In the quiet of the night, the squad usually took shifts watching the prisoners in the courtyard, bound by zip ties at their wrists to keep them from doing any funny business. They took shifts keeping guard, a couple hours in pairs so the other three could rotate and get some sleep, then in the morning, Spencer would separate the prisoners, a thin lanky man with black curls and a scar on his right cheek, and another man, beefier with a beard nearly touching his collar. He'd scream and taunt and god knows what at them for hours, but for almost two weeks straight they never budged or said a word, only speaking with each other in the dead of the night in the softest of whispers in their native tongue. Emma thought she saw the beefier one console the lanky man one night, attempting to lift his spirits and encourage him to get through one more night. But then again they could easily be conspiring a revolt plan. Maybe they were just frightened citizens without a passport, doing what they had to do to get by and get out but found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time and definitely by the wrong person. Or maybe Spencer's gut feeling was right and they were the head of an underground operation, stealing access to military information in the hopes of exploiting their weaknesses. It made Emma sick to think that either was true, and all she could do was patrol and wait.
But tonight, Spencer's patience had worn thin. He had banished the squad to the tent, and the usually quiet night was privy to the sounds of frustrated yelling, bones breaking, and flesh tearing.
Where life was threatened outside the tent, inside, the squad gathered for an unceremonious toast. Water bottles clinked as they sat on crates and dirt, bottles raised to Neal Cassidy. It was just another day for any of the other men in the squad–most hadn't even realized it was a new year–but for Neal, it was nearly unbearable to be sent out so soon after hitting base. The upside of the military: they were very good at delivering news to their men faster than any post or courier service could.
Neal had gotten word today that his baby girl was born just three days ago.
"Congratulations." A collective cheer rang out from the squad as they toasted the man who grinned down at the picture in his palm of Tamara in the hospital bed, hair pulled into a bun and wayward wisps flying everywhere as she held up six pound ten ounce Alia Justine Cassidy. Alia's face was scrunched up, and her caramel tone was tinted red from what must surely have been tears, but she was perfect, and every time Neal looked at that picture, his smile matched his wife's, wide and proud and happy.
Emma clasped his shoulder and shook her head. "Can you believe it? You, a dad."
He moved to take a swig of his water bottle, but halfway to his lips he caught sight of the picture and grinned all over again, forgetting his thirst and just about everything else in the world. "Man, it's like it's not even real."
"It will be." Cabrera's deep voice sounded from the back of their tent. His eyes were closed and he was sitting on a cinderblock. If they hadn't just heard him speak, they were sure to bet that their Sergeant was sleeping. But then he opened his eyes, and for once deep brown eyes softened as he tugged on his collar and weaved out a silver chain with a locket strung through it. The floodlights from the courtyard were enough light to see the two kids, a boy and a girl no older than nine and six. In the other locket was an older woman, Cabrera's wife by the looks of it, holding up a baby less than a year old. As quick as he'd shown it, he replaced the locket back under his jacket and resumed his sleeping position, his eyes falling shut as he spoke. "When you hold that baby in your hands for the first time, every time, they become the only real thing you'll ever know."
"I never saw you as a family man," Kennedy commented.
"You never asked," Cabrera answered and dismissed in one breath before putting his hands behind his head to rest for the night.
"I want a huge family," Frederick chimed in. "Me and the missus and the kids running around the house with the huge yard and the dogs chasing after them."
Kennedy snorted. "That sounds gay."
Emma scoffed and cocked an eyebrow. "If his missus was a mister then yeah, but I don't think you know what that word means."
Before Kennedy could retort, Neal roused up beside Emma and smirked pointedly at Ken. "Clearly you're not getting any." He turned to Emma, ignoring Kennedy as the younger soldier flipped him the bird, and with an inquisitive quirk of his eyebrow but a knowing tilt to his lips asked, "Big family? Two point five kids, a dog, and a white picket fence?"
The blonde snorted but smiled nonetheless, falling right into Neal's trap of thinking of the two brunette Millses in Storybrooke, neatly trimmed hedges in front of a mansion, in fact, and Pongo whenever that Dalmatian showed up. "Never had much family growing up, but if I could choose, a boy you can't mess up with as much." As an afterthought, the image of a little girl with dark unruly curls in a pink tutu dress, sneakers, and skinned knees came to her mind, and she shrugged. "But girls are just as adorable and even more smarter."
The men laughed, even Cabrera smirking in his sleeping state, as they all nodded their agreement.
"You better start learning how to braid and do pigtails now," Fred commented, pointing at Neal with the tip of his bottle.
Neal snorted. "You think Tamara is gonna let me anywhere near Alia's hair?" He grinned saying his daughter's name, and the squad shook their head at his over pleased face.
"She's gonna be spoiled." Kennedy's comment earned him murmurs of agreement from Emma and Frederick, and an acknowledged grunt from Cabrera. Neal didn't even have it in him to deny the claim, though Emma knew the months leading up to his daughter's birth had him on edge. All he had were detailed descriptions of every OB appointment and ultrasounds from the past six months. Emma was just grateful Tamara hadn't given a play-by-play of the actual birth, but if she were in Neal's position, she knew she'd want every detail too. Hell, a video even. Scratch that, she'd just rather be there holding her wife's hand and coaching her through all the Lamaze classes they'd probably attended. She looked down and suppressed the grin threatening to spill from her face.
"Why aren't you out there guarding the prisoners?" Spencer's demanding tone boomed in the otherwise quiet night, and for the first time they realized the screaming had stopped as he pushed aside the cloth opening and entered their makeshift sitting area.
Cabrera was the first to stand and address the General who, despite his older age, made everyone around him feel like he could snap their neck in two with his bare hands. He probably could and no one was willing to be his first volunteer. "You told us to stay away while you questioned the prisoners, sir."
"Now I'm telling you to get your asses out there and make sure they stay there." Emma had no idea how Cabrera resisted an eye roll or snarling his lip, but the Sergeant just nodded at his squad, and one by one the four of them moved out of the tent and into the courtyard, all ignoring the way Spencer breathed down their necks like they were the prisoners.
Emma frowned when she pulled back the tarp to see the lanky and bearded men on their knees, unbound yet obedient. Their faces were bruised and their lips had split. The lanky man with the scar on his cheek had a fresh one on his opposite to match. The glare he threw at her made it seem as if she were the one to give it to him.
"Why do we gotta watch them for?" Neal muttered aloud when they all exited the tent.