#generation kill x reader

The desert sand was simmering under the burning sun, not unlike every other afternoon, but something else flowed with the breeze on that particular day. The humvees were already covered, the camouflage shielding you and the men from the heat but not the frustration or the restlessness that lingered over the camp.

The failure of the past mission was still hanging over everyone’s heads. The convoy was meant to skim on the edge of a hamlet. It was supposed to be quick and easy, with no contact between the locals whatsoever. But just like most of everything that went on around here, it all went to shit as soon as the Captain decided to raid for prisoners, despite the fact that the recon fireteam had already conducted surveillance and confirmed that the village only housed women and children. 

Of course, the raid had been unsuccessful, but Encinoman obviously got away with a gentle slap on the wrist despite having blown up innocent people in their own homes, while the team leaders had to crack open their brains to look for ways to catch up on the precious hours they had lost over a fruitless mission.

You wiped down the dust clogging Brad’s wound using a cotton pad, biting down on the inside of your cheek as Ray went on and on about how the reason you were all here was, for the lack of better words, because of the drought of good pussy. You had given up trying to shut him up, so as you and Brad shared another exasperated glance, you bundled up the used cotton on the ground between your legs and rummaged through your rucksack for some bandages. 

Ray paused in his nonsense, and turned to look straight at you, “Seriously. You could have a life. An actual normal life. Like normal people jobs, normal people showers. And yet here you are. With us. That’s either dedication or brain damage.”

You looked up to the hood of the Humvee, where he sat sprawled against the windshield, still fumbling with the bandage you had yet to wrap around Brad’s ricochet wound which had been left to fester for days before Ray finally bullied him into getting it checked out. “Anything’s better than my dad trying to pimp me out to an Army Major,” you said, as casually as someone picking pineapple toppings off a pizza. 

The words landed like a grenade. 

Ray let out a blistering laugh, then he froze mid-gesture, ration pack halfway to his mouth. “You’re shitting me, you serious?” he said when a smile didn’t crack your face like it usually did when you joked around. 

“I don’t know, Ray. You think I like being in this shithole surrounded by ballsweat and pea brained incompetent officers who’re eventually going to get all of us killed?” you said, unimpressed. The Captain didn’t even know what danger close meant, but you weren’t going to say that out loud. 

“Head’s up,” Brad finally murmured beside you, the low timbre of his voice making your hands go still. Footsteps grating against the sand reached your ears, and you held back from squeezing your eyes shut and cursing out loud at the thought of someone, especially any one of the officers, hearing your blasphemous words. 

“How’s the wound, Brad?” Lieutenant Fick asked. 

For a moment, you were grateful you had your back to him, because no words coming out of your mouth would have justified your bold statement. You knew he probably wouldn’t say or do anything about it, but still, the bruising implication laid heavy in your words. 

You kept your eyes on anything but Ray’s delighted gaze upon your demise, his lips pursed to prevent the start of the laughter that threatened to slip through the seams of his mouth. Fick stopped beside you, close enough for your arm to keep brushing against his leg. You froze for a split second at the sudden contact, then reminded yourself that stopping wasn’t an option, not when you had just given an officer a reason to NJP your ass. 

You swallowed a sigh. He had definitely heard every word, but despite it all, his face was calm and unreadable. There was not even a flicker of reaction in his bright eyes.  

Brad looked down his wounded arm, an unknown glint in his eyes shining as he met yours for a heartbeat. “It’s fine. Doc’s here got it under control.”

Fick nodded, then his eyes shifted to you. You could feel the weight of his gaze burning a hole on the side of your face, so you busied yourself with wrapping Brad’s arm, jaw clenched so tight it could shatter your teeth. You refused to look up, as mortification at what you said— even if you meant it— swirled in your chest. 

The Lieutenant moved on as quickly as he appeared, already scanning his maps as if you hadn’t just insulted him behind his back, like how the popular girls in high school would their own friends. Except this time, the consequences were definitely going to be worse than getting your relationship wrecked by a so-called best-friend. 

Ray exhaled, eyes wide. “Holy shit. He heard you. He definitely heard you.”

Brad adjusted the bandage, unfazed. “And chose not to respond. That should worry you more.”

Your stomach tightened, but you levelled a murderous glare at Ray. Fick hadn’t scolded, hadn’t defended himself, hadn’t even acknowledged the words, and somehow, that was worse, because now you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. 

You snatched the used cotton pads you had squished into a ball from the ground before hurling it at Ray. “That was your fault! If you had actually shut your whiskey tango trap like I told you to—”

“Hey! That’s a biohazard you just threw at me, the last thing we need around here is a pandemic.” Ray exclaimed, eyes widening as he waved his arms around dramatically. 

“Epidemic.”

“Okay, listen here, you little piece of shit—”

“Enough, you two.” Brad intervened sternly. 

You scoffed, “Whatever, I didn’t do shit. You got a problem, you gotta take it to Ray buddy over here.” you said, stuffing your medkit and zipping it quickly so you could dip out of here and find someplace quiet for some well needed self-loathing sessions. 

The second time it happened was several weeks after the first. You had done your best to stay out of the Lieutenant’s line of sight, successfully, until you couldn’t anymore. Yes, you had bribed Doc Bryan with jalapeño-and-cheese ration packs so he would take your place delivering reports on the team’s overall health, but that was beside the point. 

If the Lieutenant noticed anything, he kept quiet about it, and that gave your still very fresh wound some balm, at least for now. 

You were walking around trying to find Rudy to check up on his headache when you came upon a little field burner and a battered steel pot someone —probably Brad— had set up stuttering angrily.

The smell had hit you before you even saw the coffee, sharp, burnt, and offensive enough to make your stomach turn. It wasn’t the usual “field coffee” scent, which was bad enough. This was something worse. Acrid. Like someone had tried to boil dirt and shoe polish. 

Curiosity (and the faint hope of caffeine) pulled you closer to the glow of the field burner. Ray crouched beside it like he was conjuring fire, and Trombley hovered with nervous fascination. 

“Please tell me that’s not coffee,” you said, eyeing the dented canteen cup bubbling with black sludge. You shared a look with Doc Bryan, who you only noticed once he shifted in his seat on top of a crate with a look that said don’t ask. 

Ray grinned proudly, “Liquid motivation, Doc. One sip and you’ll be awake for days.”

Bryan gave a dry snort. “Or dead in two hours, Flip a coin.”

Brad’s smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Go on. Taste test. Is it Corpsman-approved?” 

Against your better judgement, you took the cup. It smelled worse up close, like burnt tires and despair. But pride was a dangerous thing in this squad (and so was peer pressure.) You tilted it back, forced a sip, and gagged instantly, coughing in your sleeve. 

“Oh my god,” you rasped, wiping your mouth. “That’s not coffee. That’s mud that lost a fight with battery acid. Who the hell brewed this shit?” You furrowed your eyebrows, getting ready to scold the life out of whoever thought it was a good idea to brew that health hazard knowing it would most likely make the men sick by the end of the day. All you had for stomach cramps was painkillers, and that combined with coffee was a disastrous recipe for explosive diarrhea. 

Silence. 

The kind of silence that made your blood run cold. 

You froze, cup still halfway to your lips, as the men’s gazes slid past you. Slowly, you followed their line of sight, and prayed it was anyone but Lieutenant Fick. Hell, you would probably sleep better if it was Godfather himself. 

Sure enough, Fick stood just beyond the Humvee, canteen still in his hand, posture calm and perfectly straight. “I did,” he said, as if that was supposed to make you feel less fucking horrible at what you just said. Again.

Brad, that bastard, sharpened his grin like a predator smelling blood and Bryan just pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Jesus Christ…” under his breath. 

Your face went hot. “Sir.” It came out like a squeak. 

Fick’s eyes met yours for the first time in days. Steady. Too steady. He didn’t sound angry when he spoke again, just even and clipped, which made six feet under sound like a very nice vacation spot at the moment. “It’s noted.” he said simply, before turning and walking away, boots crunching against the sand. 

The squad held their breath until he was gone, while your face drained out of colour. 

Then Ray exploded, wheezing with laughter. “Oh my god! You– you just told the Lieutenant his coffee tastes like battery acid!” He doubled over, clutching his stomach. “Aw man, this is exactly like last time, you know… the ’incompetent officers are going to get us all killed’ part?” Ray sounded like a whining cat when he tried to mimic you, but you were far too horrified to cuss him out. 

Walt’s jaw dropped. “Wait, you said that?! And he heard it?” 

Doc Bryan finally spoke, confused as hell. “Would someone care to explain just what the fuck is going on?”

The squad jumped in, talking over each other while you tuned them out, eyes fixed on the moon, hoping it could just swallow you whole. After a few minutes of the moon failing to make you disappear from the face of the earth, you sat down on the sand beside Doc Bryan, side leaning against the crate he was perched on. You were still very much in a daze when he spoke again. 

“You know,” he started, voice low, dry, and just amused enough to sting, “I’ve seen a lot of things in the field, but watching someone insult the Lieutenant’s coffee while he’s standing five feet away? That’s new.”

You let out a groan, burying your face in your hands. 

Bryan’s smirk grew. “He always hears, and he definitely knows everything that goes on around here.” He nodded to Ray, who had wasted no time to give Doc the full review of how you had humiliated yourself the first time minutes ago. “That’s why you’ve been bribing me. Admit it.”

“Fine,” you muttered, cheeks burning. “I didn’t want him to think I was disrespectful. Or incompetent.”

He shook his head, but the faint amusement in his eyes made you feel slightly less doomed. “Disrespectful? Maybe. But not incompetent. You know your stuff. That’s why he probably didn’t even react.”

Before you could respond, you noticed a shadow stretch across the sand. Fick was there, standing quietly a few paces away. 

But even with his back turned to you, you felt your stomach sink and every nerve in your body scream. 

Bryan nudged you lightly. “Relax, he’s not gonna bite you. Well, not physically, anyway.”

You swallowed hard, “Mentally is worse.” 

Then, Ray’s muffled laughter came from the other side of the Humvee. “Doc’s still flustered! And here I thought we were done.”

Brad smirked, shaking his head, clearly enjoying every second. “Guess the Lieutenant’s coffee has some lingering effects.” 

You closed your eyes. Coffee had never been so terrifying, especially when it was made by someone who made your heart stutter like a broken espresso machine. 

The desert was rarely quiet, but that night came close. The humvees ticked as their engines cooled, and the occasional shuffle of boots on sand blended with the faint scratch of Wright’s pen on his notebook. 

He had started with questions about your shitty childhood, then about your even shittier father. Then, the conversation landed on the statement that had somehow kickstarted the whole insulting-Lieutenant–Fick streak you had going on. You clarified, yes your father was definitely going to get you married to a military man who had won more medals than he had hair on his head, and yes, you absolutely joined the Navy out of spite to piss off your Army father, and working with the Marines was just the sweetest cherry on top you could have ever asked for. 

You had given the reporter the stink eye after he asked about your dad’s reaction (in truth, it hadn’t been that bad, he had only thrown you and your childhood dog out the house. It could have gone worse, he could have beaten you to death and buried you in the backyard.) and Wright finally understood to drop the topic after that, demonstrating emotional intelligence most of the guys here lacked. 

You were half-reclined against your pack on the ground, eyelids drooping, when he opened his mouth again after a few minutes of blissful silence, this time pestering you with questions about triage, kits and field sanitations. “So, when you say field sterilization, do you mean boiling the instruments, or—”

You let out a sleepy sigh. “It’s the same answer it was five minutes ago, Wright. Yes, boiling. Yes, iodine when available. No, I don’t carry a fucking autoclave in my pack.”

He scribbled furiously. “Right, right, but—”

You rolled over, presenting him with your back, and mumbled, “I swear to god, if you ask me about urine recycling one more time.”

That shut him up, at least long enough for you to knock out cold. The kind of sleep that dragged you under fast and hard, muscles going slack, brain finally blessedly quiet. It was the best sleep you had in a while.

The next thing you knew, someone was shaking your shoulder. Persistent, firm. You couldn’t even remember what you were dreaming about, but the disappointment at being awakened told you enough, a bed as soft as a cloud and no men pestering you about bruises, scrapes and stings while they peed or shat.

You didn’t bother lifting your head. With a groan, you dragged your pack over your face and muttered into the fabric, low and sharp, “Fuck off, I’m trying to sleep.”

The warm hand on your shoulder stilled. A beat of silence. 

Then a voice, that measured, calm and unmistakably not Wright's voice of the Lieutenant. “Corpsman. There’s a casualty. You’re needed.”

Your eyes snapped open. The pack slid off your face. 

Fick crouched over you, helmet shadowing his features, expression carved from stone. His eyes, pale and unreadable, met yours and held. 

“Oh shit, sir—” You shot upright so fast you nearly cracked heads with him. Your pulse spiked, heat flushing your cheeks, not because he was a lovely sight to wake up to, but because you had just told your superior officer to fuck off. “I thought— I didn’t mean—”

He didn’t flinch from the closeness, nor did he step back despite invading your personal space. In fact, he didn’t even acknowledge the colourful words that left your mouth. He rose smoothly, and you shamelessly missed the warmth of his hand on your shoulder. “Get your kit. This way.” 

