A/N:

I said I wasn't going to post another fic without finishing it first, but dammit, I have terrible impulse control when it comes to smolderingly attractive deputies. It seems I can't help myself, don't really want to either. Fight me. I'm so sorry.

I try, but if there are any remaining mistakes/typos, then I apologize. As always, constructive criticism is welcomed, and I hope you enjoy.

Her nose is broken.

"Ow, jesus shit fuck!" It comes out more like, "g'ooww, jesu' shi' fuhhgh."

With effort she manages to roll onto her back, spits the dust out of her mouth. There's still plenty left, and trying to work it off her teeth proves mostly futile.

"Clarence?" She looks around, doesn't see him. Panicking, she sits up too fast, then coughs because she inhaled more dust at the same time. The stuff is like glitter, can't get rid of it. The bout of coughing lets her know her ribs are likely cracked, but a quick search with her fingers doesn't find an obvious break. Something to worry about later. "Clarence?"

"Here. 'm fine." He's behind her and not bleeding. "You good?"

She takes stock. "Think so." Her ribs and head hurt. "Mostly."

"Daaamn." Clarence sounds a bit dazed, but his eyes are clear enough, looking down the street behind them. "Hotel's trashed."

Fuck.

That gets her up, ribs and head be damned. She discovers a semi-twisted ankle in the process and promptly ignores it.

"I'll head there, you see if you can find the others. Head to the base, not your office."

Clarence grunts an affirmative, and she sprints back to the hotel, more like a shitty jog.

Trashed. Trashed is what rock stars do to a hotel room after a night of binging and partying. This isn't trashed; it's demolished. Half the front of the building is caved in. There's a huge pile of broken concrete and drywall in the front, but at least getting inside is no trouble since there's no longer a front wall.

"Carter! Gutterson!" The yelling sends her into another fit of coughing, which sends a thick needle of pain lancing through her side. She squeezes her arm over her ribcage as a brace and yells some more anyways. Their bodies weren't obviously visible in the rubble outside, so she finds her way to the stair well, which is thankfully all the way on the western side and towards the back, and heads for the roof.

They're not on the roof either. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." Each time she opens her mouth, a little more blood leaks in, mixing with the grit to make mud. She spits again and swipes her face with her sleeve, accidentally jabs her nose a bit too hard, and swears some more. So much for watching her language, but that's what you get for making New Year's resolutions in July.

Picking her way carefully along the roof, mindful of cracks, she continues the search. All the effort of her mental faculties goes into finding them, so she doesn't have to think about the possibility of having gotten two soldiers killed on her second day back. She treads cautiously up to the edge of the blown off roof, and slithers on her stomach to look onto the exposed floor below. Nothing in the first room. She crawls to the left, keeping her weight on the right side of her chest.

"Hey!"

Pushing up on hands and knees, she hightails it as fast as she can over to where the shout came from.

"Where are you?" But she sees him before she's even done asking. Carter's standing amidst broken furniture in a penthouse suite. He kneels back down next to a motionless body when he sees her head poke over the edge.

"Gutterson?" Her voice is thin, verging on panic. She's not sure if she's calling to the man himself or asking Carter if his partner is alive.

"Alive." The breakneck build and release of adrenaline leaves her shaky, and she squeezes her hands together a few times to steady them. Oh thank you. Hopefully, whatever deity(ies) is(are) responsible appreciates the gratitude and keeps up the good work. She'd feel more relieved if he were moving; as it is, that doesn't make her overly optimistic. Someone had once told her that preemptive fear is useless as a can of gasoline in a ten-alarm blaze, so she tries to focus on the alive part, the here and now. She tells herself everything is peachy – everyone she knows is alive, and she can still walk. Mostly.

Lowering herself back onto her stomach, she slides around so her feet are dangling over the edge, and lets herself down into the room. Her ribs protest the stretch immediately, so the drop ends in more of a stumble when she lets go of the edge too fast. Her left ankle, already protesting the decision to sprint up twelve flights of stairs, promptly goes on strike.

"Gutterson?" Breathing, not awake. "Carter, you still got a radio?" She limps towards them.

"Maybe." Satisfied Gutterson's alive, he gets up to find it.

