I hope this chapter is all right; I will get round to answering all your reviews someday - but for now, just thank you. This chapter is for HedgieX, who I love very muchly.

He slowly awoke; aware of the presence in his arms shifting slightly, her body warm against his. The storm had subsided – it was now 5am, and the sunlight was slowly beginning to seep through the partially drawn crimson curtains.

He could smell her perfume – spicy and fruity, mixed with the scent of her shampoo, her hair against his neck as she slept soundly, her arms wound around his as they slept on their sides, her head coming to rest back on him rather than the pillows, her long legs tangled with his.

His arms were wrapped firmly around her waist, and, for one moment, he thought she was topless – his fingertips were brushing the soft skin on her stomach as he held her peacefully sleeping form. He moved his hands slightly above her naval (pierced – which he would never have expected from her – but then again; Nicki was full of surprises), and discovered a rough dent in her skin. His eyes still closed; he ran his finger over it again, and determined that it was an old burn – however, in the process of doing this, he had woken her up.

She mumbled something incomprehensible as she stretched her long, silky legs out, entwining them with his. Suddenly, it seemed to occur to her where she was, who she was with, and where his hands were, and she pulled away quickly, pulling her grey vest top over the area his hands had just been resting on, wrapping her arms around her body, hoping that he wouldn't ask. Hoping he'd just leave it be and say nothing more about it – that he wouldn't care; just like every other man she'd ever known.

But, of course, it wasn't to be.

He sat up, looking at her with his piercing blue eyes; so intense, even in the vague sunlight, that she diverted her gaze to avoid getting lost in his orbs. She drew away as he touched her arm lightly; testing the waters to see if she'd let him touch her, as if he was taming a wild animal.

"It's okay, Nicki." he reassured her gently, and she relaxed a little at the comforting sound of his voice, closing her eyes and listening to him. It soothed her at the same time as terrifying her, stupid as it was, to know that he cared enough about her to want to comfort her. Enough to want to know her; the person, her feelings, emotions, her past, rather than leaving her alone with her thoughts, thinking over the same things; again and again.

This time, he grasped her right hand in his, moving it away from her stomach, leaving only her arm between his gaze and the marks on her abdomen that she loathed; that she wouldn't show anyone for fear of them staring and whispering about her.

As soon as he touched her arm, she dropped it from covering her scars, awaiting his reaction. She'd had gasps, laughs, even the odd sigh as, one by one, men had realised the true extent of her war wounds, and instantly decided that she wasn't worth having. A lone tear made its' way down her cheek, and he brushed it away with his free hand; waiting for her to open her eyes and let him in.

As she looked up, she met his gaze – a mixture of compassion, understanding and almost relief. She couldn't imagine what he could be relieved about – who in their right mind would want to even know her, once they'd seen the jagged scars across her ribcage and upper stomach, where there had once been smooth, tanned skin.

His aqua blue eyes were a release from her torment – he looked at her in a way she'd never believed she could be seen, with her scar. It was as if he understood the agony it had given her – not only physically, but mentally, knowing that she couldn't ever be viewed as normal with the marks, still raw, even though the incident causing them had happened almost ten years ago.

"Come here." He whispered, enclosing her fragile, now shivering body with his strong arms, whispering into her matted hair, stroking her back as she shook, sobbing into his chest as she liberated the anguish that had been bottled up inside her for so many years, waiting until her tears subsided to ask her further questions.

She felt safe, still, in his arms – safer, and strangely happier, than she had felt in a long, long time. She hated herself, in part, for letting him see a side to her that few, if any, knew existed – but she knew that Tom wouldn't dream of hurting her. Somehow, even with her mistrust of men, she would trust Tom Clarkson with her life.

Soppy bitch.

For what felt like forever, she had portrayed herself as strong, unbreakable, and fearless – and it was a relief to let herself go, to let someone see the real person behind the mask, rather than the facade she had put up to everyone for God only knew how long.

Her top had ridden up her flat, tanned stomach again; revealing the ugly scar that she had loathed for years and years. She'd never told anyone what had happened, the day she'd got it – she couldn't bear to relive that day, although she could remember it as if it was happening all over again.