Then he turned, already striding into the dark, as if you hadn’t just told him, flat-out, to fuck off. 

You sat frozen for a half-second, heart in your throat. Then came the cough, sharp and awkward. 

You twisted to see Wright sitting cross-legged with his notebook, eyes wide as dinner plates, the same as yours. He looked like a kid who’d just watched someone mouth off a drill instructor, except it was so much worse. It felt like willingly stepping into a field full of land mines. 

And leaning against the Humvee, Poke, who must have also been dozing before the commotion, now stared at you, eyebrows raised, lips quirking like he was struggling not to laugh. His sleep had magically vanished as soon as you’d opened your mouth. 

You stood up quickly, hands flying around to gather your kit and your helmet before you clenched your jaw. “No one hears about that, reporter. You hear me?” 

Wright held his hands up immediately, palms out, eyes flickering nervously in the direction Fick had gone. “Not a word. Promise.”

Poke snorted. “Oh, that’s never staying a secret, devil dawg.”

You threw Poke a dirty look for good measure, and hurried after Fick, stomach in knots as you replayed the moment. 

Oh, you were so fucked. 

It had been two days since the disaster with Fick. Two days since you had muttered the fatal words in your sleep-deprived haze. Two days of carefully avoiding eye contact with the Lieutenant, convinced every second that he was just waiting for the right moment to dress you down.

But no moment came. Fick stayed calm and unreadable, like always. He gave you orders, you followed, and not once did he bring up the fact that you’d cuss him out to his face. 

You started to breathe again. Maybe, just maybe, it would stay buried, with only you, Wright and Poke taking the incident to the grave. 

Which is why, when Ray slid in the seat next to you during a lull in patrol, wearing the grin of a man who knew something you didn’t, your stomach clenched in unease. 

“So…” he drawled, drawing the word out, “you planning on telling all the officers to fuck off, or was Fick just a warm-up?”

You blinked in shock. “What?”

Brad, posted on the other side of the humvee, didn’t even look up from cleaning his weapon. “Guess she’s branching out. Brave move, insulting the Lieutenant again. First it was his competence, then his coffee, and now this. One more strike and you’ll be digging your own grave.”

Your mouth went dry. “How the hell do you—”

Ray barked a laugh, doubling over dramatically. “You should’ve seen your face just now. Priceless. Don’t worry, little gremlin, your secret’s safe with us.”

“Secret?!” you hissed, voice low. Your eyes darted automatically towards Fick, who stood a few yards away with Doc Bryan, talking over some paperwork. “I didn’t tell anybody, how the fuck do you even know?”

Brad finally looked up, smirking like a cat who’d cornered a mouse. “Let’s just say not everyone’s as good as keeping their mouth shut as you’d like.”

That was when you saw him. Poke, lounging a few feet away, pretending to busy himself with a rifle check. The way he was moving was too casual. Too smug. The man didn’t even bother to look up. 

“Poke.” Your voice was sharp enough to cut steel. 

He just hummed innocently. 

Ray was wheezing now, slapping Brad on the shoulder. “Oh man, this is gold. She thought it was a secret.”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m going to kill you, Poke.”

The teasing hadn’t stopped all afternoon. Every time Ray so much as looked at  you, he cracked up again. Brad had delivered three different one liners about your “career prospects” and Poke wouldn’t even meet your eyes. He just sat there grinning like the goddamn cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. 

You were starting to wish a stray bullet would catch you already. 

So when Doc Bryan called your name later, his voice low and even, you half-expected another round of humiliation. He motioned you over, away from the others, into the narrow shade of a humvee. 

You trudged after him, muttering, “If this is another joke—”

“It’s not.” His tone cut you off immediately. Bryan crossed his arms, gaze steady. “I need to ask, did you actually tell Fick to fuck off?”

Your shoulders slumped, and you found yourself leaning against the humvee door for support. “Yeah, kinda. But I thought it was the reporter waking me up to pester me with all his questions again. I didn’t even look,” you murmured, fingers playing with a thread sticking out of your sleeve. 

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. For a long moment, he just studied you, like he was trying to decide how mad to be. You both held the same rank, yes, but Bryan had taken you under his wing seeing as he had much more experience, and sometimes he felt like a dad with an unruly daughter impossible to tame. Finally, he said, “You know you’re lucky, right? Anyone else, you’d already be NJP’d.”

You winced. “I know.”

“Fick doesn’t let people talk to him like that,” Bryan went on, quieter now. “But he’s letting you get away with it. Which means either he thinks you’re useful enough to tolerate it, or he's waiting to see if you crash and burn.”

That sent a cold shiver through your stomach. 

Bryan caught it, softened just a little. “Look, I’m not saying this to scare you. I just don’t want you doing something stupid and ending up on the wrong side of the chain of command. You’re young and good at your job. Don’t ruin it.”

For a second, you wanted to argue that none of it had been intentional. The first jab hadn’t even been meant for him, the second, well, you had no excuse for that, the coffee was awful and you stood by it, but the third, surely he would understand the circumstances, wouldn’t he? It’s not like you were waiting for him to wake you up to insult him to his face?

But Doc’s expression, serious, protective, almost fatherly, damped all your arguments down. 

You exhaled, the urge to call him dad as a joke rushing out of your throat, but you chickened out last minute, scared he might give you a piece of his mind. “Thanks, doc.” 

He nodded once, sharp and certain. Then his mouth twitched. “Still, though. Fuck off? To the Lieutenant? Jesus Christ, you’ve got balls.”

You groaned, shoving his arm. “Not you too!” 

The day had been cursed from the very start. 

Stafford was the first problem. You’d barely rolled out of your rack before he was hovering in your space, holding an MRE pouch like it was a bomb. 

“Doc,” he said, frowning, “is it safe to eat the cheese spread if it smells weird? Like, weirder than usual?”

You blinked at him, half-asleep. “Stafford, it’s four in the goddamn morning.” 

He pressed on. Dead serious. “No, but smell it. Smell this and tell me if it’s gonna kill me, bro.”

You pushed the pouch he was shoving in your face back toward his chest. “I’m not sniffing your cheese spread. Go ask Bryan.”

“Bryan always makes a fuss. You’re chill.” He grinned like that was supposed to be flattering. 

“I’m not the MRE quality control department.”

He trailed after you as you tried to leave to brush your teeth, still waving the pouch. Finally you spun on your heel and snapped, “Stafford, if you shove that cheese in my face one more time, I’ll make sure you’re shitting blood for a week.”

That shut him up for a while. 

Next came the makeshift breakfast. You spilled your only halfway-decent instant coffee all over the sand when Manimal barrelled into you like a wild horse. “Accident,” he claimed, though the grin plastered across his face said otherwise. 

Then, while restocking supplies, you discovered one of the IV bags had punctured during transport, leaking sticky saline all over the inside of your medkit. That took you forty five minutes of cleaning while Brad leaned against the humvee, unhelpfully commenting, “You know, that looks like a skill issue.” You just bit the inside of your cheek, convincing yourself that sneaking some laxative in his canteen wasn’t going to make you feel better. 

Later, you’d stitched up a Marine’s busted lip, only for him to pass out cold in the chair, nearly taking your entire tray of freshly cleaned instruments with him. By the time you’d gotten him stable, your gloves were ripped, your knees ached, and you had puke and blood all over the front of your shirt. You even had to hold your breath to avoid throwing up yourself.

The heat was unrelenting a few hours later, and sweat stuck your fresh cammies to your skin. And of course, Doc Bryan had wandered by just in time to notice your fraying temper. He gave you one of his long, knowing looks, like he was about to say something comforting, but then someone else yelled for him, and he left you alone with your bad mood and three different marines complaining about stomach cramps from bad MREs. You were running on fumes and irritation when the next casualty came in, another marine with some shrapnel caught in his side. 

You snapped into medic mode, ripping your kit open and kneeling beside him. Hands moved fast. Gloves, gauze, clamp. But then you realized, you couldn’t see shit. The fading desert light and the shadows from the humvee made it nearly impossible to work. 

“Hold the light here, please!” you barked to nobody in particular, gesturing sharply. Someone lifted the beam closer, but it wavered, catching you straight in the eyes. You let out a hiss, blinking furiously as tears filled your eyes. “Not in my face, on the wound! Do you want me to stitch blind?”

The light steadied. You worked furiously, patching the Marine as best you could, jaw tight, and sweat stinging your eyes. When you finally sealed the dressing, your shoulders slumped. The marine would be okay, but your nerves were shot. 

You exhaled, turning to glare at the figure holding the light, the one you were so sure would be Stafford, ready to rip him a new one, only to realise it wasn’t him. 

It was Lt. Fick. 

Your heart dropped. He was crouched there calmly, flashlight still steady on the Marine’s side. 

For a long, painful second, you just stared. Mouth open, completely frozen. Muttering under your breath, you quickly gathered your supplies, cheeks hot. “Thank you, sir,” you mumbled stiffly, not daring to meet his eyes. 

Fick gave a single nod, switched off the flashlight, and stood. No lecture, no reprimand, not even a flicker of irritation. He just moved on, like you hadn’t just bossed him around. Even the injured marine stared at you like you just killed his dog. 

From the sidelines, Ray let out a low whistle as the Lt left. “Unbelievable. She cussed him out mid-casualty and he didn’t even blink.”

Poke walked up to you from his spot next to Ray and clapped you in the back, almost sending you toppling over the marine still laid out on the sand. “Careful, doc. One of these days, you’re gonna realise you’re rewriting the chain of command one meltdown at a time.”

You groaned, and your face twisted like you had just smelled something foul. You shoved the kit shut with more force than necessary, shrugging his hand off your back with pure annoyance. “Shut up.”

And just when you thought it was over. 

“Yo, doc?” Stafford’s voice piped up from behind the group. He was holding the same cheese spread pouch of the morning like a goddamn trophy. “So, uh, still not sure about it. Can ya, ya know?”

The guys lost it. 

You lost it (not in the fun way.) But deep down, even through the frustration, a tiny, reluctant thought flickered in your mind. Anyone else would’ve been roasted alive for half of today. Fick had just… let it slide. You swallowed, he was either really waiting for you to fuck up so bad to send you straight home with your tail tucked between your legs, or he just didn’t like you enough to bother dealing with you and your stupidness. Maybe he was even hoping you would catch a stray bullet one of these days so you could no longer insult him. That made your heart ache, but you guess you deserved it for being such a jerk most of the time. 

Either way, something told you that it couldn’t happen again, so you either had to keep your mouth shut till the end of this deployment or find a way to apologise for all the grief you had been causing him lately. 

You approached cautiously, your sweaty hand grasping the sling of your rifle, heart still racing from the chaos of the day. The desert sun was even lower now with shadows stretching across the sand, and your chest felt tight with lingering adrenaline. 

Fick was there, standing calm and silent, and for the first time you weren’t sure if you should speak or walk away. 

Gunny was with him, leaning casually against the humvee. When he noticed you approaching, he straightened, gave a subtle nod, and stepped aside, close enough that he could hear every word, but far enough to give you a bit of space. 

“Lieutenant,” you began, voice low, almost uncertain. 

Fick didn’t turn immediately, his posture measured, gaze ready. You could feel the quiet weight of him before you even saw the look in his unblinking eyes, analyzing and calm. 

“About earlier,” you continued, fumbling. “I didn’t mean for any of it to get out of hand. I just—”

Fick finally met your gaze. “You mean the Light?” His tone was even, almost casual, but it carried weight enough to make you straighten. 

“Yes,” you admitted quickly. “ And before that… I didn’t mean to make things worse.”

He studied you quietly, tilting his head slightly. “You did your job. That’s what matters. Everyone else would’ve frozen. You didn’t.”

You blinked, startled by his calm. “Right, I just don’t want to screw up again.”

He held up a hand. “Relax. I don’t need apologies. I need competence. You’ve proven you have it. That’s enough.”

Your heart skipped a beat. The desert seemed smaller, somehow charged. His gaze didn’t waver, and the quiet patience in it made your chest tighten. 

“Okay,” you murmured, stepping back, trying to anchor yourself. 

He gave a faint nod. “Good. Now focus on the next patient. Everything else’s secondary.”

You nodded, collecting yourself before walking away. Gunny returned to his casual lean against the humvee beside Fick, and the desert grew even quieter. 

Then when you were gone. Gunny grinned, loud enough for Fick to hear, “Man, she’s got trouble written all over her. Think you’re enjoying that, sir?”

Fick’s glare was instantaneous, sharp enough to make Gunny’s grin falter slightly. “Out of pocket, Gunny,” he said flatly. 

Gunny raised his hands, still smirking. “Just making observations, sir.”

Fick shook his head, expression unreadable, but the faint tension in the air remained, a subtle charge left behind by both the chaos and whatever was happening between you and him. 

You were checking up on Brad’s healing wound when Fick appeared. Thankfully, you had your mouth shut this time, tuning out Ray’s idiotic rumble as you finished wrapping the bandage around Brad’s arm. 

The Lt walked up, his boots crunching softly on the dirt. 

“Walk with me,” he said, staring straight at you, clipboard in hand. 

Despite having apologized the night before, your stomach did that familiar flip. Your heart was racing, palms a little sweaty, your accidental insults still fresh in your memory. You had apologised yesterday for all the mistakes that had gone sideways, but you couldn’t shake the nervous anticipation. Maybe today was the day he’d finally lose it. 

