A/N: So here it is, the first chapter in In Your Blood that constitutes an M rating. I'll try to keep to the style of writing I was using while still working under a T rating, even now that there has been some language and other content thrown into the mix. As always I appreciate any and all feedback and hope that this story is accepted here as well. Feel free to comment or speak what's on your mind! I take any criticism under consideration!

P.S. - any of the political views and/or ideologies expressed in this chapter are not necessarily my own. The intent was to express what the thoughts of what a jaded military veteran would be like in regard to his lifestyle and experiences. I'm not stating this to push any one political candidate, party, or idea, but to simply clarify that these are supposed to be his thoughts, not mine. If I offend anyone with this content, I sincerely apologize as it was not my intention.

Shoutout to Pup2001 for being an ardent supporter of this story; I want you to know I have greatly appreciated your thoughts and comments regarding the story's direction and hope to continue rising above expectations.

Anways, Enjoy!

The weeks after the incident at the shooting range were spent in anticipation as Mordecai and Rigby looked for the best opportunity for them to replace the broken panels of the shack. Work continued as usual, but something seemed off about Ryan, and all of them save for Pops and Muscle Man picked up on it. Ever since he took that nasty bump at The Box, he would have what Mordecai could only describe as 'fits'. He would carry on throughout the day as usual, his calm easygoing demeanor a means of brightening anybody's day who talked to him. Once it happened though, it was like he was a completely different person. The closest comparison any of them could draw was that of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He would suddenly get this far away look in his eyes, regardless of who he was talking to or what he was doing. This was usually accompanied by shaking and behavior verging on paranoia, like a drug addict who was coming off of a high directly into withdrawals. He would drop whatever he was doing and run off as fast as he could, usually isolating himself until the anxiety had passed. Rigby had once found the man pacing near the waterside of the pond, mumbling something incoherent as he tried to steady his breathing that had been nearing hyperventilation. Another time had happened in the middle of the night, the solider bolting upright in his bed and immediately running to the bathroom, refusing to come out until the work day had already begun to the chagrin of their boss. The fits struck even during the Fourth of July celebration that they had set up in the park; he had happily helped with the preparation for the party later that night, but retreated to his room once the fireworks had started going off. The avian could admit that loud noises and bright flashes weren't the best things for a war veteran to experience, and now regretted that he had insisted for the man to enjoy the festivities. While the outbursts had started out every now and then, they were now occurring more and more frequently. Unless Ryan could wrangle them in, they would eventually be infringing on his ability to perform his job. The only solace that the man could find from the effects of the panic attacks were his guitar and ludicrous amounts of alcohol; the house's occupants would often find him up late at night playing his guitar on the front porch with a beer bottle right beside him. He rarely got a good night's sleep anymore, and while this concerned the rest of them, it put their worries somewhat at ease that he was finding ways to counter the effects. Benson had once insisted that he visit some sort of medical office to try to get something to ease the pain, but Ryan decided against it. He didn't particularly care for drugs, considering he often reacted to them by curling up with a blanket and passing out somewhere only to wake up with a headache greater than what he had been trying to treat. The extent of what he considered a medical remedy would be a couple of ibuprofen and a gritty, disgusting drink mixture that promised to "boost vitamin C levels to the max!", both of which he downed every morning since the accident. He himself couldn't wrap his head around what was causing his behavior. At first he thought that the blow he had taken had caused a bone fracture or some sort of nerve damage. Reluctantly, he had been inspected by a physician and had an MRI scan done. Neither concluded that he had any actual abnormalities, and turned him away from pharmaceutical therapy to something a little bit more...conventional. He had been given the number of a psychiatrist, Dr. Ernest Forney, a hulking bison of a creature who had an office downtown. After Benson had given him some time off to recuperate, he had made the call and gone to the appointment the next morning, watching the doctor attempt to fit through his office door as he lay on some sort of funky couch. He had simply hoped that the visit would go off without a hitch; he hated that he was unable to get any work done and detested being idle. He realized now that the doctor had asked him a question amid his wandering mind, and he cocked his head to have him repeat the question again.

