were only two people alive who would ever be that to her.
If she was glad to see him, it was simply because his presence doubled her chances of getting out of here alive. That was all.
"Briggs!" he called again, crossing the space between them with quick, limping strides. Now that he was closer, she could see two or more large gouges across his chest and upper arm, combining with a wound above his temple to turn him into something out of a child's nightmare, his every step leaving behind a trail of blood-spattered sand and rock.
She opened her mouth to reply, but found her throat had somehow gotten tighter, her eyes suddenly burning worse than before. Fucking smoke must be getting to her. Giving a harsh cough to clear it, she pushed herself a little further upright, determinedly ignoring the pain that flared through her thigh at the movement— she refused to look weak in front of anyone, let alone him.
Lifting her eyes to his face, she steeled herself, then spoke a name that she hadn't ever expected to say again.
"Weller."
She was alive.
Thank fucking Christ, she was alive.
His battered legs protested as he increased his pace through the maze of wreckage, impatient to get to her, to touch her, to know that she was real and not just a hallucination from the head injury or all the toxic fumes he'd inhaled.
Since the moment he'd woken on the hard ground with a splitting headache, a torn up chest, and one leg of his fatigues on fire, he'd barely been able to breathe, fire and fear stealing all the oxygen from his lungs. The helicopter was all but gone, just a burning metal skeleton left behind, and for a moment he'd simply closed his eyes, knowing that his squad had gone with it. He didn't remember anything of the crash or the minutes preceding it, could only guess that his position as door-gunner had saved his life, throwing him free as the bird spiraled toward the ground.
That was the one thing that kept him going as he'd searched vainly through the debris; if his position by the door had saved his life, then maybe her position on the other side had saved hers.
It was clear the others hadn't been so lucky; here and there he'd found bits of bodies, too mangled and burned to even know which of his team they had come from. Some of the guys had been almost like brothers to him, others friends; some had been complete assholes, and yet had still never deserved this.
The only one he could be sure of was Hutton, his flame-retardant medkit still strapped across his torso where it lay in the sand. His legs, it seemed, had stayed in the helicopter.
It had seemed pointless, crazy even, to keep searching the wreckage— the reserve tanks hadn't yet blown, a fact that could change any second, and the smoke felt like it was steadily eating its way through his lungs— but he couldn't stop.
He had to be sure.
And so he'd stumbled on, picking his way through the remains of their mission, squinting through the smoke, hoping, begging— hell, even praying. And then when he'd finally started to believe that it was truly over, that even she— who had always seemed invincible, untouchable— was really gone, he had stepped through a wall of smoke and found himself staring down the barrel of a rifle.
Now, he was almost at her side, his steps unsteady in the uneven sand. His gaze was fixed to her face, her bloodshot eyes wide and her skin pale under the soot and dirt, tiny trails of blood standing out starkly at her eyebrow and lip.
And then she spoke his name, and he felt something inside himself tremble, his heart twisting at the faint trace of relief he heard in her voice.
She hated him, he knew; she hated all of them, had always stood cold and apart, tolerating them when she had to and avoiding them when she didn't. There had been times, here and there, where he'd thought maybe she didn't hate him quite as much as the others, but he generally dismissed that as wishful thinking, especially when half the other guys seemed to claim the same about themselves.
And yet something in the way she watched him approach made him wonder, the careful guardedness he was used to seeing in her eyes giving way to something else, something raw and almost vulnerable, even if only for a few brief moments.
Then it was gone, and with two more quick strides he had dropped to his knees beside her, barely noticing the pain that radiated through his body as he stared down at her.
"Jesus, Briggs," he breathed, wishing he could reach out and touch her face, could wrap his arms around her and pull her hard against his chest. "I thought everyone was gone."
"Yeah, me too," she muttered, her nose wrinkling as she looked him over. "You look like shit, Weller."
With one of the guys, he would have responded with a joke or a similar jab, easing the tension and making their situation seem a little less dire. But somehow, he heard in her words the question she would never ask.
