Aug. 1st, 2010 09:07 pm
maratonista: (Default)
[personal profile] maratonista
I can't believe in a fandom like this, there has been no obligatory!hugging hypothermia fic! Maybe there has, and I have just missed it, if so, point me, point me!

Title: Bonding
Pairing: Gen
Rating: R
Summary: Roque doesn’t like him. Doesn’t think Jensen can pull his own weight. Even says, no holds barred, that Jensen is a stupid fucking kid who is going to get them all killed.
Disclaimer: Not mine, borrowed!
Warnings: Violence, strong language and the horrors of a Jensen POV.

In his three weeks as a Loser, Jensen has learned two things:

One: Roque is really fucking mean.

Two: Roque is really fucking heavy.

The first comes from being the butt of some pretty cruel jokes that pass themselves off as hazing rituals, but skirt the line of outright bullying.

The second he learns after hauling the douchebag out of a really cold fucking river.

They are in Wales, UK, running training ops with a bunch of hairy, fucked in the head British squaddies. SAS, SBS and Royal Marines, mostly. It’s a tight call as to which group are the most insane.

Brecon Beacons is as close to Hell as you can get. It is cold, it is wet, it is full of mosquitoes and flies the size of dogs and somewhere in the dense fog, you know there is a team of guys who are going to take an insane amount of pleasure in kicking the shit out of the yank.

Despite Roque, Jensen loves his new team.

He’s never had that before – never been allowed to work with a group of people for more than one op at a time.

He’s a high profile security risk. He knows too much, and more importantly, can get past the barriers to the stuff he doesn’t. They are scared of him, and what he can do, far more than they are of most of their Black Helicopter chess pieces. A rogue sniper might cause chaos in one place or another – a rogue hacker can take the country apart piece by piece.

So Jensen is used to watching his own back, and frankly, it is fucking exhausting.

Now he has a team, a CO – call me Clay, for fuck’s sake – who seems to understand him enough to like him, and not enough to be scared of what he can do, and two Sergeants who treat him like the little brother their never had and always wanted. Pooch actually likes spending time with him, and Cougar listens and nods and doesn’t zone out when Jensen tries to convince him to ditch the Microsoft. It’s not Cougar’s fault he’s a corporate whore – the guy can barely check his own email.

It’s just the SIC that causes him issues.

Roque doesn’t like him. Doesn’t think Jensen can pull his own weight. Even says, no holds barred, that Jensen is a stupid fucking kid who is going to get them all killed.

Which is a little fucking harsh, if you ask Jensen.

Both Pooch and Cougar say he should ignore anything and everything that Roque says when someone isn't trying to kill them.

Clay’s solution is to split them into groups and send Jensen and Roque out to ‘bond’.

The name of the game is Escape and Evade.

They have five days in which to avoid being found.

By day three, they make it into some tiny fucking village where they speak in elongated vowels and bouncing syllables. They have no money, no food, and are both really fucking grouchy.

Roque stands out like a thumb that had been stamped on repeatedly, so Jensen is the one who knocks over a store, bottles of sugary drinks under his arm, thick packs of carb filled flapjacks, and Kendal Mint Cake.

When a truck rolls through the village loaded with squaddies, they both slink back into the fog.

Roque is, for lack of a better word, an absolute cunt. Jensen doesn’t like using it, but really, his brain is too fried to dig around his vocabulary to substitute a less offensive word.

And offending is kind of the point.

Roque barks orders, and when he’d not ignoring Jensen completely, he’s picking away at him psychologically. It’s an exhausting process, and given the situation they are in, it’s all Jensen can do not to turn around and beat the asshole to death with his boot.

Roque acts like this is just a walk in the park – and keeps saying so. Jensen’s not tough enough, not strong enough, not fucking anything, really.

Jensen wants to tell Rogue that he could fuck his life beyond repair with just fifteen minutes and a cell phone with a half decent reception, but he guesses Roque would respect him more if he did go down the boot road.

He’s tempted as well. Just turn around and punch the fucker.

But he’s also not stupid. If he plans on hitting Roque, he needs to knock the guy out cold with the first blow, or he’s going to land himself in a world of hurt.

