FM 90-10: Military Operations on Urbanized Terrain.
"Hey, Britt?"
You pull your head out of the bottom of a storage trunk when you hear your friend's voice. Your foot catches something and it causes a small avalanche of camouflaged... stuff, to surround you.
For the past hour you've been in this walk in closet, surrounded by shoes, dresses, and heaps of excess military gear. You have no idea how or when you've picked up this many canteens, ammo pouches, utility tools, or accessories for an M4, but the stack of storage trunks are taking up precious space for more stylish accessories. Right now, you've been looking for your favorite pair of tactical gloves. You want them for the training tomorrow. You should have found them a while ago but the sheer amount of stuff you have to look through has been putting you off.
"Britt?"
You paused too long and don't miss the change in her tone. You call back, "Yeah, Q."
There's no answer. She didn't need anything more than to make sure you're still in the house. That you haven't magically disappeared and that she's not alone. Quinn has a thing about being alone in a house. You don't mention it, or the few times that she's walked into your bedroom at night. The first time it happened you sat up, groggy and confused and asking if something was wrong. Quinn told you to go back to sleep and left without another word.
Quinn likes knowing you're there, and really, you can't blame her.
Three boxes and a horrible packing job later, you've found your gloves. You put them on just to reacquaint yourself with the feeling. The worn mixture of leather and nomex is like a second skin. You run your fingers over the protective layer of leather on your knuckles and parts of your palms. These gloves have taken you there and back. The cloth at the inside of the wrist is darkened with sweat spots and worn in the place you grip with your finger and your thumb to pull them on.
They smell of leather and sweat, mixed in with a memory of gunpowder and desert.
Armed with your trusty hand guards, you gather up the rest of your equipment. Your helmet hasn't changed since you've left Fort Carson, you run your finger over the embroidered patches sewn into each side. They match the patch on the shoulder of your uniforms, the four leaves of ivy for the 4th Infantry Division. You'll have to take it off eventually, because you're no longer with that unit, but no matter how much you don't want to be seen as bragging about your former experience, you're dragging your feet about erasing all traces of it.
You really miss that unit.
Your vest is new, freshly assigned to you by Fort Campbell, and it doesn't match the worn pouches that you've attached to tactical webbing. You miss the vest you had already broken in at Fort Carson. The Army is stupid for not letting you take it with you. This will do fine for the time being. You'll be issued the better version just before you deploy anyway.
After you've assured yourself that you're not missing anything, you gather your gear and leave your closet. You find Quinn on the couch. You drop your gear near the front door, placing your helmet on top of your combat vest and your aid bag next to it. You take off your gloves and tuck them into a pouch on your vest with your ballistic sunglasses. Glancing at Quinn's gear for a second, you ask, "Hey, can I throw some stuff in your assault pack for tomorrow?"
"Only if you share," she sends you a smile. She knows you well enough to call you out on always having something to eat when you go out into the field.
"Deal," you cross into the living room and fall onto the couch next to her. She's working, the notebooks on her lap and on the coffee table are enough to tell you that. "What's up?"
She knows what you're asking and doesn't look up from her trusty green notebook, "I'm trying to finalize the team structures. I'm moving a few people around in first and second squad."
You glance at the television, which is only on for background noise. It's another things she does to keep the loneliness away.
"Better to do it now then later," you admit. If she's going to make changes it needs to happen before the soldiers spend three months training for a deployment as a team. One of the most important parts of the pre-deployment training is getting familiar with your team and how you work together.
You lean over and glance at her notes, the scribbling of names and assignments.
There's one name that catches your attention.
"What are you doing with the Karofsky thing?"
"I want to give him to another platoon," she mumbles, tapping her pen against her bottom lip and frowning. "He's worthless to me."
You snort, "You're so dramatic."
"And you're spoiled," Quinn points her pen in your direction. "Just because Flanagan will bend over backwards to get you to smile at him, doesn't mean every other soldier is as accommodating."
"That's an exaggeration," you roll your eyes, but you know you've really lucked out with him. Flanagan is not a problem soldier, if anything he's too willing to go out of his way for you.
"He follows you around like a lost puppy, wagging his tail," Quinn smirks, looking over her notebook again. Her voice turns into a mocking tone, "yes, Sergeant, right away, Sergeant. What can I do for you, Sergeant. Is there anything else—"
"Okay!" you nudge your elbow into her ribs to get her to stop. "Okay, so maybe he's—"
"A brown-noser?"
