Chapter title from Ancestral Memory by Hari Alluri.

It's nearing nightfall by the time the rest of the team accomplishes the mission objective and makes it back to where they inexplicably lost Clay.

Brian had to use every ounce of self control to lock away the gnawing worry and focus on what had to be done. Now that it's over, with the stealth surveillance tech having been successfully planted, he's having a hard time keeping his mind from presenting him with an endless series of horrible possibilities for why his best friend might not have come back.

This close to the border, they're operating without ISR; Command didn't want to give anyone a reason to get suspicious and go looking for hidden U.S. tech. The lack of overwatch shouldn't have been much of a problem. With no known tangos in the area, their expectation was that this mission should be a relative cakewalk, with little chance of encountering anything more nefarious than empty, frozen wilderness. Just as a precaution, Morrison sent Clay to go high and take a look at the path ahead.

After doing as ordered, Clay radioed back that everything was clear.

And then he stopped responding. They waited as long as Morrison would allow. Clay never returned.

Brian wanted to go after his missing teammate right then. Khan and Feldstein even backed him up on it - which he'll definitely have to tell Clay about when he sees him again - but Morrison was unyielding.

The mission comes first.

Spenser is a big boy and can take care of himself. If he couldn't, he sure as hell wouldn't belong out here. Isn't that right, Armstrong?

The biting, sarcastic edge to Morrison's voice made Brian want to punch him. Grab him by the vest, shake him till his teeth rattled, and remind him that it's his responsibility to keep the men under his command safe, no matter who they happen to be related to.

Of course he didn't do any of that. He just looked at his new team leader, judged that arguing would only piss the man off and make him buckle down harder, and said blandly, "Yes, sir."

Ever since Morrison took over the team, Brian has tried to serve as a buffer between him and Clay, smoothing over the conflicts and easing the transition. That requires staying on Morrison's good side as much as possible.

Fortunately, one of Brian's greatests gifts is an innate ability to rapidly read people, determine what they want or expect him to be, and then, if he's so inclined, essentially shapeshift into that person.

By the time he got old enough to realize no amount of charm was going to convince foster parents to keep him, that particular ability was already well developed. As with many things in his life, Brian chooses to focus on the bright side: maybe he didn't get new parents, but he did end up with a skill that has served him well ever since, helping him find his true family and home in the Navy.

And it's also probably the only reason Clay Spenser hasn't yet been murdered by his new team leader, so there's that.

What Morrison wants is subordinates who are solid and dependable, follow orders but aren't afraid to make respectful suggestions, and take initiative sometimes, but not so often or so aggressively as to make him feel that his authority is being openly challenged.

Brian slid seamlessly into that role pretty much from day one.

Clay, on the other hand, quickly picked up on the fact that Morrison disliked him for his last name, and has been antagonizing the man ever since.

Sometimes even Brian wants to slap him upside the head, because Jesus Christ, does he have to make everything harder for himself?

(Yes. The answer is yes. With Clay, it usually is.)

Brian still isn't even sure what it was that first made him look at Clay Spenser, stubborn and mouthy and carrying an Alaska-sized chip on his shoulder, and go, Yep, that one. That one's mine.

Maybe it's just because Brian saw something in Clay, some commonality between them: a couple of kids who'd had to fend for themselves, building walls and donning masks for protection. Oh, it manifests itself very differently - Brian's chameleon charm, versus Clay's often combative arrogance - but maybe he recognized a kindred spirit all the same.

Not that Brian ever intends to tell Clay that. His ability to judge what people want him to be, it told him early on that what his new friend needed wasn't someone to trade sob stories with. What Clay Spenser could really use was stability, or at least proximity to it; the belief that it was possible.

And selfishly, what Brian decided Clay needed also just happened to be what he himself already wanted to become.

Brian finally had a chance to be whoever the hell he liked, so he made himself into a kid with a big, loving, chaotic family. A well-adjusted guy whose easy friendliness is just a personality trait, not a hard-earned survival skill. He likes being that person.

He especially likes being that person for Clay, and for that to happen, there has to still be a Clay.

They'll find him. They have to.

The team backtracks, reaching the point in the trail where they last saw Clay, and then they start sweeping out from there, trying to pick up his trail.

As they tramp around in the snow, Morrison makes a few exasperated quips about how they should just give up and head to exfil, but Brian knows he doesn't really mean it. He won't abandon one of his men - not even one he can't stand.

It's Khan who finds the helmet lying beneath a huge tree, partially buried in the snow, broken NODS half ripped off it.

The abandoned pack, radio and rifle.

The footprints.

The blood.

There's only one set of footprints, no indication that anyone else was ever there. Based on what little evidence they have to go on, Brian guesses that Clay fell from the tree, landed on the sharp rocks at the bottom, and then wandered away without most of his gear.

Which, in combination with the blood, lays it out sickeningly clearly: he's hurt, and it's probably bad.

He's been bleeding alone in the cold for hours, and they don't even know where he is.

Brian curls his gloved hands tight, wishing he could feel the bite of fingernails into palms. He forces his lungs to work, breathing calm and steady past the weight of an elephant crushing his chest.

The air tastes viciously cold, sharper than moonshine.

Wherever Clay is, he might be dead by now.

They could have saved him. If they'd gone after him right away... if Brian had just put his foot down, refused to continue the mission...

