The Police Den

It wasn’t long however before John had walked the camp full circle, returning to his own station within the span of maybe half an hour or so. He’d expected an empty tent, a quiet space for the most part. Not Sebastian rooting around his medical files without permission. Frowning, John approached him in a brisk pace and practically ripped the folder from the colonel’s grasp.

He didn’t need to look at the name on the label to know who’s file it was.

He looked at John, then, staring stone-faced at the shorter man as the doctor began his angry tirade of an explanation. And no, Sebastian was certainly not "happy". 

Upon being ordered to exit the tent, he instead stepped around John, intending to pick up the file from where it had landed on the cot. He'd take the file and ensure that Wood was discharged. It was a wonder a man with a chronic medical condition had been assigned to active duty in the first place. But now that Wood's condition had fucked things up, compromised a mission and endangered the life of his sniping partner because he couldn't contain his damned breathing, Sebastian would ensure he was removed. 

He knew a portion of his anger came from ignorance by both parties. John for one didn’t know the full situation. Perhaps Sebastian had seen something in particular, something he saw as a threat and acted only out of survival instincts. But on the other hand, Sebastian had made the mistake of assuming John didn’t know what he was talking about. He heard it in the colonel’s voice; that unmistakable tone of ‘you-don’t-know-what-it’s-like-out-here’. True, John did not know everything about shooting a gun, or about warfare, or about the decisions that had to be made out there.

But that didn’t mean he had never shot a gun. John was a rather excellent shot himself. He’d had to protect himself before, and protect others. He’d had to make the tough decisions when it came to his patients, especially about who he could and could not save; those decisions weighed very heavily on him, aged him years each time he had to do it.

Yet the work did not end when the mission did--there were prisoners to intake and secure. As Colonel, Sebastian's role was significant, albeit primarily in directing, organizing, and giving orders, rather than direct involvement with the prisoners.  After several grueling hours, he delivered his report on the day's proceedings to the Field Marshall, and was finally free.

Exiting the Field Marshall's tent, he took a moment to take in the camp: night was already well underway; it was quiet, with most of the soldiers likely already in bed, but the embers of their fires still hung in the darkness, little dots of light around the camp. Kabul's missions, as expected, were nothing like the excitement he'd been expelled from at Mazar-i-Shari. Still, here, in the silence, in the cold November desert wind, surrounded by a hostile, wild environment, Sebastian found a semblance of solace. One more mission, and his penance for excessive force would be complete, and he could return to the heat of battle.

Wood was a problem, however. Watson had insisted that Wood was the best, and the doctor seemed knowledgeable enough about the skill levels of his fellow officers. Sebastian had taken him at his word, with the almost deadly result of Wood endagering the entire mission and everyone involved. If Sebastian was going to let Wood anywhere remotely near him or the final mission, he'd require more information as to what the fuck happened today, and insurance that it wouldn't happen again

Or he would enjoy it, if John weren't scolding him like a child over the airwaves. Sebastian's decisions were about survival; he trusted his instincts. Besides, what could Watson, a medic know about what it was like in the field?

Once they had returned to their makeshift base at the bottom of the hill, two officers came and took Wood from John and, following his instructions, set the man down in the medical tent. When he woke he’d more than likely be a little miffed, but honestly, John could care less. The doctor cared for his patients, each one of them, and they were to follow his directions precisely. Wood, on the other hand, had a track record for ignoring the advice altogether. It made it hard to feel sympathetic towards Wood when the man was his own worst enemy.

For a while, time passed by uneventfully. There wasn’t much to do until preliminary scouts came back with whatever findings the landscape ahead offered, so remaining stationary was currently their only and best course of action.

Half an hour in, John heard the radio at his belt crackle and come to life, soon following the voice of Moran calling for a medic. John didn’t need to eliminate the possibility of the colonel being the one injured; no shots had been fired, and considering who his partner was, the answer was rather clear. The doctor was on his feet in an instant, picking his way up the slope with ease, agile despite his shorter size. He made it up as fast as he could, catching sight first of Sebastian, then of Wood with a hand clutched to his chest.

Groaning, John maneuvered to the second lieutenant’s side with a grim expression. “Damnit Wood, I told you not to fucking push it!” he hissed quietly through clenched teeth, reaching into the pack at his side, removing a syringe from among its contents. He brought Wood up to a sitting position, ripping open the sleeve on his right arm until the limb was exposed up to the elbow. Without much hesitation, John plunged the tip of the needle into a vein on the underside of the forearm, emptying the liquid into Wood’s bloodstream.

Sebastian, laying on his stomach with the butt of his rifle resting in a crook in the rock, raised his eyes from the gun's scope toward the sound of the approaching figure. The doctor wasted no time, moving swiftly to Wood's side with a frustrated groan and setting to straight work. Well, at least Watson wasn't a complete ponce--his vexation with Wood was certainly something Sebastian could understand. Sebastian sent John a curt, appreciative nod before turning back to his rifle. Despite their mutual irritation with Wood, Watson's loyalty to Wood was apparant, and the doctor worked quickly, with skilled, deft hands.  Sebastian could a appreciate a man who was dedicated and skilled in his trade, and loyal to those he served.

