A/N: I have no idea what I'm doing in this chapter, hahaha. :)


His palms were starting to sweat, and the flowers that he bought from the shop earlier were weirdly getting heavier by the second. He had never felt this nervous in his entire life, and that fact alone was saying something, since it surpassed all of the recent events that had happened to him in the past year: which included his training at Parris Island and his first taste of combat. Nothing ever came close to what he was feeling right now. And it was ridiculous, if he thought about it that much. He had faced dangerous men who were intent on killing him, but when it came to surprising his girl, he felt suddenly lost all of a sudden.

Damn it.

He shook the panicky thoughts away from his mind as best as he could, but somewhat they always seemed to come back with a vengeance. He was thankful that the cool temperatures here were staving off most of the sweat that was starting to soak up his shirt, but in the area near his armpits, he wasn't that lucky. The UCL building was just a few dozen meters ahead, and every step he took going there only increased his already erratic heart rate.

I'm a marine, damn it. I can do anything!

He took a deep, somewhat relaxing breath and proceeded to move forward, his mind visualizing Heather's face if she saw him now with the white roses that he had and the smile that was soon to follow. That thought alone helped calm some of his shot-up nerves. But then again, it wasn't really that much.

Then his mind suddenly wandered about his appearance, and he suddenly became really conscious about it. He tried to assess the outfit he was wearing now, trying to look for any sort of fault that was out of place in it. Seeing none, he was quickly troubled about the stupid scar in his face, which stretched to about an inch a half going downwards across the bridge of his nose.

What if she doesn't recognize me anymore?

He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes just looking blankly ahead as he contemplated whether or not that coming here to surprise her was a huge and horrible mistake. The resolve within him, the one that brought him to this country confident and cavalier, now on the verge of collapse as he thought about the distinct possibility of his girl dumping him because of a fucking scar.

I need a fucking a drink.

Walking further ahead with unadulterated fear starting to creep in, he saw an old-fashioned signpost above a door that showed, "The Nine Bells Pub". His lips widened into a small, sardonic smile. It was as if God himself was speaking to him, pointing to an English bar to help him get wasted for being so stupid, chastising himself again for not completely thinking this trip through.

He checked his chronometer to see what time it was, realizing now that it was only seventeen minutes past fifteen hundred, which unexpectedly gave him a little extra time left before Heather's class for today would end. He looked at the signpost and again at his watch before mentally shrugging.

To hell with it, I guess I could use a drink or two.

His feet practically had a mind of its own as it took towards the door and went inside, even though a part of him was screaming that this way a really bad idea. Entering the establishment, he could smell the savory aroma of fried fish, potato fries (or chips, whatever the hell it was called here), and an assortment of different alcoholic beverages. The place itself didn't look bad either, with everything inside cleaned and well-arranged. To say he was impressed was an understatement, finally coming to the conclusion that the Brits were unquestionably better at a lot of things, besides making tea and fancy, headache-inducing poetry.

The pub itself was half-full, with the patrons happily immersing themselves in their own little word, swaying their glasses of beer and talking to their friends or…mates? He stuck out like a sore thumb in here, but he honestly didn't care. He desperately needed something to soothe his concerns down, and a cold beer was definitely the solution to all of his problems. At least he thought it was.

There wasn't really anyone sitting by the bar countertop, so he walked further and sat on a stool, placing the flowers he brought beside him. An old, balding heavyset man with a mustache went near him, a rag placed on his shoulder.

"What'll you 'ave?"

"What do you have on tap?" The bartender had a confused expression on his face for a fraction of a second before he recovered. Mike could only guess that this place wasn't really visited much by "yanks", as the Brits liked to call him and his fellow countrymen.

"There's Guinness and Carlsberg," The old guy took the rag from his shoulder and started wiping off the surface in front of him, "take your pick, lad."

"Okay then," He wasn't exactly a huge fan of the Danish-made pale lagers, finding the taste of it absolutely horrible. So that only left him with the world-famous Irish dry stout as his remaining choice. Besides, he hadn't really tasted it yet. Now was as good a time as any. "I'll take the—"

The door behind the bartender suddenly opened with a loud noise, and a brunette woman emerged from it hastily, quickly putting her hair in a pony-tail as she approached the older man. She looked gorgeous. The lady had brown eyes with a little scrap of hazel, really attractive features, and luscious lips. The last part he quickly shook off from his head.

"Hi," the brown-eyed lady greeted the bartender in an apologetic tone, "sorry I'm late."

"Where the hell have you been, lass?" The guy gruffly replied. "I've been waiting for you for the past thirty minutes."

"I'm terribly sorry, Jack." She bowed down her head in embarrassment. "I was just moving in to my new dorm at the University and I totally forgot the time."

"Not exactly a good first impression on your first day of work, lass." The woman's shoulders slumped as the guy scolded her before sighing hesitantly. "Just promise me it won't happen again."

