Sam was a goddamn idiot.

He knew this about himself because he couldn’t stop doing idiotic things and, in general, stop being an idiot.

He wanted to blame it on the medicine and the surgery and the way his body felt like it had been hit by a freaking truck— but, honestly, to blame it on that would be ignoring the various idiotic things he’d done from before he’d been rescued.

He groaned, throwing his head back on the pillow.

Wes’s face was burned into the back of his eyelids. He had looked so devastated. He hadn’t looked necessarily sad or angry or anything that could be easily identified. He had looked like the total devastation of a building after it was demolished; like all the same materials were there, but crumbled and fallen and smoking. Wes had looked like he’d fallen in on himself and Sam was the one that had ordered the wrecking ball to smash.

It made him sick to think about.

When would he stop hurting people?

When would he stop hurting Wes?

“Should I call the nurse? She said to call if you were having pain or something,” Tom’s voice broke through Sam’s inner monologue. He was watching Sam hesitantly, as if worried that bringing up the hypothetical pain would make it worse.

Sam swallowed back another groan. He had to get a handle on himself. “No, no, I’m alright.”

“You—I mean, you shouldn’t be a martyr, you know. Just like, tell someone if it hurts.”

It wasn’t his body that hurt. He wished it was.

“I’m alright, Tommy,” he said. “I’ll let you know when I’m not.”

His brother opened his mouth to argue but a knock at the door distracted them both.

The door creaked open and Dr. Plymouth walked in, his face drawn in concentration.

“Hey, Doc!” Tommy said, giving the doctor a little wave. Sam nodded to him in greeting.

Dr. Plymouth smiled at Tom before nodding back at Sam. “Hello, Tom. Sam.”

He walked over to the bed, checking the monitors and Sam’s pulse like he did every time he came into the room. “How are you feeling today, Sam?”

Sam shot Tom a harsh look when his brother shot up and opened his mouth; he rolled his eyes at Sam but settled back in his chair, clamping his lips shut.

“I’m feeling fine, Dr. Plymouth. No real complaints.”

“He’s been groaning all morning!” Tom shot the words out of his mouth at such a speed it seemed to take the doctor a moment to fully comprehend what he’d been told.

Dr. Plymouth looked to Sam, raising an eyebrow. “Has the pain increased?”

“No,” Sam said firmly. He glared at Tom before looking back to the doctor, trying to appear as earnest as he could. “Just a little frustrated that I’m still here.”

Dr. Plymouth hummed a little. “That certainly is frustrating. But you’re here for your own good; you went through quite an ordeal, Sam.”

“I’m perfectly aware, thank you.” He winced at his harsh tone. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. Of course you know what you went through; I only meant that it’s best for your body for you to stay put.”

Sam sighed. “I get that. But mentally—“

“You went through quite an ordeal mentally, as well.”

Sam shrugged, avoiding Tom’s crestfallen face. “I’m trained to deal with that.”

“Of course,” Dr. Plymouth stepped away. He glanced over at the door before straightening his shoulders. “If you’re truly feeling alright and you’re up to it, there are actually a few people here that would like to speak with you.”

Sam frowned. “Sara and Johnny coming today?”

Tom grabbed at his phone, checking for messages. “I don’t think so.”

Sam’s pulse nearly bottomed out when he considered—it’s not like Wes would come back already, would he—if he was here—

“It’s a Commander George Collins and Admiral Andy Paul,” the doctor said, glancing down at the chart he had in front of him. Sam assumed he had written the names down beforehand or received a copy of their credentials.

He had known that his commander would have to come. If Sam knew Collins at all, and he did, then he knew that Collins would be absolutely itching to debrief Sam. The capture-or-kill mission was supposed to be cut and dry and had turned so sideways, the man was probably beside himself waiting to figure out what had happened. There was no way that Collins would wait until Sam was well enough to actually come down to base and do a regular, practical on-site debrief if he didn’t have to.