The squad immediately perked up all around, exchanging glances and smirks. Ray leaned against the humvee, grinning at Brad and Wright. “Oh man, she’s finally getting dressed down. About time.”

Wright, ever the quiet observer, raised an eyebrow, “Is this about the sleepy fuck off?” he asked quietly, leaning towards Ray, whose grin only widened in amusement. 

“You didn’t hear? Our little gremlin here bossed the Lt. last night like he was a boot.”

Brad smirked, shaking his head nonchalantly, “My money’s on her trying to argue her way out.”

Ray let out a laugh, “Or cry, either way, it’s gonna be memorable.”

You threw a glare past your shoulder before following Fick toward a quieter spot, heart still hammering. He was calm and measured, focused solely on his notes. When you were both out of earshot, he handed you the clipboard, his eyes briefly meeting yours, steady, and for a moment your anxiety doubled. “Check the logs. Make sure no one’s overhydrating. Bryan flagged a few cases. That’s it.”

Your shoulders loosened slightly, confusion mixing with relief. You nodded, removing a pen out of your pocket before turning to the logs and scribbling down some notes, realizing your pulse was finally slowing.

The moment you came back from your talk with Fick, the guys were already whispering. Ray leaned on the Humvee, smirking like he had just caught you doing something illegal. “She survived. Didn’t even break a sweat, What’s your secret, huh?”

You ignored him, checking everything was in its place in your pack. 

Brad tossed in dryly from the passenger seat, his arm propped against the window of the opened door of the Humvee, “Apologies must work better for you than they do for the rest of us.”

That got a chuckle from Wright, who added just loud enough for you to hear, “Maybe it’s because she actually means hers.”

You looked up, swallowing an exasperated sigh. ”You’re all hilarious.”

Ray wasn’t done like usual. Hours later, on patrol, he fell in step beside you, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “So what’d he say? Did he use the Dad voice? Or was it more like, ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed?’ ”

You glared at him, muttering, “Ray, I swear—”

He cut in, grinning like the devil himself, “Relax. You’re fine. Obviously. Favourite student privileges and all that.”

Brad, who was unfortunately just ahead, didn’t even look back. “That’s the difference. If it were us, he’d have stripped paint with his tone. With you? He talks casualty reports.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. 

By the time the sun had set, it had spread. Trombley sat on the ground across from you, unsuccessfully hiding his grin as he stirred his MRE. “You know it’s funny. Lt actually smiled after you walked away. Can’t remember the last time he did that when one of us screwed up.”

You threw him a dry look, one that said ‘Yeah, I totally believe you’ before Ray slapped the crate he sat on, laughing. “You’re special, Doc. Teacher’s pet!”

You flushed despite yourself, slamming your canteen down. “I apologized. That’s all. Nothing else to it.”

You paused for a moment, silently chewing on the biscuit that had less flavour than a wet cardboard, and your mind wandered. Teacher’s pet, yeah right. The drill sergeants back in boot camp loved you so much they would punish every twitch of your lips with push-ups, extra runs and drills. It wasn't exactly your fault you couldn’t keep a straight face, was it? You would laugh at every stutter or stumble, and cry in pain in bed at night, all because them getting in your face had you cracking up. You had never been anyone’s favourite, hell, you weren’t even your parents’ favourite, so you couldn’t even fathom being, least of all, the Lieutenant’s. 

Even as you replied Ray, you couldn’t slate the quiet weight of Fick’s gaze earlier. He’d looked at you longer than necessary, the tiniest flicker of understanding in his eyes before he turned back to the reports. 

And when Brad caught you staring into your coffee a little too long, he just smirked. “Nothing else to it.” 

You swore under your breath and shoved the rest of your food into your mouth just so you could leave earlier, letting all the squad’s teasing to fester in your absence instead. 

The past few days had gone by so quickly the squad barely had the time to ponder on your newly bestowed title. It gave you some time to breathe, but as soon as Fick so much as glanced your way again, the school girl giggles would start again. It didn’t matter where you were, even in the midst of a lead shower the squad would remain relentless, throwing that damn nickname around whenever the Lieutenant was less than two feet away from you. 

The latest mission had taken quite the toll on all of you, so when Godfather announced the battalion were being pulled off the front line for a little rest while RCT 1 went ahead to maintain it, you all let out a collective sigh of relief.  

Your day had been going great so far. You were in line for chow, for one, tray in hand, eyes flicking over the offerings. It was actually a proper mess tonight, real food, not the usual MREs, and that alone made the place buzz with energy. Someone, god bless their soul, had managed to scrounge fresh rations from the supply line after a successful resupply mission. It was a rare threat, and everyone could feel it. The smell of hot food, the clatter of trays, the tiny moments of normalcy in a deployment that rarely allowed it. 

You were already distracted by the scent of steaming eggs and proper coffee when you sensed someone close behind you. You glanced over your shoulder, Fick had somehow slid in right behind, silent as always. You felt your stomach tighten in anxiety, the hand gripping your tray suddenly tense, like any sudden movement would result in you unconsciously insulting him yet again. You looked ahead, part nerves, trying so hard to act casual. 

Then Gunny appeared at your side, tray balanced expertly, eyes glinting with mischief. 

“Don’t worry, doc,” he said, loud enough for a few marines around you to hear. “If you can’t finish yours, I’m sure the Lieutenant’ll clean up your mess. Man’s been doing it all deployment.”

Ray, a few steps away, snorted, almost dropping the contents of his tray on Brad, who just offered an icy glare from his seat at the edge of the makeshift table. “Holy shit, Gunny, savage.”

Poke shaked his head, grin tugging at his lips. “He’s not wrong.”

Your cheeks flared hot. “I haven’t made that many messes,” you snapped, gripping your tray tighter. Your eyes wandered to Poke, who just grinned harder under your glare. 

Gunny leaned in, mock-serious. “Light incident? The fuck-off? Coffee? Should I go on?” His grin widened as the twinkle in his eyes intensified with each passing second, and you tried your hardest not to squirm under his gaze.  

Ray bursted out laughing, loud and unrestrained, while Brad tried to tame the smirk at the corner of his lips, failing miserably. 

You clamped your mouth shut, wishing you could vanish into your tray. You made no move to glare at Gunny, because if anything, the look in your eyes would just pour oil into the already burning pan. 

And then there was Fick, his face calm as stone, tray in hand. There was not a flicker of amusement in his face. He didn’t offer a single twitch, as if Gunny hadn’t just dragged him into the joke. You stole a glance at him again, a small part of you expecting intervention, maybe a sharp glare, or a muttered warning, but nothing. He remained impassive. 

That made the heat in your cheek spread even faster. Now the squad was laughing at your expense and Fick, the one person you were trying not to antagonise again. 

For a while, your brain couldn’t stop circling back to what the squad kept saying, the ‘teacher’s pet’ comments, the way they watched your interactions with Fick with a magnifying glass, the subtle smirks and nudges they thought you didn’t notice whenever the Lt. was around. You hated that it got under your skin, and yet, here you were, feeling the heat creeping up your neck, cheeks burning hotter by the second. 

From that single line from Gunny, it snowballed. 

Now, every damn thing you did was fair game. Every action Fick took in your vicinity, no matter how small, became another “proof” of you being his favourite. 

Two days later, you and Fick had been bent over the hood of a humvee, the map spread between you. He spoke in that calm, clipped tone of his, pointing out possible CASEVAC points, tracing routes with a finger. You were scribbling notes as fast as you could, trying not to smudge the ink with your sweaty palm, hyper-aware of how his elbow brushed yours every now and then, or how nice his hand looked, which made you feel like a victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time. 

It was almost, dare you think it, normal. Professional. 

And then Gunny walked by. 

He slowed just enough to glance at the map, then at the way you were unintentionally leaning in towards Fick. The moment you glanced up and saw that diabolical smirk of his plastered all over his face, you knew you were about to be the butt of the joke again. 

“Careful there, Doc. Keep hovering like that and folks are gonna start thinking you’re his shadow.”

Your pen froze mid-word. You blinked at him, caught completely off-guard, because you had expected another joke about Fick cleaning up your mess, or you being his “favourite” but not whatever the hell Gunny had just spewed out. Before you could even roll your eyes, Ray seized the opportunity and pounced. 

“Oh shit, Gunny’s right. Look at that! Two heads bent over a map, real cozy-like. Husband-and-wife planning the road trip.”

Ray’s words hit like a sucker punch. 

Your head jerked so fast your helmet strap pinched your chin. Heat climbed into your face, pooling hot at your ears. Husband and wife? Planning a road trip? You could feel the blood rush under your skin as though Ray had physically smacked you with words. 

Your mouth opened, a sharp retort already forming, but nothing came out. The ridiculousness of it stuck in your throat, caught somewhere between outrage and the kind of laugh you’d never let them hear. 

Instead, you snapped your gaze back to the map, pretending to be absorbed in the lines Fick had been tracing, through your hand hovered frozen with the pen. Every muscle in your jaw went tight enough to ache, your teeth grinding against words you refused to give them. 

The silence was its own kind of reaction, and Ray, the hyena he was, fed on it instantly, breaking into wheezing laughter at your expense. 

You forced yourself to look down, shoulders squared but your cheeks burned traitorously hot all the same. 

The stiff line of your shoulders gave you away instantly, and out of the corner of your eye, you caught Fick glancing up. A flicker of his gaze, like he had catalogued the twitch of your jaw and the flush in your ears in the same way he catalogued terrain features. He didn’t say anything, and angled the map closer to himself, freeing you from holding it down with your left hand while you jotted down notes in the notebook he had handed you, which you later realised was his own. 

It was a small gesture, quiet as the man himself, but it gave you something to do with your hands besides clutching the map like it had personally insulted you and your entire bloodline. 

Brad didn’t even look up from his rifle before letting out his dry snark. “Except one of them actually contributes.”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

Gunny reached over and clapped you on the shoulder like it was all good fun. You pursed your lips in annoyance, letting the force of his clap sway you into his side. “Relax, shadows don’t talk so much.”

Your pulse thudded in your throat. You shoved the pen into Fick’s hand harder than necessary, the fleeting heat radiating off his skin a small comfort against the humiliation. “Sir, you’re really not gonna say anything?”

He didn’t even look up. “Stay focused.”

That was it. Two words, like nothing had happened. 

You gritted your teeth, knuckles white on the notebook, every instinct screaming to storm off or swing at somebody. Instead, you bit down hard on your tongue, stepped out of Gunny’s hold and bent over the map again, forcing yourself to stay focused while their laughter echoed in your ears. 

But the damage was done. Gunny’s throwaway jab had given them all the ammunition they needed. 

The next blow came on another grimy morning, the kind where sand grit your teeth before you’d even said good morning. You had been wary ever since the ‘shadow’ jokes started, always bracing for the next round of teasing. 

So when Fick handed you a mug of coffee, actual coffee, not muddy ration sludge, or the mud and acid combo he had brewed weeks ago, you hesitated. He just offered it like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

“Promise it doesn’t taste like mud that lost a fight against acid this time,” he said casually, and, oh how much you wanted to crawl into a hole and die right there. 

You took the mug before you could second-guess yourself, muttering a small embarrassed thanks in return because he had actually remembered your exact words about how the coffee he had brewed was the most horrendous thing in the world. 

That was all the opening Gunny needed. 

“Doc,” he drawled, slow and knowing, “you gotta stop looking at him like that. It’s coffee, not a love potion.”

You sputtered, nearly choking on your own spit, mug halfway to your mouth. “I’m not— shut up!” you snapped, hiding behind the steam.

Ray, always at the scene of crime, immediately bent over howling. “Oh my god, she’s actually flustered over coffee!”

“Lt. makes drinkable coffee once and it’s like a hallmark movie out here.” Brad replied, still jotting down whatever he was in his notebook. 

“Fuck you guys,” you muttered under your breath, a scowl on your face because of course they would twist your embarrassment into something else. 

Gunny clapped his hands, grinning like the devil himself. “Alright, men. New call sign for the doc. Caffeine Crash. Can’t operate without Lt.’s brew.”

“Caffeine Crash. Oh that’s staying.” Ray wheezed.

Brad smirked, finally flicking his eyes up. “Could be worse. At least it’s not ‘Shadow’“

Stafford, perched on the back of the point vehicle slurped his own cup of coffee and added dreamily, “If the Lt offered me coffee, dawg, ya can bet I’d marry him on the spot.”

“Jesus Christ, Stafford,” Brad muttered, rubbing his temples. 

Ever since Gunny’s jabs, everything had subtly shifted. At first. It had been relatively harmless, just the usual ribbing about you being Fick’s golden child, the one who always got the nod, the one everyone noticed. Even the nasty jokes didn’t hit that hard, but with each quip, the insinuations became sharper, threaded with more meaning than before. Every sideways glance, every exaggerated smirk from Ray or even Brad seemed to hint at something beyond mere favouritism. And then came the t72 tank incident, the one that would forever cement your standing in the squad’s eyes. 

The stink of sickness and swamp was thick. Marines groaned in pain, sweat running down their pale faces. You were crouched beside Bryan, trying to coax Brunmeier into drinking water. 

