He slowed down, but didn't quite stop until you reached his side. "What?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow. Headed back to Saigon."

"I heard."

"I figured it wouldn't hurt to ask one last time if you've changed your mind about the profile?"

He stood silent, unimpressed by your appeal.

"There's a brand new bottle of Jack Daniels with your name on it if you do."

"You allowed to give bribes?"

"Only when I'm desperate."

He took a long drag on his cigarette before finally nodding. "Alright."

You smiled, tempered and controlled for fear that showing too much excitement would only make him turn around and change his mind. You didn't have another month to wear him down. Though, for as much as you didn't know about him, which wasn't very much at all, really, you were certain Robert Barnes didn't do anything unless he wanted to. Watched him shirk Lieutenant Wolfe's questionable leadership and bark out his own, more competent orders on more than one occasion.

But it led to friction, resentment, insecurity, in-fighting, all of which you documented as if that was what Stateside readers wanted to see when they picked up their latest copy of The Hudson Tribune. A war being fought by burnouts and blowhards who hated each other almost as much as they hated the Viet Cong. A war with an enemy that embarrassed the world's foremost military power before eating breakfast. A war hard-pressed to produce household names like Audie Murphy or John Basilone—unless they were going on trial.

Glancing over at Barnes, you almost couldn't believe how intentional he seemed about everything he did. Even walking next to you, his long, confident strides didn't quite leave you in the dust, but you had to make a concerted effort to keep up with him, as if he wanted to see just how serious you were, how much you wanted it—wanted him.

The room was mostly packed up, save for a camera and two notebooks that sat on top of the table you'd been using as a desk for the past month. The ashtray wasn't yours, but just about every cigarette butt in it was. The rest of your belongings were stored away in your suitcase and backpack, ready to be brought back to Saigon with you the following day.

He didn't wait for an invitation to sit down. Helped himself to the more comfortable of the two chairs on either side of the table, his legs splayed out as if he owned the place, unreadable gaze fixed on you as you sat down across from him.

"Thank you for this. I know you have more important things to do, but I've been itching to sit down with the man in charge."

"You ain't confusin' me for the L-T now, are you?" he asked, snuffing out his cigarette in the ashtray.

"He's a figurehead at best. Good on paper, but in practice?" You made a vague waving gesture with your hand, unsure of what you even meant by it. "Every war, every conflict has someone exactly like him—well-meaning, but way too in over his head to be in charge of anyone but himself."

"That your expert opinion?"

"More or less."

He scoffed. "What the hell's a girl like you runnin' around war zones for, anyways? Got a death wish?"

"We're supposed to be talking about you, Sergeant."

"I ain't that interestin' of a subject."

"Bullshit. I've spent the past month trying to learn as much as I can about you, and I've barely scratched the surface."

"That so?"

"Humor me, Sarge, please?" you implored, sticking your hand in your bag to grab the promised Jack Daniels.

He reached over like it was already his when you set the bottle on the table. "Go on and pick up your pen, then."

Born on the cusp of kudzu swallowing the South, Robert Barnes abandoned any semblance formal education at the age of thirteen, all but expected in a holler where veins of coal ran thicker and deeper through most families than blood.

As he spoke, it was clear he had long since squared that back-breaking work for pitiful pay had to be done by somebody, sweat and struggle were inevitable, and the only notion of fair he knew of set up shop with flashy tents and carnival rides once a year on county property. Among the chaos and entertainment, military recruiters set up a glossy table, looking to lure hard-working, hearty young men away from the coal company that otherwise had a monopoly on their futures. Why wait for a draft card when a new and exciting opportunity could be taken by the horns so much sooner?

A month before his twentieth birthday, he signed his life away to the institution amidst ringing bells and flashing fairground lights. Almost hesitant to write, you couldn't picture him in such a carefree, civilian environment, let alone as a young man. Figured he was birthed from the iron womb of a tank, fully formed as the battle-hardened soldier who sat before you. Hazarding a guess as to his age, you figured he must've been in the Army for at least a decade. Although from what Elias said, when he arrived in Vietnam in '65, Barnes had already been in country for about a year. Regardless, calling Barnes a Lifer was an understatement when being a soldier seemed to possess his very soul.

You lifted your gaze from the lined page, your chest heavy as you noticed his eyes searching for something in yours—like he expected judgment, and seemed almost suspicious of your lack of it.

