Author's Note: Sorry for the quickie chapter, ya'll. Really, I thought I'd take pity on my fans, who are so deprived yet so loving, and leave them with something rather than nothing.

I'm leaving for a weekend Jesus camp. Yay! So excited! I'll be wrapping the story up in two or three chapters, max. Enjoy your long weekend.

Booker:

We get Meera inside pretty quickly after she passes out. I deduce the bed with the long hairs and girly scent on the pillow to be hers, and Airy throws a common army blanket over it. Despite the implications of her rebellious haircut, I admire the way this woman thinks ahead.

"Holy..." the lesbian - this Airy person - murmurs, her hand coming away sticky from Meera's hip. "What the hell?" she demands accusitorily.

"She wouldn't let me tend it," I supply, diverting my defensiveness.

"Well, it's getting tended now," Airy determines. "Where's your IFAK?" (AN: Individual First Aid Kit, army slang)

"Trench," I start.

"On it," replies the Austrian, striding outside.

Airy strokes back Meera's hair with her clean hand worriedly. "She's burning up."

"Church gave her something nasty several hours ago," I say, indicating the needle mark on her inner arm. Walking to the hall of showers, I speak up to be heard as I wet a washtowel. "I found the syringe in his trashcan, and it smelled like shrooms."

"Please," she turns to eye me with misdirected murder as I return. "Please tell me that son of a gonosyphilatic whore is dead."

"He is," I confirm, taking a seat opposite of her, the reposed Meera between us. We share corners of the same towel, and I help her tease the dried blood carefully off the little Nepali's face. She twitches as the slight pain penetrates her sleep. "Would you believe Meera killed him herself?"

Airy stills and looks at me again, this time, for truth. "Are you serious?"

I nod, and can't help but grin. "Snapped his neck with her legs, while hanging from the ceiling by her wrists."

The woman looks at her friend, eyes wide. "Well, damn, girl," she chuckles. "I thought you might have it in you..."

"Got it," says Trench, reentering the room with his prize.

"Good," says Airy, taking it from him. "Now's the time for you two to wait outside. Meera's old fashioned, unconscious or not."

I get the feeling that 'old-fashioned' is code for 'scarred by something that would make my gut twist'. Airy may not know what, exactly, but it gratifies to know I'm not the only one who's picked up on it, or the only one who respects it. Trench and I look at each other. The conversation without words is as follows:

What the hell? Who is she to order us around? Who is she, in the first place?

Meera knows her and trusts her enough to let her stay.

That could have been the drugs talking (I heard the last part of the conversation). Will Meera be safe with her?

Ross would shoot us both if we fucked this one up.

Standing up, I lower my voice threateningly. "If you hurt her..."

"Don't worry," she replies, not rising to the bait. "I love her the same way Barney does. Well," she smirks. "Not exactly the same way, but with the same depth."

"What's Airy short for, anyway?" asks Trench pointedly. "So we know how to threaten you right."

The spiky-haired woman rolls her eyes, but oblidges. "January. Post-army entreprenuer, old friend of Barney's, newer friend of Meera's. I like long walks on the beach that end with sand-fucking." Her eyes harden. "Now git."

Trench's expression is priceless, and I fight back my smile as we dutifully adjourn to the hangar bay. "I like her," I state.

"I hate her guts," replies Trench, leaning against the corrougated metal wall. "But yeah, I kinda do, too."

"We might be here a while," I sigh. "That hip's going to need stitches."

The other man grunts, then reaches into his inner tac vest pocket. "Stoagie?"

Even though I don't particularly like cigars, I accept the peace offering. Our smoke comingles amiably.

Meera:

I wake up with my body reminding me I am very much alive in a harmony of stiffness and soreness. Someone is bathing my face with a wet cloth, and I smell cigar smoke.

My heart leaps with joy. "Barney?" I say excitedly, eyes opening.

January greets me with an apologetic look, cloth poised. "No, sugar. Sorry, but it's just me."

My face and insides fall in bitter disappointment. My friend is sympathetic, and stays silent while I gather myself. "How long was I asleep?"

"If by 'asleep' you mean 'dead to the world', about an hour." Leaning over the edge of the bed, she starts to repack the medical kit. "You needed fluids, so I hooked 'em up while you were sleeping, even though Booker told me you said no needles. You can be mad, if you want. I know it was a dirty thing to do."