“Come one, Brunmeier, wake the fuck up,” Bryan said, trying to nudge him upright. 

“I got the shits, doc.” Brunmeier moaned. 

“That makes fourteen in the platoon,” Bryan muttered, disgust written all over his face. 

Then, Griego stomped in unexpectedly, drawing back the camo draped over the humvee, chin high and voice sharp. “What’s this I hear about a t72 tank on our perimeter?”

Bryan broke away from your gaze to look up at the Gunnery Sergeant, his eyes narrowing, “It’s fucking blown, Gunny. We had optics on it.”

“Reyes!”

Rudy jolted upright. “Aye, Gunnery Sergeant.”

“What kind of piss-poor team leader are you, not checking out an enemy tank sitting on your doorstep?”

Rudy swallowed hard. “Roger that. Being I’m the only man not down with the shits, I’ll take out a patrol.”

Griego shook his head. “No, you put the hammer to your team. Like Godfather says— malingering spreads like a yeast infection unless you nip it in the bud.”

You shot to your feet, heart pounding with fury, not able to take his bullshit anymore. “Are you blind, Gunny? Look at them. They can’t even stand up without puking. But sure, let’s march them through a swamp for your little pissing contest.”

“Yeah, these men can’t fucking walk,” Bryan added, glaring. Lovell, hearing the commotion, quietly approached and stopped just beside Rudy as they exchanged quiet words, both glancing at Griego in equal parts exasperation and frustration. 

Griego turned his stare on you like a gun barrel. “If they can’t, then maybe you should go with them, corpsman. Or is running your mouth easier than the job?”

“Oh, I’ll do the job, Gunny,” you snapped back, voice sharp enough to cut. “The actual job. Keeping marines alive. Not this make-believe bullshit so you can look good kissing battalion's ass.” In hindsight, maybe you shouldn’t have gone off the rail like that, but you weren’t going to sit back and watch him be the reason you lose Rudy’s entire squad in that goddamn swamp. 

That hit harder than you expected, because Griego stepped closer now, towering over you, no doubt trying to intimidate you into eating your words. His lips curled. “Careful. Just because your Lieutenant lets you mouth him off doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate the disrespect. I’ll smoke the shit out of you if you ever—”

“Gunny.”

That single word seemed to paralyse Griego right where he stood. Lieutenant Fick had arrived, silent until now. His face was blank, but his eyes flicked from you to Griego with an alarming sharpness before he turned, facing the rest of the team sprawled beside the humvee. 

“Rudy,” Fick said, his voice unsettlingly cool. 

‘Yes, sir,” Reyes answered quickly. He remained stiff, rooted in his spot even after Lovell and his team took off. 

“Where the hell is Lovell’s team?”

“They’re out inspecting the t72.” 

“A tank? Where?” 

“In the swamp. The blown-out one. Gunnery Sergeant Griego informed us that you wanted a patrol. My team’s down with the shits, so Lovell took it.” 

“They’re covering your ass, Nate,” Griego interrupted. 

Fick turned, slow, deliberate. “What the fuck is going on here?” 

Griego squared up, all false confidence. “How would it look like if that tank was operational?”

Fick stepped right into the little space left between you and Griego, tone razor sharp. His back brushed against your shoulder for a few seconds too long, and you felt yourself stepping back and forcing your breath to even out again.  “I’ll tell you how it looks. Like an incompetent moron climbing up the asshole of his company commander by inventing a bullshit mission. Did you seek my authority before tasking my platoon?”

“I did. Woke you forty mikes ago to affirm the order.”

“I haven’t been to sleep in thirty-six hours,” Fick said sharply, then his jaw clenched as he looked to the side for a second, as if remembering. “I thought I was dreaming,” he snapped. His jaw flexed again, and he leaned, voice dropping low, “And she’s right, these marines are combat ineffective. If you think I’ll let you endanger them because you don’t like getting told off, you’re out of line.”

Griego’s face flushed dark. “So you’re condoning insubordination, Lieutenant?"

“I’m condoning competence,” Fick fired back. “Doc called bullshit, and she was right.”

The air hung heavy. Griego’s nostrils flared, his mouth opening, then closing when he caught the iron in Fick’s stare. 

“You can fuck with me all you want,” Fick finished, tone flat, lethal. “But do not fuck with the men and my corpsman. I’m putting it down, Gunny. You picking it up?”

Bryan caught it. The slight emphasis on my. He looked up, his eyes searching for yours as you did your best to casually avoid his gaze. 

Griego broke first. His jaw twitched. “Aye, sir.” He turned and stalked away, but not without throwing you a glare that could rival even that of Brad’s. 

You were still bristling, adrenaline hot in your blood. When you glanced at Fick, his face had already returned to that maddening calm, but the smallest flicker of acknowledgment passed between you. 

Behind you, Bryan muttered under his breath, “Jesus, someone hand me pop-corn next time.”

After that the squad had enough fuel to actually work a hypothetical tank. But of course, it wasn’t the only thing that happened that seemed to solidify the squad’s claim that Fick actually treated you differently.

One afternoon, you were slouched against the humvee, helmet tipped back, exhaustion making your eyes burn. Fick, who just happened to pass by, glanced down. Instead of telling you to get up like he would with anyone else, he tugged your chin strap tighter with a quiet, “Don’t nod off like this. Unsafe.’ 

Pappy nearly dropped his rifle watching it happen. 

By nightfall, the whole squad knew, just like how they gossiped about Fick handing you his canteen on patrol a few days later, or the gas mask incident after that. 

The alarm had shrieked, and chaos erupted, “Gas! Gas!” someone yelled. You barely had time as the thick acrid cloud of smoke filled the air, stinging noses and eyes. 

Instinctively, you reached for your mask, but someone beside you, Christensen, fumbled. Without thinking, you caught the gas mask that slipped from his hands and shoved it into his face first, making sure it was sealed and safe. Then you quickly donned your own, fumbling with the straps. But you were a split second too slow and the smoke had already burned its way into your lungs. 

When the alarm finally stopped, you ripped the mask out of your face, slightly thankful that it was just smoke from a nearby artillery strike instead of an actual gas attack that would have completely fried your insides. Your coughing had finally subsided, though your lungs still stung. You sat on an overturned crate, head titled back as you tried to steady your breathing. Fick had insisted you rest, hovering close, his calmness helping you breathe better. 

“Slow breaths,” he said, crouching in front of you. His canteen was already in his hand, steady as he guided it toward you. “Not too fast. You’ll choke it back up.”

You took a sip, water running down your chin. You tried to swipe it away with your sleeve, but his hand was already there, his thumb brushing the drip from your skin before he seemed to realise what he had done. His hand lingered half a second too long. 

“Better?” His voice was low, even, but his eyes stayed fixed on yours. 

“Yeah,” you rasped, throat sore but steady. “Thanks.”

That’s when Brad, Ray and Bryan rounded the corner, their conversation cutting off instantly. They froze in unison, like they had stumbled into a scene they weren’t supposed to see. 

Ray’s grin spread like wildfire. “Holy shit. I knew it.”

Brad pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning softly. “For fuck’s sake, Ray, don’t start.”

You coughed, jerking upright and glaring. “It’s not— just shut the hell up.”

Fick rose smoothly, towering over the three like nothing had happened. His voice was clipped. “We’re Oscar Mike in five. Mount up. Now.” 

The weight in his tone made even Ray falter, though he still grinned as he backed away. “Sure thing, Lt. But you can’t kill the image burned into my brain. Yikes.”

Doc Bryan just sighed, muttering under his breath how they were all children.

They left, laughter echoing faintly, leaving you with Fick again. He studied you, unreadable, then crouched back down at your side. 

“Don’t let them get to you,” he said quietly, passing you the canteen again.

You flushed hot, but not from the gas or the coughing. You nodded stiffly, trying to focus on your breathing instead of the way his voice softened just for you. 

Later that night after the convoy had stopped for a quick rest, the three of them were sprawled around a crate, passing a warm can of Coke Brad had somehow snuck in his pack back and forth. The stars overhead were sharp, desert air cool now that the sun had gone. 

Ray couldn’t stop grinning. “Did you see that? Our stone-faced Lt, practically hand-feeding her water. Thumb to the cheek, like some kind of rom-com. I almost puked.”

Brad smirked faintly, more subdued. “Yeah, and she didn’t tell him to fuck off this time. I’d say that’s progress.”

Doc Bryan shook his head, exasperated. “You two are unbelievable. Somebody nearly gets their lungs fried, and all you can talk about is whether or not Fick brushed his damn hand across her face.”

Ray pointed at him with the Coke can. “You saw it too. Don’t act like you didn’t. I’ve been waiting weeks for actual solid proof, and there it was.”

Bryan rolled his eyes, but he didn’t deny it. 

Brad leaned back, thoughtful. “What kills me is the difference. One of us screws up, he dresses us down like we’re twelve. But with her? She cusses him out, ignores him, nearly bites his head off, and he just…” He shrugged. “Takes it.”

“Takes it?” Ray snorted. “He likes it. That man hasn’t raised his voice at her once. Not even after the light fiasco. Meanwhile, Captain America breathes wrong, and Lt is on him.” 

Bryan sighed into his hand. “You’re all going to get yourselves in trouble.”

Ray grinned wider, kicking at the dirt. “Trouble for boosting morale? I don’t think so. In fact, maybe Gunny’s gonna make me the vice-president of the Doc-Lt fanclub.”

By the next day, the smoke incident should’ve been long forgotten. Your throat was less raw and the ache in your lungs was gradually fading. You had convinced yourself that what happened with Fick had just been one of those moments, fleeting, necessary, and not worth dwelling on. 

Except apparently the squad had been dwelling on it for you. 

Ray leaned over the hood of the humvee while you were scribbling down notes on the medical logs. He watched you for a while, waiting for your glance, but when that didn’t come as fast as he would like, he cleared his throat dramatically, then gasped. “Doc, doc, I can’t breathe! Save me! Oh no, if only someone would cradle my chin and feed me water like a delicate baby bird.”

You paused your writing for a split-second, swallowing an exasperated sigh. You were a fool to think they wouldn’t make it a big deal, and the complete silence since you sat down should have been a dead giveaway of the incoming explosive round of teasing. 

Brad deadpanned from his seat in the humvee, “You’re not pretty enough.”

Ray pointed at him, smug. “See? Even Brad knows doc’s got a type. Tall, blond, officer, fond of maps—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, slamming down the clipboard hard enough to echo. 

That only made Ray’s grin stretch wider. 

Poke strolled in, ever the opportunist, and chimed in from where he just sat down with his gear. “Funny, though. Smoke clears, lungs burning, and who’s the one crouched in front of you? Not me. Not Ray. Sure as hell not Brad.” Your eyebrows furrowed at his words, the retort about them not giving a fuck about you almost choking to death dying at your lips as Ray’s voice cut the air. 

“Exactly,” he said, grinning wide. “It’s always Lt. Always. Like clockwork. Makes you wonder, huh?”

You let out a sharp exhale, putting down the pen before glaring at Ray. “Yeah. Makes me wonder why I haven’t smothered you in your sleep yet.” 

Your reply only set them off harder. Ray laughed so hard he had to brace himself on the humvee.

“You know it’s funny,” you said flatly. “When Lt scammed those RCT idiots for gun lube to bail Brad out, not a peep outta any of you. Guess it’s scandalous only when he’s helping me, huh?”

That stopped them cold. 

“That was different,” Brad said smoothly. 

“Oh yeah? How?” 

“He wasn’t holding my damn hand while he did it.”

And then the laughter broke again. 

Ray threw his hands up. “Lt’s not out here holding just anyone’s hand, man. Doc’s got the exclusive contract.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, resisting the urge to throw something, preferably at Ray’s smug face. Yesterday you had almost choked to death. Today you were starring in a goddamn soap opera. You stood up abruptly, gathering your things as your scowl deepened. 

“I swear, you people need a fucking hobby,” you scowled, strapping your helmet back on  and rounding the humvee to leave. 

“Oh, we have one, dawg. It’s pissing you off until you admit the Lt likes you better than any of us,” Poke cried out, digging the butt of his rifle deeper into his cheek to hide his grin. 

That evening, you had made it your mission to avoid the squad at any given cost. From what you have heard, they’d finally quieted down, and you found yourself hiding behind Rudy’s humvee, staring at the dirt. Your chest still hurt from the coughing, but you would rather die than admit that out loud. 

The crunch of boots on gravel made you glance up, sudden anxiety at being found by any one of the jokesters tightening in your chest. You let yourself relax at the sight of Bryan, bringing the back of your head to rest against the humvee again. 

He dropped down onto a crate opposite you, elbows on his knees, watching you with that steady medic’s stare. The one you couldn’t squirm away from. 

“You gonna tell me why you let them wind you up so easy?” he asked, voice low. 

You frowned, because of course he heard about it. “They’re jackals. That’s what they do.”

Bryan didn’t say anything, only tilted his head, unimpressed. You looked away, partly ashamed because it felt like you just got caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar. “They’ve been on you for weeks now. Lt this, Lt that. Now yesterday happens and they’re off to the races. You let it get under your skin every time.”

You crossed your arms, glaring at the ground. “Because it’s bullshit. Because they act like…” You trailed off, heat creeping up your neck. 

“Like what?” he pressed. 