Honestly, he’d been in the hospital for nearly a month now, including his quasi-coma. He was surprised it had taken his boss so long to show up.

An admiral coming though—Sam hadn’t expected that. Sam had only met Admiral Paul once or twice before and never in any personal capacity—an introduction here or there because a commander had admiration for the way Sam was able to dedicate himself so fully to the mission.

Admiral Paul being at the hospital to debrief him had to mean something.

“Hey, hey, calm down.”

His vision was swimming and he could barely feel the doctor’s hand on his shoulder. Sam could feel the panic clawing at his throat, demanding to be seen and heard beginning to consume him.

He didn’t know what was happening.

He had never felt so out of control of his own breath before. His entire body seemed to be revolting, fighting against the intrusion of the thoughts inside his head.

He tried to steady his breathing but the air he was gulping down felt stale and warm and bubbled in his chest, not soothing but instead, something to be thrown out of his lungs and back out into the world.

“Sam.”

Tom’s voice cut through the panic, a thin rope thrown into the depths of the water. Sam grabbed onto it desperately; his brother kept talking, pulling the rope harder and harder until Sam felt like he was being pulled back onto the boat.

“Sam, it’s going to be okay. Sam, calm down. I’m right here. It’s okay. I’m here. You’re here, it’s fine. Sam.”

He took a breath; this one stayed in and didn’t burn. He took another and another, each one calming the panic a little more.

“You don’t need to talk to them right now,” Dr. Plymouth said. His face was expressionless, a mockery of calm, but his eyes were wide and his grip on the clipboard strong.

Sam was panting a little. He frowned. “No, I’ll be alright. I can do it.”

“Absolutely not!” Tom argued.

Sam pulled away from his brother’s grip. “I can do it.”

“Absolutely not, Sam!” Tom insisted, shaking his head emphatically. “Those guys can wait! I can’t even believe they’d come when you’re still in the freaking hospital! You’ve barely been awake a week and—”

“Tommy,” Sam used the same soothing tone he had always adopted when Tom was a kid and afraid of the thunder or a bully or whatever. His brother’s muscles hardened, his stance freezing as he recognized the voice. “They need to know what happened and— it’ll probably be good for me to talk about it. With, you know, them.”

Tom’s lips pursed into a thin line. He folded his arms across his chest.

After a second, he sighed, deflating. “Well, that makes sense I guess. But—” he held up a hand when Sam started to grin, “Dr. Plymouth gets final say.”

“Is that so?” Sam asked.

Dr. Plymouth let out a small chuckle, drawing their attention. “I think I agree with Tommy for right now.”

Tom grinned and Sam groaned.

“Just—thirty minutes even. An hour. I’ll tell them to come back later this afternoon after you’ve had some rest and food. You need your energy and even if it doesn’t feel like it, panic attacks take a lot out of a person, Sam.”

Sam tensed up. “I didn’t have a panic attack.”

“Bullshit—”

Dr. Plymouth glared at Tom who quieted immediately. “You did, Sam. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Take your time to rest, get your energy up. I’ll tell the commander and admiral to come back at two.”

Sam looked at the clock; at just past eleven, he would have to wait three hours to actually talk to anyone. He considered.

If he fought against both Tom and Dr. Plymouth, there was a good chance he’d lose and end up having to wait a whole extra day or something. Tom was a good enough opponent on his own; with an actual doctor on his side, he’d be a little bit unstoppable.

Sam sighed. He guessed that a few hours wouldn't be the end of the world.

“Fine,” he mumbled. “I’ll wait.”

Dr. Plymouth nodded with just a hint of a smile; Tom was not as subtle or kind—his smirk was exactly like his thirteen year old self’s. Sam wanted to smack him upside the head but worried that would get him an extra hour of bedrest.

“Alright,” Dr. Plymouth said, putting the clipboard underneath his arm and clapping his hands together. “I will go talk to them and I’ll be back in a few hours to check in on you before they begin.”

