Hey all, thank you so much for your lovely responses to the last chapter! I'm so happy to be sharing this story with all of you.

Also, due to a somewhat intense holiday schedule, my editing had to be a little rushed this week. But I'll have another read over it sometime in the next few days and polish it up a bit if it needs it.

Enjoy :)

#########

He was fucking carrying her.

Like she was the damsel in distress and he was the knight in fucking armor.

In any other situation, she never would have allowed it, would have already forced him to put her the fuck down and keep his damn hands to himself. But unfortunately— or rather, infuriatingly— for her, there was really no denying that letting her walk by herself would have only slowed them down, endangering them both even more.

So, just this once, he got a pass.

Didn't mean she had to like it.

By the time they'd gone a hundred or so feet, her rage had cooled slightly, the pain in her leg dulling to a tolerable throbbing. It was only then that she noticed how carefully he'd been holding her, his grip deliberately placed to ensure the least amount of pressure on her wound, even though it meant far greater strain on his arms and back— an effort which was obviously taking a toll, his breathing shallow and each step less steady than the last.

After another dozen or so feet, she gave in; letting out a small, irritated huff, she shifted her rifle so she could grip it securely in one hand, then grudgingly curled her other arm around his shoulders, taking some of the weight off his arms.

Clearly surprised, he glanced down at her, but she refused to look at him. She didn't owe him anything; she'd never asked for his help, or even wanted it. Just because he had his little boyscout honor code thing didn't mean she had to do the same, and the only reason she was helping right now was so he wouldn't fucking drop her and make everything even worse.

With the new arrangement, the rest of the distance seemed to pass a little more easily; yet when he lowered her gently down onto a small, knee-high boulder—carefully positioning her so the rock wouldn't touch the metal in her thigh— she could see what the distance had cost him, the exhaustion clear in his face, in his trembling hands and the slump of his shoulders.

Her own shoulder and side was now stained with his blood, the deep gouges across his chest still oozing steadily. Holding her like that must have been painful, the pressure worse with every breath, yet he'd done it without hesitation or complaint— and even now, he didn't stop, didn't take even a moment to rest. Instead, he knelt beside her outstretched leg, his face level with her thigh as he dropped the medkit to the ground beside him, one hand searching through it for the appropriate bandages while the other remained wrapped protectively around the piece of metal, as if he knew she would pull it free the moment he left it unguarded.

Because of course he fucking did. That had always been Weller's problem, the entire time she'd known him— he cared too damn much. About everything, and everyone.

Even those that were least worth it.

With a sigh, she let the last of her anger leave her, her gaze shifting from his hand to his face.

"Weller, the only way to get out of here alive is on foot," she began, keeping her tone reasonable, knowing the only way to get through to him was with pure logic. "You and I both know the nearest village is at least a two day march, probably more given the state we're in. And I'm not getting anywhere with this thing in me."

"If I take it out, you could bleed to death before you make it one step," he countered, voice grim. "You know that."

"Exactly," she answered evenly, her eyes holding his. "I know the risk, and I still know it's the right call."

If the metal stayed in, she would slow them down too much, would expose them to both the elements and the enemy. With it out, she could move more freely, could maybe move fast enough that they might just make it out of here. And if taking it out did kill her, well, at least then she wouldn't be a burden on him. He could take her canteen and rifle and go, and he would probably make it.

It surprised her just how okay she would be with that.

But Weller, it seemed, would not.

"No," he insisted stubbornly, shaking his head. "It stays in, and we both get out of here. That's the deal."

She took a breath, about to make it real damn clear just what 'the deal' was, when the helicopter suddenly said it for her; erupting into a sudden, brilliant fireball that shot dozens of yards into the sky, it near-deafened them both with a thunderous roar, sending out a wave of heat that they felt even at their distance.

The reserve tanks had finally blown, obliterating not only the chopper and the remains of their squadron, but literally everything within a hundred foot radius.

Which— if not for Weller— would almost certainly have included her.

"Well, if the enemy hadn't seen the smoke before, they sure will now," she said bluntly, ignoring the fresh ringing in her ears as she watched the thick black plume billowing towards the sky. "We're out of time, Weller. We have to go."

Looking down at him, she watched him stare mutely at the column of smoke, its presence more effective at drawing an attack than any homing beacon could be.