Your throat tightened. “Like there’s something there.”

He didn’t react right away. He just studied you calmly. Finally, he leaned back. “And?” 

You snapped your eyes up to him. “And nothing. Jesus, Bryan.”

He gave the faintest shrug. “I’m not asking to get in your business. I'm asking because you act like it’s the end of the world every time someone mentions it. Makes me think they’re closer to the mark than you want them to be.” 

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words melted on your tongue. Bryan shook his head, like he had already read your silence. 

“Just don’t let ‘em run you ragged,” he said finally. “They smell blood in the water and they’ll never let go. You know that.” He tapped the crown of your helmet once, as if snapping you out of your sulk. Then, he stood, dusted his hands off his trousers, and walked away, leaving you sitting there with your heart thudding too hard for comfort. 

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just noise, all the teasings, the looks, the half-jokes thrown around camp. You learned to swallow them whole, to act like it didn’t get under your skin. If you pretended long enough, maybe you’d start to believe it. 

At least, that’s what you told yourself. 

Griego had started dropping them like landmines in your path ever since he got dressed down by Fick on the night of the tank incident, casual, cutting remarks buried under the guise of humor. Little jabs meant to see how far he could push before you bit back. 

You got good at dodging them for a while until Griego decided to get messy. 

The sun hadn’t even fully cleared the horizon yet, pale light stretching over the camp. You were kneeling by the Humvee, tightening the straps on your pack before roll-out, when that aggravating voice of his sliced through the quiet. 

“Y’know, doc,” he drawled, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’m starting to wonder, maybe the Lieutenant keeps you close cause you’re easy on the eyes. Sure as hell ain’t for your discipline.”

His words hurt worse than any punch you had ever gotten to the gut. 

The world didn’t stop, but it might as well have. 

Ray’s head snapped up from where he was checking his gear. “The fuck did you just say?”

Brad’s notebook slammed shut with a sound like a gunshot. His eyes went flat and cold as he looked at Griego.

Even Pappy, usually quiet as stone, muttered under his breath, “That’s outta line, Gunny.”

Griego just smirked, pleased with himself, like he had found exactly the wound he wanted to press on. “What? Can’t take a little truth?”

You could feel every muscle in your body tighten, your hands curling against your thighs. The fury rose fast, but before you could speak, Ray was already on his feet. 

“That’s not truth,” he snapped. “That’s you being a bitter asshole cause LT called you out.”

Brad didn’t need to raise his voice. “You want to take shots at an officer, go ahead,” he started evenly, “but you don’t pull that shit on her.”

That did it. Griego’s grin faltered, the weight of the squad’s collective stare settling heavy on him. 

You remained there in silence, jaw locked, staring hard at the dirt as your ears burned. But when you looked up, when your eyes swept across the squad, you realised something had shifted. There were no laughs or teasing from the squad. Not this time. 

The story made its way up the chain faster than anyone admitted to spreading it. By afternoon, it had already reached Gunny, And by the time the humvees rolled to a stop for the evening halt, Fick knew too. 

He didn’t say anything at first. He just walked the line of parked vehicles, clipboard in hand, checking things that didn’t really need checking. Gunny followed a few paces behind, silent long enough for it to start feeling deliberate. 

Finally, he broke the quiet. “Heard there was a little excitement this morning.”

Fick didn’t look at him. “You heard right.”

Gunny made a low sound in his throat, half amusing, half warning. “Griego running his mouth again?”

Fick’s jaw tightened. “He crossed a line.”

“That so?” Gunny said, though his tone made it clear he already knew. “And what’d you do about it, Lieutenant?”

Fick stopped, turned just enough for Gunny to see the look in his eyes. “The squad handled it.”

Gunny’s brow lifted. “You lettin’ the boys deliver justice now?”

The Lieutenant exhaled through his nose, that quiet, measured kind of frustration that meant he was holding something back. “They were right to. He made it personal.”

Gunny nodded slowly, watching him. “Personal how?”

That earned him a look. The kind of look that said don’t make me say it out loud.

He smirked slyly, hands sliding into his vest pockets. “Lemme guess— somethin’ about the Doc.”

Fick said nothing. 

“Hit a nerve, didn’t he?”

Still nothing. Just the faint flex of Fick’s jaw. 

Gunny chuckled in return. “You know, you keep pretending you don’t care but the second someone runs their mouth about her, you go cold as a damn virgin rifle barrel. It’s almost admirable.”

“Gunny. You need to knock it off.”

He raised his hands in defense, brows raised like he’d been accused of something truly absurd. “Knock what off?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

His mouth twitched. “If you’re talking about me motivating morale, I’d say I’m doin’ a hell of a job, LT.”

Fick exhaled through his nose, clearly trying not to lose patience. “It’s not morale when you turn my corpsman into the punchline of a running joke.”

Gunny cocked his head. “You sure she’s the punchline, not you?”

Fick blinked. “What?”

Gunny grinned. Leaning back against the humvee. “Come on, Nate. You’ve seen the looks, same as I have. Whole squad’s figured out you got a soft spot for her. You just don’t wanna admit it.”

“That’s not—”

“Uh-huh,” Gunny interrupted. “You keep tellin’ yourself that. But I’ve been around long enough to know what it looks like when a man keeps findin’ excuses to check on someone.”

“She almost fried her lungs, Gunny.”

Gunny gave him a look, his eyes doing much of the talking. “Right.”

They stared at each other, a few beats too long, until Fick finally looked away first, glancing towards where you were packing medical gear into the humvee. 

He followed Fick’s gaze, grin widening. “See? Right there. That’s what I’m talking about. You didn’t even notice you were lookin’.”

Fick just pressed a hand to the side of the vehicle and muttered, “You done?”

He shrugged, casual as ever. “For now. But if you don’t want people talkin’, maybe stop makin’ it so easy for ‘em. Oh and, if you’re gonna play favourites, ain’t no shame in havin’ taste.”

Fick’s tired sigh followed him down the line, and he just barely muttered, “Jesus Christ, Gunny.”

By the time evening rolled, the whole platoon had that restless silence that came whenever something uncalled for happened, but if there was anything you learned serving in the corps, it was that silence in the field was never really silent. Even when nobody was talking, there was always something, sometimes the rattle of a sling or a stray curse when someone dropped a magazine. 

You figured the others were trying not to make it worse, but something about the lack of teasing and banter made the air feel eerie. Even Ray, the jackal who usually couldn’t read the room, was tucked away in the humvee, as silent as a ghost. You were, by no means, complaining about not being the joke for once, but the silence was suffocating your brain cells better than Griego had earlier that morning. 

Fick and Gunny were a few yards away, low voices cutting under the wind. Nothing heated, but you could feel the tension, like a wire pulled too tight. 

When Gunny finally stepped away, he was grinning, like that particular grin that usually meant someone else was about to have a bad day. He passed you on his way out, giving you the kind of look that wasn’t quite a smirk but close enough to make your stomach sink further. 

You mentally shook the look off as he disappeared behind the humvee, your teeth biting down on the inside of your cheek as you tried to focus back into what you were doing. 

Key word: tried. 

Even a few hours later, as you stripped down your rifle, the thoughts kept coming back. The echo of Griego’s words, burning a hole through your composure. Sure, it wasn’t the first time you’ve been accused of something like that, hell, most of the time the men didn’t even bother to sugarcoat it like Griego had, and yet it still cut closer to the bone than anything else. 

You were so deep in your head that Bryan’s voice almost had you jumping out of your seat. 

“You okay?” he said, voice low enough not to carry. 

You glanced up. “Fine.”

He gave you a look. “Uh-huh. Funny, cause you’ve been real quiet since breakfast.”

You tightened the bolt of your rifle a little too hard. “I’m just trying to work,” you said. Bryan knew you didn’t like talking about how shitty your day had been, so you weren’t surprised when he didn’t open up the conversation with whatever happened earlier.  

His lips twitched. “Work, huh? Not avoiding the peanut gallery?”

“Well, the peanut gallery’s been real quiet today.”

Bryan slowly settled next to you. “You know how it goes. One marine runs his mouth, ten more follow. Half the guys are saying LT nearly bit Gunny’s head off defending you. The other half think you two are writing love letters behind the comms tent.”

You rolled your eyes. “Unbelievable. Doesn’t matter what you do out here. You do your job, they call you a cold bitch. You talk too much, you’re a brat mouthing off. You keep your distance, and suddenly you’re sleeping with the CO.”

Bryan let out an exhale. He just watched you for a beat, then said, quiet and even. “They talk cause it’s easier than admitting they respect you.”

You let out a small laugh. “Respect me? Yeah, lotta respect that was coming out of Griego’s mouth this morning.”

“Take it that way then, ever notice how all that asshole’s ever spewing around is you supposedly fornicating with Fick?” 

“What’s your point?”

He shrugged. “I’m saying, he ain’t got shit on you, that’s why he drops so low.”

“The squad’s not really helping with that, are they?”

“Don’t let them get under your skin. You’ve done more for this platoon than most of them realize,” he said, slinging his rifle over his shoulder as he stood. 

You smiled despite yourself, the heaviness in your chest easing a little. “Since when did you start giving pep talks?”

He shrugged. “Since you looked like you needed one.” Bryan gave you one last glance and a quick knock on the helmet before heading off in the dark, probably to nag another marine into drinking enough water.

You let out a small exhale, fumbling with the sling of your rifle, staring at the dirt like it could solve something. For a moment, you wished you had listened to your pleading mother when she begged you not to sign your life away, but you had done what you thought best back then, and it didn’t take long to realise you had just hopped from a frying pan into a pressure cooker. 

You threw a brief glance at your watch, and gathered your things to head to the watch post.

You sat with your rifle across your knees, the weight of the day still heavy in your shoulders. The night was still cold and moonless as the hour rolled past as slowly as a sloth. You didn’t remember the last time you had gotten some shut-eye, and despite that you were still wide awake, everything that went wrong lately looping, restless and unrelenting. 

You didn’t hear the footsteps until they were close. 

“Doc.”

You didn’t need to look to recognise the voice. You straightened. “Sir.”

Fick crouched down beside you, quiet, scanning the horizon before glancing your way. “You’re relieved.”

You frowned, checking your watch. “I’ve got another hour.”

He shook his head. “Not anymore. Gunny shifted the schedule.”

You gave a short, humourless huff. “Gunny, or you?”

He didn’t answer right away, which was enough of an answer. You looked away, lips pressed tight. 

“Doc,” he said finally, tone lower, “You haven’t stopped since dawn.” 

Haven’t stopped working yourself away since Griego’s comment, he wanted to say. 

“Neither have you.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” you shot back, sharper than you meant. 

The silence that followed stretched, thin and tense. You sighed and added, quietly, “Sorry. Long day.”

Fick’s gaze softened. “Yeah. I heard. Griego’s been—”

“I can handle Griego,” you interrupted. 

“I know you can.” He paused, studying you. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

That hit something deeper than you expected. You looked down at your hands, the dirt stuck to your palms. “You can’t fix it, sir.”

“Maybe not.” His voice softened more. “But I can make it easier.”

You looked at him, and there it was again, the quiet gravity he carried, the calmness that helped you breathe when the smoke was still choking your lungs, the way he looked at you like he saw everything you were trying not to say. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you said suddenly, words spilling before you could stop then. “That even if there was something—”

You stopped yourself, biting down the rest. 

Fick’s brow furrowed slightly. “If there was something?”

You shook your head quickly. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.” 

He kept watching you, unreadable in the dark. He stood, his hand briefly bracing against your shoulder. You froze at the touch. 

Then, he offered a hand to pull you up. 

“Go rack out,” he said quietly. “I’ve got it from here.”

You hesitated, then took his hand. His grip was steady, too steady, and when you stood, he didn’t let go right away. Just long enough for you both to notice it. You swallowed down your feelings at the contact, replaying Griego’s words to snap you back into reality, but at that point you were far too deep. You were so guilty, you were sure the next time the squad’s teasing came through, it would be written all over your face like an SOS flare. 

Then, softly. “Goodnight, doc.”

The day was already chokingly hot and dry, the kind of dry that made your throat ache when you breathed. The squad was milling in a lazy disarray, the chatter more alive than it had been a few days prior. 

You and Bryan were sitting under the shade of the camo net, rolling gauze you had managed to scrounge up. The supply truck full of medical supplies was left behind in the middle of nowhere after the tires were shot to hell a few days ago, leaving you and Bryan to fend for yourself. Morale was dwindling day by day, and it didn’t help that last night took your feelings to a whole new level of messy you weren’t even aware existed. 

“Devil Dogs,” Schwetje greeted as he approached, all bright-eyed earnestness that didn’t quite fit the scene. 

“Sir,” Holsey said automatically, standing straighter beside the humvee. 

The Captain nodded, hands behind his back like he was on parade. You glanced at Bryan, the urge to roll your eyes stronger than ever. “Been through a lot these past few days. I know there are strong feelings about how things have gone. I want you to think of me as the kind of commander who not only leads, but listens. So,” he looked around the group, to you, to Bryan, to Holsey standing as stiff as a board and to Baptista sitting to your left. “I want you to talk freely. Forget my bars for a moment.”

The last part made all of you exchange subtle looks. “Forget my bars” was the kind of thing no marines actually believed. 