Sam nodded. “Alright, thank you, Doctor.”

“Bye!” Tom settled back into his chair, pulling out his phone and tapping at it.

Dr. Plymouth left, closing the door quietly behind it.

Sam huffed, leaning back against the pillows.

He was so goddamn bored.

“What are you doing?” He turned to Tom, trying to read his phone from the far away angle he was at. He failed and was annoyed even though the possibility of actually reading it was near to none.

Tom quirked an eyebrow, not lifting his gaze from his phone. “Updating the fam about you.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I’m surprised Sara hasn’t actually just installed a spy camera somewhere to be able to keep tabs on us.”

He laughed, tossing his head back. Sam’s own mouth twitched when he saw how much Tom enjoyed the joke.

“Too fucking true, man,” Tom said, shaking his head. “But she’s playing it cool right now because we’re in a group chat with Wesley and her mom.”

Wesley?

“Why does—” He cut himself off, clearing his throat. “Why does Sara’s mom care?”

Tom frowned, head snapping up, before he clicked his fingers together, snapping. “Right, you’ve not met Mrs. Donavon. Well, she cares because that’s her thing. She bakes cakes and goes to church like five times a week and is praying intensely for you.”

Sam raised his eyebrows and pretended not to be surprised. “Oh. That’s—sweet.”

Tom snorted. “That’s what Wes said.”

Sam’s stomach fluttered with something he refused to admit could technically be called butterflies. “Why is Wes in the group chat?”

“Easier to update everyone all at once,” he explained. “Plus, Wes finds Mrs. Donavon really funny. I refuse to call it mocking because then I’m pretty sure Sara would kill me, but we do get a bit of enjoyment out of her mom’s reactions.”

Sam couldn’t help the smile that grew. “Sounds great.”

“Oh ohh, brother, you are definitely going to be meeting her,” Tom grinned. “So don’t get cocky now. That woman is the queen at planning barbecues that you wouldn’t miss because you never know when the last time you’re going to see someone, do you dear? and she only has one grandchild and since that child is being raised in a house of sin he at least needs to be shown the right path every once in a blue moon.”

Tom’s voice fell from the high octave he used to mock his quasi-mother in law. “She’s really nice but she’s a bit much.”

Sam tried not to laugh. “If she wasn’t, then there’s no way she could be Sara’s mom.”

Tom nodded. “Wise words, Old Man.”

Sam rolled his eyes and leaned back into the cushions.

So Wes was being updated about him.

Sam wanted to ask how much he was telling people but that would seem suspicious because, really, what the hell did he care? He wasn’t a private person because he didn’t want people knowing about him. He was private because when he wasn’t, he fucked up and people got hurt. Case in point: Wesley, aka the only reason he was curious as to the content of the updates.

Maybe that was why Wes wasn’t coming to the hospital any more. He didn’t need to if he knew that Sam was okay.

Sam wondered if he’d come if something happened.

Probably, for Tommy. He was a good friend to his baby brother and that counted for something— for everything, really.

He wouldn’t come for Sam, though. Not again. Maybe he never had.

The crushed way he’d looked before he stormed out two days ago—god, was Sam ever going to be able to forget the way he’d looked?

“Wes hasn’t been around much,” Sam accidentally said.

The words fell from his mouth, uncalled for and too fast. Tom froze in his typing but quickly resumed, clearing his throat.

“Yeah,” Tom said. “He had to go back to work. He took a ton of time off to be here.”

His desire for information evaporated, replaced with a heavy fog of guilt.

“Right,” he muttered. “That makes sense.”

Tom nodded, looking at him from the corner of his eyes.

“What about you, though, Tommy? Shouldn’t you be getting back?”

“What? No.”

“I mean, you’ve missed like a lot of work. Aren’t you—”

“It’s fine,” Tom cut him off. “My job is fine and my co-workers are picking up the slack right now.”

“But how long can that go on?”