"I'm sorry?" The bison huffed and jotted down notes on his notepad, watching his patient intently. His voice was deep, booming, and a half-gargle that seemed to begin in the bottom regions of his throat.

"I said do you find any aspects of your day to seem fictitious at all Mr. Bennett?" The question caught the man off guard, who squinted at the diagonal pattern of the ceiling as he tried to comprehend the bison's query.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" The doctor groaned and rubbed his eyes; the appointment had already been an hour and they had made little ground beyond covering his symptoms and a brief introduction.

"What I mean is do you ever feel like you're in a daze? Like you're dreaming?" Ryan immediately shook his head, prompting the bison to motion for him to go on.

"No, it's just... I don't know. It feels like something's digging at the back of my head, like my brain's trying to find something. Constantly scraping, scratching, gnawing at something I can't find. I don't know why it would do that after I got hurt, it's... fuck, does that mean anything to you doc?" The bison jotted down a few notes before looking up from the pad, flipping through the pages of some sort of manual as he did so.

"I see... do you have any deep seated issues you'd like to discuss? Something from the war maybe?" Ryan closed his eyes and mulled over the pain, running a finger over the jagged, horizontal scar that now marked his right eyebrow. He could mention...that. No. No. Definitely NO.

"I already told you doc, I'd rather not talk about my time over there. There's nothing to talk about, not anymore." Forney shook his head with a bit of skepticism, tapping the sharp end of his pen on the laminated armrest of his own chair.

"Oh I disagree. I feel that you avoiding or repressing something is bringing this pain to light. All it needed was a catalyst, if you will. These kind of things happen all the time, and believe me, you wouldn't be the first 'big and tough' military man to bawl his eyes out on that sofa. Do you regret anything you did over there?" Ryan felt a bit of annoyance welling up in him. He was now under the impression that the doctor was simply talking out his ass, trying to find some sort of 'common ground' that he could reach the soldier on. As cliche as it sounded, Ryan concluded that this man would never be able to understand anything that he had done overseas. Nobody except those that had experienced it first hand would. This also wasn't the first time that Forney had insisted he talk about his military career. He had brought in a 'specialized' psychiatrist who was 'certified' in treating soldiers struggling with adapting to civilian life. He had been cold, uncaring, and persisted on slapping some sort of diagnosis on the Ranger since the first visit had started. The only rise that the army doctor could get from Ryan was an angry and prompt 'Go fuck yourself', to which Forney insisted on the other psychiatrist to leave immediately. The issue had now resurfaced, and the soldier shot the bison a look of disdain from the couch.

"I don't regret a damn thing I did over there, not a damn thing. I did what I had to do... what I was told to do. I followed orders."

"But did you agree with those orders? It's very common for soldiers to find the orders of their superiors...how do I put this, morally bankrupt?" Ryan rolled his eyes; maybe making that phone call had been a bad idea.

"I know you don't understand this, but I trusted Lieutenant Cole like a brother; like family. He busted his ass to make sure we got out of that shithole in one piece. I know any of us would have done the same for him. So do I regret anything I did to keep my boys safe and to make it back in one piece? Fuck. No." The bison had a slight glimmer of annoyance flash across his features.

"Please understand Ryan that you can speak freely here, but please do refrain from directing any of your aggression towards me. These are your issues after all." Ryan relaxed for a moment, apologizing for his candid and blunt response. He did his best to brush any cynical remarks from his mind as the doctor continued. He had noticed that the lack of sleep coupled with the shooting pain had made him irritable and spiteful towards many, which hurt him to realize that he was coming across as a massive asshole.

"So, nothing about your superiors? Your squad mates perhaps? Are you repressing or hiding something that one of them had done? Keeping silent won't protect them you know. I mean, you here about stuff like that all the time on the news..." Ryan immediately shot him a look that was filled with as much bitterness and contempt that he could muster, picking up on the pretentious notion that the doctor was hinting at. If he wanted to talk politics, Ryan would oblige to give him an earful.