He started making rounds like he was conducting interviews. “Holsey. Anything on your mind?”

The marine hesitated at first, then asked about the missing battalion colours, and Schwetje gave his careful, politician’s answer, all about responsibility and weight of command. 

“Baptista,” he said next, “How are you doing?”

Baptista gave a half-grin, words tumbling out in broken Portuguese and English. 

Schwetje nodded solemnly, as if he’d been offered great insight. “Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you, Baptista.”

From behind, Griego stepped out of the Captain’s shadow, and you ducked your head just in time to avoid his gaze, your hands now tense on the gauze. 

“And you, Doc?” Schwetje said. “How are you doing?”

You swallowed, praying the question was directed to Bryan. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, you looked up to see that his eyes had shifted to you, and that everything you had been avoiding had somehow managed to catch you right in the middle of the limelight.

Every head turned. Even Bryan’s.

You felt your stomach drop. You were already skating on thin ice since the t72 mess. The whispers, Griego’s snide remarks, Fick’s quiet defense that had somehow turned into its own rumor mill. The last thing you needed was attention. 

“I’m all good, sir,” you said quickly, keeping your tone neutral. 

The Captain tilted his head, unsatisfied. “Doc, you’ve got more field time than most. I’d really like to know what you’re thinking.” 

You bit your tongue hard to avoid spitting out a remark about how whatever bullshit he just said was as incorrect as his knowledge of grid designation. If anything, Bryan outranked most of the guys here based on experience alone, but of course, that ego inflated man would needle you instead of him for things he wasn’t ready to hear. 

You shifted your weight, feeling Griego’s eyes on you, like he was waiting for you to say something that could be used against you later.

“With respect, sir,” you started evenly, “I don’t think my opinion would change anything.”

He frowned faintly, as if you said the wrong thing on a test. “That’s not the spirit of open communication I’m trying to foster here.”

Griego, off the side, snorted softly under his breath. “Guess she only speaks when the Lieutenant’s around to hold her hand.” That made you freeze. You could feel your throat closing up. Then, slowly, you reminded yourself to breathe, because it had just been you and Fick yesterday. Holding hands for a split second, maybe more, but he had just helped you up, nothing more. It was totally normal and completely platonic, nothing else to it. 

A ripple went through the group, half disgust, half warning silence. Bryan’s head turned sharply, eyes narrowing. “Gunny,” he said, voice deadly low and steady, “don’t.”

Griego raised a hand in mock surrender. “Just making an observation.” You let out a sharp exhale, partly relieved because it was just Griego being Griego, not because he had witnessed anything.

Then, simmering anger, because he had the audacity to say that in front of Encinoman. “With respect, sir,” you said again, directing it squarely to Schwetje, “if the goal is honestly, then you should know morale’s not your problem. Trust is.”

That made him blink. A subtle flicker in the fake calm. You held his gaze for a while longer, slowly watching his composure break. You knew what he was thinking about, and what you hoped your words would do to him did exactly that. He didn’t trust Fick, just like how you and anyone else on the platoon didn’t trust him. 

Bryan’s voice cut in before the Captain could recover. “Sir, since you’re asking for honesty, it’s just that you’re incompetent.”

His lips parted, stunned, that same pause from your words, but now heavier with tension because your words had set the fuse first. 

“I’m doing the best I can,” he managed, tone brittle. 

“It’s not good enough, sir,” Bryan replied flatly. 

You felt the air squeeze tight around the group. Even Griego looked uncertain now, eyes flicking between the Captain and Bryan instead, completely ignoring the fact that he had been the one to spark out the fire. 

Schwetje’s expression hardened. “Alright. Duly noted.” He turned to Griego. “Let’s move.”

They walked off, the Captain’s back rigid, Griego throwing one last sideways look that promised this wasn’t over. 

When they were out of earshot, Holsey exhaled, muttering, “Jesus, doc, both of you just signed your own death warrants.”

The squad fell silent again, the tension dissolving into the heat. Somewhere far off, an engine kicked over, and everything went back to pretending to be normal, but tension still clung to the air long after Encinoman walked off. The others drifted away in silence one by one, Bryan pissed, Baptista muttering in Portuguese under his breath and Holsey pretending not to care. You stayed back to restock the humvee with the bandages, half-hoping to disappear entirely. 

But Fick was here, arm crossed, posture too calm to be casual. “Doc.” he said, voice even. 

You froze for half a second, then went right back to what you were doing. “...Sir.”

He folded his arms, standing a few feet away. “You want to tell me what happened earlier?”

You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him. “No, sir.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

You sighed, still not turning around. “Then maybe you should ask someone who actually wants to talk about it.”

There was a long pause. Then the sound of his boots crunching closer. “Holsey said Griego said something. Bryan looked like he wanted to rearrange his face. So what did he say?”

“Nothing that hasn’t already been said a hundred times before.”

“Doc—”

You snapped the kit shut hard enough that the latch bit your thumb. But you were wound up so tight you barely felt the pain. “He was being an asshole, okay? Like he always is. But it’s fine. It’s done.”

Fick’s jaw worked, silent for a beat. “It’s not fine if it’s about me.”

You spun, temper finally breaking. “Why does everything have to be about you?”

That caught him off guard, just a flicker, but enough.

“You think this whole thing is about your reputation or your command? It’s not. He said what he said because he wanted to make me look weak. Because I didn’t shut up when I should have. Because—”

You stopped yourself. 

Fick’s eyes narrowed. “Because what?”

You shook your head, cursing under your breath. “Forget it.”

“No.” He stepped closer. “You started that sentence. Finish it.”

You met his stare then, shoulders tight, heart hammering. “Because I’m already on thin ice after the tank mess, and he knows it. He knows I can’t afford to open my mouth, so he keeps pushing. That’s it. That’s all.”

Fick studied you, the sharp edge in your voice, the way you were standing too still. He didn’t believe you, not entirely. 

“You said something to the Captain this morning,” he said quietly. “Holsey mentioned it”

You went still. 

Fucking Holsey running his mouth. 

“He said you pushed back hard. That doesn’t sound like someone trying to stay quiet.”

Your throat went dry. “I was trying to make a point,” you lied. 

“What point?” 

You clenched your jaw. “That talking doesn’t fix anything.”

Fick took another step closer, voice lowering. “That why you said it, or was it because Griego brought me into it?”

That hit dead centre, clean and quiet.

You stared at him, pulse in your throat. “Who told you that?”

“No one had to.”

You swallowed hard, looking away. “You’re not worth getting written up over, Lieutenant.”

It was a cheap shot, and you both knew it. 

He huffed out something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You glared up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you keep saying this isn’t about me, but somehow, it always is.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything, just the wind over sand, the hum of the idle Humvee, and the sound of your heart pounding. 

Finally, you muttered, “You done, sir?” 

He looked at you for one more beat, jaw tight, expression unreadable. “Yeah,” he said. “Guess I am.”

He turned, walked off towards the dark, leaving you standing there with your hands clutching the kit to avoid it from trembling, angry, frustrated and something else you didn’t want to name. You blinked your tears away, moving to get the rest of the stuff into the humvee. 

Morning came like a punishment, pale light dragging across camp, forcing you to snap out of your glower and self-induced misery. 

You hadn’t slept much. Not that anyone noticed. Marines didn’t sleep, they shut their eyes and pretended not to hear the hum of the desert. 

You were standing by Brad's humvee, trying to scrub the grime from your hands with a ration pack wipe that disintegrated halfway through. Fick was a few yards away, saying something to Gunny in that low, tight tone of his, professional, polite, completely at odds with the way he’d looked at yesterday. 

You kept your head down. You weren’t about to start another round of whatever the hell that was. 

But apparently, the squad once again proved that subtle silence wasn’t their strong suit. 

“Jesus,” Ray muttered around a mouthful of biscuit. “You two are acting like a couple on the brink of divorce”

You stopped mid-swipe. 

Brad looked up from his rifle without missing a beat. “Yeah, mom’s pissed.”

That earned a round of snickers. 

You turned, glaring daggers at Brad. “I am not your fucking mother, Colbert.”

Brad’s expression didn’t shift an inch. Deadpan. Calm as ever. “Then why do you sound like her?”

You just stared at Brad, jaw set. “You think that’s funny?”

“No,” Brad said, tone bone-dry. “But you looked like you needed a laugh.”

It was almost enough to knock the edge of your glare. Almost. 

You huffed, tossing the useless wipe into a trash bag. “Your humour’s as dead as your personality, Brad.”

“Thank you,” he said, not looking up. “Means it’s consistent.”

Gunny strolled to the command vehicle when the desert cooled once the sun went down. Fick sat beside the humvee, a half-empty MRE packet on the bumper next to him. He was staring at it like maybe that counted as eating. 

He sat on the crate propped beside the humvee. “You look like a man who just lost a staring contest with dehydrated sludge.”

Fick just muttered. “Tactical reflection.”

Gunny snorted, shifting his elbows on his knees. “You mean brooding.”

“Thinking.”

“Brooding,” Gunny repeated.

Fick sighed, conceding nothing. “What do you need, Gunny?”

“Who says I need something? Can’t a guy enjoy a quiet night with his lieutenant?” he paused, then added, “Especially one whose jaw’s been locked tighter than a humvee door all day.”

“Long day.”

“Huh.” Gunny leaned back, stretching out. “Funny how your long days always seem to start after a certain medic looks at you like she’s ready to throw a radio at your head.”

Fick gave him a sharp look. “Watch it.”

He held up a hand, grinning. “Relax, sir. Just an observation. You two been walking around like you’re allergic to eye contact. Starting to make the rest of us jumpy.”

“We’re fine.”

“That’s what she said, too,” Gunny added, without mentioning the part where he pestered you unsuccessfully for answers barely a few hours earlier. 

Fick froze, just for a second, but Gunny caught it, of course he did, and bit back a chuckle. 

“Christ, Nate, you gotta work on your poker face. You’d survive sniper fire, but not small talk.”

“Gunny.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll just say if there’s tension, maybe let it breathe before it turns into something stupid.”

Fick rubbed the back of his neck, holding back a sigh because the whole conversation felt silly. “Already did.”

“Yeah? How did that go?”

“About as well as you’d expect.”

Gunny chuckled low. “Meaning she handed your ass back to you in full sentences.”

That got the faintest twitch of a smile out of him. “Something like that.”

“You’re still really bad at pretending you don’t care for a guy who preaches discipline on a daily basis.”

Fick looked at him, expression steady but tired. “That’s cause I don’t bother pretending anymore.”

For once, Gunny didn’t joke. He just nodded once, quiet for a beat. “Figured as much,” he simply said. No teasing, no I told you so. Then, with a smirk, he added, “Still, if you’re gonna brood, do it off the damn humvee. You’re harshing the mood.”

Fick huffed, the sound caught between a laugh and a sigh, and stood, brushing the dust from his hands. “Goodnight, Gunny.”

After that, it’d been three days of quiet. 

The kind that sat heavy and suffocating over everything, meals, briefings, downtime since you and Fick had gone from easy rhythm to clipped, professional exchanges. It made the air thick and awkward, not just for you, but for everyone who had the displeasure of having to witness the coldness lingering. 

Everyone noticed. In fact, it was a little hard not to when Fick’s tone pressed sharper than a freshly sharpened combat knife. Gunny had already dropped by a few days earlier, needling for answers as to why Fick looked like a kicked puppy (his words not yours) and how whatever it was that was wrong needed to be fixed because it was affecting squad morale.

Ray was eventually the first to break. 

He groaned, tossing a rock at the humvee tire. “I can’t take this anymore. They used to at least bicker. Now they’re just–” he waved a hand vaguely between where you sat on one end of the camp and Fick on the other end “ — dead-eyed and miserable.”

Walt didn’t even look up from cleaning his rifle. “Feels like the parents are fighting and we’re all stuck in the custody battle.”

“Shut up,” Brad muttered, though his tone had no bite.

Ray leaned forward, grinning like a child who had found the ultimate solution to get his parents back together. “Remember Camp Matilda? When Doc saved my ass with the burner thing?”

That earned Walt’s full attention. “Right. The great ‘let’s cook inside the tent’ operation.”

Ray grinned. “Exactly. And our dear Lt swore to command he saw with his own eyes that the burner was outside.”

“Yeah,” Walt said, laughing. “Crazy how he missed the whole damn flame coming from the tent flap. Man must’ve been half-blind.”

“Or just soft,” Ray said, smirking. “Can’t believe we didn’t notice it before.”

That line got a ripple of laughter. Even Brad cracked a small grin, shaking his head. 

Across camp, you froze mid-motion, your hand hovering over your kit. You would be lying if you said your heart didn’t sting at the thought of those simpler times, when all you had to worry about was Sixta being on your ass for not tucking your shirttails, not Fick and the emptiness that followed the last conversation you have had. 

“You three got nothing better to do?” you said loudly. 

Ray gave an innocent shrug. “Just reminiscing, doc. Good times.”

“Good times,” you echoed, deadpan. “Pretty sure you almost set the tent on fire and lost your eye in the process, dipshit.” You shot Brad a look, one that said keep that buffoon from running his mouth and getting himself NJPed, because you did not risk your neck out for Ray just so he could utter those words in broad daylight where anyone with a grudge could just report back to command. 