"No—"
"Begging for your approval?"
"Eager," you say firmly, hoping she'll stop making fun of your soldier. "He's eager to do the right thing, be a good soldier."
"He's eager for something alright," Quinn chuckles to herself and it earns her another elbow to the ribs.
"He wants to learn," you grumble, getting tired of her teasing.
"He'll sit and listen to everything that comes out of your mouth," Quinn flips through her notebook, looking for something lost between the pages, "just because you're the one that's talking."
You roll your eyes, "He looks up to me, that's what soldiers do. It's just hero worship."
"It's pathetic," Quinn sends you a sly look and you look down at your sweatpants, picking at a spot on the knee.
"Right, like you don't have your own groupies," you scoff, deflecting, "the way you're stringing Lopez around, it's like you want her to..."
You trail off because that wasn't deflecting at all.
That was admitting.
You can feel her eyes on you, and your face is heating up under her stare.
"Is that what you think I'm doing?"
You don't miss the insult in her voice, the troubled nature of her words. She's feels self-conscious now, because if that's what you think, who knows what perception everyone else has gotten. You don't meet her eyes but you give her a resolute, "No, I didn't mean that. I don't know why I said it."
Quinn is quiet for a moment, and you'd rather her be angry and yelling than quiet. Quiet means thinking, thinking means figuring, and when Quinn figures, she's almost always right.
"Then why'd you say it?"
"Because..." you're not a liar. You've never been able to do it right and Quinn, she deserves the truth and your honesty. "I don't know, before you came, she was pretty lost, and there were times that like... it felt like I was getting through to her, past her attitude when no one else wants to give her the time of day."
"Aww, Britt," Quinn throws her arm over your shoulder and pulls you close, "am I poaching on your favorite soldiers?"
"Maybe," you grumble into her shoulder.
"Well, she is my new favorite," she closes her notebook and sets it on the other side of the couch. "I'll admit to that, but I'm going to take good care of her."
"I'm not worried about that," you know she'll understand the compliment in your words.
"Lopez is spunky, and like you said, she has a hell of an attitude, but she's pretty impressionable. I think I can work with it," Quinn rubs your arm slowly. "Actually, she reminds me of myself when I was at that rank."
You let out a puff of laughter, remembering, "You were pretty wild."
"Beyond control," she says and you can hear the smile in her voice, "I mouthed off, I copped an attitude with everyone, I was always in trouble and the only person that was able to get through to me was a strong, female, NCO who I could respect and try to model myself after."
You know that was what Quinn's been doing this whole time. You know it. Lopez needs guidance just as much as you did when you were a junior soldier and maybe Quinn's the only one that can really get to her. You wish you could do more for the soldier, but honestly she's not your responsibility.
"Do you think I'm getting too close?"
You look up, surprised at how hesitant that question sounds, like she's really afraid of the answer.
"I think you're getting there," you admit, "like, everyone has their favorites, Q, but we're not supposed to let them know that they're our favorites because then they'll get big heads."
"Yeah," she nods, considering your words, "I don't think I need to cause anything else between her and Karofsky."
"I don't like him," you mumble.
"I'm just looking for an excuse, honestly," Quinn rests her head against the back of the couch, closing her eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"I need a reason to get him out of that team. He doesn't work well with Lopez and she works too well with Evans to waste it."
"Please don't bait him," you sigh. Quinn's never been afraid to needle a reaction out of someone when she wants something. Usually that something is proving that she has more military discipline than the other person by calmly stating facts that they might take offense too.
"I'm not going to bait him," she chuckles because she was planning on it, "but if he gives me a window I'm going to take it."
"Just make sure Lopez and Evans aren't going to get any backlash."
That's what you're really worried about. If Karofsky figures out that Lopez is her new favorite, he might take it as undermining his authority over his soldier and try to be that much harder on the girl.
"Yeah, yeah," Quinn shrugs. "You know it might actually be a really good test for her. If she can keep her cool with Karofsky breathing down her neck then she's really worth my time."
"I'm not sure she has that kind of fuse control yet," you have to smile a little, because Lopez's lack of fuse is actually really cute.
"That's what I plan on teaching her."