"Weller, look at me," she said quietly, not noticing the way her voice softened, losing the sharp edge that it held for everyone else. "Think about the infection risk. If there was a village over the next ridge we wouldn't be having this conversation, but having this thing in me for three days is too long. Keeping it in could kill me as easily as taking it out."

That seemed to get through to him; after another breath, his eyes finally shifted to hers, and she could see the pain in them, shadowed by a depth of fear that surprised her. This wasn't just about him being a boyscout and saving the damsel in distress. He knew there was a good chance she could die, and it terrified him.

Without stopping to contemplate what she was doing, she laid her hand over his where it encircled the metal atop her thigh, her eyes holding his. "Please, Weller."

For a long moment neither of them moved, the two of them simply staring silently at one another, an understanding forming that hadn't been there before. Then, finally, he shut his eyes and gave a small nod. Squeezing his fingers slightly, she let out a breath.

"We get everything ready first," he said, opening his eyes and looking up at her with a stern expression. "And once it's out, I'm taking command. You obey all orders whether you like them or not."

Indignation flared, sharp and instinctive; she didn't like being told what to do, especially by a man of the same damn rank. But she also saw the sense in it, and knew him well enough to know that he would only ever give her orders to prevent her from putting herself at risk— which, really, was better than most of the orders that she'd had to obey in her life.

"Fine," she answered coolly, and for a moment he searched her gaze, as if for confirmation she would stick to her end of the deal. Then he turned away and began pulling gauze and bandages out of the bag, holding some out to her. She automatically took them with her right hand, realizing belatedly that her left was still curled over his on her thigh.

Immediately releasing him, she pressed the pieces of gauze around the metal where it entered her thigh, knowing how he would want to proceed. A moment later he wrapped the bandage over each piece, placing more around the exit wound at the back of her thigh as he circled her leg with the bandage a couple more times. Handing her the long end, he gathered a few more pieces of gauze, ready to plug the hole they were about to make.

"I'm doing the pulling," she stated, fingers closing around the top of the metal. If he was right and this did kill her, then she wanted to die by her own hand. And even more than that, she didn't want her blood on his.

He looked surprised, but didn't try to talk her out of it, seeming to sense that this was something that she needed to take part in. Instead, he paused for a moment, his expression turning pensive.

"We do it together," he said, waving away her protest at the suggestion. "If it was like ripping off a bandaid, I'd leave it to you, Briggs. But we gotta go steady with this, and every second of it is going to hurt like a sonofabitch, so you're going to need the help."

Knowing that he was only going to keep arguing with her, she scowled at him. "Fine."

With a small, grateful nod, he rose on his knees, then swung one over her outstretched leg, trapping it securely between his thighs to stabilize her.

"No matter how bad it hurts, don't kick, or you won't be the one passing out," he joked, and she rolled her eyes, recognizing his lame attempt to lighten the tension.

"I've managed to control myself every other time I've been close to kicking a man in the balls," she answered dryly. "Don't see why this should be any different."

Despite his obvious anxiety, that drew a genuine chuckle from him, the sound actually settling her own nerves a little.

Then, he closed his hand around hers, his grip warm and firm, anchoring them both. Trying not to notice the feel of his skin on hers, she watched as he drew a deep, slow breath, seeming to steady himself, his shoulders straightening.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice quiet, serious once more.

"Tell me where the nearest village is," she blurted suddenly, ignoring his question.

Frowning up at her, he hesitated, then said, "Southwest. About thirty klicks."

Satisfied with the answer, she let out a breath, then dipped her head. "Then yeah. I'm ready."

"Alright. Plan is to pull it out the top, moving nice and steady to try and minimize damage. When it's far enough through, I'll cover the exit wound on the underside, and once it's out, you cover the top. Then I'll bandage both, while you concentrate on staying conscious. Clear?"

Meeting his eyes, she nodded. "Clear."

"On my three," he said, and they both tightened their grip.

"One. Two. Three."

As one, the two of them pulled steadily upward, a hoarse cry escaping through her teeth as the metal slid through her flesh. She felt his other hand press against the wound at the back of her thigh, heard his murmured words of encouragement, his eyes intense as they held hers.

And then, suddenly, it was gone.

The moment it came free, his hand released hers, immediately reaching for the end of the bandage. Half a second later, the metal hit the ground, her hands reflexively pressing gauze to the wound as he'd instructed her, fighting the wave of nausea and lightheadedness that washed through her. His own hands moved quickly to stem the flow from the wound, his skin now as stained with her blood as her fatigues were with his.