"I promise!" The brunette's eyes lit up as she answered quickly with a smile. "I swear it won't happen again."

"Good, you can start with him right here." He pointed his head towards Mike's direction. "I'll be back in a few hours to check up on you." The old man grabbed a bag from underneath the countertop and grabbed his jacket from the coat rack near the door. "Don't screw this up."

"I won't." She replied confidently. The old man just shook his head in apparent disbelief and left.

"So," she faced him, the smile still firmly in place as she wore the bar apron, "what'll you have?"

"A glass of Guinness, please." He politely requested with a smile of his own. She did what he asked and grabbed a glass from the hanging rack above and slowly filled it with the dark-colored beer.

"Here you go," she handed him the glass with a coaster underneath. "a pint of Guinness as ordered."

He nodded his thanks and took a swig on the Irish-made dark brew. He blinked in astonishment. It was surprisingly good. Hell, it was really damn good. He could make out the burnt flavor from the roasted unmalted barley within the draught, and you could barely even taste the alcoholic tang in it. He smiled on his glass as he upended its entire contents in a few gulps, ending with a satisfied exhale. This thing was liquid gold, and it made all the previous beers he drank suck in comparison.

"Another?" The woman—no, the new bartender—had asked. He nodded, with her grabbing another glass from the rack.

"So," she began casually while filling his glass, "come here a lot?"

"No ma'am," she handed him the second glass-filled beer along with a new coaster. "it's my first time here, actually."

"Really?"

"Yep, really."

"So what brings you here?"

"I came here to visit someone, ma'am." He simply told her while he took a liberal sip from his cold beer. Yep, it was still good.

"Is it a friend?" He just gave her a smile.

"I guess you could say that."

"For a yank, you're being awfully cryptic about it. Aren't you Americans usually known for your lack of subtlety?" She remarked with a smug smirk, crossing her arms across her ample breasts. Maybe it was the alcohol's doing, but he could've sworn that she was flirting with him. Was she? Nah, it couldn't be. If she had in another time he'd flirt back, but he had a girlfriend at the moment, and he wasn't exactly looking forward to messing his relationship up.

"I don't usually share my personal life with tardy bartenders, ma'am." He added a smile to soften the blow. She immediately realized her mistake and her cheeks quickly reddened.

"Sorry," she uncrossed her arms and raised a hand to awkwardly scratch the back of her head, "I'm still new to this whole thing."

"I noticed." He replied with an understanding tone. "Piece of advice, though? Usually you ask your customers those type questions after you know 'em for a few weeks or so. Just sayin', ma'am." He took another swill of his drink.

"Okay." She timidly looked away from him, still embarrassed.

"My turn with the questions, then." He rested his elbows on the countertop and leaned his chin on his interconnected fingers. "Why are you thirty minutes late on your first day of work?" She groaned frustratingly, but it wasn't aimed directly at him.

"My best friend was supposed to help me unpack today, instead she goes missing and—" a loud, catchy ringing tone suddenly comes out of nowhere. The lady bartender quickly placed her hand inside one of her cargo pants' pockets and retrieved a mobile phone. "Speak of the devil." She gave him a brief smile before answering the caller.

"Hey! Why weren't you…no, I'm at work right now. You know, from the pub near the University? Didn't you know about that? Yes…I remember…what? That's utterly mad! Wait, don't hang up! Sam? Hello…?" She looked at her cellular phone and frowned, before putting it back in her pocket.

"So," Mike drawled, just swirling his beer inside the glass. "I'm guessing she's still not going to help you out with your stuff?" She sighed exaggeratingly, putting a hand on her forehead.

"No, she's not." He couldn't help but laugh heartily at the poor woman's predicament. "I'm so glad that you find my suffering entertaining, you bloody yank."

"Hey," he raised his arms in surrender, "not my fault your best friend bailed out on you. What she doing now anyway?"

"She met up with this supposedly 'cute' sophomore earlier, told me she was going to 'take a stroll' on Gordon Square with him back at the campus." He raised an eyebrow at her.

"And you don't believe a word she said to you because…?"

"Because she never takes a stroll, and she hates long walks. Knowing her, she's probably shagging him already."

"Ohhh-kay," He drank a huge portion of his beer, wiping off some of the excess liquid in his mouth with the back of his hand. "that's…a bit disturbing."

"Yeah, it is." They were quiet for a few seconds, the silence just starting to settle in before she decided to talk to him again. "If you don't mind my asking, are you a soldier?"

"Why, am I really that obvious ma'am?" He replied sardonically with a smirk. She just gave him another one of her sweet smiles, which he suddenly found distracting.

"Well, the haircut and scar weren't exactly a total giveaway." He just gave out a fleeting chuckle before facing her.

"Close. I'm a Marine, ma'am."

