spacejail | Certain People Aren't Dead AU

They were to hand off a shipment of guns, per an already-settled agreement. No negotiation, no threats, just drop off the goods and take payment. Tracking the transmitters hidden in the smuggled weapons as they filter out into the black market? All Command's business. Nobody needed to get shot today. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

But that's why they had insurance, and that insurance was Ohio posted up under some scrub with an unobstructed view of the exchange. When the first shot rings out, the sniper rifle is ready to answer in kind. The lead insurrectionist drops.

"Target!"

"York's down!" Lane answers. Something clenches in Ohio's throat, but he has to put that process on hold. He can't stop, he can't look.

"Target, Lane!" he demands.

Lane finds him a target.

He doesn't know how long mopup takes, the adrenaline and the narrow pipe of the scope disconnect Ohio from time passing around him, but it can only feel too long when Lane finally declares them clear. Ohio's up and heading down, raising dust as he skids downslope and runs to see what's become of the other half of the team.

Saunders rises from his cover, shields still flickering back online. There's one. But the other...

Edited 2017-09-01 07:40 (UTC)

He's a friendly sort, this is useful for handling the quick and the paranoid for these simple kinda jobs. You run in, do the deal, shake hands, everyone walks away with money. And since they're cutting a really good deal? No reason for things to go weird. He...can't quite parse who said or did what or if some jackass just decided that keeping the guns AND the money was the best idea ever- but there was gunfire.

Okay, it's a Tuesday, no problem.

The shields hold up against the first spattering of fire, long enough for the subaudible and yet completely palpable thwoomp of sniper fire skating right over his left shoulder and exploding the helmet of the leader of this merry band of assholes to strike York as both A) Badass and B) really, really fucking hot.

Too long for a reverie and he tries, he really does, to get to cover. But that damn left side, no Delta to mind it, Saunders tucked down as soon as the guns came out like a smart guy and York's been more lucky than good for years-

Shotguns are good. They also have limited range. These fuckers have battle rifles and he really kind of wanted to forget the feeling of being gutshot and yet he's down, hand pressed to the armor, waiting for the healing unit he no longer has to kick in and start patching him up, half here and half five years ago, eight years ago when this shit was normal and something he was expected to walk off. The shields pop back on (a second late and a dollar short) but he's down. Here. Here's good. Keeping his guts inside that. That's good.

Saunders reaches him first because he's closer, but he's stunned and it's Ohio who has the biofoam in hand when he crouches down.

"Lane: Shuttle. Saunders: Cargo." Ohio sends them scrambling, then:

"York!" He practically hisses. "C'mon, York. Stay with me."

Ohio's moving him, with the careful deftness of somebody who's been in one too many fucked up field disasters. There. Good. There's a light hiss from the biofoam canister, and the unmistakable burning, crawling sensation of the stuff expanding to seal the wound. It's always awful shit before the analgesic kicks in, but that helps.

The foam can buy them some time, but this is still a goddamn gutshot. Fuck.

"M'good-" He's fine, he can walk it off, they don't need to dock him points for this. "Objective's shot to hell but I'm fine. You don't-"

And it looks like white armor what with the glare and the shock and all, of course it's white armor and he doesn't mean to flinch back, not really but the last time it'd been white it'd been Wyoming and that had nearly killed him. But Ohio's too damn tall and too damn graceless to be that mustached motherfucker; he gets close and the silver clicks and it's safe. Ish. He sucks in a shaky breath and tries to focus on here and now. Which is- Situation FUBAR.

Fun times.

"Ohjesufuckingchrist-" Biofoam stings. "Sonovabitch- ow. Ow, motherfucking-"

Edited 2018-03-20 05:55 (UTC)

They have a couple of minutes at least before Lane gets the shuttle. You don't park your ride where your enemy could just go take it. Saunders is busying himself with re-securing the guns to move, and then scouring the bodies real quick for anything useful. Ammunition. Grenades. Communications gear they can send back for analysis. Part of Ohio has the awareness to be proud that the kid's learning.

It would be all fine if it weren't for York.

"Easy. It went to shit, but nobody else got shot. Lane's getting the shuttle and we're going to find help."