Tom’s jaw locked. “As long as I want it to.”

“Tommy—”

“No, Sam. Listen, I work at a bank with my best friend in Poplar. No one is pissed about taking on extra work for a little bit of time because any of us would do it for anyone, you know?”

Sam thought about that. “Well, yeah.”

“I want to be here,” Tom said. “Stop acting like no one cares about you, Sam.”

Sam’s face flushed.

“I didn’t mean to be—” ungrateful? Uncaring? A bad patient and brother? Sam didn’t know what to say.

But, of course, Tom didn’t really need him to say anything in particular. “No problem, man.”

Sam watched his brother sitting in the chair, trying not to think about how nice it was to be back.

Later today, he would have to talk about his time in captivity. He would have to tell people about how he’d failed as a leader, how his people trusted him and they all died because of it. He’d have to talk about El and his decision to jeopardize everything in order to kill him. He’d have to relive those days in order to do his job— then he would have to quit that job, taking back all the vows he made to dedicate his life and service to his country. He had to accept life as a civilian, a wounded, used-up veteran of war.

Sam knew there was pride in that.

He didn’t feel very proud, though.

Later today, he would have to look someone in the eyes, tell them he failed, and then confirm a decision that would change his life forever.

But for now, he would watch his little brother laugh and joke, texting his family and friends and revel in the way it felt to have someone love and believe in him as much as Tommy did. For now, he would let in the feeling that being here with family was the most important thing he could do.

—

Sam hadn’t meant to fall asleep. When he jolted awake, the clock blinked at him, telling him he’d been passed out for at least two hours.

The clock read 1:58 P.M. He watched it until the little page flapped down and it said 1:59.

Sam sat up, using the button on the side of the bed to push it up all the way. He hadn’t pushed it down, so Tom must have done that after he had fallen asleep. His back ached a little but that was likely from being stationary for so long.

He missed running.

He wanted to push his body and run, run, run, down the road, on a track, anywhere. It had been so long since he’d run—he would be terribly out of shape and slow now.

He hated that.

Reaching for a glass of water, Sam saw that there was a booklet on the nightstand with Tom’s handwriting. He grabbed at it, barely reaching it.

SAM—

DOC SAID I WASN’T ALLOWED IN HERE WHEN YOU TALK TO THOSE GUYS. RUNNING HOME TO SHOWER AND SEE JOHNNY. WILL BE BACK TONIGHT.

LOVE,

TOM.

Sam didn’t bother hiding the smile that grew. His brother had never signed anything with love before. What a sentimental nerd.

Sam tossed the note back onto the nightstand, grabbing his water cup and draining it in one fast swig. He nearly choked on it and was glad that no one had been in the room to see.

He wondered if he had always drank water so greedily or if it was the lack of access to it that made him so desperate for a drink now.

The clock ticked 2:00 P.M.

It was almost time for his debriefing. Any time now.

Sweat broke out on his forehead and he could feel his pulse as a very tangible, heavy thing beneath his skin.

He wasn’t ready; at the same time, he had never wanted to do anything more.

He had questions and, god, he hoped that they had the answers to them.

The knock on the door broke through the rising panic. Sam knew the doctor would never let him talk to Collins if he was still at risk of having another so-called panic attack, so he took a moment.

Sam could do this. His body was not in control of him; he was in control of his body. If he could withstand copious amounts of fucking torture, he could get through a single debriefing.

He just needed to calm down. It’s just a— an exit interview, Sam told himself. Nothing to be afraid of.

Dr. Plymouth came in and did his quick exam, checking and watching him with a wary, attentive eye.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” the doctor asked.

Sam swallowed back a bit of annoyance and a larger amount of unnecessary worry. He nodded. “Very,” he said slowly, emphasizing his genuineness.

Dr. Plymouth stopped short of rolling his eyes and sighed. “Alright. Just hit the call button for the nurse if you need us. They might be military but here, we’re in charge. And we listen to you.”

