#flightlessangelwings

Frankie starts walking again, progressing deeper into the jungle, the vegetation so dense that he can’t see the sky, and all he can breathe is humidity, clamping his lungs. It’s dusk, and the world around him is dark blue and murky green. The press of his cheek against the cold metal of his riffle grounds him, he’s thankful for it, it offers a welcome balance to the shakiness of his trigger finger, ready to flex.

On his left, he feels Benny more than he can see him. Ironhead on his far right, a barely there rustle through the palms and long, invasive leaves. It’s uncanny the way Will can move his mass without any noise, like a ghost. He’s lost Pope a while ago, when he tried to keep up with you as you marched headstrong into the wall of foliage, but he assumes he’s somewhere behind, Redfly next to him, the two men strictly sticking to the plan. 

They’ve been advancing for more than fifteen minutes, now, the target still not in sight, when it should have been hit on the ten-minute mark. At least that’s what Redfly had said. Ten minutes in from the trail, a small, square wooden house filled to the brim with gun trafficking kingpins conveniently gathered there to strike a peace deal. Rounded up by a shady and nameless intel cell, for your unit to harvest and sprinkle with lead. And fade back into the green, invisible, unnamed, unheard, like you were never there. It’s not an official job. It’s mercenary work. It pays as well as the stakes are high. Frankie knows you hate those. 

You didn’t want to come. You didn’t want to take this mission. You clearly stated your view on the matter, blunt and loud and from the beginning. Said it was one of Pope’s rotten plans, that he’d made a deal with god knows who, and you did not like that, you needed more intel, that it wouldn’t end well, but then Redfly had spoken, and everyone else had fallen in line, so he’d convinced you. 

Him. Frankie. 

And he hadn’t been very subtle or gentle about it. “Don’t overthink it, Echo. It’s just an in and out. You fuck up the whole team if you turn it down. Redfly said it’s a six men job.” You’d scoff. “Yeah well, I’m not a fucking man, Fish”, and you’d left. You barely talked to him after that. Your last words to him before stepping on the humid, soft ground of the forest were curt and cold, “I have a bad feeling about this.” Your frowned brow imprinted with a reproach. 

He could have told you the team wasn’t operational without you, incomplete, flawed. He could have said they needed you, that you were essential, like water and air. But that would have been a little too transparent for comfort. You’re so perceptive. Razor sharp. You would have seen right through him. 

Beside, he’s made a point so far of never treating you differently from the rest of the team. He knows what you had to overcome to get here. He respects you and your skills far too much. But then, perhaps he’d been wrong. Perhaps he should have acknowledged your differences. Openly praise you for it.

I’m not a fucking man, Fish.

Of that he’s well aware. 

And so you walked in first. Probably just to prove a point, if he had to guess. Rapidly swallowed by shadows, green and dirt. You didn’t give him a chance to cover you, like he usually does. You work in tandem, you know each other’s every move, every sigh, every frown. But not today, today you ran from him, and he lost sight of you. Something he hates above all. 

He doesn’t know fear. He’s got proven ways to keep it in check, it’s part of the job, part of him at this point. He saw you take a bullet, held you down while Will extracted it from you, bandaged your bruises and cuts, just like you did his. But this time’s different. This time, he can’t see you. And the last reproachful look you sent his way before you disappeared is blurring his logic, crowding his brain. 

The tac vest feels too tight, all of a sudden, like his chest has expanded, and the straps of his kit are biting through the flesh of his shoulders, the sweat dripping from his sideburns an unbearable tingle.

He quickly glances at his watch. The timer tells him they’ve been in for twenty minutes. He estimates ten have passed since the shot rang. You could have found the house. On the ten minutes mark, like Redfly said. But you would have called your shot and anyway, that would have unleashed hell. Pope estimated the number of men patrolling the close perimeter at thirty. You might be mad at him, but you wouldn’t voluntarily endanger any of them. The only possible explanation is—

“Anybody got a visual on her?” Pope asks. 

Frankie listens as his teammates’ voices come in in turn, with the same grim, negative answer. There’s a beat before Pope asks again, “Fish, you got a visual, man?”

“Fuck it, I’m going to get her,” Frankie replies through gritted teeth, lengthening his strides.

“Fish, you stay in line, stick to the plan,” Redfly’s order resounds through the radio, but Frankie’s already reaching a clearing, sensing Benny speeding up on his left, trying to catch up with him.  

If anything happened to you… If anything happened to you he’s gonna set that fucking jungle ablaze. 

—

The left side of your face hurts. Hurts worse than your worst hangover. As your brain slowly resurfaces, you take in your surroundings. Your right cheek on the rough wooden floor on which you’re lying, legs folded behind you. The rancid taste of the piece of clothe gagging your mouth. Dim light, dirty walls. Hushed conversations you can’t make out in a foreign language you know nothing of. Your hands tied up in front of you, the plastic binder cutting your wrist. 

Something warm and thick is trickling down your brow and into your eye, a sharp and blinding sting that you vainly try to blink away. Blood. Ok. So that explains the pain. 