"Is it alright if I take a picture of you to go with the profile?" you asked.

"I'll break your camera."

"You look rugged. It'll add to the mystique for readers back home when they pick up a copy."

"Yeah? What good's that gonna do when they read half my face got shredded by VC bullets? Landed me four months in an Army hospital in Manila and then some. That gonna inspire the limp dicks back in the States to come runnin' over here?"

"I only meant—"

"That sweet talkin' shit might work on Elias, but you're not gettin' one over on me," he snapped.

Your jaw clenched. Fine. If he didn't wanna play nice, you didn't have to either.

Lifting your camera, you barely had a chance to adjust the lens before he grabbed your wrist and squeezed until you dropped it back on the table with a pained gasp. He released his hold on you, his face unreadable as you glared at him.

"Sorry for wasting your time," you muttered, gathering your things from the table, so insulted you were ready to storm out of your own damn office. "Have a good night, Sergeant Barnes."

"Hang on," he said. "Lemme see what you wrote."

For as much as you wanted to deny him the satisfaction, you knew he wouldn't let you leave the room without getting his hands on your notes one way or another.

You threw your notebook in front of him, standing to his side with your arms folded over your chest as he perused what you'd written.

His face betrayed nothing of what he thought of your writing as he silently flipped through the pages, his steely gaze scanning each one with what appeared to be indifference until his grip on the neck of the bottle tightened, and for a split second you were almost certain he was going to take a swing and give you a scar to match his.

"Is there something wrong with what I wrote, Sergeant?" you asked.

"Read that for me," he said, pointing to a paragraph. "Right there."

One of few coherent statements you'd written about the man, centered among haphazard notes and musings based on your personal observations as well as gossip that'd been divulged to you by various sources over the past month.

Clearing your throat, you read off what you imagined would be your concluding statement on the man: "Staff Sergeant Robert Barnes isn't merely a soldier, he is the soldier. His natural habitat is a war zone, and to picture him in any other setting borders on obscenity. Commanding fear and respect among the platoon in equal measure, his competency and confidence certainly isn't bravado, but has been proven repeatedly against an almost spectral enemy. He is the epitome of the virile, hot-blooded American man whom every swaggering star from John Wayne to Warren Beatty so desperately try and ultimately fail to imitate."

His intense stare didn't break when you looked up from the paper.

"What do you want me to say?" you asked, knowing you wouldn't get anywhere playing it safe with him. "I wrote the truth."

Silence suffocated the space for a moment too long. You parted your lips to take in a breath, but his mouth was sooner on yours—a kiss that demanded your full attention, leaving you preoccupied with kissing him back, the way his scarred lips felt on yours, the taste of whiskey and tobacco on your tongue as he invaded your mouth. You put up no resistance.

Your only relief was temporary, as he stood up and grabbed you by the hips, his fingers digging into the skin almost painfully, like he wanted to break through the flesh and claim you from the inside. And you wanted him to. God, you really did.

"I'm on the pill," you strained.

"I know."

You didn't know how he knew, but the fact that he did sent something especially primal in you into overdrive, crashing your mouth against his, more teeth and tongue this time around, consumption rather than a kiss, accompanied by the faint tang of iron, desire in a rusty shade of pink exchanged between your mouths.

"Sergeant, I want you," you implored breathlessly. "I want everything you'll give me."

"You're sayin' that like you got a choice."

With this assertion, he pushed his cock inside you, your wet pussy taking him greedily despite his lack of decorum, the tense interview apparently all the foreplay you needed before he picked up a punishing pace, though you it occurred to you that he very well could have been holding back, and you'd never know for sure if he truly pushed you to your limit.

Digging your nails into his bare arms, you attempted to ground yourself, his warm body far more stable than the table that creaked and groan with his exertion, threatening to give out beneath you with each unforgiving thrust that brought you closer to the edge of what you found was a heady mix of pain and pleasure.

"Give it to me, Sarge," you pleaded. "Fuck, I'm—"

"You're a greedy lil' slut's what you are," he said. "Been followin' me around like a puppy all month 'cause you wanted my dick. You satisfied? Got what you wanted?"

"Yes!" you cried out, pleasure crashing over you in a wave of heat, your already sweat-drenched body feeling as though it was on fire you as you came, your pussy pulsing around his cock.