That's what has his thoughts racing right now. It's going to have to be somewhere onworld. Throwing people in the freezer for a slipspace jump back to actual medical help is possible, but it's desperate and as likely to kill York as anything with a wound like that.

"We'll skate back to Nazca."

Scenic Nazca, their current wretched insurrectionist hive away from home. A real inspirer of confidence in shit situations. At least wandering mercs in ex-UNSC kit are standard fare out here, they've blended in so far.

"Why is it always the stomach? I have abs. I am proud of the abs-" Humor, strained and stressed as he lets his head fall back against the dust, blinking through his visor at the terribly bright sky and shadow that Ohio casts. So.

Bleeding out again. Probably going to happen. Man, he really isn't lucky enough to avoid death a fifth time. She's bound to come and collect for good. At least he's not alone, and that's a weird thought to have. The pain fades little by little and nothing feels broken. Torn to shit but- he might live. Might. Not a lot of stock to put in might. "Promise I won't lose a kidney to pay for the surgery and you got a deal."

Gallows humor- when in doubt? Poke fun. It's hard to poke or find fun but damn if he isn't determined to try.

Ohio doesn't quite laugh, he's too worked up, but he makes a little bitten-off huff. It caught him off guard.

"They're phenomenal."

At least, so he remembers. They were all pretty aware of the state of everyone else's musculature by the time Freelancer was said and done. And really, if there's a time for jokes it's when you're waiting for transport while your friend is bleeding (less now, stabilized, hopefully) in your arms.

"I'll try. I'm pretty goddamn scary, after all."

This would be a joke too if it weren't... sort of true, these days. He's different from the affable midranking smartass York knew. Something broke in Ohio, and the ragged edges have torn through. There's a menace to him sometimes, real anger that surfaces in a way that isn't cute or funny in the moments where his composure cracks.

He doesn't like how frequent those are becoming.

Luckily, he has other things to think about as he watches for the shape of the shuttle. When it does come in, raising a cloud of dust, he shifts to shield York from it with his body.

"Saunders! Help me with him!" he calls over the engines.

Could he do this himself? Yeah. Is it better if two people can keep him level? Definitely. Time to move.

"I'm not that fat-" He grumbles, but it's more dignified than a fireman's carry and less likely to pop the seal of the biofoam- so he takes it lying down. As best he can. Every step stings in that distant way that comes from quite a few of the good drugs pumping through your system and the level of detachment only ever provided by shock. It's easier to let Ohio handle this for awhile.

Not dying is all he can really expend the effort on, anyway.

"This job sucks. I say we keep the money and take a vacation." They've earned it. Or at least he earned it. Saunders might've- he reaches out to tap their knuckles together, proud of him for looting the bodies. "Good job."

Recovery is important, he thinks, deeply in need of recovery. "D- how long till..."

He's not sure what. But the cool wash of green is a disant echo as his voice trails off, exhaustion starting to seep in.

They get York settled as much as they can. Saunders pauses, a little surprised by the acknowledgment, and the best he can do to answer is to duck his helmet a little in an almost embarrassed gesture. It's more than he ever gets from their usual freelancer. The snapped orders he's been getting today are more their typical speed when things have gone wrong.

"Drinks with umbrellas all around," Ohio grumbles. He feels a little bit sick inside, and is already getting frustrated with himself for it. It's not even like he's the one wounded, it's not even like he's officially accountable for York the way he is for the other two.

Once they have the guns and salvage on board, Ohio's steps up front to lean over Lane's shoulder and tell him where they're going.

For the trip, though, he's with York. He might lose York. The man swept back from the dead and into his life in a way that makes this feel unreal and impossible, like it's not fair to lose somebody after you've barely had a chance to have them back and start to know them again.

But fair has never had anything to do with it, has it? Not for them.

Getting back to Nazca is uneventful. It's warm in the shuttle because it's a warm planet even with the climate control going. The engines are steady. Saunders picks over what he's found, but doesn't talk. He keeps shooting nervous glances at the freelancers, and eventually slides up into the cockpit to sit next to Lane. Lane looks at him for a moment when he does, then back to out front without a word. There's some kind of comfort in knowing somebody else is at a complete loss, at least.

