A/N: Guys, given the fact that this appears to be a small subsection of a small fandom, I have to tell you all I'm so grateful for you reading and for the responses I've gotten to this story. You all are so lovely and kind, AND THEY HAVEN'T EVEN KISSED YET WHY DO YOU PUT UP WITH ME?!

As always, sorry about any remaining typos and enjoy!

Lena has been in a foul mood for the past two days. It's little things. First something went wrong with the showers, and the precious mostly hot water that was once available is now non-existent. Of course, she refuses to go a single day without a shower, so each morning she braces herself against the cold and powers through bathing as quickly as possible. It sucks. At least she wears long pants, so it's not like there's any need to take up time shaving.

Then her coffee grinder breaks. A particularly hard bean got caught in one of the blades and fried the motor. She only has beans, so no more delicious coffee. That sucks too. At least she doesn't use it to stay awake.

Then Clarence's man, the one who's supposed to nose about Surobi in their place, somehow managed to get food poisoning the moment he arrived, delaying his part of the mission in the search for Faheen. That really sucks. At least she isn't the one with food poisoning.

'At least'. This is the game Lena plays with herself to avoid sinking into a truly hideous mood. No matter how terrifying and painful and horrific nearly dying had been, it ended up giving her an unlooked for sense of peace – if you ignored the part about being half-gutted. Because no matter how shitty a day she has Lena can, with heartfelt understanding, tell herself 'Hey, at least I'm alive. The game ain't over.' Put in the proper perspective, there are so many things that just wash right off after that.

For the first few months afterward, almost nothing could bother her. Pain from abdominal surgery? No big deal. That's what morphine's for. Morphine withdrawal? Shucks, who gives a damn; at least it's not as bad as recovering from gut surgery. However, as she gradually returned to her normal life, maintaining that same carefree attitude has become a struggle. Sure, so far she's never gone back to the high-strung person she used to be, but long-lived bad moods feel like a failure. She oughtn't to be bothered by trivialities anymore. She has no right after all. At least she is alive, which is more than seven others can say.

Perhaps it is because she tries so hard to forbid negative emotion that it builds. She heaps it into a closet instead of throwing it out, and eventually the closet overflows.

Lena sits back with a sigh. Another sigh. Lord, she sounds like a pouting six year old. Snap out of it, dollface. But there's nothing to bloody do right now.

What she needs is a distraction.

Clarence, in possession of far stronger parental instincts than she, had managed to find several small stuffed animals (Lena strongly suspects he asked his wife to send them because she hasn't seen any of the base hawkers selling them, and the BX definitely doesn't carry plush toys). He'd given them to Lena to pass on when Parisa woke. The little girl is still in a medically induced coma, but, Lena thinks, turning over a stuffed cat in her hands, it might be nice to wake up to something comforting, and Parisa does so love cats.

Taking just the cat with her, Lena heads to the Heathe Joint Theater Hospital. The building is the same depressing, utilitarian tan with black block letters announcing its purpose. Lena giggles a bit to herself as she passes by the 5 mph speed limit sign. She sobers when she passes the hospital marquee bearing a photo of its namesake, Heathe Craig.

Unfortunately, Parisa already has a visitor. Clark, the medic from Tim's unit who flew with her back to Bagram, is standing to one side of her bed. He looks almost comically giant standing next to the tiny sleeping girl. Partially covered in dust and having only half-successfully brushed himself off, he's probably recently returned from another night mission. Lena almost asks after Tim, but doesn't; if something had gone wrong he'd be with his friend, not here. She'd rather have turned tail and run, but he's already seen her.

"Lena." Clark smiles over at her from Parisa's bedside. His normally gruff voice is lightened, and Lena just knows that he knows about The Incident. No matter, she is an adult and plasters a convincing smile on her face and returns the greeting as she forces her feet to walk her through the door. He mentions that he's just come by to check on Parisa after dropping off his aid bag. Their medical kits contain controlled substances and have to be checked in and out for missions.

"How is she?" Lena uses their mutual concern for the little girl between them as a shield.

"Out of the woods. It'll be a long road, but kids are pretty resilient." It's good news, but Clark's face remains grim.

"You have kids?" she asks after a few moments of awkward silence. It seems like a safe avenue of conversation.

"No," he says, "not yet. Maybe someday." A wry shrug. "Gotta get out first."