With an unforgiving thrust, he came—white-hot, deep, branding you his from the inside, so primal and intimate you clung to him after he emptied himself in you, not wanting to lose the feeling of fullness, of closeness, quite yet.

And he indulged you, at least for a moment or two more than you expected, bringing his hand to your temple, his thumb wiping away the sweat that gathered there.

Separating your bodies was almost painful. A whimper caught in your throat at the emptiness, the chill that rolled over your skin with the absence of his body heat despite the humidity that hung over Vietnam like a veil. Your mind was hazy as you became acutely aware of the aches in your muscles, fresh bruises threatening to appear on your skin, though, as he tucked his cock back into his pants, you noticed a fresh cut on his bicep.

"You're bleeding," you whispered. "I'm sorry."

He looked down at his arm, a slow trickle of blood oozing from one of the crescent-shaped indents you left in his skin. "You get one photo," he said, his voice husky. "Make it quick."

Scrambling for your camera, you took a deep breath, steadying your hands as he came into focus through the lens. Sweat dripping from his face, cigarette hanging from his lips, he almost looked like he'd come right out of combat. You only wished you had color film to capture the intensity of the storm in his blue eyes as he stared you down until the shutter clicked.

"See? Didn't break," you murmured as you lowered the camera.

He scoffed, though you would've sworn on a stack of Bibles you caught a hint of a smile before he drowned it with a swig of whiskey.

Glancing at notebook on the table, a newfound vulnerability panged at your heart, the contents feeling more like your personal diary rather than a profile for national circulation. All of what he told you could've been bullshit, you weren't that naive, but the picture was real, and even if none of it saw the light of day, you'd take it to the grave, and if you were prolific enough to have biographies written about you, made your mark in journalism for people to give a shit about your work after you were gone, they'd go through your things and endlessly speculate who this man was to you.

Hell, you weren't even sure.

But daring and sentiment twisted in your gut for a moment, and you placed a kiss on his scarred cheek. "Thank you, Sergeant," you said softly.

"Watch your ass gettin' back to Saigon," he drawled.

Having all eyes on you wasn't new. No, for many, if not all of them, you were the first Donut Dolly and round-eyed girl they had seen since their service began. You were far more put together than the combat nurses you'd seen at other bases. Hell, your baby blue dress and white pumps was enough to raise an eyebrow regardless of the situation.

As you neared your targets, you noted the one man among them who decidedly took a step away. You tried not to follow him with your head, or eyes, as he removed himself completely, taking to lean against one of the poles which erected their bunks.

He was scarred, a look which twisted your stomach — it was surprise, mainly. And maybe a little unease. You had never seen such injury, and let alone on such an intense face.

The others, however, greeted you as many did; nervous smiles, excitement contained behind quiet nodding, and trying to suppress the foul language they felt wasn't fit for a lady to hear.

As you introduced yourself and sat down to talk, you quickly realised that you had made the correct call. These men were lovely, each in their own right, and happily went along with whatever topic you asked about, even cracking jokes that you may not have found funny, but politely chuckled at all the same.

The Sargent, who insisted you call him Elias, was warm and lead the conversation. Chris was relatively new to country by Vietnam standards, and was easy to talk to. The one they called Bunny was certainly the most forward to you, but it was nothing that made you uncomfortable (and something you expected). And Red was enthusiastic, someone who you knew would try and excel at the games you had with you.

But the outlier? Nobody had mentioned him, let alone so much as glance at him since you sat down. If you were greener, you would have felt bad. But he was one of the many who simply stood at a distance, opting to watch and listen instead of participating. You realised it was nerves a lot of the time. The GIs didn't tend to approach you first.

But the scarred man, who's insignia presented him as a Sargent? You had a feeling it was neither nerves nor confusion. No, the vibe he gave off was one you got commonly enough to identify — anger. Annoyance. He didn't want you there.

When the conversation got comfortable enough that the men were cracking jokes at you directly, you finally decided to breach the subject of the brooding superior.

"Your other Sargent has a stick up his ass, doesn't he?" You dared through a bright smile and giggle, hoping they'd appreciate something un-lady-like coming from your pretty mouth.

Their reactions, however, were split right down the middle. Elias and Chris laughed in agreement, but Red and Bunny sent disapproving looks between each other and fell silent. It's not the first time you had overstepped saying such a thing, but you still felt the awkward pang in your stomach that took the words from your throat.