Even before he finished securing the bandage, though, the relief started to seep in; after all, they both had enough training to know instantly that her artery was undamaged, that with the proper pressure and bandaging— and stitching, sooner or later— she would heal up well.

Or well enough, at least.

When he finished, she watched him release a slow, relieved breath, his fingers smoothing over the swathe of bandages that now wrapped firmly around her thigh.

"Good work, Sergeant," she told him wryly, the new title making him glance up at her. He'd kept his side of the deal, though, so she would keep hers.

A fact that he was apparently going to make use of, considering the next words out of his mouth were his first order.

"These bandages are temporary only," he said firmly, eyes on hers. "You need stitching and re-bandaging under your fatigues asap. If these start to come loose or you start to bleed through you inform me immediately. Understood?"

"Understood, Weller."

"Alright," he said, then shifted his knees apart, freeing her leg before climbing stiffly to his feet. "Then let's see you walk."

Pushing herself up from the rock, she gingerly put weight on her left leg, pretending not to see the supporting arm he held out for her. Gritting her teeth, she took a step forward, then another, each movement sending white hot spears of pain through her wound— but her leg held, and that was all that mattered. Limping around in a little circle, she came back to face him, lifting her eyes to his and cocking an eyebrow in question.

"It'll have to do," he said reluctantly, glancing back towards the crash site, then up at the slowly lowering sun. "We need to get going. What's your status with provisions?"

Standing as upright as she could manage, she rattled off an inventory of everything that had made it through the crash with her. "Canteen, ¾ full. Rifle with full mag, no additional ammo. K-Bar and three small knives. No navigation or communications gear."

She saw him process that, his brows furrowing slightly in concentration, clearly weighing up their combined assets.

"Canteen, near full," he reported after a moment, still frowning. "No rifle or ammo. K-Bar. Medkit with small extra canteen and ten protein bars. No navigation or communications gear."

Seeing the concern in his eyes, she gave a shrug. "Could be worse."

That drew a half-smile from him, but it was faint and short-lived. Stepping back over to the medkit, he knelt down beside it and carefully packed away the unused bandages, then paused.

"You know much about medicines?"

"Enough."

Lifting the open medkit onto the large boulder beside him, he tipped his head, inviting her over. "Come find something to get us through the walk ahead."

Moving to join him— trying to minimize her limp as she did so— she looked down into the kit for a minute, eyes travelling over labeled packets and vials, most names familiar, some not.

"How do you feel about needles?" she asked, already reaching for two small syringes and capping them each with a needle.

He groaned. "God, today's the gift that just keeps on giving, isn't it? Please tell me I'm not about to be stabbed in the ass."

"Just the thigh," she said, drawing up a vial and then turning to him. "Hold still."

He sighed, but obeyed, and with a steady movement she pushed the needle straight through his fatigues and into the firm muscle of his outer thigh. He grimaced but didn't move, and 10 seconds later she had the needle out and was recapping it, securing it in one of the pockets.

"Please tell me that was an excellent painkiller."

"It's Cephazolin," she answered absently, smoothly drawing up another vial for herself. "The antibiotic used for battlefield amputations. A shot of this a day, and we should manage not to die of sepsis."

"Great. Do you want me to—" he began, but she didn't bother to let him finish, instead shoving the needle into her thigh just above the bandages, thumb pressing steadily down on the syringe. Ignoring the fresh spasm of pain from her thigh, she secured the syringe back in the bag in a separate pocket to Weller's, then pulled out a small packet.

Tipping a white pill into her palm, she held it out to him.

"Vicodin," she said simply.

He accepted it without question, swallowing it dry. Packet in hand, she hesitated, years of training warring with logic. With Shepherd, the use of painkillers was forbidden, considered a sign of weakness, of failure. She hadn't taken so much as a Tylenol since she was a child.

But without them, she would slow Weller down.

So, there was her answer.

She took the pill.

As she tucked the packet back into the kit, Weller held out a hand, his voice even. "I'll take the rifle, you take the medkit. If for any reason we get separated, each of us is to continue for the village without any delays. Understood?"