"How long do you have left?"

"After this deployment, little less than a year."

"Bet your family will be happy."

"My…my family worries too much." Lena can hear the history of long arguments behind that statement. "Promised I wouldn't re-up this time." He scrubs a hand across his face. "They better fuckin' appreciate it too. Gotta deal with civilians again. You know how fuckin' annoying it is dealing with you people?"

Lena would take offense at the dig, especially considering Tim, but it's not meant to be mean, just teasing. Instead she smirks back. "What do you mean 'you people'?"

Clark laughs and finishes the joke, "What do you mean 'you people'? No, but for real. It's a pain. No swearing, no threatening to kill people, no smacking the shit out of anyone even if they deserve it."

"You smack people a lot?"

"Not that much."

"You know what you want to do when you're out?" Hopefully it's not as annoying as the 'So what are you going to do after graduation?' that annoyed her so much.

"I'll probably be a PA – physician's assistant. They're good in ERs, and I'm used to that kind of work." Lena looks down at Parisa. I'll bet. He's good at it too. "But people will probably expect me to be all sensitive and shit. Your coworkers don't like you if you call them fucktards, patients neither."

Lena laughs, "And your coworkers here like being called fucktards?"

"Eh, it's how we talk to each other. Nice not having to stand on ceremony. I mean hell," Clark shrugs casually, but he doesn't blink, "you've been around us long enough to see that."

It feels like an admonishment, subtle but pointed. Lena wants to run. She also wants to explain the fifty reasons she slammed the door in Tim's face, but she can't because it's not like Clark explicitly brought anything up, so she'd just end up sounding crazy, and maybe she is crazy and he's not talking about The Incident and she's just paranoid and maybe she's paranoid because she feels guilty and dearlordinheavenpleasestoplookingatmelikethat.

Lena does the only thing she can. She smiles, nods, and politely excuses herself from the room with mentions of a completely made up meeting.

o.O.o

His feet are ornery. Tim doesn't want to go looking for her, but he does anyways. He pretends that it's habit, that he isn't actually paying attention to where his feet go, that they just walk where they're used to going.

After his feet follow the usual route and nothing comes along to capture their attention they decide to explore. He doesn't know what he'd say if he found her, doesn't want to think about it either.

He finally finds her sitting on a large broken concrete block near the edge of the airfield staring blankly towards the southeastern mountains. She's alone. It's well after dark.

And she's drunk. She's sitting down and still enough that he can't quite tell how far gone she is, but there's enough alcohol in her coffee that Tim can smell it wafting over on the steam.

"The hell are you doing out here?"

She shrugs. "Felt like it."

"Lena." He notices she has once again ditched her boots for a pair of high heels, bright red and completely impractical, especially given the last hundred yards of the walk out here aren't even paved. She's also wearing an oversized sweatshirt, which looks ridiculous. The nights are getting cooler, but only in the sense that your face will no longer melt off if you step outside; it's definitely not cold enough for sweatshirts.

"It's fine." She sounds tired.

"I know you didn't drive out here, so no, it's not fine." He's angry that she's endangered herself out of spite.

She sighs. "If it'll get you to shut up, I can call Clarence for a ride back." Lena digs around in a pocket and pulls out a cell phone. She waves it at him before letting it fall back to her lap, not bothering to put it back in her pocket.

She's never spoken to him like that, and it jars against his experience of her. "Fine, I'll walk you back." His pride won't let him lose this battle.

Unlike the first time he saw her drunk, she's quiet now. Instead of answering right away she lifts the cup to her lips and takes a slow sip, then another, head tilted slightly, "I'm good. I'm going to just chill here for a bit."

"You really can't –"

"Tim," she cuts in, voice level, "I'd like you to leave. Now please."

"You're out here drunk and alone. You really think that's smart?"

"I'm not drunk."

"Dude, I can smell it from here."

"Doesn't mean I drank anything."

"Oh yeah? Then whatdja do with it?"

"I poured some whisky on the ground –"

"What the fuck?"

"– I mean I was going to do wine, but that just seemed more appropriate."

"Yeah…" She's not slurring, but she's not making a lick of sense. "And why are you pouring perfectly good booze on the ground?"

She opens her mouth and takes a breath, about to speak, but instead says only, "'cause."

"Well if you're done with your voodoo ritual, then let's go."

"No."