Your kit’s gone, and so is your tac vest, your riffle, guns and other weapons. Panic flares in your veins. You’ve been shot, cut, wounded– but never taken. You have no idea how long you’ve been out. And what happened in the meantime. You walked into the clearing, your rifle raised and at the ready, you felt the metal brush of a blade near your neck, slicing the radio cord in one furtive motion, a shot rang out… and then everything went black. 

Where’s the rest of the team? Fish and Ironhead were right behind you, you know they probably couldn’t see you but you could feel them, feel him, you always do, at a skin level. What the fuck were you thinking, stepping out of line, not following the plan? You were going to make a point and prove Fish wrong, but what point, exactly? What did you get so angry about? 

You disagreed on the job, big deal. You know, deep down, it’s not about that. 

It’s a six men job. 

Why did it sting so hard? Fish is your closest friend in a team of men you all trust with your life, his conduct toward you permanently above reproach. How many times have you fell asleep curled up against him on a cold hard floor, only to wake up shielded by his heat, but, consistently, from a respectable distance? 

Precisely. Way down in your soul, in your bones, you wanted to believe your instinctual synchronicity on the field spoke of a deeper connection. Have you waited all these years for it to become more? For him to act on it? Will he ever? Does he even think of you like this? 

It’s a six men job.

I’m not a man, Fish. 

Fuck. You got mad over the shadow of a feeling, over swirling smoke. And now your foolishness might have gotten them all killed. 

Your mind spirals at the thought and you clench your eyes shut to push it away. This can’t be, they’re probably coming to get you, Frankie is coming to get you, he’ll find a way, he always comes through. 

Frankie. Fast building tears gather behind your eyelids at the memory of the cold, angry stare he sent your way when you started advancing. You’d give everything to see his stupid pretty face right now.

Your shoulder hurts, crushed against the hard floor, sweat dripping down your back as you try to push back invasive thoughts. It was supposed to be a stealthy attack, this was the cornerstone of Pope’s plan, but now the targets are well aware of your presence, and likely getting ready to welcome your teammates. If they’re still alive, that is.

You don’t know how much time has passed. They might all be lying dead, blood flowing out of their bodies into the mud of this godforsaken jungle, as you’re trapped here, awaiting the same fate. Or worse. 

Ok, focus, you’ve been trained for these kinds of situations, you’re a warrior. The light coming in from the small window on your right looks about the same as it did before you were knocked out, so you can’t have been out for too long. The surrounding room is small, square, and bare. You have to assume this is the target house. To which you don’t even know the floor plan, because Pope failed to provide the team with that piece of intel.

You make an attempt at wiggling your legs, testing how much leeway you’ve got. Not much. Your ankles, like your wrists, are bound, and you’re not sure if you can even sit up straight. 

You feel the floor vibrating under your face as heavy steps approach, two men, maybe three, you estimate. Their voices louder when they speak, as they probably stand on the other side of the door, and you shut your eyes again, stalling for an issue, an idea, a miracle, when you hear the first shots fired outside in the near distance. 

They come in rapid sequence, three by three, almost like a waltz, each salve getting closer to you, and if it wasn’t for the sudden commotion inside the house, you’re pretty sure you’d hear the thud of the bodies hitting the mucky ground. 

They’re coming to get you, death in their stride. 

You try harder to lift yourself up, ignoring the throbbing ache pounding your forehead, when someone kicks the door open. A stubby man in a loud shirt, a golden gun in his hand, covering the distance between you in a few hurried steps. He grabs you by the elbow and violently shoves you upward and against the wall, sputtering more than screaming in your face. You don’t understand the language, but you don’t need to, you know you’re about to become one of the human shields you’ve so often aimed at with your weapon.

And then it’s here. Before you have time to consider your options, or initiate your next move. Frankie’s voice, rambling and furious, instructing you to “Dive!”

You buck your knees without thinking and slide onto the floor as the content of you captor’s head is splattered on the wall above you. His limp body doesn’t have the time to hit you, Frankie catching it mid-fall and tossing it to the side as if he weighted no more than a paper doll.

Outside the room, it’s pandemonium, gunfire, men yelling, broken glass, but you don’t hear any of it, you only hear him, his heavy, short breathing, the rustling of his dirty clothes as he’s kneeling in front of you, freeing your mouth, cutting the plastic straps that bind your ankles and your wrists, cupping your face with both hands, lifting your chin up, scanning you for injuries, and his eyes, his eyes they’re not cold anymore. 

“Are you hurt?” his voice sounds broken now, gone, as if all of it had been projected out of his body when he yelled for you to get down, as if he doesn’t have any left. 

“Echo, baby, talk to me, you hurt? What’s that blood, is it yours?”

You’re lost in the sight of his anguished face, you don’t understand what’s happening, only his hands on your skin, brushing away tears you didn’t know were spilling, only his eyes alight with that particular glimmer, the one they shine with when he thinks you’re not looking, only the strength and tension and heat rolling off of him and pouring straight into you, through every fiber of your skin, of your being, and you stutter his name, like the little girl you had forgotten you ever were.

“I’m here, you’re ok, we’re here. You hurt? I need you to tell me if you’re hurt.”

