summary: You are not dating but after every deployment, Simon comes back to you. Nothing is defined but but it's already too intimate to call it nothing.
cw: smut, pussy talking, making out
A/N: not completely satisfied with the smut but I hope you'll still like it
wc: 2k
It starts casually enough that neither of you notices when it stops being casual.
A shirt left behind after a rushed morning.
Sweatpants hooked over the end of his bed because Simon likes you in his clothes more than he’ll ever admit out loud.
A hoodie abandoned on his bedroom floor for three straight weeks that he never tells you to take home.
The arrangement between you has always been messy by design.
No labels.
No expectations.
Just late nights and rough kisses and Simon Riley opening his apartment door already knowing exactly why you came over. Sometimes you disappear before sunrise. Sometimes you stay three days. Sometimes he comes back from deployment and shows up at your place without warning, exhausted and touch starved, and you let him in without a word.
It works because neither of you asks for more.
At least that’s the lie.
Because Simon starts memorizing things.
Which side of the bed you unconsciously drift toward.
Which shirts you steal most often.
The fact you hate wearing jeans the morning after staying over.
And slowly, without discussion, pieces of you begin appearing inside his room like evidence.
Hair ties around his lamp.
Your moisturizer beside his sink.
A pair of shorts folded at the end of his bed.
You expect him to eventually get irritated by it. Simon likes order. Clean spaces. Everything controlled.
Instead, he starts making room.
Literally.
The door barely shuts before Simon’s hands are on you.
Rough palms sliding under your coat, dragging you against him hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Rainwater still clings to your coat. He tug your coat off your shoulders.
Three weeks gone.
Three weeks with barely any contact beyond short texts sent at impossible hours.
alive.
home tomorrow.
miss the way you sound.
And now he’s here, standing in the middle of his flat looking exhausted enough to collapse but still kissing you like he’s starving.
“Missed me that bad?” you murmur against his mouth.
Simon answers by gripping your jaw and kissing you deeper.
That’s enough of an answer.
You stumble backward together through the apartment, half laughing when your hip bumps the kitchen counter. Simon doesn’t laugh. He just stares at you with those dark, heavy eyes like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re actually here.
His thumb brushes under your lower lip.
“You cut your hair.”
“You noticed?”
“'Course I noticed.”
The words come out almost offended.
Something twists low in your stomach.
Then his mouth is back on yours before you can answer, all heat and desperation and restrained aggression. Simon kisses like a man trying not to lose control entirely. Every movement feels deliberate. Tight with restraint.
Which only makes it worse when that restraint slips.
He immediately crowds into you again, large body forcing you back toward the hallway wall.
“Simon-”
“Been thinkin’ about this all week,” he mutters against your throat.
His voice is wrecked. Deep. Honest in a way he never is outside moments like this.
You feel his hand slide beneath your shirt, rough fingertips dragging slowly over bare skin like he needs the reminder.
Still here.
Still real.
Your fingers hook into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you at all.
“Bedroom,” you whisper.
Simon exhales sharply through his nose, almost a laugh.
“Yeah.”
But neither of you makes it there gracefully.
Halfway down the hall he kisses you again and suddenly you’re both distracted, tangled, bumping into walls and furniture while trying to pull clothes off each other.
“You’re impatient,” you breathe.
“You’re talkin’ too much.”
“You like when I talk.”
A dark look flashes across his face at that.
Then he grips the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly, pinning you against the wall. The sound that leaves you makes his head drop briefly against your shoulder.
“Christ.”
It’s the closest thing to losing composure you’ve ever seen from him.
You run your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the tension there. The exhaustion. The lingering adrenaline from whatever mission he just came back from.
Simon carries everything inside himself like a wound stitched shut too fast.
But with you, sometimes it cracks open.
His forehead presses against yours for a brief second.
Too intimate.
Too soft.
You feel it the moment he realizes it too, because he immediately kisses you harder, one hand gripping your waist tightly enough to bruise.
The bedroom is dim when he finally gets you there.
He pushes you gently onto the mattress and stands between your knees.
Simon Riley always stops right here like he’s checking whether you’re still certain.
Whether he’s still allowed to have this.
You reach for him first.
His expression shifts instantly.
Then he’s back on you, slower now, heavier somehow. The earlier desperation melting into something more deliberate. His hands roam like he’s relearning your body after every absence.
His lips brush your skin like a whisper, light and deliberate, sending a shiver that travels from your collarbone down to your core. You catch your breath as his fingers tighten around the sheets beneath you, the subtle sound of your gasp fueling his hunger.
He presses his mouth deeper, first with gentle sucking, then with teasing bites that leave a trail of warmth and excitement in their wake.
Simon watches you with a sly smile, a spark of satisfaction glowing in his eyes before he claims your lips again. Your hands find their way into his hair, fingers tangling and pulling just enough to elicit a soft groan from deep in his throat. With your other hand, you trace slow, teasing circles along his shoulders, feeling the tension and release beneath your touch.
