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“Gotta get my ass moving,” Sean muttered.

He remained sitting there, however, curled up as he shivered. The wind howled faintly above him, whistling through the crag he’d bumped through on his way down. The chances of his team being able to find him were minimal, and he was going to have to find out how to save himself.

Sean closed his eyes, telling himself his team was going to be okay. No matter what issues they were having, they were ultimately survivors. Ricardo knew how to lead them if it came down to it, and while he couldn't believe he was thinking it, he was starting to realize he could trust Aidan to guide them. Hell, maybe it would be Aidan who directed them to safety. The man was so much more capable than Sean had given him credit for.

It was a bittersweet thought, and he didn’t bother to fight the encroaching darkness as he slipped into unconsciousness.

He wasn’tsure how long he’d been asleep, but the first thing he was aware of was that it was no longer cold. Worse, it was burning hot, and the grit of sand in his mouth mingled with the copper taste of blood. The sun beat down on him, making the shadows thin.

“Oh shit,” he muttered, wondering how the hell he’d ended up back in the desert.

It was the landscape of his dreams, probably the same one that had haunted Nick. Sean pushed himself up, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and the throbbing in his back. A few feet away, Nick sat huddled, eyes wide, and locked on something to Sean’s right.

Sean knew this dream and what lay on his other side. It was the same every time, playing out the same memory. He and Nick had been the ones to see it happen, and they had witnessed the greatest blow. Why his mind decided to play it over and over in his head, night after night, Sean could only guess it was his punishment.

Knowing he would have to look, as he always did, Sean turned. There, at the foot of a dune, lay Clint. Like the rest of them, his equipment was dirty, covered in soot, and speckled with sand. Unlike the rest of them, though, he was on his back, eyes distant, and the sand beneath him was stained the ugliest shade of red Sean had ever seen.

“Clint,” Sean hissed, scooting forward, just as he’d done that fateful day, and took his friend’s hand.

There was no response from his teammate, no real signs of life save for the smallest of movements. Clint’s bright eyes flicked away from the sky overhead, losing the dull, distantlook they’d held only seconds before. Hazel eyes sharpened, recognizing Sean’s face, and the smallest of smiles had flickered at the corner of his mouth.

Then the muscles went slack, and the light in his eyes faded to nothing.

“No, no, no,” Nick repeated from behind him, but Sean had no words.

It was the same every time, each and every night. Sometimes, he didn’t remember the dream, but he’d always woken knowing he’d had it. The memory replaying, with the same details, the same events, everything perfectly realized. The horror of the worst moment of his life projected on the screen of his mind and thrown into repeat.

His heart stuttered when Clint blinked, turning to look up at him again. Torn between the shock of the dream being completely different and the sight of his dead teammate staring up at him, Sean was speechless. Nick was still babbling away incoherently behind him, and the sounds of Ricardo and Matt returning fire on the enemy echoed around them. But Clint’s bright eyes were locked on his face, remaining there for what felt like an eternity.

Clint’s eyes crinkled at the corner, and he smiled. “How long are you going to do this to yourself?”

Sean jerked,head thumping against the cave wall behind him with a heavy thud. Wincing, he rubbed at the sore spot, looking around frantically. It was the same cold, dim cave where he’d fallen asleep. The scorching sands had been replaced with cold rock and the sounds of gunshots by the frigid wind blowing overhead.

Letting out a deep sigh, Sean sagged back onto his arms. His dreams had always been vivid since Clint’s death, but they had never been quite that unnerving. In some ways, knowing he was dreaming of Clint’s death over and over had become a part of Sean’s life, understood and accepted in its routine and familiarity. Having it change like that, having it be different was?—

“Fucked up?”

The all too familiar voice jerked Sean’s head up with a gasp. Not more than six feet from him, sitting in a position not too different from his own, was Clint. He looked exactly like the last time Sean had seen him while they’d been stateside. He was dressed in that baggy hoodie of his, bright pink with a vivid purple cartoon character printed on it. Casual blue jeans and thick work boots made up the rest of the ensemble, along with the familiar smile.

“What the fuck?” Sean asked, pushing back against the wall.

“What? No hello?” Clint asked, cocking his head.

Sean looked around, trying to find the answer somewhere above him, around him. “This isn’t real. Right?”

“I guess that depends on your definition of real.”

Sean snapped his eyes to Clint, frowning. “Don’t start quoting movies at me.”

Clint laughed, lounging back and stretching his feet out before him. “You always did get cranky when you got a little chilly.”

Sean curled up tighter into himself, whether against the cold or Clint, he wasn’t sure. “You’re...not real.”

“So you keep saying. Yet here I am, sitting, talking to you, all the stuff that goes against that theory.”

“I’m hallucinating.”

“Could be dreaming too.”