Chapter Text
No. 1 (Capt. John Price)
John and the boys returned to base on a rare sunny day. The air was crisp and the sky a vivid blue. They had been gone for almost seven months, their longest deployment since you had come into their care. Their absence had been difficult for you.
You stood on the tarmac for nearly an hour, waiting for the chopper to arrive, heart in your throat. Word had come just last night; 141’s mission was complete, and they were homebound. The news made you clammy and nervous and glad all at once. Your palms sweated and so did your underarms. That morning, you had washed thoroughly and shaved everything. You had spent almost an hour primping and preening in front of the shared mirror while Anna, your roommate, sneered at you from her bunk by the window. You ignored her, brushing your hair until it was smooth enough to fall like silk over your shoulders, and smoothing perfumed lotion into your skin until it was plump and soft. You were not permitted many nice clothes, but you steamed out the wrinkles of the one ocean-blue dress you had that Captain Price liked, and slipped on one of your few pairs of nice underwear.
Despite the sun, the air was cool, and you shivered in your cardigan. You were not the only one waiting for their return. Several soldiers, of various rank, gathered nearby on the tarmac. Near, but separate. You kept your eyes on the ground and waited for the distant sound of the propeller chopping through the air. When it finally came, bringing rough wind, you had to hold your skirt down and squint your eyes against the whipping air.
There was a lump in your throat as the chopper landed, and you strained your neck to see better. But the clusters of soldiers now moving in front of you made this impossible.
You waited your turn. You waited as the chopper engine whined out and the propeller blades slowed to a halt. You waited as you heard John’s gruff voice, the slapping noise of sturdy male handshakes, laughter. What did it feel like to have a purpose like this, you thought, a soldier’s purpose? A real purpose?
Finally, the group of soldiers in front of you separated and you got your first real glimpse of John and the boys in six months and twenty-three days.
John saw you, and smiled. “There you are.”
He was only a couple meters away, but you crossed the distance easily, and he swept you up with a tired groan.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he rumbled into your ear. “Missed you.”
Your feet dangled and you held onto him tightly. You buried your face in his neck and breathed in. He smelled of tobacco and sweat. And he was dirty and a bit stinky, that was for certain. But he smelled like himself. Your dress lifted a little, enough that the other soldiers might have gotten eyeful if it wasn’t for John’s large hand smoothing over your bum to lift you better. His beard was overgrown and scratched your skin. His tac vest was a bulky barrier between the both of you, pressed hard against your torso. “Missed you too,” you murmured, and he lowered you gently to your feet.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” John said, pinching your cheek. “Ain’t she, boys?”
Kyle, Johnny, and Ghost appeared over his shoulder. The other soldiers were already dispersing, which you were glad for. There were very few women on, and all of them had the same purpose. You knew it, and they knew it. No one could ever forget it, least of all you. Especially not with the infamous Task Force 141 standing around you, drinking you in with the hungry eyes of men who had been in the depths of warzones for the last six months and counting.
“The most bonnie girl I’ve iver seen thare, Cap,” Johnny agreed with a roguish grin. “Did she miss us too?”
“‘Course she did,” Ghost said. Then he murmured something indistinct to John before walking off. His shoulders were hunched in a surly way, but that was hardly new. His comment made a small, tender piece of hurt come briefly alive within you. Of course you had missed them. What else was there for you to do but miss them?
“Don’t worry about him, luv,” Kyle said. “Rough mission, is all.”
You offered a small shrug and smile. You knew that men liked it when women were easy to please, and even easier to assuage.
“Alright,” John said, chucking you on the chin. “I’ve got a couple things to handle. Meet me in my office at half-past, will you?”
“Okay,” you smiled, but watched a little forlornly as he was the next to walk off.
“An then thare were three, eh, doe?” Soap teased with a soft pat to your bum.
You rolled your eyes. “Captain Price is first,” you reminded him.
“How can we forget,” said Kyle. “You haven’t given us a kiss though, have you?”
And he tugged you forward into his arms and pressed his lips to yours. Kyle was a good kisser. He was very precise. And even though he was kind of smelly from the mission, like John was, and Soap too for that matter, you melted into his arms and enjoyed the feeling of being kissed. Soon your face grew flushed and you became a bit out of breath. That didn’t last long though; shortly after, Soap pulled you away with an expression full of consternation.