His hand slides beneath your shirt, fingertips exploring the smooth planes of your stomach and the curve of your waist. The unexpected contact makes you gasp, a sound swallowed quickly by the press of his mouth against yours.
Breaking the kiss, he tugs at your shirt – a silent question that you answer by lifting your arms, letting the fabric fall away. The shirt hits the floor somewhere out of sight, irrelevant to the two of you in this moment.
Simon’s lips travel down your jawline, planting soft, lingering kisses that make your skin bloom with sensation. He moves lower, savoring every sigh and breath you offer. His fingers cup your breast, kneading with a roughness that betrays his need to feel something tangible, to ground himself in this intimate space.
His lips shift to your other breast, pressing gentle kisses before capturing your nipple between his teeth. A moan escapes you, raw and unguarded.
“Quiet was never your thing, huh?” he murmurs against your skin.
You smile against him. “Don’t pretend like you want me to be.”
“Fair enough,” he replies, voice low and amused.
His lips descend again, hands deftly working to pull down your pants. When he reaches your panties – simple cotton, softened and soaked –he chuckles with dark fondness.
“She missed me,” he murmurs possessively. “Missed her just as much. Can’t wait to have her all over again.”
“Wait, are you–”
“Yes,” he interrupts smoothly. “We both know you can’t do what I do. Fill her up with just two fingers. Don’t think I forgot your complaints.”
Before you can protest, he strips your panties away, admiring your bare skin with hungry eyes.
“So beautiful,” he breathes.
His fingers glide to your thighs, caressing tenderly now, a stark contrast to his earlier urgency. His lips follow, planting soft kisses that send tingles through your body.
“I dreamed about her,” he confesses, voice thick with desire. “Every moan of yours, every shudder while I buried myself inside her. How she took me in, missed me.”
His fingers find his belt, undoing it with practiced ease as he removes his pants and boxer briefs. The cool air brushes his skin, heightening the tension between you.
He positions himself, slowly entering you. The sound you make– a moan, a gasp– is the music he lives for.
“Yes,” he groans, voice rough with need. “My favorite sound, right after hearing my name on your lips.”
You move together, bodies syncing in an ancient dance of desire and connection. His hands grip your waist, pulling you close, while his lips trace fiery paths along your neck, biting and kissing as he burries himself inside you. The passion between you blazes bright, overwhelming everything but the raw, perfect moment you share.
One night you’re digging through the pile of clothes you left on his bedroom chair trying to find a clean shirt while Simon sits on the edge of the bed watching you silently.
“You’re lookin’ for somethin’?” he asks.
“My dignity.”
“Won’t find that in here.”
You snort softly and throw one of his shirts at him.
“Most of these are yours anyway.”
“Exactly."
Simon catches the shirt one handed. Watches you for a second too long.
Then he stands.
You think he’s going to help you look, but instead he walks to his closet. Large hand gripping the handle before pulling open the bottom drawer.
It’s half full of neatly folded shirts and dark cargo pants.
Without looking at you, he starts taking some of them out.
Folded carefully. Methodically.
Your stomach tightens immediately.
“Simon…”
He shrugs like this means nothing. Like his pulse isn’t visibly beating in his throat.
“You keep leavin’ your clothes here.”
There’s something dangerously casual about the way he says it.
Like he isn’t aware this feels more intimate than him having you in his bed.
You stare as he clears the entire left side of the drawer.
Space.
For you.
Inside his room.
Inside his life.
Simon finally glances over, expression guarded already, like he regrets it now that you’ve gone quiet.
“Don’t make a thing out of it,” he mutters.
Which, of course, guarantees it immediately becomes a thing.
“You’re giving me a drawer.”
“It’s storage.”
“In your bedroom.”
“You complain every bloody morning you’ve got nothin’ to wear.”
You lean against the dresser slowly, studying him. “So your solution was domesticity?”
His jaw tightens instantly.
“Jesus Christ.”
The panic in his eyes almost makes you smile.
Not because he’s afraid of you – Simon Riley fears almost nothing – but because he’s terrified of what this gesture reveals about him.
That he thought about you when you weren’t there.
That he wants you there often enough to justify permanent space.
That somewhere along the line, your presence stopped feeling temporary.
“You don’t have to freak out,” he says gruffly.
“I’m not freaking out.”
“You’re lookin’ at me weird.”
“That’s because this is weird.”
Simon scoffs and moves to shove the drawer closed again. “Forget it then.”
But you stop him first.
Your hand wraps around his wrist.
Gentle.
He stills instantly.
Then, without breaking eye contact, you walk toward the pile of clothes abandoned near his bed, pick up one of your hoodies, and fold it carefully before placing it inside the drawer.
Simon watches the entire thing silently.
You add another shirt.
Then another.
By the third item, something in his expression shifts. Subtle. Almost impossible to catch.
Relief.
It hits you so hard your chest aches.
Because this massive, terrifying man had genuinely prepared himself for you to reject the offer.
“Happy?” you ask quietly.
Simon looks at the drawer for a long second before answering.
