The hot sun beat down on the broad back of a young soldier, as he lay flat on his belly in dirt and brush. Dirt clogged the undersides of his short fingernails, the skin visible on his face and hands painted the colors of the earth. His breathing was steady, so steady a passerby would think he was dead if they could see him. He blended in almost too well, confusing the spotter next to him from time to time as they waited. It was always a waiting game for this young soldier. From his time spent in his underwear in the evaluation hall at MEPS, to completing random PT courses while his CO organized his Ranger School. Now, graduated from Ranger School, specialized in Sniper Training, he was still waiting. There was none of the excitement that the commercials showed, or the hyped up emotion that the recruiter fed him all through high school. No, it was boring up until the target was in the crosshairs. Then it was pressure, pull and run. Run as fast as you could to get out without being discovered.
This afternoon was no different. The sun sat high in the clear sky, the ozone on the horizon cloudy and adding difficulty to see. His spotter lay just as quiet and still as he did, his heart rate more than likely the same rate as his own. Both eyes open, one trained through the scope surveying for his target. He figured it had to have been three hours since they set up in this spot and hadn't seen any telling movement. Until the sun dipped another hour lower and a figure shadowed by the poor ozone crept through a sandy block archway. His shoulders perched a little higher, the stock of the rifle resting more comfortably. The barrel tilted up then down until the three crosshairs of his scope locked on the shadowy figure, his spotter making a subtle clicking sound that could mimic the sound of a cricket. That excitement rushed through him, a steadying breath forced it down for half a second, his forefinger taking that half second to apply a five pound pressure to a curved piece of metal. The silencer barely making the shot audible, and then they were up on their feet, gear already slung on their backs, rifle slung over his shoulder, their feet covering meters of ground at a time.
In minutes they were back at the tents, dodging Humvees that were transporting ammunitions and newly welded firearms to different squads. Their check in was less than ten minutes, a pat on the shoulder and a punch to the pectoral muscle for congratulations and he was back sitting in his barrack, by himself. The letters he had read over and over were crinkled and stained with tears and mud and blood. They sat in a neat stack despite the wrinkles by his pillow and his deep brown eyes that had some haunt to them eyed them carefully. Deciding whether or not to pick them up for the umpteenth time and scan through them. Most of them were negative anyway, his grandfather explaining over and over that he wouldn't see any of this through, that he couldn't believe he had come this far, disagreeing with his career that it was bad. But they were orders nonetheless. The same orders his grandfather was given back in his soldier years.
Instead of picking up those letters and scanning them, he rose to his feet with a wince and walked out to the firing range where the sound of numerous rifles, handguns, and orders filled his ears and eased his racing thoughts. He'd get to go home in a few weeks, it'd be all over and he could see that girl again that he cared for so much. That made his heart race so fast and dulled his sniper training. Thinking of her now made his chapped lips curve up into a smile, and his fingers twitch against the Kevlar of his vest. Her crystal blue eyes felt safe and secure, but there was more behind them, just like in his eyes. There were depths and depths behind his eyes, but he would give it all to her. Let it all go because she'd listen. She'd wrap her in his warmth and press those plump lips to his in a soft secure manner. The intimacy of it distracted him, his ears not picking up the heavy clapping of boots against thin sand behind him.
Those boots had matched a young man, far younger than himself holding out an envelope with a brave and proud smile. They shook hands briefly and the much younger male saluted him before running off into the crowd of men who were too young or looked too old. He took a solid seat on a sand bag bunker and used his buoy knife to slice open the Manila paper. The black, formal ink catching his eye almost instantly and he scanned. The important words finding his vision quickly and bolding. His heart began to race, and he looked up to the sky the salty tears beginning to form. He was going home sooner than he planned. Out of habit he looked around, then rose to his feet and did his best to calmly walk back to his barracks where he would pack his things in quiet and slip out without a word.