"They're so sloppy," Quinn mutters next to you.
From your position on the catwalk, you watch the team of soldiers run through the shoot house course. They look gaudy, unfamiliar with working in their gear, and they are, actually sloppy. It's going to be a long day.
Quinn's frustration is only growing as the teams consistently fail to meet her standards. That doesn't mean that they're entirely hopeless though, Quinn's standards are crazy high. You know it comes from a place of experience, that she's seen what can happen when people are sloppy and doesn't want that to happen to her soldiers, but her level of skill is earned with experience and it's something that these soldiers just don't have yet.
"They're learning," you remind Quinn with a smile. You've been trying to keep her mood light all day. It's only kind of working.
She takes her eyes off the team below just quickly enough to catch and return your smile, however wryly, "They make me want to throw up."
"He's moving too fast," you point, "they're leaving their fourth man out to dry."
Quinn's eyes narrow, analyzing, finding your words correct. The first two men in the group are moving too fast and aren't waiting for their fourth man to fully join the stack before they enter the next room. This is one of the only teams with four men a squad leader and three soldiers.
She lifts a whistle to her lips. Your insides are cringing at the harsh sound, but your face remains serious. The team halts, lowering their weapons and looking up, both confused and pensive. They know they did something wrong.
"You all suck!"
First Sergeant Sylvester, who has been pacing the observer's line like a hungry lion, screams down at them through a megaphone so they can be sure to hear it even with their ear protection in.
"I've never seen such a batch of slop! You're a bunch of GI Sloppy Joes!"
"I'll take care of this, First Sergeant," SFC Fabray tells her evenly.
She eyes you both, knowing full well that she put you in charge of this and the training is in your hands. You get the feeling that she's enjoying watching Quinn manage this training, and so well. She turns on her heel and heads to the staircase, "You'd better, Fabray."
"Look Sergeant," Quinn yells down at the soldiers, "how about you make sure your third and fourth man are part of the stack before you breach a room."
Under her direction, they move back three rooms and restart the course. Two rooms in you have to admit, "That's a little better."
Quinn makes an unimpressed noise and you laugh.
"Alright who's up next?"
Clipboard in hand, you're writing in the last team's scores as you walk down the stairs to the safety's catwalk. Most of the company has already tested but it's been taking longer than you thought, Quinn has been throwing teams back out to the glass house for retraining. First and Second Platoons passed with meager scores and you know that Quinn is hoping Third will be a little better.
"Third Platoon, second squad, bravo team."
The sound of his voice grates on your ears. Glancing up, you find Sergeant Karofsky and his team waiting for you at the entrance of the shoot house. She's standing off to the side with Evans, watching you from behind the clear lenses of her ballistic eye protection. You're thankful that, as an instructor, you were allowed to wear dark lenses.
You feel like it gives you an advantage.
"You guys got all your safety stuff?" you look them over, making sure they have their eye-pro, gloves, helmets are buckled snugly, vests fitting properly.
"Yes, Sergeant," he sounds annoyed that you even asked, like you were doubting him or something. You realize that he doesn't like you, maybe he's still bitter about getting chewed out by Quinn. You don't really care, it's easy enough to brush him off as the hot head that he is.
Lopez and Evans echo the sentiment with a much kinder tone. You hear it in their voices, they're excited for the training. You can't help but realize how small she looks in her gear. Her vest is probably an extra small, and completely dwarfed by the size of her team leader's. Small as she might be, you can see that fire in her eyes, she's ready to prove herself. The challenge Quinn gave her yesterday is still fresh in her mind.
You remember your job and ask, "Ear protection?"
They all tilt their heads and you can see the orange or tan buds in their ears. They're fitted and ready to go.
"Alright, I'm going to give you the safety brief so gather up," you're still on the bottom step so it gives you a significant height difference to them. Again, you're pleased with your advantage. "First, don't flag your battle buddy. If any of you points your weapon in the direction of a soldier I will personally kick you off the range and you'll answer to First Sergeant."
They nod, that's the oldest rule in the book.
"Second, see this red line?" you point at the thick line on the wall, about eight feet from the ground. "Do not point your weapon any higher than that line. If you do, the safeties will take it as a threat and jump you from twelve feet up."
They nod again. You finish the rest of the safety brief just as Quinn get's impatient, leaning over the railing above you to ask, "Who do we got, Pierce?"