Very carefully, she lifts the unconscious soldier's head a fraction and feels under it with her fingers. No blood. Lucky for him he fell on carpet. Another silent thank you to a benevolent deity. She cranes her head around to see Carter blowing drywall dust off a radio, swiping it against his shirt.

Gutterson's breathing changes, and with a terrified jolt, she fears that he's about to take a turn for the worse, but when she looks back down his eyes are beginning to screw up. He's starting to wake.

"Hey, you alright? Nope, keep your head still," she says when he tries to lift it. He complies and keeps still a minute before unclenching his eyelids.

"You're asking me if I'm alright? You look like shit." She probably does. Her nose is throbbing.

"Gee, thanks. And I'm fine."

"When you say that with so much blood all over you, people are like to think you're a bit of a liar." She laughs and immediately regrets it.

"Don't do that. My ribs hurt."

"So you are a liar." Gutterson's eyes fall closed in self-satisfied contentment.

"You always this sassy?"

"Apparently I hit my head. I'm not responsible for anything."

"Oh is that how it is?" Come to think of it, this is the most talkative she's seen him.

Carter comes back over, radio by his side, and plunks himself down on Gutterson's right. "If that's how it is, then you ain't never been responsible for a single thing in your life. We all know your momma dropped you on your head the day you were born."

"At least my momma didn't drop me face first, asshole."

Carter chuckles. "Still prettier 'n you."

There's a couch a few feet away. The legs are broken now, so it's too uneven to sit on, but the cushions are still in working condition, so she drags them over. After working a small throw pillow under Gutterson's head she takes one of the bigger ones for herself. They can hear sirens now.

"Where's the rifle?" she asks.

"Don't worry, I took it apart and threw it over the side," Carter sounds pained, "Sorry Tim, barrel was bent all to hell anyways."

o.O.o

Sixteen hours prior

Lena's boots hit the ground with a crunch. Mmm, no more concrete, no more civilization. No wait, that's mean… no more…no more…screw it, it's not mean, it's true: no more civilization. If this were civilization, people would have dental checkups and there wouldn't be any child brides. See? There's the bright side: you have good teeth and you weren't married at age twelve. Dang it's hot. She chucks her hair back in a messy knot atop her head. A shower sounds pretty nice right about now.

"Mrs. Carlan!" A man in ACUs approaches at a brisk pace. Three chevrons and a rocker.

"Hello Sergeant," she says when he reaches her and continues affably, "And it's not Mrs." She swings her bags to the side to shake his hand, and doesn't bother to add 'It's doctor.' Around here you sound like even more of an asshole than usual if you say things like that; it's also irrelevant. His grip is firm, no limp-wristing it for a lady. She decides she likes him.

"Sergent O'Malley."

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise, ma'am." That's right, back in the land of 'ma'am'.

Sergeant O'Malley is the get-down-to-business sort, something she also likes. Instead of taking her to her room, he leads Lena down a few sterile hallways to a meeting room first. Too much of this visit is going to be waiting, and it's best to get this show on the road before taking a breather. She throws her duffle and backpack in the corner, plops herself in a chair on the far side of the table, and starts pulling out her laptop. The sergeant tosses her a few cables, which she runs between the laptop and a projector.

There's a single knock at the door, and before either of them says anything, a guy with a barely-within-regs high and tight pokes his head in. Three more men file into the room behind him. Two of them look like they haven't been on base for a stretch if the week-old stubble is anything to go by.

Even before she starts speaking, she can feel their full attention. It's both annoying and flattering, also annoying that she can't decide which she feels more strongly. On the upside, she reminds herself, at least she won't have to fight to keep their attention. Any woman on a base, especially one not in uniform, becomes conscious of being just that, a woman. Shania Twain's Feel like a Woman pops into her head for the occasion.

Before she'd come the first time, some of the others in the office who'd already been over had told her she might want to bring baggier clothes, ditch the make-up. She'd taken the advice at first, but the stares kept coming regardless, and it just felt too much like cowardice, admitting defeat. Determined to force everything back to normal again, she wore what she'd always worn before and did her best to ignore the abnormal environment. At least this bunch is silent, no audible whispers that she has to wonder about coming from behind her back.