As Watson helped Wood to his feet, Sebastian observed a figure picking his way toward them through the cliffs to the West. That was Arnold and Saxon's territory; the two should have seen him and reported it promptly, unless they were taken out before they spotted him. Precisely how useless were the snipers in this camp? Definitely enemy combatitant uniform, Sebastian noted, though the approaching figure wore a cross over his forearm, like Watson, marking him a medic. Whether the enemy infiltrated the radio signal and heard the Colonel's call back to camp, or heard Wood's agonized groans and laboured breathing, didn't matter. Sebastian knew all too well that the statutes of the Geneva Convention for medics in the field were oft ignored or taken advantage of in this day and age. Soldiers might ignore it, or dress up in a medic's guise to fool the enemy into giving them free passage, whatever suited them best at the time. And so, the approaching medic could as easily be there to kill them or spy on them, as he was to genuinely be on his way to aid them. Sebastian wouldn't let the man close enough to find out his intentions. The enemy was the enemy.

His lips twitched upwards in the corners; the amusement conveyed in the gesture never reaching the obsidian depths that bore into the brown ones opposite. Ignoring the gun, he slowly started circling the man; breaking the unwavering eye contact in favour of observing the ex-soldier more closely. “I see, however, that you’ve been rather busy since our last meeting. Cleaned up somewhat,” Jim’s lip curled in distaste as he noticed the tangled mess of hair that ended at Moran’s nape, “And I’ve been hearing about your valiant attempts at gaining information about myself. Well observed, by the way. Nice of me to leave a little calling card, wasn’t it? Just a pity my influence runs a lot deeper than yours.”

Returning to stand in front of the other man again, Jim idly adjusted the cuffs on his suit, and studied Moran’s face with narrowed eyes. “But what’s this all been for, hm?” he gestured in the ex-soldier’s direction, “The research, the attempt to make yourself presentable, the switching from alcohol to tobacco in an effort to be sober. I know the answer. And I think you do too.” A dangerous glint appeared in his eyes then, and he stepped even closer to the taller man.

As obnoxious as the man was, he was right. Every fucking word was true.  Everything he'd done in his life--all the fights, joining the army, hunting tigers... All of it, had been designed just to feel alive. Now he had none of that, and nothing he'd done over the past half a year was enough. 

But he didn't need this arrogant little sod announcing it, analyzing it, dissecting Sebastian like an insect with his obsidian eyes and sharp tongue. Somehow, this man looked at him, and saw him--every inch, down to his core. Sebastian was stripped bare before him, shred into pieces of crystal. And holy hell, did the man ever shut up?

Bear with me a bit while I try and remember what I wrote before; next time I’ll not be a doofus and type it up in Word instead of Tumblr. (Why is it when something like this happens, your second attempt is never as good as the first?)

I would say that it’s ironic that Jim from IT was having technical problems, but I have an excuse. I’m Richard Brook now.

Luckily this particular morning, a still quiet had overtaken the camp. It was usually like this in the hours before a mission. While the officers trooped around gathering what was necessary for their own parts of the task ahead, John busied himself with what he would need as a field medic. There was very little difference between his own uniform and the uniforms of the rest of the troop; there was a specific addition to the shoulder which identified his status on the field as a doctor, declaring he was not to be treated as a direct target. It didn’t always help, but it was required so John wore it regardless.

Despite the trepidation that hung thick like fog in the air around the camp, seeping into every pore, there was a certain quiet around the camp as people went about their business preparing for the coming battle. Moran was grateful for that. It was like the calm before a storm after a long summer drought, and he drank the anticipation with relish, the rush of war drums already beginning to pound through his veins.

Perhaps some would find it odd that Sebastian Moran, volatile adrenaline junkie living on the edge, a twig constantly pulled tight ready to snap, so enjoyed the slow, methodical preparation of taking a part his guns, and gently polishing each piece ‘til it shined, and then just as carefully, lovingly, putting them back together, piece by piece. But he did. More than anything, he cared for his guns and took great pride in their upkeep, making sure that they, like his own body and mind, were in top shape. They were his lifeline and survival, and also his greatest joy. 

Once the task was complete, he exited his tent in full combat gear, his guns prepared and packed away in a bag at his side. Wood was, to his chagrin, immediately upon him. Sebastian flicked his eyes over his partner’s form with a set jaw, then turned away. Wood himself said nothing, being perhaps equally not fond of Sebastian, but followed immediately behind the Colonel regardless.

