A/N: This is what I would define as angsty- smutty romance. This is another very short story that I truly hope you enjoy.

I'd been in the country for a little over a year in November 2002, when we got our new orders. Three battalions of the 101st Airborne Division were assigned to Operation Iraqi Freedom, including ours. Our objective was to secure the Karbala Gap, a key approach to Baghdad then secured the bridges over the Euphrates River. By September, just one week after it all began, the battalions had suffered staggering losses, with over three dozen killed or injured, including two of our four platoon leaders, and three of our four company commanders, myself included.

We had already been hit two times by the attack. Insurgents used various guerrilla tactics, including mortars, missiles, suicide attacks, snipers, improvised explosive devices (IEDs), car bombs, small arms fire (usually with assault rifles), and RPGs (rocket-propelled grenades) We were engaged in close combat with Taliban forces, and air support had been called in. I realized what was about to happen, and tried to radio it in, but couldn't get through. I ran out to alert my men to take cover, and that's when the third incident occurred. I remember the noise, the searing pain, and then nothing. Those are the last things I remember from that day.

There's a sound. It's inaudible, but I hear it. A faint beeping. I'm surrounded by black and the agony . . . the pain is unbearable. I want to scream, but I have no voice. Then there is an indescribable stinging sensation and nothing . . .

Voices. I can hear them, although they are quiet, whispering voices. The world is still dark, and there is pain, but not like before. I try to talk to them, to call out to the voices, but I feel the coldness and then nothing . . .

I'm floating in a timeless void and the voices are back. They whisper so I can't understand them. I want to touch my face, wipe my nose. It itches, but I have no fingers to scratch with. Fuck! Where are my fingers? Then I feel something, a cool hand, a touch.

"I'm here," I try to tell the hands, but they don't listen, and soon they're gone. And then nothing . . .

Pain! So much pain again, but it's in my fingers, and oddly, I want to laugh with joy because I still have my fingers. A part of me wonders where they went to and when they got back. The cool hands return, and they soothe me.

I hear a whispered, "shh, it's alright," and then nothing . . .

I hear voices again, but this time I can make out some of the words. "Captain Grimes."

"Yes, that's me!" I want to yell, but there is something in my throat, and I can't find my voice. I know my fingers are there, but they won't move. Can I move my legs? I hear a gasp, and then the word 'involuntary'.

"No!" I shout, but no one hears me. It's not involuntary. Is it? I feel the cold run up my arm and then nothing . . .

I'm awake. I know I'm awake, but I can't see and I can't speak. I can, however, feel. I think there is a tube in my throat. I don't know how long my world has consisted of pain. A day? A week? A month? I have no one to ask, and no means to do so. The cool hands are back, and I feel them on my legs, washing them gently. I feel movement, and then the same sensations on my stomach. I realize that I'm being bathed, a sponge bath, and for some reason, embarrassment floods me. I am naked, helpless, and blind. I feel myself being turned slightly, and the washcloth and soft hands stroke my back, and my buttocks. I long for the nothingness, and after a few minutes, I feel the cold and then nothing . . .

Time has ceased to exist. I float blindly, silently through consciousness and pain, although I can tell the pain is lessening every day. I wake. I feel and then I sleep a dreamless sleep. I am mostly alone. My only reprieve from the pain and nothingness is from her; her hands. Every day I look forward to those hands, they are my only tether to the world. They are soft and gentle. They caress, and they care for me. At times, I feel like an infant. At other times, however, those hands remind me that I am very much a man. I dream about the face attached to those hands, but it is ever-changing, shifting, and hidden behind a smoky haze.

I am awake, and today I most definitely do not feel like an infant. She hums a melody as she bathes me, changes my gown and my sheets. My body stirs in reaction to her, to her hands, to her feather-light touches as she brushes the gown down and over my legs. I blush internally, mortified, and desperate at the same time. My leg twitches. And I hear a voice.

Angelic and ethereal, "Doctor, I think he's awake." I have only a moment to be embarrassed before the world around me explodes in sound and touch, pain, and discomfort.

"Captain Grimes," says the disembodied voice, but it isn't hers. Not the angel's voice. It is distinctly male. "Captain Grimes. My name is Dr. Greene. If you can hear me, nod your head."

