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She heard a knock on the door and she looked up, disoriented. She glanced at the clock, noting it was late and she still had to finish packing before her flight early next morning.
She went to the door, pulling the kimono she wore as a robe, tighter around herself.
She opened the door to see him lean against the frame. The scent of pad thai caressed her senses and she glanced at the bag of food in his hand.
"Hey stranger" she greeted him, not opening the door wider.
A smirk flashed on his face as though he understood the challenge she was posing.
"I realize I've been MIA. So I brought gifts to placate you" he lifted the bag, and the incredible smell made her stomach growl.
She sighed, opening the door wider.
"You're lucky I skipped dinner" she said, trying to keep her voice unaffected.
It's been a week since he'd left her apartment, early in the morning, and there has been no calls, no messages, no attempt at contact.
She was surprised at how much that fact frustrated her. She wondered what it meant, wondered if his internal debate was more easily decided now that he'd had her. Then she wondered why she was thinking so much about the situation, since she usually preferred her interactions as scarce as possible. That seemed to be contradicted by the frustration she was currently feeling seeing him show up at her door as if they'd agreed on it previously.
A couple of days ago she finally got fed up with her mind wandering to him so frequently and concentrated instead on arranging the trip to Russia that she'd been planing for a while.
"I'm sorry it's been so long" he offered placing the bag of food on her counter.
She busied herself with taking out plates.
"I'm sure you were preoccupied" she shrugged, trying to fish out napkins from one of the cabinets.
She gasped as she felt his body envelop hers.
"I was" he murmured into her ear and she tensed, the intimacy feeling strange but welcome at the same time.
"I guess advising leaves little time left for communication" she joked, and she wondered why she was still obsessed with his lack of contact.
"I did call" he murmured, his tone quiet, calm.
She furrowed her brows turning in his arm and leaning back against the cabinet trying her best to put distance between them.
"You didn't pick up" he clarified.
She remembered having a couple of calls from blocked numbers.
"From a blocked number?" she questioned.
He sighed, wiping his eyes and she noticed for the first time how tired he looked. It made her feel silly and she consciously relaxed her body, trying to understand why they were even having this conversation.
"Pentagon numbers are blocked, yes" he offered and she suddenly had a flash of recognition remembering the news and the buzz the town's been under for the last couple of days.
"Were you advising on the air strikes?" she asked, realization slowly dawning on her.
"Let's eat" he said, taking the napkin from her hands and turning to unpack the bag of food.
"Where you in there all week long?" she asked, her reporter self not managing to leave it alone.
He sat down across from her on the bar stool on the other side of the counter.
"What do you want? Pad thai or pork curry?" he asked ignoring her question.
"Pad thai" she replied, sitting down across from him.
He scooped the food out onto her plate and took the other box to get his own.
She studied his movements. She couldn't tell if he was annoyed or indifferent or just tired and she felt strange, his late night visit feeling too intimate and not intimate enough at the same time. Her questions sounded like hurt accusations to her own ear. She didn't understand where it was coming from.
"Eat" he told her, not looking up as he took a fork and started to eat.
She sighed and started eating herself.
They ate in silence, and she sneaked looks of him only briefly, each time finding his intent gaze on her.
He ate fast and he was finished before even half of her food was gone. She felt full and she pushed her remaining food towards him. He took it without question and finished it off as she poured him water into a glass.
"So this is where we are now? You show up when army schedule permits you to for a booty call?" she asked, her question cutting in the silence.
He froze, looking up at her with a serious expression and she felt her ears warm.
"Do you want me to leave?" he asked, his voice unaffected.
She scoffed and he took a long swig from his water.
"I'd like there to be a little more communication" she retorted.
"I'm sorry, I'll leave a voicemail next time. I don't like them..."
"I'm not talking about the phone calls, Tristan" she cut him off, her annoyance back with a vengeance.
"If you're going to show up here and expect me to invite you into my bed..."
"I don't expect you to do anything" this time he was the one cutting her off. His voice was stark, a hint of anger inside.
"I need you to acknowledge my questions" she went on, standing her ground.
There was a beat of silence as the two stared at each other in the quiet kitchen.
"Okay" he said, with a sigh, leaning back and crossing his arms.
She felt reassured but insecure at the same time, and she took a deep breath.
"Is this what you do at the Pentagon?" she asked.
"I'm an advisor" he said simply.
"In military operations?" she asked.
"Yes" he replied.
"How long have you been doing this?" she went on, feeling confident.
"Six months" he replied without missing a beat "since a little after I came back"
"And you volunteered to do this while on medical leave?" she asked.
"I volunteered to do this until they let me go back to work full time" he corrected her.
"What were you actually doing this past week?" she asked.
He remained silent, his gaze intent on her.
"Are you in a mission control room calling out orders?"
"This is classified, Rory" he said, his voice sounding tired.
"Right. So is your injury, right?" she asked pointedly.
He dropped eyecontact and pushed the plate he finished further away to be able to lean on the counter.
He made no effort to protest and she turned around annoyed walking into her bedroom. She sat on the bed, going through the clothes she had thrown out for packing.
She heard him approach and lean against the doorframe of the bedroom.