So he plots, and takes immense glee in planning all the ways he’s going to fuck with Roque’s service record when they get back to civilisation.

Accidents happened all the time on reccies like this one. Close to nightfall, and they are both still moving. Roque’s stopped bitching at Jensen, so he’s either really fucking exhausted, or Jensen’s proved himself by not pussying out.

They stick to the high ground and keep low. In the fog, they have the advantage of being able to move at a faster pace without being seen against the horizon, but the guys hunting them probably have NVGs, and they are a bitch to avoid.

When Jensen took his Basic, it was one of the first intakes that had been given ration packs before being dumped in the Keys of Florida. Two Green Berets had died of hypothermia, so precautions had been taken to equip recruits better.

At their level, they are expected to make do for themselves. They have clothes that date back to the War, no shoelaces – though they have both improvised – no waterproofed bivvies, and no mother fucking towels.

They take it in turns to sleep in what little shelter they can find, but never for more than an hour at a time.

And it has rained non-stop for four days.

They’d caught glimpses of the retrieval teams over the last few days. Always managed to stay one step ahead until now.

But they’ve come out of nowhere. Jensen wakes up to Roque’s hand on his shoulder and a short, sharp order to stay still.

They wait to see if the sound will pass.

It doesn’t.

So they run for it.

They are both fast, really fast, but they’re also fucking exhausted, running on fumes, and so cold Jensen can’t feel his toes any more.

Fast and quiet, steady and smooth. They run for it, heading into the valley where they might find a better form of cover than up there, exposed on the hills.

There is a river running through the center, so they follow it along until something snaps, and Roque goes down.

Jensen strips out of his jacket and jumps in after him.

Roque’s out cold, and the game is fucking over. Jensen calls out their position, but the team is now too far away, and they’re on their fucking own.

“Wonderful. Just great.”

The river runs fast, and icy cold. It’s a job hauling Roque to the banks, but even harder to drag him from the grip of the water. He’s got a gooseegg on the side of his head, and he’s shivering already.

“You know they will never take that this is an accident. They’ll think I killed you, which yeah, great for my bad-ass quota, but not so cool in forging strong ties with the team.” Jensen grumbles. He uses his jacket as a sling, and just about manages to haul Roque over his shoulder.

Therein comes the second thing he’s learned.

Roque weighs about the same as an elephant.

“Before you ask, no you are not my type, and I’d really rather hug a fucking donkey than you.”

Basic medical training. Get to safety, then stabilize the casualty.

He strips Roque out of his soaking clothes and wrings them out into the wet grass.

Fuck stealth, he’s making a fire. Which he does, and is fucking proud of himself given that everything is varying degrees of soaked, and they have no emergency equipment. The fucker smokes like a chimney, but Jensen doesn’t care.

After that, with Roque shivering under Jensen’s jacket, he keeps up a steady stream of commentary that is bound to piss the grumpy fucker even more.

It’s impossible to get dried out in this weather, and really fucking hard to navigate when you can barely see three feet in front of you.

Jensen stuffs Roque into as much clothing as he can afford to lose, uses the damp items to form an insulating barrier between them, and hauls his ungrateful carcass back over his shoulder.

“…and when we are done, Clay can rethink his selection criteria. I’m hanging out with Pooch from now on, or Cougar. But probably Pooch. You can have Cougar and he can kill you with the scary power of his mind. And that will serve you right for being a nasty fucking cunt. See, you made me use it again. Cunt. I hate you. I should really drop you in a puddle and go get fish and chips. Why do they call them chips, seriously? I don’t get that. Fries, man. They are actually fried! Crazy fucking Brits. I swear to God, I barely understood a word they were saying. Clay can buy us fish and chips for dinner because seriously, when I signed up to see the motherfucking world, no one said any-fucking-thing about Wales…”

Jensen has no clue if he is even going in the right direction.

“You know, you could help a guy out and wake the fuck up! Jesus, lazybones. This is not as easy as they make it look on HBO.”

Jensen might be a little delirious by this point.

“Fucking Clay. I am going back to my box. I didn’t get rained on in my box. People respected me in my box. I miss my box.”

Jensen fucking hated his box. He’s so far gone he can’t feel his fingers now.