The ground was softer in the States, familiar in a peaceful warming kind of way. His tan combat boots trudged over the tarmac in an orderly fashion. His body was tense, strained and exhausted. Coming here was more fearing then going there. Here he didn't know much, he didn't know how to be a civilian but he adjusted the best he could. For her. She grounded him and she didn't even know it. She didn't believe him when he said he was going, never thought he'd see it through. Just like everyone else in his life. Everyone knew his job was based on lies, promises that were empty. The hype of going home in a week's time only to return in a few, following directions and not knowing why. But when that was there, not here. Here he could live; he could exist in something other than dirt and brush. He could hug her and find his peace and she would be none the wiser. He often thought what she would think if she knew he carried her picture everywhere he went as if she belonged to him. But those thoughts disappeared when his boots had carried him to another arrival gate and there was no one there. No flowers, no sign with his name on it, no screeching or running towards him ready to jump in his arms. The reality of the lonely arrival hit him hard, as did the exhaustion.
He was beyond exhausted; he hadn't slept the entire plane ride over, his nerves too on edge to see her, to be home again. He could use a hot shower, a warm soft bed. But first he made a trip to the restroom, surveying himself in the mirror. He looked at least five years older than what he was; the brownish gray stubble coming through on the strong structure of his jaw, his hair was still dusty and longer than he preferred. Dark circles lined his eyes, and even he could see how haunted they seemed, his skin was tan and for a second he wondered how much was still dirt. The cold water came down brown, the splashing continuing until the water ran down the sink clear and he was satisfied that he wouldn't fall asleep in the back of the cab.
Walking through his apartment door was near foreign. He had forgotten about its layout, the way it smelt, how it was decorated. But it was still familiar and he needed familiar. Everything had been so foreign over there. Everything but the orders and the carrying out of those orders. It wasn't until after a twenty-minute hot shower, a clean silent shave that he'd realized he'd crawled inside himself emotionally. He hadn't said one word since he departed and arrived. He'd kept to himself, moving through bunches of people, some smiling at him, some glaring, and some admiring him. His camos were attention drawing and he despised it. There was a pride in wearing them, but he hated seeing the happiness directed towards him, knowing what he'd done. They thought he was a part of history, doing great things but they didn't know how many times he pulled the trigger on someone he didn't even know for some ungodly reason, or how many times he watched a young boy look around horrified to see where it came from. It disgusted him, but it was an order and he took an oath and he'd fulfill that oath so long as it was one more piece of scum the world was rid of. Even if it cost a young child their parent. It was something they all lived with.
Hot coffee burnt his throat and filled the space of the kitchen with a wonderful aroma that was nearly intoxicating. No one knew he was back, hadn't the slightest inkling of when he would be, and that thought warmed him. There was no pressure to go see any of them, he could take a nap, maybe sleep into the next day and be refreshed. But then she crossed his mind and the guilt hit him like a brick. She'd be devastated if he waited, and he'd feel bad regardless of if she said anything about it to him. Truth was, he couldn't wait to see her. They had used her as a bone to throw him. An incentive to get the job done faster so he could go home and see her. But it was always pushed back. Empty promises. But now, here he was in his living room, his flyers mug resting comfortably in his hand, her picture on the table in front of him. Beautiful was he could think of. Her smile was infectious in the photo, and even though the color was fading and the edges were a bit yellow and torn it was still a great photo.
She looked radiant; laughing so hard it crinkled the smooth skin by the corners of her eyes. The blue shirt she wore was his favorite but he'd never said it to her face. It made her eyes look bright and electric, it hugged her curves in the most sinful of ways and at times he was ashamed of how it made his body react. The jeans she wore were not visible in this photo but he knew from memory which ones they were. The dark ones, tight around the thighs and ass, they flared at the top, right where her heels had started. They were new and the pockets had an intricate design stitched on them, and he knew how expensive they must have been but they looked great on her. They hugged her hips low, and accentuated her figure making him swoon and struggle to speak. Quickly, they had become his favorite, that entire outfit had become his favorite so he had asked to take her picture because she had looked nice. And he had printed it out in a wallet size the second he got home, knowing just where in his helmet he would tape it.
Now, it lay on his table urging him to call her, to go see her. Hug her and tell her everything. But he was still nervous, unsure if she felt the way he did. What she would do to him if she didn't. But he gathered that iron courage he displayed overseas and tucked the worn photograph back in wallet before grabbing his keys and locking the door behind him. It took all of ten minutes to drive to her house. The one he thought was too fancy, but suited her nonetheless. He approached the door, his heart drumming in his chest frantically, his palms sweating. He hadn't been this nervous since he told Pops that he had enlisted behind his back and was leaving that night.