As the first image pops up on the big screen, Sergeant O'Malley says a few words of introduction on both sides, and without further ado leaves her to explain why she's here. The first part of the mission is relatively simple. She's here to find a man named Sayeed Al'Faheen, a doctor in Tagab, had disappeared eight months back right after a convoy of American troops followed his information on a contact into an ambush. Seven people died, and four had been hospitalized.

That was also supposed to have been simple. They weren't even going after a high value target, nor was it in a particularly dangerous area. They were just heading to a first time meet with one of the local warlords to see how much cooperation and support they could get. It was hardly worth the trouble of blowing up a convoy. An unlucky encounter with an IED might have been dismissed as bad luck. The follow up attack by twenty or so armed men in the aftermath in an area known for being relatively safe was not.

Al'Faheen's house had been ransacked, and with no sign of him, everyone assumed he'd been taken and killed for working with the infidels. Only problem was the subject of the good doctor had popped up in a phone call six months later. It's possible no one would have noticed, but self-recrimination and a tendency to dwell on one's failures makes a person extra vigilant. So she noticed, and she paid attention. He was alive and well. Apparently, last time anyone had heard about the bastard, he'd moved to one of the smaller towns outside of Kabul and grown a beard. During her time back in the States Al'Faheen had since moved on, but the general consensus is that he would still be relatively nearby. She's pissed that he hadn't had to work that hard to disappear. Given that their mission shouldn't have been a blip on Taliban radar, that begged the question of what had made the whole mess worth starting in the first place. She's fixing to ask him that. She isn't fixing to be nice about it.

The plan Lena lays out is threefold: find the doctor, figure out what he cares about enough to keep them from getting at, and then go get whatever – or more likely whoever – that is. The first part means a ride into Kabul to meet with Clarence and his contact, Walehd, a low level bureaucrat in the Afghani government willing to take cash in exchange for information. She doesn't know Walehd, so she doesn't trust him. Not that she ever trusted any source that she'd developed here, but there were varying degrees of distrust. People who get a salary boost, like Walehd, tend to bombard you with large volumes of information and oversell the importance of what they're telling you. Anything to keep the money coming their way. Then it falls to you to sift through the muck.

Tomorrow they'll head into town, she'll have her sit-down with Clarence and the snitch-for-hire, and the four men sitting at the table – two sniper-spotter pairs – will be up on the roofs. She likes snipers; they're patient, they don't wuss out early, and they can keep their attention where it needs to be when the hard part of a mission is the boredom. Their job will be watching for anyone watching the meeting. This isn't going to be like her last visit. Lena hadn't been as careful as she ought. She'd thought paranoia was shameful; now she knows it's smart. She isn't here to save face; she's here to do a job. Once everyone gets a map and their marching orders it's time to call it a day.

o.O.o

Just open your fuckin' mouth and offer to carry her bags. 'Hey, want me to take one of those for you?' 'Need a hand with those?' It's not that fuckin' complicated. She's got a couple big ass bags and probably thinks he's an asshole for not offering. Tim weighs the potential dangers of asking to help with her luggage. He wonders if she'll be offended if he offers. Many women on a base fall into two categories: those who develop princess syndrome and those who get standoffish or pissed when they see you trying to get close. He thinks about what Kelsey would tell him to do, but he's not sure if what his mind cooks up is from the angel on his shoulder or the devil.

She readjusts the position of her backpack, hitching it higher.

"Uhh.." She turns her head to look at him. Goddammit. "Can I help you with that?"

"Huh?" Now he really feels like an asshole. "Yeah, sure. Thanks." She hands him the computer bag, easily the smallest piece of the load. He swings it over his shoulder.

She's not a huge talker, leastways not with him, so he settles into watching her as they walk. Tim spends too much time in high places covered in bush netting watching people, and the watching has become habit. Sometimes he has to remind himself that he's not behind a scope, not to stare. He'd chatted up a girl once when he was on leave. She said he held eye contact too long and reminded her of a sociopath.

He considers Ms. Carlan, contemplates what sort of story he'd make up to keep himself entertained if he had to look at her through a scope for a few days. From the way she dresses, white shirt – that's just hubris in a place like this – and high heels – they're walking across gravel for fuck's sake – she seems like a tourist, the type who brings lipstick on a safari and forgets the bug spray. She acts enough like a tourist, only person looking at everything around her, rather than straight ahead – a squad doing PT, a lot full of MRAPs, the never-ending line of planes coming and going. She must be real new.

