Thanks for your patience, everyone. On to Chapter 9!

The next day dawns easier than my night had been. You offer to make us MRE oatmeal, and I start early on my first beer. I'm going to need it to shake the effects of last night. While I swig it copiously, I select and inspect a wide range of guns from storage, my locker outside, and from various hidden stations around the big room. I want to give you options, so we can find one that fits you.

Yep, I'm just fine. Beer in hand, I carry ammo boxes and tins from down the hall. Bloody brilliant, as Christmas would say. Which reminds me...

"What did you think of Lee?" I ask. I'm as proud of the ease in my voice as any headshot.

You're watering down the oatmeal with a critical eye. "He's nice. He and I talked a bunch on the bike. He's a lot like you."

See, what'd I tell you? Same cloth, different sides.

"And he's much more handsome than you portray him in your stories."

You must've felt my face darken from all the way over there, because you turn around and grin at me. "Kidding, Barney."

"Not funny," I mutter under my breath. Grin or no, that was harsh. You don't know how harsh, of course, but last night's private little boozed-up soul searching has got me sensitized. So much for waking up to a new day. I must be PMS-ing, bad.

"Yes it is," you shoot back, plunking down two bowls.

"What're you, a bat?" I ask moodily. I can't hold it back.

"What are you, a troll?" You rejoin, picking at me barbedly. Apparently, two can play this game.

"And what's with the domestic urges lately, huh?" I mock, warming to my pissyness. "Feeling nesty?"

"This coming from the man who wipes down the bench after workout!"

Now, for the core of what's bothering me. "Yeah, you were real friendly to Christmas. Accents get you riled?"

That statement makes you look like you want to jackslap me. "He's your friend!" There's no guilty flicker in your eyes, but that does little to assuage me.

"Idiot." You don't know what you put me through: agonizingly innocent, naive, fragile Meera. Too fragile to touch, too weak to love. Too damn hurt to withstand my affection if I gave it to you. You would blow away like a released balloon. How could I let you get this close, knowing, knowing that it would only kill me softly?

Your eyes are shooting fire as you spit, "Ass."

We stare each other down, both of us leaning on spread arms on opposite ends of the countertop, simmering away nonverbally. A Mexican standoff.

Then, you start to giggle. Then, laugh.

I'm thrown for a loop of epic proportions. It's the first time you've laughed in five weeks of being around me. It's the sweetest sound I've ever heard, comparable to a supply helicopter after weeks of rations. It shocks the irritation out of me. And I have to laugh with you, because I'm so damn relieved that you still can do it.

It takes you a good while to stop, because I think you're out of practice and you didn't realize you missed it. You raise up with wet eyes to regard me forgivingly.

I can't say no to that face. Last night's problems vanish from my mind, and finally, I'm clear enough to focus.

Outside, we start dragging wooden pallets, spare timber, and rogue metal sheets to the back of the building. The effort has you huffing, but those things are heavy. You tough it out like a champ, and even seem to relish the sweating and effort as much as me.

The definition of the muscles in your arms tips me off, though. "Have you been working out?"

You look at me bashfully, and answer me hesitantly. "A little. When you are in the shower or whatever."

"Why?"

You shrug. "I need to be strong." You say, like that explains it. "You're strong," you follow up, as though that's a good reason.

"Yeah, but it's part of my job."

The pallet you've been wrestling with slams into place. Damn, that's a good tricep for a woman. "Then I guess it is part of my job not to be weak forever."

That statement ticks a red flag. I put a hand on your sweaty shoulder from behind, and it covers you from collarbone to scapula. "You don't have to be strong for me," I say softly, earnestly. "I mean it. You can take your time."

Your fingers cover mine, and you duck your head at the sincerity in my tone. Your short hair falls away from the knobby nape of your neck. "I know that," you say, just as softly. "But if I don't move forward with my life, this new life, I will be stuck."

I can accept that, because I live under the same conditions. While we're talking openly, I might as well ask, "Meera, are you happy?"

You stiffen with surprise, and my hand falls off as you turn. "Yes, I'm happy," you say insistently, like it should have been obvious.

I continue anyway, because this has to be said. "If you're not happy here," with me, I mean, "You don't have to stay. I can find you a place in town, or anywhere in the world, and set you up comfortably..."

You actually look offended. So offended, in fact, that you draw back and punch me in the gut. No, it doesn't hurt, and it barely moves me. "This is my place," you say with fury I didn't know you possessed. "This is my home. And unless something happens to you, or you wish me gone, it will continue to be."