“Yeah, but you fixed it,” Walt said with a grin. “And the Lt covered it. Real dynamic duo move. Can’t believe we missed the signs.”

“Guess doc’s our unofficial get outta NJP free card.”

That made you groan. “Idiots.”

“Observant idiots,” Ray added enthusiastically. 

Fick’s voice cut through then, calm and quiet from where he sat. “You’re also loud idiots. Keep it down.”

That shut them up. Mostly. 

You caught his eye just briefly before looking away, the lump in your throat growing with each glance he took in your direction. 

It didn’t get better even hours later, when the convoy stopped near a checkpoint. Some RCT-1 officer, the smug clipboard type of guy who would probably shit their pants if he ever had a taste of live ammo bouncing off his humvee walls, started nitpicking Fick’s paperwork instead of handing over the fucking supplies like he was supposed to. 

“You’re late on your unit readiness report,” the guy said. “Again. Maybe if your men spent less time ‘correcting supply protocol’ —”

You didn’t let him finish. The permanent scowl on your face was evidence enough that your sour mood and his rant was no less compatible than Ray and a full bottle of ripped fuel. “Maybe if you got our med shipments out on time, sir,” you said flatly, “Lieutenant Fick wouldn’t have to spend half his day compensating for your logistics mess.”

The officer blinked, thrown off by the comment. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” you said. “If you want to check compliance, start with your own department. I can forward you the timestamps.”

You could hear Ray muttering something about you being cranky since your lover’s spat but all you could focus on was the slight satisfaction that ran through your veins at the sight of the officer sputtering something about professionalism and stalking off. At this point, you might as well dish it out to people who deserved it, not like your reputation wasn’t already halfway through the mud. 

You didn’t look at Fick, but you felt his eyes on you. 

Later, when the squad spread out to refuel, he came up beside you quietly. 

“You didn’t have to do that.”

You didn’t look at him, just stared straight forward and said the first thing that came to mind. “Guess it’s compensation for Matilda.” Not for defending you against Griego, but Matilda, because you knew mentioning the tank incident again would spark back the weird dynamic you both picked up after you had insulted him (unintentionally) too many times to count. 

Fick stopped near the bumper of the humvee, and silence choked the air tighter than the smoke had your lungs. 

Then, quietly. “You planning to keep this up all week?”

“Depends on what ‘this’ is.”

“The part where you don’t look at me,” he said evenly. 

You huffed. “Figured it was easier for both of us that way.”

He crossed his arms, and tried his hardest to hide the irritation hiding under his skin. “You think ignoring me fixes anything?”

“No, sir,” you said quietly, “but neither does you showing up every five minutes trying to fix everything.”

That finally got a reaction out of him, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “That what you think I’m doing?”

“Isn’t it?” you asked, finally looking up, tired, wary, braced for another round. 

Fick watched you for a moment, gaze unreadable. “You really don’t trust me to handle Griego.”

You closed your eyes for a beat, exhaling slowly. “It’s not about that.”

He looked to the side sharply, a frustrated sigh escaping past his nose. Had the atmosphere not been so tense, you would have cracked a grin, amused by the fact that the usually calm Lieutenant was getting all worked up over something beyond his control. “Then what is it?”

“It’s about me not needing you to fight my battles. Especially not when he’s coming after me to get at you.”

Fick stepped closer, not enough to crowd, but enough that you could feel the heat off him. "That's exactly why it’s my problem.”

You shot him a look. “You don’t get to decide that.”

He didn’t back down. “Neither do you.”

It was the same damn loop, pride, frustration, both of you too stubborn to step down. The air was like a live wire, buzzing with words that weren't being said. 

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood, and when the metallic tang began to fill your mouth, you decided it wasn’t worth it anymore. 

“You were right,” you muttered. 

Fick blinked, thrown by the shift. “About what?”

Silence fell over the desert like the blanket of stars overhead. A heartbeat passed and for a moment you wondered if uttering the words in your mind was the best decision. 

You gave him a brief glance, then turned back to the patch of sand you were burning holes into. “About Griego. About why I said what I said to the Captain.”

He stared, the edge of his posture easing just slightly. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“I was just trying not to make it worse.”

He gave a hesitant nod. “You don’t have to keep things from me.”

You swallowed. “I kinda do, though.”

Fick frowned. 

“If I tell you everything. I stop pretending this is simple. And it’s supposed to be simple, right? You’re my CO. I’m your corpsman. We do our jobs. No one gets burned.”

The silence stretched between you again, taut and uncertain. 

You looked up at him, voice softer. “Then you go and do things like that, step in and take heat that’s not yours and it’s not so simple anymore. It’s personal, and I don’t know how to do personal out here.”

His eyes flicked to you, something tight behind it. “You think I do?”

You forced yourself to smile faintly. “You fake it better.”

He exhaled through his nose, not a laugh, exactly, but close. “You think that’s what I've been doing? Faking it?”

You shrugged. “You're good at acting like you don’t care.”

That one landed. You saw it in the way his jaw worked before he answered. “Only because I have to.’

You hesitated. “I get that.”

The sharpness of the atmosphere had dulled. The air felt less like a standoff and more like the uneasy edge of a truce. 

“For what it’s worth. I’m sorry it got weird, sir.”

His gaze snapped sharply to you, then he straightened and stepped closer that his shadow melted with yours. “Don’t do that.”

You blinked. 

He continued, “Apologize like it’s only your fault.”

You started to look away, but he reached out just briefly, his fingers brushing your arm, stopping you. The contact was light, but enough to make your breath catch. 

“It wasn’t one sided.”

You looked down at where his hand had been before he pulled back like the touch had burned. 

He opened his mouth, then closed it as if he thought better of it. Fick looked away, his feet shifting slightly on the sand. You wanted to say something, anything to make the situation slightly less doomed, but seeing Fick fidgeting in real time was making your brain turn into mush. 

He stopped, then mumbled. “Nate is fine, you know.”

You blinked at him, the heat in your ears worsening as you soaked in his words. “Are you trying to fuel more rumors, Lieutenant?”

“Not intentionally,” he replied, voice soft enough that you could tell it wasn’t an order or a tease. “But Ray’s not buzzing around tonight, so I figured I’d take my chances.”

You bit the inside of your cheek as you looked away, because you might actually combust if you made eye contact for one more second. “Is tormenting me your idea of downtime, Nate?”

He shifted closer, not enough to touch, but enough that his sleeve brushed yours when he leaned against the Humvee beside you. “You make it sound like I don’t have other hobbies,” he answered, trying hard to ignore how the way you said his name made him feel.

“Do you?”

“Apparently one of them is trying to figure you out.”

That made you look at him again, fighting against a shy grin. “I’m not that easy to figure out.”

“No,” he said quietly. “But you’re worth the effort.” 

You felt your breath catch in your throat. You swallowed, forcing out, “You say that to all your corpsmen?”

“Just the insubordinate ones,” he answered. 

You let out a small laugh, pushing against the humvee so you could leave. You shook your head slightly as you shouldered your rifle, moving past Fick so you could leave before you did something you would regret come morning. 

But then you stopped. Because he shifted just slightly, catching your belt loop with two fingers before you could move away completely. You almost melted away in the sand. 

The motion was lazy, almost careless. But his knuckles brushed your hips, and every nerve in your body went taut. 

“Pretty sure that’s not regulation,” you whispered as he tugged lightly on the loop, just enough to close the last inch between you. 

“Good thing it’s Nate then.”

You didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. 

“This is how people get the wrong idea,” you said, trying to sound steady but failing miserably.

“I think they already have.” He gave you a look, and you swore if you weren’t already on fire, you sure were now.

The morning sun poured over the FOB, painting the dust in streaks of gold and orange. The squad moved in scattered clusters, each pretending the other didn’t exist. Except you two. 

You leaned over a crate of medical supplies, clipboard pressed to your chest, fingers tapping lightly. “You forgot the IV kits again,” you said, neutral tone hiding the small smile tugging at your lips. 

Nate didn’t look at you. “I didn’t forget. I prioritized.”

“Prioritized what exactly? Chaos?”

“Prioritized what needed attention first.”

You narrowed your eyes, but there was no bite behind it. “Mobility doesn’t help when someone’s bleeding out, Lieutenant.”

“Which is why you always bring extras,” he countered. 

“No,” you said, shoving an IV pouch into his hands, “I bring extras because you forget.”

He caught your eyes this time, holding your gaze a heartbeat longer than necessary. There was something in the quiet that made it eerily similar to last night. 

“I don’t forget,” he said softly.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” you muttered, adjusting the pack in his hands. 

From across the lot, Ray froze mid-step. “Would you look at that?”

Stafford and Christenson followed his gaze, eyebrows raised. 

“The ice thawed afterall, huh?” Ray muttered slyly. 

Fick and you. Bickering over a crate as if it was the most important argument in the world. The tone was familiar, teasing, the kind of back-and-forth that had nothing to do with orders and everything to do with each other. 

“That doesn’t go there,” you said. 

“It fits,” Fick countered. 

“It fits wrong.”

“It won an award in OCS.”

“For a war crime, maybe.” you said teasingly, looking up to the Lieutenant who looked like a man disgustingly in love. 

Ray watched, not surprised as Fick stared at you like you hung the moon and not like you just insulted him. “That’s the look of a husband who would build his wife a whole damn house from scratch.” He put a hand over his chest like it hurt.

Your quiet laughter lingered, and Christenson nudged Stafford. “The parents are back together,” he whispered, half-laughing. 

When the sun dropped low and Gunny finally found himself freed from the shackles of responsibilities, he came up beside Fick, who was standing by the hood of the Humvee, arms folded, watching the horizon like it owed him answers.

“Sir,” he drawled, smirk already locked in. 

“Gunny.”

“Quiet day,” Gunny mused. “Almost peaceful.”

Fick gave him a sideways look. “Almost.”

Gunny nodded toward where you were sitting a few metres off, scribbling in your logbook under the glow of a chemlight. “Guess we oughta thank our resident angel for that.”

Fick sighed. “Gunny—”

“Oh, don’t start,” Gunny cut in. “You can’t expect me not to notice when half the squad’s been running their mouths about you two all morning.”

Fick didn’t answer. His eyes drifted to you for a second too long before he forced himself to look away. 

Gunny chuckled. “Here comes the look of a man losing the battle.”

“I’m not losing anything,” Fick said, steady but quiet. 

Gunny took a leisurely sip of coffee.  “Just curious, sir. If she showed up in her navy whites, you still think you’d keep it professional?”

Fick froze.

Gunny kept going, merciless. “Hell, she wouldn’t even need a dress. The whites alone’d be enough to knock you flat.”

Fick inhaled like a man praying for strength. 

From behind them, Bryan strolled up, perfectly timed. “I dunno, Gunny,” he said. “At this point, I think it’d be more professional if they just got it over with.” 

Fick pinched the bridge of his nose, not expecting Bryan of all people, to get on the teasing train.

“Relax, Lt,” Bryan said, grin widening. “Whole squad’s rooting for you two. Boosts morale.”

“If you two ever make it official, I’ll officiate myself. Got a speech ready and everything. ‘Dearly beloved, we’re gathered here today to celebrate the worst kept secret in First Recon…” 

Fick shot him a look sharp enough to cut armor, but the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

Bryan saw it and grinned. “See? Not denying it anymore.”

“Denial takes energy I don’t have,” he muttered. 

The longer he was fixated on trying to crack the unconventional puzzle that was his Lieutenant’s love life, the more he wondered if maybe Hasser was right; his mind has completely deteriorated during their time in Iraq. 

The moment that sparked it all, was when Ray had left the cramped tent within Camp Mathilda for something as simple as a playboy magazine.

As he’d walked through the camo-coloured tent maze, he felt the dangerous burn of catching sight of something secret. His combat-trained and hardened Lieutenant sat on one of the many un-moved crates with an unfiltered smile on his face.

The sight alone caused Ray to falter his fast paced steps, catching him completely off guard. Sure, Ray had seen Nate smile before, after a solid mission had gone well, or when one of his men surpassed his expectations during training for instance.

But never something as unfiltered and boyish. 

Nate was smiling down at a dirt-smudged piece of paper, holding its adjoining yellow envelope with his other hand. Ray squinted his eyes, trying to read the backwards pen-written words but the sand that clung to the paper made it too obscured.

For a split second he battled the idea of speaking up, but the opportunity erased itself as Gunny called out to Nate. The shaved blonde head belonging to his Lieutenant darted up towards the voice, his usual composed professionalism upon his face as if the smile hadn’t ever been there to begin with.

Ray watched as Nate swiftly folded the paper and tucked it away before catching up to Gunny who’d already begun walking ahead.

Upon questioning Brad about the interaction, he’d been downvoted and dismissed. The more Ray brought it up, the more Brad brushed the entire situation off. For the rest of those who overheard the discussion within the tent, it was nothing more than another one of Ray’s long winded, humor filled rants.

But for Ray, it sparked the beginning of an investigation that even Nancy Drew would’ve been envious of. From that moment on, whenever Ray was in the vicinity of Nate, his ears pricked up and his eyes watched, waiting. 

Nate however never mentioned anything deemed too personal, especially nothing to do with his dating life. But Ray is hellbent on proving his doe eyed Lieutenant is whipped for someone back home.