You write their team number on your ledger, 3-2B, and copy SGT Karofsky from the nametape on his vest.
"Second squad, bravo," you call up to her like she couldn't already figure it out.
"Huh," she leans casually against the railing, looking down at her soldiers like they're only mildly interesting. They bristle under her eyes and you almost smile at how effective her mind games can be. Karofsky looks anxious, you can see his hands fidget on his weapon. You have a bad feeling about him. Lopez, on the other hand, is much calmer than you would expect.
Seconds from going in, you thought she would be chomping at the bit, but she's taking this very seriously, speaking to Evans in a low tone. They seem to be going over their game plan and you're glad that at least someone seems to have a plan. Before you climb up the stairs you say, "Stack up right here. Two whistles to start, and remember, if you hear a whistle, stop and put your weapons on safe."
"Let's see what you got," Quinn calls down.
With one last glance over your shoulder you meet her eyes. Dark lenses or not, you know that she knows you're looking right at her. You feel it as the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, the shiver that runs up your spine despite the heat of the day, "Good luck."
You can see the smile in her eyes, a smile meant only for you.
By the time you make it to the top of the stairs, you've already cleared the image from your head. You have to be on point just as much as they do. You have to be ready to see a safety violation before it gets worse, before it has the chance to hurt someone. You have to be focused on what matters. Safety, safety matters. Safety first. You hate to admit it, but that girl is anything but safe.
"You ready for this train wreck?" Quinn grins at you as you make it to the top of the stairs.
"It's not going to be that bad," you smile, knowing that she's expecting Karofsky to fall short. You pick up your aid bag, an M9 tactical that you've had since your first deployment, and slip your arms through the straps, buckling it across the front of your vest. If something goes down, Flanagan is out with the field ambulance, but you're going to be first on the scene.
"It's going to be that bad," Quinn relents, bringing her whistle to her mouth.
"At least they only have blanks," you admit. While shooting blanks is much safer because there's no actual bullet, there's still a potential for something to go wrong with the muzzle flash.
Quinn gives the start signal and you peer over the edge to see what's going on. Watching Karofsky's team is like watching a tricycle. Two wheels are in prefect tandem, rolling along at an even and steady pace with each other. The third wheel, however, is much larger, and while he's in the lead, he's not quite pointed in the right direction.
"What is he doing?" Quinn asks after a moment, her hands tight around the railing of the catwalk.
"His own thing," you frown.
Karofsky's movements are choppy, blundering. He's nearly tripped Lopez twice and you're just happy that he's capable enough to keep his weapon pointed in a safe position. You cringe when he runs into his point man so fiercely that Evans is pushed into the silhouette of the doorway. It's a big mistake; he just gave away their position to the enemy in the room and potentially got himself shot by the time he pulled back behind the wall.
Quinn blows her whistle before they can take another step. They lower their weapons, and wait for further instructions. The soldiers are looking just as frustrated as their NCO, but they have the decency to try to keep it from showing on their faces. Lopez is glaring at the wall across from her with such intensity you're surprised that the plywood hasn't caught fire.
"Karofsky, you just killed Evans! You're a lumbering klutz that pushed him into a fatal funnel and he gave away your position. So now he's dead, you're probably dead too because now every terrorist and their mom knows where the hell you are!"
The sergeant flinches under Quinn's blunt accusation.
"You're not in sync with your team, Sergeant," you try to add something more constructive. "You're forcing it, now flowing with it."
He says something, muttered and under his breath. You know he did because Lopez is quick to shoot him a displeased look, the corners of her mouth tucked into a tight frown. Evans looks away, pretending he didn't hear anything and putting a half step of distance between himself and his sergeant.
Quinn is much too perceptive to let all of this go unnoticed. She leans threateningly over the railing, "You have something to say, Karofsky?"
He should know not to insult you in front of Quinn by now.
"I tripped," he points to the spot of wall behind him, "that's why I ran into Evans, it won't happen again."
Quinn stirs next to you, her foot sliding against the floor of the catwalk. You can feel her tensing in a way that's too familiar.
"Please don't—" you grab her elbow, "it's not safe."
She's up and over the railing before you can get a better grip on her elbow. She stoops, shimming her hands down the support beam until she can fit her fingers into the webbed grating of the catwalk. With her grip in place, and a devilish smirk in your direction, "Be right back.
