Note to self: no more sitcoms involving domestic life for you.

"Coffee, Christmas?" you ask, taking down some mugs from their nails.

"Uh, sure," replies the Englishman, nervously glancing at me. I'm barely suppressing a glower in his direction.

"Sugar, cream?"

"Cream, thanks." He leans against the cargo box -countertop while I pull up my barstool. I don't offer him a seat because traitors don't get seats.

You are now officially on a strict diet of cartoons and news. There's no way you learned that polite shit from me. I sigh. The entire damn world conspires against me, so I might as well roll with it. I slide the drugstore gun magaizine across the counter. "Read this one yet?"

"No, not yet. Borrow?"

"Sure. But I charge late fees."

Yesterday in the laundromat, I realized that you have started getting good at reading me. At the time, I wasn't enthused by the prospect. But now, when you slide me a mug that you somehow surreptitiously filled with dark stout and not coffee, giving me a secret hint of a smile, I change my mind rather suddenly. My bad mood evaporates.

You give Christmas his mug, and your fingers accidentally brush his. If he notices your subtle flinch, he pretends not to.

So seeing him again is bringing up bad memories, after all. I sip the disguised stout and wait until your eyes flicker to mine. They're dark with storm clouds on the horizon, and it worries me. Dissecting why, I sort out that it must be men that make you uncomfortable. Well, except me, I'm proud to claim. Gary the doctor is professional, but you are way more open when he's gone and nurse Wanda is there instead. You had to make yourself shake hands with Lou, and immediately retreated like he was diseased. And now, you won't look my best friend in the eye, even though he weaves his way into all the best war stories I have told you. I know that, eventually, you're going to have to get used to being around my brothers in arms. I can't hide in here with you forever: you're going to have to buck up and face the music. So how do I get you to be brave, and test your new mettle?

"Your hog's gathering dust, I notice," Christmas says conversationally.

"Yeah, it's been a few weeks. I've been giving the truck some miles." I nod your way while your back is turned, and he catches on, or so I think.

Then he opens his fat Eurotrash mouth. "Say, it's a glorious day. Why not go for a ride with me?"

Drink the stout. Drink the stout and don't hate the British.

"You and Meera and me, eating up the road," Christmas continues. "Come on, it'll be a blast."

You prop a hip against the sink, shrug, and won't meet my gaze.

What, now it's my call? "I don't know," I grumble into the mug.

Your brow wrinkles as you sniff, looking past me. "What's that smell?"

"Smells like someone left on a soldering iron," comments my friend, also frowning around the room.

I did. In fact, there's a small fire started on my work bench. I swear, leap across the room, and douse it with my mug and minimal theatrics. Waste of good beer. Christmas chuckles and I flip him off. You come over with a rag and murmur to me, so he can't hear, "If you want to go on a ride, you should go." That sounds, to my Meera-trained ear, like you're wanting Christmas out of here. Granted, you don't know him, but that's hardly an excuse. Given a little time, I know you'd see that we're cut of the same cloth; I'm just the more handsome side of it.

"I'm not going without you, and you've never ridden before. It's not safe." Suddenly, I have an idea: a way to kill two birds with one stone. A devious smile cracks my face. It's the look of a soldier with a dictator in his scope and a bullet in his chamber.

Your face tells me you've come to the same conclusion as me, and are not liking it one bit. "Uh-uh. No. No, Barney."

"Christmas," I say, and stride back over to the bar. "You got a deal. But I'ma need one thing from you, first."

Your fear is palpable. Christmas is zipping the magazine into his jacket, and I'm zipping you into mine. It's two sizes too large and hides your hands when they're at your sides, but it'll do the job. Then I buckle you into my helmet. I don't have a spare, but that's easily fixed. It's only a little loose on you, and Christmas is a safe rider. For a Ducati buff, anyway.

"I don't think this is smart," you say plaintively, tipping the helmet back from your anxious eyes. "I've never ridden a motorcycle," you remind me for the fifth time.