“Hey,” he blustered. “Price’s first, ye heard the girl.”
“Alright. Shut your gob already,” Kyle said, before turning to you. “You would not believe the yapping I’ve had to deal with from him.”
“Hey!” Soap said.
You cracked a grin. “You can have a kiss too, Johnny.”
Soap smirked and pulled you in with his arms around your soldiers. Unlike Kyle, he was rather quick with it. A soft touch of his lips to yours. His beard was also overgrown and you sighed into his mouth, looking forward to when they were all trimmed and shaved back to military standard. The kiss was kind of tender, and over a little too soon. He pulled back and slung a heavy arm over your shoulder. “C’mon bonnie, we’ll walk ye tae Price’s office.”
. . .
John’s office was locked of course. It had been since he had left for the mission. The clock in the corridor said you had another ten minutes before half past. It wasn’t a very long time to wait, and besides, there was nothing better to do, so you stood quietly outside his office door with your hands clasped politely in front of you. Every time a pair of footsteps approached, you glanced up only to hurriedly look back down at your feet with disappointment.
Three minutes to half-past, two voices could be heard down the bend in the corridor to your left. As the men approached, not yet in sight but growing louder, you realized you recognized both of the voices.
It was John and the head of the FPA (the Female Placement Administration) on base, a man by the name of Mr. Calwell. Mr. Calwell was a rather tall fellow, but very slight. His footsteps were completely obscured by John’s thudding ones. But his voice was recognizable enough. He spoke in a kind of raspy hush, like he was always on the verge of divulging some kind of secret. That hush grew clearer–
“... if you wanted to request a transfer–”
“Why would I want to do that?” John said. His voice was much louder and deeper than Mr. Calwell’s.
“You’ve had her for almost two years,” Mr. Calwell replied, and your stomach dropped through to your toes. “The 141 has had an increase in productivity in the last two quarters. I would be happy to provide my personal recommendation if you decided you would like to apply for a new girl. Some real beauties this year. Younger too–”
It was then that they turned the corner. Mr. Calwell trailed off upon seeing you.
John grimaced. “I think we’re alright, Director, but thank you.”
“Well, my study is open if you change your mind. I’ll leave you to it.” Mr. Calwell’s eyes raked over you and you diverted your gaze.
“Be good,” he said to you, then turned on his heel with barely a whisper of noise, and disappeared again around the corner.
You were still looking at your feet when two heavy, mud-caked boots came into your view.
“Slimy bastard,” John said, and lifted your chin with his fingers. He smiled at you. And what a smile it was. Even mussed as he was, hair and beard overgrown, face ruddy and darker from sun exposure, he appeared gentle. You couldn’t help but return it.
You leaned in to kiss him, but he stopped you. “Don’t want to do that, honey.”
“Course I do,” you said, leaning forward again.
“I haven’t had the chance to brush my teeth in two days,” he told you, and you wrinkled your nose.
He chuckled and stepped back far enough to pull his key from his pocket and unlock his office door.
“Just need to check something quick,” he said.
You lingered in the corridor and listened as he moved around in his office. You swayed a bit on your feet. You couldn’t wait to be in John’s bed in his private bedroom and his private loo. You hadn’t had any real privacy since he had been gone.
As he shuffled through his things in his office, a group of soldiers came marching down the corridor. One in particular was young enough – hence, new enough to the military – that he stared agog at you. A lot of the new recruits were like this. Knowing something theoretically was not the same as seeing it personally.
When John returned, he was empty-handed except for his key. He locked the door again and led you away with his hand at the small of your back. The walk was a relatively short one. The base was very large, but the officer quarters and studies were in the same wing, and John walked fast – you hustling to keep up – so it was not long before he was unlocking his door and ushering you inside.
It smelled the same. Like John, but months faded. The double bed was pristinely made with white, standard-issue linens. There was a thin layer of dust on the furniture. But John didn’t mind. He let out this huge gust of a sigh and dropped his bag and made a beeline for the washroom.
“Bloody hell,” he groaned. “I’ve been dreaming of this shower for ages.”
“Would you like me to leave you some privacy?”
“Are you mad?” he said in a grumble. “Get in here.”
You removed your cardigan and set it on the wardrobe’s door handle before following him inside.
