#rickf

“Rick,” You pleaded, reaching for his sleeve. He took a step back, escaping from your grip. The rage on his face - you were scared for the first time that he might actually hurt you. You, the one person that he had whispered promises to, that he wouldn’t ever let anything bad happen to you. “You know me. You know that I would never double-cross our country.” 

With shaky legs, you fell down onto your knees, begging him to believe you. “Rick, please. I don’t know what that letter is, I don’t know how it got there. But I would never do something like this. I would never do anything that would put you in danger. You have to know that.” 

“Come on,” he said, motioning to the men that were behind him. You felt your hands being pulled roughly behind your back and secured by handcuffs. They lifted you roughly onto your feet, while you still felt like you couldn’t stand properly. The ground had fallen from beneath your feet. The air had been pushed out from your lungs. All that you could do was plead on deaf ears as the men took you to one of the cells that were meant for prisoners of war. Until the last second, you pathetically pleaded your innocence until the doors were closed and you were left alone in the dark. Alone except for the sound of your own sobbing and hasty breathing. 

“Please, Rick, believe me,” You whispered to yourself as you collapsed against the ground. There was not even a bed - the standards for POWs were subpar.  

Rick, despite the conflict of interest, had put himself on your case. He was going through every single piece of paper that had been anywhere near your desk, reading through it, looking for any more evidence. His anger wasn’t fading anytime soon. When he accidentally ripped the third file, he threw the papers to the side and held his head in his hands. His breathing was heavy. The rage that he was feeling was overpowering the sorrow, and he knew which he would rather feel. anger got shit done. Anger was easier. It felt better. He could use it better. 

There was more than one letter. They were encoded, but it wasn’t that hard of a cipher to crack. It was basically requests for ‘further’ information, which made it seem as if you had given them some before. From the looks of it, they were pretty recent. Just how long have you been doing this? How long has he been stupid, dead, blind to everything that you were doing? 

He wiped at his brow with the back of his head and leaned back in the chair. He took a deep breath, one that hurt his lungs, and then let out a loud yell that drew the attention of those around him. 

He ignored their stares. The way that they looked at him with pitying glances, suspicious glares. They were wondering the same thing that he was - how did he not know? Or maybe he did know, and now he was acting innocent, like he had nothing to do it? He could basically hear their thoughts through their stares.  

He covered his face, his palms going against the bristles of his mustache. He didn’t shave today. He hasn’t showered. He hasn’t eaten since you were taken. He wasn’t planning on eating either.  

He got up and picked up the papers again, staring at them, willing for them to say anything other than what they were saying. Looking for any sort of hint that they could have been faked somehow. But it seemed pretty cut and dry. The love of his life, the person who shared his bed, the person who he lived with and spent most of his time with, was a dirty traitor.  

“Flag,” The General said, coming up to him. Rick immediately stood at attention, like the good little soldier that he was. “Did you find any more evidence?”  

He hesitated for a moment. If he handed over what he had found, then everything for you was going to be over. You would be treated as a traitor, a confirmed traitor. There were already talks of handing you over to the enemies in exchange for one of their Prisoners, one of their own guys. People were eager to get rid of you, and what he held in his hands would only make them all the more delighted to do so.13 

He had no choice. He nodded and let out a “Yes Sir.” And he handed over those documents that he had found in and around your desk. A foolish mistake of yours, he thought. Normally you would never have been so careless. It was a little strange, but he wouldn’t let himself go down that path of thinking. He could not defend what you did. He couldn’t defend you, lest he be seen as a traitor as well. With the handing over of the letters, your fate was sealed, and the relationship was irrevocably over. 

Rick didn’t get to say goodbye. That’s one thing that still bothered him about this whole thing. After he had handed over the evidence to the General, just over a year ago, you had been packed up and sent to the enemy in exchange for a prisoner of war. The enemy seemed only too happy about it, to be getting their spy back.  

He focused on his work, doing his utmost to forget you. He didn’t date again. In fact, he was letting his facial hair grow out, something that used to get teased by you. He didn’t talk to anyone outside of the department, outside of the job. Didn’t date. Didn’t even really have any friends. His life had become the military, and he had built up so many walls around that, nothing else was getting in. 

