A/N: I had rushed with this story the first go round, so decided to rewrite it as a multi-chapter instead of a one-shot. And even though I am not signed on to any ship, it's COPDOC – because it is interesting to me since it was hinted but not cannon.
Thanks for reading.
Chapter One: 9 Lines
She hadn't thought about Afghanistan for years. Mentioned, yes, really thought about - no. She had blocked out everything about it except the valuable skills she had gained there. That was why she had volunteered in the first place; the wanted terrorist Karen Beattie was dead, and Dr. Lauren Lewis needed real trauma experience to start her new life. Being a doctor and saving lives was the best way she could think of to make amends for the lives she had accidently taken; her rotting in a prison cell wouldn't bring the dead back to life. But the guilt over what she had done followed her into the war, and tinted her perceptions of the people around her. She hated the war; the killing. She wanted to forget about it; she needed to forget about it. But the sight of white wings painted with blood brought her thoughts back to her experiences in Kandahar so many years ago, dragging her buried emotions along with them.
The tattered, blood spattered patch was one the souvenir she saved from her year stint there. After all she had been through with the fae, and her love for Bo, she didn't know why she had even bothered. Everything else she had brought back had been discarded over the years. She wasn't even sure if she still had it. But she had searched it out, and here it was, in her hands once again. As she read the motto once again embroidered on it, she realized just how much she misunderstood the whole situation, both then and now.
She wanted her new life to be about helping people; to heal them. A battlefield hospital was the best place to gain that experience. Her life was already on 'pause,' so it was easy decision to go as a civilian doctor contracted to ISAF. It wasn't, however, an easy thing to go through. To hear the cries of the injured and dying calling out to their mothers or other loved ones while she tried desperately to help them instead of comfort them. It was emotionally draining. There were few people she felt comfortable opening up to in the war zone. She was afraid the few civilian native English speaking contractors there might be intelligence agents who knew about her past. And the Russian woman who worked at the makeshift hair salon talked incessantly about trying to snag a husband, and little else. Talking about the killing all around them, the multiple rocket attacks on the base nightly, and mourning the dead was topic non grata. What could be more urgent topic for discussion? She didn't understand.
She certainly couldn't talk with the military people from any of the many represented countries. The place was a veritable United Nations with soldiers instead of diplomats. Most of them were here to aid in the killing of others, either directly or indirectly. And they were a crude bunch, for the most part. She didn't interact with them much outside of work, and being stuck in a bunker with them during rocket attacks was excruciating. They would casually chat about football pools and 'who's doing who' speculation or various other mundane gossip. It was never about their homes, or loved ones when the danger of being in a war zone was most palpable. The possible death raining down was never open for discussion. They were like children, she had thought. They were arrogant in their ignorance. She hated how they took pride in their ambivalence to danger. They didn't understand.
Her only comfort in the war zone was the coffee shop. There was a Tim Hortons, but it was next to the concrete 'hockey rink' her fellow Canadians built inside the wooden square boardwalk. Dodging the racquetball they used as a 'puck' reminded her too much that she was in a war zone. So, she usually chose the Green Bean next to the administrative building pockmarked with bullet holes colloquially revered to as 'Taliban's Last Stand.' The Pakistani men who worked there knew how she liked her coffee. They always had it ready for her by the time she made it to the front of the perpetually long line with a smile. That's where she first saw the patch, while sipping her drink before work. Dark brown shaggy hair, red beard and not in uniform (which US Military personnel were required to wear), he looked like a civilian. But his patch and accent gave him away as an American military special operator. He was looking for her, and her boss at the hospital pointed her out to him. "You Dr. Lewis? Grab a three day bag and meet me at the rescue ramp in 30 minutes."
She had no choice but to go, to the forward operating location at Tarin Kowt. But she wanted to go; it was a chance to help the critically injured too unstable to risk the flight to Kandahar. It was also a chance to treat the locals with their illnesses and injuries. The helicopter already had rotors turning when she arrived. Red Beard ignored her; he was busy with his teammate getting their equipment loaded. But the maintenance mechanics gave her earplugs and a headset to wear on her flight before ushering her under the turning blades and securing her with a wide belt that had a tether attached to an anchor point and she sat against the back of the cabin. Two of them got into the bird and belted up with her, a nervous looking young man and an older woman. The young man sat on his helmet facing her, the woman in the cabin doorway with legs dangling out like the operators. As he gazed at the doctor with nervous, apologetic eyes, she felt might be a kindred spirit. He felt the horrors of the war, as she did. Lauren smiled warmly at him.