You know she can't see your eye roll behind your sunglasses as she drops her feet. It's actually very impressive, lowering herself plus the weight of her gear, from the catwalk in such a controlled motion. Until she lets go and her boots fall to the floor, kicking up a small plume of dust in their wake.
She's so dramatic.
For a fleeting moment, you notice that Lopez had taken a step forward, as if to catch her Platoon Sergeant if she fell, you find it charming. As soon as she realizes that Quinn is not only safe, but on the warpath, she steps back and matches Karofsky's position against the wall. Quinn takes two steps forward, her arms crossing over her chest, coming within less than a foot from her soldier.
Karofsky's back presses against the wall behind him.
"Evans, Lopez," Quinn addresses the soldiers without looking away from Karofsky, "go back to the start point."
They scamper off quickly. Quinn might make a show of getting ready to yell at one of her NCOs, but she's realized that berating him in front of his soldiers isn't going to help matters at all.
"You got something to say, Karofsky?"
"No, Sergeant," he shakes his head.
You shift uncomfortably. You don't need Quinn coming to your rescue again. You can take care of yourself and while you'd rather avoid the confrontation and continue with the training, Quinn will never let something go. Especially when it comes to disrespect.
"You need to realize that the soldiers you lead are counting on you to keep them alive," Quinn is nearly growling, low and threatening, and you can barely hear it. "When you fuck up, even in training, they realize that you could have just killed them. They realize that you're incompetent. They realize that they can probably do your job better than you can."
Karofsky's face is so red, you almost feel bad for him.
"And every time you disrespect another NCO in front of them," she leans in a little closer, "they realize that every standard you hold them to is a sham. That you're a hypocrite. Is that how you want your soldiers to see you?"
"No, Sergeant," he mumbles, unable able to keep Quinn's eyes.
"Then how about you pull your head out of your ass, keep your mouth shut, and let's get on with the training?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
In a single tilt of her head she sends him moving towards the start point. As soon as he turns the corner she takes off in the opposite direction at a quick sprint. You're laughing to yourself because you know what she's doing. She wants to get around to the other staircase, up to the catwalk, and back to the start point before Karofsky gets the chance to yell at the others without her watching. Sooner than you thought, and barely taxed, she's jogging across the catwalk towards you.
"You're such a goof," you tell her as she passes, she throws you a smile but is quick to turn back to her game face as she leans over the railing to yell down at the team waiting along the other wall.
"You gonna do it right this time?"
You hear the chorus of 'yes, sergeants' and lean over your own rail to watch them come around the first corner. The whistle blows and you see them, Evans in the front, Karofsky still red faced in the middle, followed closely by Lopez. They're consciously trying to work together, you can tell it's not a second nature yet, but much better than their first run. Quinn is watching closely, probably closer that you. Evans is a good pointman, he sets a good pace and is confident when moving around the corners and going into rooms. There's no hesitation and you like it. Lopez is just as capable bringing up the rear, keeping up with her team without neglecting rear security. She's stronger than her frame seems capable of, her arms never waiver with her rifle and she's surefooted, always doing her very best to follow SGT Karofsky's lead, even if it's not much to work with.
He's trying, you guess.
They make it through the building with only one minor hiccup, nothing worth getting anyone killed over, even in practice.
"What do you think?" you ask Quinn.
"I still don't like him," she mutters, taking the clipboard from your hands and the pen from her sleeve pocket, "but I'm not going to hold that against Lopez and Evans."
"They would have done really well with someone a little more experienced."
You remember the way Lopez moved yesterday, when it was just the two of you, how receptive she was of your nonverbal cues. How open she was to your guidance, your movement, your... well, your body. She stepped in line with you like she had been doing it for years, and for a moment you felt like you were back with the infantry. Maybe that's why you felt like you could talk about it. Because even if she really doesn't understand what you were talking about, you were comfortable enough to give her a chance.
She get's under your skin. Half the time you feel like you say more to her without words than you do with them.
And she always talks back.
When the training is over, the sun is setting, and everyone is packing up to get home, you run into her at the porta-johns. Literally run into her because she was coming out of hers in a rush as you were walking around the corner of it, so she kind of steps out into your walkway and you run into her before you can stop. The bill of her cap hits your chin and your hand reaches out to steady you both, griping her waist for just a second before your realize where it is and draw back.
