Clay lay on top of the unfamiliar navy blue comforter, one that Stella must have bought while he was gone, still in his BDUs and boots. He was exhausted, too exhausted to do anything more than drop his bag by the door and stumble down the hall to his bed. But despite his fatigue, his eyes wouldn't close. And when they did close, the same sight awaited him.
Fifteen.
By all measurable standards, the mission was a success. The intel was good. The team not only located the phone, but also identified the owner and her handler. The brass was practically shitting themselves at the triple score. Best of all, the team didn't suffer a single injury, in and out before anyone else figured out what was happening. But despite the official summary, the trip home was quiet. No toasts. No jokes about how many cases of beer Clay now owed (twelve). Hell, for the first time nobody even tried to tip him out of his hammock or slip something slimy into his bag.
Fifteen.
The shooting was clean. Even before Jason corned Clay for a pep talk - which Jason did not once but twice, first at the house and then again after the debriefing - he knew. Entering the house of a known enemy combatant, faced with a man holding an AK-47, the situation was textbook. But still...
Fifteen.
Despite a few tense moments during the chopper ride back, the girl pulled through. The brass was much more willing to expend resources - blood, plasma, a real doctor - upon discovering that she might know something. And boy did she - know things that was. Once that girl got talking, she didn't stop. And mixed in with the usual propaganda and vitriol over American atrocities, there was intel about a recruitment operation that they previously knew jack shit about.
Fifteen.
Angry over the loss of a friend, drawn in by a charismatic boy, Aisha Bashar was no different than millions of other angst-ridden teenage girls. Still, this was no child caught up in something she didn't understand. Unlike the majority of the teenage combatants Clay encountered in Afghanistan, who were brainwashed from birth to believe that they would earn eternal salvation by blowing themselves up, Aisha had been raised by parents who rejected the jihadist path, who sheltered their children as much as possible from the surrounding violence. She was educated, her future prospects bright. She hadn't even lost a parent or a sibling or a limb. Just a friend. She threw away her future and tore her family apart over a friend.
Fifteen.
Clay should feel better about the shooting, knowing who and what she was. Knowing that the raid, her capture, could save innumerable American lives. But he didn't. Because she was still a kid. An unarmed kid. A kid who was sitting in a room studying for a biology test one minute, and bleeding out the next. And it was wrong. All of it was wrong. Aisha should be home with her family right now, studying or talking to her mother, maybe making plans to meet up with friends. Definitely not in Turkey being interrogated, leaving her devastated family to pick up the pieces, unlikely to ever see her again.
Bullet or no bullet, fifteen years old and Aisha's life was over.
The click of the key turning in the lock startled Clay, and he noticed the shadows playing across the bedroom ceiling for the first time, realizing how long he had been laying here. There was a jingle as Stella dropped her keys to the small ceramic dish she placed by the door for that express purpose after the fourth or fifth time he misplaced his set. The swish of her jacket as she hung it in the closet was followed by the click of her heels walking down the hall.
Stella leaned against the frame of the door, arms folded across her chest, a smile playing on her lips. "Hey, handsome, didn't know you were home."
Clay forced himself to sit up, noticing the crust of sand now decorating the duvet cover. Shit. "I'll clean that up after I shower."
Before he could bring himself to stand, though, Stella was moving forward, only the slightest slip in her smile betraying her concern, her recognition that something was wrong. Sitting down next to him on the bed, she wrapped an arm around his back, head moving to his shoulder. "Sand. So I guess that rules out South America."
Clay smiled. "Actually Argentina has some nice beaches."
She hesitated. "Everyone okay?"
Brian. She was thinking about Brian. "The guys are fine."
An answer that was - and wasn't - an answer. Ignoring the sand, Clay shifted so they were sitting against the headboard, pushing a small pillow decorated with some sort of flower crap onto the floor in the process. Stella's hand traced a pattern on his stomach. "You want to talk about it?"
Clay consider the question, the silence stretching, before twisting his neck to press a kiss on her forehead. "Some days just suck."
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A/N - this popped into mind after Episode 10 so I decided to throw it up and see if there was any interest. Always love to hear what people think! Until next time... - tmtcltb