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[ Sam snorts. The carrots get another prod. ]

Do you know what Mitákuye Oyás'i means?

[ He knows the guy won't. It's Lakȟótiyapi. ]

[ Carver just stares at him. The almost angry silence is answer enough. He wonders if he's being mocked. ]

[ Well, he hasn't gotten shot yet. So: ]

It's translated a few ways. The one I tend to use is: 'All are related'.

[ He lifts the skewer off the fire, sets it aside to cool on a plastic dish he's been using as a plate. He rummages around in his duffel briefly, coming up with a small pan. He hasn't found decent oil to cook with, but he has dough, wrapped in wax paper, carefully unrolled. ]

You want to say following that creed is being a bleeding heart, that's fine by me.

[ Almost against his will, Carver finds himself committing the phrase to memory. It's not his heritage, has nothing to do with him, and yet -

And fucking yet.

He stares at Sam, anger bubbling up in his chest like a new wound. The bruises he got from being goddamn shot have healed but he remembers the mark. He remembers taking it like the punishment it was for his own goddamn stupidity. And here he is letting this moment play out, beat by beat, inch by inch, knowing he ought to end it. That he should've killed Sam back in the atrium or at least put a bullet in the back of his skull here, while he was still watching the fire. Packed up and moved on. Why didn't he? It was a sin.

It was a fucking sin and now Sam's pulling out a pan, of all things, and something Carver recognizes almost immediately as dough.

Something twists in his soul. It wants to die.

He wants to scream. He tightens his jaw instead, jerking his head to the side. ]

Get out. Get out!

[ This is a sin. The part of him that wants to step closer and see the dough, to make goddamn fry bread, is sinning against Pope and all the others. It needs to fucking die before it ruins him. ]

No. Shoot me or sit down.

[ Leaving, apparently, is off the table for now. Sam breaks the dough apart, rolling a piece into a ball between his hands as the pan warms. He's no stranger to the effects of PTSD. He lived like a drifter for almost five years after Al-Hajarah. He spent more time as a bird than a man. There were days he would've preferred to be a crow, because it meant he didn't have to think, to feel, to hear his friends dying, and taste phantom blood on tongue because one of the bullets hit him in the lung and every breath pulled lifesblood to his lips. But he got out. Piece by piece, bit by bit. It cost him his marriage, but he got out. Carver's still in it. Haunted, hunted, half-crazy, but Sam isn't going to write off a brother that easily. ]

[ That's the thing about threats. Eventually, you gotta commit or someone's going to call the bluff. And Sam is so goddamn calm about the whole thing it makes Carver even angrier to be balanced against it. Like there's a rational answer to the question of the moment. Some common ground to be dredged from the ashes of this place and whatever fucking broke it.

He wonders if the little boy is dead. He wonders why he cares.

What're you waiting for, son?

Carver shakes himself. Trying not to look to the corners because he can see boots there, black uniforms massing, and he can't get lost right now. He can't.

Nor can he waste a bullet on this nonsense.

He holsters the goddamn gun. But he draws a knife and he swears he feels the commander's hand on his shoulder, going tight as he advances. ]

[ He flattens out the dough. Drops it into the pan. Sees the knife, and only says: ]

All right.

[ He shifts a little on the chair he'd scrounged up, squares off so he's fully facing Carver on the approach. But he doesn't try to get up, doesn't reach for a weapon. Keeps his hands visible. ]

You wanna stab me, you come here and look me in the eye while you do it.

[ Rangers, by and large, aren't really all that much saner than anyone else at the end of the day. ]

[ Carver doesn't smile. Doesn't offer out a joke or a line, or anything at all except a vague regret that he left his mask stashed at the museum. He'd woken up with it hooked to his belt and known instinctively that it'd mark him as a freak by the others. No one worth trusting. He didn't need that nonsense and so he hid the mask and didn't bring it out scouting.

A mistake. He could've used it now. That distance. He shouldn't have talked to Sam, shouldn't have said any of that shit to him. They know things about each other now. They aren't strangers and they should've been. It's easier killing strangers.

He rolls his shoulders and just advances. And when he attacks, he doesn't swing wild. He fights sharp and controlled, every move calculated.

He goes for the throat. And then he goes to knee Sam in the goddamn balls because this isn't the time to play fair. ]

[ It's not like Carver hasn't had training. But so has Sam — and he has the benefit of being well-rested, decently fed, and a shifter. He's never done exact calculations on how much stronger or faster he is than others, but he knows there's a difference. Carver wields a knife like a surgeon, and Sam recognizes that he's not going to stop just by the way he moves.

You wanna know the best way to fight someone with a knife? his old instructor used to say. You fucking run. That was delivered with a sharp jab to the sternum, and Sam knew even then it was because, given his size, he tends to default to fight rather than flight. But he's not stupid, and he knows he's going to take damage — it's just a matter of choosing what gets hit.

Not his balls, thank you. He sees that coming, twists to the side in the chair so the knee glances off his thigh, standing up as he does it. The chair is knocked over backwards, and as for the knife? Well.

