AN: Sorry for the delay in updates, life has a way of getting busy and has done so with great gusto in our neck of the woods. Thank you for your patience and understanding. :)
I accept the severing of my old life when 24 hours later the contents of my apartment show up in the Tower, packed up neatly into boxes and delivered while James and I are out for the day. When we returned to find the stacks of boxes in the tiny studio that we had decided we would share, we had a moment of silence in recognition of the endeavor we were taking on. I dive into the process of unpacking, starting with my boxes of books that I start to stack on every available space that I can. James asks if he can help, but I shake my head and he respects my need to do this alone. Just for now I want a little bit of relative solitude while settling myself into this new nest. He takes one of the books and starts to read, reclining on the bed and losing himself quickly in the story. I relish the quiet as I unpack.
When the books are free, I push the cedar chest against the foot of the bed, it's rightful place. It's the only piece of furniture brought from the apartment but it's all I need. James catches me leaning against the wall and zoning out, and he snaps his fingers to bring me back. I stand up straight again and am caught by him, lounging on my bed and smiling at me over the pages of the book.
"Where did you go?" he says, his voice warm.
"Nowhere," I try to lie, but I'm sure he notices the way the word strains a little when I say it. He doesn't press me on it. If I want to talk about it with him then I will, he must know that as he just keeps watching me for a minute before closing his book and setting it on the bedside table. He moves with a level of quiet comfort in this space even though it's new to him. He walks like he's made of water, all cool confidence and physical presence in the moment. It must be a by-product of his training, but he seems most comfortable when he inhabits the present, like in the immediate he knows exactly what needs doing and who he is.
He leans in to me when he passes and runs the tips of his fingers starting at my hips, across my lower abdomen, to rest on the other while he places a kiss on my forehead. The gesture sends a wave of flutters into my stomach and I can't help but smile. He moves on without saying a word and heads towards the en suite bathroom, shedding his shirt as he goes and letting it drop on the floor. A smirk from him chases back at me as I watch his rippling back disappear into the tiled bathroom. The water runs and for a moment I debate whether to follow him, but in the end I choose not to.
Instead I dive into another set of boxes labeled 'clothes' and dig out a tank top and worn shorts, my preferred pajamas. The mix of the familiar clothing and possessions in the unfamiliar setting and the noise of a man showering up and preparing for bed create an interesting conflict in my head. I curl up under the duvet with the book that James had just put down and pick up where he left off. I have read it enough times that I know where the story is without having to start from the beginning. At least this part feels as it should.
That first night in what was now "our place", surrounded by my things, James crawls into bed with me after emerging from his shower and with all care and consideration we come together again in that way that is starting to feel like the most natural thing. His damp hair reminds me of our first time, his metal arm snaking around me and when his thumbs slip beneath the waistband of my pants I melt into a sigh and turn myself over to him.
Afterwards, I curl into his arms and fall asleep in the safety of our little world. We both sleep lightly, and whenever one of us tosses or turns, the other puts their hand on a back, an arm, or over fingers just to reassure that we are still there.
I sink into our routine, realizing that I need it just as much as James does, in order to keep myself on track. I have trouble if I am walking down the corridors by myself, my brain gets ahead of me and concocts threats that don't actually exist. Phantom footsteps, hands closing around me, and threats hissed in my ears all come at me when my mind is allowed to wander. One day when I am walking alone from the medical wing to meet James' at his memory map, I work myself up so much that I sit down in the middle of the cold hallway and press myself up against the wall as much as I can, trying to disappear into the wall. He finds me, however much later, with my hands pressed against my ears and my breaths coming shallow. I don't remember him picking me up and carrying me back to our place, or how he held me until my body relaxed and I fell asleep in his arms.
James tells me these details later in an effort to sway me to accompany him to the range, to start learning how to protect myself. It's not an idea that I am comfortable with.
"You might as well if you're going to be here," he says over breakfast in the general kitchen. The others are still wary of him, give him a wide buffer but slowly they have decreased it the longer we are here.
"I just don't think it's a good idea," I rebuff. "What if I panic again?"
"You have to learn to control your emotions," he says. "Fear is natural, but what you do despite the fear is key. Having options means you have control. You need to have options."
This is the reason I agree. He decides to throw me into the deep end, which is how I find myself shivering at the end of a long, underground range. There are eight lanes for shooting, and the whole place is pumped constantly with air-conditioned flow to keep the humidity down. I'm eyeing what looks like a standard, beginner level handgun sitting on the table by the firing line and it looks like it's going to be way too big for my hands. James stands beside me and picks up the gun, pulling back on the top piece and locking it into place.
"First, you pull back the slide," he says, referencing his beginning motion. "Lock it into place and check the chamber. There shouldn't be anything in there to start with. Then, insert the magazine into the grip, and pull back on the slide and release. You now have a live round." He picks up a magazine from the table and slides it deftly into the grip and pulls back the slide to release it and it clicks back into place. He points the thing down range and steps behind me, moving my arms up to take the gun and centering me in front of a target.
The gun feels lighter in my hands than I had expected it to, and I let him mold my fingers around the grip and press my index finger along the barrel of the gun.
"Don't put your finger on the trigger unless you know you're going to shoot," he says. I can barely hear him through the plugs in my ears to protect them from the shot indoors, but I can feel the calm beat of his heart against my back and try to sync mine with his.
"Breathe in, then on the way out, squeeze the trigger," he says and releases the gun fully into my hands. I take one breath, then inhale a second time and do as he says.
The gun almost jumps out of my hands. It's recoil sends a shock up my arm and I shake my head that I don't like it. Not one bit. A target only a few yards down range from us barely moves in the whisper from the passing bullet, still intact as I've failed to hit any part of it. I start to spin around, and James grabs my hand that is still wrapped around the weapon, pointing it down range. He shakes his head at me, as if it's the most pathetic thing he's ever seen but he's still smiling.
"You've got a long way to go," he says with a little laugh.
"Fine then," I say and extricate my hand from his and leave him holding the gun. "Since you're such an expert."
But he is an expert. Without taking his eyes off me he presses a button on the table and target moves down range with a whirring sound. When he releases it, he takes a small step back from me and then in one smooth motion he turns and aims down range, emptying the magazine into the target.
He doesn't even flinch.
When the sound of gunfire has subsided, he sets the gun down on the table and rolls his shoulders back, as if he'd just swatted at a fly. He moves the target back towards us and what becomes clear to me is the tight grouping of his shots. The group as a whole is no bigger than a quarter, each shot landing precisely over the heart where it would rip through the organ following the path of the first and tear it to bits before the victim would even hit the floor.
The silence that fills the range is so thick that I can barely breathe. James watches me, waits for me to say something, but when I am too stunned to do so, he leans down and whispers in my ear, "That's what they expect, and that's what they'll bring if you let them."
When he pulls away his eyes are flat, hollow almost, like he's on the verge of slipping into the mode of the warped soldier but is managing to hold on. That cold look frightens me to my core.
It's the first time that I doubt my decision.