Notes: The ANA is the Afghan National Army. Also, sorry for any remaining typos. Enjoy :-)
There's cold concrete against his back. His ears are ringing and his brain is moving like molasses through the arctic. Tim gets his hands under him and begins to push up, but an arm across his chest slams him hard into the floor. The small body on top of him squirms, and the stab of fear at being held down yanks his brain out of the muck it was mired in. Tim nearly breaks her neck before realizing it's not Hadid using the chance to kill him, but rather Lena crouching atop him, craning her head towards the door.
She's yelling something he can't hear, but he can definitely see the gun – his pistol – in her hand. Lena's half sitting on him while aiming at the door, but really it's aimed at the wall and she can't see that because she's alternately squinting and widening her eyes trying to get rid of the flashbang blindness.
Worst case scenario: someone comes through that door and kills them because she can't see well enough to shoot. Second worst case scenario: help comes through that door and she takes a shot at whatever moves. Tim doesn't like any situation where there's more than one worst case scenario, so in the split second between the time he hit the floor and this moment, he gets one hand around her waist and the other on the hand she's holding the gun with and hurls.
Predictably, the surprise causes her to fire a round into the wall, but it's cinderblock and now he has his gun, and she's closer to the floor and farther away from being shot. Or having her neck broken.
What comes through the door isn't pixelated camo, so he shoots it. After the first comes two more of the same. They go down with two bullets apiece. When no one else comes through he shifts a portion of his focus back to Lena.
"You good?" Her legs are still half-tangled in his.
"I'm good." She doesn't sound shell-shocked this time. Tim throws a quick glance sideways and finds her clutching his M4.
He holds out his hand. "Get behind me." This time she doesn't argue, handing him the gun as she scoots over. He holsters the pistol in favor of the rifle.
Twenty seconds pass, and the sound of boots comes down the hall but no one enters. Tim pushes up, preparing to drag the table over for cover in case they throw another grenade.
"Sergeant Gutterson?" The voice is undoubtedly American, but Tim doesn't lower the barrel.
"Yeah?" he calls.
"You and the lady alright in there? Can we come in?" No.
"Who's we?"
"This is specialist Dawes, and I got Captain Simeon on his way." The barrel keeps its position, but he allows himself the feeling of relief.
"I'll wait for Captain Simeon. This evening's made me a bit twitchy."
"Sure thing, Sarge."
Tim keeps his rifle pointed towards the door just in case, telling himself it's more important to be prepared than to get up and check the three bodies that now share the room with them. A little slide to the left and the table legs block the eyes of the man who fell facing him. In the end his preparation proves unnecessary because the next voice he hears is Simeon's.
"Gutterson?"
"Yes sir." Tim lowers the rifle and motions an all clear to Lena.
"You wanna tell me why you have three dead ANA men in here?" he asks, stepping inside and over the bodies.
Before Tim can respond, Lena jumps in for him, starting out with the rocket that hit her CHU and ending with the demand that Hadid be kept alone in a cell with four walls and a solid ceiling, accessible only to her and whomever she deems acceptable. No yard time. Captain Simeon agrees, adding on top of that that no ANA will be allowed in without escort at all times, and definitely only unarmed. He's pissed. Tim saw him pissed once. He doesn't envy whoever the sad fuck is that'll have to answer for this. Lena will also be given a separate room in one of the bunkers.
"Is there anything you want to get before we take you to your new quarters, ma'am?"
"No, sir, it was kinda blown to crap." She says it with the annoyed yet resigned attitude of someone forced to sit through a traffic jam rather than someone who's been through a rocket attack and an ambush. "But thanks. Any chance you guys have some spare clothes though?"
"You can ask the housing office guys. They'll find you some."
"I can take her over, sir." Tim looks at her feet. She's gettin' boots.
o.O.o
Lena steps on another rock and winces. It's the third one in five minutes, and he's ready to pull his hair out. "I told you so."
"Huh?"
"I told you so." He stops walking. "Just put your shoes on." She just had to go back and find those damn high heels. The night had already been a ridiculous shit show of a disaster, so why the fuck not?
"No, my feet are dirty."
"So wash them off later." Her logic frustrates him. It's like arguing with an alien life form. Or a three year old. Your feet hurt 'cause you're stepping on rocks, you put on shoes. You don't worry about whether or not the shoes get dirty.
"No, it might not come out."
Tim throws up his hands, capitulating. "Fine," he sighs, resigned to having to watch her wince and swear – if 'crap' and 'dang' count as swearing – when she steps on something uncomfortable.