Did he think of you from time to time? Of course. He had cleaned out your things and put them into storage in case you ever asked for them again, but the empty clothes hangers were constant reminders of what was missing. 

You popped into his head again as he was given his next mission. It was almost a year to the day since you had been traded to the enemy, and the chaos that had happened because of all of that. New protocols, new security, everything was monitored more closely than ever before. He had to go through getting his coms checked for the mission, which was to go into what was an apparently abandoned base of the enemy and go through any information that they might have that would help lead to where they were going next. It had been some kind of earthquake that had disrupted the base, so it would be dangerous, even while empty, because half of it had descended deeper into the ground and was still unstable. 

Rick Flagg headed the team. He had his second in command by his side, while the others spread out throughout the confusing layout of the building. There had been six floors, three of them aboveground, masquerading as some sort of garment factory, though really, they had been manufacturing weapons. The top three layers just barely held on, the roof having collapsed down and was in splinters. But there were still some floors beneath the rubble that looked as if they had been able to take the brunt of the quake. Of the avalanche of the stone and brick that had been the building. 

Holding up his gun, on high alert, flashlight attached and shining the way through the jet-black corridors, Rick Flagg was unafraid as he proceeded.  

“Reached a dead-end to the west side,” One of the soldiers' voices’ came through his radio. 

“Wall dead-end or rubble-dead end?” Flagg asked, his accent thick.  

“Rubble - may be able to find a way through it if we have a little time.” 

“Alright, you work on that. We want to search as much of this place as possible-” Rick said but then was cut off again by another voice on the radio. 

“Flagg? We’ve got a heat signature on the floor below you,” Another southern drawl came through. It sounded a little less than calm. Not frantic but concerned. “There’s someone else here with us. It’s not a strong one though. So, I think maybe one of the workers got caught in the quake. Might be injured.” 

“Everyone, stay on alert, I’m going in.” 

Rick managed to find a hole in the floor that had been caused by some of the structure going through. Inadvertently, it created a sort of slide for him to go down and he did, his boots landing roughly on the steel flooring. The ridges on the floor gave him balance as he stalked forward, his gun at the ready to shoot in case he saw anything move, but he wanted to take this person, whoever it was, alive. They could get more information out of them alive rather than dead. 

The further he walked down, the more he saw that this floor looked more like a prison. His flashlight shone off of metal bars. Some of the cells were smaller, like dog kennels, stacked on top of one another. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was animal testing going on here. They did seem to be monsters. 

The crates seemed to be empty though, going forward, the doors opened, or the cages crushed, and he didn’t look too deeply into them. He didn’t want to, nor need to, see that. 

The deeper down the hallway that he went, finding that it was at a bit of a slope and water was dripping from the piping, causing him to step into water, the larger the cages seemed to become. Now, it was just cells. Exactly like prison cells.  

“Is anybody down here?” He called out, not wanting to trudge into the water until he had to. He held his breath, waiting for any sort of noise as a response. Nobody called out, but there was a purposeful splashing sound. His eyes narrowed and he moved closer, finally stepping into the water. The noise of the splashes would give away his location, but he had to find out where this person was. A prisoner, by the looks of it. Even if it wasn’t the scientist or worker they were hoping for, they might still have some information. 

There were more splashing sounds. The water was cold, almost ice cold, but he powered through it, sweeping the flashlight through the cells until he saw someone. 

The flashlight dropped into the water, the light growing weaker, more like a beacon now than a flashlight. He had dropped it in surprise because of who he had seen. He ducked down to pick it up, quickly shining it back on the person to make sure that his eyes did not deceive him.  

It was you. 

You weren’t looking like the you that he had known and loved. You were emaciated, as if you hadn’t eaten properly for a year. You looked resigned, sitting on the bench screwed into the wall in your cell, the water up around your waist but you were too tired to stand or try to get away from it. You had one hand in the water, slapping it to make a splashing sound. Despite him coming in closer to you now, you could not see who was holding the flashlight. You had no hope left in your eyes.  

You were a prisoner. 

It called into question every action that he had taken over the past year. Why would your own people take you as prisoner - had he been wrong? Had those tiny little doubts been his brain trying to tell him the truth?  