For a moment she didn't respond, her body instantly frozen, her mind rebelling against everything he'd just said. Compared to this, the question of the painkillers was nothing; giving up her weapon went against every single instinct she had, as if she were giving away a vital part of herself, one she couldn't survive without.

But it wasn't just about her, and her survival— not anymore.

If they were to get through this alive, she needed to trust him.

"Understood," she answered finally, eyes meeting his as she held the rifle out to him. Carefully accepting it, he hooked the strap over his shoulder then stepped away, holding the weapon at his side while she zipped the medkit and slung it onto her back.

Drawing a steadying breath, she glanced at the sky, then turned southwest.

From behind her, she heard Weller's voice. "Lead the way, Briggs."

So she did.

#########

Briggs was struggling.

He could see it plainly, had been watching all afternoon as she got paler and paler, as she stumbled more on the rocky ground, her teeth gritting with every step.

Early into their march he'd fashioned her a walking stick from one of the wizened desert trees they'd passed, and she'd not only accepted it, but had even given him a somewhat grudging thanks in return— which meant he'd gotten both a please and a thank you out of her today, two words he was pretty sure he'd never heard her use before in all the time they'd been stationed together.

Not that he'd heard her use many words at all; she'd never socialized with the rest of the squad, and had only ever seemed to speak in response to a direct order or when it was absolutely necessary.

Which made the way she'd acted toward him today all the more surprising.

He certainly wouldn't say they were now on friendly terms, but she seemed to have at least formed somewhat of a tolerance for him, necessity serving to soften that hard shell just a little.

Waiting for her to catch up with him, he did another quick sweep of their surroundings— they'd scaled one ridge on their slow trek and were now currently walking in the shadow of another— reassuring himself that there was no immediate threat from hostiles. No doubt the fire from their chopper had been clocked by quite a number of locals, but if they had any luck at all, no scouts or militia would have been close enough to get there in time to catch up with them.

Now, they just needed the sun to hurry up and finish its frustratingly slow descent below the horizon, the stunning colors of the desert sunset almost completely lost on him as he waited impatiently for nightfall. Since there was no way to prevent anyone with eyes from picking up the glaringly obvious trail he and Briggs had left behind, their only hope was that it would soon be too dark for anyone to track them— at least until morning.

Which brought him to the next issue on his list of Shit To Worry About. Shelter. With near-freezing temperatures overnight, out here simple exposure could kill them just as easily as soldiers could. Thankfully, he had a solution: in the hours they'd been walking, he'd done multiple brief forays into the terrain ahead, searching for signs of danger or ambush. He'd never gone far, never letting Briggs out of his sight for long— no way was he leaving her without protection for a second longer than necessary— and on this last sweep he'd finally gotten lucky.

The ravine they were following was rough, strewn with boulders and craggy outcrops. And it was behind one of those that he'd found it.

The cave.

Well, it was hardly a cave, really; more like a narrow crevice in the wall of the ravine, initially barely wide enough for him to squeeze into, but widening out into a space about eight by five feet, with the rock walls coming together high overhead in a steep, tapering point.

It was going to be cold and uncomfortable as hell— but at least decently sheltered from the elements, and easy to defend if it came to it.

Now, as Briggs finally reached him, he slung the rifle around to his back, then prepared to test just how far her tolerance of him extended. Turning, he fell into step beside her, one hand closing around hers as he lifted her left arm and ducked under it, his other arm encircling her and taking some of her weight.

She tensed instantly, shooting him a look of anger and indignation— and for a moment he was sure she'd pull away, or maybe even forcibly shove him away from her— but then she seemed to reconsider, letting out a small huff and just silently continuing forward as if nothing had happened. Feeling stupidly pleased about it, he carefully helped her over the uneven, rocky ground, trying to act like he hadn't been desperately wanting to do this since the moment they'd left the crash site hours ago.

Keeping his voice low, he told her about the cave, then guided her the last several hundred feet to its entrance before reluctantly letting her go. Sending her in ahead of him, he lifted the rifle and carefully scanned the terrain around them, only following her when he was sure they hadn't been observed.

Squeezing through the cramped entrance, he squinted, letting his eyes adjust— the light outside was failing, and it was even dimmer here; soon it would be too dark to see by. The first thing he did see as he made it inside was Briggs dropping the medkit onto the sandy floor of the cave, then reaching for the nearest wall, half-falling and half-leaning against it. Concerned, he took a hasty step towards her, but she wordlessly held up a hand in his direction, halting him. Instead he simply had to watch as she pressed her back against the rock and slowly slid down it until she was sitting at its base, exhaustion in every line of her body.