“If I get frostbite and lose my fingers, I will make you eat them. See, I can be a creepy fucking serial killer too. You don’t have the monopoly on nasty. I can be nasty.”

Road. Glorious road. Jensen stumbles onto the beaten track and nearly falls to his knees. He’s not getting up again if he does.

“Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the Yellow Brick Road.”

His sister went through a Dorothy phase. Right down to the pigtails and Gingham.

The lights of the truck were like the gates of Heaven opening up to welcome them home.

Or the fires of Hell, whichever way you looked at it.

Strong hands pull Roque from his shoulders and drag them both inside.

Jensen still has no fucking clue what they are saying, but hey, at least he’s not shivering any more.

Not shivering is apparently not a good thing.

The headache of Doom hammers behind Jensen’s eyes. It’s apparent he’s in Hell.

Only there would he have to wake up to Roque’s ugly mug.

“Oh god, I want to be unconscious again.” Jensen moans. Beside him, he hears a snort that is unmistakably Cougar’s.

“I’m sure something can be arranged. Jesus, kid. What happened to ‘this is just a training exerise’?” Clay is in the doorway of what looks to be a fairly sorry looking hospital room.

But hey, it is warm and dry, so it’s golden as far as Jensen is concerned.

“We couldn’t let our good name down.” Pooch pipes up in Jensen’s defence. He likes Pooch the best.

“No, instead we just made them waste hours of manpower and expenses.” Clay doesn’t sound all that mad, despite the words he is saying. He sounds fucking amused.

“That’s a victory, right?” Jensen asks. “I mean, they totally wouldn’t have found us if I hadn’t thrown myself under their truck, they should be sending flowers and grapes.”

Cougar snorts again, and Jensen reluctantly looks over at Roque as Clay stalks from the room before they can see him laugh.

“You ever considered a diet, dude? Because I gotta tell you…”

Breaking the ice with Roque probably requires a whole shit tonne of explosives and maybe a giant pickaxe. Or both. Jensen could totally get behind both. Beat the sorry shit out of the ice, then blow it to Hell just to prove his point.

Which is… he can’t remember, but he thinks he probably had a point at some time or other.

“Shut the fuck up.” Roque growls. He gets up, stalks out, then returns an hour later with a greasy newspaper package.

“Oh yay!” Jensen cheers. Then, “Wait, you were fucking awake for that?! You son of a BITCH!” Pooch holds him down in the bed. “You weight a motherfucking tonne, and I couldn’t feel my fingers and I might have lost toes and you were fucking awake? Oh fuck you! Seriously. No, you think you can bribe me with food, which I’ll admit is usually a good call, but this is not even a little bit cool, asshole!”

And Roque?

Actually takes a step back.

It could be the fried and battered fish Jensen is waving at him like a sword, or just the fact that Pooch is actually having trouble keeping Jensen in the bed.

But Roque actually smiles and rolls his eyes and tells him to shut the fuck up and eat before it gets cold.

So Jensen does, refusing to share even a single fry/chip/whateverthefuck and growling when even the slightest attempt is made.

Jensen pouts when he’s not growling, and Roque eventually gives in. “No, okay, I wasn’t fucking awake. You talk when you are unconscious, which shouldn’t come as a fucking surprise.” He snorts and Jensen is distracted long enough for Cougar – stealthy little fuck that he is – to steal from his newspaper tray.

“So you got this to what? Be nice? I’m still unconscious, aren’t I?” He looked at Pooch, who shrugged. “Oh fuck I am. Jesus, I hate it when I do this. It’s really fucking confusing when you have whole conversations in your head than have to remember what no to remember when you wake up.”

“You’re not unconscious, but if you don’t shut up, I’ll drug you to the fucking gills.” Now that’s the Roque Jensen knows and is terrified of.

“That’s a yes, he does like you.” Cougar leans in and whispers, the slightest of innocent smiles on his face, hidden in the shadow of his hat.

Roque won’t kill Cougar.

Pooch just sits and laughs his ass off.

Jesus fucking Christ.

This has to be the first time Jensen is actually the most sane person in the room.

And that? Is a seriously scary thought.

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