Sam was beginning to see why his brother was so fond of this doctor. “Alright,” he agreed.

“Alright,” Dr. Plymouth repeated. He sighed and gave Sam a long look. Sam tried to return it.

He left and motioned to someone by the corner.

He said something to them that Sam couldn’t make out and then he left.

The door remained open and two tall, military officials came through the hospital room door.

Sam fought the urge to get up and salute or shake their hands. His body tensed, used to the response, and it looked like they noticed.

“Don’t even try getting up, Carlisle,” said Commander Collins. He walked straight to the bed, holding out his hand.

Sam shook it and tried not to feel inferior for being sat.

The Admiral came next, shaking Sam’s hand as well. “Thank you for your service.”

Sam stopped short of saying no problem.

“Thank you, sir,” he said instead.

Reaching into his pockets, Collins pulled out a tape recorder. He fiddled with it for a moment before turning it on and setting it on the nightstand. Collins sat in the chair that Tom was usually perched in, sitting stock straight and putting his arms on either side of the chair. The admiral stood behind him, hands behind his back.

“I could call in for a second chair,” he offered before quickly adding, “Admiral, sir.”

The Admiral shook his head. “No need, Carlisle. Thank you.”

“Sam,” Collins said, leaning forward a bit, interrupting the awkward pleasantries that Sam couldn’t stop giving. “I know you’ve been through a lot.”

Sam’s breath caught around the lump in his throat. It made his voice come out a little too rough, scraped around the edges. “Nothing that I couldn’t handle, sir.”

Collins’s eyebrows raised. “Apparently.”

“We should start,” he continued. Sam nodded his consent. “For the record, state your name, rank, and today’s date.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Samuel Carlisle. CPO E-7 for the Navy SEALs.” He looked around for a calendar and, after finding one on the wall, repeated the date.

“Thank you, Sam.”

The Admiral gestured towards Sam. “Tell us, in your own words, what happened.”

Sam closed his eyes.

As if no time had passed at all, he could feel himself in that crowded Jeep. He was surrounded by his team, his make-shift family. He could hear the jokes and the snaps to be serious and the resulting laughter because why would they be serious on their way to a mission? They were with friends and they were doing what was right and they were doing a simple, cut and dry mission.

Nausea rolled his stomach, reminding him of the way the air felt warm that day, reminding him of the crumpled letter he’d left at base, reminding him of the way he felt so sure of himself during that drive to their drop position.

Sam opened his eyes. Collins and Paul watched him.

“It was supposed to be a simple mission,” he said. His voice had taken on a monotone type drawl and he didn’t bother to try to fix it, to inflect his voice or add emotion to the story. He wanted to be as concrete and separate from what he was saying as possible.

“We were told to go to the drop location and extract a man that had information. It was supposed to be an easy recon— we had no reason to believe anyone would be waiting for us or that there’d be a fight at all. We assumed the only reason that we’d been deployed instead of just a general officer was because it was a high-risk environment and the information was important.”

He paused. Collins nodded for him to go on.

“When we got there, though, it was like they knew we were coming. There were so many of them— and they weren’t surprised to see us. They attacked so hard and so quickly, we barely had time to even get out of the jeep before we were being shot at.”

He could hear the bullets flying past him, the screams of his men as they went down; he could smell the blood and the sweat and the piss and the dirt of the ground. He could feel his hands shake with phantom adrenaline.

“I—I called for us to fan out. Cover more ground. I thought that if we weren’t clumped together, it’d be harder for them to pick us off. I thought we could take them.”

Sam’s throat closed.

They waited a minute and then two. Finally, the admiral prompted him. “But you couldn’t?”

“Only three of us survived the initial attack,” Sam continued on. “Myself, Major Franklin, and Major Edward. We were taken—somewhere. I passed out after the initial fight or was knocked out or something. It’s a bit—fuzzy. But I woke up tied to a wall, chained and already bleeding. Franklin didn’t make it; maybe he lasted a week? After that, it was just Edward. And me.”

