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If there's one thing that Anne will never get used to, it's (oddly enough) the constant moving. She understands it, of course- Skitters aren’t stationary creatures, so to have any chance of evading them, all bases must be temporary- but trudging along a road in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of medical supplies is hardly ideal.
Up ahead, Tom sends a glance her way, as if reading her mind. He flashes her a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, then turns forward and adjusts his rifle where it rests on his shoulder.
He's holding up fantastically, considering.
They weren't supposed to be moving for another week or so, but the Skitters found them, descending on the camp like some sort of biblical plague, and it had been a close call getting everyone out unharmed. Well, almost unharmed. A few civilians and fighters sustained injuries during the attack, and Anne is sure she saw Tom on the receiving end of a Skitter claw at one point, but everyone is alive, and that's really all that matters.
“Alright!” Weaver calls out as the sun reaches its peak. “We’ll cut into this forest here, take a load off for a while!”
The whole of the 2nd Mass seems to sigh in relief, Anne included- except Tom. Usually one to advocate for the civilians' wellbeing, he wheels round and quickly approaches Weaver, brow knitted, impatient.
“We're stopping?”
“For a while, yes. There's no way everyone can carry on all the way to Brookline without some time to sit down and eat.”
Tom sighs, gesturing to the treeline around them. “And what if the Skitters track us here like they did before? We'll be sitting ducks out in the open.”
Weaver frowns just as Anne does. “Tom, it's a necessary evil. We'll set up some fighters round the perimeter, keep an eye on things- it's all we can do.”
“It's not enough. We should be moving.”
With a shake of his head, the group’s second-in-command drags himself away. He looks the most in need of a quick break, his gait a little uneven, sweat shining on his forehead, but evidently he doesn't share this opinion.
Anne wanders over to Weaver and briefly sets down the crates of supplies she's carrying. The two of them watch Tom disappear into the brush.
“What the hell was that all about?”
Weaver sighs. “Stubborn son of a bitch sometimes, ain't he?”
He turns to the rest of the convoy, most of whom are milling around waiting to hear which of their leaders they ought to listen to, and whistles for attention.
“Into the forest! We're taking a break!”
Tom refuses to sit down. Anne notices it because her eyes always seem to track him, even when she's not doing so intentionally, but his constant moving would be distracting for anybody.
And even when he isn't moving, he doesn't allow himself to rest properly. The closest he gets to parking his ass on a seat is leaning against a tree trunk- it's like he's afraid to sit. It's… concerning, to say the least.
Unfortunately, she's too busy dealing with the walking wounded from the Skitter attack to spare him too much attention. There are cuts to be bandaged, terrified little kids to be soothed, and all manner of minor injuries that require a once-over from her. Lourdes is there to help, of course, but she's still stretched too thin.
By the time the last of the victims have been tended to, Weaver is rounding everybody up and getting them ready to set off again, and all Anne knows about Tom is that he's a) pale and b) looking glad to get going. The former she attributes to tiredness, or perhaps low blood sugar (he's certainly been giving all his rations to his sons), and his antsiness can only be because of the danger they're all in. Right? He's just trying to protect everybody, and to do so they have to keep moving. That's all.
So they get back onto the road again, a long convoy of cold, hungry civilians. Weaver tells them they have a couple hours of walking left to go, and then- Brookline. It won't be heaven, but at least they might find food and shelter out there.
An hour into the walk, she feels a tug on her shirt sleeve, and looks down to find Matt walking alongside her. He meets her eyes. For a moment he looks so much like Tom that her chest constricts.
“Hey, Matt.” She greets, careful not to slip into condescension. “You okay?”
He nods. He's holding a mini football in his hands, tossing it back and forth, and Anne recalls that Tom picked it up in one of the last towns they were occupying, a fitting gift for his youngest. Evidently, it was (and still is) much appreciated.
“Do you think Dad, Hal, and Ben will play with me when we get to Brookline?”
Anne offers him a smile. “I'm sure they will.”
“I’m tired of trying to play by myself. I always win. It's not fun.”