"So how long have you been here?" She's still looking around, but he wonders if she knows he's watching.

"About three months, ma'am."

"How many time's you been here so far?"

"This'll be the third, ma'am."

She turns her face up, tired but amused. "You don't need to call me ma'am. Lena is fine."

"I'm Tim."

She smiles, unsuccessfully covering a smirk. "I remember."

"So Tim," she's rubbing it in, "Three times? You like it over here that much, do you?"

"Can't resist the allure of donkey shit and sand in all the wrong places." Wouldn't it be nice if those were his biggest problems. She snorts and takes the hint, doesn't press. He forgives her a little for wearing white silk in Kabul. Maybe he does like it; he already re-upped once.

When they reach her door he lets her hang her bags on him like a rack while she digs for the keys they gave her.

"Well, Tim," still that slight emphasis on his name. Doesn't let things go, this one, "thanks for showing me to my room."

He wishes her a good evening and gives the hand she extends a firm shake. Hers are clean and manicured and the sort of soft that comes from working in an office. He looks down at his own after she closes the door. The whites of his nails aren't so much white as brown. He uses the edge of one to scrape the crud out from under the rest. There's still a stubborn line of dirt up against the pink part. He decides he doesn't give a fuck and heads back to his own room, forgets about chronically clean hands, and flops down with the dog-eared copy of American Gods that'll get him to sleep tonight.

o.O.o

Lena's obviously tired, still jetlagged, but she's determined not to fall asleep, gaze fixed out the window as they drive through the city. Her main weapon against lethargy is food. Every time her eyes get heavy, out comes yet another protein bar, bag of dried fruit, or candy to be munched on until wakefulness is achieved. Tim's beginning to have misgivings about a mission where the person leading it can barely keep her eyes open; doesn't matter that it's supposed to be cake. Nothing's ever cake, and letting yourself think otherwise is not only stupid, but a betrayal to the people with you. He's not exactly excited for this little day-trip into the city. Easier to see someone coming at you when you're in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. There's too much to keep an eye on when you're smack in the middle of a densely populated area like Kabul.

The seat in front of him shifts as Lena pushes herself up straight again.

"You could just take a nap."

"Don't feel like it." From what he can tell, that's exactly what she feels like. Lena finishes off a banana and pulls out a twix.

"I got some caffeine pills," Carter says, patting his pockets in search of the tin. It takes him a little longer to find them since they're wearing street clothes, and the pockets are in different places than he's used to.

"No thanks," she yawns, "They don't really keep me awake anyways. Mostly it's like falling asleep to a crack-induced heart attack."

She ought to at least give it a shot.

"Oh I got something that'll wake you up." Pascal's tone of innuendo is accompanied by what he probably thinks is a suave wink. Even Tim cringes at his complete lack of subtlety. Luckily, their driver merely turns on the stereo full-blast to Miley Cyrus belting out Wrecking Ball.

Lena guffaws, smacking her head back lightly against the headrest. "Didn't know you girls had such good taste."

"Fucking Christ dude, find something else. You're shaming our country." Carter tries to fit himself between the two front seats to get at the dials.

After more bitching and arguing, and Pascal reminding everyone loudly that he's driving and they're all welcome to try to change the station if they can and Lena ordering everyone to keep their seatbelts on please, a compromise on the music is finally reached. Pascal happily bobs his head in time to Party in the USA, and Carter bitches none-too quietly under his breath about who's driving on the way back. Once the matter is settled, the two of them take it upon themselves to keep Lena awake with conversation. She indulges them, content to chatter away and ask about their interests and families. She has a lot of questions, and they're all too happy to have an attentive ear. Her friendly interest in their lives prompts a few overly personal questions about her own, which she laughs off without answering.

Tim doesn't even try to flirt. Clark would have tried if he were here. Dude can talk a mile a minute. He's also gayer than Elton John, and has the confidence of one wholly uninvested in the outcome. Mostly he just likes to rub it in everyone's face that he can bag a chick better than the rest of them. No one is terribly appreciative, least of all the chick involved. But Tim knows better than to participate in talk that will go nowhere. There were some as found it charming, but he's seen how it is for a woman on a base, especially for one who isn't technically off limits due to fraternization restrictions. Not that being near a woman doesn't heighten certain frustrations.