Morrison drops to his heels and reaches out to touch the abandoned radio, brush his fingers over the blood frozen dark in the snow. "Shit," he says on a deep exhale, and looks up, catching Brian's gaze. There's just enough light left to make out the deep crease in Morrison's forehead, the guilty way his eyes quickly dart away.

If Clay is dead, Brian will never forgive this. Maybe that's what their team leader saw in his eyes.

They follow the footprints, pausing briefly to flip down their NODs once it grows fully dark. Clay's path meanders drunkenly. Eventually there's less blood in the snow, which Brian hopes indicates that his friend had enough presence of mind to tend his injuries.

The trail leads them out of the deeper woods and onto a small windswept plain to the east of the foothills. There's not much there, just a few scattered small trees with spindly branches.

Brian's throat aches.

Where the hell were you going, buddy? Why didn't you just stay put?

Because he couldn't. If he had, he probably would have frozen to death by now. Injured or not, he clearly knew he had to keep moving.

Morrison slides over to walk near Brian. For a moment the only sound is the crunch of their feet in the snow. Then the team leader says in a carefully neutral tone, "I didn't realize he was hurt."

Brian grinds his teeth so hard they ache. He can't quite keep the bladed edge out of his voice when he asks, "What did you think? That he was hiding somewhere just to fuck with you?"

Morrison is quiet for a minute. Then he admits, "Honestly? Yeah. I kind of did."

Brian's laugh sounds like he's been gargling steel wool. "Then you don't know the first damn thing about him." He pauses. "Sir."

It's the first time he's ever talked to Morrison like this. Right now Brian is exhausted and angry and scared, with no will left to keep playing a role. For once, he just is who he is: a man whose best friend could be dying for no good reason.

Morrison's hesitation this time lasts even longer. Finally he says, "Maybe I don't." With a hint of defensiveness, he adds, "But it's not like he's given me a chance to-"

Brian cuts him off. "You lost that chance the minute you judged him by who his father is, sir. Let me catch you up on what you missed. Clay is not Ash Spenser. He'll give you shit all day on base, but he doesn't fuck around during missions. He would walk straight into hell for anyone he operates with, regardless of his personal feelings about them. He wants to make it into DEVGRU, and I'd bet you money that he will."

By the end of that brief rant, Brian's voice shakes a little. He takes a deep breath, tries to lock the emotion back down.

Morrison dips his chin in a slight nod, inhales, but gets interrupted by Khan's sharp hiss that pulls them all to a stop.

Khan drops to a crouch, splaying his fingers over something in the snow. "Wolves," he says softly. "They're following him."

Oh, Jesus.

Like this wasn't already bad enough.

They pick up the pace, following the trail as it veers off suddenly toward the west. Around them, the night is crisply silent, not even a hint of motion other than their own. If the wolves are still around, they're being damn quiet. Brian hopes that's a good thing. Prays it isn't because the hunt has already ended.

They jog through one last grove of scrubby conifers, round a bend, and the scene ahead becomes clear. Brian registers what he's seeing in flashes, one quick detail at a time.

The wide spire of rock looming up like a wall.

The dark shapes of the wolves moving quietly around it.

Amidst them, the lone penlight shining up from the snow. Motionless.

Brian's throat locks up. No matter how hard he tries, he can't get air into his lungs.

This isn't right. This can't be how it ends.

Khan yells, lifting his pack over his head to make himself look bigger. An instant later, the others do the same - except Brian, who is still frozen in place.

The wolves want no part of it. They draw back, slide quietly into the darkness, and then there's nothing left to do except go forward and see what they left behind.

It's Morrison's hand on his elbow that finally spurs Brian into motion. He pulls his arm away and walks forward with the others. His face feels numb. His heartbeat echoes in the hollow space inside his head.

There's no ravaged corpse in the snow. No blood, even. Just the light, lying there all by itself, as though it were dropped from-

"Brian?" The voice from above them is weak and ragged, a fragile thread of sound. "Guys?"

As one, they look up.

Clay Spenser is huddled on a ledge, arms wrapped around himself, his back pressed against solid stone. He slides down almost to a sitting position; then, legs trembling violently, pushes himself back up again.

Must be the only way he could figure to keep moving without risking falling to the wolves.

God, Brian loves this stupid, stubborn son of a bitch.

Khan is the most skilled climber among them, so he's the one who goes up with a line so that they can get Spenser down. Brian waits at the bottom. The fine tremors running through his limbs are probably as much from relief as cold.

As soon as Clay is back on solid ground, Brian moves forward, watching anxiously as their medic checks his friend over. Clay is banged up from the fall. He's got some gashes, a nasty concussion and moderate hypothermia, but he's alive. Pale and confused and shaking and alive.

The medic finishes up, proclaims Clay ambulatory with assistance, and then Brian finally gets to move forward and slide his arm around his friend's shoulders.

"Hey, Bri," Clay mumbles, leaning in as Brian helps him to his feet.

Brian tells himself the sting in his eyes is just from the cold. Clearing his throat, he says, "Hey, man. Saw you doing squats up there. You trying to get a nice ass?"

Clay scoffs weakly. "You wish your ass was as nice as mine."

Brian grins so hard that the air hurts his teeth. "You keep telling yourself that, buddy." He pats Clay's shoulder, supporting much of his friend's weight as they move together through the snow.

"You know," Brian begins thoughtfully, "my papaw always used to say-"

Clay groans, letting his head fall against Brian's shoulder. Brian's laugh rings out loud in the brittle silence of the night.

Holding each other up, they go forward, bright against the cold.