“Do you know how long were you there, Sam?”

Sam shook his head. Everything blurred together and he could feel hands on his face and blades beneath his skin. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

“That’s alright. What happened while you were there?”

“We were—we were routinely beaten. Tortured, though they never really pried for information. It seemed almost pointless. Like the only reason we were there was because we were U.S. Military and we’d survived.”

“You don’t think you were kept alive on purpose, then?”

“No at least, I didn’t. I don’t know.”

“What happened next?”

“For a while, it was just general stuff. These few guys would come in and kick the shit out of us and then leave for a while. We got enough water and food to be coherent but not enough for any real energy.”

“When we found you,” Collins said slowly, cocking his head. “You were strangling someone. You had broken from your chains. That seems fairly—energetic to me.”

Sam’s blood surged.

“El,” he said, swallowing. His vision was starting to spot and he could feel his throat clenching and unclenching, his jaw locking and unlocking, his whole body fighting against the intensity of the flight or fight adrenaline streaming through him.

To give himself a moment, Sam reached towards the water pitcher. Collins jumped up and helped refill the empty cup and hand it to him.

“Thanks,” he muttered before slowly sipping it. He drank it as slow as he could without being purposefully annoying.

When the glass was empty and he could see the lines pulling on Paul’s face, he sighed.

“El showed up towards the end. He was—he wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t just some thug trying to get a rise out of us. He was dignified. He was important and I don’t know how or why or who he was, but he was someone of note.”

“You killed him,” Collins pointed out.

“I did?”

The relief that filled him was stronger than anything else he’d ever felt. It was stronger than love or hate or fear or happiness—it was all encompassing. For a few brief moments, Sam couldn’t think or feel anything but Thank God, Thank God, Thank God, Thank God, Thank God.

“You didn’t know?” Paul asked, taking a small step forward.

Sam shook his head. “I—I tried to. I hoped I did. But I didn’t remember or know for sure.”

Collins nodded. “Well, you did. Why?”

Sam remembered the fear. The determination. The need to stop this man.

“He knew about Tom,” he told Collins. Recognition widened his eyes and Sam turned to Paul, who was frowning. “My little brother. And—other people. People close to me.”

“Your family?”

Sam let out a shaking breath. “He—he knew of someone that wouldn’t be in my file. Someone that mattered to me.”

The two officers exchanged a look, frowning.

Sam worried why. He continued, speaking quickly, “I know I might have fucked things up by killing him but—god, we had been there for so long. Edward—he wasn’t even speaking, barely eating. I didn’t know how long we’d last and I couldn’t just sit there and die, knowing that he could get to them—”

“Sam,” Collins cut him off, holding a hand up to stop him. Sam shut his mouth instantly. “You’re not in trouble, Sam. You did what you had to do.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Yeah.”

“We just needed to know.”

“Right,” Sam said, still nodding. “That’s all I know.”

Collins nodded. “That’s okay. That’s good.”

“What do you know?” Sam asked, jutting his chin up a little. He knew how feeble he looked; nothing like the commanding presence he used to have, the one that could have gotten answers from a quirked eyebrow and a hard glare.

All three of them could see it for what it was. Not a demand, but a beg.

They exchanged a look. Paul gave one short, little nod and Collins turned back to him.

“We don’t know who gave you the wrong intel—if it was an accident or not. We’re vetting now, trying to figure out where the decay in the system started. We think it was bad intel from the wrong side that was intercepted by our guys as if it was good intel.”

So there was no traitor in their ranks. Just good guys being tricked by the bad guys.

Sam wondered if it could really be that simple.

“What else?” Sam asked. his voice sounded a bit like gravel and a bit like he’d been crying. He wondered if that was just because he wanted to so badly.

Collins continued as if he hadn’t stopped. “When we found you, our tactical team took out about half a dozen guys. We swept the area and there were about three other connections we could find. Teams were dispatched to their supposed areas.”