"Looks worse than it is. I'm gonna be fine," he said, reveling in the flicker of relief that flashed in her eyes. Unslinging the medkit from his shoulder, he placed it on the ground beside them, ready to go. He knew he'd need it; the fact that she hadn't moved for safer ground meant something was definitely wrong.
He just hoped it was something he could fix.
Steeling himself, he quickly scanned their surroundings, trying to keep his voice cool and untroubled. "What about you, what's your status? Ambulatory?"
In response, she let out an irritated sigh, making him glance back up at her; but she wouldn't look at him, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the distance.
"I will be, once I deal with this," she grumbled, then shifted her rifle from its place in her lap, revealing the large shard of metal protruding from her left thigh.
"Fuck, Briggs, lead with that next time," he snapped, then quickly shifted backwards in the sand before carefully drawing her uninjured leg toward him, spreading her knees apart to give him space to assess both the entry and exit wounds. Without looking up at her, he gritted out, "Any other grievous injuries I should know about?
"No, Mother," she spat back. "Now just pull it out already so we can get out of here."
"The hell I will," he growled, letting his anger drown out the fear that threatened to choke him. "That thing could have sliced right through your femoral artery. If I even touch it you could bleed out in seconds."
Her voice was cold, sharp-edged with impatience. "I don't need an anatomy lesson from you, Weller. Just take it out."
He shook his head hard, ignoring the brief wave of dizziness that followed the action. "You know the protocol. It's staying right where it is until we get you to a doctor. Non-negotiable."
"Christ, Weller, let go of your precious protocol for once and just man up. Or I will."
Apparently determined to act on the threat, she propped herself up with one hand, the other reaching for the piece of metal— but instead he caught it with his own, his grip tight.
"Stop," he told her firmly, refusing to be cowed by the fire in her gaze. "This is not a debate, Briggs."
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "You don't have command here, Corporal."
The sarcasm in his tone matched hers, even if it lacked her anger. "Neither do you, Corporal."
Mouth twisting, she yanked her hand out of his grip, placing it behind her for support as she glared at him. Ignoring her, he worked fast— not only could he not trust her to not endanger herself, but the smoke was growing thicker, the heat from the wreck more intense. They needed to get out of here, now. Keeping a hand curled around the top part of the metal— partly to prevent her yanking on it, which he still couldn't trust her not to do, and partly to keep it from moving and hurting her— he dug at the ground under her thigh with his K-bar, loosening its hold around the other end of the piece of metal. When he felt it give a little, he looked up at her.
"Try lifting your leg."
Despite her anger at him, she obeyed; teeth clenched, she braced herself and strained, and he held his breath, watching the metal slowly lift free of the dirt beneath her. Seeing his opportunity, he swiftly hooked the medkit securely over his shoulder, then rose on one knee.
"I'm sorry, Briggs."
Her eyes had been clenched shut— the first and only sign of pain he'd ever seen from her— but at his words they snapped open, fixing on his a split second before he slipped one hand under her legs and the other behind her back, his body screaming in protest as he lifted her into his arms.
Biting back the pained groan that threatened to escape his lips, he heard her swallow a cry of her own, her face involuntarily pressing into his uninjured shoulder. Determinedly ignoring all of it, he turned and strode away from the wreckage, his eyes finding a tumble of large boulders a little to the south, maybe three or four hundred feet from the crash site. Still closer than he'd like, but better than nothing.
A moment later, he felt her head leave his shoulder, and glanced down at her, trying to read her expression— but she kept her face resolutely turned away, so all he could make out was the lowered eyebrows and the hard set of her jaw. He didn't doubt she was in intense pain— hell, they both were— but he knew her well enough to know that she would never show it so outwardly, even in a situation as fucked up as this.
Which meant that what he'd seen— in addition to the steel-like tension he could feel in every inch of her body— could, without a shadow of a doubt, mean only one thing: Briggs was completely, utterly, one-hundred-percent furious with him.
And honestly, that was just fine by him.
She could hate him all she damn well liked— he'd just make sure she kept on living to do so.