"Let me tell you something. I don't care what you think we did over there, or why we went there in the first place. Hell maybe it was for oil, or drugs, or whatever the media says. All I can say is that the greatest acts of human decency and compassion that I've seen my entire life have come from kids with not a pot to piss in, playing with our guys and inviting us into their homes regardless of the situation. We can't blame them that their dad just so happened to be fighting for some batshit crazy extremists who think that making a martyr of themselves and brutalizing their own people is the right thing to do. The 'media' don't give a shit why we're over there or how many of us get killed either. It's just a headline for them. You know, in fact, its better for them if one of us gets killed. They put on the whole air of patriotic bullshit and pretend like they knew the guy; sending out condolences to his family and friends as if they actually fucking cared. I've had guys I fought with who I'm closer to than my own family; how do you think I feel when the brass sends them that generic, bullshit letter instead of me giving a heart to heart talk on how much I knew their son? How do you think I feel when I get back and realize that nobody over here gives a fuck, or how do you think those guys feel coming home after being told they've got the support of the whole country? Y'know the same shit happened with a SEAL team over there. Out on an op and some bumfuck goat herder and his son walked up on them. They let him go. They were afraid that the media would get wind of U.S. Navy SEALS 'executing' civilians and crucify them back in the states. Their own country would crucify them for doing the right thing. And y'know what happened? Only one guy made it out of that op alive. Funny thing is that the media labeled him as a hero because the rest of his team was killed, along with over a dozen guys that came up to rescue him to boot. Don't get me wrong doc; I love this country. I fought for this country, and I would have died for this country. I did things I wasn't really proud to do, like a bunch of other guys did. But do you think I would sit here and try to spin some bullshit to you of all people? Really?" The anger that had been mounting in the man translated to sharp spikes of pain shooting through his head, and he grimaced as the pressure continued unabated. The bison nodded and scribbled on his notepad once more.

"Good, good. It seems we've made a little bit of progress. I noticed you seem to be rather defensive of your squadmates, as would be expected..." Ryan looked to Forney pleadingly, the sorrow of the conversation's topic evident in his eyes.

"Can you fix me doc? I just... I want this to be over." The doctor didn't respond, but instead rolled his wrist over to look at his watch. It was already near lunch now, and the bison concluded that this nervous wreck of a man had occupied enough of his time for today.

"Rest assured sir, I'll get you back in tip top shape in no time. But we're going to have to call it for today, I have many other appointments I have obligations to." Ryan immediately rose from the couch, tugging his ball cap back onto his head and shaking the hefty doctor's hand. They both agreed for an appointment to be made next week; same time, same place. The Ranger paid at the front reception desk of the office and exited, the warm summer air meeting his face like a hot embrace.

Today he was meant to go work out with CJ like they had done the last few weeks, but still had a few hours to kill before she would meet him. He decided to head there anyway to get a little pent up frustration out. The gym itself wasn't anything special, and bordered on the 'underground' workout scene that so many were avidly searching for nowadays. He changed into a pair of shorts and a tank top, throwing his duffle bag at the wall next to the sparring bag he used when he was there. Considering it was mid-morning on a weekday, the gym was barren save for a few soccer moms running on treadmills and a rather obese man struggling to do curls. He placed the MMA gloves from his bag on his hands and immediately went to work on the sparring bag, his motions now almost a methodical repetition of punches and kicks as he let his mind wander aimlessly. What the hell was going on in his head? He nor anybody in his family had ever suffered from any psychiatric problems. While his father may have been an asshole, he certainly wasn't crazy. He once again considered the prospect of some unseen brain damage being the cause of the fits, or perhaps trauma that was fringing on a stroke of some sort. He pushed it aside though. From out of the blue a voice emanated from the base of his skull. It seemed familiar, but alien. Like it wasn't a single voice, but a hoard of them all singing in unison. Man, woman, child... he couldn't distinguish anything from the garbled speech.

