by Aiden Bates
Trent repeated "sardine smugglers" silently to himself a few times. "Did he get hit in the head at all?"
"No. By that point he was running on adrenaline and fumes." Chief shook his head and laughed again. "You should have seen him, Kelly. He was at our place at three o'clock in the morning, demanding we mount a rescue mission or that his sister help him steal a boat. One way or another he was getting you back.
"Turns out, the White Dawn goons he took out had intel about the place you'd been sent on their computers. The whole thing was a setup. Even the orders were spoofed." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Neither of us would have known to look for that. Mal showed us how, and we'll be more alert from now on. But anyway."
"You have to trust the chain of command, Chief. That's who we are." Trent squirmed, as best he was able with the pain in his gut. He loved Mal. He didn't love Mal turning the whole idea of chain of command on its head.
"It is who we are. And we'll continue to observe it. We're just not going to fall for any false links. That's all." Chief pursed his lips. "There's nothing wrong with being careful, I suppose. Anyway, Morna had to wake me up to deal with him, and then I had to go wake DeWitt up, and let's just say it wasn't pretty."
Trent winced. "How bad was it?"
"Well, DeWitt called his integrity into question and called him a terrorist. Mal, in the spirit of giving, told him that he didn't care what we thought of him, but if we didn't help with the rescue and one hair turned out to be out of place on your head, he was going to hunt down every member of our unit and skin us alive. And he was starting with the Lieutenant." He tugged at his neck. "It had something to do with him giving the damn fool order to begin with, I believe."
"Oh, dear." Trent covered his eyes with a hand stuck full of IVs. "I hope you all made up before you brought him back here?"
"Oh, I wasn't done. Then DeWitt decided to grab Mal by the arm when he tried to go looking for you himself. Mal broke his nose and knocked out a couple of teeth, I think. We all managed to get along well enough during the rescue op, but when I left Toulon he was sharpening a whole sleeve of knives."
Trent sucked in his cheeks. "Mal struck an officer?"
"He's not a sailor. He's not obligated to follow our rules about that kind of thing. As he pointed out. He can be quite a nasty little man when he puts his mind to it. To be honest, once I got my coffee into me, DeWitt said some things and he had it coming." He sat back in his chair by Trent's bedside.
"And now, I'm in Maryland." Trent frowned. "I never quite understood the purpose of Maryland."
"Those drugs really are making you loopy. The purpose of Maryland is Annapolis. Anyway. You're here because you, Iniguez, Robson, and Hopper needed high-end medical care. We made Mal a corpsman on the spot, which probably breaks a few laws, but in a pinch you do what you have to. He was able to hold you guys together with basically duct tape and a prayer, which was pretty impressive under the circumstance. The French emergency doctor in Toulon immediately took him under her wing. She said you and Iniguez might not have made it if not for him, and a less talented first responder would have made Robson lose his leg."
"But he's still in France." Trent's heart sank.
"He is still in France on a military installation. He's working with an allied country, building up a resumé, and getting professional references that an employer or immigration official can call." Chief tugged on his collar. "I might have had a word or two with Dr. Firmin. She might have an idea about what we're planning."
Trent relaxed a little bit. He couldn't do much to help Mal from his current position. "So what's wrong with the rest of the men? I know Robson's knee was broken. I was worried about Hopper. The tourniquet was a last resort, but you should have seen the blood." Memories had filtered back through the haze as Chief spoke, and he found he could see the injuries as they happened. "I figured it was better for him to lose his leg than to lose everything."
"It was a close call, but you did the best you could under the circumstances. It looks like he'll make a full recovery. Robson's in for a long road of PT, and it's going to take a while for the bone to heal, but he's young and healthy. There's no reason why he shouldn't recover."
Chief sighed. "Iniguez' kidney was affected. They were able to repair it surgically, but we're worried about how long it's taking him to come back online. He's in the bed on the other side of this curtain. Floyd told me it was you that packed the wound?"
Trent blushed and explained his thoughts about the injury. Chief nodded. "It was the right choice. Don't get me wrong. Mal made sure to let me know, and he didn't even know it was you that had done it. The thing is, it was awfully dirty out there, and the wound got infected. We're hoping the kidney comes back online after he finishes his course of antibiotics.
"Speaking of infections, your adventures in slice and dice caused you a pretty exciting infection too. You wound up with a lovely slash across your small intestine. Mal wasn't about to operate on your intestines in a field. Unfortunately, that caused some internal bleeding and a lot of leakage."
Trent did the math. "That's not the kind of injury I'm going to write home about, Chief."
Chief snorted. "Why the hell not? It's not like you got it falling over a glass table in a drunken stupor. You got it fighting a truly terrible group of human beings. You and the boys should have been turned to hamburger, with odds like that. You found a way to beat those odds. You came out on top, Trent. I did a little bit of mop up, but you guys did the hard stuff. I'm super proud of you."
Trent made a little smile. He'd left the love of his life behind in France, again. "So, Chief. Infection."