They left shortly thereafter, before the final call for the rest of the troops, with a few other sniper teams trudging behind them. They headed up a previously routed mountain path. Their destination, chosen ahead of time, would allow them a good view of the city, and arriving in advance would allow them to provide reconnaissance information to the troops regarding enemy positions. Although they believed that the number of enemy combatants remaining in the city was relatively small, caution and planning were still necessary.

They trudged quickly up the steep path, trampling boots disturbing the dust with each step. The sand hung heavy in the air, settling into their clothes, hair, and lungs. Sebastian heard Wood wheezing behind him and rolled his eyes. Still, they continued up the slope without pausing until they reached their destination.

Close to their destination, they doubled over, keeping low to the ground, creeping silently forward. One by one, the teams split off into their positions. From their vantage point, Sebastian noted they had a decent enough view of the city below; it would have been perfect, if not for the wind, which continued blowing dust into the air, distorting the view. Still, it would do—they were close enough to hear any major happenings below. From here, they’d be able to keep their fellows safe using their eyes, ears, and their rifles—well, if these low grade snipers didn’t fuck things up, anyway.

Sebastian worked on setting up his rifle, as Wood worked beside him, doing the same. Wood would be acting as spotter, but it was still important to have both snipers’ guns at the ready. Wood’s breathing was laboured and irritatingly loud in Sebastian’s ears. 

But when Wood coughed, the finally Colonel turned to his partner, furious. “The fuck’s your problem?”

Wood shook his head, hand clutching his chest, breathing hard. “I can’t—”

For a moment, John met the colonel’s eyes with a level gaze which showed both a certain calm and an aggressiveness he did not use often. But eventually he gave a curt nod and showed himself out, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked back towards where he’d left Wood standing. The man was dutifully attempting to perfect his aim, but unfortunately it would take much more than that to even progress a single degree.

As it turned out, there wasn't much in Kabul for a Colonel banished to the edges of the war. The Taliban had already seeded control of the capital to the Northern Alliance and their American, British, and Canadian allies, and evacuated the city. Only a few staunchly militant and loyal Taliban soldiers remained camped out in the centre of the city, refusing to give it up. They would be easy pickings, really. 

It was 14 November. Sebastian had been partnered with Second Leitenent Mark Wood for only a day, and already, his patience with the lad was wearing thin. They had a tense working relationship. When Sebastian spoke to Wood, which was rare, it was with terse, curt tones. He didn't like the lad much, nor did he care what Wood's opinion of him was. And yet Wood seemed determined to impress him, following him around the camp like a lost puppy, trying to drag him off to the shooting range again, or assist him with duties around camp. He couldn't shake him--everywhere he turned in camp, Wood seemed to be there.  

Finally, early into the morning, Sebastian turned to Wood with a fierce glare. "Look," he thundered, towering over the shorter man, "You're only my partner because it's required. You're a rubbish shot, and I don't much like you. Stay out of my way, try not to get us both killed today, and we won't have any problems."

With a sigh, John gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Be right back,” he muttered quickly, stepping away from the firing range with a brisk and purposeful step. Moran’s tent wasn’t hard to find; it had been very recently erected and for someone who spent a good deal of time inside the camp perimeter, it stood out rather nicely to John. He pushed open the flap.

“Train Wood,” he said swiftly. The look on Sebastian’s face made it clear he was most likely about to comment, or even laugh, but John swept on before either could come, holding up his hand. “Wood’s far from a crack shot, I know. It takes him several tries to get even a decent shot out and in the field he’d be dead within a few minutes. So obviously he needs someone to help him out, and you’re the first crack shot who’s ever shown up at this camp. But you need a partner, and he’s the best you’re going to get for now.”

At least Sebastian seemed to be paying attention now. John continued.

Certainly, the army doctor had a point. As much as he despised the rule, having a partner was a requirement for military snipers. At any rate, if it came to it, he could always pretend to play along, and leave Wood to his own devices in the field. He certainly wouldn't entrust his life to Wood. 

Wood could work as his second, but he'd not be spending his time training the lad. It was Wood's responsibility to bring his skills up to scratch. Sebastian had developed his own skills through years of diligent practice, and he would expect no less from anyone he worked with. If he could do it, so could Wood. 

Sebastian wasn't sure if he respected Watson for daring to speak to him so frankly, or if wanted to strangle the doctor. In any case, it wouldn't due to allow this level of subordination to go unchecked. He peered at Watson from his position on the cot through sharp blue eyes. "First of all, Captain," he said gruffly, "I think you're forgetting your station. You do not enter my tent without my express permission, nor do you tell your superior officer what to do and to "suck it up". Second, I'm sure you can understand my reservation in entrusting my life to a twat who can't aim. It's my arse on the line, too, if he fucks up. If he is the best this regiment has to offer, I will take him, but that is my decision, not yours. But I am not here to play babysitter, Captain. I will not train him, and I sure as hell won't go outta my way to save his hide if he's careless enough to get himself shot."