"Do you want me to leave, Rory?" he repeated his question from before, his tone irritated.
"Do you want to leave, Tristan?" she countered, her tone matching his.
"I don't. God knows why not" he replied.
They stared at each other as if they were on two sides of a precipice.
"I don't know how to do this" he said, his voice calm again, almost pleading "I know it would be easier to focus on what I need to focus on but... I'm drawn to you."
She swallowed, her throat feeling dry as she listened to his confession.
"I don't know how to please you. I can't promise... I can't promise anything. And I know that's not fair. So..." he trailed off looking around slowly and taking a step towards her.
"Ask me your questions. I'll do my best" he said quietly, his fingers reaching the top button of his shirt.
She watched with her heart beating wildly in her chest as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and took it off.
She gasped seeing him. His torso was covered with a large healed wound, the skin pink and uneven across his chest. There were other scars too, more than she could count. Her eyes darted from one to another and they landed on the torn tattoo on his left arm. She concentrated making out the original shape, a sword perpendicularly in front of a red rectangle, but the bottom part of the art was destroyed, a light pink patch of scar tissue obstructing it.
Despite the scars, he looked magnificent, the light from her nightstand illuminating the sculpted form of his muscles.
His shoulders were wide, his arms strong and his well defined pectorals moved slowly as he breathed.
Her eyes traveled down to his stomach, with a razor sharp six pack and further down, the v shape disappearing into the slacks he was wearing. She watched him and felt a strange mix of awe, fear and arousal, her skin heating up and her breathing becoming shallow.
She stood up from the bed, taking measured steps towards him.
He stood in her studying gaze patiently unmoving.
The room was dark, only lit by the single lamp from her nightstand and the light cast sharp shadows on the uneven skin where the scars covered him.
She came to stand in front of him, her fingers tentatively reaching out to touch him. From closer she could see several more scars, smaller but more defined than the injuries initially catching her eye.
She felt his breathing hitch as her finger touched his skin and his mouth opened slightly, his jaw tensing.
She looked up at him as if asking for permission and she saw his eyes swirl with restrained emotion.
'What's this?" she asked, her fingers brushing over a short scar on the side of his torso that she only noticed from close.
"Chest drain" he replied, his voice deep with what sounded like arousal and she shivered.
She glanced up to his face seeing his eyes trailed on her, his intent gaze sending chills down her spine.
"And this?" she asked, as her fingers moved to his neck to skim over the white dots that were usually covered by his shirts' collars.
"Central line. Several" he replied.
Her eyes flashed up to his throat, feeling uneasy, her eyes trained on the thin scar right across the center of his neck.
"Tracheostomy" he said, without being asked.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, taking a deep breath.
Her hand trailed across his chest and down to his abdomen tracing the largest scar and she didn't need to ask what it was. The edges were uneven here, the scar tissue extensive and she knew this wasn't done by doctors. It was burn injury, extensive and horrifying. Her fingers followed its course and she felt the muscles beneath his skin tense under her touch.
"What else?" she asked, her voice coming out as if it were floating as she sat down on the bed, leaving room for him.
He studied her breathing controlled, as if he were contemplating the next step. He swallowed hard and his face showed pain for a split second only.
He unbuttoned his pants, pushing them down together with his underwear down to his knees as he came to kneel on the bed next to her.
He let her study him, no trace of shame present on his face. His legs were beautiful, lean and muscular.
Her eyes flashed to his erection as he stood her searching gaze and felt a surge of arousal inside of her.
"This" he said as he traced a fine circular scar on the top of his leg, "is where they had one canule and this" he pointed to a similar one on his other leg "the other."
"For what?" she asked, her voice trembling. She couldn't tell if it was because of the intense need she felt or fear.
"It's..uh... extra corporeal oxygenation" he said, his forehead creasing.
"My lungs didn't work" he clarified.
She shook her head, not understanding.
"You didn't just get shot" she said.
"No" he said, his hands slowly going to her legs and pulling her down towards him.
His movements were slow and measured but she still gasped at the motion, falling back down onto the bed without resistance.
Her brain was cloudy, his words trying to make sense while the sight of him elicited feelings of such intense lust she had to close her eyes to try to concentrate.
He crawled over her, between her legs, pushing her robe apart.
He leaned forward, his hand reaching into her nightstand to find a condom, his fingers moving quickly to undo the package. She closed her eyes, waiting as he finished his task without a sound.
She opened her eyes seeing his eyes clouded over with lust. She felt his hand cup her sex and then his fingers moved her panties to the side, probing her entrance. She gasped and felt a wave of pleasure wash over her, her mind trying to regain control of her thoughts.
"What happened?" she asked, trying to calm her breathing and failing at it.
His eyes met hers as he lowered himself onto her.
There was a moment of silence before she felt him enter her.
"We crashed" he said, pushing into her.
She stared at the ceiling, her eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. She blinked several times, still feeling lightheaded. Her ears were adjusting too and she heard the sounds from the bathroom.
She realized that he slipped out from bed while she must have dozed off, her body succumbing to the exhilarated exhaustion from the intense effort.
She heard the bathroom door open and then close, his steps approaching the bed.