“Flagg!” The voice came through his radio again, making you flinch. Your eyes were dilated due to the pitch-dark conditions that you had been in before Rick got there and now were slowly constricting to adjust to the brightness. Your ears were working just fine though, and your head raised at the sound of his surname. “Flagg! Report! Are they hostile?” 

Almost like in a dream, he brought his radio to his mouth and answered. “Not hostile. Prisoner. I’m bringing them in.” 

“One of ours?” The voice came through. “And they just left them there? Christ.” 

“Keep sweeping for anything, I’m bringing them topside,” Rick said, then replaced the radio back in its holster, moving in closer to the bars that were separating the two of you. “Y/N?” 

You looked almost like a startled mole, with the big eyes, turned away from the light. It was far too bright after who knows how long of sitting in the darkness. The building had fallen yesterday - had you really been sitting here in the cold water by yourself for that long? His heart ached just thinking about it. You didn’t speak, but you opened your mouth, making the shapes that would have formed his name if anything came out.  

He shone the light back at himself, revealing his face to you. You were able to look again, since the light wasn’t directly in your eyes, and he was just able to make out something.  

Hope. 

“It’s me,” he said, softly, putting one hand against the bar. He slid it down, trying to find the lock, but found that it wasn’t there. Everything was automatic - but the power was down. He cursed under his breath and then looked back up at you. “Save your strength. I’m going to get you out of here.” 

He called in the radio for backup - preferably with a saw of some sort. One of his soldiers said that he was on the way, and he breathed out with relief, looking back at you. He kept the flashlight’s stream of light down on the water, lighting up the room just enough to be able to see each other without being blinding.  

“How long have you been in here?” He asked, his eyes not leaving yours. Something in you wasn’t able to speak, your throat too dry, too painful. But you held your shackled hands out, mimicking a large span of time. And then you made a sort of circle. “The whole time?” You nodded, and it felt like a stab in the heart. 

How could he have been so goddamn wrong? 

“Gonna getchu outta here, get you to a doctor,” He promised. “We’ll make it right, okay y/n?” 

You nodded at him again, which took his breath away. How were you still able to trust him? How were you still able to look at him after what he had done to you? Believing that you had betrayed him, betrayed the military. He should have been able to look you in the eyes and know the truth, that you could never do such a thing. 

He could hear the sound of footsteps. His soldier was coming along with the saw. He only had another couple of seconds with you, and he seized the opportunity. “I’m so sorry,” he said, quietly, his voice barely heard over the ripples of the water as his soldier came stomping on in. “You never should have been here.” 

You flinched away from the bars when you heard someone else coming closer. Another flashlight beam shining through the darkness and landing on your face. You weakly lifted a hand to shield your face this time around, timid but not as afraid.  

“Holy shit,” The soldier by his side paused, holding the electrical saw in both hands. “Is that y/n?” 

“Just get the fucking bars open,” Flagg gritted his teeth, taking a step back. 

The soldier hesitated for a moment. “But - what if it’s a trap?”  

A burst of anger, a close friend of the guilt that he was feeling, took over Rick when he heard that question. He bared his teeth towards his soldier in a way that he never had before. “Open the goddamn bars.” He ordered. His tone was aggressive enough that the soldier did it with no more questions asked, sawing through the bars, making an exit large enough for you to go through. Only once it was quiet, once the drill was turned off, did you venture out, your legs barely making a sound in the water. Gliding through slowly, weakly. That wasn’t going to last long - Rick took you in his arms, carrying you bridal style so you were barely touching the cold water. “We’ll get you to med, stat,” He promised you. And oh, the look you gave him shook him to his core again. 

It was still full of that damn hope. There was no blame. No anger. No hatred. 

He couldn’t look at you anymore. His green eyes only focused on what was in front, making good time to get you back up to the surface. He could barely even look at you as he brought you into the light, terrified to see what shape you were truly in. As soon as he was able, he called for a medic-copter, and it came quickly. Until then, he stared straight forward, heart beating fast, listening to your breathing. It was labored, despite the fact that you had barely moved yourself. It sounded as if you weren’t getting enough air. 

