Notes: I apologize for any remaining typos etc. Special thanks goes to drop_an_idea_on_a_page for sharing her ranger knowledge. That said, I'd also like to note (which should already be real obvious) that I've never been to Bagram or served in the military, so I hope you can forgive the inaccuracies (which are 100% my fault) and suspend your disbelief.
Tim tips his head back against the wall, tapping, too tired to move and unable to sit still.
"Be careful, alright?" There's no smile now, just something strained standing in its place.
"Yes ma'am."
"You've really got to stop that." But it gets the strain gone even if it can't bring back the smile.
"Maybe I like it." The gun in his hands and the pre-mission adrenaline jolt make him bold.
"Maybe you're a pain in the backside."
Maybe you like it. But he's not bold enough or stupid enough to say that out loud.
"Just be safe."
Jesus fuck.
He drags his hands over his face, grit and dust scraping it raw. It feels good. He tries to erase the image of Mark's leg, bent and practically inside out, from his vision and can't.
"Bet I'll get him first." That gleeful, dopey smirk is always a sure sign Tim's about to lose money. Tonight is no exception.
It was the scream that got him. The bullets go quiet but not the screams. Tim laces his fingers behind his neck, arms covering his ears.
"Yeah, and I'm the fucking king of Sparta."
"The princess maybe."
Mark, always making everything a goddamn competition. He'd been that way all through Ranger School. During Mountain Phase he'd bet Tim he could dig a four by four hole before sundown. Tim lost that bet, and for a week straight everyone had a shit buddy. Damn thing had been too wide to straddle, and the instructor, whether in need of a laugh or being a sadist or both, had said they were stuck with it. Taking a shit meant someone had to hold you up if you didn't want to fall in. Mark didn't care. Asshole was up twenty bucks and didn't have to dig a single latrine the rest of Ranger School.
He's too absorbed in the far and recent pasts to hear the crunch of gravel that heralds her approach.
"I thought you said you aren't supposed to be out alone after dark." If reincarnation is real, he wants to be a tortoise in his next life. Anything comes along he doesn't want to deal with, he can just pack up and wait it out.
Tim straightens but doesn't look up. He's not in the mood for her smile. It's like a whore at a funeral – doesn't belong here.
After a few moments a pair of heels intrudes on his view of the ground. "I didn't bring a car this time, so we'll have to walk back."
Something ugly rears its head. "Shouldn't you be getting a manicure or some shit?" The words come out in a snarl, meant to cut. Mark's leg is turned into fuckin' ground meat and he'll be lucky to keep it and she's prancing around a warzone in a goddamn pair of high heels.
His vitriol washes over and slides right off without leaving a stain. "Alas, I already did my nails this morning." Lena folds herself down next to him, bright green fingernails held out in front for his viewing pleasure. Fuck, of course she was serious. "Look, I even did glitter," she says, waving her fingers in a flourish to catch the light.
"Well great, now you can go on back and get yourself a facial or whatever it is you do around here." He flips a hand away from him.
Instead she leans back against the wall, and wiggles into a comfortable position. Where his voice is exhausted and tense, like the ends of a spring pulled too far apart, hers is steady and calm, an unmoving stone indifferent to the river flowing over it. "This is my spot, and last I checked, it's a free country."
"Last I checked, you ain't in Kansas anymore."
Lena remains undeterred. "I know, right? Thank goodness. Have you ever been to Kansas? Terrible place. About as interesting as stale pancake." A thoughtful pause, "Looks like a stale pancake too."
"No, I've never fucking been to Kansas."
"Don't you want to wash up?" A finger flicks the air between them top to bottom, indicating his filthy, blood-crusted uniform.
"Nah, figured I'd just wait for it to rain."
"As someone who once tried that, I can say with absolute confidence that that's a terrible idea. Also, given the air quality around here, the rain's probably a pH of like… four… which is like bathing in vinegar. So…I mean if you're into that kind of thing…"
"You just love pissing on everyone's parade don't you?"
"I wonder if that would be better for your skin than acid rain. The pH is probably closer to biological…"
"That's fuckin' nasty." Try as he might, Tim can't keep up the anger. The more she takes, the more useless it becomes, and he doesn't have the stamina for it.
"Here," Lena picks up a box he didn't realize she'd brought and opens it, holding it out, "how's this for pissing on your parade?"
He looks inside then finally at her. It's like she can't help herself. "I thought you were kidding about strawberries."
"Nope." She looks happy as a kid doling out daddy's stolen cigarettes. Lena gives the box an impatient shake. "And since you refuse to wash your hands, try not to get dirt on all of them."
Tim grabs a careless handful in a last act of rebellion. Lena doesn't seem to care and sets the box between them. She plucks them up three-fingered one-by-one, picking around the ones he touched. His attention is caught by the shape of her lips as they close around each piece of fruit and then around her fingers when she licks them clean. It feels wrong to be distracted by her at a time like this.
"Where'd you get these?"
She smirks, thumb still caught between her teeth. "Stole 'em from an unsuspecting general."
