Third Person - Complete

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Roberts stared at his clothing in his dresser. He knew he should get dressed, he was standing in front of his dresser with only a towel wrapped around his waist, but for some reason he couldn't seem to focus this thoughts. Roberts stared at his underwear, socks, and t-shirts. They were all folded, and it looked weird to him. They should have been rolled, six inches wide. It looked cluttered, strange to Roberts.

The tighty-whitey underwear was particularly strange to him. Like something a child would wear, not something that he personally owned.

Still feeling slightly off center, Roberts went over to the suitcase, heaving it up with one hand, wincing slightly as pain from the surgical wounds flared, and set it on top of his dresser. He popped it with one hand, then stared inside.

That was his underwear and T-shirts. Patch had lent him a couple of T-shirts and flannel shirts, some jeans that were brand new but apparently Patch had outgrown his first year in the unit.

Roberts got out a T-shirt, noticing that the logo on the front was a popular cartoon from a few years ago, his boxers, and a pair of button fly jeans.

Dressing one handed was tough, but at least Roberts could button his pants with his right hand. He was glad his shoulder hadn't taken any damage. He'd seen Patch wake up unable to use his right arm at all, his fingers swollen and purple. It was hard to get the T-shirt on without pulling at the gauze pads covering his chest and the upper right side of his back, but he managed it by moving slowly.

When he was done he looked in the mirror. He had dark circles under his eyes, his face sunken and pallid. The OD green sling holding his arm looked odd. His neck was still discolored from iodine, even though he'd showered a few minutes ago.

I look like Hell, Roberts thought to himself. I'd look a lot worse if Sergeant Cromwell hadn't saved my worthless ass.

Roberts shuddered, pushing away the memories of being half-conscious while Cromwell worked on him to keep him from bleeding out.

After everything I said to her, after I pushed her from behind like a little bitch, and she still saved my worthless ass, Roberts thought.

He closed the suitcase, snapping the catches shut.

At least I didn't leave Taggart behind and run away. I should have held position, kept them pinned longer so they didn't try to push us into the Gap, he thought.

Again he heard the echo of rifle fire and the M-60 LMG in the back of his mind.

Roberts sat down, his knees shaking as he remembered what had happened at the railhead and afterwards.

"It's simple, Roberts. If you think we've been overrun, press the 1 key eight times, then hold down enter and pound sign," Patch said, kneeling next to where Roberts was propped up against the side of the bed of the five-ton. "It won't hurt. You won't feel a thing. I promise."

Roberts pressed the heel of his hand between his brows, making a slight whining noise in his throat at the memory.

A light rap on his bedroom door made him look up.

"Jamie, are you all right, son?" His father asked.

"Yeah," Roberts said, standing up, wiping his face with his shirt. He moved over to the door and opened it. His father stood on the other side, his face worried.

"Just wondering, son," David Roberts said. He looked his son over. "New t-shirt?"

"My room-mate gave it to me. He outgrew it," Roberts admitted.