She steps away too, swearing and muttering an apology.
"You're fine," you assure her, "I was wasn't paying attention."
"Right," she ducks her head, fixing her cap and looking embarrassed.
"Good job," now that you have her attention, and a reason to talk to her, you feel like you want to use it, "in the shoot house, today."
She puts her hands behind her back, going to parade rest as soon as she realizes that you're going to speak more than two words to her, "I don't know, we kind of messed up the first run."
"You didn't mess that up," you shouldn't be putting the blame on her NCO, but you can't let her keep thinking that she had anything to do with that restart.
Her eyes study yours for a second, trying to figure out if you're being sincere. You quirk an eyebrow at her, asking, would I lie to you? She smiles at that, it's so subtle that you have to run your eyes over the corners of her mouth just to make sure it's there. Shifting her weight, catching your eye, she's suggesting something. You take a step and she falls into place next to you, walking away from the porta-johns and back towards the shoot house.
You're doing it again, the non-speaking talking.
Maybe you should actually start talking, so that people who see you walk by might think you're trying to teach her something instead of just walking with her to walk with her. With a breath for peace of mind, you say, "You and Evans were both really great, Sergeant Fabray was impressed."
"She said that?" the soldier asks it with nervous excitement that's actually really adorable. She realizes that it sounds a lot like she cares too much about impressing her platoon sergeant, so she looks away from you for a second before following up with, "I mean, she doesn't seem like the kind of sergeant to throw that stuff out there."
"She's not," you admit with a small smile, "and she didn't have to say it, I could tell."
"Yeah?" she glances over at you before looking at her boots making their way across the gravel.
"Totally," you like praising her, the small light in her eyes, the hint of a blush on her face.
"I wish everyone on our team was..." she licks her lips, struggling for the politically correct phrasing as she smirks, "as impressive."
You laugh, hearing the cocky undertone to her words. She fidgets with the bill of her cap, trying to hide the pleased smile inspired by your laughter. She likes making you laugh.
It's a red flag, a warning sign, danger ahead.
"Third Platoon got the best scores overall," you pull yourself back into the conversation. "You all had the most first time gos."
"That's probably because she went over tactical movement with us a few days before the range. We were out behind the company for hours," she says, "it seems totally worth it now."
"She knows what she's doing, you know," your tone is a teasing bit of warning.
"Sergeant Fabray is by far the best Platoon Sergeant in the company," Lopez glances around, challenging anyone to over hear her and tell her otherwise.
"I'll tell her you said that."
You nearly start laughing at the look on her face.
"I don't think," rubbing the back of her neck, Lopez squints thoughtfully, "she really needs to know all that."
You smile because she's too prideful to want people to know that she looks up to them, even if it's completely obvious. "Don't worry, she already knows."
She shrugs, touching her hat again to hide her blush. It doesn't work but it's cute that she tried. After a few more steps in silence, SPC Lopez comes to a stop. You almost hesitate to stop with her, confused about why she's stopping and what it means. You glance around, trying to figure out what's the problem. The heat at the tips of your ears is instant.
You're standing in front of the field ambulance, the boxy military vehicle with the red crosses and the litters in the back.
She walked you to your truck.
You look back over to her and the shine in her eyes; she's proud of herself. Nervous, excited, and basking in a moment that is so much more significant than it seems to be. But it means something, to her.
The flag in your head has turned into a billboard.
"Thank you," she takes a half step away from you, the toe of her boot skidding across the gravel, "for the training, it was great. I had a lot of fun."
"Yeah," you're voice isn't louder than a whisper, because all the things she isn't saying, the look in her eyes and the tip of her smile, they're saying more than anything else, "yeah, I'm glad you liked it."
She turns, keeping her eyes on yours until her head is forced to follow the rest of her body. Like your life depended on it, you turn to your truck to keep from watching her walk away, reminding yourself, safety first.
"Let me wear this."
"You know, it kinda defeats the purpose if you put it on before you ask," you laugh at Quinn through your mirror. She's shrugging on one of your hockey jerseys. It's a little long on her and you smile at the reminder that you're taller than her.
"Yeah, but it looks so good on me, how can you tell me no?" Quinn smirks as she looks over the items of your vanity. She spots a tube of mascara and plucks it from the counter top. "I love your hair curly."