A single notion kept Ray’s pursuit of knowledge in the forefront of his mind, despite the greatness of their Lieutenant he was still just a man. And like all men, he had tells. Ray had begun to learn them and had begun to spot them; just like any good (and incredibly sleep deprived) Recon Marine would. 

Over time it grew painfully obvious to the point of Ray growing exasperated that no one else in the platoon believed him, or even saw it for themselves.

The lingering looks towards the mixing coloured sky of each and every sun set and rise. The oddly simple tattoo on Nate’s wrist that after particularly difficult missions he’d run his hand over repeatedly. The easy refusal of the picture of the reporter’s girlfriend. A whisper to himself after one of the other Marines mentioned returning home. The sympathetic understanding he dished out towards the elderly Iraqi couples walking through their blockades. And of course, the letter that he pulled out when he thought no one was looking.

Days blurred together where it felt like each telling sign that gave Nate away were happening all at once. The more it continued the more Ray grew further exasperated in his team for not seeing it. 

Until it came to a crashing halt with irrefutable proof within the old Iraqi cigarette factory. Ray had been following the reporter, mindlessly after finishing up the latest task Brad had given him.

As simply as it began, it ended with Ray stumbling to a stop, mouth parted with wide eyes in surprise. His Lieutenant stood with his head dipped low whispering to a pretty, albeit tired, looking Marine.

The same boyish smile adorned his face, this time Nate’s eyes darted across the woman’s face. 

You, the camo-wearing woman, looked up at Nate with a similar lovesick expression (to Ray’s complete surprise). You held Nate’s hand with both of your own, the calloused pad of your thumb brushing against the tattoo identical to your own.

Whispering back and fourth, the rest of the world slipped away. Despite being completely dead on your feet from lack of proper sleep, you wouldn’t rather be anywhere other than right there in front of Nate. Unfortunately, such a peaceful luxury couldn’t be given for long in your line of work.

A loud and surprisingly high pitched yell drew the attention of you, Nate and the fellow Marines surrounding you both within the factory's main floor.

“- fucking knew it! I told you. Where’s Brad? I fucking told you!” Ray’s voice bounced off the thin metal walls of the factory. “I’ve been trying to tell you! Look at him, man, he’s acting like a fuckin’ hallmark protagonist!”

As Ray’s eyes darted around the large room, bouncing between the very obvious and no longer secretive couple and anyone he knew that happened to be walking past at the time. Ray's jumbled victory was short lived.

There stood the reporter, dear old Rolling Stone, with a pleased smile and an unsurprised expression. Ray’s eyes narrowed towards him, like a shark scenting blood. When he reached the war scribe, his hand gripped his shoulder in a tight hold. 

“What the fuck?” Ray muttered, shaking him slightly. “Be surprised, Scribe”

A gentle laugh bubbled out of the reporter, as he clicked the pen he was holding a couple times. “I, uh, already knew. So…”

Ray’s head darted back as if he’d been slapped. “You knew? How the fuck’d you know?”

Evan Wright shrugged, biting back another laugh as he lazily pointed towards Nate. “I just asked”

Ray’s eye twitched as an unusual but familiar laugh echoed behind him. Brad’s head was tilted back, still trying to shake his head as his shoulder bounced from his laughter. Brad's swift and strong hand patted him on the back, nearly causing him to lose his balance, if he hadn't been prepared for it.

As Brad collected himself, he left muttering about the consequences of ripped fuel on Ray’s hick brain. Standing there, mouth agape and brows furrowed. Ray’s brain broke further as you approached, with Nate following by your side.

- Theres definitely mixed reactions, depending on the guy.

- For example, I think Brad would actually be pretty accepting of the decision.

- I feel like he’s the type to be training his kid at home before they even go to bootcamp 😭

- He would definitely tell them exactly how it is. All the bad things about the Marine Corps, and all the good things.

- But if it was his DAUGHTER joining instead… I think the reaction would be a little different.

- Not to say he isn’t proud! But I think he would be more hesitant. Scared almost. (He wouldn’t show it though. After all he is the Iceman)

- I mean, he knows how rowdy Marines can be (cmon, he was one of them), and the thought of his daughter surrounded by them 24/7 makes him worry.

- He definitely pictured his daughter being surrounded by marines exactly like Ray, and that’s why it worried him.

- But once he calms himself, and realises that his kid is passionate about wanting to be Marine, he will be a very supportive and proud dad.

- Now Nate I think would instantly be like “No way are you doing this.”

- Instantly, every bad outcome is going to his head.

- He doesn’t want his kid being in possible danger all the time!

- No matter if its his son or daughter, he will still try and change their mind.

- But once he realises that he can’t, he will slowly just accept the fact that his son/daughter had turned out just like him.

- Wanting to be a big, strong Marine. And in the end, he’s so very proud.

- Lets see, Ray I think would just be glad that his son/daughter didn’t join the Air Force instead 💀

- The mention of the Marine Corps would probably trigger him to start telling all of his stories from when he was a Marine.

- I think he would be pretty laid back about it if it was his son joining.

- It’s not until his kid is actually sent to bootcamp that it finally hits him.

- The realisation that his kid is in the position he was once in, makes him freak out a bit.

- His daughter joining on the other hand, he’s not so chill about.

- He is scared of letting his daughter go be with dirty minded, immature Marines that could possibly put her in danger.

- But he knows that he can’t control the decisions his kid makes. All he can do is support them, and be by them when they get home. That was all he needed when he was a marine himself.

- Straight up, Doc does not approve of his son/daughter joining and immediately gives them a long lecture on all the negative aspects.

- His kid obviously won’t like his disapproval, but all he is thinking about is the fact that they could easily get injured out there and he wouldn’t be there to patch them up.

- He tries and tries to talk his son/daughter out of it, but it doesn’t work.

- He will try to keep in contact as much as possible through letters, but he understands how hard it is to find time to reply.

- In the end, all he can do is hope nothing bad happens, and check over them when they get home.

- As soon as the news hits, Rudy is making a list of everything his son/daughter should pack for bootcamp.

- He will remind his kid to exercise in any free time, and try to eat as healthy as possible (but he knows all about the food there, and how it’s definitely not apart of his diet)

- I think he would be too worried about training and preparing his kid before they are sent off, then worrying about the fact that they have joined the Marine Corps.

- Once his son/daughter is sent off, the realisation finally hits him, and he really starts to get sad.

- Any spare time he has, he’s writing to his kid to make sure they’re doing okay and keeping as fit and healthy as possible.

- Constantly worrying, but is proud of them.

not edited!

You had known how to shoot a gun since you were a little girl. Not a marine style gun, but you know how to shoot a shotgun, and damn . . . Were you good. Those skills and the fact that you were a hard worker and had tough skin got you accepted to join the marines.

It was hard, especially around mostly men, and people who judged and doubted your every movement. But you were raised by your parents to believe in yourself, and you only needed yourself and some determination to get where you wanted to go . . . And that men were stupid (surprisingly, that one came from your father). That’s how you got here, cowboy hat on your head and bag and gear in hand as you walked towards the tent where you were sleeping. You had already talked to the Lieutenant colonel and were now being led by First lieutenant Nate Fick with a reporter from the Rolling Stone beside you.

You were making small chat, talking about why you were both here when you arrived at the tent. “Pappy. I gotta be at battalion for a while, so make sure nothing happens when I'm there,” Nate started as you stopped walking. You could’ve sworn you saw everyone’s mouth drop open. “This is a writer who's gonna embed with us. He's from Rolling Stone, so be gentle. This is Corporal Y/n Y/l/n and she’ll be joining us. Keep it in your pants.” He finished and headed out.

Pappy, as he was called, didn’t say anything before he finally shut his mouth. “Hey pretty mama-“ “don’t start that shit with me.” You told him. Men around you started to laugh. “Listen up!” You yelled out. “Number one: I don’t want to suck your dick and two: i will take your dick off if you touch me,” you looked around the room. “Now, if you would show me where I’m staying that would be much appreciated.” Brad could hear the southern twang in your voice and swore that even though his dick got hard from seeing a girl as hit as you, you would be annoying. He hated country.

Soon enough, you were headed away from base after some pizza and had learned who you would be with: the reporter who’s name was Evan, Brad Colbert, Ray Person, and Gabriel Garza. You sort of knew what you were expecting from them when Ray and some other guys found out Evan wrote beaver hunt, but it was a bit awkward when you first got in.

You had your gun out the window, focusing on the scenery ━━ if you could call it that ━━ instead of the silence when Ray started to talk. “So . . .” he started as Brad mumbled a “oh no”, “where are you from?” “Texas. Small little town in the buttfuck middle of Texas.” You told them, eyes still focused on the area around you. “Are you a cowgirl then?”

You raised your eyebrow and turned to look at him. “Sure. I mean, depends on what you mean by that.” “Oh you know . . . Like cowgirl. Like close to country but not country.” “Cowgirl is country.” You and Brad said at the same time. Ray looked at Brad, and then winked. “You guys are telepathic right now.” You let out a laugh and let Ray continue to rant on.

“Headed down south to the land of the pines, and I’m thumbin’ my way into North Caroline.” You started to sing softly when Brad let out a grunt. “No country.” You raised an eyebrow. “He hates country.” Ray clarified. “Oh, I guess we might have a problem then,” you replied, “you won’t like me.”

You were right. Brad didn’t like you. He knew you tried to stop being so much like yourself, but you were a literal cowgirl. Like if someone told him “picture a cowgirl” there you were. You and Ray always broke out into country songs and the southern twang is yours was just too much for him. Brad didn’t really want to get to know you, but when you two were on watch one night while everyone else in the Humvee slept, it couldn’t be helped. That is when Brad learned about who you truly were. You were totally as “country” as he thought, but you had a normal childhood. You went to school, had friends, and everything else Brad did. You weren’t homeschooled and didn’t have thousands of pigs and chickens. You had chickens, and horses, but no pigs . . . Or cows.

He learned about your dad and how he taught you to shoot, how he encouraged you to join the marines if that’s what you wanted, having to fight twice as hard to get the third of the recognition. It was nice talking to you, he realized, and revealed a lot about his childhood than he would’ve to anyone else. He didn’t know it yet, but there were feelings blooming in his chest, and yours too.

To everyone’s surprise ━━ except for Ray, because even though they acted like they hated each other, he knew Brad like the back of his hand ━━, you and Brad started to get along. After that night on watch, you both realized the other wasn’t as bad as you both thought. You thought Brad as an egotistical asshole to put it lightly, but you would still work with him and save his life (even if it was just because you didn’t want to do a fuck load of paperwork and make him say thank you), and then you learned who he actually was.

He was a marine who cared even if he didn’t act like it, be always put people first before him, and was a gentleman at heart. You two became a duo and were always seen together. Brad had become accustomed to you songs and would sometimes join in when you weren’t looking. You two would flirt with each other, and not knowing , you both meant it.

Well, you didn’t know the other meant what they said until there was a close enough call where one of you got confident enough.

You didn’t know it yet, but it was close to the end of the war. You, Gabe, Colbert, and Trombley were surveying a field outside of Al Kut as Humvee’s drove on the road beside you. You had come across a dead Iraqi in a firing position. “They all got blankets on to

hide their heat signatures, right, Sergeant Colbert?” Trombley asked as you all gathered around the dead man. “A week ago, they didn't know we could see their thermals at night. Now they're adapting.” Brad replied. You snorted, “Brad hate to break it to you, but I don’t think it worked for him.”

All of a sudden there was an explosion in front of you and you felt arms wrap around your waist and pull you down as the person who was holding you yell “get down!” You couldn’t hear what was happening around you, only Brad’s voice in your ear reassuring you it was going to be okay.

None of you moved until the shooting stopped. Brad kept his head down as he grabbed your radio and spoke into it. “Two Actual, this is Two One. Who the fuck is shooting at us?” “I’d like to know that too.” You added. “Fuckin' L.A.P.D. cops from Delta! They fucking love shooting Mexicans.” Gabe spoke up from beside you and you looked up and turned to him.

“It was Alpha, Gabe. Alpha. Mistakes happen.” Brad looked at him, then tried to get up. He helped you up and let your waist go. “Not mistakes like that, Brad.” You replied. “Everyone likes to shoot Mexicans, even Mexicans.” Trombley said.

The group of you started walking back to the group of Humvee’s on the road. “What was that back there, Mr. Colbert?” You teased him. “Pretty handsy if you asked me.” “No one asked you.” He shot back, small smirk on his face. “No, but don’t want to know if I liked or not?” “I know you did, not shut the hell up and kiss me.”

He roughly grabbed your waist again and pulled you in, pressing your lips to his. There were sounds of whistling and “Brad’s getting some!” but you didn’t give them any attention as you wrapped your hands around his collar and pulled him closer. When you pulled apart, your foreheads leaning together as your breath mingled with the others.

“You’re a dickhead, Brad Colbert.” You smiled. “Likewise, cowgirl.”

“I lost faith in the world a long time ago,” Brad said to you as you sat on the front of the Humvee, soaking in the few moments with these people who you learned to trust with your life, “but when I found you, you were my last hope . . . You still are.” You smiled at him as he wrapped his arms around you. “Even if you are a whiskey tango fuck.”