storybrooke; anne summers & fred harrison. WHO: Anne Summers (Buffy), Fred Harrison (Flash Thompson 616) WHEN: Late night WHERE: Fred's place WHAT: First time sleeping over at his place, and Anne has a PTSD nightmare. WARNINGS: PTSD flashbacks. Sorry guys.
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What people didn't understand about war was that sometimes the smoke wasn't from planes dropping shells on a city. Sometimes, it wasn't even smoke. It was debris kicked up from so much gunfire it made it hard to breathe. It was the constant bombardment of shells in the sand. It was dirt kicked up from a line of Humvee's that were about to get caught in a booby trap.
The explosion of the first vehicle in the line caught somewhere in her throat. Maybe her eardrum burst; she wasn't sure. She sure as shit couldn't hear the screaming or the barking of orders through her headset. It was fucking chaos. Body parts. Debris from the vehicle. Dust. Smoke. The scent of death.
Jesus Christ. It wasn't the first time she'd witnessed it, but you never really got used to it. Sure, you could become numb to it, and if you were in a combat zone for long enough, maybe a lot of those bodies were caused by your gun, but this was supposed to be a routine get in and get out. None of their intel had them going anywhere near potential traps.
That was the thing, wasn't it? A good army, they wouldn't let the enemy know what and where all of their cards were. They may not even have been aware of this op and just happened to get lucky and get the drop on them.
The second Humvee overturned, but didn't explode. That was the one that loosened Anne's voice. Angel was in that Humvee. Orders saw them pulling over to engage, especially after the takka takka of automatic weapons began pinging the outside of their vehicle. Orders were to neutralize the enemy, secure their comrades, bring them home. The op was a wash for now.
Their medic was in that first goddamn Humvee, so it fell to her to get to the second vehicle to get a sitrep on its status. Half the crew seemed to be knocked unconscious or suffering some sort of head trauma. Manageable, but not ideal. A few of them asked about soldiers in the first vehicle, where was Rogers, the medic, why'd they send a girl in to get them out. Nothing she hadn't heard before.
"Anne." There was a wet cough. It was Angel so it automatically meant maxi-wig. She crawled over an unconscious Matejowsky to fulling inspect his injuries. He'd been pinned in his seat by a piece of shrapnel so large she knew there was no way she could remove that and field dress it. They were going to have to wait for air support on that one.
He grabbed her hand as tight as he could, and Anne knew that he was losing blood too fast. Backup wasn't going to get here in time. Her nails dug into his hand. "Shh, hey. HEY." His eyes couldn't focus. "Look at me. Concentrate on my face, yeah?"
The hum of a tank could be heard in the distance. Theirs or ours?
"My brother." His hand reached weakly for his dog tags. He wanted her to get these to his brother, and that meant he was giving up. She couldn't show weakness out here. They'd say she was just another girl who was trying to play commando. They'd say she choked. So she finished pulling the tags off and told him that she was going to get the other guys out. If she couldn't save him, she could save the rest of them.
They'd taken their cue from her when she'd called for cover and dragged Matejowsky their way. Several more unconscious or wounded followed and when all but Angel were as safe as they were going to get, Anne went back to check on him. A quick pulse check —
BOOM!
There were rocket launchers. Where did they come from? They weren't here before. The other two vehicles were shredded. All those men she'd saved. Gone. Poof. Everything was fire, and Anne didn't remember this. This hadn't happened. This was not how it went. Was this was really happened? Was she alone with the body of her boyfriend? Was she taking cover in a hopeless situation? Another whiz from a rocket, the cadence growing louder and louder until —
"NO!"
Anne gave a start, sitting up as if she'd realized she was late for a morning spent in the rain on her hands and knees with a gun and a pack almost heavier than she was strapped to her back. It took a moment to adjust to her surroundings, to realize she wasn't in the Middle East anymore. She wasn't at home either. The confusion didn't ease until she realized: This was Fred's place.
Fred's eyes snapped open at the sudden shout. He blinked into the darkness for a moment before reaching out towards the bedside table. He switched on the lamp and squinted at the sudden light. He turned, propping himself up one elbow, to look at Annie, wide awake and disoriented, before taking stock of the rest of the room. The bedroom door was still shut and the window undisturbed.
"Anne," he called out, voice a bit loud but filled with concern. He didn't reach out to touch her, not just yet.
Sweat had a way of turning cold on your skin, and Anne felt the sting of it now as the light brought into sharp contrast that it was night and yes, this was Fred's place. And Fred was beside her. She heard him say her name, and she knew that she should reply to him, to let him know she heard him but it was stuck in her throat.
When her breathing had calmed and she understood that no one was shooting at them (which was surprisingly hard to remember in the moments immediately after one of these nightmares), she turned to look at him. "I didn't mean to wake you up. I just — " If anyone would understand, it would be Fred. He was probably saddled with nightmares too. Or something else that left him in a cold sweat. "— I'm sorry."
Fred waited, concerned, as Anne slowly got herself together. She was tense and staring blankly in a way he'd seen several times before but never on her. Whatever had woken her was probably less a nightmare and more memories.
Fred shook his head slightly, dismissing her apology. Anne didn't have anything to apologize for. He sat up and reached out to touch her shoulder. "It's okay. Don't worry about it," he replied, then paused. "Are you okay?"
It wasn't that she didn't want him to touch her, the hand at her shoulder was grounding. Something she needed at the moment. Closing her eyes wasn't an option. There was blood there, and nothing she could do to stop it. She wasn't okay, doubted she ever would be, but this one wasn't so bad. The fact that she'd woken up so quickly after the memories veered off into new territory was a good sign. Anne chalked it up to being in an unfamiliar place. Comfort and familiarity sometimes had a way to keeping her locked in the memories.
