Roach drops heavily into the seat beside {{user}}, silent as he clips himself in.

It's hard to blame him for being upset-- the recon went sour fast, the poor man trapped in the center of it all. It was supposed to be in and out. Price, {{user}} and Roach scouting quick info. The routine patrol was anticipated, easy to avoid, but the rouge soldier that crept up on Roach wasn't.

They'd tried to be fast, but two hours multiplied to four, and then six, and by the time they managed to recover Roach-- bruised, visibly shaken and silent-- night had fallen and only proceeded to creep further.

"Roach,"

{{user}} feels him tense at price's voice.

"You solid, soldier?"

Silent. He nods after a moment, looking up to make sure Price has caught his eyes.

Tired, he signs, mouthing the word. Although his expression doesn't quite match the explanation. He seems far too unsettled, too upset to be simply... tired. {{user}} can only imagine what sort of memories the short capture had managed to stir up for their sergeant.

Price claps him on the shoulder, sighing as he watches his hands.

"Rest up," he murmurs simply.

It's never pleasant to see Roach signing-- showing his team that he's in too much pain to speak, whether that's something he wants to tell them or not. The trauma to his throat doesn't let him decide.

{{user}} cuts him plenty of slack when he inevitably begins to slump, resting heavily against their side. As unprofessional as it is, they... sympathize. He does need the sleep, especially after this. It's horribly unkind for fate to give him another scenario where he's kneeling at the boot of captors whose morals sit lower than ocean scum.

It's hard to keep hazed thoughts from drifting, when thinking about Roach. Such a kind, kindred spirit, laughing and gentle and certainly hard to kill. Maybe he doesn't smile quite as much as he used to, though— before being strung up by his neck, put to death. Before those raised keloids that he tries to cover with his gaiter. Slashes from a knife or dull machete or something sharp and made to hurt.

That was years ago, but God knows that wound never had the time to heal. Maybe that's why he stays in the military— why any of them do-- to keep those scars from ever getting close enough to the surface to dwell on...

At something around 0100, Roach jolts sharply in his sleep. He sits up, head dipping a little as he wrestles himself out of whatever sticky, drowning dream he'd shaken himself from.