Y/n and Bradley get teased by their friends about their relationship during his deployment
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Y/n’s point of view
The sticky sweetness of Nashville in August clung to the air, even inside the dimly lit booth at Mac’s Drive-In. The jukebox in the corner hummed a familiar country tune, a soundtrack to our weekly tradition. My best friends, Miranda and Hailey, were across from me, their faces flushed from laughter and the generous amount of milkshake they’d already devoured.
“Seriously, Y/n,” Miranda began, wiping a smudge of chocolate from her chin, “you’ve been staring at that phone like it’s going to magically transmit Bradley into this booth.”
I flushed, looking down at my half-eaten burger. “It’s not like that. I’m just… waiting for his next message. He said he’d check in when he could.” Deployment was still a fresh wound, even after seven months. Bradley, my Bradley, was out there somewhere, doing his thing, and I was stuck here, navigating life in Nashville without him.
Hailey, ever the instigator, grinned. “Ooh, is he going to send you more of those adorable little voice notes where he tries to sound all tough and military but you can hear him trying not to giggle?”
I playfully swatted her arm. “Hey! He’s serious about his job. And he’s not ‘trying not to giggle,’ he’s just… endeared by my incessant need for his voice.”
Miranda leaned in, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, you deserve it. Three years, Y/n! Three years you’ve been head-over-heels for our high-flying pilot. And he’s been gone for six months. That’s practically an eternity in dating years, especially when you two are so… smitten.”
We’d been through it all together, Miranda , Hailey, and I. Kindergarten finger-painting disasters, awkward middle school dances, and navigating the treacherous waters of college. Now, Hailey was a budding graphic designer, Miranda was working her way up in the Civilian Military support ladder, and me. Well, I was Y/n, the girl who wrote songs and had somehow snagged the heart of a fighter pilot named Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw.
“Smitten is a good word,” I admitted, a soft smile gracing my lips. “He’s… he’s everything.”
Hailey snorted, her eyes darting to a framed photo of Buddy Holly on the wall. “He’s everything, but he’s not that great at texting apparently. Maybe he’s too busy doing… pilot things. Like, you know, being all heroic and… masculine.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
I rolled my eyes, but a laugh bubbled up. “Oh, here we go. You two are going to do this all night, aren’t you?”
“We have to keep you entertained, sweetie,” Miranda chimed in, grabbing a handful of my fries. “Someone has to keep Y/n from spiraling into a black hole of deployment melancholy.”
“Hey!” I snatched the fries back. “These are mine! And I’m not spiraling. I’m just… missing him.”
Hailey smirked, leaning back again. “Missing him so much you might explode? Or maybe missing him so much you just want to… you know. Reconnect. In a… physical way.” She said the last part with a theatrical whisper, making Miranda snicker.
“You guys are unbelievable,” I mumbled, taking a big gulp of my lemonade with my cheeks turning red. “We haven’t slept together. I’m still a virgin until my wedding night.”
“No, you’re the unbelievable one, Y/n,” Miranda said, her tone shifting to mock seriousness. “Three years, and you’re telling me you haven’t… you know… done the deed yet?”
Hailey gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. “Blasphemy! Y/n! Our little singer, still a virgin? I thought surely with Rooster… with all that swagger and the uniform…” She trailed off, her eyes wide with disbelief.
I wanted to disappear. Miranda and Hailey knew about my… situation. It wasn’t something I advertised, but they’d coaxed it out of me eventually, in a similar haze of late-night talks and shared secrets. Bradley knew, of course. He’d been incredibly understanding, never pushing, always respecting my boundaries. He’d told me that when the time was right for both of us, it would be right.
“It’s not a big deal,” I insisted, trying to sound nonchalant. “We’re taking our time. He understands.”
“Understands what?” Hailey squeaked. “That he’s dating a literal angel? Because that’s the only explanation for him not having… taken advantage of the situation.”
“He’s not ‘taking advantage’ of anything!” I shot back, my voice rising. “He’s in love with me. And I’m in love with him. It’s not about… that.”
Miranda reached across the table and squeezed my hand, winking at me. “We know, sweetie. We’re just messing with you. Mostly. But seriously, has he never whispered sweet nothings in your ear about how… skilled he must be in bed? Because I bet with all that precision flying, he’s got some serious coordination.”
“Don’t worry, Little Singe. I’ll rock your world - Hey!”
I threw a fry at Hailey. “Stop it! Only Rooster can call me ‘little singer’!” My voice held a stern edge, though a blush still painted my cheeks. It was a nickname he’d given me, it was his. Not theirs.
Hailey giggled, dodging the fry. “Okay, okay! Point taken. But still, virginity at our age is practically a mythical creature. Especially for someone as… passionate as you are about Bradley.”
“I’m passionate about him because he’s a good person,” I defended, feeling a bit weary of the interrogation. “He’s kind, he’s brave, he makes me laugh. And yes, he’s incredibly handsome. But it’s more than just… physical attraction for me.”