You take the curling iron out of your hair and unplug it right away, because you don't want to forget, "Thanks."
"Are you excited for the game?"
You keep your eyes on yourself in the mirror, making sure your loose curls fall where you want them to. "Yeah, I guess."
"You guess?" she pauses with the mascara.
"This is going to be so awkward," you tell her under your breath. As much as you want to have fun, you're afraid of letting loose and risking the chance that they won't see you the same way afterward. It's not that you think they would lose respect for you, but you've always liked to act with a certain amount of professionalism. There's a difference between professional and friendly and friendly is a gray line that can mess up everything.
"I know," she agrees, "let's have some fun with it."
Her smile gives you some comfort, and together you finish getting ready, and climb into the back of your jeep. Driving is a perfect excuse for you to not drink. Less reason to act foolishly.
Under some convoluted sense of duty, Quinn has decided that we'll be driving to the game together. It's easier for you to afford the gas money then them and it's the perfect way to makes sure there won't be any sort of drinking and driving involved. You really don't think Lopez and Evans would do something that stupid, but it's one of those things that NCOs have to cover their asses about.
Even off post, even off duty, you're responsible for them.
"It could be worse, you know," Quinn tells you as you pull into the barracks parking lot.
"What do you mean?" you're not sure what she's talking about, you might have missed an entire conversation for the amount of attention you were paying her.
You're getting nervous, this is really happening, this trip to a hockey game with the soldier that makes your insides squirm in a way that feels too good.
"We could be going with that ass Puckerman or Karofsky," she rolls her eyes, thumbing through your iPod. "I swear, I could have put that idiot through a wall at that shoot house."
"I'm not his biggest fan either," you mumble.
"Will you lighten up?" Quinn nudges your shoulder and you try to keep from blushing. "These kids are fine, I think they're actually the two soldiers in the company that aren't going to judge you when you start a fight with a Canucks fan."
You really do start blushing at that, smiling despite your nerves at the memory, "I'm pretty sure he started it."
"Well you certainly finished it," Quinn smiles wider, seeing a break in your nerves, "and really, if you started another one, these two would probably jump in to help before I could."
You lick your lips, eyes watching the soldiers step out of the barracks doors and onto the sidewalk. They're talking to each other, Evans at Lopez's side with a large excited smile. She doesn't look nearly as excited, her eyes on the sidewalk in front of her. Maybe she's just as nervous as you are? Is Evans giving her his own pep talk?
"I'm just saying to give them a chance, Britt," Quinn spoke softer, as if they could hear her through the doors of the jeep. "I know you like to keep your work and your play separate, but they're harmless."
You don't think that's entirely true, but you nod, "You're right, I'm sorry."
"We're gonna kick ass tonight, right?" Quinn smirks, her excitement for the game obvious in her eyes. You wonder if the last time she's been to a real hockey game was the last time she was with you.
"Of course," you smile, feeling better about everything. "Quick, roll down the window and ask if Lopez needs help getting in."
Quinn doesn't even hesitate, she's leaning out her window and relaying your question with a smirk that makes you believe she's in on the joke. Lopez certainly thinks she is, the way her brows furrow and she offers a thin, "No, Sergeant, I got it."
Quinn pulls herself back into the window, laughing, "This is going to be so much fun."
"Play nice," you warn, knowing her capacity to tease.
You think Lopez is making it a point to be graceful as she climbs into the back of the jeep. Through the rear view mirror you can see that she pulls it off, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder and fastening her seat belt with a nearly defiant click. You're sure it was much easier in those flats and now that she's entirely sober. You wont admit it, but you kind of enjoyed seeing her drunk with the boys. It was cute how embarrassed she was, how she didn't want you thinking less of her and it was obvious.
"Good afternoon, Sergeants, I hope your weekend has been going well?" Evans is quick to get into his seat and smiling so warmly you think that he might not believe in awkwardness.
"No complaints," Quinn throws over her shoulder. "Now if we lose, you all will feel it Monday morning at PT."
Lopez and Evans share a glance, and you smile.
"Don't be mean," you swat at your friend, then hazard a glance into the back of the jeep.
It's fleeting, but your eyes wander from her face, following the fall of her hair against her shoulders, and then roam over her outfit. When you catch her eyes again you realize that she's been watching you the whole time. Her eyes are hesitant and searching. You get the feeling that she's once again searching for your approval.
