Archive of Our Own

Air raids arent very fun. Their loud and deadly and they make the air smell bad and John assosiates them with bugs.

Granted, the bug part isnt the fault of the air raids themselves. If you wanted to get technical, it was the fault of sleep deprivation and a unholy amount of post traumatic stress disorder.

But thats unimportant, or at least thats what he’ll say. 

There ISNT an air raid now, but it sounds like it. Unexpected air shows are a terrible terrible thing. He never enjoyed the feeling of it. Waiting for the next burst of sound, the crown of an aircraft over head.

He’d been up for hours, in his work clothes still, sitting on his bed, weapon in hand. He needed to be ready. Nobody would be on the ground , coming into the tower. There was no war, no Afghanistan. There was just him and the dark worn sky.

And the bugs.

When he had been in Afghanistan, he’d been tasked with staying awake during the night, with the raids and the planes and the other things went in the night. He had to stay vigilent and keep his crew alive.

He was the best fit for the job, even if he detested it. All john had ever wanted was to not be alone. He loved the military for its comradery, for the closeness. To be able to sleep in a heap and to protect each other willignly and without question.

And so he would stand the alone and the tired all he needed to.

By technicallity, he shouldnt have been on the field. After all of the time he spent awake, it wasn't safe for him to be up and moving.

His superiors didn't care. They had tested his limits, exceeded basic training by a long shot. When he passed with flying colours, they pushed him farther. Made him do the taser test till collapse, pressed him on his endurance with never ending laps, and intellegence tests to. He was a leader in hostage rescue, but that meant watching horrible videos of people dying. Of makign the wrong choices and seeing unsightly things. Terrible things that would give any body night terrors.

He didn't go to therapy. He know he should have, that everyone who was inhis positon should, but he didn't. His superiors said it took too much time. Kept him benched too long. And to that he put down his head and said okay. He didn't need help, he hadn’t needed it in a long time.

He didn't need it in the fight clubs in the dark places of his home town, in the dark meetings of those gangs that ruled even the quiest sweetest towns like custard grove.

He hadn;t needed help then so he wont take it now. He may be exhausted, but that wouldnt ever matter to them, so it wouldnt matter to him either.

Its no secret that nobody cared if he lived or died. Well- Liv and Lemar definately did, but that was a complicated thing. Because their opinions on his life didn't really matter. They didn't know the trouble he was. 

Fighting on little sleep wasn't anything jarring. He’d done it before, gone a few days without sleep. 

He hadn't slept in eight days when they’d put him on the field. On the backline with a sniper rifle. 

He’d assumed an expert sharpshooter role in using a rifle and was almost of the same caliber with other weaponry. It wouldn't have been such a big deal if he wasn't dead on his feet.

His limbs were that of puppets, grainy. Filled with beads and lulling side to side, swaying when he stilled. Heavy as clubs and dark with a buzz of exhaustion. 

His mind had gone cloudy days ago.

The sand had turned to ants days ago too.

Tiny and moving.Every drag of his boots scattered them, moving each of the little back specs in mesmerizing circles. Spilling out into turns and twists and beautiful things like that.

It was gorgeous in a weird sort of way. 

Yet still it made his skin crawl.

Somehow, some way, war was scarier when you were infested.

He could hear people speak to him, but not what they were saying. Any time he tried to talk I fell out of him like pulling organs from a hunted deer. In a blurred mess, a total word salad. He felt incompetent and pathetic, and the pitying glances he was getting weren't helping.

He stood in his position, focusing on the people approaching. They were dirty, so there were no roles. No captains or leaders, just men with scraggly hair and sun worn skin.

Just the men and the sides that separated them, that and the ants.

His skin was itching. He was being bit and his ears were ringing and the planes were loud and he couldn't hardly manage it. Breathing was viscous in the back of his throat, pulling out like it was being forced.

He coughed, and ignored the bullets whizzing around him. He had to ignore them, He had to ignore the way they crashed into the chests of his allies, and spilled out. If he focused on it too long it would fry his brain more than it was already. 

He’d ignored it all, because there was nothing else to do. No other choice than forceful ignorance. If he thought too hard and he held his gun tightly he would break and never fix. 

He was broken now he's sure, but he would still be the same soldier he was tonight .

He would still hold his weapon and he would still stand at the window , waiting and watching with baited breath. 

New York had none of the soldiers and the sand and the bugs that his life had been molded by. But New York had him and he would have to be ready. 

Watching,

Waiting. 

Like the perfect little soldier.