"Yeah, I'm good. I'm fine." She reached up to cover his hand with her own. It had the effect she'd been hoping for: bringing her screeching into the here and now. "Just — stuff. You know? Don't really talk about it. Not usually a reason to."
She looked at him over her shoulder, her fingers holding onto his tightly. "I probably should have warned you that it might happen." She hadn't been looking forward to that conversation. She wasn't even sure they were at that point in their relationship, and yet…
Here they were. Wide awake at— Fred glanced at the alarm clock— 2:49 in the morning and unlikely to get back to sleep anytime soon. Anne was still shaking off any lingering memories and he was too concerned to just drop off again.
It was an unexpected role reversal. When Fred had returned home, Anne had been the one he had ended up leaning on. She had been his foundation, stubbornly encouraging, regardless of all his frustration and anger. To see her unsettled was unusual and a little worrying.
He didn't need any of the details. Fred had his own memories to contend with. It was different places, different faces, but the story was the same. Every soldier who had seen combat had their own tales to tell... and, sometimes, a few that they never wanted speak about.
Fred squeezed Anne's shoulder gently. "Does it happen often?"
"It happens enough." It was stupid, having these flashbacks. She'd made it back in one piece — physically — and they'd managed to save everyone in the last three Humvees, except Angel who had taken that shrapnel from the first one's explosion. "We've all got our wounds. Some of them are just more obvious."
If they weren't obvious, people seemed to think they didn't exist. If you couldn't see it, how bad could it be? Anne wasn't any exception to that rule. That might have been the military talking. On your feet. If your feet were gone, then drag yourself along. Whatever you do, just keep moving. Crying is for sissies. As a woman in the Navy SEALs, she'd had to learn to swallow every ounce of emotion, lest the hazing begin.
Hell, it was tough enough just going through the same routines the guys went through. She earned a lot of respect over time, but there were always some assholes who just assumed she'd screwed her way to the SEALs or done "female" versions of the training.
Anne pulled his arm around her shoulder as she slid down into the bed beside him. His body was warm and feeling his heartbeat when she rested her head on his chest was easing her anxiety. She had a collection of calming animated gifs on her phone, but the rhythm and the company was good enough here. "I'm sorry I woke you up."
Fred relaxed slightly and pulled Anne closer to him. He let out a breath and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. The apartment was still, quiet. The bedside light was still on, casting gentle light around the room. The bedroom was simple, done up in whites and dark blues. There were a few decorations on the wall, pictures, a framed jersey, and an impressively large poster proudly displaying the Superman logo. It wasn't military simple but there was also no television or laptop within easy reach to break the silence.
Silence was the tricky. Sometimes it was comforting, like the world had paused, waiting until you were ready to join it again. Other times it was oppressive, leaving you alone with thoughts that threatened to envelop you, with nothing to distract you. Even though this wasn't how Anne wanted him to find out, Fred was relieved that she hadn't been alone.
"It's fine," he repeated. "Don't worry about it. I'm here for you. Just tell me how I can help."
If she wanted to talk, they could talk. They could go to the living room and watch horrible infomercials or even make their way to the kitchen for a cup of tea or glass of water. Or they could lie quietly until they drifted off again.
She didn't know. It had been a year and a half since then, and the flashbacks came less than they had in the immediate aftermath. She'd had another six months on her tour before she'd come home. Then it had taken her another six months to readjust to civilian life. It had taken that long just to buy furniture that she hadn't just pilfered from her old room at her mom's house. There'd been a few times she'd in the grocery store and heard pops and had to retreat from the store. Not any boom though. It had to be a certain cadence and a volume to trigger it.
Anne didn't want to get up. She was comfortable here, and getting up had its own set of problems. She let her fingers drift aimlessly at his shoulder and collarbone while she rested against him. "What's your favorite memory as a kid?"
"My favorite memory…" Fred repeated, "I have to think about that." He paused, but just for a moment. There were a lot of good memories and trying to pick out the best one was difficult. But that wasn't really the point. Not right now. Right now, it was about keeping Anne in the present, so she could think about something other than gunfire and hostiles.
"On the weekends," Fred started, "my dad always spent hours in the garage. He'd be fixing something around the house or trying to restore this old convertible. My Mom would send me out there with a sandwich or a drink and I'd just say out there for hours… watching my Dad work, helping him sometimes. I remember he always had jazz playing, said it got him in the right mood. My Mom always said it was so he couldn't hear her yelling from the house. She'd always stomp out when dinner was ready and chase us into the house.
"Man… I must have spent days out there…"
Anne felt herself smile, listening to him talk about his family. Every family had its idiosyncrasies, and it was always fun to find out which ones transcended families. Things like I will turn this car around and Are we there yet? Her dad hadn't lived with them in some time, and it was often hard to remember exactly what he was like before mom and him were constantly at each other's throats.
"Did he ever get the convertible fixed up?"
Fred chuckled. "For a few weeks," he explained, "then a part went bust on him and he was too annoyed to find a replacement. We checked a few junkyards but no luck. Every few months, he and Mom would get into it because she wanted the garage back. He'd swear he was still working on it but…" Fred shrugged. Some things just weren't meant to be. "He finally sold it to some guy off the internet."
He paused then, glancing at Anne again. She seemed to have calmed down a bit but if she still wanted to talk, that was fine. Tomorrow morning would just end up being an extra large coffee day.