Chapter 2
"Rukk?"
“Yeh, " Will draws on his cigarette, savouring the taste as he leans against the humvee, cultivating that air of nonchalance that he doesn’t always feel but he knows drives guys like Sanborn crazy.
"Where’d you hear that?" Sanborn is side-eyeing Will like he has something on his mind. Will knows what’s coming - it’s only a matter of time.
"The DVD kid, Beckham. I don’t know, you know, he talks a lot of trash, " Will says.
"Sinbad," Eldridge pipes up out of the blue, still staring out across the desert as if he isn’t really listening.
"What?"
"What?"
Both men turn to look at the kid in surprise.
"Sinbad. A thousand and one Arabian nights - the Roc is a giant bird that threw, I don’t know, stones at him or something. "
"At Sinbad?" Sanborn always has to double check everything.
"Yeh. Rukk sounds like Roc - maybe?" Eldridge turns his head and gives them a shrug.
"A giant bird huh?" Will envisaged a giant bird and the sound it’s wings might make.
"Is this related to the naked woman?"
Will folds his arms, keeping his burning cigarette pointed up, and his cheeks suck in with one last draw but he doesn’t answer.
Fuck.
He knew that would come back to bite him in the ass.
"What naked woman? " Eldridge is on high alert now.
"Captain James here had a vision of a naked, British woman in an alley yesterday."
Eldridge just looks confused but Sanborn’s eyes are boring into Will.
"Mirage," Will shrugs as he drops the cigarette butt into the sand and stubs it out. "Guess I’m missing my not-wife," he says out of loyalty to Connie. But he isn’t. He isn’t missing her at all.
The bed creaks as Will stretches to unlace his boots. It’s been hell today. His mind doesn’t dwell on the details, or they souls they lost - he tries to blank it - stay detached - but the memory crawls over his skin and seeps into his pores like poison. He badly wants a shower but he’s not gonna rush. The routine of removing his uniform brings a sort of comfort, peels away what he does for a living. He’s not sure what’s underneath though, what does it reveal? He does a good thing for a living but he doesn’t think he’s a good guy. Grandpa would have said it didn’t matter what your motives were - you do a good thing? Then you’re a hero. That was about the closest Grandpa ever came to talking about his war.
Naked, Will checks himself in the mirror. He can feel where the bruises will come up but there’s no skin broken, no unnoticed wounds. He stares at his body, fingers travelling of their own accord over the smooth skin. They pause at his one, tiny tattoo - the little jewel coloured figure over his heart, a copy of the tattoo Grandpa had - then they move downwards to trace the outline of the flak wounds. Another memory all too vivid right now that he wants to dilute with a shower even if he can’t quite wash it away.
The palm of his hand slides a little further but stops short. He’s getting hard - adrenaline - shock - whatever - but he doesn’t want to do anything about it yet - that’s not his routine. Shower first, then beer - the release comes later when alcohol has helped his mind let go of its grip on the horrors.
The shower is lukewarm - they never manage to get really cold - and he bends his head, feeling the water on the back of his neck as his eyes close and she appears, unbidden, in his mind. Not Connie. He tries to change it to Connie but he can’t - she resists. The woman in the alley - Jean Genie as he's christened her. It’s been days since he saw her - or thought he saw her but she won’t leave him alone. It’s always her eyes first - like the fucking Cheshire Cat or something, they are the first thing he notices. A rich, golden caramel they dance and flicker, draw him forwards - away from Connie - a burning candle in the dark.
The next time she shows up in person, he’s pictured the moment so often that he can just about fake his usual nonchalance but it takes some effort because she’s sitting on his goddamned bed. He has an armful of beers, cola and snacks and he’s pretty proud of himself for not dropping the whole damned lot when he walks in to his room.
"Make yourself at home." He doesn’t reach for his gun this time, he just rolls his eyes and dumps his haul from the mess on the chest of drawers before closing the door. Theoretically, he should be sounding every fucking alarm in this place but she’s naked again - passive - if she’s some kind of ninja assassin he doesn’t get why she wouldn’t just ring his neck before he even had time to register she was here.
"You seem much less trigger happy today," she says in an approving, sing-song voice. "How come?"
He purses his lips before he answers, sucks his cheeks in then turns around to face her and leans against the furniture.
"I figure you’re either a manifestation of some kind of ..." It takes him a moment to come up with a likely mental illness. "...shell shock - whatever - or you’re a witch."
Witch? That’s ridiculous he doesn’t know where that came from...
"Either way if you’re aiming to kill me you don’t seem that committed."
"You think I’m a figment of your imagination?" The approval changes to a gentle hint of concern.
"I don’t know what you are, you seem real," he shrugs, "I can see your ribcage moving as you breathe so you look like you must be made of flesh and bone, you leave footprints in the sand, and you go out of your way to find me when I’m alone so I guess you don’t want to be seen which maybe means you can be seen by other people. If you were the projection of a crazy person I think maybe you’d show up anywhere and people would wonder who I was talking to."
"So, by default, if I’m not a figment of your imagination, then I must be a witch."
"I guess. Why are you always naked?"
"Does it bother you?"
He doesn’t want to answer that so he pulls his packet of smokes out from his pocket and busies himself lighting a cigarette.
"Would it help if you confirmed that I am flesh and bone?"
"It would help if you just told me who you are and what you want."
"Are you afraid of me, Will James?"
He exhales a long plume of smoke and plucks a strand of tobacco from his lip. He doesn’t want to answer that question either because he doesn’t know. But even if he is, he doesn’t walk away from things he’s afraid of, he walks towards them. Every day. Grandpa taught him that.
"I’m flesh and bone, " she says and rises from the bed. She’s not shy at all and he takes a real good look at her this time, smoke drifting from his mouth as his eyes travel slowly up and down. He doesn’t know where this is leading but he can appreciate a beautiful woman when she’s right in front of him.
She steps up close and reaches for the cigarette, teasing it from him. He thinks she’s going to put it out but she takes a draw on it herself and lets it dangle from her fingers as that hand drapes over his shoulder. Her other hand slips under the hem of his tee-shirt and rests palm flat on his waist.
"See? Flesh and bone."
Man, she is beautiful. His fascination for things that could kill him has drawn him to some dubious situations but this one tops all of them. His head dips towards her and there’s barely a whisper of smoke keeping them apart now.
"Tell me your name." He breathes the request like an incantation and she’s so close that he feels the brush of her lips against his as she gifts it to him.