He grits his teeth for that one. And then, when Carver draws back to find a new angle, Sam follows him and puts his hand right against the tip of the blade, fully intending to take it through the palm all the way to the hilt if he has to. Can't disarm your opponent, the least you can do is control the blade. ]

[ Sam's acting too calm about this. At first, Carver defaults that Sam doesn't really think he'll do it. That the knife and the posturing is just a game. All for show. That Carver won't really go for him.

Then Sam twists away from the knee Carver throws at him and shit escalates. Carver breathes slow and steady, controlling himself. Sam's got a hand up against the blade like that's going to fucking matter and Carver realizes a second too late that Sam won't flinch.

Trap, he observes, almost from a distance, as the blade punches in. You feel for it, you moron. ]

[ He grunts as the blade slips between metacarpals with a sick, wet punch of sound. Hurts like a bitch, but not so much that he doesn't close his fingers — shakily — over Carver's, holding him there.

It takes him a few seconds of winded breathing, adrenaline-dulled pain spiking along every nerve, and the sudden burst of shock-sweat across his skin before he's regulated enough to speak again, and then: ]

You done?

[ He leans right into Carver's space as he says it. Forcing eye contact as a matter of course. Because he knows that Carver doesn't actually want him dead — he wants a fight, for the same reason that Sam used to pick them in bars all over Europe — because it feels good, it feels right and it's easier than facing whatever demons live in your head. ]

[ Okay, Carver thinks, and something inside his chest twists and aches. Okay. You wanna play it like this? Sam's leaning in close, forcing contact. They're almost touching. He can see the way that Sam's pupils contact with the pain and still the other man doesn't bow. Doesn't falter. Just watches him.

Carver twitches like a horse shaking a fly. He headbutts Sam because he can't think of anything better to do. It'll bloody both of them. They deserve to be blooded. ]

[ Carver headbutts him, and Sam feels the crunch of a broken nose even as he jerks back, not quite losing enough momentum to blunt the impact. That's the moment his anger surges up, and he just sees — fucking red. Discipline wars with fury, clear-minded enough to fall back on Hapkido — using the grip on the man's hand for a grapple, shoulder tucked down towards centre mass. The knife jars in his hand, but he's not feeling it any more beyond a dull, distant acknowledgement that it's going to be a nasty fucking wound. And then Sam's bracing his back foot against the ground, doing his best to flip Carver down onto the ground. ]

[ Stupid, Carver thinks, right before he feels Sam's hand going tight around his own. You stupid fucking moron, you let him get in close. He realizes what's going to happen with an almost clinical detachment right before it does. Gravity and leverage. Physics. Sam knows what he's doing and doesn't blink from pain. And Carver's slow, distracted, getting sentimental all over again.

He wonders if the dough was any good. If Sam made it himself. And then he goes down hard, unable to stop it.

He yells even as the breath gets knocked from his lungs and tries to twist, to get Sam off balance. Knock him down too so they'll scrap on the ground. Make it fucking ugly. ]

[ Except that submission holds are a whole thing in his style of choice — and Sam has no intention of staying on his feet, so when Carver tries to knock him off balance, Sam turns it into all the momentum he needs to drop down on him, one knee planted firmly in the middle of his chest, the other pinning his elbow — controlling the hand that doesn't have the knife.

He hauls his free hand back like he's about to punch this idiot right in the face, and instead he just strikes the ground beside his head, not hard enough to do anything more than bruise up his knuckles. ]

I'm not going to kill you. [ He says that flatly. Empirical truth. ] But I'm not above breaking your arms if you don't quit being a bitch before my adrenaline wears off.

[ Look what you did, the commander whispers. Look what you fucking did, son. You let him get you on the ground. You deserve what's gonna happen now.

You can't let the enemy get you on the ground. That's where the bad shit happens.

Carver yells, not caring about the noise. Ready to tank the blow that Sam's about to land on his face. Pulp his nose. He's ready for it, almost wants it. Anticipation sings with the adrenaline. Sam's on top of him, got the leverage, got the better angle. What happens next is just going to happen.

Except, Sam doesn't hit him. Just strikes the ground. Says what he says.

Carver makes a brittle noise. Almost but not quite laughter. ]

You fucking pussy.

[ Do it, he thinks, fucking do it. ]

[ Sam forces their entwined hands down to the ground so he can lean in close. His nose is dripping blood, he has to twitch his head to one side so he can rub his face down against his shoulder. It hurts, and he feels the cartilage grind. Then: ]

The fuck happened in Korangal that made you think killing someone, or getting killed, is better — easier — than sharing a meal?

[ Said meal, or at least the bread component, is starting to burn.]

You aren't the only person that's seen or done fucked up shit. Or are you just pissed that I made you face a part of yourself you're afraid of?

