Chapter Seven

John

"Are you sure you'll be comfortable sleeping on the couch?" John asked.

"Yeah, I've slept on worse," Stryker replied. "There's no way I'm going to let you stay here in your apartment alone until we get this case worked out."

"Has Brick spoken to the detective?"

"Yes. We'll head out to the lake house in the morning and debrief."

"Man, this sounds like a military operation. Debrief."

"As of now, it is," Stryker stated matter-of-factly.

"But we're not even sure there's a credible threat to me."Am I being naive?

"I'm not willing to risk it. Until you are one hundred percent safe, consider me your bodyguard."

"Not much of a body to guard," John mumbled. "All broken down and barely breathing."

"I disagree," Stryker said, his gaze traveling the length of John's body.

Is that appreciation in that look? Damn, what the hell is actually going on here?

Stryker removed his jacket, revealing the gun he had holstered to the waist of his jeans. John wasn't averse to guns. Hell, he had one of his own stored in the closet.

"Can I get you anything before bed?" John asked.

"No, I'm good," Stryker replied.

"Well, if you want something, feel free to look through the cupboards and fridge, but I can't guarantee how much food I have in there. I typically eat at the diner." He'd never been concerned about the state of his apartment until now.

"Don't worry, I'm sure I'll survive. I can do grocery shopping tomorrow after we meet with the boss." Stryker pulled off his shirt, and John nearly swallowed his tongue. The man was ripped. Dirty thoughts sprung into his mind, and he swallowed.

"Grocery shopping? I haven't done that in a while." He shrugged. "Microwave meals or takeout suits me fine.

"If we're hunkering down here, we'll need some food. The less you're out and about, the safer you are," Stryker stated. He grinned. "And maybe with me doing the shopping, we can get some good food into you – vegetables and shit that's good for you."

John scowled. He wasn't a fan of vegetables. "So now I'm a prisoner in my own home?"

"Well, how did you deal with it after you were shot? You had to be shaken up and cautious of going out."

"I was shaken up, sure, but I wasn't going out of my way to be cautious."

Stryker turned to look John straight in the eyes. "You weren't cautious after your parents were killed and you were shot?"

John couldn't help but look down. How did he put this diplomatically and in a way that didn't make him appear crazy?

"In my frame of mind at that time, I was kinda hoping the shooter would come back and finish the job," he said softly.

Stryker's demeanor changed slightly, barely perceptible, but John noticed it.

"And now?" The tone of Stryker's voice was measured.

"Now, I'd like to stick around for at least as long as these stupid lungs will let me."

Stryker's stance eased slightly. "Good. Don't ever wish to be dead. I've seen my fair share of death, and it's not where you want to go."

By the look on Stryker's face, this wasn't up for discussion, so John went in another direction.

"What about work? I have to go to the shop. I can't disappear. We haven't even officially opened yet. That's next week, and I'm not canceling that. This is about more than me. Jason is at stake. The whole business is at stake."

He hadn't changed his entire life to pull back now. The store would open on time with or without Stryker's blessing.

"We'll work that out. But you go nowhere without me."

John huffed in frustration. Things were getting out of hand. It had been over two decades, and nothing had happened to him. Why the hell would it start now because of a stupid break in a case that would likely lead to nothing?

"Okay, fine. I'm going to hit the hay. Good night." He needed a break from G.I. Joe.

"Good night, John."

Having already set out extra bedding and a pillow for Stryker, John turned and walked into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and couldn't help but glance at the mirror attached to his dresser. The scars had healed over time and weren't quite as red and angry as they used to be. The hole where the bullet ripped through his side, and the other lines where the surgeons went in to save his life.

My road map, my history.

On the left side of his chest was a tattoo he'd gotten when he turned twenty-one in honor of his father. The design was an original. He'd found it in his father's belongings after his parents' deaths. His father enjoyed painting and sketching and often told John it was a way for him to decompress after long tours and constant battles fought across the world.

The design was composed of a series of lines, letters, and numbers, reminding John of hieroglyphics that he'd seen in pictures of Egyptian tombs or something equally as ancient. It was the last picture his father had ever sketched, and John wore it with pride. In a way, it felt like it connected the two of them even now. The worn original piece of paper containing the drawing had been lost over the decades, but at least he had its likeness forever.

One of the only things left that remained from when his life wasn't so screwed up. It was one of the only things he could still hold on to of his father's.

John shook his head at his stupid sentimental thoughts and continued undressing, before pulling on his shorts and climbing into bed. He couldn't help but wonder how much sleep he'd get tonight. The nightmares would come when they wanted to, but he hoped he remained quiet enough not to alert Stryker.

He's already doing enough for me. The least I can do is give him a quiet night's sleep.

***

Stryker

Stryker heard the first groan from the adjoining room and waited. By the second and third, he was on his feet. As the sounds continued, he walked unerringly to John's bedroom door and opened it to find the man thrashing about on his bed. Stryker was familiar with PTSD—he and the team were no strangers to it.

He approached the bed. "John, wake up. You're having a nightmare."

John continued to flail across the mattress. Muffled moans and odd words broke the silence.

"Please, help them," he moaned.

Stryker shuddered at the pain-filled words and reached down to grab John's arms to stop him before he injured himself. Furniture could be a nasty weapon. He recoiled when a fist to the jaw was his reward.

"Shit," he growled loudly as he pulled back. "John, wake up, buddy. Wake the fuck up."

That was enough to finally bring the man out of his nightmare. John's eyes popped open and he scanned the room, stopping on Stryker still hovering above him.

"What are you doing in my room?"

Stryker rubbed his jaw. "Trying to wake you up. You were having a nightmare."