My head. He wants me to nod my head. Can I do that? I nod, although it feels more like a flop, and I hear a sigh of relief.

"Captain Grimes, there is a tube down your throat, and we're going to take it out now. It's going to be very uncomfortable, but if you can try to cough while we pull it out, that might help. Okay? Nod if you can understand me."

I nod.

"Okay, Sir, now on three. One, two, and three," he calls out.

I think I'm going to vomit. I try to cough, but it is a pathetic effort. My throat is on fire.

"Good, good. You're doing great." Dr. Greene praises, but I have no idea what it is I'm supposedly doing.

After the tube down my throat is removed, another tube is yanked out of my nose. And then he explains it all to me: the head injuries, the injuries to my eyes, to my arms and hands, and my left leg. What he can't tell me is what's next. Will I be able to use my hands? Will I be able to walk? Will I be blind? There are no answers, and I am unable to ask the questions. There are only vague guesses and maybes. Everything is maybe. If the bones in my hands heal properly; they are currently immobilized. If the pins in my leg do their job. If, if, if . . . My eyes? They won't know anything until the bandages come off… My voice? Finally, at least one real piece of information. It'll come back soon, in a day or two. My throat is just sore from the intubation. But there will be no more intravenous pain killers. I can't decide if I'm grateful for that or not. Not because of the pain, but because of the awareness . . .

I'm left alone again. I want to ask about my men, but I can't. I remember the helicopters. I remember the screaming and the pain, but my men . . . I have no idea what happened to my men.

I'm left alone to wonder. Will this be my life? Will I be a blind, bed-ridden, useless lump of flesh?

Suddenly, the flush of cold up my arm and the heavy blackness of narcotics seem like a welcome interval, and I long for the sting of the injection.

"Good morning, Captain," the angel's voice says softly. "I hope you're hungry. We're not going to try too much, but I have some Jell-O here, and some broth and juice. I'm afraid you can't jump right back into solid food just yet. Okay? I'll tell you when to open."

I hear a scraping sound and then . . . "Alright sweetie, now open."

The cold touches my tongue, and sweetness melts across its surface. In my head I know it's only Jell-O, but my body is reacting like its manna from heaven. Has it been so long? The voice coaxes me once again, and slowly but surely those tender, certain hands feed me until I'm turning away, unable to take another bite.

"Okay. You did well. You did really good." The angel says.

I want to open my eyes and see the mouth and lips that produce that voice. I want to see the face that goes with those hands. But maybe it's better this way. Maybe she's old like my grandmother was before she died. And yet, the hands feel smooth and soft, without the parchment feel of age. Maybe she's plain, like the girl Jessica who had a crush on me in high school. But no, I'm sure she isn't. And once again, she is humming a wordless tune. It tickles the back of my mind as if I should know it, but then she stops, and the imperfect memory dissolves in the recesses of my brain.

There is rustling, and she tells me she is going to clean me up. I hear the sound of water sloshing, and then the sensation of a washcloth gently cleaning my face, or the part of it that is exposed, as my bandages cover me all the way to the tip of my nose. When she pulls away, I nearly whimper at the loss of her touch. She leans over me to begin wiping my neck and I can smell her, and feel the heat of her body. She smells like fresh air and honeysuckle. I feel myself begin to stir in response to her proximity and try to make my throat work, to tell her this isn't necessary, because I'm ashamed, not of my arousal, but my helplessness. Her fingers find the ties to the hospital gown, and she eases it down my chest. Once more, she moves away to moisten the cloth, and again her hands are ghosting over me; her touch is delicate but assured, with practiced movements that are nevertheless tender, soft, and alluring. The rough fabric of the washcloth grazes over my nipples, and I can feel them harden in response. Then she helps me to sit forward, and we are touching as she repeats her motions along my back, and the scent of her envelops me completely. I want to bury my face in her neck and just smell her.

She moves away, retying the gown, and I feel her shift the blanket, and begin again at my feet, working her way up and around my cast. She reaches mid-thigh and I tense. I feel her pause, and she switches to the other leg, going no higher. Then she is done, and she adjusts the blankets over me once more. My eyes are covered, but still, I turn my head in shame.