"Don't take it to heart." Elias began, ignoring Bunny and Red. "Barnes just doesn't know how to act around women."

"I'll say." Chris muttered in agreement.

"Guys." Red spoke then, half scolding and half... worried? You swore there was fear in his voice. "C'mon."

"You scared, Red?" Elias teased, to which Red, to save face in front of you and Chris mainly, hesitantly scoffed.

"No."

"Okay, gentlemen," You said suddenly as you stood, smoothing out your dress as you went, "I'm going to get myself situated and I'll see you later."

Wanting to get as far away from that discussion as possible before it spiralled, you bowed your head in a farewell. But Bunny took it as an invitation, rushing to his feet.

"I'll walk with you!" He beamed, and you didn't have it in you to say no to his excitement.

"We're having a party tonight, if you want to come?" Elias asked quickly before you could respond to Bunny, and this time everyone looked at you expectantly.

Including Sgt. Barnes.

"I'd love to!" Your answer was genuine, excitement spilling over and giving all of the men their smiles back.

You looked over to Barnes then, swallowing thickly as your eyes met his narrowed. The intensity had goosebumps blistering across your sweaty skin, prompting you to look away and instead nod at Bunny. You bid everyone goodbye and headed off to find the Red Cross tent.

After getting situated and eating alongside the men in the chow hall, you and the other women got ready for the various parties that were happening on base. Truthfully, this was one of your favourite parts of being a Donut Dolly — minus raising the morale of the soldiers, of course.

Your family had sent you a few dresses as per your request, and tonight you opted to wear a yellow and black mod dress. It was the newest addition to your small closet, from some London designer you had never heard of but your mother swore by. Truthfully, it fit you well.

And judging by the gushing of the other girls and a few glances from soldiers on guard duty, everyone else thought so, too. Though you mainly chalked it up to confidence.

Once again you went it alone, promising the girls that you would join them at the Officers' party soon but that you had promised Elias you'd show up to something else. They understood, telling you not to get involved with enlisted men (with a nudge and a wink, of course).

You got just into the darkness of the strangely empty camp when a dark silhouette blocked your path. You damn near jumped out of your skin, a shrill gasp being swallowed by the sullen lack of joy in the figure's appearance.

As your eyes adjusted, you managed to make out the moon's reflection on a scarred face. Barnes in all of his glory, fatigue jacket removed and leaving him in his olive coloured shirt.

As you stared up at him, and him down at you, you swore his eyes glinted red in the pale moonlight.

"You scared me half to death!" You attempted to joke, hoping that making light of the situation would break down whatever wall he had up.

But, no. If anything it seemed to make it worse. His head tilted just a fraction, something you would have missed if not hypervigilant due to fearing for your life.

"What're you playin' at?" His voice was even, as if he wasn't pissed beyond belief. As if he wasn't tearing you apart from the soul out.

"I-I'm sorry?" Your brows furrowed, stutter involuntary as your brain struggled to comprehend his blatant accusation.

"This Donut Dolly shit." He gave a small gesture at you, as if you were still wearing your uniform. As if you weren't standing right there. "What're you playin' at?"

Your mouth ran dry, and you were sure you looked like a deer in headlights. Fear constricted your throat as Barnes' unwavering stare kept boring into you, offering no reprieve. Never before had you been questioned about your role in-country. At least never to your face.

"I'm here to help." You said simply, voice quiet, reserved, hesitant.

"How're you doin' that? You fixin' these men up?" He took a step towards you, to which you remained planted where you were. When you didn't reply, he continued: "You think my men wanna be seein' you on base?"

"Many find us pleasant to have around. A-A-A reminder of home." You tried to sound assertive, you did. But he was now close enough that you swore you could feel his body heat.

"Remindin' us of home... y' think my men want to remember what they're missin' even more than they already do?" Barnes scoffed. "Doris from next door ain't what we need. Better facilities, new equipment — that's what we need."

"I'm sorry I can't help you more." You attempted to appeal to his beliefs, but was genuine in that sentiment. "I just want to give your men a taste of home. Like, uh, a rest from what's happening."

Barnes was silent then, examining you intensely. He searched your gaze, the makeup on your moonlit face. He leaned down enough that his hit breath fanned your face, scars unavoidable (had he noted you trying not to look?).