I chuckle. "Stop looking like you're a jarhead going to war. Lee'll take good care of you. Won't you, Lee?" I bare my teeth at him in a gross parody of a smile.

"Hey, Meera, Layla here rides smooth as a Beretta's action. You're in the best hands." With that, he stomps the bike to life. The growls of the motor fill the hangar.

"I can't do this," you say, a little manically. Your eyes are massive, and I can see you starting to sweat. "I can't."

I bend down six inches, to your level, and look you square in the eye. "I know you can."

You're breathing a little harder, and you glance at Christmas, then back to me. You bite your lower lip in that anxious habit of yours. You know you could say no. You can always say no, if you want. But you want to prove yourself, as much to me and others as to yourself. By showing what's different, what's changed and changing inside of you, you make it so. I can see the morph come over you when you consciously put your trust in me, once more, despite what you're feeling and your own belief in yourself.

I smile. I've nursed you from ghost to flesh in a month's time. I know exactly what you're capable of. "Now," I start, turning you by the shoulders and guiding you closer to Christmas. "See those pipes? They're gonna get hot the longer the bike runs, so when you get on and off, don't touch 'em."

"Okay."

"And don't lean into the turn, just stay balanced. Lee'll handle the rest."

"Okay."

Christmas scoots forward a little, and smiles reassuringly. "It's alright, Meera," he says gently, like he's talking to a cat stuck in a tree. He extends a hand, palm up, balancing the bike with the other and his legs.

You swallow hard, and take his hand. Swinging your right leg up, you seat yourself behind him. You grab two big handfuls of his jacket with white knuckles. If your toes were free, I bet that you'd wrap them around something, too. The vibration of the bike causes the tips of your hair protruding from beneath the helmet to shake, giving you the slightest neurotic air.

"Good back there?" Christmas yells.

"Yes!" you respond over the bike's noise, obviously trying to dig up some courage with volume.

"Okay, we're gonna go for a spin down the runway and back. You ready?"

"Yes!"

Christmas twists the throttle and the bike edges forward. I can't hear your gasp, but you instinctively plaster your cheek and chest to his back. He doesn't know how lucky he is, at that moment.

I pace with the bike to the hangar entrance, and Christmas hollers, "Here we go!"

The bike starts to accelerate, and over the sound of the motor, I hear you yell fearfully, "OHHH DAMN YOU BAR-NEY!"

That makes me laugh, because it's the first time I've heard you cuss. I wave to your shrinking back.

The noise from the bike fades, and the sounds of a stray bird on the roof and the breeze clinking the wind sock's buckle on the pole have room again. The runway is about a mile and a half long, made for 747's and other long, heavy planes. When I bought this place, it was with the knowledge that Santa's lazy, fat ass would take a while to get into the air (shitty PBY planes: no wonder they only made a dozen...). That said, Christmas has about four minutes to curb your fear. I have faith in my main man. He's done way more with way less.

What if I've pushed you too far? You've been steadily and ravenously reading through all my books, even the manuals for weird shit like the oven and the truck. When you're not doing that, you've been tooling around with me and asking pointed questions about damn near everythinig you see on TV. Up until now, the scariest thing you've done is ride shotgun and lay under a rickety plane. I've been right beside you for any endeavors, holding your hand through it all. I've been your filter for the world. As hard as it is for me to relinquish that role, I know it's important for you to stand on your own two feet. I'll be there to back you up.

I watch the bike turn at the end of the runway and I light a cigar, feeling the strangest mix of sadness and contentment. Christmas is keeping it under fifty, same as I would if I were toting a newbie. I stream the smoke from my nose and grudgingly decide to loosen up on him a little. He's a man I consistently trust with my life. Therefore, I trust him with you.

Seconds later you're back, and all I can see it the top of your helmet peeking over Christmas's shoulder. He coasts close enough to talk.

"So?" I prompt as Christmas throttles down a bit.

You raise your head and give me a sour look.

My heart sinks like a hit sub into black nothingness. Shit, I knew it. Looks like I messed up, yet again. I should've known...