The knock was solid and fast, but his eyes caught the light flicking on. He heard her soft footsteps through the door, her nimble fingers working the lock and the fantasy hit him full force. Cradling her face in his calloused hands and taking her mouth with a finesse and roughness that said everything he wanted to say. But when she opened the door, he didn't move a muscle. When she smiled at him in surprise and stepped aside, he simply just walked in. It wasn't until her beautifully plucked eyebrows bunched that he realized he wasn't smiling back at her and that he had remained silent. So he took a step forward, closing the distance between them and wrapped his long arms around her narrow torso. Her nickname slipping from his lips on a whisper against her ear. He had lifted her feet off the ground a few inches, spinning her once then twice until she was giggling for him to set her down.
Her arms were warmer than he imagined they would be, her eyes brighter and her smile larger. She was happy to have him back, excited even and that warmed his heart. Something that he hadn't felt in quite sometime. The moment he set her back down, he half expected her arms to retract back to her sides, but they didn't. They stayed locked around his neck, her face nuzzled comfortably against his chest. She was crying, he realized when he began to feel the warmth seep through his t-shirt. His large hand rubbed soothingly up and down her back while she mumbled against his chest. Part of him wanted to pull away, ask her to repeat herself, but it felt too good. Too good to have her here like this. Snug in his arms, fragile yet sturdy and in a way, his. This was theirs, it always had been.
A fire glimmered in the living rom, warm coffee in their hands as they sat across from each other on the couch. He told her about how he'd just gotten back but stopped for a shower and shave, how the seat on the plane was hell on his back and neck. He told her about all the guys at his base, what they did to pass time between missions and ignored her attempts at asking what his missions were. She had scooted closer to him until she was gingerly curled up into his side, her head on his shoulder.
This was all he wanted, to come home from a hard day or hard flight just to come home and wrap himself in the arms of a warm woman that loved him. That didn't see the death or the fear in his eyes, and didn't question his scars with pity in her voice. Love was what he wanted, the simplest of treasures but the hardest to come by. Here that was, here she was. Curled so lovingly against him, listening to him ramble on about a country he felt he had no business being in, speaking of men she'd never meet. Without thinking, before he could stop himself, his lips were against her soft auburn hair at the top of her head. For a second she had stiffened, but he lingered and she relaxed with a wonderful sigh that drew a smile from his weary features.
Then her hand was in his and she was on her feet dragging him to his and leading the two of them down the hall. She hadn't said one word as they walked, or when she opened the door, turning and facing him. They just stared at each other, his jeans feeling snug in the groin and a part of him felt ashamed. But he couldn't ask her to wait because she was up on her toes her hands running up over his chest, her nose brushing against his before she kissed him.
To say the event was fluid moving and sensual would be a lie. They fumbled with each others clothes throwing them every which way, sighs and groans filling the room as hands wandered, nails scratched, teeth nipped and tongues licked. Hips moved in sync, whispers of endearments were treasured and locked in the memory. His body was slick, tender with soreness but he moved rhythmically; keeping his weight balanced on his forearms above her. Their foreheads were pressed together, their eyes locked together. The emotion he saw in those crystal blues, what he felt as she bit her lip and squeezed around him made his own eyes water with an emotion he'd never experienced.
She had squeezed around him like a vice, her legs locking high around his waist, her hands intertwining with his own as her head fell back, her back arching and her mouth dropping in the most beautiful 'ohs' he'd ever seen. It was more than enough and his body was shaking, shivering despite the sweat that slicked his skin. His muscles went rigid and it took a considerable effort not to collapse on top of her. She held him there, inside her and above her. Not letting him go with her legs still around his waist, her chest heaving underneath his. Her lips pressed gentle kisses all over his face, whispering soft words that he couldn't quite understand.
The moment he slid off her onto his back she followed like a sated kitten; her head on his chest, one arm draped across his waist her fingers tickling his skin, her leg draped over his. They were cuddling, something they'd done numerous times throughout their years. But now it was intimate and they were naked and she had whispered 'I love you' in his ear as his body hit a high he'd never known. His fingers stroked through her hair as they relaxed and he wished she'd fall asleep but she just looked up at him with those big blue eyes that had him the first second he saw them, and she whispered so quietly he almost missed it.
"I love you Booth."
THE END