Chapter 9: Demon Dealings
Sydney sat on the couch massaging her thigh and knee, the stump below now fitted with a new metal casing and three-inch jutting bar, which happened to fit perfectly into the adjoining socket of her new prosthetic leg. Opting for the simple titanium leg with the ballistic gel cover, which helped it look and feel like a real leg, she was still getting used to the pain of walking on it again. It had been seven months since her last mission in Iraq, and though her physical therapy was over and her leg didn't hurt so often, the installation of the prosthetic and the pressure of walking on a metal rod took some getting used to.
As a fun alternative to her 'every day leg', as Will had begun calling it, she got a strange looking prosthetic for jogging and running. Tuned into the amount of pressure and push she could exert with her right leg, this spring-like leg was going to be perfect for her exercise routines. She'd tried it out earlier that day with Will, but her leg was just too sore for a full mile. Will was happy to cut it off early since the last time he'd run was before she'd left for Iraq.
Sighing into a glass of wine late into the evening, excited that her pain medication was no longer needed since she wasn't able to consume alcohol with it, she snuggled into the couch and flipped on a movie. Half way through, the cell phone on the counter rang.
'It's 1 a.m., who the hell is calling me at 1 a.m.?'
A moment of panic rose from her stomach making her heart beat a bit quicker. Hopping over to the counter she stared at the illuminated, buzzing screen for a moment before answering.
"Dad…I -"
"Sydney," he interrupted. "I…I didn't expect you to answer due to the hour. I – I apologize if I woke you."
"No, I was up. Seven months or not, I'm still somewhat on Iraq time."
Silence.
"Yes. I know the feeling."
Another moment of silence.
"I got your card," she grumbled, a frown marring her face. Despite how mad she was after opening the 'Get Well Soon' card she'd received her first week back from duty, some small, childish part of her was glad that her father had even bothered to send something at all. The child was beaten back by the adult of cold hard reality, and she'd decided that a get well soon card was an inappropriate gesture for a leg being blown off in the line of duty.
Silence.
"I'm sorry it was so informal. I didn't quite know how to initiate contact with you once you'd returned."
"Christ, dad, I'm not a mission briefing with another admiral. I'm not a grunt waiting for your signature. You don't have to 'initiate contact' with me; I'm your daughter."
Silence.
She sighed into the phone. "What do you," she started, stopping after the words wouldn't come. "Did you need something?"
"I wanted to call and tell you that I did get your messages about looking into that Marine. Sergeant Major Vaughn, was it?"
A moment of excitement flitted in her stomach at the thought of her father doing a favor for her and maybe even getting some news. "Did – did you find anything? Anything at all?"
"Still MIA; assumed POW. No leads on his location, though some early reports from the Army Rangers north of Baghdad indicate a possible POW presence. There will be a tactical insertion of Navy Seals next Tuesday into a suspected Taliban camp."
"How solid is your intel?"
Silence, though she could hear papers ruffling in the background. '1 a.m. and he's still at work. Some things never change.'
"This is about as solid as anything coming out of Iraq. Baghdad is close to falling. Our chances of finding any living POW's gets harder day by day, but," he paused, looking over at the photo on his large, oak desk, his daughter ten-years old and in her soccer uniform, perched on his hip. Both parties brandished huge smiles, the likes he hadn't seen or delivered in over ten years. "But I – I hope the operation is successful and that your friend is found alive."
Silence.
While she didn't doubt that her father did indeed hope that 'her friend' was found, his mechanical way of speaking put her on edge.
"Thank you for looking into this, dad. His family and I have become very close and they've been waiting for a long time for any information. This Marine saved me. Did you know that?"
"Yes. I – I read your report."
'Of course you did.'
"You could have just called and asked instead of reading a report."
Silence.
"I'm – I'm sorry that I'm not very good at staying in touch."
"This isn't about staying in touch. You were never good at staying in touch. This is about sending your daughter a fucking get well soon card after I got my leg blown off in Iraq. This is about you never caring about anything but Navy business – never caring about me or my life."
"I've always cared about you and your life. When news hit my desk of your injury…I did everything I could to get you home as quickly as possible. Everything I could to make sure you were safe. You and the Marines that were injured with you - your team."
"Everything except visit me in hospital. Or call and ask if I was okay." She sighed heavily into the phone. "Thanks for the information on Vaughn. Good chat, Admiral." She hung up, anger consuming her as she tossed the phone back onto the counter and tried to shake off the adrenaline bubbling up inside.
Grabbing the crutch from its spot leaned against the side of the couch she quickly moved down the hallway and poked her head into Will's office. He was tiredly and slowly typing, the words seeming to just leak out of him in an unexcited and unhurried pace.
"Hey," she whispered. He jumped even at the quiet voice and relaxed a moment later.
"Syd. What's up? Who were you talking to?"
"My dad."
Will perked up a bit and swiveled in his chair to meet her eyes. "How'd that go?"
"I'm gonna snap on the leg and go for a run. Wanna go?"
'No. I'm so damned tired…gotta finish this piece by 6 a.m.…need…sleep.' "Sure."
Saving the document he'd been marginally working on, he sneaked into his room and grabbed his running bag. Francie slept soundly in the bed, arms and legs tossed about in an effort to get comfortable without his presence.
