In the last few days, I have found out that I mean no more to my husband than the dirt under his boots. I got lost on a mission and nearly died. And I slept with Pierce. When life pulls the rug out from under you, it really makes sure you won't be able to stand up again, right?
I don't know, Helen, I don't know how any of this happened, it wasn't supposed to be like this.
It hurt, it hurt so much. I really thought I was going to die, first from finding out about Donald, that hurt so much I couldn't even breathe. Pierce was there and I wanted to kill him, that would at least ease some of the pain, and then we were almost killed for real. And there he was. Imminent death over there, life-affirming activities over here, and I chose the latter. I lost my mind. I wanted it to mean something, to have the tiniest sliver of control, I just wanted to mean something to someone, and all of a sudden, he was the only thing keeping me from losing my mind.
And yet, I did. I lost my mind.

Her neck hurt. She tried to shift a little and felt the soft fabric of his shirt against her cheek. Had she dozed off? She opened her eyes, but couldn't really see much in the dark. Couldn't hear anything either. She stayed perfectly still, straining her ears to listen out into the night. No footsteps, no sound of anyone approaching. Far in the distance, there was still the occasional blast. Or maybe it was rifle fire, maybe enemies, maybe allies. But their hut was quiet. She snorted quietly at herself, 'their hut', what a stupid thing to call it, like it was a cozy getaway in an exotic location.
She wasn't even sure when the shelling had stopped, her mind had been occupied. Her hands too, her whole body. She felt dazed. Still a little drunk from the Japanese scotch, still dizzy from everything that had happened since she woke up that morning. What a miserable day. What a miserable husband, what a miserable marriage. To love and to hold. Apparently, her husband hadn't been too picky about who he held, his wife or someone else, soft and willing. But to her, their vows had meant something. She had given her heart away, confident that Donald would take care of it, keep it safe. But he had trampled on it, thrown it away like it was nothing.
And now, she had broken her vows too. With Pierce of all people.
And dear lord how good it had felt.

Every blast, every shake of the hut had felt like it took something away from her, chiseled away at her very being. All that was left was horror, and her heart beating so hard she could feel it in her entire body, in her soul. She had been nothing but a thundering heart, one that would for sure stop beating soon, her throat sore from yelling, from begging them to stop, her sight dim from dust and debris falling all around them.
His lips had brought her back into herself, his hands on her body had pieced her together, made her feel like a real person made of flesh and bones, like she was made of more than fear.
His touches had felt like life.
It had been quick and clumsy, her sweater up around her neck along with her bra, him cursing to himself as he got tangled up in his pants, trying to get both his and hers out of the way, while keeping his weight off his bad leg. His frustrated groans made her chuckle. That, and the fact that she had still been quite tipsy. Death was all around them, but between them was life and passion, and the strange thing that had been there from day one, the reluctant kind of connection both of them would absolutely deny to anyone else. To themselves most of all. Attraction and anger and fear and adrenaline all found an outlet in those fumbling moments on the dirt floor of a hut in the middle of nowhere. It was life, plain and simple.
When he heard her laughing, he looked up at her with hair falling over his eyes, looking a bit confused at first, but as he made his way back up to her, a grin had spread over his face too.
Dust has still been falling all around them, and debris digging into her bare skin had made everything so very uncomfortable, but there had been his chuckle in her ear. If it had been her last moment on this earth, at least she would go out to the sound of laughter, and with a warm body pressed against hers.

But the world was still turning, and they were both alive to tell the tale.

Was he asleep? Not only did her neck hurt, but her whole left arm was pressed between them at an awkward angle. She didn't want to disturb him, though, if he had managed to fall asleep. She only moved her head a little, adjusted her arm a tiny bit, and sank back against his chest.
It rose and fell steadily. He smelled like sweat and the faintest memory of aftershave. It didn't bother her. Except it did, she wasn't supposed to know what he smelled like close up.
This wasn't supposed to have happened. If Pierce had had even the most basic mechanical skills, they wouldn't be here right now, how was it even possible for a man to be so inept? If her so-called husband had managed to get his two brain cells to cooperate and put the right letter in the right envelope, she wouldn't be here. Post-coital with Pierce, the man she and Frank used to fantasize about being dragged off to Leavenworth in handcuffs.