“Of course, it is, honey,” Miranda said softly, her teasing tone softening. “We know. We just… we’re older sisters for a reason. We worry. And we like to tease you. It’s our job.”
Hailey twirled some of her hair in between her fingers, revealing something so causally that me and Miranda had no clue about until this moment. “Jake and I tease each other all the time and we’re not putting any kind of labels on our relationship right now-“
“Hold the freaking phone!” Miranda spit out some of her drink she had in her mouth when I slammed my hands down on the table. “You’re hooking up with Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin and didn’t think to tell us.”
Miranda got up from her chair getting in her face with a serious yet still childish grin on her face with Hailey scooting back in her seat trying to create some space. “Oh you’re definitely getting interrogated now, girl.” Smirking in her direction I could only imagine what kind of teasing Bradley would receive from the Dagger Squad when he got the care package I made for him last month.
Aircraft Carrier – Mail Room
Bradley’s name is called, and he catches the box before it hits the deck. The handwriting across the top makes his chest ache in the best way. He carries it back to the ready room, already smiling. He cut the box open coming face to face with four items. He picked up the first item which was a neatly folded blue and white flannel, when he held it in his hands his nose sniffed the air making him grin. It smelled like her perfume and he knew it was one of her favorite flannel shirts. Next, there was a folded piece of paper with lyrics scribbled on it and some doodled hearts in the margins.
Pulling out the third item he found out it was a Polaroid of her flashing her engagement ring at the camera with Bradley standing behind her with his arms around her middle, both of them grinning like children. All the other items had brought a smile to his face but it was the last one that made him snort out a laugh with a huge dorkish grin on his face. A small purple guitar pick taped to a note with the words: “Still hate purple. Love you anyway.”
Bradley chuckles, brushing his thumb over the photo. “You’re ridiculous…”
““Bradshaw, what’s this? Oh my god, she sent you a picture of the ring. You’re officially whipped.” Hangman suddenly appeared behind him, making him jump up in the air and nearly drop the photo on the floor.
Phoenix corrected him. “Not whipped. Engaged. Which is worse. You’re about to be someone’s husband, Rooster.”
“She looks really happy. And that’s a nice ring. Did you pick it out yourself?” Bob FIoyd peered at the photo.
Hangman scoffed under his breath. “Please. Bradshaw probably let her pick it out. He’s too scared to get it wrong.”
Bradley groans, snatching the photo back from Jake’s hand. “I picked it and she loved it even if it’s not the actual wedding ring. So shut up.”
“Aw, listen to him. Defensive. Next thing you know he’ll be practicing vows in the mirror.”
“Don’t give him ideas. He’ll start rhyming about jet fuel and runway lights.” Hangman warned his fellow aviator making Bradley blushes, folding the flannel carefully, but the grin won’t leave his face.
“You know, Goose always said you’d fall for someone who could keep you on your toes. Looks like he was right. And now you’re marrying her.” Maverick’s voice entered the room, leaning in the doorway smirking at Rooster. The room quiets for a beat. Bradley swallows hard, clutching the photo. “Don’t screw it up, kid. She’s clearly the better half.”
“Finally, something we all agree on.” Hangman cheered with his fist in the air.
Phoenix nodded in agreement. “Cheers to Little Singer. May she keep Rooster from turning into a dad at Home Depot.”
“Should we send her something back? A squad autograph for the wedding guestbook?” Bob asked the group.
Hangman grabbed a napkin, writing something down. “Dear Little Singer, dump Bradshaw, call me. Signed, Hangman.”
“Jake, I swear—” Bradley attempted to say before Phoenix jumped in.
“I’m mailing it.”
Bradley faced palmed himself. “I hate all of you.”
“You love us. Almost as much as you love your fiancée.” Hangman smirked at him, knowing he was right.
Eventually a few hours later when the squad disperses, Bradley sat down on his bunk with the flannel draped over his shoulders. He read over the new song lyrics that she had written him, staring at the purple guitar pick he spun in between his fingers. “I’ll be home soon, sweetheart. And then we’ll start forever.”
The District of Columbia has sued to stop President Donald Trump’s deployment of National Guard during law enforcement intervention in Washi
WASHINGTON (AP) — The District of Columbia on Thursday sued to stop President Donald Trump’s deployment of National Guard during law enforcement intervention in Washington.
The city’s attorney general, Brian Schwalb, said the hundreds of troops are essentially an “involuntary military occupation.” He argued in the federal lawsuit that the deployment is an illegal use of the military for domestic law enforcement.
This is the last mission the Hounds ever go on. Two months before their official end day, they entered a city and overtook a block of buildings at the behest of their leadership. For the past six months, they have been overtaking buildings, taking out key civilians, and moving on. Not every day is a winner. [ft. @thewarhounds ]
“Air support. Come in. Over,” Henry spoke into comms. “I need visual six klicks out.”
The rest of his unit below him staggered through two rooms. The mission had been simple, after months of practice and practice, taking over buildings, running drills. Each time a piece of it connected until he’d realized that they were combing through addresses he’d seen before. A few higher-ranking members of the opposing sides had stayed in these places. They would have two more months of taking over three more buildings, driving from satellite camp to satellite camp in a country they weren’t in.