"Oh. So, you served overseas then?" He gave her a short nod.

"Yes ma'am."

"What was it like over there?" She asked innocently.

And that made him think. With his brain induced with a glass and a half worth of quality beer, Mike tried to reflect long and hard at all of the things he had happened since he stepped foot on Iraqi soil nine months ago. How was he going to explain to this pretty young bartender the huge pressures of counter-insurgency warfare? Of what it felt like to have a giant bullseye behind your back whenever you went out to take part in a patrol, or that he was scared shitless thinking the convoy he was in on could be targeted for a preplanned ambush. How was he going to explain her all of that?

Maybe he could even say to her about what he felt like when he lost a man under his command, try letting her know about the residual guilt that was still within him even though he knew it wasn't his fault. But he didn't say anything. All he did was just look at the woman's alluring eyes with a neutral expression for a few seconds, then grabbed his half-empty glass of beer and drank its entire contents.

"You don't want to know, ma'am." He told her in a neutral voice. The playfulness that was going on between them before was gone, replaced with an uncomfortable stillness that hung obviously in the air. He grabbed his wallet and retrieved a twenty pound bill, setting it down on the countertop. That was probably enough to cover for his drinks and leave a huge tip. "Thanks for the beers, ma'am." She looked visibly guilty about her seemingly harmless line of questioning earlier.

"Listen, I'm dreadfully sorry if I offended you or—" She tried to apologize again but he cut her off with a tender tone.

"It's alright, ma'am. You did nothing wrong." He assured her with a sad smile, grabbing the flowers next to him while extending his hand towards the bartender. "It was nice meeting you, ma'am."

"Likewise." She replied softly, hesitantly taking his hand with her own. It was really soft, and he had to let go for fear of saying something stupid in his slightly intoxicated state. Turning around, he went for the door and left.


I can do this. I can do this. I can definitely fucking do this thing. Like a mantra stuck on repeat in his head, he kept saying it over and over again. The beer had undeniably helped most of his anxieties slip away, and his bravado finally returned. Although a bit drunkenly. He should've eaten something to help ease off some of the liquor running in his system, but he was kind of enjoying his earlier talk with the pub's new bartender rather than focus on his growling stomach.

She was a bit relaxed, easy to talk to, although was a little shy, and he couldn't resist the fact that the lady actually looked really adorable whenever she coyly looked away. He didn't even ask for her name, and if that particular topic about Iraq hadn't surfaced, he probably would have. Damn, the alcohol must've been stronger than he thought it was; because he wasn't exactly thinking straight at the moment. Not that he was drunk, though, he was just feeling a bit…overly comfortable, with his mind completely jumbling his wild thoughts and further widening his vivid imaginations.

Her eyes, her smile, her lips. He quickly shook his head. Fuck, bad thoughts. Bad Michael. Heel boy, discontinue that line of crazy thought.

What the hell was he doing? He had this amazing woman in his life, and the moment he met this charming British bartender after two pints of beer, he suddenly became captivated by her beauty. He cursed himself mentally. Stupid Irish beers. If he was ever going to drink that stuff again, he would do it some place far, far away completely devoid of attractive female bar staff.

He was here for one reason and one specific reason only. To surprise his wonderful girlfriend and give her a night that she wouldn't forget anytime soon. He walked for the better part of…a couple of minutes. He wasn't exactly keeping track of time now, and he was too lazy to look at the time-piece on his wrist. It was now or never. He took a deep breath and moved onward, the fear earlier now replaced by excitement. Liquid courage was most definitely a real thing after all.

He walked across the huge expanse of the University's main quadrangle, the Old Refectory's towering support columns just standing in its entire splendor. The building itself that the pillars were holding looked eerily familiar, reminding him of the same architectural design that he saw back in Harvard when he first studied there four years ago. Nineteenth century construction with a few classical neo-baroque elements, he wasn't really sure. He barely even passed his architecture units when he was starting out, finding them almost impossible to understand.

He could see the students here just walking casually without a care in the world, just laughing and going about their own way. Just seeing all these people reminded him of simpler times, when he was just hanging out with his college buddies, drinking cheap booze and trying to finish up a term paper that was due tomorrow. It wasn't exactly an easy task finishing those papers with a crushing hangover. A memory of an innocent time, when he thought being a diplomat could help make a difference.

Mike went through inside the structure ahead of him, passing through the main library, the Jeremy Bentham Room and the Bloomsbury Theater building before he found himself on Gordon Street; which passed through all sides of Gordon Square. In just a few short minutes, he was going to see her. He remembered when he and Heather talked on the phone a few months ago, when she told him that after her classes in anthropology, she would just sit on the smooth grass on the garden inside the square, just looking at her surroundings: the people passing by, the birds overhead chirping, and the cool breeze slowly providing a welcoming sensation to everyone. It was her favorite spot in the entire campus, and she would practically sit here for hours on end.