“And do you think you'll lose when you're playing with them?”
Now it's Matt's turn to crack a small smile. “I usually lose to Hal. Sometimes I beat Ben. I always beat Dad. I think he might do it on purpose.”
That seems likely. Tom loves his sons endlessly, and will endure any level of embarrassment just to make them laugh. In the early days of the invasion, back when this new group of survivors had only just met, Anne recalls Matt running up to his father, lit up with joy. In his hands was an old makeup set- a kids’ toy, probably, complete with a gross old lip gloss, clumped eyeshadow, and blush- and when it had been shoved into his grasp instead, Tom pried it open and let his youngest paint his face like a rodeo clown.
It was adorable. It was perhaps the first time Anne fell in love with him.
And somehow, it was only a matter of months ago.
She glances up ahead, eyes falling upon Tom near the front of the pack, trudging onwards as before. The smile slowly fades from her face.
He's… he's swaying.
Nobody else seems to notice, either focused on the road ahead or each other, but Anne has seen it now, and she can't unsee it. He teeters, pulls himself up straight again. Stumbles, regains his footing. Drags himself forward, step after step, inch after inch, until-
His hand leaps out to steady himself on a nearby tree trunk that doesn't exist, and he comes crashing to the ground like a felled fir. Several people around him scatter back a few paces. Someone shouts. Weaver turns, eyes wide and already searching for Anne, already calling her name as she pushes through the crowd to get to Tom.
When she reaches him, dropping to her knees and rolling him over, he's a complete dead weight. His eyes are closed, jaw slightly slack. And his face… his face is far paler than it should be beneath the smears of grime that have accumulated on this expedition.
“Tom?” She calls, tapping him a couple of times on the cheek. His head lolls without resistance. “Tom, wake up. Open your eyes.”
She feels certain she can see the rising and falling of his chest, but his total lack of responsiveness is concerning enough that she dips her ear towards his lips and settles her fingers against his carotid. The former is met with a reassuring, rhythmic breeze; the latter a steady, if rapid thumping. His skin is too clammy, though, and she knows something isn't quite right.
It can't be, because Tom just passed out, and there's no world in which that’s anywhere near ‘right’.
“What's wrong with him?” Weaver asks insistently.
Anne shakes her head, conducting a frantic survey. “I- I don't know.” She retrieves a flashlight from her pocket and lifts one of his eyelids, flicking the beam back and forth over his field of view. The pupil constricts slower than it ought to. She tries the other- even, but slow as well.
It doesn't make sense.
The only thing she can think is that there's something she's missing, and as she continues her survey she lands upon it. Or, rather, her hands do.
One moment, she's retrieving her stethoscope with one hand and placing the other on his stomach, the next she's pulling this latter hand away sticky with blood. She looks down. He's bleeding- heavily bleeding- from his abdomen, and the loss is so extensive that it's now seeping through the fabric of his jacket.
“He's wounded.” She breathes, tearing open his jacket as she feels everybody around suddenly tense.
Hal’s voice calls from somewhere distant. He was at the back of the convoy with a couple of the other fighters, and it's clear that he's only just learning of his father's collapse.
“Dad! Dad!”
Anne tries her best to ignore it, as much as it hurts her to do so. For now, she has to focus on Tom, which means getting rid of the layers in the way of the wound and finding out what she's dealing with.
“Oh God. Oh God, what happened? Dad? Anne, what happened?”
“Stay back, son. Let Dr Glass work.”
She pulls up his shirt and the breath is stolen from her lungs. There are three long, jagged slashes across his stomach- claw marks, no mistaking them. When the tips of her fingers brush against the burning skin beside the wound, Tom flinches and looses a weak grunt of pain, tossing his head to the side. She withdraws as though the agony is her own and tentatively touches his shoulder instead.
“Alright. Okay, Tom, it's- you’re alright.”
Weaver hisses through his teeth. “How recent is it?”
Anne sighs. “It wasn't long ago. Probably-”
“This morning? When the Skitters attacked?”
“... Yes.”