I'm kind of stunned by the fierceness you exude. One, you punched me. Two, you mean every word. I can't argue with you: there's a surety in your voice and posture that I recognize as the assurance my men have in the field.

So you've been thinking deep things about this ass-backwards-and-upside-down relationship, too? That both worries and thrills me.

I put my hands up, palms out, and laugh it off. "Okay, okay, I believe you. Easy, tiger."

You relax grudgingly, then the rest of the way with a thin smile and narrowed eyes. "Good." You don't know how happy you just made me.

We set about layering the pallets and metal and timber into targets thick enough to catch lead. We work in amiable silence for several minutes.

Then, you ask me something that catches me off guard. "Barney?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you get all those scars from fighting? From being a mercenary?"

That's one way out of left field. "Yeah, almost all of 'em," I reply, wondering where you're going with this.

You clap your gloves together after you hand me the last piece of metal. "Can you teach me how to fight, too?"

I turn to look at you critically. Your gaze is steady, if apprehensive. I remember what those eyes looked like over a blood stained gag, raging at me from the floor of a Nepal hut. You should never have to meet an enemy with your eyes being your only weapon again. Or, frankly, be stuck with throwing punches like earlier again.

"Yeah," I say, tugging off my own gloves. "I can do that."

You nod, and say what's been on and off my mind for two weeks now. "I know that you will have to leave, soon. To go on a job." You meet my gaze. "I want - no, need - to be ready."

Ready to protect youself. Ready to function in the country and world I've brought you into. Ready to defend your own honor, dignity, life, soul, body. I exhale heavily, and understand the gravity of what you say...and what you don't. You're saying you don't want to be a victim ever again.

"Help me get the guns?"

"Sure." Your pace is bouncier than mine, and it makes me marvel. Even though you've been put through the worst hells, you still manage to have more of a spring in your step than me.

"Okay, let's start from the top," I say coachingly. I sweep my hand to the guns on the left of the blanket spread out on the ground. "Rifles and shotguns." Then, I motion right. "Pistols."

You nod in acknowledgement.

I crouch down and pick up a pistol. "This is a - "

"Ruger .9 millimeter, semi-automatic," you cut me off. "Typical of what police carry."

I blink. "Right." I put it down and point to another. "This is...?"

"Colt Peacemaker, .45 caliber. Tamed the west."

"And this one?"

"Springfield 1911, .45 caliber. Every gun company has their own version."

I sit back on my heels and give you a suspicious look. "Just how much do you remember from those books?"

"Everything," you reply immediately, without guile.

Everything, huh? Impossible, but I'm willing to test that theory. "Alright, miss scholar, let's see." I go down the line of guns. Every one of them, you can tell me the make, company, caliber, and something memorable. There's almost thirty pistols and ten rifles and shotguns on the blanket.

I'm left scratching my head. You haven't even seen three-quarters of these guns. "How do you know all this?"

You give me a withering look. "Barney, I read. A lot. And you talk. A lot."

Apparently. "Let's move on to the holds."

I coax you into a Weaver stance: weight 75% on your leading left foot, right hand wrapped around the pistol grip and pushing out, while your left hand is wrapped around the right and pulling backwards. "The push and pull of your arms cycles the kickback energy and reduces recoil," I explain, nudging your arms higher.

"Uh, huh." You're focusing hard on looking down the barrel.

"It's not loaded, tiger," I chuckle, using the sentiment again because it suits you. "This is the stance portion of training, nothing more."

You look mildly disappointed.

"Weaver stance can be used extended out, like you are now. Or," I tap your inner elbow to bring your hands in closer. "Tightened up, like this."

"Which is best?" you ask rationally.

"They both have their uses," I conceed. "Once you've found your ideal gun and can shoot any stance, in any way, it'll flow with the situation. There's never one stance for everything. You could be running and shooting, or returning fire from cover, or just stopping someone from charging you."

Your eyes got a little wider at those scenarios. "Oh."

I take you through the Chapman and Iscoceles stances. Once I think you've grasped them all, and their variants, I start to call them out rapid-fire. You fumble the first few transitions, and switch your hand grip once, but then you seem to catch on. I keep going for around ten minutes as the sun climbs higher, until I'm positive you've got it nailed.

"That's great, Meera. But practice is what makes perfect."

"I'll practice every day," you promise, looking pleased at my praise.

"Damn straight you will," I say with a grin.