Entering the allotment, he made his eyes squint, trying to look over the large tract of land for where she was. There were a lot of people in here, strolling, having a picnic and all that other stuff. It was impossible to look for Heather in—

And then he saw her. His girl just sitting in a bench alone that overlooked a tree with red leaves, with a smile that was practically a permanent fixture in her beautiful face. Just letting her eyes roam around and taking in everything she saw. He felt his heart stop, his throat tighten, and his mouth going dry. There she was, and he couldn't stop the grin that was already forming on his lips.

She was wearing his old maroon Harvard sweatshirt with white lettering, along with a pair of skinny jeans and sneakers. He remembered giving her that shirt when they were already going out for three weeks, when all of a sudden she felt cold doing their stroll on the beach at eight in the evening. How loose-fitting it was on her feminine frame, yet she insisted that she had to have it. God, she still looked stunning since the last time he saw her.

He noticed that she grew her natural blonde mane a little bit longer, the ends of her hair having already gotten past her sculpted shoulders, which were hidden underneath his shirt. The wait was definitely worth it. All the close brushes with death, the fear and excitement, the near misses from Iraqi bullets. Yeah, it was completely worth it.

He took a slightly tentative step forward, followed by another. And the next thing he knew he was already making his way towards her, albeit a little slower than usual. What was he going to say to her? A simple "hi" or "hello" would be too lame, and something that was extremely long would practically ruin the moment, and he didn't want that.

Fuck it. A simple hello would suffice for now and he'd take it from there. Hopefully he wouldn't screw this up.

His heart was beating faster for each step he took going near her, and by the time he was already halfway on his stride, it was thumping like a mini-gun firing in full spin. A slight sliver of his intense uneasiness managed to pierce through his self-assurance's alcoholic haze, and naturally it freaked him out, invoking his fight-or-flight response which he thought only occurred when he was in a life threatening situation.

He couldn't back down now, not after having travelled two thousand five hundred miles and waiting for this moment to happen for nine months. To hell with the rest, he came here to do this and he was going to see it through. His efforts redoubled, with his gait now showing extreme confidence and unquestionable resolve. His grin never faltered.

I can do this. I can do this. I can definitely fucking do this thing.

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost didn't notice a man coming out of nowhere, greeting his girl with a wave. Heather's face looked extremely happy upon seeing the guy, and he saw her catapult right into his arms with a bear crushing hug.

He stopped walking, feet firmly implanted on the ground with a confused expression on his face. What the hell…?

Maybe this man was a good friend of hers, or his gay best friend. Who knows, and he just saw them standing, talking animatedly and giving out a few laughs in between. The way she was talking with the guy almost reminded him of…no, it couldn't be. Maybe this guy was her best friend. Girls tend to be a little physical when they were with their closest friends…right?

The guy took her hands with his own, saying something that he couldn't hear on his own ears. Heather's grin just widened even further, and she hugged him once more. Only this time, this one was far more intimate than the last, burying her head into his chest.

His heart basically stopped. What the hell was this? What the hell was going on? And who was this good-looking guy that she was hugging? He wanted to confront her, scream at her, something! But he remained rooted on the spot; barely moving a muscle as his inert jealousy, which he thought didn't exist, crept into the corners of his mind.

She pulled back on her hug, her green eyes just looking into the guy's own. Not saying anything, not doing anything, the two of them just holding each other's respective gazes. The scene in front of him looked horrifyingly similar to what he experienced back home, and he viciously refused to believe what his logic had already concluded on this particular moment. Heather wouldn't do this to him, he just knew it. She promised she'd wait for him, she said she'd…

And then she slowly leaned in towards the guy, and she captured his lips in a chaste kiss. The marine's mouth gaped in shock.

No, no, no. This…this couldn't…she wouldn't do this to me. Oh God…why?

Mike's heart broke into a million pieces, his breathing became labored, and he could feel his eyes starting to water. Sweet Mother of Christ, why would she do this to me?

It almost felt like being stabbed with a Ka-Bar combat knife right through his heart, the pain of it excruciatingly unbearable. He couldn't take his eyes off of them, and it only served to make his suffering even worse.

No, please God no. His hands shook, and he felt his lips tremble in parts of pain and indignation. This was too much for him to bear, and as much as he wanted to move away or punch that college fucker in the face, he still couldn't bring himself to move.

He should've died on that battle two days ago, when the insurgents were about to overrun him and the Army's artillery shells would've killed him instantly, sparing him the agony of it all. It was still better than watching her do this to him, betraying him and breaking his heart. He might as well be dead.

They disengaged from their fervent embrace and walked away, heading towards the opposite direction. Yet, he remained. Still wallowing on how stupid he was for trusting her. Then again, he was stupid for a lot of things. It didn't matter anymore.

Everything didn't matter anymore.