Then, the corners of your mouth start to twitch. Soon I'm faced with a full-blown smile, literally the biggest I've seen you sport. "That was amazing!" You lean around to look at Christmas joyfully. "Can we go again?"

He laughs and wheels around. This time, when you take off, your grip loosens on his jacket and your hands fly up in the air. Faintly, I hear a cry escape you, high and exuberant as a hawk's.

At that moment, I see a glimpse of the person you're putting yourself back together to be. It fills me up inside like a victory beer in the cockpit, enroute home after a successful mission.

You and Christmas take three more circuts of the runway before you pat his shoulder and say something I can't hear. He nods, gives you an elbow to pivot on as you dismount, and you walk up to me with a face flushed with happiness.

"Can I ride with you, now?"

The most sincere flattery I've ever heard, and you aren't even aware. "Hell, yeah." I drag the cover off my bike, and you grin at the chrome skull.

With your arms around my chest, I take you on a counter-circut route, looping behind the hangar to extend the trip. I can feel your head turning to look at everything, and recall what it was like to ride for the first time: the sky open above you, the road dizzyingly fast below, the snarl of the throttle and the feeling of intoxication. Smells keener, sights more detailed, and the sensation of moving with nothing between you and the world but leather like a drug.

I yell over my shoulder, "Think you're ready to go on the road?"

"Yes, yes!" you yell back.

I grin at your enthusiasm. Looks like you found your bravery.

We swing by and pick up Christmas, then head two towns over to the biker supply store. You relax enough behind me to lean back against the back seat, putting your hands on your thighs. Christmas rides flank, playing around and doing loops of us, making the most of the racing bike's power. You gasp at his antics, and it makes me smile.

This is the happiest I've been in a long time. Good friend by my side. Good bike under me. Good woman riding behind me. This is about as sweet as it gets.

We walk our bikes backwards into some parks, cock the helmets on the handlebars, and walk into the smell of leather and tires.

Behind the cracked counter, there's a worn-out biker chick who's smoked two packs a day since she could suck. "Oh, honey," she rasps reedily, looking you up and down in your overgrown leather jacket. "You've come to the right place."

"Hope your wallet it bulletproof," Christmas mutters, leaning in as the woman whisks you off.

I shake my head and chuckle. "Let her try."

The only thing I have a hand in helping you pick is your helmet: a full-faced black one with green mirror tint to the visor. You slide it on, and it changes your entire bearing. It's not Meera: it's a BAMF with beastin' clothes and her own sick ride. The image my mind conjures is fierce and wild, and it enthuses me greatly to think that you'll get there, one day.

"What do you think?" you ask, voice muffled.

I rap on your padded head. "Good fit."

The biker chick talks you into your first civilian clothes, too. When you step from behind the curtain in a soft cotton tee that has some leaves on it and a bird resting on the hip, I stop thumbing through the fingerless gloves to gape.

"Feels weird," you mutter, shifting self consciously in your boots.

"Born To Be Wild," reads the shirt. The words are stretched over you in ways that make my brain momentarily flicker out. Slim hips, prominent hipbones, perfect waist, and breasts like...whoa. I've been sleeping, eating, driving, working out, and living life around that, with absolutely no idea. I must be fucking blind. Why am I just noticing this now? You're gorgeous.

That's probably what your rapists thought, too. There's some mental cold water.

You're waiting for me to say something, but I've got nothing. I close my mouth and nod, and you smile shyly.

Why the hell didn't I get you to pick out some civies sooner?!

You wind up wearing whatever can't fit in the saddlebags on my bike, including your new helmet and jacket. The store sells combat boots in smaller sizes than what I have in storage, so you're breaking in a new pair proudly.

"The guys are getting together at Tool's in two nights," Christmas says from where he's draped over the bars of his idling bike as I strap the bags closed. "Ceasar is getting his razor tatted on his shoulder."

"His relationship with that razor is wrong," I groan, straddling my bike. It barely dips when you slid into place behind me.

"On many levels, mate. You should come. Both of you."

My ability to perceive your emotions is limited by the helmet, so I'm left to answer ambiguously, "We'll see how the week plays out."