"Right." Chief must have mind reading abilities, because he just laughed and moved on. "You did get peritonitis, which can be fatal. That led to infection, which is also kind of terrible. It will scar, but I figure you don't much care."
"No." He sighed. "Not with Mal so far away."
Chief gripped his hand. "We're doing everything we can." He grinned. "Although DeWitt is petitioning that Customs search him for anything sharp first."
"Was he really that mad?" Trent couldn't believe it. Maybe it was the drugs putting him into a fog, but he couldn't bring himself to believe Mal punched someone in the face for him.
For one thing, wasn't that the alpha's job?
Whatever. Chief wouldn't make that kind of thing up, and when Lt. DeWitt called later on, he confirmed it. Trent cringed at the thought of what that would do to Mal's chances of making it to America, but he couldn't change what had already happened. And it was sweet, to be honest. Mal had been so vehement in his willingness to take on the whole US Navy for Trent!
Trent finished his course of antibiotics over the next couple of weeks. His doctors pronounced his infection cleared, and scans on his gut proved the cut to his small intestine had healed. He had lingering soreness, and he would have to be very moderate in his activity for the next six weeks until his next checkup, but he could go back to his condo to recover.
His doctor, Doctor Steed, didn't pull any punches about that. "Look, I'd love to keep you here and keep an eye on you. You SEALs are all too macho for your own good, and you have a stupid idea of what counts as 'moderate' activity. I send you home, and the next thing I know you're going to be climbing ladders, lifting weights, running, and then you'll be right back in here wondering why your small intestine has a giant hole in it again. Don't be that guy, Kelly."
"No, sir." Trent tried to pull himself up to his full height and failed miserably.
"When I tell you 'extremely moderate' activity, I mean you need to find some TV series to binge watch because your butt needs to not move from the couch more than it has to. You can heat up food for yourself. You can have groceries delivered. Light loads of laundry. Light enough that you're embarrassed to do them. No lifting anything heavier than ten pounds. Do you understand me, Petty Officer Kelly?"
Oh, God. No one addressed him by his full rank, ever. "Yes, sir. I understand."
"Good. Now, g
o live it. When I see you back here in six weeks, I want to see a scan with a perfect intestine, abdominal muscles that have no remaining tears, and no problems in that wound. On your way. And have a good holiday season."
Trent saluted and let a nurse wheel him out to the front door of the hospital. Chief met him there in his own car, a Grand Caravan with front heated seats.
Trent wasn't going to complain about those. Virginia Beach wasn't all that beach-like at this time of year.
They chatted absently as they drove the five hours to Virginia Beach. Trent could hardly sit still, although the pain in his gut made it a misery to move around. He didn't want to make things worse, but he couldn't shift his mind away from Mal all alone in France.
Chief seemed to understand. "I spoke to your boy," he said finally.
"You did?" Trent didn't care if he sounded too eager. He was that thirsty for news.
"He's doing okay. Told his daddy he was brushing up on his medical skills. So far, O'Donnell senior doesn't have the first clue about the baby yet, which is good." Chief bit his cheek. "The good thing about Mal working in the hospital? Other than the fact that he's getting a documentable identity and work experience?"
"What's that?"
"He's getting prenatal care." Chief sat up a little straighter. "He had an ultrasound. Everything looks fine so far. Your son seems to be developing normally."
Trent went numb. "I'm having a son?" He stared out the windshield. "A boy? Really?"
"I'm pretty sure Mal's the one having him, but yeah. You're going to be the fathers to a bouncing baby boy." Chief beamed. "He wanted to be the one to tell you, but he knew that wasn't going to happen for a while. So." Chief clapped him on the shoulder.
Trent felt like he was floating again, only this time it was the happiest feeling in the world.
Chapter Nineteen
Working at the hospital was a whole new world for Mal. In a lot of ways, it was terrible. He had a whole set of rules and regulations he had to follow, or else he and Dr. Firmin would be out of a job. He only mostly cared for his own sake, but he definitely didn't want to jam up a doctor who'd done so much for him. He was dealing with a lot of strangers, any one of whom could be a threat.
And he absolutely, positively, had to behave himself. He couldn't shoot a rude patient, and he couldn't strangle a doctor who got too handsy.
Much to his surprise, the benefits outweighed the downsides. He had a routine, and he found it soothed his mind and calmed his spirit more than anything had before. The rude patients and handsy doctors got to be easier to deal with when he knew he was going back to his hotel room at the end of the day. Dr. Firmin and the other nurses were great sources of camaraderie and laughter during long, hard days at work.
And Mal liked the job. He loved what he did from behind a screen, too, and he absolutely kept his hand in for the Wolves when his shift was over. But what he did in the ER was different. It was immediate. He was still out there saving lives. He just wasn't doing it with a gun in his hand.
His first day on the job, he gave CPR to a drowned refugee child. The little boy came back to life right under Mal's hands. He still had a long road to recovery ahead of him, and of course a long and traumatic road behind him, but for now he was safe. He had a chance, at least, to pull through.