"Listen t' me, Donut Dolly. Stay away from my men." His brows lowered a fraction more as you stared, unblinking, up at him. His voice turned to a whisper. "Understood?"

"Yes." You whispered in reply, surprised he even heard you.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

He nodded then, as if in approval, before straightening back up. "You're an attractive girl. Watch yerself."

Your mouth opened to question what he meant, but nothing came out. You watched him turn stiffly and walk back to wherever he had come from. Subconsciously, you leaned forwards to follow his path, and you caught the exact moment he was encased in shadow and gone from view.

You released a breath you didn't know you were holding, a shaky hand straightening out your dress. Glancing around, weary of his threat or warning, you picked back up on your journey to join Elias' party.

"My editor asked that while I'm here, I write up profiles on a few of you guys," you said when you made it to his side. "Would you be willing to sit down for fifteen minutes or so—"

"No."

"Alright." You hardly sounded surprised by his answer. "Well, if you change your mind, just let me know. I'll be around for a few more weeks."

A month, to be exact. You'd be shacked up with the platoon for an entire fucking month. Harris told them it was part of your greater half-year long assignment throughout warring Indochina for The Hudson Tribune, which was bestowed upon you following your on the ground coverage of the Six Day War in the Middle East. Trading the desert for the jungle, at least you weren't as clueless as most of the cherries coming in.

Didn't make you any less of a thorn in his side, though.

The sun had already begun to set when he spotted you sitting on supply crates with Bunny and Junior, writing furiously in the notebook balanced on your lap. The two spoke animatedly, hands wrapping around imaginary guns as they regaled you with undoubtedly embellished stories of their encounters with the enemy.

One of them said something that made your hand fly to your mouth, shoulders shaking, and Bunny looked particularly pleased with himself.

Barnes scoffed. You had to be one crazy little broad find anything Bunny said remotely funny. Knew you were crazy to be out there in the first place, but after five days in the shit with them, you showed no desire to run back to Saigon with your tail between your legs. For as many photos as you snapped, you made yourself useful, helping Doc with the wounded brought back from an ambushed night watch. Didn't flinch when ordered to hold a metal dish for the blood-soaked bullets fished out of mangled flesh or put pressure on a weeping wound.

Just when he was close to begrudgingly admiring you, you threw your head back, lips curved up in an open-mouthed smile. The sound of your laughter carried across base camp and stirred something awake in his gut he'd long since assumed had died out in the jungle—lust, or close enough to it that your presence could almost certainly throw a wrench in the machine.

Cogs didn't fuck. Cogs didn't desire anything but to make the machine run as smoothly as possible. But if discipline fueled the machine, morale kept it well-oiled and chugging along. Just about everyone's mood had lifted upon your arrival and remained buoyed since. Of course, Elias welcomed you with open arms, probably already initiated you into his debauched 'Underworld,' but every other sentence out of his own guys' mouths had something to do with you.

"You think she'll put out while she's here?" O'Neill asked over Hank Williams' voice crackling from the radio.

"Hell yeah, man! You should've seen her earlier! The way she was laughin' and shit? She's about ready to hop on this dick," Bunny bragged from his cot. "Right, Junior?"

"She was probably only laughing 'cause you scared her, man," Junior said.

Bunny grinned. "I hope she is. 'S always better when they're scared."

"Whattya think of 'er, Bob?" O'Neill asked.

He took a drag from his cigarette, radiating an unaffected cool despite his blazing thoughts of what exactly he wanted to do to you. "Better to get your rocks off with her than give your hard-earned pay to some VC whore who's gonna hand it over to Charlie as soon as your dick's limp."

It wasn't all that funny, but O'Neill laughed anyway. "You make one hell of a point there!"

Barnes didn't have much else to say as the conversation about you went on and eventually drifted elsewhere, though in the back of his mind, he remained fixated on what he'd do when he had you. Wasn't above playing dirty, stringing you along until you were really desperate to get something out of him worth writing down. Then he'd feed you some bullshit in exchange for whatever the hell he wanted out of you. Probably wouldn't be your first time putting out for a story, or your last (though, he privately reckoned, it would be if he had anything to do with it).

Later that night, when he retired to his bunk with a half-drunk bottle of Jack Daniels, he wasn't quite sure why his mind brought him there, but when he closed his eyes, he was at the county fairground, an almost mystical place in his youth. The traveling carnival's annual stop was nothing short of a spectacle. Amidst the indulgent scent of fairground food, colorful lights and carnival barkers competed for his attention as he passed each rickety ride, rigged game, and tent that offered more excitement in one night than his hometown could in a lifetime.