[ Are they still talking? Carver feels his breath hitch as Sam leans in close and that's as good as flinching, or maybe worse. They're too close like this, hands entwined - an intimacy. It makes him think of drowning and Pope's hands going tight on his shoulders. Steadying him for the test. A kindness, Carver knows, a kindness, because who else would hold him through that shit? Who else would care enough to bother? But Sam's bleeding and he won't let go, hasn't put the knife through Carver's eye or his throat and the anticipation of whatever's coming next makes him feel sick. Because it'll be bad, won't it, and Carver knows he'll have to take it.

You let the enemy get you on the ground, you deserve what's done to you. It's as natural as gravity. And what's the point of being scared of gravity?

Carver takes a rattling breath. Sam's saying things but the words almost drift; Carver can't really make sense of them. His gaze flicks to the shadows massing in the corner just beyond Sam's shoulder. Boots and black. Masks in the dark. The shine of the commander's glasses. Don't make a fuss now, son.

He stills. It's better not to thrash for this part. Makes it go faster. ]

[ He sees it happen. The splintered fracture into disassociation. And Sam knows, nothing he says is going to get through now. He pins Carver's arm — the one with the knife — with his other hand and pulls his right hand back until the knife comes free, glistening wetly along the blade. That hurts too, blunted only a little by adrenaline. His vision goes black at the edges in a surge of pain as he tucks the hand in against his chest and sucks a breath in through gritted teeth.

He has the presence of mind, at least, to take the knife and throw it to the other side of the room. The holstered gun. Then he gets up. He needs to tie the hand, because the blood loss is going to hit him like a truck now that the blade's not stoppering the flow — but first, instead, he steps sideways towards the fire and flips the flat bread over onto its other side with his good hand. The top is black and charred, and Sam just gives Carver a hard, disappointed stare. ]

You're eating this one.

[ The world tilts. It blurs a little. First around the edges. Then everywhere. That rotten fruit feeling pervades. And Carver thinks, okay. He's gonna mess me up.

It happens. He was due for a test, anyway. His gaze drifts to the corners but there's no one there this time, no brothers, not even a ghost to stand watch while he drowns. It takes him a moment to register that Sam's not on top of him anymore. That nothing is.

The pressure abates. The rotten fruit feeling doesn't.

Carver sits up slowly. The world tilts. His gun is gone. He thinks Sam said something, but the words got garbled. They probably don't matter. Carver just stares somewhat past Sam, unfocused. Wondering when the test will start. If maybe he's already failed. ]

[ Well, whatever. Let the guy disassociate. Sam digs through his bag, taking out some of the smaller packages — fruits, vegetables, a medkit, one of the spare radios. Everything but the medkit gets dumped directly into his lap, and Sam works the zipper open with one hand and his teeth so he can pull out a roll of clean strips of bandages and a bottle of something that more-or-less functions as alcohol.

He cracks the top off with his teeth and dumps half the contents out onto his hand. Asshole tax. The pain is — immense, enough to make him stomp a heel against the ground as he outwaits the worst of it, and once he's done that much he starts wrapping it up. It's messy and a little clumsy, but it'll work for now. God help him if Carver comes at him again, one of them will probably die in the encounter.

It would be easy to get up and leave. But Sam's a stubborn son-of-a-bitch, so he just. Stays where he is. Determined, jaw set.

When the bread's done, he fishes it out with two fingers, blood dried in the whorls of his fingerprints, and puts it on the plate next to the carrots.

The next chunk of dough is slapped directly into Carver's hands. Bloody or not — he's not precious about hygiene when it's his own blood. ]

Roll it out, put it in the pan.

[ There's a sound like rushing water in his ears. It goes in and out. Carver knows, distantly, that he ought to be doing something now. That he's supposed to take control of the situation. Figure out where the fuck his weapons got. Kill Sam, maybe. Anything but sitting on his ass, drifting.

It's hard to focus, is the thing.

Carver stares down at his hands. There's dough there, suddenly. ]

What?

[ He cradles it. Wondering when the test will start. ]

[ And Sam just cuffs him upside the head. Not hard. The way he would when Jefferson made a smart-ass remark about Pamela Anderson's titties or something. ]

Make yourself useful, asshole. Flat bread. Get rolling.

[ Carver doesn't flinch. Doesn't react much at all. It's just pressure. Shaw used to smack him sometimes when he was being stupid.

It's good. Gets you focused.

In theory, anyway.

He stares at the dough for a long moment. There's blood on it. Then he tilts his head slightly and takes his gloves off. He gets to rolling. He can't think of anything better to do.

Orders are easier, anyway. ]

[ Satisfied that, at least for now the storm has passed, Sam returns to rummaging around in the bag. A small jar is produced, and he has to brace it in the crook of his right arm to get enough of a grip on it to take the top off.

It's not quite wajapi, just like the bread isn't quite frybread. But it's close, and it smells sweet, and he sets it out with the plate and the cooled carrots. He doesn't talk. Doesn't try to. Just sits with the pain, trying to work it out of his head. There's a tipping point where it becomes meditative, like the tattoos he's had done with charcoal threaded beneath skin. He just has to find it, and exhale. ]

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