Twenty minutes later they were at the track. Two o'clock in the morning wasn't the most popular time at the field, so they were isolated and alone.
"Did I tell you that he sent me a card?"
"Your dad?" 'That was out of nowhere.' "For what, the birthdays he'd missed?" Joking he stretched his legs and winced. They were still sore from earlier; this run was going to tear him up, he knew.
"When I got back. I mean…when I was discharged. He sent me a fucking 'get well soon' card."
Will didn't respond. He merely shot her a wince and nod before making sure his laces were tight. "Go easy, okay? That leg is new for you, and you're still adjusting. Don't get too crazy."
Thirty minutes later he had to bow out. Sweat poured down his face and neck, his shirt all but soaked and his legs trembling like those of a baby deer. But still, she ran. She couldn't keep the angry thoughts from her mind.
Anger with her father.
Anger from the soreness of her leg. No – her stump.
Anger from the mission.
Anger from the people she'd lost.
Anger from the people she'd killed – three of them.
Anger with her father.
True to Star Wars lore, as Will would jest, anger gave way to sadness and she felt the hot tears on her overheated face despite the fact that she was sweating.
Sadness because of her father.
Sadness because of her leg – her stump.
Sadness because of that last mission – the warnings that were ignored.
Sadness because of those she'd lost.
Sadness because of the lives she'd taken.
Sadness because of Emily's loss. And Tony's loss. And all the Vaughn's; everything they'd lost.
Everything just started tumbling out as she pushed her legs harder and harder. The connection point below her knee ground into the prosthetic leg, aching with each moment of contact with the gravel. After pushing for one more lap with Will sitting out, her leg gave and she tumbled to the ground eating a bit of dirt and feeling the sting of open air on open wounds mixing with her salty sweat.
Will was over in an instant, thinking he'd run out of gas until he saw her hit the dirt. He slid to the ground next to her as she sobbed, babbling almost incoherently.
"…not fair, it's," gasp, sob, "not supposed to have-" gasp, sob, "stupid dad I don't…" gasp, sob.
He didn't know what to do, so he picked her up onto his lap and held her while she cried into his shirt.
'This is what she kept joking would never come, despite the warnings from her shrink. The full and ugly melt down as she dealt with her demons.'
They sat on the track quietly for around ten minutes, Will humming some out of tune melody as she lay haphazardly across his lap with her face pressed against his sweaty shirt. Mustering whatever energy she didn't have left, she pushed against him and sat up. Blood was matted and dried on his shirt where her face had been and she gently prodded as the scrape on her forehead and upper cheek below her eye.
"That was quite a tumble. You okay?" Will looked down at her tear and blood-stained face with a gentle reassuring smile.
"Fuck," she ground out, pushing herself up into a stand. Her stump protested instantly and despite trying to push it away she couldn't put pressure on it. "I didn't bring crutches, could you help me to the car?"
"Absolutely."
Once in the car he'd pulled out the makeshift first aid kit from the trunk and put it on her lap. The drive back to the house was silent and the dash clock read 3:04. Using the small visor mirror, Sydney used alcohol swatches to wipe at the dirt and blood around the scrapes. Finding that none needed stitches on her forehead or cheek she turned her attention to her elbow and right forearm. They were much the same – not deep enough to warrant anything other than some antibiotic ointment and a bandage. Her right knee was next and while it looked worse than everything else, it was only because pebbles and dirt were making it so. Once clean, she realized her tumble didn't cost her much other than beauty points.
"I'm sorry, Will."
"Why?"
"I pushed too hard."
"That's what you do, Syd. You push. Most of the time it's not destructive."
A few street lamps went overhead, the light bending through the windows as illuminating the pair in flashes. "I just wish he didn't get to me so much, you know?"
"Did you talk to Barnett about it?"
"A bit. Though, in my appointment tomorrow, I'll probably have a bit more to explain than a couple weeks ago."
"You need me to drive you?"
"Nah – I'll be alright."
They pulled up to their street and parked, Will helping her hop up to the house. Once inside she popped off the leg and saw the blood that had soaked into the fabric sock around the connecting rod. She shrugged and tossed it next to the door, grabbing the crutch at the entrance and tucking it under her arm.
"Night, Will."
"Hey," he grabbed her arm and kept her steady for a moment in order to press a kiss to the side of her head. "I love you. Sleep well."
Shutting herself away in her room she sunk to the floor against the door. Stretching her right leg out she wiggled her toes and her brain swore her left leg was doing the same. 'Phantom limb is a bitch.' Heaving a sigh she pushed herself up and made her way over to the joined bathroom shedding her work-out clothes in a trail behind her.
The bath filled slowly and she tossed in some Epsom salt for her wounds before making the water almost too hot. Francie joked and called these her lobster baths. 'Water hot enough to cook a lobster – plus you come out bright red.'
But god did they soothe her aching muscles, her stump, and her soul. Everything burned for a few moments before it settled down. Reaching up next to the sink and grabbing the bottle of Advil, she downed a few of the blue pills before sinking down into the water up to her chin. Getting out only when the water cooled too much, she donned a pair of fluffy pajama pants and a camisole before climbing into bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
...