Suddenly, the woman in the doorway turned to her and shoved a bunch of manila envelopes into her hand. Lauren took them curiously, as the maintainer laughed. Motion sickness bags. She indicated her comrade's body armor, and mimed vomiting. Lauren eyes searched his patches: 'Fun Meter pegged', 'You sent me to Afghanistan – You Bastards!' until she saw his identification patch. 'Crew Chief' his specialty, 'Barf' his name, apparently. How can these people be so cruel, even to each other? She thought as the frightening shaking of the helicopter eased somewhat as they began to taxi out. Soon they lifted off smoothly, and flew at low altitude. The horizon shifted radically to and fro as the bird yanked and banked, climbed and dove to follow the rugged terrain. And Barf lived up to his nickname. Oh boy. Sympathetic regurgitation, welcome to the party. Lauren thought as she took a bag of her own out of an envelope. The smell was quite stomach-wrenching. The two gunners scanning out their windows and the passengers enjoying the fresh air out of the cabin doors thankfully chose to ignore the puke fest going on inside the cabin.
Once at TK, things got better for Lauren. It was strange; she thought it would be hell being so close to the actual fighting. But the service member were visibly more relaxed there, as if the danger of reprimand from a high ranking officer were worse than the increased risk of attack from the enemy. And she was allowed to attend the clinics the American and Aussie Special Forces medics held for the local Afghanis. Red Beard was always by her side, like a guard dog, asking her medical questions and handing out candy he produced from his copious pockets to the children. He was a medic, among his other duties, and he wanted to be a doctor some day. Maybe he was different. Maybe he was like her. But he was always armored and armed, vigilant for any sign of danger. She began to believe he had a crush on her.
Your duty day never ended at a forward operating location, or FOL as the military folk called it out of their love for acronyms. The 9 line reports requesting aid could be called in at any time, so you worked when needed. But it was reminiscent of camping back home at night, when the maintainers would build a bonfire out of discarded ammo pallets. Watching Barf break them up with large rocks made her laugh, which she apologized for doing. He merely grinned, spit out a stream of tobacco juice, and shrugged before carrying on, "Improvise, adapt and overcome!" How disgusting. She had thought he was like her, but he wasn't – he was one of them, no matter how cruelly they treated him. He wore their nickname for him like a badge of honor, and merrily engaged in their long running and ever escalating prank war. It was he that had placed the dead snake in the toilet, frightening the wits out of the female maintainer that flew up on the helicopter with him and mocked his weak stomach. She had run awkwardly out of the bathroom with her pants around her ankles. But, despite the other service members tormenting her now on a daily basis, she had complimented Barf on his clever retaliation. Lauren would never get these people.
Sitting around the fire, it was all too easy to forget where she was. Red Beard would sit with her and talk about impressionist art, and Dickens, philosophy, Vivaldi – whatever she was interested in he seemed well versed and educated about enough to offer an informed opinion. They sat and ate the white chocolate macadamia nut cookies mysteriously unavailable at the main base. It was unexpectedly pleasant in this poorly equipped outpost. Until the last night, when he tactfully hinted she meant more to him than a mere colleague. She responded, equally tactfully, that though she valued his company, she wasn't attracted to him in that way. He said he could be happy just being friends. She was glad. Someone did understand her, she wasn't alone. He wasn't like them.
The next day she changed her mind. He was worse than them. While she was treating some locals who were injured by an old Russian land mine, he killed a boy. Yes, the boy had an AK 47. And yes, he was shooting at them from behind a car. But he was a boy, maybe fifteen years old, if that. Red Beard killed him, and felt nothing. His comrades of all nationalities congratulated him on his quick reaction and accurate shooting, yet never mentioned that he had saved their lives by killing a boy. He thanked them as they cleared the area and rushed Lauren back to the FOL. She was horrified. Lauren silently shed tears as the rest of the cadre remained alert for further attack and casually made small talk and joked with each other. These people weren't merely beyond her understanding – they were insane.
