salvation sequel [rafe x barry]

CSAR

He that has no sword, let him sell his garment, and buy one.
Luke 22:36

Barry still remembered combat search and rescue training and learning about the rule of rescue, a perceived duty to save endangered life where possible. Perceived, as in, based on subjective understanding of morals and ethics. As in, the kind of thing normal people do and feel; a responsibility to help those in need.

Barry doubted the rule of rescue applied for Rafe. He doubted any rules applied for Rafe, not the ten Commandments of God and not the federal law or the constitution of the United States of America.

The 4 A's of rescue —and Barry had always been annoyed that it wasn't R's or at least anything to do with the word rescue— Awareness. Assessment. Action. After care.

Barry had been painfully made aware of Rafes situation. Through drunken ideas of self destruction slurred into the phone late at night.

He had assessed the situation at hand. Rafe was miserable and he'd asked Barry to come save him.

He had taken action, packing his bag, numbing the feeling of nausea in his stomach with pills that made him even more nauseous, but he didn't wanna leave any drugs behind closing off his trailer and he couldn't take them through the airport either.

This was what Barry had explicitly swore to never do again.

It was always the same fucking thing. Barry feeling horrible about the kind of person he was, like he was too rough to ever keep a person close, finding someone who needed help and giving his all helping helping helping, convincing himself so fucking hard he had to be good after all, if he was so caring, so selfless. Giving giving giving until finally that voice screaming he didn't deserve the love died down, or he just screamed back louder. Look at me! Look how good I am! I deserve this! I do. Like a stubborn toddler.

Barry had long recognized his toxic patterns of self-sacrifice through insightful hours of acid and shrooms, and he recognized them now, a stained navy duffel bag crammed between his feet fitting only halfway under that tight airplane seat, on a mission to sacrifice himself again, and not for one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all, but for one stupid cokehead instead.

And what, if it was all a farce, then? What if he really just did it to feel less fucking horrible, but he was, what if he was just playing a good person, wasn't actually good, so what, then? Happiness on drugs wasn't real either, but it felt real enough in your body and mind, until it didn't anymore. And Barry was just not the person to pass a high, just to avoid a down.

He tried to rationalize. This was a mission. CSAR. Right on into the battlefield, Cameron Estate. He was a soldier. Rafe was a victim in need of rescue. Barry was a good, normal person with morals and ethics and conscience and empathy and virtues and all that other normal good people shit and he perceived the duty to save endangered, ever-so-sweetly-smiling, precious human life.

Barry didn't know what the hell he expected. Rafe to be standing in the airports main hall with a bouquet of flowers and a sign in his hand: Welcome Barry?

He was nowhere to be seen when Barry got through check out. It's not like he'd ever been particularly reliable, he was only ever on time when there was coke involved and sometimes not even then, depended on his cravings. Glancing at the countless security cameras around, Barry just figured Rafe waited outside somewhere.

And then, all of the sudden, he wasn't walking into combat anymore, but coming out of it.

He'd felt that exact same stupid feeling in his stomach when he had American soil under his feet the first time after months of deployment, now that he saw Rafe, leaning against a car parked carelessly across the white stripes serperating one parking spot from the next.