"Oh, come on. If my feet really hurt that bad I would, but it's fine see?" She skips in a small circle, proving her feet's capacity to do so, before coming to a stop in front of him and finishing with a small bow. "Dang, I need coffee. You want some?" A three year old.
Tim looks at her standing there, dirt smeared up the side of her pants like she took a hockey slide on the ground, shirt scuffed to ruin, and holding those ridiculous high heels she refuses to admit are stupid, and instead of shock or tears or whatever reaction to the night he expected, she's smiling up at him and asking if he still wants coffee – 'Oh but decaf because we're going straight to bed after this'. She's just as ridiculous as her shoes, and God help him, but the crazy train doesn't look so bad when she's driving it. He's still pumped full of unused adrenaline, hyperaware of everything near him, so when he thinks of going straight to bed it's not in the sense she means it.
Lena tilts her head, waiting for his reply, always so patient. That patience is what makes her dangerous. Since he's a masochist and a fool he agrees to the coffee.
"Yeah, sure, why not." Tim gestures for her to lead the way.
She does another little skip, circling back around to walk beside him. "Hey Sergeant?" She's using her overly-calm, preemptively placating, talking-to-a-scared rabbit voice. "Thanks for coming to the prison with me."
"Uh huh."
He shouldn't have gone with her; he should have taken her somewhere safe and gone by himself. He should have called his captain first thing. The first 'should haves' only break the seal, opening the door for the rest. Should have been faster, should have posted a guard, should have taken Hadid somewhere else, should have been more insistent about not letting Lena wander around alone…fuck what if…hindsight's a bitch you can't beat.
The 'should haves' snowball into the fear and guilt of the 'could have beens'. He'd been an asshole earlier, wanted to be alone so he'd lashed out to make her leave. If she had, if she'd gone back to her room… Tim looks down at Lena. In the darkness, the smear of dirt could so easily be blood. What if he'd reacted slower? Only reason he hadn't been blinded like her was 'cause she'd knocked him down. God, he should have – Tim shoves the thought aside, unwilling to let it take root, tells himself that it's just like anything else he's had to deal with since coming here.
Now that he wants the distraction, she's quiet.
After letting them into her office she waves him into her chair as she moves about, preparing their coffee. He leans against the desk instead, feeling out of place, like he's trespassing even though she invited him in. Where the hell did she get a grinder from? The smell – simple and just plain pleasant – is so completely foreign to everything else he's experienced this evening, like calm sanity and sunrises.
"You know," Lena hands the coffee over and hops up to sit on the desk next to him, "I thought grenades were supposed to do more damage."
"It was just a flashbang." He reminds himself of exactly that fact a few more times. And the mess on her clothes is just dirt.
"Oh…" Lena fiddles with her sleeve, embarrassed by her ignorance, "good."
Jesus. And because he has no grace and no guts 'Are you ok?' comes out as, "You're an idiot by the way." It's so much easier, so much safer, to be angry. Maybe someday if he can feel angry enough at someone else, his own guilt will fade.
"And you're kind of a dick." It comes out as a sigh.
He ignores her, the full weight of righteous anger spurring him forwards. "Stop going outside alone. Day, night, it doesn't matter. Your free-spirited shit can wait 'til you're back in the U.S. This is Afghanistan, not a goddamned tea party. And wear a fuckin' pair of boots. Something actually goes wrong, you don't have time to kick your shoes off and hope the ground is soft." The whole time he's going off on her, he can see her ready to talk back, which means she's not paying attention, not understanding the danger or taking it seriously, which just pisses him off more.
Of course, the second his mouth closes hers opens. "On one condition."
"Oh Jesus Christ. Seriously?"
"Teach me to shoot a gun." She says it fast, getting the words out before she can second guess them. Oh Jesus Christ. Seriously?
'Oh come on, Tim.' Giggle, 'don't you want to show me how to handle your weapon?'
Several exes had asked him to teach them how to shoot, and they'd come down to the range in their cut-off short shorts, happy to look sexy and soak up attention for being the only girl in the 'boy's club'. The girls might have gotten a few looks, but the ones he got were filled with pity. Then they realize that shooting is haaarrrrd, and that guns are loud, and gun powder smells bad, and hitting a target is frustrating as shit when you've never done it before. Many a day would end with a pouting woman who needed to be coddled and have her ego stroked back up afterwards, and on the real shit days it ended in a fight.
"Please?"
"Why."
"Cause I was…" Lena gestures helplessly into the air, annoyance deflating into embarrassment, "pretty dang useless," she finishes with an exhale.
"You weren't useless."
An eye roll. "You just called me an idiot. And I mean you…you had it together. I just sat there." A little jerk of her head, shaking off a memory.
