Work Text:
Usually, going back to the barracks after training was a thing that Mark looked forward to. It meant no more sparring with recruits who had no clue how to even throw a punch, no more running laps or doing push-ups every time you fuck something up, no more shot training that makes your wrists ache from recoil.
But today, Mark would rather keep teaching the dumbass recruits how to reload a pistol than go back to his room. At least training keeps his mind off the fact that he's slipping, losing his grip on reality and himself and time all together. And he hates everything about that. He knows what's happening, the psychiatrist he has to see on a monthly basis told him "it's okay and he should let it happen because it's just his brain coping."
Fuck that.
He's twenty eight years old, not seven, crying on the floor of the dirty kitchen because mommy was mean to him. He survived a year in Afghanistan, he can manage being yelled at by the higher ups for fucking shit up in training again. Without ending the night curled up in bed, hiding under the blankets and trying not to cry.
But as soon as he closes the door to his barracks he knows that's how tonight ends. He's already slipping into that state, the state that makes his head fuzzy and his body feel wrong in so, so many different ways. He can never stop sliding once he starts. He will always, always lose that fight, no matter what he does. Even if he takes double his dose of sleeping pills and passes out, he'll just wake up the next morning already slipping and with an added bonus of a nauseating migraine.
He tries to busy himself with dumb shit like organizing his desk even though it was already perfectly organized and dumping out his meds and counting each pill and putting them back into their little orange bottles - so he knows how many days he has left before he has to call the pharmacy for a refill, is what he tells himself.
After refolding and sorting all the clothes in his dresser by colour, shining his boots to absolute perfection, and perfectly ordering all the medication bottles on his nightstand by size, he realises that none of this has helped in the slightest. He's just pushing it back by another thirty minutes, like he always does, until something happens that makes him lose his grip entirely and either have an explosive breakdown or lay in bed and stare at a wall all night.
So either scream and cry and hurt himself or dissociate hard enough that he goes temporarily brain dead. Wonderful choices, really.
Now this is why you should just die.
"Shut the fuck up." it comes out louder than he meant it to, but everyone should be at the dining hall anyway. He'd have to scream if he wanted them to hear him.
If I shut up, you'll lose yourself. I keep you in line, I keep you alive.
"No, no, shut up. I can handle myself, I don't need you." he's talking to himself now. Like a crazy person.
You will be a crazy person if I leave.
"You're what makes me crazy."
Don't argue with me on this. You know I'm right. Everything would be better if you just died.
"Fuck off. Just fuck off." he sits on the edge of his bed as he feels himself slipping more and more, putting his face in his hands and tugging at his hair. He pulls hard enough that strands come out and stick to his sweaty fingers.
He loses track of time, trying to block out that goddamn voice without giving into its will. The only way to make it go quiet is to grab a pistol from the gear room and put it through his temple.
"Lieutenant?"
Fuck.
His head snaps up, blurry vision zeroing in on the figure of his colonel in the doorway, holding a plate of food in his hands. He immediately goes to hide, put his face in his hands and just hide from him. He can't do this, if the higher ups know about the state he slips into or the voice in his head, he's fired and he'll end up on the streets again. He'll lose everything.
"You didn't show up to dinner, so I thought I'd…" Hunter's voice fades off as his eyes flicker over Mark. His gaze makes him want to shrink into himself. "Mark?"
Mark. Not Lieutenant, not Stone, not Lossfield, not even Markus. Mark.
And somehow, that just makes things worse. He's slipping more and more, if one more thing happens he's going to lose his grip completely. The soft, gentle tone of voice Hunter's using is making him feel small.
Hunter sets the plate of food on his desk, closing the door behind him and coming over to sit next to him on the bed. "I noticed you seemed off during training."
Mark doesn't reply. He can't, despite everything he does, Hunter always makes him feel oddly safe. Hunter treats him like he matters. He visits him in the hospital when a mission goes to shit, he makes sure he takes his meds on time, he pays attention when something's bothering him.
"What's going on in your head right now?" he asks quietly. He doesn't make a move to touch him, like anyone else would. Mark likes that.
"A lot." he manages to mumble, hating how small his voice sounds.
Hunter hums. He can feel his eyes on him. "You're safe, you know. No one's going to hurt you here. Especially not me."
Mark swallows hard, glancing down at his lap. He's slipping more and more and more, he can't do this, he can't do this, he can't-
"I'm here, Mark. It's okay."
There it goes.
The fuzziness in his head doubles, settling over him like a blanket. except a blanket would be pleasant, while this makes him want to tear his skin off his body because none of this makes any sense. Despite everything the psychiatrist told him about this being a natural trauma response, he doesn't get it at all. Why does his brain react to trauma that happened twelve years ago with shoving him into a "regressed" state or whatever the fuck the psych doctors call it.