The town grows like something malignant on the horizon as they buzz in, and Ohio leaves the boys to watch the shuttle (and York) while he figures this out. He hates how long it takes to find somebody who knows what they're doing, he hates that it's hard to negotiate from a place of cool disinterest when you obviously have a dying man on your hands.

But it does get done and he's calmer on the report back, at least a little bit.

Seeing York again makes his stomach twist as he comes back up inside the shuttle.

"York, you holding up?" he asks, half just checking for consciousness.

"M'good, boss. S'just a scratch." Helmet cracked off for the moment so he could breathe- York's eye is unfocused, his expression loose. Glazed. Could be shock, could be medication, could be exhaustion but it's all tangling together in one big searing ache at his gut that won't go away, an itch on his nose he can't scratch, and a vague notion that he's supposed to be gearing up for spiral.

"Just. Gotta get used to the left side. We can work through it, right D?" And that's- a little more and a little less than delusions. A little more in that he actually hears, not remembers, hears, some kind of response. Lingering echos of the digital mind that lived alongside his for so long. A little less in that it's quiet, detached. Reciting lines from memory rather than performing in full. There's a job, he'll get it done. Needs to-

Levering himself up is painful, but he tries. Can't look like a sad sack.

Can't let them knock him down a few rankings but this isn't-

The pain locks him back to this moment. To the silence in his skull and the silver armor next to his and-

"...any luck finding a surgeon?" Like he didn't just have some kind of flashback to the fucking grenade and the misery afterward.

Boss. The boys call him that sometimes, but hearing it out of York (seriously out of York, not even a joke) means he's not all together. So does talking to D.

Ohio remembers. The taste of blood in his mouth, almost unable to think from pain, choking out Pi's name because he needs her and of course she's there and it's the only thing that makes sense-

York tries to push himself up, and it seems to snap him out of it. Ohio doesn't have to field this for the moment, and that's good because he's not sure how.

Maybe he should. Maybe not now, but... well. Ohio knows what it is to be left alone in that.

It wasn't good.

"Yeah," is what he says for now. He found a surgeon. They have help. Things are going to be okay.

"She's bringing something to move you on." One doesn't do surgery in strange peoples' shuttles for a number of reasons.

Ohio's posture straightens just a little, then, and something sly creeps back into his voice as he adds: "Good news. She'll take part of it in guns."

Mission fucking accomplished, team.

"Oh yay. Gurney surfing." Locked halfway between slumping on the pillows and being upright sucks, so he picks an option- pulling himself upright to lean against the headboard instead, panting with the effort. Fuck. Yeah. He sat up.

Go team.

Of course the payment option twists a pained, laugh out of him- something cut off and ragged, raw and wounded until he sucks in a sharp breath to steady himself. "Don't- don't be funny. It'll be a trial but don't. Be funny."

A moment, two, maybe five? Before he asks:

"How are the boys?" They weren't shot, sure- but seeing a guy on your team take a hard hit? Seeing a Freelancer down? Morale might get low.

It's been A Day. Ohio's been having a lot of Days, he realizes. Nothing's quite topped the sheer rollercoaster that was when York got shot, which he's woken in a cold sweat over twice now, but more and more he's been left feeling emotionally spent at the end. It's not even like they're working every day, there are plenty of gap days as they travel. There's no reason for this, it's like his nerves just haven't gotten their slack back after being pulled so tight. There's a crick in his sense of security that he hasn't been able to work out.

Even worse, it's not doing much for the insomnia. In fact, that seems to be getting stronger.

He's preparing for another night of struggle with that, just accepting that it's going to happen. He can kill the lights but he can't kill the feeling that he's not safe, none of them are safe, and all it's going to take is another inevitable flick of the universe's wrist to send them spiraling somewhere horrible.

Ohio knows he can't protect them, though he does try. He can't even protect himself. The thought isn't exactly helping him to strongarm his stupid ass into sleep, and it makes him miss Pi with a sudden, deep earnestness. She could shut him down so he could sleep, yes, but... well.

Being alone in his head is just shit in general, it turns out.

Edited 2018-05-29 03:33 (UTC)

Healing is slow going. Shaking off getting shot? Not something he can do with a wink and a grin like before, like he might've with all the expectations of being #2 on the leaderboard, like he had to while on the run with Delta. No one to impress, then, but D and even then it didn't matter half as much as getting them somewhere safe. There's the crew, sure. But Ohio's been taking every flinch personally and York is too damn tired to not let himself wince a little.