Lena had promised to bring them the last time they ran into each other. Running into each other…it implies an accidental occurrence, which is exactly the way he'll word it if anyone ever asks. They've been running into each other for a few weeks now. He'd come back to the spot by the wall at dawn four days after the evening he shared his bourbon with her, too wired after a night mission and needing a quiet place to read before crashing. She'd been there too, sipping her coffee and watching the sunrise. He was greeted with a chipper 'See, I'm being good! Sun's up!' and a flippant grin that dared him to scold her for wandering about alone. She was celebrating being able to walk without crutches. They passed the coffee back and forth between them, and in the end it was she who scolded him for drinking caffeine when he was supposed to be trying to sleep. The second time Tim came back he told himself it was for a chance to have more of that quality Ethiopian brew with real half and half, which was so much better than the DFAC swill or even what Green Beans had. The fifth time he didn't bother bringing the book.
"You got my guy."
Strawberries and coffee evaporate, replaced by a dark room on a hill and a scream from a friend he can't see. When the present comes back into focus it's shaped like sharp, serious eyes that don't blink.
"Yeah."
"Thanks. And thanks for not shooting him."
"The mission was alive. We brought him back alive." The edge is back in his voice.
"I'm not questioning your skill," she says evenly, swiping her hands up along the side of her jeans, then back down, letting out a breath. "I know he was hard to get."
"He'll get you what you need?"
"One way or another," a slow head bob, "yeah."
"One way or another?" Statement like that can be taken a lot of ways, but given the circumstances of capture he's not concerned about the darker implications.
"You know, manicures aside, I'm not terrible at my job. Speaking of…you mind if I ask you a couple questions about the mission?"
"Don't want to read the report?"
"Plenty of things no one bothers putting in reports."
"Such as?"
"What was in the room?"
"Crazy fucker with a couple of AKs."
The joke falls flat; she's on a mission. "Anything besides that?"
Tim pushes down the loudest memories to focus on the periphery. The safehouse and temporary refuge of Asim bin Hadid had been a one room grape hut on the top of a low hill. Tim hates grape huts. He's always outside trying to get in, and there are plenty of holes to shoot out of and thick walls that block whoever wants in. Unfortunately if you wanted the guy inside – who's doing his goddamned best to kill you – alive, then calling in an airstrike is not an option. They'd almost surprised Hadid. Almost. The difference between almost and actuality in this case is almost big enough to fill Lake Superior. All that was in the hut was a sleeping bag and two cans and a water bottle and the crazy fucker with the AKs.
"Weird how he was supposed to be holing up there, but he barely had any food, huh?" Lena rests her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists.
"Maybe someone was supposed to bring him some more or he was supposed to be moved."
"Maybe." She says it the way someone tells a kid they can 'maybe' have a pony for Christmas.
"You're thinking someone expected us to take him?"
"They wouldn't have left him the weapons if they wanted him captured."
"If they wanted him dead, why not just kill him?"
"That's a real good question." She chews on it for a bit, trying to find a way to swallow. "Say, has anyone besides me asked any questions about anything to do with bin Hadid?"
"We only talk about our missions to the commanders who bring them to us and the people who go with us."
"That great, but it's not answering what I asked." The volume and cadence of her voice don't change, but the calm has turned cold.
"No."
"No what?" Lena cocks her head, brows drawn in.
"No, no one has asked."
"I'd like to know if that happens."
Tim nods, startled and off-kilter by the transition.
"Thanks. I think it's time to head back." And just like that the switch flips back and the shoulders relax and the ice seeps away. "Walk with me?"
He gives her a look, regaining his comfort by chastising her.
"What? I brought pepper spray."
"Seriously?" Pepper spray to a gun fight.
"Have you ever been pepper-sprayed?"
"I've been tear-gassed."
"Dang." She jumps up, brushing the dust off her ass. Tim doesn't move. "Oh come on. I got a ride. You have no faith in me." Pepper spray. Christ.
He rolls his eyes but complies, stooping to grab his helmet.
"By the way," she begins cautiously, and Tim braces himself, "your friend Mark is going to be fine; he'll keep his leg. There's a doctor at Ramstein who can fix anything. He's reattached a couple of limbs for people, so he's seen worse. He promised he'd look after Mark. Also told me to tell the rest of you to avoid 'stupid dumbass shit that creates too much work for me'."
"You said 'dumbass' and 'shit'."
"I was quoting someone, so it doesn't count."
For the first time since the bird dropped them back at base a few hours ago he can feel his chest unclench. "Didn't know the state department could pull those kinds of strings."
"I asked real nicely."
"Is that right?"
"Well not really. He's my cousin's husband, and I told him if he wants the good cranberry sauce at thanksgiving he'll do as he's told."
"You still blackmailing people?"
"I don't know if you realized, but I make amazing cranberry sauce."
He's about to ask what makes the cranberry sauce so good, but the blaring wail of the siren cuts him off before he can start.
A split second later there's an explosion a hundred yards in front of them as one of the housing units erupts in a fireball.
End Notes:
No offense intended towards Green Beans. I'm sure their coffee is great, and it's admirable that some of their proceeds go towards charities for families of fallen soldiers. But fuck Kansas.