We take a break and lean in the shade of the hangar's narrow eave, sharing a bag of jerky. "I'm sorry about earlier," you say shamedly.

"What earlier?" I ask.

You look grateful at the out, but you won't let yourself off as easy as I will. "I mean calling you an ass."

"Oh, that. Meera, I've been called worse." How sensitive: an apology over something I view as small potatoes. You're too damn sweet...

"I mean," you drawl on. "You may in fact be an ass, but you're essentially my ass, so I can't call you on it."

I choke on the jerky. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"You're my ass. Or your ass is mine, whichever you prefer."

I'm leaning against the hangar's concrete wall for support to keep from keeling over, breathless with laughter. You laugh with me, and it feels like my soul's getting a cleansing rain.

Maybe laughter is the best therapy, after all.

"My next tattoo," I gasp. "Will be your name on my ass."

You wrinkle your nose, fighting the giggles. "Gross!"

"Just so...pfft!...you can call it yours!"

That starts us off again, and when we finally get it all out of our system, the shadow of the hangar's eaves no longer shade us.

"Priceless," I chuckle, leading you back onto the range.

"I wanted you to know," you say, pulling down your aviators. "That if you bring me around your friends, like tomorrow night, I'll be okay. I won't be taking shit, I'll be dishing it." You glance at me brightly. "Like you do!"

Your turn of phrase reflects who you're spending time around, and it makes me chuckle. You think you're ready, and so do I. What choice do I have but to accept that? It's time for you to make your debut. I nod in agreement.

You grin. "I swear, I won't embarass you in front of your friends."

I give you a cocked eyebrow at that.

"Well," you correct with a smirk. "I will, but you'll be laughing with them, I promise."

I shake my head. Look who grew a funnybone. "As long as you're happy, I don't care."

Your mouth twitches in a wry smile. "Yeah," you say quietly under your breath. "I know."

By the time I realize there's sentiment behind those words, the moment has passed.

We decide to go over pistols for a while longer, and I teach you basic safety forms. You are learning, and by the time we switch to sighting practice, I'm fairly sure you won't blow off my foot. All the same, I stave you off live ammo until tomorrow.

Sighting down the barrel is hard for you. There's something that catches you about lining up the sights with the target, and it takes me a half-hour of correction and your frustration to figure it out.

I lead you through the dominant eye test.

"This one," you point to your left eye.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Why, is that a problem?"

"No. You're left-eye dominant, that's all."

You frown. "What does that mean?"

"Not much. Just that when you shoot distance through iron sights or something similar, you'll have to do it left-handed."

Your brow furrows as you mull this over. "I guess that's not so bad."

"Left-handed guys have the same problem, just reversed," I console. "It happens."

You sigh, and stare down the range at the target. I imagine it seems even further from your grasp, now.

"You know," I reason, sidling to stand beside you. "It can be a tactical advantage, if you think about it."

You snort, sensing I'm just coddling you.

"Really. Most hand-to-hand combat moves are geared against the right-handed shooter. A soldier in close quarters combat carries something like an M16, like me. You remember when we first met, what my gun looked like?"

You wince a bit, but pass my subtle test. "Yes, I remember."

"It's a shortened rifle, basically, so if you carried it, you'd be carrying and shooting left-eyed and left-handed. All the techniques commonly taught for disarming are used against the soldiers who carry those guns right-handed, for shooting with their right eyes dominant. You see what I'm saying?"

Slowly, a smile grows into place. "I think I do. It would be harder for that gun to be taken from me, right?"

"Left, actually." You snicker at the pun. "Correct. Why don't we switch to long guns?"

Tactical rifles become a passion for you in a few short hours. I teach you the stances, the safety, and the sighting. When I take a step back to check your stance, I have to be amazed.

This woman, holding a AK-47 like she owns it, and sighting with the laser dot perfectly on target, was tied up in a Nepal hut being violated literally to death not two months earlier. You have grown so much. You were a sickly, anemic plant I rescued from a parking lot, placed in spartan soil, and did little more than shelter and feed. The rest was all you. You're the one who took initiative to read all my books, to ask all those questions, to drown yourself in the knowledge of my job's wicked crafts and somehow walk away untainted. Because guns and weapons and knowledge aren't evil in your eyes. They're justice for those who would harm you: they're an anchor for your growing sense of self; they're a source of power that you would otherwise be without, or vainly seek with your beautiful body for payment.

You break stance, and look at me. "What? Something wrong?"

I smile, give one note of laughter, and shake my head. "Not a thing, Meera. Not a thing."