He's old, bullets hurt, and he can only crack so many jokes. He only has so many ways of hold himself so it doesn't hurt-

And can only take so many sleepless nights before he seeks a solution.

It's not neat or easy- it's not as simple as finding North (dead) or Carolina (also dead) and falling in with them for a night. It'd been understood, then, his need for contact. Something to ground him and remind him that he'd survived whatever batshit thing he'd been doing that got him shot. It's just him and Ohio and- he doesn't ask. Doesn't knock. Just has Reti let him in before shuffling his way to the bed, perching on the mattress. "Can't sleep for shit on my own. Budge over."

Not being able to sleep? It sucks, but at least right now it means Ohio's lucid to hear the shuff of the door and recognize York's outline. He sits up out of confusion instead of the need to prepare for some kind of fight. It's hard to make out details in the dark room, but his posture is alert without threat.

"What?"

There's no anger or indignation in that what, it's just a pause, a request for time as he processes the request. Can't sleep for shit on my own. It's a personal problem for Ohio, not something he's expected anyone to share.

"Cant' sleep. Make room or deal with me sleeping on you." He gives Ohio about five, six more seconds before lowering himself to the mattress, tucking himself on his side, back to the door. He knows he's safe here, knows Reti won't let anyone in that isn't authorized.

Ohio hesitates. Having somebody come into his space like this is very weird for him, but... Well. York has seen him here before. York has hauled him back from a complete collapse. Hell, he's helped carry York bleeding off a battlefield. This isn't any more personally vulnerable than anything they've already done for one another.

He doesn't speak as he moves over, there's understanding in that mute acceptance. He raises the blanket, he feels the mattress shift as York settles in.

Ohio prefers to sleep facing toward the door, tension manifesting even in this small way, and so he finds himself lying with someone else facing out at his back. Even just knowing that makes it feel like a secret layer of muscle he forgot he had in his shoulders has unclenched. That was worse than he'd thought, he hadn't even noticed it. Shit.

"Goodnight," he says, and he's not sure why he does it, but he shifts one of his heels back and just makes contact with York with it. He's here. They're both here. Then he withdraws it.

"Mhmm." York doesn't say much, they're both trying (failing) to fall asleep and pressing back until he feels his spine align with Ohio's takes most of his momentary focus. The steady thud of a heartbeat, the slow expansion of ribs with each quiet breath ticks away under York's skin. Settles him in slow increments. Lulls him as much as having D work out some kind of logic problem or another would back when he still had Delta.

Reacting to the brush against his foot is- instant and instinctual, his leg shifting enough to tangle their ankles together. A sole point of contact. Something solid. Something grounding. Something he's not going to give up, sorry Ohio. Hope you didn't want your foot back.

This isn't the first time York's found a steadying presence sleeping beside someone else like this, but it is for Ohio. He knows there are people who would have. Indiana. Alabama. But he lost them at the same time he lost Pi, and before that he'd labored under the belief that sharing any of his fear would hurt them more than it would benefit anybody.

To some degree, he still worries about that. But here's York, settling against his back like it's a relief and a comfort. There's still tension in Ohio, he can't make all of it disappear, but it's not ruining that.

He breathes, long and slow and deliberate, forcing it so it can become natural and steady and let him finally rest. York's ankle is tangled with his, and it's a surprisingly stabilizing feeling. There's something very equal about it, one busted up person to another. Ohio didn't expect that answer, but it feels natural and reassuring and hell, he's going to be able to sleep like this.

His last waking thought is something vague and warm and grateful as he sinks down in.

It's as familiar as it isn't- new body, old habit. Ohio relaxing into this saves York the awkward tension of explaining it so, points for making their lives easy. Bit by bit he lets himself drift, comfortable and confident in that A) nothing is going to get them while they're laid up like this and B) Ohio won't make it weird.

Which is absolutely the case.

What he didn't expect but should've was he himself making it weird. Sometime in the night he rolls, twisting, rolling until he's tucked up against Ohio's back, arms looped around his waist, leg tangled between his- face mashed up against the nape of his neck as he snuffles through what isn't quite a snore but isn't entirely silent breathing. The shape of this body isn't familiar- but he trusts it. Knows he's safe here, knows he probably won't get shot for this.