You smile again, keeping your eyes on hers as you finishing your thought, "She's just playing around and I like your jersey."
Her eyes fall to her knees, she's pleased and trying not to show it, "Thanks, Evans got it for me."
"Can't go to a pro game without the colors," he nods next to her, "it's just not done."
You turn back to the steering wheel and decided that it's time to take off. The quicker you get to Nashville, the quicker you can focus on the game and not the solider behind you. Quinn is much better at making conversation then you, who is more occupied on traffic along 41A and getting on the highway. When you're not exactly familiar with people, you've always been more inclined to listen to a conversation than be a part of it. The things you can learn about people as they talk to others is endless, and usually they don't pick up on all the clues you are putting together because they don't even think you're paying attention.
"No, actually I came to Fort Campbell from Fort Stewart," Quinn tells Evans after he asked. "Hated it there, it was so hot, Fort Bragg wasn't any better, though."
"That's where you went to Airborne School, right?" Evans is sitting up in his chair, wide-eyed and waiting on Quinn's every word. It's so funny to you, how Lopez is sitting back in her seat causally pretending she's not as interested in her Platoon Sergeant's history as her friend.
"Yeah, it was a lot of fun, actually," Quinn shrugs. You try to keep from smiling because she called you the night before her first jump, she said it was because she wanted to catch up, but you know she was nervous as hell. You talked her up and made sure she realized how awesome she was before she stepped foot in that plane. The next message you got from her was a picture of the shiny new Airborne wings on her uniform and her large, beaming grin. You were pretty proud.
"What MP group is out at Fort Bragg?"
"16th MP Brigade," Quinn clicks through your music.
"Don't we technically fall under them?" Lopez pipes up.
"Yes," Quinn sends you an impressed look. "That's why we get no funding, because Fort Campbell says we belong to Fort Bragg and Fort Bragg forgets that we exist. Even our patches are the same except we're missing the Airborne tab now."
"How many times have you deployed, Sergeant?"
You can hear the hint of reservation in his voice, he's not sure if it's too personal.
"This deployment coming up will be my fourth," Quinn answers easily.
"How long have you been in?"
"Eight years."
"So... you've been deployed for half of your time in?" Lopez turns from the window. You know she's doing the math in her head and weighing those statistics against all the other NCOs that she's met.
"More than," you mumble.
Deployment is not a guarantee, and a lot of people are able to weasel their way out of it. You know for a fact that Quinn went looking for at least two of those deployments.
"I have nothing better to," she answers you just as quietly. She picks up her volume to say, "Will you stop driving like a grandma."
You're pretty sure she's been itching to pass the car in front of you for the past ten miles.
"I'm not driving like a grandma," you send her a playful frown, "I'm going five over already."
She makes this noise in response, like five over is a snail's pace and you just roll your eyes, she can be so impatient. You pass the car in front of you just to make her happy. You want to make a comment about her speeding habit, but it's not something you should do in front of the soldiers. Quinn needs to be an authority figure.
"The last thing I need is for some jerk to give me a ticket," you say with a small smirk, knowing full well that everyone else in the jeep is paid to give out tickets.
"Yeah, I never give people tickets if I don't have to," Evans scratches the back of his head.
"I went four years without writing a single traffic citation," Quinn laughs. "I've only given out two, and it was for speeding through a school zone outside a preschool. Lopez, you give tickets out like they're candy."
"I like to watching them try to justify themselves, or come up with excuses about why they're breaking the law," she shrugs, "when they have some dignity and admit that they were probably speeding, and don't give me the sob story, I usually let them off."
You smile at that, thinking that it's an odd sense of justice. While general opinion around the Army hates MPs, you've figured out that they're pretty hit or miss. When you find a good one, they're great. You get the feeling that the three MPs in your jeep are all examples of those rare policemen that don't take themselves too seriously, they're genuinely good people, and they're great soldiers.
When you got your orders to the MP company, you were dreading it. You got to the company and kept to yourself, not needing to get involved in their drama so close to deployment. Now, you feel like this whole assignment has been a blessing. You've been reunited with one of your best friends, you've found some motivated and willing soldiers, and you're starting to think that this deployment is going to be special for an entirely different reason.