“First thing’s first,” he said, squeezing out a huge slop of toothpaste onto a toothbrush. Then, he grinned at you through the mirror, mouth a white foamy mess. You laughed and reached into the shower. The water streamed down, frigidly cold at first and then, slowly, warm.
A couple minutes later, John spat into the sink and swept you up again into his arms. He kissed you now with no compunction. He pressed you up against the wall beside the shower and divested you of your clothes. His mouth was minty from the toothpaste and his overgrown beard prickled your skin. You didn’t half mind it anymore though. You enjoyed the rough, impatient way he removed his uniform. All that bulky gear yanked off and dropped to the floor. And the way he lifted you, nude, into the shower. Steaming water was no match for your steaming veins, nor even for the press of his hot skin to your chest, your inner thighs, your back, your waist, everywhere.
John fucked the same way he kissed. Intense, deep, slow, demanding all of your attention. Once he finally had you plied and bare, he made no attempts to rush. The water streamed hot and then warm and then eventually cool. John was a quiet man in the throes of passion. Oh, he was not silent. He made noise. Groans, sighs, anything to let you know how well he was enjoying the clutch of you. But he was not one for words. You liked that about him. He just buried his face in your neck and huffed and puffed, occasionally gifting you with a shiver-inducing kiss to the neck or a suck to your ear.
He held you and kissed you and slid his cock inside you like you were something precious. Something to be cherished and protected. And, yes, something to be owned. You were something to be owned. The rest though? That was just John.
You sighed into his mouth. Despite everything, it was like coming home.
John was a good man. And for that, you could almost love him.
It was only after he had you once that he allowed you to wash the grime of the mission off of him. Your legs still trembling, you washed his hair and his face and his chest, his arms, his back. He washed you gently in return. When the water ran frigid and John’s skin and your own was pricked with goose pimples, he dried you off and brought you to his bed. You felt the cold vividly in your fingers and toes, and shivered.
“Here,” he said, and took your hands in his. He rubbed them together and let you tuck your feet between his legs under the blankets. “You’re like an ice lolly.”
“You’re like a furnace,” you replied, burrowing closer. “Was the mission terrible?”
He let out a noise that vibrated out from his chest. “Only because it was so long.”
“Ghost seemed upset.”
He sighed, stroking your hair. “We had a couple of unforeseen casualties. He takes those harder than any of us.”
“You wouldn’t think…” you started, and then shut your mouth because what you had just thought was rather uncharitable of you.
John seemed to understand. “He’s a good man under all of that. You should give him more of a chance.”
You just closed your eyes. The fur on John’s chest tickled your nose and you were tantalizingly on the verge of sneezing. You slung an arm around his waist and held on. “I would if he wanted me to,” you said. “He doesn’t like me.”
“Well, I know that’s just not true,” he said.
You had plenty of practice knowing when to let a subject rest, so you did. The curtains on the window were half-drawn, displaying a glimpse of sky. It was no longer a blue color, but an overcast gray. Overcast days had a way of burning your eyes even more than the nude sun.
It didn’t take long for John to get you warm again. Your body veiled with sweat from the heat radiating off of John. He flipped you on your belly and you clutched into the sheets and moaned and sighed and took it as he sucked and bit and nibbled all over your shoulders, and as he fondled your breasts and your hips, as he slid in again, so soon. You arched your back and wondered if he had been with a woman during this mission, if there had even been opportunity to. And, if there had been opportunity, would he have taken it?
He liked you, of that you were certain, but you were not his wife. And even if you were, since when did that ever keep men faithful?
Afterward, you dozed for some time. You weren’t sure when things had changed exactly, but at some point you had begun to feel safe with John nearby. It was a nice change. These days it was rare for you to feel very safe when you slept.
When you woke again, the sky was desaturated. An overcast dusk, only the palest strokes of those vivid sunset colors visible in the bumps and folds of the cloud cover. The window was open and an evening breeze chilled the room. You blinked groggily awake to find John sitting up beside you in the bed, a stack of papers in his lap.
“Mm.” You stretched, and smiled when you noticed his reading glasses. They made him look very dashing, you thought.
“Good morning,” he said, closing the file.
Your eyes widened. “It’s morning?”
He just smiled a bit slyly.