Nothing came close to siren song of the shooting gallery, though.

Instead of taking a seat in the crowd, enraptured by the sharpshooting act as he had been as a boy, he stood on the wooden stage, pistol in hand, with you standing on the other end of it in front of a crudely painted desert scene. A Lady Liberty-esque crown of unlit candles would adorn your head, and the same revealing cowgirl costume he silently oogled over as a young man hugged your body.

He stared you down as he fired a shot, the first candle on your crown alight as he hit his mark. Your painted lips parted, eyes widened as he did it again, and again, and again, until all five were lit in rapid succession, illuminating your face in a blaze of intimate violence.

Lowering his firearm, he'd close the distance between you, his blue eyes locked onto yours, glowing against the halo of fire atop your head and luring him deeper into hell. But he would kiss you regardless of whether that sharpshooter tent was still in Appalachia or the middle of Vietnam, his strong hand claiming your flesh for his own, fingers digging into your soft cheek—save for his thumb, resting just beneath your chin, itching to press against the base of your throat. Wanted to feel you swallow him down, whiskey-soaked spit swapped in your mouth for what he could only imagine would be sweet, subtly smoky, as he hardly saw you without a cigarette between the lips he'd commit to memory with his tongue.

He grunted, sucking on his teeth as he made quick work of unzipping his pants, freeing his hard cock, already leaking precum.

But he didn't have time to indulge in elaborate, showy fantasies, not nearly as intimate as it could be—hard and fast and visceral. He dropped the two of you into the nearby jungle instead, watching as you'd break into a panicked sprint away from him when you saw him for who he really was, the man you so foolishly wanted to be alone with. He would hear your labored breathing above the sound of bird calls and animal cries, your soft whimpers only growing clearer the more you tried to put distance between the two of you.

Licking his lips, he'd silently lift his gun, close one eye, and pull the trigger. Your body would drop, and he could take all the time in the world reaching you, unable to move, as he'd find his aim was spot-on, blood staining the fabric of your pants around where his bullet penetrated your calf.

With tears and sweat glistening across your pretty face, dirt smudged against your cheek, you would look up at him with the fear and submission of a prey animal when he'd stand over you, silently taking in your pathetic state until he crouched down, his steady hands tearing through the ruined fabric to get a better look at the wound he inflicted. Gushing crimson, adorning your skin like rubies, he’d collect the warm blood on his fingers and bring them to his mouth, tasting you at your most vulnerable, laying claim to his spoil of war, the trophy he'd display above his mantle.

His cock twitched in his hand, and with a low groan and measured jerk of his hips, he came, your name and the taste of your blood on the tip of his tongue, both guarded jealously by his unrelenting self-restraint. He huffed out a breath as he wiped his hand on a nearby rag, tossing it to the ground.

Yeah, you were pretty good for morale.

Though your makeshift office was in a state of organized chaos you’d long since gotten used to, something akin to claustrophobia pushed you to venture out into the night. Taking a cigarette from the pack laying next to your camera, you quickly lit it while considering what to bring with you on your excursion. You settled on the basics, your notebook and a pen, in case there’d be something else worth writing about while you took what you told yourself would be a quick walk.

Base camp was never completely silent, though there was an almost eerie hush to it at night, men’s voices intermingled with the not so distant sounds of jungle life. The full moon cast a glow over the place you wished you could adequately photograph, but you settled for staring at it above you, watching the smoke you exhaled rise to meet it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a man approaching, waving at you as he did so.

"If it isn't our fearless correspondent," Elias greeted with a smile.

"Evening, Sergeant."

"Elias," he insisted. "You eat yet?"

You nodded. "Traded Francis my turkey loaf for his lima beans."

"Why'd you do that?"

"So he'd tell me his story."

Elias grinned. "You're crazy."

"What gave it away?"

Everyone had an opinion on your being there, even if they didn’t say so, at least not to your face, but Elias had been welcoming since the beginning. Even the COs were understandably weary of you at first, worried about your write-ups, what you’d see and hear to bring back to your editor and ultimately present to an increasingly jaded national audience.

