Epilogue

Barlow Creek, Oklahoma

February 14, 1970

Ray woke to the gentle perfume of lavender. He pulled the scent in, leaning close to its source, the silk of her hair caressing his cheeks as he did so. Her shampoo, god how he loved her shampoo.

Those simple things, those everyday aspects of life, things he took for such granted before the war, made him ache with how much he needed this life, how much he needed her. Hot damn, how'd he never noticed before how good she smelled?

Trish nuzzled closer, her head resting comfortably near the crook of his arm. He wanted to reach out, hold her, feel her, but he kept still. It was early. They'd had a late night. Reluctantly, he decided to let her rest.

Carefully, he eased off the bed. Trish gave a deep sigh, but remained wrapped in her cocoon of dreams. He watched her for a moment, taking in the peace, the beauty of her sleeping form. Then, he turned and quietly padded out of the room and down the stairs.

Coffee—that was his first mission. He'd have it brewing, maybe even have breakfast made before Trish found her way downstairs. It'd been so long since he'd had that luxury, surprising her with something that should've been a ritual by now. Before he'd left for the war he'd always gotten up before her, and yet every time she hauled herself downstairs, she always gushed that he'd made the coffee or buttered the toast. And on the days he actually cooked?

Ray grinned. Those thank yous were his favorite.

He got the coffee pot humming, percolating the rich, dark ground beans Trish was so fond of. Good coffee, that was going to take some getting used to again.

He set to work pulling eggs, sausages and bacon out of the fridge. He'd thought about making french toast, but, discovering they were out of syrup, he scrapped that idea. Too bad—that was Trish's favorite breakfast.

It took a while for him to hunt down the frying pan. Trish must've reorganized the kitchen while he was overseas. He felt odd being a bit of a stranger in his own kitchen. After finally pulling the pan from a cupboard that used to house canned goods, Ray set it on the counter and started a new search for their spices. They were, apparently, no longer above the stove.

A sharp crash, a loud, sudden clatter vibrated through him. The sound had a rush of adrenaline instantly sending his heart into overdrive, his senses a blur of hyperactivity. Instinctively, he dropped to the ground, keeping close to the counter for cover.

"Honey?"

Breathing hard, he glanced up, catching sight of someone at the foot of the stairs.

She had on her silk robe, the smooth crimson clinging to her every curve. For a split second, he didn't recognize her though, couldn't place her in this world he'd reverted back to. This was the war...this was Vietnam...this was...home?

He blinked, trying to drown out his confusion. The frying pan lay on the floor not far from him. He must've knocked it from the counter during his search for the spices. There was no enemy, no danger, no jungle.

Then, he looked to Trish, waiting for the hurt, for the pity to flash across her face. He thought he could already see it in those wide, searching eyes as she stood there staring down at him. Was she afraid to move, to come near? God, that thought hurt more than anything else he'd been through.

Ray closed his eyes as he tried to calm his breathing. He could hear Trish moving now. Her footsteps were intentionally loud, so he'd hear her approach. Most days she moved like a cat's shadow, impossibly quiet.

"You started the coffee." Her voice was soft, embracing. "Thank you. How'd I get to be so lucky?" The question was honest, full of love.

He looked up only to find that faint, beautiful smile lighting her expression. There was no fear, no pity. The warmth of her touch softly landed on his shoulders, guiding him to stand, to lean into her.

"I love you so much, Babe. Thank you." The words came out as a breathy whisper in his ear as she wrapped her arms tightly around him. After a few moments locked in a silent embrace, she spoke again. "Go take a shower, Honey, I'll finish up here. Breakfast will be done by the time you get out."

"Do I smell or something?" He murmured back. That wasn't it, and he knew it. This was a saving grace for him, a way he could step aside and pull his shit together if he needed to.

Trish could handle a returning soldier's nerves. Her father had been a mess after World War II. She'd told Ray as much before he shipped off. She knew about the nightmares, the anger. Flashbacks and that sullen quietness were all too familiar to her. She'd faced them all in her younger days and Ray had fully intended to save her from that again, but...

She smiled up at him, her hands settling on his cheeks as she held his head, looking him straight in the eyes. "You always smell. Now, go shower."

He leaned in, stealing one warm, long kiss before she pushed him away. Her playful laugh ringing in his ears as he turned, grinning, toward the stairs.

By the time he reached their bedroom though, that warm love, that reassurance she'd filled him with was gone.

One dropped pan and he'd gone back there, even if only in his head. And, that wasn't the first time. Countless nights he'd already woken up in a cold sweat, panting, searching his bedside for...for...what? His rifle? But he wasn't in 'Nam, not anymore. He kept thinking he'd convinced himself of that, but then something would trigger the memories all over again. So, he wasn't free, not entirely.

He quickly stripped out of his boxers, hurrying into the shower, as if his actions, his movements could stunt the thoughts from coming. A turn of the knob and the shower-head came to life. He stood, letting the force of the water soak into his hair, massage his scalp.

His team—he wondered, for the millionth time, how they were doing. Not knowing was maddening. Part of his homecoming felt more like being severed from something so vital, so necessary—not so much for the sake of the war but for his team.

What if...

Ray grabbed the soap, lathering up his chest and neck. He was fumbling now, reaching for any action that would keep him occupied. There were too many 'what ifs,' too many ways to blame himself for things that hadn't yet happened.

Hannibal was a strong leader. The team was strong. They'd be fine.

Ray maneuvered himself under the stream of water, rising off the suds.

Sooner or later, they'd all be home again. They'd all be safe. Maybe the nightmares would end then. Maybe his mind would quit wandering back to those thick, humid jungles, to the dark, lonely cells and nights filled with gunfire and the cries of the wounded and dying. Maybe.

He was startled from his thoughts as the door to the master bathroom creaked open. That moment of fight or flight quickly subsided as he spotted Trish in the doorway, her robe gone.

She arched a brow, her stance graceful, coyly seductive. "Breakfast can wait. Is there room for two?"

Oh yeah...

Fini

A/N: Thank you to all who've followed this story. The next in this series has been started but I make no promises on how quickly it will be posted. I must again thank Quentillian, AprilDancer007, Kiki and Tiggertoo for their help. Tiggertoo especially had a large part in much of the character dialogue. I believe some of the most wonderful lines from the story were hers.

It may not all be totally canon, but this is how I've envisioned the team's early years.