You huffed and slapped his chest half-heartedly. “Silly.”
Affection was a dangerous, tantalizing thing. How many men were there who would fuck you with no thought for how you felt, who would hurt you, who would cast you aside almost as soon as they had used you up? It was exhausting, always waiting, always on the lookout, for the other shoe to drop.
“Got any plans for the evening, luv?” John asked.
You yawned, and gave him a flat look. “I’m meeting up with Nicole off base and we’re going bowling tonight. Oh, better yet. Don’t tell anyone, but we’re planning to enroll in medical school to become doctors. Or, well, we were considering running for Parliament. One of the two. What do you think?”
He gave a small wince.
You pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I am at your disposal, Captain. Tonight, tomorrow, for however long you’ll have me.”
He set the folder away on the bedside table. “In that case,” he said, “I’d like you to check in on Ghost tonight.”
You drew back.
“I’ve got meetings this evening,” he said. “And Ghost had a rough go of it on this mission. Don’t take anything he says too personally.”
“But…” you started. Weakly, you finished, “Meetings after sundown?”
“Yes,” was all he said. “Will you?”
“Of course,” was all you could say.
No. 2 (Lt. Simon “Ghost” Riley)
You knew that Ghost was a good man. From the way John, and Gaz, and Soap all talked about him, it was hard to doubt. And he had never given you cause to doubt it either. He did not hurt you, or disrespect you. He was no more rude to you than he was anyone else, men included.
And… he had never forced himself on you. He had never done anything to you, with you, or near you. In fact, he hardly ever acknowledged you. Sometimes you wondered whether he even knew your name. He was indifferent at best, and surly at worst. You figured he didn’t like you.
That evening, you left the warm comfort of John’s bed in search of Ghost. You checked the usual haunts first. The breakroom that the 141 shared with a couple other spec-ops groups, when they too were on base. The gym. The laundry even. You lingered in the doorway of the mess hall but you didn’t like to go in there alone, especially not during the dinner hour. You didn’t see him, or Soap, or Gaz for that matter.
Eventually you discovered him in his room. You should have guessed. A quiet man like Simon would want some privacy after such a long time away. Why John wanted you to bother him was beyond you; he really didn’t like to be pestered by you.
You knocked on the door and waited nervously. When the door opened and his large form filled the space, your heart jumped up to your throat.
“What?” he said roughly. His mask was askew, like he had hastily shoved it on.
“Sorry,” you said immediately. “I… just…”
“I’m busy,” he said, and the backlight from the room made his masked face even darker. You couldn’t really even see his eyes with any true clarity.
“Sorry,” you said again. “I… came to see how you were.”
“Price put you up to it, did he?” he all but growled. John’s voice may have been low and raspy, but Ghost’s was aggressive in a way you couldn’t put a name to. Then he stepped away from the doorway, leaving the door open, and lumbered back inside his room.
“No, I,” you stammered, shuffling a bit on your feet. “I… belong to all of you, equally.”
He let out a scoff, and you stepped just slightly forward so you could get a better look in his room.
“Oh,” you said.
Ghost had sat himself at a small table in the corner of the room – the space a little smaller than John’s, but painted a slightly nicer gray – and on that table was the scattered evidence of a hasty patch-up. Bloody, wadded-up bandages. A bottle of isopropyl alcohol. A sterile pack of stitches. And Ghost himself. He leaned to one side like the other hurt him. A bulk of bandage beneath a soft, worn, standard-issue t-shirt.
“Sir, you’re hurt.”
“‘M fine,” Ghost growled. “You can go tell Price you’ve looked in, alright.”
“But,” you stammered, “Does he know you’re hurt?”
His fist clenched over the table. You realized you had never really had a cause to be in Ghost’s room before. Most interactions had taken place in the breakroom, or the mess hall, anytime the other three left you two together. The meddling buffoons. You were surprised to see the sketches that were plastered on the wall above the bed. Even from that distance you could recognize them as Soap’s work. There were a couple cityscapes, some artfully adorned skulls, and, in several, what appeared to be female figures.
“Quit yer worrying,” he said. “It’s jus’ a scratch.”
“Here,” you said, stepping forward. “At least, let me…”
You were in his room before he could stop you. You gathered up the bloody bandages and the trash from the table and brought it to the rubbish bin. There was a first aid kit set open on one of the chairs and you began putting the supplies back in it. All the while, you felt his eyes on you. Finally, the tension snapped like a gunshot.