You're a disappointment you know.

The voice, while flat and monotone, seemed to exude venom and cynicism as if it were trying to antagonize him. He shook his head with a chuckle, mumbling under his breath as if to convince himself that he wasn't crazy.

"Shut up. You're not real."

The voice now moved up his head into the rear lobe of his brain, thousands of demon-like laughs mocking him as he did his best to drown out the hysteria.

Oh, we're just as real as you are...buddy!

The laughs continued and unnerved him. Surely a little bump on the noggin wouldn't be enough to drive him cuckoo, surely-

Oh but it was! So delighted to hear your voice again brother! We missed you for so long! Please, come back to us! Please!

A chill raced down his spine, as if the voice had been playing a game of Operation with his brain stem and had just hit the buzzer. He stopped punching and kicking, simply resting there in his fighting stance as he tried to comprehend the cold that was slowly taking him over, like somebody had thrown the switch to shut off any nerves going to his extremities. The sweat that had already accumulated on him seemed to seep back into his skin, the near freezing sensation riding a wave of discomfort and pain that ran the length of his back. As the feeling eventually cascaded away, so to went the voice. He prodded the entity to speak again, to no avail. Maybe it was just him imagining things. Considering he was running on a cumulative four hours of sleep for the past three weeks, he also suspected that sleep deprivation was extending its grasp into his psyche. Not only that, he had been rather lax with the upkeep of his facial hair and grooming, looking into the wall mirror beside him to see his once neat and tidy beard a scruffy mess, though it gave him more of a lumberjack appearance. More grizzled; more hardened. With his thoughts drifting back to the equipment in front of him, he resumed the accurate and paced punches and kicks, deciding to throw a few knees in as well to mix up the monotony.

"Well hey there hot stuff." A pang of irritation furrowed his brow as he turned to see the same girl from that night at the bar. What was her name again? Grace. That's it. He had recognized the voice instantly, the smell of stale beer and the fruity scent of the Cosmo dancing through his mind only briefly. He refused to turn to her but looked at the mirror instead, not even breaking the rhythm of his strikes as he viewed her over. She was dressed in the skimpiest tank top that he had ever seen, and wondered how it would even be legal to where such an item in a public venue. Not to mention that the leggings she wore were skin tight, hugging each curve of her legs and rear as she twirled around like a model with a sly grin on her face.

"You like what you see?" He couldn't deny that her figure was one that most guys would kill for their girl to have. Long legs and an hourglass figure guaranteed that Grace had never found searching for a willing suitor difficult, and her behavior that night at the bar only reinforced that. He gave her an irritated glare, now turning to at least look her in the face with a cocky smirk on his face.

"What do you want huh? Round 2?" He punched his hands together as she gave him a mocking laugh, casually dropping her workout bag and placing a hand on her hip.

"Ha, you'd like that wouldn't you?" Ryan now expected to see the same trio of guys that he had run into at the bar that night, but the gym still seemed to be that of a ghost town. Even the manager that had been lazily reading a Muscle & Fitness magazine up front had gone off to attend to other duties.

"Where's your boy toy, huh? Out having some poor bastard polish his shoes as he checks the stocks, or brown nosing his boss with a game of golf?" He silently celebrated a small victory as he saw her face turn from that of seduction to annoyance, and she crossed her arms in front of her chest. She soon donned an attitude of attempting to mock him.

"Well, at least he has a boss. You look like a homeless drug addict." The insult stung just a tad, but he immediately let it roll of his shoulders. He had obviously sparked some sort of jealousy in her, or at least something that would warrant her defending her country club boyfriend. As cynical as it was, he often found enjoyment in striking chords with somebody who had managed to try his patience. He played off the verbal attack, mockingly pretending like he had been struck with something in his chest.