"Why does my hand hurt?" John tried to push himself up into a seated position.

"Because you punched me." Stryker wiped his bottom lip, looking for blood.

"Oh shit," John said in mortification. "Sorry. I didn't mean to hit you."

Stryker shrugged. "It wasn't that hard, I'm fine. Are you?"

John sat up fully, holding the covers close. "I'm fine. I'm so sorry."

"Stop saying you're sorry. "

"I can't help it. I fucking hit you."

"You didn't mean to do it."

"I was hoping I'd not have one tonight," John said. "Would make a change."

"So they happen every night?" Stryker asked.

"Pretty much. It's weird to say, but I've gotten used to them."

John looked ashamed, and Stryker couldn't have that.

"I have nightmares on the regular."

"You do?" John appeared shocked. "But you face scary shit head-on all the time."

"Doesn't matter. Pretty much the entire team has 'em. You can't go through the shit we've all been through and not have some fucked-up shit or serious memories floating around in your subconscious. It makes sense that you'd have them too."

"They've gotten worse since the detective called me," John admitted.

"Yeah, bringing back old memories never helps. Do you want to talk about it?" He'd heard sometimes that helped, even though Stryker didn't discuss his own. Nuh-uh. No way was he going down that slippery slope to opening up "feelings."

"I think I've already destroyed your sleep enough for one night."

Stryker motioned for John to move over and sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard. He still had his shorts on, so he wasn't buck-naked in front of the already traumatized guy.

"Don't worry about my sleep. I've learned to live on very little sleep over the years."

"I imagine you have with all that you do and been through. It couldn't have been easy for you and the other team members. I appreciate what all the members of the armed services do for our country in keeping us safe."

"Don't worry about it. It was my job," Stryker said dismissively.

"Again, you refuse to accept that you might be a good person and a hero after everything you've done," John said.

"I wouldn't be throwing the word hero out around me because it doesn't apply." He wasn't a hero. "So, let's get back to the question at hand. Your nightmares. What do you see?"

"The usual. Gunshots, blood, my parents lying on the street dead, pain, funeral, you know, all the highlights," John said.

"Yeah, I've been there. All the gory details. Why can't we ever dream about the good stuff? I've always wondered that myself," Stryker mused. He shifted on the bed, making himself more comfortable, the scent of John's sweat and what was likely a lingering shower gel from the day strangely comforting. It had been a while since he'd been this close to another man—in their bed, half naked.

"Yeah, me too. It'd be okay if I could dream about, you know, the fun we had when they were alive, the special times, but no. I get the shit stuff and nothing else. It doesn't seem fair."

"It's not fair. None of it is. But we have to deal with it or at least try to."

"Is that what you do?"

"This isn't about me."

"Well, if you want to dig into my brain, then it's going to be a tit-for-tat situation, or we could just end the conversation right now."

"You're negotiating with me?" Stryker was enjoying this back and forth, which was odd for him. People who challenged him were normally told to fuck off.

"Yes," John said smugly.

"Damn, you're not so soft after all."

"Warned you. I can be hard when I want to." His face flushed at those words and he looked as if he wanted to take them back. "I mean, you know what I mean, I didn't mean—"

"Yeah, I get it," Stryker said with a grin. Damn, the man was adorable when he was flustered.

He didn't like talking about himself, but what the hell. He could give John a little something. "I've been told to try to process why I'm having the nightmares. Was it the event itself? Was it what I saw or what I had to do? Was it anything in particular that stood out, anything unresolved?"

"That's easy for me. The fact I lived, and they died. The doctors called it survivor's guilt, as if that explained everything and made everything okay. It didn't."

"It never will. Sometimes people are in such a hurry to give you a diagnosis that they forget to treat the reasons it's happening in the first place."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"Take me, for example. My nightmares don't revolve around what I've done. It's what I failed to do."

"In what way?"

"Nope. It's your turn to answer a question," Stryker said.

"Okay, go ahead, fair's fair."

"What do you think your parents would want for you? To feel guilty that you survived?"

"No. My father tried to push me out of the way when the shooting started."

"He tried to protect you."

"Yes."

"They wanted you to live, no matter what."

"Of course, they did. They loved me; they were my parents."

"Then why should you feel guilty for doing something they desperately wanted you to do? Live."

"Because I'm the one who didn't want to live without them," John said. "Now, back to you. How do you think you failed?"

Stryker felt the familiar heaviness in his chest when he answered. "It's always the same. My team was wiped out, and I wasn't there to protect them. The situation changes in each of the nightmares. One time, we'll be in the desert. The next, we could be in the ocean, or on an aircraft carrier, or in some damn jungle somewhere. But the results are always the same. They die, and I live, and it's my fault."

John looked at him oddly. "Don't you see it? We both have survivor's guilt. It's just that yours hasn't happened in reality. Your greatest fear is not protecting the people you care about, and that's what gives you nightmares. On the other hand, I didn't have a chance to protect the people I care about and survived. That's my nightmare. Our nightmares aren't that dissimilar."

Well, hell, Stryker wasn't sure he could accept the fact he was suffering his own type of survivor's guilt without the worst-case scenario ever happening.Maybe I'm more fucked up than I thought.

"Let me ask you this," John said, leaning forward, as the covers fell off and Stryker got a glimpse of a tantalizing treasure trail. "Would you have sacrificed yourself to keep your team alive, or chosen to die alongside them?"

"Either. If I couldn't save them, I'd rather be taken out with them." He was certain of that.

"Then how is that so much different than my wishing I'd died with my parents?"

Stryker wasn't sure how to answer that. Were they flip sides of the same coin?

"I don't know," he admitted. "I guess you and I aren't that different after all."