“Did I tell you I was finished?” he glowered.
You jumped. “I-I’m sorry–”
You hastily began to remove the supplies once again, but he stood up quickly. You flinched.
“Stop that,” he said.
“But–”
He grabbed the kit from you and began re-packing it. “Don’t have to bloody clean up for me.”
“I thought you weren’t finished,” you said.
“Never said that,” he grumbled. “Jus’ didn’t want you to bother.”
Suddenly, you felt incensed. “What do you want, then?”
He paused, drawing back a bit. You could see his eyes now, lit by the white overhead light. Dark and brown and lined with long blond eyelashes. He had very nice eyes, you thought. With eyes like that, you were sure he was handsome under that mask. Why did he hide himself? Was he scarred beyond recognition, as you suspected? Or was he just that private?
“Don’ want anything from you,” he said.
You moved out of the way when he crossed the room to put the kit away in the cabinet. This brought you closer to the bed and the drawings pasted up above the headboard. The cityscapes might have been Manchester or London or even an American city for all you knew. You’d been shunted through many cities in your relatively short life, but never had you been given leave to sight-see. And the women in Johnny’s sketches…
It became quickly clear that it was the same woman in each sketch. Her face and body were sketched with clear, precise detail. In some of the drawings, she wore a floaty sundress, in others just a plain pair of cotton underwear. Her hair was always etched in the same manner. And… she had a birthmark in the exact same place that you did.
When you finally looked away, you discovered Ghost watching you.
“Why not?” you said, looking again at the sketches of a woman you believed to be yourself.
“Coz you can’t bloody say no, can you?” he grumbled, and took your shoulder in hand to steer you toward the door.
You were halfway out and reeling a bit when you came to a skidding stop. You turned back around.
“That’s kind of you,” you said, looking up into Ghost’s deep brown eyes. “But you’ll die a lonely man. There is not a woman in the world who can say no.”
No. 3 (Sgt. Kyle “Gaz” Garrick)
You found Gaz in the breakroom next. He was watching some action movie with a couple other sergeants, although Soap wasn’t present. They were munching on popcorn and drinking soft drinks, all splayed out on the sofa. You hovered in the doorway for a moment, uncertain, but Kyle lit up when he saw you.
“Hey, babes,” he said, and shoved a couple of the sergeants away to make room for you. You dropped into the spot beside him, where he wrapped an arm around you and offered you a soda.
“I shouldn’t,” you said.
“One Coke’s not gonna hurt you, luv.”
You folded like a house of cards. “Oh, alright.”
That first sip of soda was as potent as an intravenous needle chock full of nostalgia. Your childhood had been filled with your mischievous mother slipping you counterfeit cans of soda and candy and junk food behind your father’s back. She wasn’t allowed it, same as you weren’t. So whenever she got her hands on the junk, you gorged on it with her, hidden in the bathroom, giggling, or in the back shed, huddled up against the cold. You missed her. You hoped, wherever she was, that she was still able to enjoy a nice treat every now and again.
The fizzy feeling shot right through your brain and you sighed. “Thank you, Kyle.”
He wrapped an arm around your shoulder and some of the other soldiers pretended like they were not watching the two of you. On the television, several explosions rocked the screen. There was already a car chase going on, not to mention a bomb timer that was ticking its way to zero.
“Don’t you want to watch something that’s not… this,” you whispered, making an expansive gesture with the hand still holding the Coke bottle. “Given your job and all.”
The soldier on your other side overheard and laughed. “If Garrick here chose the movie, we’d all be watching Brokeback.”
You frowned at him, but Kyle just laughed good-naturedly. “Fuck off, Simmons. Like you didn’t just suggest bleedin’ Willy Wonka.”
Everyone laughed. Simmons looked a bit embarrassed when you accidentally met his gaze. You averted your eyes and nudged Kyle with your elbow.
“I love Willy Wonka,” you said.
The group just laughed some more and Kyle stroked your hair. “‘Course you do, luv.”
“But this is okay,” you added lamely. “Are there any girls in it?”
“Here and there,” said Simmons, and he clinked his half-empty bottle of soda against yours. You smiled.