Ironhead’s slow drawl rings out from behind the wall, a loud and forceful “Clear!” that echoes in Frankie’s earpiece, and his brother’s answer, “All clear over here.”

Pope bursts in, his tone tenser than you’ve ever heard it, “Is she here? Is she ok?”

They came through. They came to get you. Frankie’s heat is bringing the life back to your limbs, and you sit up straighter, raising your chin, gathering your wits, before you answer, “I’m fine, I’m ok, just the cut, here.”

Frankie tilts your head down to get a better look at your hairline. His hands leave your face and you whimper imperceptibly at the loss. He rips a piece of his shirt and uses it to wipe the blood from your brow so he can get a better look at your wound. 

“It bleeds a lot but it looks superficial, did you lose conscious?”

Both Millers step into the room and you suddenly feel too self-conscious, discomfort crawling up your skin like raging ants, you don’t want them to see you in this position, they’ve never heard you complain once, but you sure gave them hell every time they did, especially Benny, so you push Frankie’s hand away and try to stand up on wobbly legs, with a grunt of, “I’m fine, I’m not a fucking porcelain doll, get off me.”

“Alright, she’s fine,” Benny says in a laugh, “let’s get the fuck out of here.”  

Tom is the last one to step into the room, asking Pope if all the targets are down. He barely acknowledges you, or your potential injuries, you note, and you’re not sure what to make of it, you did disobey his orders and ignore his plan, after all. He most likely will never let you forget that.

So you stand taller and take a step, but your balance fails you, you vacillate a little, enough for Frankie’s firm hand to fly to your waist to steady you. A different kind of heat blooms into your lower belly at the commanding hold he’s got on you, and you will yourself to regain some semblance of composure. You’re a fucking soldier, for fuck’s sake. 

“Need my rifle. And my gun,” you say, “they took them from me, I need something. I’m not getting out into that fucking jungle naked.”

Frankie’s eyes shine bright with a mischievous glimmer when he looks straight at you, a snarl tugging at the corner of his lips. Bending down, he unclenches the dead man’s grip on the golden gun and hands it to you. 

“You can have this one,” he husks.

“Alright guys, let’s go,” Tom orders, and they all leave the room in a row. 

You’re about to follow when Frankie turns around to face you again, crowding you into the wall until you hit the wooden panel with a surprised gasp. He's pressing his body against yours, his tac gear biting into your breast, a large hand at the base of your neck, thumbing the dip between your collarbone, the other one bruising your hip, his forehead against yours.

Your brain fills up with white noise, but your body, your body has always known. You arch up into him, your hands gripping his forearms to anchor you when he starts talking, rumbling into your mouth like a man with a fever, his low voice dripping down your sweaty skin and reverberating into your core. 

“Don’t you ever fucking do that to me again, you hear me? I thought I lost you, you stubborn– you– I can’t fucking do this without you, you hear me? I need you.”

“Guys, we’re out!” Tom shouts from the front of the house.  

—

The hike back to the location where the two trucks are hidden is nothing like you’ve ever experienced. Four pairs of eyes darted on you, and on a normal day you’d smacked them all, but not today, today everything feels different.

Fear, is what you experienced. Disorientation. Years of training and practice that couldn’t help you.

Your gaze strained on Tom’s back, you walk in his literal steps, avoiding deep muddy puddles and rocks, anything that could unbalance you further. On your right, Ben and Will advance together as one man, Santi on your left, and directly behind you, Frankie, so close you can almost feel his warm breath graze your skin.

His words are swirling in your head. He tipped you off your axis. Breathed his confession inside you, one you’re not ready to acknowledge. But one you’re not willing to ignore or forget. 

Benny’s the first to reach the vehicles and clear the giant palm leaves you used to hide them from sight. He gets behind the wheel, Tom sitting next to him, and Will in the back.

You walk over to the second truck, the one you came in, but you don’t think you can face the road, so you climb in the back. Frankie mutters something to Santi, you can’t make out the words, but you understand when he goes around and to the driver’s seat, while Frankie gets in next to you. 

“What do you think you’re doing, Morales?” you try, but your body says different, and you slide on the bench to accommodate his large frame, to welcome his heat. He looks at you, a grin etched on his lips. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, his arm circling your shoulder as he pulls you in a tight embrace. 

The drive is bumpy on the uneven trail and he presses his lips against your temple, covered in sweat and dirt and blood. His grip on you is nearly primal, it steadies you, and this, this is your axis.

“I fucked up, Frankie,” you whisper, “I'm sorry, I thought I got you killed and–” the words die in your throat.

“That would hardly stop me, you know,” he chuckles with a hint of sadness. “Don't be sorry, you were right all along. But I’m not wasting any more time, I’m gonna make sure you never want to run off on me again.”

Santi darts a look in the rearview mirror, but you can’t see his knowing smirk, you're drowning in Frankie’s low voice, like a bee trapped in thick syrup, your hand tugging at his vest, pulling him closer with a needy moan, seeking his plush lips with yours.

“You guys know I can hear you, right?” Santi grins.

“You’re gonna hear much worse when we get to the safe house,” Frankie answers before he locks his lips on yours.