Another hiss from Weaver, this time more of frustration. Still, he lowers the back of his hand against Tom's forehead.
“Damn it, Tom. Why the hell didn't you say something?”
It's a rhetorical question, both because Tom is far too out of it to respond, and also because the answer is clear. Tom is selfless. When the skitter attacked him this morning, claws tearing through his flesh like tissue paper, he probably knew at once that it wasn't good. At the same time, though, he'd known that calling attention to his own infirmity would mean taking Anne’s time away from the other walking wounded, not to mention potentially delaying their escape altogether. So he'd pushed it down. He'd fought through, for his boys, for all of the 2nd Mass, until he hadn't been able to fight any longer.
“He needs antibiotics.” She manages, trying to keep her heart from breaking altogether. “And rest- and blood. He’s hypovolemic, he's lost far too much blood.”
When she looks up from Tom’s now-trembling form, Weaver’s gaze is intense.
“How urgently?”
“I’m…” Anne swallows. “I’m not sure. How far is Brookline now?”
Weaver squints into the distance as though he expects to see the town approaching. “Another mile or so?”
Anne glances behind her, at the gaggle of civilians and fighters all walking on foot, all the supplies carried by hand because the transportation they had- motorcycles and a couple of cars- was left behind in their haste to leave. The fighters will go back for them once they're more settled, but for now? For now, it's on foot or not at all.
She's about to open her mouth to voice this concern (how on earth are they going to get Tom to Brookline?) when Weaver presents the solution, already bundling his limp second-in-command into his arms and standing up with a groan of exertion.
“Colonel Weaver, are you sure that-”
His mouth is a thin line as he adjusts Tom in his grip, the latter’s head thunking against his shoulder, arms hanging uselessly.
“We don't have a choice.”
His gaze briefly disconnects, finding somebody else’s, and Anne turns to find it's Hal that he's looking at. Matt stands at his brother's side, head buried in his stomach while Hal cards absently through his hair- Hal, whose cheeks are stained with tear tracks, whose expression is blank for the sake of his brothers but brimming with terror underneath. Ben stands on his other side, his own fear more starkly shown, eyes wide, brows raised.
“C’mon.” Weaver grunts, already setting off.
Anne hurries to pack her equipment away.
The Colonel’s right- they don't have a choice.
They reach Brookline in half an hour, and it's with great relief that everybody finally starts setting up camp. The medical tent is the first to be pitched, and Tom- who's spent the last 30 minutes drifting in and out of a delirious consciousness- is lowered onto a stretcher while Lourdes and Anne get all the other equipment unpacked.
For a few minutes, the other Masons linger nearby, pacing back and forth in agitated concern until Weaver encourages Hal to bring Ben and Matt elsewhere. Their hands need to be put to good use, he says, since there's a lot to be done. It's an appeal to their genetic tendency towards selflessness, and it works. While the rest of the 2nd Mass starts to build up some semblance of a new base, Anne and Lourdes do their best to keep Tom from slipping away.
They strip him of his jacket and tee properly, then tend to the wounds with saltwater and rubbing alcohol. It isn't the best sort of disinfectant, but they don't have much to work with.
Tom whimpers as the mixture touches his skin. Anne cards through his hair and gently shushes him.
“It's okay, sweetheart. I know. I know. It's going to help, I promise.”
Once the wounds are as clean as they can be, Anne sets up an IV to run the antibiotics and saline through. Lourdes, hands slightly shaky but still capable, sets up another in his other arm for blood- Anne’s blood.
After all, she's O-negative. She can, and will, donate if there is any chance of it making him better.
“Are you sure?” Lourdes asks, as Anne bares her arm for the needle.
“Absolutely. Just do it.”
A minute or so later, she watches her own blood snake into the crook of Tom’s arm and disappear. And she sits by his bedside, holding his hand. And she feels the heat slowly start to return to his limbs.
“How is he?”