Ghost practices. According to the military, no one was there, and they were still on base in Qatar.
It meant if something happened to them, they would just vanish. There would be no explanation going home, maybe not even a body, just telling your family that you had been lost and were irretrievable.
“What’s wrong up there, Granger?” Marney answered instead, concern laced in her voice.
She stood over Igraine, gun drawn, who was crouched, patching up a civilian who hadn’t made it out of the building when they overtook it. A young teen girl.
Henderson and Edwards sat outside the other room, backs to the door, to allow privacy and allow Igraine to treat her without the veil on. There were other soldiers still in the building, directing people in and out. The pile of bodies of their fighters was on the main floor, hauled down there. They’d have to take them out soon; the combination of death, decay and heat would only make the place unbearable.
“Alright, sweetie, you can put the veil back on. We’re going to send you out with someone,” Igraine finished bandaging her neck and chest when the girl put her veil back over her face. Igraine took her black latex gloves off and deposited them on the table next to her, before escorting the girl out the door to another female soldier to walk out.
“I’m seeing a pattern, First Sergeant Dawson,” Henry spoke again, calmly, as he looked through the glass of his sniper rifle. He’d been seeing it now for an hour. There was a distinct pattern of people coming and going, looking and checking the building. “What exactly is supposed to be in here that’s valuable besides killing some of these guys?”
“Stand down.” Her only directive. She wasn’t going to talk about this out in the open.
Henderson pushed open the door, allowing Edwards to walk in first, before letting out a low whistle, “Check out these digs. They pretend it’s just sand out here, but this is nice.”
“What pattern?” Igraine asked, pressing her comms.
“Are there still women and children in the building?” Henry answered as he eyed the truck that was six klicks away through his binoculars. It wasn’t fast approaching, but the group that had settled at the edge of the city was looking toward it expectantly.
“Yes,” Marney said. “Granger, tell me what the fuck is going on up there.”
Henderson went to the window, pulling back the drapes to look out at the city. He didn’t notice anything, and that was what was noticeable. The streets had started clearing. The outrage that had been pouring out as they ran through the streets had dissipated.
“Hey, trucks, five of them coming in hot!” Henry shouted over comms, immediately looking to see when they’d come in range. He signaled to the other rooftop, hoping they’d be able to both take a shot, re-rack and take out all five vehicles. They were kicking up dust with a purpose.
The sound of surrounding gunfire made everyone pause and immediately take cover.
Finally, they heard Briggs, “Air support has been notified. Ground support has left—hold that building—we wait until we hear more from central command. The only thing you worry about is keeping them out.”
“That’s great,” Igraine replied sarcastically as she met Henderson on the other side of the window, peeking out. A shot cracked the glass, immediately knicking her helmet and hitting the wall behind them. She held her breath and retreated to the wall, licked her lips, and shot a look over to Marney. The mission was going to hell.
Marney immediately opened the doors, retreating to the middle of the building, “What do you mean by ' hold the building '? We were supposed to take it and turn it over for the next team to ransack. I’ve got maybe twenty guys in here.”
“I said what I said; do not forget who you’re talking to. Hold the building. Those are your direct orders.”
“Two klicks!” Henry called out simultaneously.
“Thank you for your service.Over and out.”
The gunfire increased on the lower floors. Marney heard the three other officers giving out orders and directions over comms, putting them into formation to hold down the doors and windows. “Switch channels!” she ordered her own team.
All of them tuned their comms so it was just them. “What’s the pattern, Granger?” Marney questioned again.
“They’ve got something in those trucks. We’ve taken out one van, but they’ve gotten smart. There’s shit covering their windows. I can’t get a shot, let alone a clean one,” he responded. “We’re going to take a hit.”
Marney stomped back into the room, mouth in a hard line, before she shouted, “We get out of here now, Iggy left flank, Edwards right flank, and Henderson pull up the rear. I’m not holding shit. Granger, you get off that roof!”
“Air support. Air support. We’re downed two and three injured,” cut through Igraine’s comms one of their soldiers.
Igraine still had a duty: “I have to go; I have two of them downed. I can’t leave.” She stepped out of formation in the hallway to look down over the stairs. Rapid gunfire was heard below. A hand pulled her vest back, Henderson holding onto her under Marney’s orders.
“Let the other medic get them. You were responsible for this floor and the two floors above,” Marney said.
Igraine bristled, pulling from Henderson. “I took an oath!”
“And I took an oath to get you home; I’ve never lied, and you will not make me a liar now.” Both women were in each other’s faces as Igraine restrained herself from rushing down the stairs.
The building was surrounded.
“One klick! They’re opening fire—” he watched as they sent the projectile into the other building across the street. He covered his face as the explosion happened, sand, dust, and concrete flying around. It reverberated, rocking their building. The impact hit the upper levels of the building, rippling through the side of the structure until the roofline buckled and the section beneath his counterpart gave way, collapsing in on itself, crumbling out into the streets.