“You’re going to be alright,” he told you. “I promise.” 

The helicopter landed in one of the few empty spots that weren’t covered with debris from the quake, and he ran you onto it, setting you down on the stretcher that it was equipped with. And as soon as you were down, he stepped back. Out. Everything in him was screaming at him that he didn’t belong with you in that helicopter. That you wouldn’t want to see him because he had believed the worst of you, and made you suffer. As the aircraft started to take off, your head turned to look out the window and direct eye contact was made for a second, and he lost his breath again. You still looked at him with love. 

Rick Flagg didn’t come to see you until three days after you had been admitted into the military hospital. He had read through the reports that were made, your testimony of what had happened to you after you had been traded. It was the hardest read of his life, knowing that he had betrayed you, had helped to put you in that situation. The state of you hadn’t quite been enough to convince the higher-ups that you hadn’t been on the side of the enemy, but your testimony had been enough.  

You gave them nothing. Even through the tortures that they put upon you; you were relentless in keeping the secrets of the military inside. Through waterboarding, through sleep deprivation, even through drugs your willpower persisted. This was proven by the fact that you had known about some of the missions that were going to happen through your imprisonment, and the enemy never made a move on them.  

Fuck, he was both impressed by your stubbornness and guilty for ever believing you’d turn. He was sure this was going to be eating at him for the rest of his life. 

When he walked in, he was in his fatigues, back straight, trying to be as impersonal as possible. He didn’t know what to expect coming in and didn’t know how to brace himself other than to try to separate himself from it. He knew what he was hoping for - screaming, and yelling, maybe even you would attack him. That would validate his guilt. His self-hatred.  

But you brightened up when he entered the room. Your countenance changed from the moment before you had seen him, to something entirely different. You were able to sit up more, a smile growing on your face despite your trauma and exhaustion. It was like you were inhaling with excitement rather than exhaling with despair. 

You said his name. You hadn’t been able to speak when he found you, and your voice was still raspy, but it was his name, and it was your voice, and it wasn’t said in anger. His breath got caught in his throat, something that often happened around him, and it took a minute for him to remember to let it out.  

He said your name back and approached the hospital bed stiffly. You weren’t tied down but there were still the grooves on your wrists and ankles that showed that you had been. Protocol. 

“I was waiting for you to come,” you said, clearing your throat. Rick grabbed the paper cup with water that was by your bed and handed it to you, and you took a drink thankfully. You swallowed and then licked your lips, attempting to wet them a little. “I wasn’t sure if you would.” 

“Of course I was going to come,” Rick said, though the truth was he hadn’t really intended to. He’d gone back and forth on it so many times. But here he was, just like you had hoped that he would be. He had to bite on his lower lip to keep it from trembling as he saw you in this state. 

You had lost a lot of weight. According to what you had told the doctors; you hadn’t eaten in four days. That’s why you were so weak and found it so hard to stand. They only fed you every other day while you were captured and left nothing for you when they vacated the premises. You were bruised, black and blue, purple and green. Some of the cuts you had were infected, and were now covered in salves and bandages, and you had antibiotics flowing through your IV. The worst of it seemed to be centred upon your neck, where a collar had torn through your flesh multiple times when you moved your head to try and sleep. That’s how they kept you awake for so long. And the music -  

Even though you were in a better place now, your body was still holding onto the trauma and healing slowly.  

“They cleared me,” you said, quietly. “They understand now that I never, ever betrayed our military. Never betrayed you.” 

Rick stiffened, expecting that now would be the moment that you would start to yell at him. Asking the questions that he had been asking himself. How did the documents get into the perfect place at the perfect time for him to come across them? It had all been planted, and almost sloppily so, but still. He had fallen for it. So eager to point a finger, to blame someone for all of the problems that the department was having, and someone made sure they landed on you.  

“I shouldn’t have thought that,” He finally admitted. “I should have known better.” 

“All the evidence was pointing to me, I understand,” you said, softly. “You’ve always put your position first, so I don’t blame you for having to report me.” 

But he was hardly listening, truth be told. He kept going on. 

“- and I understand that you’re probably angry with me. I deserve it. I wasn’t thinking properly, I was a soldier first when I should have been a man first. Your man. I’m supposed to protect you!” 