He helped to deliver a baby for an omega who, like him, had been living in hiding and had received no prenatal care. The man didn't speak at all, but he delivered that baby with the help of Dr. Firmin and convinced the patient to accept the help of the blood transfusion afterward.
Most of their patients were military or military affiliated. Mal did stitches. He wrapped sprains and pulled the occasional bullet out of flesh. He helped with omega care. Refugees intercepted nearby in the sea were brought to Toulon for medical care, and Mal got to help them too.
And Mal got medical care, real medical care, for the first time in his life. Dr. Firmin checked him out, gave him an ultrasound and everything. Despite Trent's agonizing about Mal moving around during his pregnancy, Mal was as healthy as anyone could be and so was his baby. His little son with Trent.
A son. Mal was going to have a boy. The thought made him cry when it was just him and Dr. Firmin. "When it was just a little blob, it didn't feel all that real. Now it's a boy. And it feels real, it does. I feel like I'm going to be someone's dad. And I'm not ready. I'm not. I don't know how to be around babies, you know? I don't know how to take care of them. I don't even know how to hold them."
Dr. Fermin grinned. "Mal, I've seen you with small children in this department. I've seen you with newborn infants. I think you'll do fine. But if you're concerned, why not take a class? You have the time."
Mal froze. "Can I enroll under a false name?" Then he shook his head. "Who am I kidding? I won't be keeping this baby." He curled in on himself. "I heard from the Master Chief, and he says Trent is doing better, but let's face it. They're never going to get me to Virginia. The best I can hope for is to have them come and get the baby."
Dr. Fermin grabbed his hand. "Mal, they're doing everything they can. Why do you think they made this arrangement? They want to increase your desirability to America. This way, they can show that you're able to live a normal life. They can show you're capable of renouncing violence and that you can hold down a job." She winked, and then she took a deep breath. "And, if things don't go your way back in America, they want to give you a safety net here. They want to have you in the best possible situation, no matter how things fall out."
Mal should have been warmed by that, and part of him was. The rest of him just felt numb. He missed Trent. He hated not being there to help nurse him back to health. Sure, it was great to be able to help all of these strangers here in France, but Trent was the one he was supposed to be helping. For crying out loud, Mal had sewn his belly shut to hold his guts in place. That felt a little more personal than someone he'd never known.
Morna was still at the barracks house with the remaining SEALs. She stopped by Mal's hotel room when she could, maybe once a week. She'd basically turned herself into a SEAL, and Mal wasn't sure how to feel about it.
"You've gotten pretty tight with the Yanks," he pointed out one Sunday afternoon while they jogged on the beach.
She scoffed at him. "Yeah, says the man who's got a Yank's baby in his belly."
"Point." Mal could hardly deny it. "But if you've noticed that, you must have noticed that I'm pregnant and alone over here. Da's going to flip his lid when he finds out, and I'm not so stupid that I think I'm going to somehow pull this off without him knowing."
Morna grimaced, and she stopped running. "Mal, what are you going to do? He's cut me off just because the guy I loved turned out to be a traitor. You did the worst thing, in his eyes. You actually got pregnant."
Mal stretched a little and sat down on a nearby rock. She joined him. "I know," he told her. "I don't know what I'm going to do. I have no ideas. I've got some fantasies, sure, but his reach probably goes all the way to Australia. Right?"
"And beyond." She shuddered. "But Mal, it's Da. I can't think what you could do about this to make it better."
"Neither can I." He looked away. "Look, we both know I'm going to have to send the baby away. The SEALs will have to help with that, at least. They'll help get the baby to America. They wouldn't want an American citizen to be raised like we were."
Morna made a face. "I wouldn't want anyone to be raised the way we were. Don't get me wrong. I believe in what we are. I just think we should have had a choice, I guess."
Mal looked out over the Mediterranean. "I always believed it when Da told us about sacrifice. We sacrifice love and regular living so other people could have it. It's not exactly a sacrifice if we never had it to begin with, is it? It hasn't been all bad, I think. We've both seen more, and done more, than most people twice our age. I'm twenty-five and I can fly a helicopter, if not well. I can speak ten languages. I can kick ass in any fight, I can make a computer system do anything I want from a damn win
e bar if I choose, and I can save a life."
"You wouldn't have thought anything was wrong with it at all if you hadn't met Trent." Morna nudged him with her shoulder.
Mal chuckled. "That's not a hundred percent true. I knew the way we grew up was a bit off, but why fight it? I couldn't change it, and we do make the world better for a few people."
"But now you just want out." She stared across the water, just as he had.
"There's no out." He sighed.
"No." She rested her head on his shoulder. "For what it's worth, though, I've got your back."
He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "I'd never put you in that kind of danger."
Da did keep pestering him to get back out into the field. "You don't need more training, Malachi. Not in that medical stuff. It ain't like we've got a clinic. You need to be out in the field, fighting the fascists and terrorists and Nazis. You do know White Dawn wasn't wiped out when your boys did their raid, right? They're still out there. Took out a bunch of refugees in Romania last week."