Sam nodded slowly, trying to think through the haze he was feeling. “And El? Did you find out anything about him?”

They exchanged a look again. Sam was a little out of it, but he wasn’t out of it enough to not notice this. Paul gave Collins a long stare and Collins scoffed, gesturing towards Paul.

He sighed and spoke. “There were files on you and your team. Not everyone but you and Parker and Franklin.” Two of the men who had died in the first fight, two of his teammates who had died because of his orders. “We think that the attack wasn’t random and he wanted the three of you. Like you said, he had things in the files that we didn’t have in ours.”

Sam’s heart hammered again, the monitor panicking with him. “What do you think that means? Do you think others are looking for me?”

Paul shook his head. “We took out the main crew from what we could tell. Any stragglers should be picked up from the other teams.”

“Why me?” Sam asked, looking between them. “Why Parker and Franklin?”

Paul frowned. “We have a working theory.”

Collins rolled his eyes. “He deserves to know,” he turned to Sam. “You’re up for a promotion, Carlisle. To MCPO.”

Major Chief Petty Officer. That would have—he would have been a major.

“We think that they got into our database somehow or someone leaked. Your career was looking good, Carlisle. We think they were trying to turn you.”

Sam’s throat closed up. “The others?”

“Raised to CPO,” Paul added.

Sam looked at the blanket across his lap. That was why he was kept alive—why they beat him but never went too far. Why El knew so much and they brought him in after they thought he was breaking.

“Thank you,” Sam said roughly.

The Admiral made a sound of approval. “Yes. We’ll let you know if we have any information—”

“There’s something else,” Sam looked down at his hands. They were still thin, the bones and tendons more prominent than they’d ever been. But they were getting better. He was getting better. “I—I won’t be going back into the field.”

“Sam?”

“I know this isn’t the official way to—God, resign—and I will do the official requirements as soon as I am able,” he lifted his head up, jutting his chin out.

Anything for Tommy.

“But I wanted you to hear it from me as soon as possible. I won’t be leaving again.”

Collins’s jaw fell, his whole face accommodating the gaped, surprised expression. Paul, on the other hand, simply nodded.

He crossed the room and stuck his hand out, lifting his own chin. “We understand. Thank you for your service.”

Sam shook the Admiral’s hand, swallowing down the emotion bubbling up. His eyes stung and suddenly he was so tired.

“We’ll get out of your hair then, Sam,” Collins stood, smoothing his dress shirt down. “I’ll be in touch with you later.”

“Just focus on getting better right now,” Paul added.

Sam almost smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

They smiled at him and nodded once before heading out of the room. Collins was holding the door open when Sam shot up, shoulders tensing. He called out and Collins turned back to him.

“Yeah?”

“Did—I didn’t see, I don’t know—did anyone survive?”

Collins’s face fell. He stared hard at Sam for a moment. Then, quietly, he said, “No, Sam. No one else.”

Sam’s stomach dropped, hard and heavy to the base of his feet. Edward.

Goddamn. God-fucking-dammit.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. This time the wall of emotion was too much, a giant wave that would drown him the second it touched.

Collins nodded as if he could see the water himself. He let himself out without another word.

When the door clicked behind him, Sam sunk into the pillows. He turned, slow and careful because that was how he had to do everything now, onto his side.

When the tears came, Sam didn’t try to fight them. This time, they weren’t for him. They were for a good man that Sam had wronged; they were for a man that Sam had killed.

All of the desire to live, the desire to be here and with his family, to hold John, to see Wes—all of the reasons he had fought and held on for so goddamn long flew out of his head. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that he had kept the one promise that mattered; that he’d come back to Tom. It didn’t matter.

Edward was gone. His whole team was gone.

Sam was the only one left.

He fell asleep with his body curled around a pillow and one thought slamming around in his skull: it should have been him. He wished it was him.