Hal’s voice trickles in like a breeze before Anne even sees him, but when she looks up, just as anticipated, he's there. His eyes don't meet hers, though- not for a few moments. Instead, he's looking wearily at his father, still unconscious, still pale, still…
Anne tries to smile, the exhaustion dragging the corners of her mouth down until it's no more than a hint of an expression.
“Better. He just needs to rest, that's all.”
Hal nods, throat bobbing. He wanders over to the other side of the stretcher and studies his father’s unmoving face.
“He got hurt.”
“Yes.”
“And he didn't tell anybody until he was face down in a ditch.”
Whether intentionally humorous or not, this at least is enough to make Anne's lip quirk up genuinely. “Yes.”
Hal lets out a small, tired chuckle. Intentional, then.
“Smartest man I know.” He croaks. “And still so… stubbornly stupid sometimes.”
Anne laughs though her eyes sting, and the two of them watch Tom sleep for a few more moments. At last, Hal inhales sharply and asks-
“Can Ben and Matt see him? I think they're both a little freaked out- especially Matt.”
“Of course.” She murmurs in reply. “Just as long as they're quiet.”
It's the middle of the night when he stirs, and Anne knows this because she’s been awake for hours, watching and waiting. On one side of the tent, Hal is curled up in a sleeping bag, exhaustion taking over at last, and Ben is next to him. Matt is asleep in Tom’s arms. All is quiet, and then- a twitch. A small sigh, half a groan.
“Tom?” Anne whispers, moving to his side. Her hand lands on his forehead, thumb smoothing back hair as she watches his eyes flicker beneath their lids, searching for a way back to consciousness. “Hey, I'm here. You're alright. You're safe. Just take your time.”
He mutters wordlessly, brow furrowing, and she takes his hand. Squeezes it.
“Shh, it's okay. I'm right here. You're just waking up.”
A few moments later, his eyes slide open at last, pained and exhausted but lucid all the same. When he sees her sitting at his bedside, his lips shiver with the ghost of a smile.
“H-hey.”
Anne reaches out her unoccupied hand to stroke his hair and smiles right back. “Hi there, sleepyhead. Took you long enough.”
He blinks, takes in his surroundings for the first time, and sighs with something like disappointment. His eyes flutter closed again. It looks like he's about to offer some apology when a twinge of pain catches him off guard, and he tenses, face screwing up. Anne gives his hand another squeeze.
“Hey, it's alright- you're okay. Did you want me to get you something for the pain?”
His mouth forms a tight line. He shakes his head. “M… ‘m fine, I just-”
“Don't be a hero, Tom. I think we've all dealt with enough of that already today.”
He cracks open an eye that twinkles with mirth. Sighs. “O-okay, then.”
This, Anne knows, is probably the closest they'll get to referencing what happened to him.
She sets to work fetching more morphine to keep him comfortable, and as she draws up the medication, the conversation turns down an unsurprising avenue- away from him, and towards his kids.
“Hal, Ben, M-Matt… they alright?”
The doctor gestures to the sleeping child in his arms. “Matt’s right there. The other two are in the tent too. They've been worried sick about you, but they're okay.”
Tom sighs, long and shuddering, and before the morphine even enters his system he looks more relaxed for knowing his kids are safe. He closes his eyes fully again, then opens them, and meets Anne’s gaze instead.
“Wha’bout you? You… you alright?”
Anne’s hit with the same giddiness she gets whenever Tom's fingers brush her side as he walks past her. She manages a small nod.
“A lot better now that you're awake.”
Tom's dopey smile coincides with the moment she flushes his system with morphine, so she's happy to blame it on the drugs and nothing else. Nothing else at all.
“Sorry.” He mumbles eventually, eyes slipping closed. “R-really.”
She cards through his hair again, feeling the way his forehead bumps against her palm in eagerness for her touch.
“You don't need to apologise. Just promise that you won't let this happen again.”
His lip quirks up. Settles.
“‘M afraid… ‘can’t do that.”
Anne shuffles forward and leans down to press a kiss to his brow. “I know.” She whispers. His features slowly grow lax with fresh sleep.
I’ll love you anyway, she leaves unsaid.