I flex my arm carefully, testing the tenderness of the bend. "How can I be mad when I feel better?" My earlier crawl-in-a-hole-and-hibernate inclinations have faded to the back of my mind. It will take more than a needle while I sleep to bring them to the surface. Rehydrating intravaneously worked miracles on my condition, mentally and physically.

Airy looks relieved. "I sent Mauser and Booker outside while I patched your hip." She avoids my gaze. "I hope you didn't mind. I assumed you wouldn't let them see it because... well, because they're men."

"Yes. It was," I reply simply. Investigating the tugging sensation on my hip leads to the discovery of eight stitches in a slight curve, right over the bone. "Ouch."

"Do they hurt too much? I think I went a little tight on the third one."

"No, no, they are fine," I reply tiredly.

"And also, I gave you another dose of painkillers. They'll be knocking you on your ass shortly."

I smile, recognizing the pleasant numbness, but it turns into an outright yawn. "Remind me to be offended when I wake up."

"You know, when you're ready to talk, I'm here for you, girl." She grasps my hand, and I know she means more than just Church.

Although I still feel sluggish, I manage to squeeze her back. "I know. And one day, I will."

Airy grins in such a way that her face completely softens, and I can suddenly understand why females are attracted to her. "Looking forward to it."

It does not bother me as much as I had reckoned that she has picked up on my peculiarities, and is making reasonable assumptions based on them. My problems are just that: problems. They do not define me, nor will I let them stiffle my current strivings.

On my purple-stained back there is still the thin lines of Tool's ballpoint pen. Outside of the hangar, there is a pink bottlecap nailed to a wooden pallet, soon to be conquered. Somewhere in the cold depths of Russia's mountains, there is the man who has earned my trust and love. For the first time in my life, I have a future. Not just any future: a bright one! Its light eclipses any darkness cast by the traumas of my past, even the ones perpetrated mere hours ago by Church.

I finally get it, Barney. What you've been trying to tell me all along... is that happiness can only chase away as much sadness as I allow it to.

"Are you done in there?" asks Trench loudly from the front door. "Or should I grab a camera?"

"When you wake up, Barney'll be here." Airy pats my leg affectionately. "Excuse me. I have a eunuch to initiate."

"Airy, don't hurt him," I implore with a yawn. "He is just an idiot. You cannot blame him for that."

My friend snorts contemptuously. "Watch me. Get in here, Megaphone. You too, Booker."

I drift back off of my own volition this time, to the sound of bickering made softer by reduced stress, then the television snapping on. Estimating grossly, I calculate than Barney is most likely crossing the mountains, getting closer to Santa the PBY. Imagining him treking over the pure white snow, in the company of starkly beautiful peaks and sweeping valleys, lulls me to sleep.

I can't wait to see you again, love, I think sleepily. I yearn to dig my fingers into his dark wavy hair, touch his strong jaw, wrap myself in his muscular inked arms. We had said and done an astonishing amount before he left, and made stunning progress in the fields of 'forever' and 'physical manifestation'.

Snuggling under the blanket, I smile to myself. I can't wait to show him what I've become.

Barney:

Sullivan and I make it to the Kresh's makeshift airfield, cut into the ice. Santa is waiting for us, his propellers spinning slowly in the stiff prevailing northern wind. I have never been so damn happy to see that smiling mug.

"That's your plane, mate?" asks Sullivan incredulously, eyeing the metal contraption critically and dubiously. "I've seen better sitting on the ocean floor."

"Hey, she's your ticket outta here, remember," I reply good-naturedly. "Provided we can get her going." Tugging on the strap handle for the door, the metal staircase falls outward and bangs on the ice loudly. Stepping into the plane, I reach into a locker and pull out two crowbars. "But first, we gotta de-ice her. She can fly with her bomb bay full, but not with weight on her wings."

Sullivan snatches the laterally tossed metal tool out of the air. "Fair dinkum."

We set to work freeing the behemoth machine from winter's crystaline grip. Once done, it would be a ten-hour flight home.

Home. Where my future is waiting for me. Where Meera is waiting for me.

Already my brain and body think I'm wrapped up in her, smelling her, touching her. Redoubling my efforts at chipping the ice at the landing gear, I grin to myself and let my mind wander.