It was acceptance, blue eyes widened at the sight until he was looking down the barrel of the other projectile. They were going to get buried in a mass grave, unknown men and women alike, buried in the litter box of their operations.
Henry pressed his comms: “Everyone, unfuck yourself one last time and brace for impact.” His jaw clenched, body ready. The metaphorical train couldn’t be stopped, barreling at them at full speed where he heard it go off, headed straight toward them. He kept his post and aimed at two of the men who surrounded the truck. Immediately locking onto them and firing, re-racking and firing again, downing both of them.
There isn’t a moment to think of anything clearly, no visual, just the generic shape of home and the feeling of unfinished business that sits on his chest. The chorus of his unit, questioning what was going on above, was in his right ear.
The strike hit the floor below him on the east side, where he is, his unit underneath his feet, but there is nothing Henry can do to minimize the damage. The blast tore through the building, weakening the roof and the floor beneath his position. The audible cracking sound of concrete as it shifted, the concrete completely under his feet. Plumes of smoke billowed from the side of the building, Ash and soot in his throat, causing him to cough and wheeze. He’s blinded, unable to see anything.
The whole building shakes, and he’s dropped half an inch. The roof groaned below him, metal twisting inside the walls, before the entire section beneath his boots gave way. For one terrifying second, there is nothing, no ground or control, and just gravity.
It collapsed inward, and he fell with it, hands grasping at debris falling around him, down into the fifth floor of the building. He twisted instinctively, trying to protect his head, but there was nowhere for his body to go but down into the fourth floor as things crumbled in.
Henry hit the fourth floor hard enough that he didn’t know if he heard the impact or felt it. The ground next to him gave way, but the concrete he’d landed on didn’t budge, instead leaving a gaping giant hole straight to the third floor of the building, where his team was.
He tried to move and flexed his hand and hovered it over his chest on the necklace he had, crystal for protection, whatever shit hex girl had done, had carried him through all his deployments and probably his last. The pain caught him to him and he quickly shielded his face as rubble came down from the hole above him, hitting him.
The rest of the team had heard his comms and braced themselves, but it wasn’t enough. The first thought was that the explosion was fine; it wasn’t their floor. Edwards had looked up, covered his head and shouted, “Above!”
The entire ceiling, steel, concrete, and all, had come down over their heads.
“Henderson! Rush that recovery request and get it pushed. I can’t hear Henry,” She ordered. Edwards tackled her to the ground, covering her head with his body as Henderson dodged the rubble that was falling on their heads. His voice was shaky and stern, screaming for them to come through. He’d gone over Brigg’s head to a mutual friend, telling them to get in there. He knew they had Air Force Pararescue on standby for this mission, especially.
“Recovery element copies. Personnel recovery request confirmed. We are moving to your location. Maintain communication. Stand by for further instructions.”
“Henry!” Marney shouted when she pushed Edwards off of her. She stalked the space that was left, even climbing up onto the rubble to try and get closer to see if she could hear him. “I swear to god Granger, you answer me right this goddamn minute!”
He heard her. He made every concentrated effort to whisper into the comms, but nothing came out of his mouth; he was choking on ash.
The anguished scream and cry of Igraine came next, and all three heads turned to see that she’d gotten caught under the collapse, a piece of cement trapping her lower foot, going into the floor and pinning her against the rest of the rubble. When Henderson rushed to her side, he saw the full extent of the damage. Part of her tibia had pierced through her pants.
“You can’t move it. Get my bag. I need, I need a fucking tourniquet. Cut my pants; can’t do it over pants, need skin contact,” Igraine cried, breathless between instructions as she tried to regulate her breathing. She braced her hands on her thigh, trying to keep her leg as still as possible. “I’m going to pass out,” she warned, breathing heavily.
“FUCK!” Edwards panicked, sliding in next to James, grabbing the pack from under the desk and pulling out the medical supplies he’d seen before.
Marney knew they had her and used the opportunity to push open the doors to see if she could get back out into the hallway where the stairwell was to get to Henry. She’d pull him down to the rest of the team. After she’d cleared the room, she saw the stairs had been mangled, chipped away, left broken by the crashing cement. There wasn’t a way to get to him. She’d have to climb over the cement and steel in their room to the open hole.
She could hear Igraine crying out, sobbing as Edwards supported her back and James ripped her pants, getting the tourniquet on her leg to stop the bleeding.
“She’s knocked out,” Edwards said, letting Igraine's head gently rest back against the rock. “We have to get this shit off of her.”
“On it,” Henderson quickly motioned for him to help move the fallen piece off of her leg, and after minutes of grunting and gritting their teeth, they’d done it. The pool of blood under her leg was managed, but her leg looked like it had been inhumanly broken into pieces. “I need to dress this and stabilize it.”
Marney was back on comms: “I need reinforcements; I’m two men down.”
No one responded.
They were being abandoned.