She avoided him after that, and it was easier to do since she returned to Kandahar that evening. But she did see him in the ER, on occasion. Always professional, never personal, their conversations were curt and tense and strictly work-related. Dr. Lewis was a professional; she could do her job and ask the necessary medical questions of a man she loathed for the sake of her patient. Although she never mentioned her feelings over what happened that day, he seemed to know how she felt without it being said explicitly. He understood her, even though she didn't understand him. But after every time he left the hospital to return to the killing, she would find a package of the cookies they enjoyed together at the FOL on her desk.
The last day she saw him he wasn't bringing in a patient; he was the patient. His body ripped to shreds by shrapnel, his teammate had informed her a suicide bomber dressed as a woman in a burka got close to him. He had been handing out candy to the children in a village near Kandahar when the bomber approached him. His wounds were fatal; they all knew it, and Red Beard did, too. All she could do was keep him comfortable until the end, which didn't take long. His comrades mourned him silently for a few minutes, before their radio toned out an alert – another 9 line report, another life hanging by a thread. They quickly sprang into action, grabbing their fallen friend's gear and rushing out of the hospital. But one paused and turned to her, pulling the Velcro patch off Red Beard's load bearing vest he would never need again. "He was fond of you, and I think he would want you to have this, Doc." He grabbed her hand and pressed it into her palm, and she thought she might have seen unshed tears glistening in his brown eyes. But it may have been the dust that was ever present and even blocked out the sun at times, because he jogged quickly after his teammates without even waiting for her to reply. As the military doctors took the dead man to mortuary affairs personnel, she realized she never even knew his real name.
After her tour was over, she began her life again. And it was such an adventure, Africa, Nadia, slave to the Ash - and then Bo came into her life. She was such a breath of fresh air, beautiful and charming. But what really drew her to the succubus was how much alike they were in their desire to help people and their abhorrence of violence, of killing. She understood Bo, and Bo felt the same towards her. Lauren was no longer alone; she had found a kindred spirit, a soul mate. And she had found the love of her life.
Muffled moans and mumbled words in a language unidentifiable to her broke her out of her reverie. He patient was talking in her sleep again. She had done more than just talk in her sleep over the past two days in the clinic. She had screamed, both in anger and terror, and at times – sobbed so heart-wrenchingly Lauren almost cried with her and had to leave the room. But she hadn't regained consciousness, and the doctor was beginning to worry that she never would. Lauren tucked the patch into the pocket of her lab coat and walked over to Tamsin's beside to check on her. She was lying on her stomach, necessitated by the fact that her wings were out – and broken. Lauren had set and splinted the damaged bones as best she could. The doctor placed a hand gently on the Valkyrie's shoulder to calm her. She knew the snarky blonde hated people touching her hair, and so avoided laying a hand on her head. She was a killer, and like Red Beard, had remorselessly killed to save the doctor before her very own eyes. It was a sight both horrifying and sublime to behold. And that is what had triggered her memories of Kandahar.
After Bo had opened the box and freed her Hades, they dispatched the Nyx. But Zeus didn't give up trying to carry out her evil plan to gain dominion over the earth. She was now recruiting from the after-life realms, and Bo went with her father to Tartarus to do the same. Lauren didn't have the ability to travel there with her, but Tamsin did. And the succubus had insisted she come along to help her, which the Valkyrie scoffed at and refused to do in a way both unnecessarily rude and vulgar. They had argued, the shouting match nearly escalating into an all out physical brawl. But Lauren stepped in to calm the situation. Once Bo had left in a huff with a parting verbal low blow to her former roommate that even made Lauren wince, she made her own attempt to sway the Valkyrie.
Tamsin was literally shaking with shame and anger at Bo's vicious and very public mockery of her tearful confession of love, but said nothing. Lauren observed her carefully as she stepped closer to try to convince the Valkyrie to aid in their efforts to stop Zee by working with the woman who rejected her. She tried to remind the warrior that they needed her, now, and maybe by letting the Valkyrie know how much she commiserated her she could sooth her wounded heart. As she laid a comforting hand on the Valkyrie's arm she said softly, "Tamsin…I've been there, and…she didn't mean that…"
The taller blonde sighed and closed her eyes. "Oh, yes she did. She meant every single word of it. You don't know what you are talking about, Lewis."