Christmas earns his title of best friend when he simply takes my answer with a nod. "Well, I left a batch of jerky in the maker," says he says. It's an old joke between us: our version of 'I left the oven on.' "So I've gotta bug out. Later, Barney. Nice riding with you, Meera."

You flip the visor up on your helmet to beam at him. "Thank you, Christmas."

He flushes ever so slightly at having the full force of your gratitude turned on him, waves, and motors off.

The sun is setting as we weave our way back home. On the way, I am surprised to realize that even at your most fearful while riding with Christmas, you only took handfuls of his jacket. Now, at your most relaxed, you've wrapped your arms around my chest.

You're walking around with a toothbrush in your mouth. The loose BDU you sleep in used to be mine, and it flutters in the breeze stirred by your messing with the fans. I think you chose it because it's been softened by years of wear. I hope that's why you chose it.

I've had two whiskeys to calm myself the hell down. The image of you, shy and lovely, in that shirt was stamped to the inside of my eyelids for one-and-a-half of them. There's all sorts of emotion bubbling up inside of me, and I need to end this day, or I'm gonna rock the boat. If I'm careless with some look or word, in the state I'm in, I could let you in on the feelings. I could ruin the fortress I've spent our entire relationship trying to build, but that you keep blowing cannon holes in, without a single clue.

"Tomorrow's a big day," I say as I turn down my own sheets and forcibly shake myself out of this mindset.

"Wiyf 'at?" you ask, a little foam trickling past your lips.

"Because I'm gonna teach you how to shoot." Yeah, the alcohol might be talking for me, but it's talking sense. Seeing Christmas again brought back the nagging feeling that I'd been off mission for too long. Something was eventually going to trickle down the pipe, and I needed you prepared to keep yourself safe if I had to leave. Well, as prepared as I could make you. God, just the thought made my neck tighten.

You look surprised, but you swallow hastily in order to answer. "I have been waiting on you to say that for weeks, Barney."

"Yeah, I'm a little slow on the uptake."

You 'humph' and go to put up your toothbrush, muttering something that sounds faintly like, "I'll say."

By the time you get get back I've got your bandage change laid out. I can't forego it, because it would make you curious. When you're curious, you ask a lot of questions. Answering them would open a can of worms that not even the booze could help me with. So I man up and set about the familiar ritual. "Almost healed," I remark, touching your slender ankle. The wire that kept you still and compliant in Nepal has left permanent magenta grooves just above your feet. You've got unnaturally pretty feet. Ah, dammit, not again.

We arrange ourselves, and I lean down to turn off the last lantern. Safe from prying eyes, finally. But I can't sleep without one answer. "Hey Meera? You heard what Christmas said, right?"

I hear you turn over to face me across our little strait. "Yeah."

"What do you think? You ready to meet my friends?"

You gather your wits and say, "As ready as I'll ever be."

Bold little thing. How can I categorize you, box you in, essentially degrade you with my man's mind? You've been through too, too much. It makes me ache inside to think I'm joining the ranks of men who have thought of you that way. No, I'm not as disgusting as them, I'm sure of it, but it's a slippery slope to start down. I refuse to do it. I will simply put your body from my mind: every time I saw you naked and abused, every time I saw you smiling at me so damn trustingly, every time the smell of you slaps my hindbrain to attention, every fucking thing that will tempt me to fall for you.

Oh, God, fall for you. That's what I'm doing. An ungodly determination seizes me. I refuse!

I fall asleep chanting that, shutting down all the emotion like the soldier I am.

I refuse (I'm fucking terrified.)

I refuse (What would you think of me? I'd be the pervert who brought home a raped woman, nursed her back to health, and - surprise! I'm not your knight in shining armor, I'm the more economically stable version of those Nepalese soldiers.)

I refuse (What would your face look like if I slipped up? If I said or did something that tipped you off? Oh, God, I wouldn't be able to stand the hurt I'd see there.)

I refuse (I've got no business being with you. None.)

I refuse (What would I ever do if I lost you...?)