What must I look like to her, a disfigured abomination? I feel her cool fingers stroke my arm.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning, Captain."

And she is gone. I am alone once more. Lunch and dinner are miserable affairs. Large, uncaring hands shovel the food into my mouth. Cold discomfort is now my friend, as I'm methodically assisted to relieve myself, unable to get out of bed or hold my own penis to urinate. I cry myself to sleep, although I don't know if there were any tears.

And finally, I dream. I'm in a pasture back home in Kentucky, and the sun shines above. A slight breeze stirs the taller grasses, causing them to dance and ripple. I hear her voice.

"Rick," She is hiding, my angel. I hear her voice calling to me, daring me to find her, to catch her. She teases me with promises of pleasures to come, but she's nowhere in sight. All I hear is the sound of her voice calling my name.

I'm pulled back into the world, jerked awake by the sounds of the hospital and my name being called.

"Good morning, Rick."

Rick. Not Captain Grimes, but Rick. And just like that...I'm me again.

"I hope you're hungry," she says.

I can hear the smile that graces those lips. Once more she tenderly feeds me, gently wiping my mouth with a napkin after each bite. Today it's warm, fluffy sweet French toast and thick crispy bacon, and it is divine. Whoever said hospital food is terrible, never had to eat MRE's for a week.

The food is done, and she praises me for the return of my appetite, and as a child, I'm excited that I've pleased her. Then my torment begins, as she once more begins my daily bath. She is humming that nameless, wordless tune again, and the smell of honey slays me. I can feel my breathing speed up as she washes my chest, but I must be imagining the feel of her breath across my nipples after she moves the moistened fabric away. The heat radiating from her is rolling across me in waves, and my body is responding to her with an animalistic need. As she leans over to move the blankets, I feel her breast brush across my upper arm. My breathing hitches, and for a moment I think I hear a low moan. I turn my head away, not wanting her to see my struggle to control my breathing, not wanting her to hear me pant like a dog. I'm becoming aroused and praying that she won't completely undress me today.

Once again, she begins at my feet. She starts with the left, carefully rubbing small circles with the washcloth and moving around my cast. I even think I feel the fingers of her other hand trail behind, but I know it's just my inflamed and desperate imagination. Why would an angel want to touch someone as broken as me, except for duty? And yet, I pray for just that.

She moves to my right leg, and once more I feel the touch of her skin on mine, her fingers clearly trailing behind the washcloth. By the time she reaches the middle of my inner thigh, I am hard as steel and I know it is obvious. Her hands freeze, and again shame courses through me, but then I think I hear her breathing speed up. I feel her hand tentatively move further up, tracing a line all the way to the juncture of my thigh and my groin. I begin to whimper, and finally, I break, because I can't fucking take any more, and I find my voice. I hear a strangled, "Please," tremble from my lips.

Her hand moves away, and I feel the weight of the bed shift and I realize I've made a grave error. I've scared her away. I've scared away my angel, the one bright spot in the darkness that my life has become. Shit. I hear a door shut...has she left me..?

But then I hear footsteps, and I feel a slight shift in the bed. I can smell her near me once more and then I feel the gown move away, and cool air makes my erection twitch with anticipation. I stop breathing, terrified that any sound or movement from me will stop at this moment. And then her hand is on me, gripping me firmly, and she begins to stroke. I let out a deep groan. Her soft hand glides to the top, and collects some of the moisture there, before sliding back down and setting a delicious rhythm. My breaths become shorter and more frantic, and my hips begin to thrust as much as they can in my condition. I can feel the sensation beginning in the pit of my stomach. Then her other hand gently cups my balls, and I'm undone. I come with abandon, and I can feel my release streaming out of me in large spurts, coating my stomach. She removes her hand, and I whimper at the loss of her touch. Within moments, she has me cleaned up once more, arranged my gown, and tucked the blankets around my body.

She leans over me and tells me she'll see me in the morning, and I feel the ghost of a kiss across my lips, and she's gone, her footsteps quickly moving to the door. In a moment of clarity, I croak out, "Name?" I hear her stop. "Michonne," she whispers. The door opens and I hear her footsteps fade away.

"Michonne," I whisper to myself, and I immediately fall asleep.