"I called you an idiot 'cause that's not how you're…" he waves his hand, pushing aside the memory of her between him and the door…between him and a flashbang… He should have…goddammit. "It's not the same."
"Maybe I'm an idiot, but I'm not a dumbass."
"Hey, no swearing."
"You do it all the time."
"But you don't."
"I'll do as I please." That's the problem. "Well? Will you do it or not?"
"It's hard you know. More to it 'n just pointing and pulling a trigger."
"Is that a yes?"
"It'll take a while to get decent. And shootin' at a target isn't the same as being in a firefight."
"I know." Everyone says that.
"There are a lot of people, they get trained for years, comes time to shoot someone, even someone trying to kill them, they can't do it." And even when they can… There's not always a table to put between you and the face of the man you've just killed.
She holds his gaze for a bit, searching. "I'm glad you killed those guys, Tim. Not glad you had to, but glad you did."
Damn her patience. "You'll have to wear headphones. Might mess up your hair." Safety in anger, safety in humor.
"So…yes?"
"Fine, yes."
"Thanks, sergeant."
"It's Tim, ma'am."
"You're kind of a pain in the ass, Tim."
"Says the pot."
She favors him with an insolent smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."
It is, dummy.
o.O.o
Today is not a good day. Today is a no good, very bad, fuckbucket of a day.
First the car wouldn't start. Day briefly almost saved by Dave, Lurker #1, who gave her ride to work. Day ironically ruined by Lurker #1's getting into a fender bender, necessitating the flagging down of a taxi. Taxi driver was an ass. Taxi ride cut short upon abrupt decision to make ass pull over. Walked rest of way to work. Arrived at work sweating and gross and late.
She can hear her phone ringing from the elevator, and sprints to her office, spilling her coffee in the process. Decision to balance coffee on new book and stack of papers bad. She swears colorfully and hopes whoever is on the other end is worth the trouble.
"Oona?" God, fuck, she should just give up on life now. Today was just a terrible idea to begin with, and she should just put it back in the box and return to sender.
"Yes?" She braces herself for the inevitable disappointment. The report that should have been sent last night has not yet been sent. There is shame and also a belligerent sense of unwanted pressure.
"I've got a favor to ask." All hail the gods, saviors of mankind. People asking for favors can't get angry. The day is looking up. "Actually a couple favors." The hesitance in the last line bodes ill. The gods could still be assholes.
"What do you need, boss-lady?"
"First, I need you to overnight me some clothes. I've sent a list of stores and sizes. Don't worry, it's short. Have Charles handle it." Neither Oona nor Lena has forgotten Mallgate. This is fine with Oona. America has a dumb sizing system anyways.
"Uh, why do you need more clothes?"
"The ones I had got blown up."
"Holy shitbubbles." And why the hell does she say that with such a laissez faire attitude? There was a time when her boss would have flipped her shit if she got mustard on her shirt (despite the back-up that everyone knows she keeps in her desk), but these days you could spill a gallon of red wine over her head and she'd probably wring her hair out over a glass and ask you for crackers. It's disconcerting. A nice change, but disconcerting nonetheless.
"That's a nasty image. Also, someone broke into Parwan and tried to kill Hadid."
"Well sound the fucktrumpets and call in the cavalry. Seriously, did you call in cavalry? My blood pressure can't take you."
"You brighten my day, Oona; don't ever change."
"Yes, ma'am."
"I will, however, and without a shred of compunction or remorse, murder the next person who calls me ma'am."
"You promise? I can get Steve on the phone if you'll wait just one minute."
"Tempting." Then more seriously, "He behaving?"
"No, not really."
"Dave and Suki doing their jobs?"
"Yeah, working for the CIA is way better than the FBI." CIA actually gives a shit about the whole work-place stalking thing. They don't try to tell you that creeps are just "quirky." And even if Lena has taken a chill pill, she still has a cold bitch side that's great when it's working for you.
"Good, now onto my next favor. I need background checks on some people. Everyone who works in Parwan, all the contractors, and any and all Afghan officials and security forces and police that have anything to do with the ANA or have any connection to Hadid. Give priority to anyone who was there when I was over here the first time and with anyone associated with them."
"That's a long as list."
"I know. Just do it as fast as possible."
"How about American military?" Why? Why did she just ask for more work?
There's a pause, then, "I doubt it's necessary at this point. Tim was there to make sure Hadid didn't get killed."
"'Tim' huh? Whatever happened to 'Sergeant Gutterson'? He still call you ma'am?"
"I thought you liked working for the CIA."
"And I thought you needed a favor."
"You're lucky I like you."
"Careful around the man-meat boss."
"Bye, Oona."