A sturdy woman, that's what Donald had called her. Someone who would produce cute, all-American children. Bake nice cupcakes for the school bake sale and arrange pleasant dinner parties. The kind of woman who would look proper on her husbands' arm and pretend to be asleep when he came home late, smelling of another woman's perfume. Clench her jaws but say nothing when she washed away lipstick stains in a color she didn't wear from his collar. An excellent hostess, what about her had made him think that? She had slept with him after knowing him for only a few hours, had even bought that tiny thing in midnight blue lace that covered hardly anything, he had sent her a whip, what about that translated as good hostess material? Damn him.
She felt tears sting behind her eyes, blinked hard, and tried to make them go away. How dared he? How dared he treat her like this? Like she was nothing. She should have walked away before, walked away when she found out about that nurse. She hadn't even been that pretty. If Donald had been tempted by some Rita Hayworth-like creature it would at least have been… What? Acceptable? No. Understandable, maybe. But someone so plain, so incredibly ordinary. Just some woman with the advantage of being in Donald's general presence.
She should have walked away.
But then there had been Pierce, his eyes dark and vacant, his whole posture more slumped over than usual, weighed down by the loss of that Korean woman. Margaret didn't want to look like that, it scared her so much. She didn't want to be back at square one again, couldn't stand the thought of it. The ring on her finger was protection, an armor. She had someone, belonged to someone, her days of being alone and vulnerable were supposed to be over. She didn't want to show fear in front of people, vulnerability of any kind made her feel naked. And now, Pierce had witnessed her fear. Her vulnerability. Ha had seen her naked, in every possible way.
Pierce. Why was everything always about him? Ever since she set foot in camp, everything had somehow always revolved around him. Reacting to him, protecting herself from him. Opening up to him. In every way, apparently. She couldn't hold back a small giggle. Dear lord, was she still a bit drunk? How was that even possible, the adrenaline should have scared the alcohol from her system, it should have evaporated from her mouth with every scream.

He stirred a little and pulled her closer, she felt his breath against her hair.
She could hear his heart beating, could feel her own heart beating. They were in sync. Maybe that was a sign, maybe it was the universe trying to tell her something.
Suddenly, she thought of her grandmother, who had a rabbit's foot in every drawer and saw signs everywhere. Mostly ominous. 'There's nothing so bad it couldn't be worse', she used to say.
And things sure could get worse. Lord knew what was out there, who was out there. At any moment, there could be footsteps in the gravel, they could be captured, taken away to never be seen again. Taken prisoners, those words scared her more than anything. What would happen to them then? Would they waste away in a dark dungeon somewhere? Beaten? Abused? Would they be separated or kept together? The only evidence they had ever existed would be a half-empty bottle of Japanese scotch and a medical bag. Not much of a legacy to leave behind. But sadly fitting. Maybe they would light candles back at camp, put their pictures up, and shed some tears. For Pierce, who would cry for her? Certainly not Donald. Helen would cry. In a flash, Margaret saw Helen standing in front of an empty coffin with white roses in her hands. The vision was so clear, and she felt her throat close up. No. No, no, no. She swallowed hard and chased the image away, she would not let her imagination do this to her.
She was safe, they both were, there were only the steady beats of his heart, his breath on her hair. No one was approaching on silent feet, no one would take them away.

His shirt felt soft under her cheek. She sighed.
She could still hear the occasional blast from outside, but very far away, it didn't even make her flinch anymore. Her body felt numb, not just her arm. The pit in her stomach was still there, though, the one that had opened when she realized what she was reading, when she understood the meaning of the words. It had spread as Pierce's very presence made her want to scream. And screamed she had, and there he had been. Been there for her, with her. It had to mean something.
Afterward, it had been awkward. Strangely polite.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, no, you didn't"

"Good."

"Is your leg okay?"

"A bit sore, but that's okay."

"Good."

When she had managed to get her clothes back on, she had turned her back, pretending to look for something in her bag while he shuffled around behind her. She didn't want to meet his eyes, didn't want to find out what she would see in them. A rejection, another one, would have killed her, done wlhat the shelling had failed to do.
When she turned around, he sat leaning against the wall. He had reached out for her, wanting her to come, to be close. That had to mean something. This whole thing couldn't just be another pointless affair, soon forgotten, not just another casualty of war. She would make it mean something. She was not like her so-called husband; she did not just throw things away. This time she would try harder, be better. She hadn't been the best wife, she knew that. Donald had expected more of her for sure. She should have demanded more weekend passes, been there when he needed her. He had always been so far away, mile after mile between them, she never had any control. Not over him, not over herself. That would change now, she would take control of the situation. All of this meant something, it was a sign, she just knew it.

And she wouldn't be alone. She wouldn't be alone, and she wouldn't be afraid, she wouldn't allow herself to be.

Margaret sighed again and closed her eyes, relaxed as much as she could against the soft fabric of Pierce's ugly Hawaiian shirt. Whatever tomorrow, or the next few minutes, might bring, she wouldn't be alone.