For a moment he simply looked at her, suddenly certain that he had never respected anyone so much in his life. He'd respected her the moment he'd met her, of course— Orion was unmistakably a boy's club, and any woman who could convince the chauvinistic higher-ups to ignore their unwritten rule was bound to be exceptional— and the more he'd seen from her, the more he'd respected her. But today… what she'd accomplished today was barely short of superhuman, and he knew that almost anyone else would have simply laid down and given up hours ago.

Hell, he probably would have.

Pulling himself back to the moment, he crossed over to her, unslinging the rifle and placing it down in easy reach as he took a seat against the wall beside her. Pulling the medkit over, he unzipped it and fished out a couple of the protein bars, offering one to her before unwrapping one of his own. It wasn't much, but it was a hell of a lot more than they might have had, and he was grateful for it.

For a few minutes, they chewed in silence, the moment feeling almost companionable. They may have just lost eight men with whom they'd spent just about every waking moment for the last five months, but at least neither of them was out here alone.

And the deeper truth— the one he'd been deliberately ignoring all day— was that of them all, she was the only one he couldn't bear to lose.

Clearing his throat in the suddenly too-quiet cave, he scrunched up the plastic wrapper and shoved it in a pocket of the medkit, then busied himself searching through its contents for the things he'd need to patch her up. Arranging them in a little pile in front of him, he looked up to find her watching him, a faint spark of something like amusement in her eyes.

"You don't let up, do you?"

"You knew the deal when you insisted on yanking that thing out of your leg," he reminded her, even though he knew now that she'd made the right call. "I stuck to my end, now you're sticking to yours."

"Sir, yes, Sir," she muttered, giving a small roll of her eyes that he decided was mostly just for show.

With everything ready, he shifted onto his bruised knees, thankful for the relative softness of the sandy floor. Reaching for the knot, he carefully untied it, then began unwinding the bandage from around her thigh, trying to be as gentle as possible. The next step was where the real problem lay; to actually assess the wound and fix it up properly, he would need her fatigues out of the way, and there was only one way to achieve that.

Pulling the last of the bandage free, he swallowed, suddenly feeling like an awkward teenager. "Uh…"

"God, quit blushing already and just help me get these off," she said with a huff, fingers already popping the buttons at the front of her trousers. Then, using her good leg to push herself up from the floor and her hands stabilizing her on either side, she shot him an impatient look.

Hating the fact that he most definitely was blushing, he curled his fingers in the fabric at her hips, avoiding her eyes as he carefully worked the trousers down below her knees, exposing her black, boyleg underwear and a pair of toned, surprisingly pale thighs.

All of that was instantly forgotten, though, as his eyes fell to the jagged wound in her inner thigh, approximately halfway down to her knee and easily three inches long. Now that they'd removed the pressure of the bandage and fatigues atop it, it had started bleeding sluggishly again, the surrounding tissue an angry red.

Glancing up at her, he grimaced in apology. "I don't have any anaesthetic, but it really needs stitching, Briggs. Maybe I could get you another Vicodin, or something?"

"Don't bother. It's nothing I haven't been through before," she replied dismissively. "Just do what you have to."

Biting back the many questions that arose from that statement— she would never answer them anyway— he simply took a breath and got to work, pulling on some gloves from the kit and cleaning the wound as best he could with alcohol and gauze, all too aware that he was barely scratching the surface. He just had to hope that the antibiotic shot would take care of the rest.

Reaching back into the kit, he pulled out the needle and threaded it, glancing up at her briefly as he prepared to start. Her gaze was fixed dead ahead, her jaw taut; the only outward indication of the agony this must be causing her. Drawing a deep breath, he leaned in— pointedly ignoring the fact that his face was currently barely more than a foot from her crotch— giving a murmured warning as he began his first stitch.

To her credit, she never even flinched, not when one stitch became three, or three became five; she simply sat patiently, letting him work. He was about three-quarters done and deep in concentration when she suddenly spoke, her words surprising him.

"What are you doing here, Weller?"

Confused, he frowned up at her. "I'm stitching your—"

"No," she interrupted curtly, sounding almost frustrated. "What are you doing here. In Afghanistan, working for Orion, for fuck's sake. Never made sense, a boyscout like you working for a shadowy outfit like this."

