Chapter Twelve #2
Ricky tried to move, but the pain anchored him deep. His shoulder throbbed, his body felt like concrete. Still, his mind spun, reaching for something—someone.
Time spun...
Sophia. Ezra. Marsh.
Where—?
Then he heard it. A voice low and warm. His voice.
Ezra.
“...and then he told Uncle Dev he’d sleep outside with the raccoons before wearing anything with sequins. And Ricky—he just rolled his eyes and muttered something about ‘fashion fascism.’ I swear, baby girl, your uncles are ridiculous.”
Ricky wanted to smile but it came out a wince.
Sophia giggled, soft and breathy. “Did Uncle Ricky really say that?”
“I swear on all your crayons,” Ezra murmured.
Ricky could feel it—Ezra’s presence right there at his bedside, holding their niece, comforting her, tethering himself to Ricky with stories and warmth and love.
“I love him, you know?” Ezra said quietly. “Your Uncle Ricky. I don’t think I ever said it properly. But I love him. So much it hurts.”
God.
Ricky’s fingers twitched, his throat thick with unspoken words. He had to wake up. Had to come back.
For Ezra.
For Sophia.
For Marsh—
Time spun...
The air shifted again. New voices.
“Vitals haven’t improved,” Blake said, somewhere to the side. “He’s stable, but he’s not fighting. Honestly, Ezra... I think he’s giving up.”
Ezra’s voice was sharp. “Speak English, doc.”
A sigh. Then Blake, softer this time. “He’s tired. He’s in pain. And the willpower that got him this far? It’s running out. It happens, Ez. Sometimes the body can survive, but the mind—”
“No,” Ezra snapped. “He’s too fucking stubborn for that.”
“You’d think,” Blake said gently. “But sometimes, even the stubborn ones ... break.”
The silence that followed was like ice.
And that’s when Ricky knew—he had to get up. Had to get to Marsh.
Even if it meant crawling.
Even if it meant bleeding.
Time spun...
And held
The room was dim when he opened his eyes fully, light spilling through the door’s glass panel.
Sophia was gone now, but Ezra was curled up asleep in a reclining chair against the back wall.
He wanted nothing more than to wake his man up and go to him, to tell him that he loved him, that he was there, and that nothing would take him away from him or Sophia again.
But there was something more urgent that drove him.
He slid out from under the covers, breath catching at the sudden, sharp pain in his shoulder. His bare feet hit the floor. Cool. Solid. Real. He stood for a moment, catching his breath and his bearing, forcing the world to stop spinning by sheer force of will alone.
One step. Then another.
He didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Not until he found Marsh.
The hallway stretched like a ghost’s corridor—silent, sterile, buzzing faintly with fluorescent light. Every step pulled a thread of pain through Ricky’s shoulder, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Marsh’s room was at the end. Of course it fucking was. No guards, no visitors. Just a single red tag clipped to the door. Critical.
Ricky pushed it open.
Inside, the machines were too loud. Beeping.
Hissing. Whispering warnings in a language of decay.
Marsh lay still against white sheets that looked more like a shroud than a blanket.
His face was pale, drawn. His left side wrapped in layers of gauze and surgical tape where his leg—his goddamn leg—should’ve been. The stump at mid-thigh spoke volumes.
Ricky stood there for a second. Just ... breathing.
Then he moved.
Dragged the chair closer. Sat. Leaned forward and stared at the man who had once taught him how to dismantle a sniper rifle with a blindfold on and a hangover.
“You son of a bitch,” Ricky whispered. “You think this is how it ends?”
Marsh didn’t stir. Didn’t flinch.
“I know you can hear me,” Ricky ground out, “so listen the fuck up, because I’m only gonna say this once.”
He wiped his hand down his face, refusing to acknowledge the wetness he encountered, trying to keep his voice from cracking. Failed.
“You don’t get to tap out. You don’t get to lie there and let go because it hurts. You’ve been through worse. Hell, you dragged me out of worse.”
A beat. A long one.
“You remember Khasham, 2018?” Ricky’s voice dropped. “You sat next to me all night, covered in someone else’s blood, and told me I was gonna be okay. That I mattered. That I belonged.”
His hands curled into fists.
“So, here’s the deal, Marsh. You don’t get to make me believe in myself and then quit on me. You don’t get to build this place, make a goddamn family out of warriors and orphans, and then peace out because it’s too hard.”
The machines beeped. Steady. Rhythmic. Taunting.
“I’ve seen you fight through hell. You were bleeding out and you still called in my position, got me the fuck out of there. And now? Now you’re just ... lying here?”
Ricky’s throat tightened. He leaned in, forehead nearly resting against Marsh’s forearm.
“She’s here, man. Sophia. She’s safe. She’s asking questions about you. She wants to know where the big guy with the grumpy voice has gone, and you know she has to be talking about you. You can’t let her grow up thinking her uncle Marsh just gave up.”
A breath.
A broken, shaking breath.
“And I need you, too,” Ricky whispered. “God, Marsh, I need you. You were there when I didn’t know who the hell I was. You’ve seen me at my worst. And you never walked away.”
He reached for Marsh’s hand.
Cold. Too cold.
“You stay in this fight. You come back to us.”
He swallowed.
“Because I’m not doing this without you. We are not the Pathfinders without you.”
The silence that followed felt like a scream.
“Van,” Ricky whispered offering up a prayer, “send him back, brother. We barely survived losing you, we can’t take another hit. Please, brother, please—”
Then ... a twitch. Barely there. A flicker in Marsh’s fingers.
Ricky’s heart stuttered.
The monitors shifted. The rhythm steadied. Just a little. Just enough.
Ricky sat back and inhaled, gripping Marsh’s hand tight. “Yeah. That’s it. Stay with me, asshole.”
He didn’t need a miracle.
He just needed Marsh to choose them.
Choose to stay
And maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t done fighting yet.