Igraine had come to after being out for minutes, the pain rushing back to her brain. She gritted her teeth, tears leaking down her face. Her voice was raw from the screams; silent sobs came next as Henderson held her tightly to him.
“It’s alright, Igs. Marney’s working on a way out, alright?” He looked up at Marn, cupped Igraine’s head to his chest and tried to “We’re going home soon.”
The blonde hadn’t ever been that silent. They heard screaming two floors down. The enemy was going to close in, and she shared a look with Henderson. He knew exactly what she was contemplating, and he shook his head in disagreement.
“We’re going to have to move her.” Edwards looked at her ankle, still held down by a steel beam. She wouldn’t be able to slip her foot through. “I don’t know how, but we have to get this off. We have to try to hide or get somewhere, but right now our asses are hanging out, and they’re moving up.”
Igraine sniffed, “Henry.”
Marney looked up; he’d have to be up there. “Chris, could you scale this thing and try to get up there? The stairs are wrecked. No one is coming in or out. If we can get up there and find him…maybe Henderson and I can get her out, and he can carry her up there.”
“On it,” Edwards stood up, brushed the dust from himself and unhooked some of his pack, dropping it next to Igraine before approaching the rubble. It wasn’t easy, but he began his ascent, grabbing onto places that he could hook a foot into or not, like rock climbing. He eased himself up, pushing through some of the smaller rubble once he’d gotten up close to the opening in the ceiling.
Igraine had calmed down, slowed her breath, the pain still radiating through her leg. “Marn,” she called out, voice shaky. “James, you can let me go. You should be watching the door,” Igraine gritted out and shifted as he let her go, shifted away and pulled his gun from his shoulder.
“Don’t do anything until I’m back,” he ordered, looking between the women.
He stared at them for a moment longer than needed, trying to make peace with their situation before dipping down to kiss Igraine on the top of her head. He held his breath when he got to Marney, grabbed the back of her neck and tapped their foreheads together, as they’d done for the past three decades before shit hit the fan. She held him there, saying more with her eyes than her words.
He’d known her so long he didn’t need to hear her voice to know what was going to happen.
James let her go and immediately marched across the room and shut the door behind him to head out into the hallway. They needed eyes out here. He could hear below that they were trying to decipher how to get onto the next floor, as two of the stairways had been blocked.
That would give them time to either pray for a miracle or the inevitable.
“I’ve got him!” Edwards called finally. “He’s—he’s breathing; the pulse is slow, but it’s there.”
He held two fingers to Henry’s neck, feeling a soft but steady pulse.
“Stay with him!” Marney called up to him before turning her attention to Igraine. “We gotta get you out of this.” She looked down at her ankle, still trapped. Her hands were soft when she tried to point her ankle down, tried to slip it out, but it only contorted her bone further, making Igraine bite the inside of her cheek, drawing blood.
“No… no, no, stop!” The veins in her neck popped out as her jaw stayed open, trying to cry silently.
Marney quickly let go, holding her hands up. “I’m sorry!”
Igraine licked her dry lips and unclipped her pistol, pulling it out and laying it next to her. “I saw your look,” she started, “if we can’t get out of here. That’s your solution.”
Marney didn’t know where to start: “Honey, that’s been my solution for thirty-something odd years. You don’t want to go down that route. We’re not even supposed to be here. If you get taken, the government won’t negotiate. There won’t be protests in the street to get you back. We don’t exist here.”
“I counted,” she said and lifted her pistol up. The magazine dropped just enough into her palm for a quick press check. She counted the brass gleaming through the witness holes—three rounds. Not enough. She slammed the magazine back into the grip until it clicked. “Three.”
“We’re trying not to come to that,” Marney insisted with a firmer tone.
Igraine smiled softly, “Henderson’s going to come back and I can’t move. You’re going to leave one more gun with me and when they come through…”
She hadn’t thought it through, really, but it made the most sense that she was the only one not able-bodied. Marney and James could climb up through the hole to get up to Henry and Edwards. She couldn’t do it anymore, and she was in pain she hadn’t imagined before. Even when her skin was melting from her body, and she’d almost lost her arm.
“Fuck you, Igraine. Have I ever given you the impression I’d ever let you go down that alone?” Marney snapped at her. “Then I hadn’t been clear before. We’re all here. We either get out together, or we don’t.”
“I’m stuck here. Unless you break my fucking ankle and we crush it through the steel. I’m not leaving.” Igraine’s tears returned. “I don’t want to fight with you—not like this—not now.”
“Ever since I first met you, you’ve breathed down my neck; always keep a round in the chamber; count your bullets. I know what it’s for. I know why you keep the extra ones in your boot. I’m not making you pull it on me.”
The building shook again suddenly, and Henderson rushed back into the room, slamming it shut, dark red blooming under his uniform, staining his right side. His head hit the back of the door that he slammed shut before rushing around, pulling as much furniture that had been in the room and not stuck to the ground to stick against the door.
“What the fuck?” Marney questioned.