Hunter seems to notice the shift. He couldn't know what's happening, could he? Did the psychiatrist tell him? Is it on his file now? Does he know, holy shit, he knows he knows heknowsheknows-
"Can I touch you?" Hunter asks, hesitating with his hand a few inches away from Mark's body. "It's okay if not, it's up to you. I won't be mad."
He shakes his head. Being touched right now makes him want to shudder.
Hunter pulls his hand away. "Alright." he pulls his phone from his pocket. "You like music, right? I've heard you listening to Korn and stuff, you want that or something quieter?"
"Quieter please…"
He nods, finding some indie rock band and putting it on a low volume. He doesn't speak, doesn't even look at him. Just exists next to him, there if he needed him.
And Mark does need him. So, so bad. He needs him to stay beside him, stay with him and never ever leave. It's selfish, yes, but he can't help it. He's a selfish man, and Hunter's a kind, generous person. He doesn't deserve to even breathe the same air as him.
Hunter does eventually speak. "You look tired."
Mark is tired. He always is. And he has been for a while. No amount of sleep seems to fix it.
"You should rest." at the small pointed look Mark gives him, he adds, "You don't have to sleep, just lay down at least. I'll even lay down with you."
Mark sighs, slipping his boots off before he finds his usual spot on the mattress. Hunter gets up from the bed, and he can't help but sit up a bit, his heart dropping a bit.
"It's okay, I'm not leaving." Hunter assures him immediately, in such a gentle voice that makes Mark both want to hide under the blankets and scream at him. "Just turning the lights off."
Before he settles beside him, he flicks on the lamp beside the bed. The low, warm light is comforting, and Hunter seems to know that, almost like he knew that Mark didn't want the complete darkness.
The quiet is nice. Music plays softly from Hunter's phone, which is placed on the nightstand. Mark doesn't know what song it is, but he doesn't mind that fact. It's really just background sound.
When he wakes up the next morning, he finds Hunter still beside him.
Over the next month, things like this continue to happen. Hunter notices Mark slipping, and finds him in his room after work's done. They sit together on his bed and listen to music, though music slowly turns into watching shows on Hunter's laptop.
Hunter seems to know what's going on, though he doesn't say anything. He can't not know, with how he always talks to him in a gentle voice and picks shows that his son used to like before he got older and they grew apart and how he doesn't bother Mark about chewing on the drawstrings of his hoodies and doesn't force him to talk when he doesn't want to.
And Mark fucking likes it. He likes him.
That's the part he always gets caught up on in the morning, once he's back in his usual headspace. Why is Hunter doing this? And why is Mark letting him? This is the sorta shit he could get fired for, if the higher ups knew. They already gave him a warning that if any of this "nonsense" gets worse they'll have to discharge him. If he got high again, or if they find out he's cutting again or purging again or starving again. He's out.
And Hunter, a higher up, is just helping him. Just lays next to him and whispers reassurances and shows him kids TV series that he thinks he'd like. He even calls him "little guy" and "sweetie" and "kiddo", so there's absolutely no chance that he doesn't know what's happening.
This continues on for about a month and a half. Until it's announced that Hunter's going on a two week solo mission.
It feels like Mark's heart drops into his stomach. It's not the fact that he'll be gone (it is, though), but a solo mission? Recipe for fucking disaster there. The chance of getting killed in a regular mission is high, but going solo adds another thirty percent chance on top of that.
The higher ups say it's a stealth mission, and that's Hunter's goddamn talent. But that doesn't mean they should send him out alone. There's several other members of the team who are fine at stealth. At least give him a partner.
But no, they've decided it's Hunter's job and Hunter's alone. It sounds simple enough to anyone who's not military, getting into an enemy base, mapping an area, getting out, in, map, out, ect. until you've got enough of the place mapped out to be able to get in, grab some illegal explosives the other team's got, and get out without being noticed.
But fuck, it's obviously not that easy. It's no where close. If Hunter does get noticed, it's one against thirty. Hunter's strong and capable, but thirty is too much for anyone to handle.
Mark's never been more stressed in his life. Not even when he was in Afghanistan or Gaza, not even when he was on the streets, trying to simultaneously keep himself and his sister alive.
Directly after training ends, he shuts himself in his room. His boots are too tight, so he kicks them off, not bothering to line them up by the door. His uniform is too rough, so he pulls his top and undershirt off, then his pants, tossing them onto the unmade bed. His hair's too long, brushing against the nape of his neck, so he grabs a pair of scissors from his desk and chops off the back. His ribs are like a cage against his lungs, refusing to let him breathe, and the voice comes back.