With Elias’s unspoken approval, though, it put you in the good graces of at least half of the platoon, who had fascinatingly split themselves into two almost rival factions, dedicated to either he or Sergeant Barnes, leaving Lieutenant Wolfe floundering to inspire any kind of respect or dedication among the platoon.

Though you could tell Barnes didn’t quite care for you, the novelty of your being a woman helped as you reached out to some of his men. His consistent rebuffing your attempts to speak to him only fueled your determination to get something, anything out of him before you returned to Saigon, even if he did intrigue and terrify you in equal measure.

But it was easy to feel comfortable around Elias, almost forget you only knew him for the better part of two weeks. Oklahoma born and raised, though Elias was the type of guy you could picture being at home just about anywhere. You'd been almost shocked to find that he was a Lifer, that years in Vietnam hadn't snuffed out his light.

“I dig those rings you got there,” Elias said, taking your free hand in his, lifting it so he could get a better look.

“My editor made me take a few days off in Beirut after my coverage finished up. He and his wife met me there, and she spent a whole day at the souks—the bazaar, and she bought them for me,” you explained as he examined the polished, multi-colored stones set in intricate silver bands.

“What are these?”

“Different types of agate. I don’t really wear jewelry, but I didn’t wanna make her feel bad,” you said. “Their daughter dropped out of college to join some fringe religious movement and doesn’t talk to them anymore.”

He was quiet then, looking at you for a moment as if to regard you with new consideration. “You got any plans tonight?”

“I have a feeling I’m about to.”

He squeezed your hand. “C’mon.”

Allowing him to lead you to the bunker-esque Underworld, you followed as he descended, finding the place aglow with dubiously connected strings of Christmas lights. A cloud of smoke hovered above the men as they passed joints between each other and took to various methods of shotgunning.

“Behave yourselves, boys, we have a guest,” Elias announced.

You shook your head. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

“That’s impossible,” King said with a smile.

Crawford approached, handing Elias the blunt smoldering between his fingers. “You dig, reporter lady?”

“Yeah," you said, watching as Elias toked, a long, deep inhale before extending the offering to you.

In the back of your mind, something from a Classics course taken in years past wormed its way to the front of your brain as you accepted, your hit from the blunt marking your descent into the Underworld. Wasn't the first time you smoked grass, and wouldn't be the last, but these guys seemed to regard it as casually as cracking open a beer after a long day of work.

Any trepidation toward your presence dissipated with your participation in this ritual of theirs, as you certainly couldn't snitch if you were part of it, too. Feeling yourself relax, you zoned out upon noticing the poster of Ho Chi Minh on the far wall, almost surreal with a Motown track playing above the rest of the noise.

"Hey reporter lady," someone said, and you turned your head to see who was trying to get your attention. "What the hell are you doin' all the way out here?" Gator asked, tuning his guitar. "I mean, you must've pissed someone off big time."

You smiled. "Would you believe this a promotion?"

The men around you howled with disbelieving laughter.

King coughed out, "Promotion?"

"No way!" Crawford spun around in place, his hands on his head as he tried to process your words. "No fucking way, dude!"

"I just finished covering the Six Day War in the Middle East," you said.

"Shit, man, I wish this war was only six days," Francis said.

"The Middle East? That shit's been going on forever, man." Rhah held up his fists, displaying the crudely tattooed 'LOVE' and 'HATE' on his knuckles. "Six days, six thousand years. It's all the same."

As a philosophical argument ensued, Elias silently nodded toward a far corner of the Underworld, and you followed him past a tightly packed mound of dirt that served as a wall, to a hammock hanging under the baffling poster of the leader of the Viet Cong and above what could only be described as a nest of various pillows and blankets on the ground.

“It’s the most I can offer in the way of privacy,” he said, almost apologetic. “But make yourself at home.”

“This is great, Elias,” you assured him, sitting on a rather flat pillow, knowing your lower back would be screaming in the morning. "Thanks."

He sat next to you, his arm around your shoulder, the strangely familiar and comforting gesture complimenting the mellow mood that’d been slowly setting in since your first toke.

“So, how’d you land a gig like this?” he asked. “Being a war correspondent, I mean.”

"My editor's been gunning for a Pulitzer since the Missile Crisis. Around when my internship with The New York Times was ending, he was looking for the next Lee Miller, and I convinced him that that's me."

He grinned. "You gonna get your photo taken in Uncle Ho's bathtub?"

You barked out a laugh at that. "If I'm lucky."