"Serge!" yelled one of her young officers from behind the partially demolished wall of sandy rocks, "Get down!"

She sprinted across the dry, hot desert, from one half of the regiment , in heavy gunfire, towards the remainder of her officers – many of them still in their teens and early twenties. She wasn't scared – she'd done this before, bullets soaring past her head and missing by just a few inches; but this felt different. The atmosphere was charged; nervous – they'd lost one of their men, only this morning, to a roadside bomb, hammering home just how dangerous this job was, and how thin the thread by which their lives hung had become.

Ducking behind the wall, she loaded her heavy, cumbersome gun and fired across the vast desert, knowing the young men beside her were doing the very same; quite literally fighting for their lives. Slowly, the gunfire began to subside, and the troop grouped together to advance down the dusty road just beyond the wall; the buildings each side abandoned and falling down, the scene dismal.

"Follow me, and stay alert." She warned her officers quietly – although she needn't have bothered; for each and every officer was on edge since the explosion this morning. She'd always loved the way they treated her – as one of the boys, part of the gang; rather than a vulnerable woman who couldn't look after herself. They respected her, because they wanted to gain her respect.

Suddenly, the deafening sound of gunfire came from the surrounding buildings, which, just seconds ago, they had thought to be entirely deserted. Panic filled her mind, a million thoughts racing as she shouted out to her troops.

"Dive!" she commanded; and each officer dropped to the floor, guns aimed at the sources of the shots. Nicki, however, remained standing; walking cautiously down the seemingly deserted road, her gun poised to defend herself. She'd been told that this road was clear from IED's, and so they didn't need bomb disposers with the troop – their only danger was real people. She wasn't afraid of that – she was a fighter.

Something hit her in the stomach; a searing pain shooting through her body as she found herself being flung towards a building which was now blazing; unable to move for the excruciating pain centred just above her naval, below her ribcage, and spreading through her body. A combination of the sun and the flaming building was blinding her, the heat burning her body as she heard shouts from behind her. She could tell that she was at an odd angle; twisted so that her stomach was almost touching the burning building.

A block of flaming wood dropped from the roof of what had once been somebody's home, landing on her stomach and, if possible, adding to the agony.

"Serge!" a soldier yelled, turning her over, pulling the burning blocks off her body, unsure how he would possibly be able to stem the flow of blood without further injuring her. She could see his eyes; clear blue, fading as she began to do the same, feeling her eyes roll back in her skull.

She'd been told later that the piece of wood had burnt straight through her uniform, giving her third degree burns as well as the bullet wound. She'd been in a coma for two months; the odds of her surviving had been practically non-existent – but, being as stubborn and determined as she was, she'd pulled through – only to find that, despite three skin grafts, the scars on her stomach would never fade.

The young corporal who had saved her was killed by a roadside bomb on the day she woke up. She went to his funeral, but didn't feel worthy of it. She was meant to protect him; not the other way around. She'd failed, being so self-assured that a man – an expectant father and loving husband – had died, because she hadn't been there. They told her, over and over, that it wasn't her fault – but it was. She knew it.

"Third degree burns and a bullet." She murmured quietly, unaware of the tears leaking from her eyes. Her vision was blurred, but Tom's bright blue orbs looking straight into hers were as clear as anything she'd ever seen; losing herself in them.

She rested her head on his chest, clad in a dark t-shirt, letting him touch the scar, still raw despite the years that had passed. He traced the rough edges with his fingertips, watching her smile as he unintentionally tickled her, eyes closed, body wrapped around his.

"You're still beautiful." He stated, almost wishing that those words had never exited his mouth, cursing himself internally, waiting for her reaction. He had spent so long, getting her to trust him, that he couldn't bear to see her flee again. But instead, she looked up at him with her big, clear, sparkling blue eyes, smiling at him.

"You think so?" she asked softly, which, to him, didn't justify a vocal response. He suspected that she hadn't been told often enough just how beautiful she was; so simply nodded, before she closed her eyes, her long limbs still shaking slightly, as he wrapped his arms around her once more; protecting her from the world that had hurt her so much.

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