He was slow and quiet as he climbed on to the bed, as if he were extra careful not to touch or disturb her.
She turned slightly, letting him know she was awake.
"You okay?" he whispered.
She smiled, realizing this was his standard question post sex.
"I'm not prone to breaking" she informed him.
"Sorry" he said, nestling in next to her.
"I just... I don't know if I'm too rough..." he trailed off, his eyes cautiously scanning her body.
She felt her breath falter thinking about what he was referring to, his body a tightly flexed column of muscle chasing her and his own release relentlessly.
"You are fine. I like it rough" she replied, calming her heart.
His gaze met hers and he moved to kiss her, his hand going to the back of her neck. His moves were gentle, a stark contrast to how he'd touched her before.
"You drive me insane" he said sighing.
"What do you mean?" she asked, her tone playful.
"I mean...It's hard to control myself when I'm with you like that. You make me unravel" he whispered, the admission strikingly honest compared to his usual cropped responses.
She thought back to his movements, the way he bent and twisted her body, his motions powerful, but somehow still restrained. It made her think about the strength of his body, of what he could do with it. The thought made her shiver.
She took a breath rearranging her thoughts, her fingers tracing the scar on his torso.
"Are you going to tell me about it?" she asked, her voice shrill in the quiet of the dark room as she drew a delicate path against the rough surface of the scar.
He sighed.
There was a silence, long and burdened, as he stared at the ceiling.
She wondered what his debate sounded like.
"I can't really talk about it..." he finally said, his voice controlled, careful.
"If it's too much to..."
"I am not allowed" he broke her off.
"Oh" she said.
"We were working a night mission in Syria and it went bad. We crashed. My crew didn't survive. I did somehow."
His voice was calm. His words simple, straight forward and she wondered if it took him a great deal of effort to make it be like that or whether it was completely natural.
"I had several broken bones and my chest was compressed. This is burn injury" his hand moved hers along the largest scar, confirming what she already figured.
"I also inhaled smoke and lost a lot of blood" he continued, his voice getting more quiet.
He paused and she realized she was holding her breath as she listened to him.
"I got rescued by a field crew, was attended to at the base by the medical team. They airlifted me out to Germany that same night. And I was in Heidelberg at the Hospital for about 4 months"
The last two words echoed in her brain. Four months.
"I don't remember any of what happened after the crash. I don't remember the emergency surgery and being airlifted. My first memory is from the ICU in Germany. But that was three weeks after the crash" he spoke slowly, his words careful.
"I had respiratory failure because of the trauma, the inhalation, the transfusions. My lungs weren't working for a long time. I had some infections after and that prolonged the ICU stay" he went on, his voice a low murmur and she had to strain to catch every word, the expressions foreign to her ears.
"I was there for almost six weeks before they could discharge me to the rehabilitation ward and I was there for another two months" he went on. "And then I came back to the US" he said, finishing his thoughts.
She felt the air stuck in her chest, her heart beating wildly.
"You almost died" she said, her voice just a hoarse whisper.
His gaze landed on hers as he turned slightly to face her.
"I didn't" he replied, his words measured.
"How can you want to go back after that?" she asked bewildered, blinking back tears as she thought of him and the suffering he must have gone through to crawl back to where he was now.
"I didn't die. I am fine" he said, his tone placating.
"You must not be if they don't let you back" she reasoned.
"I have been doing physiotherapy and training for 7 months. I'm almost back to my stats from before. I feel fine" he said a hint of frustration in his voice.
She looked at him bewildered, not daring to say anything.
"I feel like I have all this energy and it's making me explode" he went on and it once again made her think about the way he made love, his body a tightly wound coil of energy.
"I think they are worried about post traumatic stress. But I checked out. I am going to be reevaluated." He sighed, his fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose.
"Don't you think they might be right? For not wanting you back there?" She asked carefully.
He looked at her again, his hand slowly caressing the exposed skin of her arm. It made her shiver and she concentrated on waiting for his answer.
"I am good at what I do, Rory. They know that. They can't afford to lose that. They are just worried I'll fly a Black Hawk into my own base if I go bezerk. They wanna make sure I don't" he shrugged, attempting to lighten the mood, she thought.
"How do you know you won't?" she asked, her voice small.
"I won't" he replied simply.
"Why did they deem you unfit? Psychologically?" she asked thinking back to his words.
He watched her, a slight smirk on his face. It reminded her of the feeling when she finally found an opening in an interview.
"My scores were borderline for PTSD" he admitted.
"So you do have PTSD" she rephrased.
"My scores were borderline for PTSD before I ever went on a fucking tour, Rory" he sighed, his eyes concentrating on his fingers as they slowly pulled the sheet wrapped around her body.
She figured the conversation was over, because she felt him move down, his mouth trailing kisses on the newly exposed skin as his fingers continued to free her from the sheet.
As she closed her eyes, giving into his ministrations, she thought about his last words.
She read about that somewhere. The best soldiers are the ones who are bordering on insane anyway. People with attachment issues. People with problems with authority. They make the best soldiers.
Her thoughts came to a halt as she felt the wet heat of his tongue circle her clit.