“... Rick,” you said, clearing your throat, trying to get his attention, though he was staring right at you. 

“- and I helped to hand you over? I wasn’t physically there but I might as well have been. I couldn’t even face you then, I couldn’t watch you walk away. I was a coward. I am a coward.” 

“No, you’re -” But he cut you off again. Now you just looked at him with amusement. Sometimes he was like the Duracell Bunny, just going and going and going. He had to tire himself out. Nothing was going to stop him.  

“- if you never forgive me, I understand. If you never want to see me again - I understand. Nothing I do will ever be able to make it up to you and I know that. But I need you to know how sorry I am. I would do anything to take back what I did. Anything at all.” 

You waited for a moment to make sure that he was done speaking. He let out a deep breath, his eyes boring holes into yours. You had a small smirk on your face, and you asked, “Are you done?” 

“Not even close,” He admitted. You chuckled, which made his jaw tense. He wasn’t sure how to handle this. You were not at all acting in the way that he had thought that you would. 

“Then take a break, and let me have my turn,” you said, reaching out your arm for him. He tentatively stepped a little closer, and your fingers played against his hand, worming their way into his clenched fist to grab hold of it. “I forgive you.” 

He stared at you, blankly. He wasn’t sure what to say. No words were coming to either his brain, or his tongue. But something else was rising. Something that hardly ever did. A swelling sensation in his throat, a pressure behind his eyes.  

Rick Flagg was not a man who cried. If he got hurt, he grit his teeth and worked through it. If he lost a man, he held strong for the others in his team. He could feel sorrow, but he never let it affect him like that. But right now? He felt like a kid that lost their parents in a grocery store. He felt like a kid who had just been told that their pet had gone to heaven. He felt the weight of his entire world on his shoulders, and it was streaming out his eyes now. 

“Are you crying?” You asked, blinking in confusion. You had never seen him come close to doing that. It was a vulnerability he never allowed himself to feel, but right now, he couldn’t help it. 

He dropped onto his knees beside your hospital bed, his hand clenching onto yours, his other arm resting on the thin mattress you were laying on. “I don’t know,” He whispered. “I’m feeling so many things - I -” 

“It’s okay,” you said, softly, stroking the back of his hand. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.” 

“I’m so -” he said, struggling to come to terms with what he was feeling. And that Duracell Bunny was back, making him move on and on. “I’m so fucking mad at you.” 

“Really? Why?” You asked, curiously.  

“You’re being so calm! And so - nice!” He sputtered. “You’re supposed to be angry at me. You’re supposed to yell at me and hit me. But you’re - you’re actually comforting me.” 

“Well, I love you,” you said, continuing to stroke his hand. He was holding on so tight. It was close to the point of pain, but it wasn’t there yet. “I could never hurt you-” 

“Hurt me, the way I hurt you?” He laughed hollowly as the first tears escaped, rolling down his cheeks. “I deserve it, y/n. So please, hate me, hurt me, scream at me.”  

“I can’t-” you said, biting down on your lip. “I can’t hate you. I was mad at you for a long time, but I always knew in my heart that this was not your fault. It was theirs. The ones who framed me, who made this happen. None of that blame lies with you.” 

That hurt worse than a punch but wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it would have been to actually feel your fist against his face. “Please don’t forgive me-” He whispered. 

That’s when you seemed to realize something, and you held tighter onto his hand. “Rick - it’s never been my forgiveness that you needed. It’s your own. You need to forgive yourself.” 

“I can’t,” He breathed heavily. “I can’t do that. Not after seeing you like this.” 

“You have to,” you said, your voice no longer soft and loving, comforting. You were stern. You were back to the soldier that he had known you to be. “You want that weight off your shoulders, to be able to get back to work properly, to restart us? It’s the only way forward, Rick. You’re smart enough to know that.” 

He absolutely broke. His head leaned against the crisp white sheets, his cropped hair brushing against your ribs as he let it all out in that moment, crying in a way that you have never witnessed before. It felt like a good first step, this release of emotions in a man who usually kept them so bottled up. You stroked his hair and held his hand, taking in this moment for what it really was.