"Oh, ah, man... you really got me there. Damn, not sure if I can come back from that." The annoyance on her face turned to a smirk, obviously enjoying the fact that he somehow still insisted on his flirty nature. She walked behind the suspended bag he had continued to work over, making it nigh impossible for him to ignore her. She wrapped her hands through the string on the back of the punching dummy and pushed it forward slightly, prompting him to put just a little bit more force into the strikes with glee. He gave her a wry smile and a chuckle and ceased to hit the bag, irritation clearly plastered across her features.

"Listen honey, I'm gonna be honest with you. I'm what most would call 'damaged goods'. Don't think you want a piece of this." The last bit of the sentence was coupled with his hand gesturing up and down his body, and he made sure to purposely flex as her eyes raced up and down his torso. His upper body showed almost no signs of the existence of fat, though he wasn't ripped like a bodybuilder. He himself found bulging muscles and body oil stomach churning; especially considering he was also in better shape than most that fit that archetype. She gave a devilish grin as she twirled around the punching bag, extending her leg in a ballet-like gesture to display her 'assets'. Ryan had no problem taking in the sight once more, but gave her an inquisitive, playful look as he removed his gloves.

"Besides, what would your boyfriend think?" She released the bag and paced around him with what he could only describe as sass.

"You mean Lucas? Ha, like he actually cares where I'm at. Probably too busy hanging with his bros or something." He walked to the mirrored wall and tossed his gloves down beside his bag, prompting her to close the distance. She made it clear to stay out of his reach, but firmly planted herself between him and the door. No speaking, no overt hints of what her motives were, just silence. He gave a smug smile and imitated her stance. She was doing her best to look intimidating, but he found the effort to be more comical than anything.

Alright, I'll play...

"So why the sudden interest then? I thought I was a 'psycho'?" She gave a curt smile, knowing all too well what she had said that night at the bar. The thought mulled over in her brain before she actually spoke up.

"I don't know, you're... not like a lot of other guys around here. You're a good guy; I can tell." The statement made Ryan laugh out loud.

"So that's it? I'm 'unique' to you? Gotta tell ya, you could of fooled me." She advanced further, now nearly face to face with him as she tried again to provide an answer that would satisfy him.

"Oh please. A lot of guys around here are jackasses. You might be a sarcastic ass but I think you're a nice guy. On top of that, I don't blame you for what happened in the bar. I was just... having a little fun." She tried to play off the incident that night as some innocent fun, but he knew better.

"Play toy then? A little something on the side til Lucas gets back?"

"No, you're... different. Rugged, rough... experienced." At the last bit of the sentence she leaned forward into his ear and emphasized it with the best seductive whisper that she could manage, running her hand down the length of his arm closest to her. The touch sent tingles up through Ryan's shoulder and chest, and eventually the hand moved from his arm to the side of his stomach above his ribs. She rubbed up and down before stopping above the scar tissue she found there, looking at him inquisitively. He gave a short, exasperated smile.

"Like I said, damaged goods." Grace did her best not to express the fiendish smile that started to well up inside of her, leaning in once more to hover just above his ear. The arm motion continued once more until it transferred over to his chest, the fingers drawing irregular, invisible circles with the points of her fingernails.

"Well, I can work with that." The fingers once again moved, planting themselves on his hip as she pulled herself closer. He could already tell that she had made a habit of honing her 'craft', and that he more than likely wasn't the only guy to have received this kind of attention. He figured 'why not?'. Hell, this might be something that would take his mind off of his current health problems for the time being. She was practically leaning on his chest now, inching ever closer as he caught the scent of some type of fruity perfume that she had been wearing, an essence of lavender and tangerine that blended into some sort of sweet aroma. He could also smell the light scent of cherry lip gloss that wafted from her lips, now just inches away from his. He noticed that his one of his arms had raised to place itself on her hip, an action that was rewarded with a knowing smirk. She closed her eyes and eased in closer, and he could feel her heart beating ever faster deep in her chest. He was about to lean forward when a cough from the opposite side of the room turned both their gazes that direction. CJ was standing with her drawstring athletic bag in her hands, a look of surprise on her face as Grace immediately shoved off of the soldier.