Taking a long drag of the joint between his fingers, he leaned down, his lips gentle against yours as he exhaled the smoke into your open mouth. Felt close enough to sinning that you nearly pulled away, until you remembered you answered to no one but yourself, and when the readers back home picked up their copies of The Hudson Tribune and read about Sergeant Elias Grodin, they wouldn't know that his kiss left you almost breathless, that he was the kind of man who could send you flying if you asked him to take you that high.

"Here," you whispered, pulling one of the rings off of your index finger and placing it in his palm. "I want you to have one."

"This is far out, babe." He admired the ring, a shock of light blue and silver against his tanned skin. "Thank you."

He tugged his necklace over his head, untying it to add the ring to the other charms that hung from it. Regardless of religious background, the men were strict observers of superstition, all possessing some physical talisman or odd habit that they swore would ensure they’d return home when their year in Vietnam was up. But Elias was a Lifer, and you supposed such a thing served as a creature comfort for him, some stability in a place where almost nothing was certain.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

"You haven't given me reason not to."

"I won't," he assured you softly. "I just wanna try something."

He pulled at the knot keeping his Airborne bandana in place until it fell into his lap. Picking it up, he looked fondly at you before leaning over and placing it over your eyes. The soft fabric had ostensibly been worn down from years of use, comfortable against your skin as you felt his fingers brush the back of your head, tying it in place.

"What do you see?" he asked.

"Nothing," you answered.

In almost complete darkness, save for the stray sliver of light that crept in at the very bottom of your line of vision, your altered state rendered you especially aware of every other sense in the absence of your sight.

Like the touch of his hand, gentle against your lower back as he silently guided you down until you were laying flat across the lumpy pillows and blankets beneath you. Though you couldn't see anything, you knew nobody else could see you either—except Elias, and the intensity of his gaze penetrated the cloth over your eyes, sending a shiver down your spine as he lifted the hem of your t-shirt, the cotton fabric brushed against your bare skin until you felt it bunch up just below your neck.

You did trust him, that part had been true, but even so, your natural curiosity was burning in anticipation of where he intended to take this experiment until you felt his mouth just above your breast, his tongue soft and warm against your skin.

It was almost overwhelming, the way you could feel everything so intensely, from the coarse blanket that scratched against your curling fingertips, to his lips moving down your torso—hot, open-mouthed kisses savoring you like a delicacy.

You couldn't help the soft gasp you let out when his tongue brushed over a patch of scarred-over skin just above your navel.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Belfast," you breathed. "Spring of last year."

You weren't keen on going into detail about how you had to spend the better part of a week in a hotel room in Dublin, convincing your editor that catching a stray piece of a bombed out pub was nothing to panic about.

"You been everywhere, huh?"

"Yeah." But nowhere like here.

Putting up no resistance when his fingers tugged at the waistband of your pants, you were nothing but eager when you lifted your hips to make it easier for him to pull them down your legs until you felt the fabric bunched up at your knees.

You tensed slightly when his fingers pressed against your clothed pussy, acutely aware of the pressure against your clit.

"C'mon, Elias," you whispered, and you didn't have to see him to know he was grinning, could feel the way his lips moved against your thigh, then.

Something about him, the calm assurance he carried himself with, your altered state notwithstanding, made it feel almost vulgar to allow yourself more than a whisper or a gasp, as if you'd shatter something sacred if you raised your voice—even when he pulled down your panties and you could feel the tip of his tongue circling your clit as he slipped two fingers inside you with ease.

But it was his other hand, the one that reached for yours, intertwining your fingers, overwhelmingly intimate as he squeezed it in reassurance, that filled your obscured vision with a field of white—bright, almost violent, stunning you into near silence, save for the soft moan that managed to escape your throat as you rode out your orgasm on his tongue.

When he pulled away, the clamor of the Underworld rang in your ears, and the haze cleared in your brain, reminding you that you and Elias weren't alone, though somehow, he'd made it seem like it.

Did they know? Had they been watching? Did you even care if the answer to either was 'yes'?

Sitting up, you pulled off the bandana and handed it back to Elias. His fingers brushed over the fabric with a melancholy sentimentality before he tied it back around his forehead, almost reverent in comparison to the lack of grace you felt as you shimmied your pants back on.

"I should head back," you said after a moment's silence. "Thanks for the hospitality."