Henderson didn’t answer her right away, stacking what he could. “That was me, grenade. In the south hallway, I collapsed the last set of stairs. They can’t make it up here,” he answered firmly before turning back to grip his side. “Got fucking shot, but it went clean through. It’s fine. It’s not the worst of it.”
“What are we doing with Iggy?” Edwards called down.
Igraine contemplated the same thing before she sighed, “Break it.”
“What?” James questioned, brows furrowed in concentration as he looked from Marney to Igraine.
She gritted her teeth and tried to flex her ankle. “Marney is going to break my ankle to give me a better chance at getting out of here, right?” She looked up at her, imploring her to listen. “I can survive broken bones, but I can’t survive a bullet to the head, right?”
“No, that’s crazy.”
James sighed, “Do it. What other choice?”
Marney spun around, “Call again. They confirmed they had our location.”
“My guy can only do so much, Marn. I don’t know if they’re coming. They confirmed, but I haven’t gotten anything on comms since. I’ve no fucking clue, but I can’t leave either of you,” he said from his seat against the door. As if there was any brute force left in him if they pushed through.
“There’s no way they think any of us survived this; we just have to wait it out,” she insisted, not believing her own lies.
Igraine shifted uncomfortable again, cheeks blotched red. “Give me the fighting chance, Marney. I don’t want to use this.” She lifted her pistol an inch off the ground before resting her hand back. “Don’t let me make you a liar, not when we’re two months away from leaving.”
The shift in the air is immediate.
There’s an air of certainty because Marney’s made her decision and slides to Igraine’s feet, dropping to her knees. “I’ll let you kick my ass after this.” She looked back at Igraine. “Wait, bite this.” She grabbed a strap of leather and shoved it into her.
“Ladies,” Henderson urged.
“Fuck you,” both muttered.
It was quiet for a whole minute as she inspected the best way to do it.
The leather tasted like dust and old sweat. Igraine bit down on it without argument, jaw already trembling. Her breathing came in short, uneven pulls as she looked from the mangled angle of her trapped leg to Marney's face.
"Do it before I lose my nerve."
Marney squeezed her shoulder once, hard enough to hurt. "On three."
Igraine closed her eyes.
One.
She clamped down on the leather until her jaw ached.
Two.
Everything around them disappeared—the settling groan of the building, Henderson cursing under his breath, the ringing in her ears.
Three.
Marney moved, and pain detonated through Igraine's leg, white-hot and absolute. Her entire body arched off the floor, every muscle locking as a strangled scream was swallowed by the leather between her teeth. Tears sprang instantly to her eyes. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The world narrowed to blinding agony that seemed to split her in half.
The resistance gave way, and Igraine nearly blacked out as the pressure holding her captive released.
"She's out!" Marney shouted. “I need help lifting her!”
Henderson shoved himself off the door despite the blood running down his side. Every movement looked like it cost him, but he ignored it, limping forward to grab Igraine beneath one arm while Marney took the other. "Stay with me," Henderson ordered, breathless.
Igraine couldn't answer. The leather slipped from between her teeth as another cry escaped her, hoarse and broken. Her vision tunneled, blinking in and out while the room tilted violently around her.
"You don't get to check out," Marney snapped, tears streaking through the grime on her face. "Look at me."
Igraine managed to focus for half a heartbeat.
"There you are," Marney said, forcing a shaky smile. "That's my girl."
Together they hauled her clear of the wreckage, every jolt sending another wave of pain through her body. Henderson nearly collapsed under the effort, catching himself against the wall before pushing onward anyway.
Behind them, the damaged structure groaned again.
They lifted her and held on as they moved below the large opening. “We could have him lower something down; I’ll go up and help lift, and you can support from the bottom,” Marney thought out loud. Igraine’s head had lolled against her shoulder, taking deep, shaky breaths. Her body was heading into shock.
Henry groaned from above them, causing Chris to grab his canteen and quickly bring it to his lips, allowing him to swallow something besides the dust and ash.
“You unfuck yourself?”
Chris shook his head. “We’re beyond. Think this is it, buddy.”
Henry’s head dropped to the floor again, a groan: “Don’t be queer with the goonies never say die shit—doesn’t look good on you.”
“Fuck you,” he laughed, “I’m a sensitive motherfucker.”
Both men chuckled
“I’m sensitive; I’m going to die and never taste hex girl ever again—see, that’s sensitive,” Henry coughed.
Chris cracked a genuine smile and laughed loudly, “Man, you weren’t going to do that anyway. Get the fuck out of here and keep that shit to yourself. Save your strength, you dumb fuck.”
Henry chuckled to himself, breathing in slowly.
Marney and James had yet to figure out how they were going to actually get her up and into the next level of the building. They were running low on time, and internally, Marney was panicking, looking from the doors to the windows. They couldn’t leave these two floors without
All at once static started coming over the comms, the voice muffled on the other side, but with each passing minute, it came out clearer and clearer, the sudden influx of a familiar voice. “Dagger Two, Sirona. Copy your request. Bona Dea and I are inbound. ETA one-zero mikes.”