Sixth months and he'll be stateside again. Sixth months until his whole squad can celebrate at a strip club where all the female flesh of their desires is wrapped up in nothing but lace and string for their enjoyment. Strippers love soldiers, especially those just coming back from a long stint overseas. You can practically see the dollar signs in their eyes, knowing they're assured a great big fat payday courtesy of a whole lot of saved up deployment pay that's been earmarked for just this moment.

Despite the conscious frustration and constant bitching during deployment, you never really realize how much you miss women until there's a pretty girl in your lap you can't even put your hands on, not giving a shit that you're three hundred bucks lighter. Women just feel different. Whatever it is about the way men are programmed to look at them – biological, social – women are the opposite of everything about this job, soft and to all appearances something more vulnerable you are. For that night it doesn't matter that it's some girl who only cares about your company for as long as you keep handing her cash; it's nice to pretend. One of his buddies had admitted that once, instead of accepting a private dance, he'd paid a stripper to let him give her a massage. Even if it is all a sham, it's good for an evening. Most places they go, there's always a girl looking to make more, who tries to arrange a side deal. Some guys go for it, but most don't; any woman he sleeps with is going to do it for fun, not cash. Although, according to Kelsey, the way most of his relationships go, he may as well just save himself the trouble and pay up.

But for now he doesn't jeopardize the chance to enjoy the view and the little bit of female company he can by saying something stupid that she doesn't want to hear. He doesn't try to muscle his way into her sights. None of them have a chance. Girl like her with that perfect manicure and done up hair doesn't wanna hold hands with someone who's perpetually got dirt under his nails. Ten to one she's got a boyfriend anyways.

Their destination is near the middle of town, chosen for the chaos inherent to a city's center. Forty minutes after their departure from Bagram, they and the two guys in the jeep behind them pull up to the Safi Landmark Hotel, unload camera bags that hold rifles and audio gear instead of cameras, and do their best not to walk like soldiers. Lena wraps a scarf over her head before following them inside.

After ten minutes in a room to get fitted with earpieces and a quick sound check, Lena heads to a restaurant down the block to wait for Walehd and his handler, and he and Carter head to the roof. Pascal and Moretti set up on an office building across the street.

It's hot up on the roof. He fantasizes about a shower, and thinks he's getting soft from being on a base too long. Too long. It's been a week, god. But since there aren't any rocks to dig in his stomach, it's a step up from something. He sweeps the rifle in an irregular circuit, letting the conversation sifting through his earpiece fade into the background. Lady with two boisterous kids at a fruit stall, waiter with coffee, group of teenage boys walking down the street laughing, fat guy waddling a little ways behind them, family on their way somewhere, an older woman and her son out shopping… Tim zeros back in on the fat guy. Not a lot of those in Afghanistan.

The bustle of the street makes it difficult to get a good look. "Moretti, fat dude, your 2 o'clock."

Acknowledgement, then silence. Tim does another fast sweep to make sure there's nothing else he ought to be seeing before coming back to the fat man who's now walking in a straight line towards the restaurant where Lena is sitting.

Moretti's voice is in his ear. "Something in his hand, can't make it out." Tim's heart picks up speed. It's never cake. He makes a decision.

"Lena, stand up and walk away from the hotel."

She might be new, but she's not stupid. She stands up. The fat man walks faster, and Tim knows. He knows.

Even if it weren't for the crowd, he's not sure he'd be able to kill the guy without setting the bomb off. "I don't have a shot." Neither does Moretti.

"Lena, run!" She's still standing there, but halfway through yelling again for her to run she's hauling ass away from the table, hand gripping the jacket of her friend to pull him with her. "No, left!" She banks hard left, fast enough she nearly topples onto the sidewalk. Their Afghani contact moves past his surprise and ducks under a table. The bomber has moved out of sight, and Tim swings the rifle back around to try to find him. People are already starting to scatter. Two foreigners start booking it away from a public place, everyone else is gonna figure it's a good idea to follow suit. When he finally catches the guy in his scope again, the man is in the street between the café and the hotel.

Fuck.

He drops the detonator before Tim can pull the trigger.