"Lena –"

"Tim," her voice has dropped to a whisper, "just go."

"No."

"Jesus Christ," she stands to face him, temper rising, cool indifference abandoned. Good. He wants a reaction.

"You don't have to come back with me, but I'll sit while you wait for Clarence." He sits, all the time in the world to wait her out, and nods at the cell phone still in her hand.

"Fine, I'll call him," she's still whispering, but it's full of restrained anger, "but only if you go. Now." Lena makes no move to dial, but glances past him instead, her lips thinning into a taught line.

"I don't see you dialing."

"Tim –"

"Jesus fucking Christ, will you just –"

"Tim!" Anger has turned abruptly to pleading, and he stumbles. "Seriously. Please. I just want to be alone." But her eyes flick over his shoulder again, and there's too much urgency in her voice.

Tim turns around. There are three guys walking towards them. Given the solitary location and Lena's obvious anxiety, they're clearly here for her. She hadn't tried to leave, which told him Lena was expecting them, but there's a tension to her posture that means he's definitely not leaving her alone now.

It's dim this far out, the floodlights along the fence being all he can see by, but the three men coming towards them aren't coalition soldiers. With their skinny frames Tim's best guess is ANA. Each has a rifle slung over his shoulder, and as they near one of them lets his weapon swing around to his front. He doesn't make a move to lift it, but his hand comes to rest on the grip. Tim steps in front of Lena, entirely aware that for all intents and purposes he is alone, naked and vulnerable without the rest of his unit. He thinks about the pistol at his ankle, but there's no time to pull it out.

"Tim, don't –"

He shakes off the hand on his elbow. "Stay there," he snarls, unsure what the ever loving fuck she was thinking, but entirely sure now that these guys are up close that it was a terrible fucking idea.

"Tim –" He hears her shuffle and grabs behind him at her wrist to hold her in place. She jerks but he's stronger. He can hear her voice, but the words are indistinct. The ANA soldiers are no longer bothering to pretend to be casual with their weapons; three barrels are up and pointed at Tim's chest. Too close to run, too far away to make a counterattack, not that bare knuckles against three rifles make for good odds.

They say something in Pashto, and Tim keeps a firm grip on Lena's wrist when she tries to sidestep out from behind him. "Tim, move. Left," she says in between run together phrases in Pashto that he doesn't understand. He ignores her.

Lena tries to keep her voice even, but the three men in front of them are clearly agitated. Even at the best of times these guys are notorious for not bothering to point their weapons in a safe direction, but he can see the finger of the man in front of him squeezing and loosening on the trigger unconsciously, moving to the erratic rhythm of his speech, which is reaching yelling pitch, just like Tim's heart rate.

Suddenly, there's a yank. Instead of fighting his grip, Lena's hand lunges in the direction he's already pulling, and it catches him off balance. A foot jams into the back of his knee, collapsing it at the same time a small arm locks around his neck and pulls backwards. Tim stumbles sideways, and the crack of a bullet firing rings out. More shots quickly follow.

Lena's small, but she's put all her weight into jumping on his knee, and with the surprise of that and the shots, they go down in a heap.

Tim kicks outward, trying to shove Lena to the side and behind him again so that he can get at the ANA soldiers before they're both shot, but she's doing her level best to stay on top of him and his leg's twisted about and he can't –

He realizes that the shooting has stopped and that the both of them are the only ones still moving.

"Timit'sfine!"

Now that they're no longer struggling he can feel the hard press of body armor against his chest. "What the hell!" Even though he can see the dead bodies next to them, he's still half-cocked, ready to fight.

She doesn't answer for a minute, and he can feel rather than hear her breathing, fast and tight. Then she shifts, ready to stand up, and he grabs her by the wrist. Lena flinches. That hurts.

"I really am, you know," she glares down at him, out of breath, face contorted in anger, "not completely awful at my job."

"Is your job getting yourself killed?!"

"No, Sergeant, my job was to get some information, which by the way I did. And we didn't die because you're not the only sniper on this base, and the nice British SAS guys sitting on top of that building over there are fairly decent shots as well."

Tim digests that for a moment. He looks back at the bodies, then at Lena, tries to adjust his head to make sure he can't see both her and the blood at the same time. "Oh." Not the only sniper on this base.

"Yes. Oh." Lena stares at him, too-rigid and too-guarded, and she's shivering even though it's not even a little bit cold out. His anger half-dissolves into guilt.

