Chapter 1: The Guard
The ICU hummed like a hive—white walls, cold steel, the relentless *beep-beep-beep* of monitors fighting a losing battle against the silence that should have been. The air smelled of antiseptic and something sharper, something metallic that clung to the back of your throat. Liz stood motionless beside Jager’s bed, her OD green coat rustling faintly against the stiffness of her laced-up pants. Her patrol cap—once crisp, now slightly askew —cast a shadow over her sharp eyes, which darted between the flickering heart monitor and the slow rise and fall of his chest. The M14 rifle slung across her back was a familiar weight, but right now, it felt like an anchor. She’d been standing there for hours, maybe days—time blurred when you were waiting for someone to wake up.
Liz was used to waiting. Waiting in ambush, waiting in silence, waiting for orders. But this? This was different. This was *him*.
Her fingers twitched at her side, missing the familiar weight of her pistol in its holster. The machine beside Jager’s bed let out a sharp, obnoxious *ping*, and Liz’s head snapped toward it like a guard dog on alert.
"Come on, Jager," she muttered, the words raw and uneven. "You stubborn son of a bitch. Open those damn eyes." She pleaded silently , her voice a rough whisper as if he could hear her through the veil of fever and morphine.
Liz leaned forward, her elbows resting on the edge of the bed, her fingers curling into the thin hospital sheet. The fabric was stiff with disinfectant, cold against her skin. She could feel the heat radiating off Jager’s body, a fever that had been burning for too long now. His face was pale, almost waxen, save for the faint flush of infection creeping up his neck. His dark hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead, and Liz resisted the urge to brush it back. She knew he’d hate that—being fussed over. A habit he picked up from her
, no doubt. She smirked faintly despite herself, recalling the way he’d roll his eyes whenever she adjusted his jacket collar or tightened the strap of his harness. "You’re not some fragile china doll, Liz," he’d say, but she liked fixing things. Fixing him. Even now, her hands itched to smooth the damp hair from his forehead, to trace the familiar ridge of his scar above his left eyebrow—earned in some forgotten op, some op she probably shouldn’t have survived either.
In her periphery, the ICU door slid open with a quiet hiss. Voices murmured—hushed, clinical—but Liz didn’t look. Didn’t shift.
Didn’t breathe. Just kept her eyes locked on Jager’s face, waiting for the faintest flicker of movement. The voices behind her grew louder, more insistent. Footsteps approached.
“Sargent?”
Liz didn’t turn. She knew that voice. *Dr. Vasquez.* The man who’d been in and out of this room for days now, his expression always carefully neutral, like he was bracing for the moment she finally snapped.
“You’re still here,” he said, not a question but an observation.
Liz exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled. “Where else would I be?” Liz replied, her voice low, rough with exhaustion. She didn’t turn around. Didn’t take her eyes off Jager’s face.
She could hear the doctor’s shoes squeak against the polished floor as he moved closer. He stopped beside her, close enough that she caught the faint scent of coffee and antiseptic on his breath. “You need to sleep, Sergeant. You’ve been here for—”
“Three days,” she cut in, her fingers tightening around the edge of the bed. “I know.” Dr. Vasquez sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His dark eyes flicked to Jager’s still form, then back to Liz. “You’ve been running on caffeine and sheer stubbornness. That’s not sustainable.”
Liz finally tore her gaze from Jager’s face and turned slightly to face the doctor. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something—anger, maybe, or just exhaustion—in her dark eyes. “I’ll sleep when he wakes up,” she said, her voice flat.
The doctor studied her for a long moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knew better than to argue with her. Everyone in this damn hospital knew by now.
The nurses whispered about her when they thought she wasn’t listening. The orderlies gave her a wide berth. Even the janitor who mopped the halls every night would pause outside Jager’s room, watching her through the glass for a moment before moving on. Liz didn’t care. Let them talk. Let them stare. She had a job to do.
Dr. Vasquez exhaled sharply, his fingers tapping against the clipboard in his hands. "Sergeant, I understand your loyalty, but—"
"Then you understand why I’m not leaving," Liz interrupted, her voice low but firm.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to meet the doctor’s gaze. Her dark eyes were sharp, unyielding. "He’d do the same for me."
“Very well then .” Dr. Vasquez sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly as he surrendered to the inevitable.
He gave her a single, weary nod before turning away, his white coat flaring behind him as he crossed back toward the ICU’s central station.
4 hours later
, Liz still hadn’t moved. The hospital had long since fallen into its nighttime rhythm—dimmer lights, quieter footsteps, the occasional muffled cry from a patient down the hall.
Liz didn’t notice. She was too busy watching the slow rise and fall of Jager’s chest beneath the thin hospital blanket. His breath was shallow, but steady. That was something.
A sign. A *fucking* sign.
Liz leaned in closer, her breath hitching as she studied Jager’s face. The fever had broken sometime in the last hour—she’d felt the shift in the air, the way the heat radiating off his body had softened into something more bearable. His skin was still too pale, too clammy, but the flush of infection had receded from his neck, leaving behind only the faintest hint of color. His lips, usually set in a stubborn line, were slightly parted now, as if he were about to speak.
She reached out without thinking, her fingers hovering just above his cheek. She didn’t touch him. Not yet.