Take the scissors to your sternum and fix your ribs.
Mark knows by "fix" it means flay yourself. It wouldn't work, no, the scissors are too dull and old. He doesn't have anything to break his ribs with either, unless he wanted to go outside and find a rock.
Fuck, he's really living up to the nickname "Stone", isn't he.
Instead, he just collapses into bed and pulls the covers over his head. Squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breathe, putting his hands over his ears. Go away. Go away, go away, goawaygoaway, GO AWAY.
Nothing he does seems to work. He knows one thing that will work, though. Something he's done many, many times. He reaches out and grabs the biggest bottle off his nightstand. Sitting up, he dumps a small handful of meds into his hand. Eleven pills. Definitely more than enough. Maybe enough to end this permenantly.
He ignores the small, microscopic voice in the back of head saying don't, don't do it. You know it's not a good idea. and dumps the pills into his mouth, swallowing it with the week old water on his nightstand.
Then, he lays back down, waiting for that familiar drowsiness to come over him.
Mark's not sure why he chose to do that the day before Hunter comes back. He woke up fine (as in not dying), though a migraine forced him to miss training.
But the second Hunter makes eye contact from across the mess hall at dinner, Mark can tell he knows that something's not right. Maybe it's the fact his hair is shorter and looks about ten times worse than usual, or the fact that he looks like absolute death, or the fact he's not eating and just pushing his food around on his plate. Could really been any of those things.
Hunter finds him in his room after dinner.
"Something's wrong." he says, closing the door behind him . "And you're gonna tell me what it is."
Mark glances at him, taking in his crossed arms and cocked hip. "…You stand like a slut."
"Language. Tell me what's wrong." he repeats, eyes narrowing.
Mark raises an eyebrow. "Nothing's wrong."
"Markus…" Hunter sighs, closing his eyes momentarily. He finds his usual spot beside him on the bed, sliding a bookmark between the pages of the book in Mark's hands, and closes it. "I know you're not okay. Captain said you missed training, which isn't like you. Please, tell me what's wrong. I can't help if you don't tell me."
The way he's talking to him makes anger flare up in Mark's chest. He's not a child (at least not at the moment), and he refuses to be talked to like he was. "I didn't ask for your help."
"Lieutenant." Hunter's voice is firm, but it doesn't stop anything.
"You can't just come in here and decide that I need help. I don't need help, I'm fine. I always have been fine. I didn't ask you for help, so just fuck off and leave me alone."
"You didn't have to ask." Hunter raises his voice a bit, and as if he wasn't just doing the same, Mark immediately shuts up. "I came in here, and you were on the verge of tears, had torn some of your own hair out, and had practically shut down. What about that says that you're okay? Nothing, that's what."
His tone softens, and Mark hates it even more. "I know things have been hard for you in the past, beyond hard. I know that you're used to dealing with everything by yourself. But I want you to know you don't have to keep doing that. No one here wants to hurt you."
Mark looks away. He can't handle those gentle brown eyes. They make his own go blurry. "I know."
"I don't think you do." the weight of Hunter's hand settles on his knee. He flinches, but doesn't push him away. "Mark, buddy, let me help you."
There's silence. Mark can feel his eyes on him, and it feels like he can see every corner of him. Every disgusting, rotten corner.
"…Okay." he agrees reluctantly, still avoiding his gaze.
"Thank you." he doesn't take his hand off his knee. Mark's not sure if he wants him to. "Do you want to watch a show or something? Anything you want."
Mark glances at him, only to look away again. He feels small, and not in the regressed way. "Can we watch that frog one again?"
"Amphibia? Sure, I'll get my laptop."
Two minutes later, they're laying in his bed, the laptop between them, as Anne and Sprig venture off to do some dumb bullshit again. Mark's half paying attention to it, though his mind is wandering off to the fact that Hunter's less than a foot away from him and he can feel the warmth radiating off of him and the familiar desperate need for touch is creeping into his every thought.
"You okay?" Hunter's voice snaps him out of his haze.
He blinks. "Yeah. Just tired, is all." he can feel Hunter's eyes on him.
"… Can I try something?"
He looks over at him. "Sure, I guess."
Hunter puts his arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer until their chests are almost touching. "Is this okay?"
Strangely, Mark's usual immediate reaction to touch doesn't come up. He doesn't want to shove him away, his lungs don't feel like they're collapsing in on themselves, his skin isn't crawling. Instead, he feels safe, and it almost feels easier to breathe.
He just nods slightly.