Anger cooling, the adrenaline begins to drain away as well. He lets his head fall back on the ground. Tim wishes again he were a tortoise, or maybe in a coma and could just wake up at a later date when life and his insides had sorted themselves out.

"My period is in two weeks," she says flatly, out of the blue.

Tim says nothing, hopes it's the right answer, mostly too tired to think about irrelevant shit. He focuses on the feel of the body armor she's wearing and tries to fend off the could have beens.

"Ugh, fine." Lena drops her forehead against Tim's shoulder. "Clark told me I was being a dumbass." That wasn't something he'd expected to hear. Everyone in the unit knows about Clark, and command likes to pretend they don't know, but even still, he's a private person and the least likely to meddle in other people's business. "I mean he said it nicely," she continues, "and with far more grace than you've ever done anything." But her forehead is still resting on his shoulder, and she's breathing, and he can't bother being offended.

A heavy boot kicks at Tim's foot, startling him. "That how you Americans work then?" A distinctly British voice is talking down at them. "Lettin' little girls tackle yeh? Maybe we should revisit yer independence if ye're that fookin' easy ta beat."

Lena's head snaps up. "Oh don't be an arse, Peter. No one expects little girls to jump on them like spider monkeys." Her accent can change so easily depending on who she's talking to, but the longsuffering tartness is universal.

"And now yeh've got the little girl talkin' for ya? You ranger clowndicks –"

"Peter!" Lena throws a handful of sand at him, but she's too low to the ground for it to matter, and he just laughs before walking back to his unit. "Go get Clarence!" she yells at his back.

"Ye're too slow, love! Already on his way!"

Lena heaves a frustrated sigh and mutters, "Jackass."

"You're swearing a lot," says Tim. He's smiling up at her, pleased. She defended his honor.

Lena glares at him. "You exasperate me a lot." I forgive you, she means. The smile grows into a grin. She rolls her eyes.

Tim swipes a thumb along the back of her hand, and it feels like balancing on the edge of a cliff.

"Next time I tell you to step left, step to the bloody left." Her face is pinched; there are still bits of fear caught there.

"Yes ma'am." He snaps a two fingered salute with the hand not holding hers. Her face unscrunches, and Lena rolls her eyes again.

His already precarious position makes him reckless, so he jumps. Tim rests his other hand lightly on her waist, using it as means to pull himself up to a sitting position. Lena slides sideways out of his lap but stays on the ground next to him. She's covered in dust and missing a shoe. He privately hopes it stays lost.

"You want some?" she asks, holding out a small bottle. He'd almost forgotten about that.

"No, save it." He can't show up to a debriefing smelling like liquor. This might not be his op, but he'll be expected to report in. "And don't go pouring it out," he warns. "Why do you even have this?"

"It was for luck. And 'cause I knew I'd need the drink." Lena takes a hefty swig straight from the bottle to prove the last point. She's still not used to whiskey and makes a face. "I'm tired," she says. It means she's calmed down at least.

Tim stands up. "Come on then. I'll take you back."

Lena tries to stand and immediately loses her balance. He tells himself he keeps his hands on her shoulders so she doesn't fall. She looks around for her other high heel, and to Tim's chagrin, she finds it.

"You good?"

"I am perfectly capable of walking just fine, thank you very much."

"Maybe if you had real shoes on."

"You clearly don't know much about women, Sergeant. We are all experts at walking in heels when drunk."

"I know plenty about women."

He has just enough time to regret those words before Lena laughs and asks, eyebrow arched, "Oh yeah? Do you now. And what is it you know?"

"I know that if you keep talkin' and not walkin' it'll be easier to carry you like a sack of potatoes."

He doesn't carry her like a sack of potatoes, but after a few hundred yards when they're back on pavement Lena takes off her shoes and carries them instead. He considers it a mark of extremely good self-control on his part that he doesn't comment on it. She looks like some sorority girl doing a walk of shame, bottle of liquor in one hand and bright red high heels dangling from the other.

"Hey," he says, readying himself to jump off another cliff, "wanna do something fun tomorrow?"

Lena walks a few more steps before replying, "Ugh, you're going to make me wear boots aren't you?" But he can hear her smiling.

"I can always carry you like a sack of potatoes."

"Asshat."

"Watch your language."

"Get bent."