Maybe.

Ohio wakes first, because that's how this ship is run. Ohio wakes first. It happens. It's not impressive, it's usually because he's just garbage at sleeping, but...

He moves, and discovers that someone has him. He freezes, his memory replays, and that sure is York up against him.

Of people he ever expected to cuddle him, York doesn't even make top ten. Hell, he'd be hard pressed to even find ten people for that list. People don't have reasons to touch him this way.

Ohio shouldn't stop to reflect on that. Getting misty about things he shouldn't have wastes time and feels like shit.

"Hey," he says. He shifts, trying to move York's arm. Better to wake him up instead of to slink out like any of this was actually weird, right?

The best part about finally having someone to burrow in with? York doesn't dream. Doesn't relive memories of the crash, of the project, of the grenade or the fight with Wyoming. Doesn't dwell on shit that'd give him nightmares. No, the warmth and steady thud of Ohio's heartbeat keeps him settled the whole night through- and when that contentment is disturbed by Ohio trying to squirm away, by him mumbling?

York protests with an incoherent grumble. His hand tightens on Ohio's shirt, face burrowing deeper against his shoulder, leg hooking around to tangle their legs together.

Not. Going. Anywhere.

Fuck.

The worst part about this is that it isn't bad. Well. Socially this is awful, but physically? Ohio doesn't quite mind being hung onto like that. Like he matters. Like things are okay. That's kind of fulfilling in a very surprising way that he's going to have to escape from immediately, before he thinks about it in too much detail.

So, he has to twist out of this like it's a grapple. Find the weak point in York's grip, press there, move.

"York."

This is gonna be weird, but being let go of? Current top priority.

Edited 2018-06-24 21:44 (UTC)

"Nnnh." He mumbles incoherently, burrowing deeper into Ohio's shoulder. Like if he clings they wont have to go anywhere. Right now he's warm and comfortable and feeling...safe. Solid. For the first time in years he feels like he might not wake up from a screaming nightmare, the world is distant and soft edged and without the same worry and weight that has him drowning day in, day out.

Not so bad since he fell in with Ohio but-

He doesn't want to let go. He won't. And nothing is going to make him.

He sure is stubborn. Ohio sinks back down after a moment. He can feel York just clinging onto him, and it doesn't make any sense-

Well. Actually maybe it does, but it definitely means something is still not okay.

Ohio's hand comes up, finds where York's fingers curled in his shirt, and rests across them. It's a hand like the rest of Ohio: broad palm, long fingers. He doesn't grapple with York, he just... rests it there.

He lets out a long, slow breath. He can wait a little. That's a thing he supposes he can do. It's making it a lot harder not to focus on how all this feels or what it might mean, though.

It takes a little while longer for York to shake himself awake, eyes fluttering, grip shifting on Ohio when it registers that he's...actually sleeping. With Ohio. "...um."

He doesn't really remember why staying or making Ohio stay was so damn important? They both sleep for shit, apparently, without someone else. this? This is the best sleep he's gotten in...years. Literal years. Since Delta deleted himself from his brain- or he thought he'd done that. Slowly he uncurls, patting Ohio's chest awkwardly. "Sorry, bro."

He could make a joke out of this, probably. Maybe that would even be the smart move, but it's hard because none of this is actually funny to him.

He rolls to sit up. There are options here: Good morning, beautiful. Sleep well? Rise and shine.

"You okay now?" is what he actually says, glancing back at York.

He doesn't want to just dismiss it and try to laugh. It feels like it would be... maybe not rude but something.

"...yeah." He scrubs at his face, slowly trying to sit up. The patchjob is holding but he's still sore as fuck. "Haven't slept that well in awhile. You?"

Because flipping this around on Ohio is easier than dealing with any of his own bullshit.

"...Same."

At least he's not alone in that.

"I think I forgot..."

He trails off, shaking his head. There are a lot of things he'd forgotten.

"...what it was like to feel normal?" For a little bit. To have someone. To have anyone at all, honestly. York scrubs at his face and pats whatever part of Ohio's closest. "...thanks. For. You know."

Certain People Aren't Dead AU

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