For a minute, he didn't reply; it wasn't a question he'd ever expected to hear from her. He'd had similar questions from some of the guys, which he'd just always responded to with a wink and a sly remark about how appearances could be deceiving. He'd let them think that something dark and twisted lay beneath the apparently noble exterior, because it had been the easiest way to fit in, to find acceptance in a group where possessing a broken moral compass appeared to be not only an attribute, but a requirement.

Briggs, though, she was different from the rest; like him, she did the work, but she didn't live for it like the others did. They were both outsiders in their own way— not that she'd ever given any indication that she'd noticed, or cared. She was a mystery he'd spent too many hours pondering over, but never in all that time had he ever thought that he might be a mystery to her too.

As he finished his stitch and moved to the next, he let out a slow breath.

"When I was ten, my best friend went missing," he began, reciting the words impassively, mechanically— as though he'd been saying them all his life, even though it had been more than a decade since he'd last spoken them aloud. "She was five, our next door neighbors' kid. My father was the prime suspect, but they never had the evidence to pin anything on him. I didn't either, but I knew it was him."

Swallowing back that same old burning feeling that rose in his throat, he pushed on. "I knew, and I hated him for it. I enrolled in a military academy to get away from him, and then by the time I reached graduation, the army just seemed like the obvious choice. Can't get much further away than the other side of the world."

For a long moment, she was silent, but he could sense her eyes on his face, her tone indecipherable as she spoke the words he hadn't said.

"They never found her."

"No," he answered flatly, occupying himself with finishing his knot. By the time he had cut the thread free, though, he couldn't help but flick a glance up at her, and then immediately away again, finding himself admitting a truth he'd never expected to share. "In some ways, you actually remind me of her. Same eyes. Same fire."

Concentrating on rethreading the needle for the final stitch, he tried to ignore the silence that now surrounded them, feeling absurdly grateful when she broke it.

"Still doesn't explain Orion."

Taking a breath, he hesitated, then gave the short version. The safe version.

"Gotta know how broken the system is before you can start to fix it. Once our tour was up, I was going to head back stateside and join the Bureau, see if getting high enough in one limb would help me trim the rotten branches from another. I already know there's people there who want the same, so it's just a matter of working my way to where they are. So yeah, I guess maybe that'll be what I do next, if we make it back home."

She didn't make any reply to that, and he didn't lift his eyes away from his work, unsure he wanted to see what she thought of his admission. But he couldn't hold back his own curiosity any longer.

"Why are you here, Briggs?"

She was quiet even longer than he had been; he'd finished the last stitch and was taping a gauze pad over the wound when she finally gave an answer.

"Maybe I know something about parental betrayal, too," she said quietly, her voice steady, detached, revealing nothing. "Orion's one of the few places she can't reach me. Plus, it's where the danger is."

The last words were spoken almost like an afterthought, his hand stilling on her thigh and eyes lifting to hers as he processed her meaning. Maybe she'd simply meant she needed the adrenaline of front-line combat, but he already knew that that wasn't it.

Because he knew exactly what she meant, knew it with a certainty that hit him like a punch to the gut.

Briggs had come to Orion looking for a suicide mission.

She didn't give him a chance to find a response to that revelation, however; firmly pushing herself away from the wall, she shifted over until she could roll onto her stomach on the sandy floor, her head turning to shoot a glance over her shoulder at him.

"Job's only half done, Sergeant," she said pointedly, then looked away again, her head coming to rest on her folded arms. Knowing a dismissal when he heard it, he let out a quiet sigh, then gathered his materials to start the process over again with the exit wound on the back of her thigh.

For a few brief moments there, she'd opened the door just a fraction, letting him see past the fortress-like walls that she kept around herself. But now it was closed again, and he was once more on the outside, more desperate for answers than ever.

Still, he found he couldn't feel too disappointed; after all, she'd said more to him in the several hours since the crash than she had in the entire five months they'd worked together.

Who knew what the next two days with her would bring.

#########

Thanks again for reading, and I hope you all had an awesome start to 2020! Please feel free to review and tell me about what you did for New Years haha

(PS- I've done a fair bit of research to try to keep this fic pretty factually accurate, but if you spot something you think isn't right, let me know! I'm always happy to learn).