"Um, am I interrupting something?" Grace gave her a condescending smile and picked up her own bag from where she had left it on the ground, turning towards Ryan and shrugging her shoulders.

"Nope, just a little friendly conversation." She turned to him and gave him a fluttery wave, hastily heading for the gym exit as her phone began to ring.

"I'll see you around." Ryan waved back as CJ walked to him, a look of disappointment and disdain on her face. She pointed at the direction that Grace had walked and gave a slight chuckle.

"Dude, you know who that is right?" He shook his head; frankly he didn't care who she was or who she knew. The whole 'in-crowd' phenomenon had never really hit home with Ryan, even since he had been little in school. Growing up in a small town where everyone knew everyone, it was hard for a select group of people to say they were better than everybody else.

"No, should I know who that is?" CJ dropped the drawstring bag next to his and withdrew a water bottle as she still continued to stare at the BMW in the parking lot pull away from the gym, the pearl colored vehicle glimmering in the sunlight as if ablaze.

"That's Grace Fischbach. Her dad is the CEO of the regional office of Merrill Lynch. She's got money dude, and no offense, you don't really come across as a trust fund type. That's why she spends so much time with Lucas." Ryan perked up at the mention of the boy's name.

"Yeah, I got into a little bit of a spat with Lucas. What's his deal anyway?"

"College grant frat boy; never had to pay a dime in his life because his family always did. He acts like he owns most of City because, well, his family kind of does. Grace and him have been a thing for a while now. And what do you mean by spat?" Ryan shrugged, unphased by any of the information that was being presented to him.

"When y'all were out on your little date night I went to a bar to watch the Braves' game. He took a swing at me, and I handled it." CJ's eyes widened as she saw him casually replace the gloves he had tossed back onto his bag, swinging at the punching dummy once more as he waited for a response.

"Wait, you pissed off Lucas Linden?" Ryan nodded, a small smirk passing across his face as he remembered how easily he had subdued the frat boy and his 'homies'. He had been around their type before. It went without saying that his time spent on shore leave with other soldiers was often ridiculed by some of the '1%-ers'. While others around them looked up to the rich, greedy, and snobbish college kids, they came across to Ryan and many of the men that he had hung out with as pretentious assholes with nothing better to do than flaunt their money in the face of those scratching their way to the top or pumping the brakes on their way down. Polo designer shirts, Cognac, and fancy cars meant nothing if your values were buried six feet under, and Ryan had often done his best to avoid any type of affiliation with that crowd.

"Like I said, he took a swing at me. He was probably drunk too. I didn't hurt him though, or at least, not too badly." CJ raised up with a look of doubt on her face, knowing that the soldier would often embellish his actions to the needs of the listener. She started to hit the punching bag along with him, glancing back to see the manager had now returned to his reclined state at the front of the gym.

"Well, just be careful. I think you might have painted a target on your back." He turned back to the bag, the strikes becoming harder than anything he had thrown at the leather thus far. He figured CJ had his best interests in mind, and would try to keep his head down in the dirt for now. Once they had finished with the strikes, he sent her towards the pile boxes to start some squats and jumps when a small folded piece of paper fell from the pocket of his shorts. He picked it up to see it was the back of a Merrill Lynch business card, with a phone number and a few lines of text written in bright pink pen.

Know you're interested,

Give me a call sometime.

- Grace

Next to her name was a frilly heart that had been scribbled with the pen, a chuckle escaping from him as he folded it back up and stuck it in the outside pocket of his pack. Only now did the pain in his eye return, and he did his best to mask any telltale signs of discomfort as CJ called him over to continue their routine.

A/N: To be honest this felt more like a filler and fluff chapter to me; not sure if I went where I wanted to with it. As always feel free to comment or review, and until next time, Adieu!

Song of the Chapter: I'm So Sorry - Imagine Dragons