She felt encouraged when she no longer felt the woman's body trembling beneath her hand and tried to comfort her by pulling her closer, "No, Tamsin, I do. I know her, and I understand how you feel."
The Valkyrie's features morphed into an expression of outrage briefly as she opened her eyes and looked at her in pure disbelief before shaking her head, "No, Lewis. I don't think you understand how I feel at all. None of you do."
Lauren silently agreed with her. She didn't understand the mercurial Valkyrie, and everyone in their group felt the same way. But she still persisted in trying to enlist her aid, albeit more forcefully, "Can't you put aside your feelings and do the right thing?!" She was beginning to get angry now. Dr. Lewis was the consummate professional, she could do that – why couldn't Tamsin?
The Valkyrie laughed bitterly in response and looked at the ceiling as she told Lauren, "Oh, I always put aside my feelings. You have no idea." She looked back at her before telling her earnestly, "But I have something more important to do than traipse after a woman who has no idea what the fuck she is doing and doesn't give a shit about me." She extricated herself from the doctor's grip with a violent shrug and stormed out of the bar. Tamsin was a mystery wrapped in a conundrum.
That important 'thing' Tamsin needed to do happened the next evening. Lauren had just come home and poured herself a glass of wine when Stacey broke through the locked door, shredding it. And she wasn't alone this time, though Dr. Lewis was. Bo was still in Tartarus, and Dyson was off with his son on their own mission. The vengeful Valkyrie didn't waste any time with snarky comments or threats this time and got right down to business, snatching Lauren by her blonde hair throwing her against the wall before wrapping both hands around her neck. Her companions stood near the door with swords drawn, making sure they wouldn't be interrupted. But they were, and in a way Lauren would have never foreseen. As her vision spotted and began to narrow to a pinpoint, Lauren heard a deafening roar that echoed and rumbled like rolling thunder even after it was ended. Her body fell to the ground, vision still spotty and unreliable, yet her ears reported the shouts and scuffling of a fight clearly.
When she did fully regain control of her faculties, she saw the aftermath. Dead Valkyrie littered the floor and two yet living were fighting on it. Stacey was on her back, bloodied and injured but desperately kicking and squirming in a vain attempt to stay alive. Tamsin was sitting on top of her throttling the very life out of her with her bare hands in the same manner Stacey had tried to kill Lauren. Her rescuer's wings were out and hanging limply, broken and covered with blood - her face a mask of death. I need to stop this! Stacey is still alive, and maybe I can save her! Lauren thought. It was what she did, after all. Her reason for living was to save people.
"Tamsin – stop! You're killing her! Please, Tamsin! It's over!" But Lauren's emphatic pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. She didn't understand why Tamsin wouldn't stop now that Stacey was in no shape to hurt them any longer. In desperation, she tried to physically pry the woman off her victim, to no avail. Once it was over and Stacey no longer drew breath, Tamsin's face returned to normal, she released her hold on her victim's neck and leaned back. Wavering in an upright position for a mere second she offered Lauren a sorrowfully apologetic smile before falling backward onto her broken wings. Oh no, no, no, Tamsin, NO! Lauren now knew why Tamsin had to finish off her rival despite Lauren begging for her to spare their attacker's life. In addition to her other injuries, the handle of a large carving knife was protruding from her chest.
"Oh no, Tamsin…no…stay with me…hang on…you're going to be alright…I've got you…"The doctor soothed as she gathered up the woman dangerously near death and somehow managed to get her on the couch, gingerly laying her down on her back and broken wings. She knew it must be incredibly painful to the Valkyrie, but the injury to her chest was critical.
Tamsin was barely conscious, and muttered a sarcastic apology instead commenting on her condition or offering any explanation as to why or how she came to be there in the first place. "Sorry about the mess, Lewis. But, in my defense, you are a lousy host. You didn't even offer me a drink." She tried to laugh at her own joke, but ended up coughing up blood in the effort before falling unconscious.