“Hey,” Kyle made an exaggerated, affronted noise. He tucked you closer. When you glanced up you were relieved to see a smile on his face. “That’s my girl, Simmons. Who said you could flirt with her?”
Simmons rolled his eyes. “Your girl? Who wants to bet she’s got at least two blokes’ come dripping outta her right this minute.”
Your heart dropped, and the room got quiet.
“Not cool, man,” said another soldier. “You’re just jealous your unit doesn’t have one.”
“It’s just a distraction anyway,” Simmons said bitterly.
There was a clunk as Kyle set his drink down on the coffee table. You watched nervously as he turned to Simmons. In a lower voice than you’d ever heard from him, he said, “Does it look like I’m distracted, mate?”
The soldier who had piped up sighed. “Alright, lads. Let’s not.”
“If Garrick wants to fight–” Simmons started, the veins in his neck bulging.
“If Garrick wants to fight–” A man with buzzed red hair said, “–you bloody better get out of dodge, and fast.”
There was annoyed murmuring among the rest of the sergeants. They saw enough fighting in their work, surely they didn’t want to deal with it once they were safe on base, watching a film.
“Heard that?” Kyle laughed. “Your buddies don’t have too much faith in you.”
Simmons went red in the face.
You felt nervous, sitting between the quarrelling men. “Kyle,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”
Simmons spared you a glance. “See? Even she knows it’s true.”
It all happened very fast. You were jostled on the couch and barely managed to keep your drink from spilling all over your dress. When you opened your eyes next, the men were already standing over you, Kyle with Simmons’ shirt collar clenched in his fists, his jaw clenched into a tense line. You inched back into the sofa cushions. Several other of the men had stood up as well. Simmons suddenly looked a lot younger and a lot more afraid than just moments before.
Kyle seemed to notice that, and just chuckled. He released his collar with a slight shove. “Piss off. You’re ruining movie night.”
At that utter dismissal, Simmons strayed nervous eyes around at the rest of the group. But everyone avoided his gaze. You knew as well as anyone that the reputation of the 141 was mighty. For the most part, that reputation kept wandering eyes and straying hands away from you, even when they were all off base. Kyle himself might have been a sergeant the same as the rest of these men, but he was also a sergeant on the most secretive, most dangerous SAS team on base, if not in the whole of His Majesty’s Armed Forces.
Just like that, Simmons was defeated. Face red, he stormed out of the room. A couple of the guys followed behind, but the majority remained to relax back on the couch. One of them rewound the movie to what had been playing before things had escalated.
“Kyle,” you whispered, when he settled his arm back over your shoulder and picked his drink up. “What if he tries to get back at you?”
“I’m not worried,” he whispered back. “Doesn’t matter anyway, he shouldn’t have spoken about you like that.”
You fiddled with the hem of your dress. “He has the right.”
“Maybe if you were his,” he said. Then he turned to face the television and squeezed your shoulder. “Watch.”
You watched, but your heart wasn’t entirely in it. You focused instead on the fizz of the Coke sparkling over your tongue and down your throat. And the warmth of Kyle’s arm around your shoulder. The rumble of his laugh when the main actor said something funny, or when another of the sergeants cracked a joke.
It wasn’t long before the credits rolled.
“Gimme that,” Kyle said, gesturing for the remote.
The red-head passed it over. “What’re you putting on?”
“Whatever the lady wants,” he said, passing you the remote.
“Really?” you perked up, even as the whole group groaned.
“Sure, luv. And forget these sods. Put whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?” you asked, a bit teasingly.
You scrolled through the options, but were soon paralyzed by choice. You didn’t mind action, truth be told. But the last time you’d really enjoyed a movie was when you were a kid, still with your mother. She’d had some way to bootleg some more peculiar film choices. Looking back, they had probably been banned. Really, you were surprised they had even been made in the first place. Mulan, Pride and Prejudice, Labyrinth. None of these sorts of movies were available here of course. So you chose The Fellowship of the Ring. If women were treated as objects in this movie, too, at least you could pretend, for a while, that these injustices were simply relegated to the fantasy land of Middle Earth.
“I’ve seen this a million times,” one of the soldiers complained.
“Me too,” said another.
But despite their whining, they watched for a while. The movie, you found out, was quite long. After the first hour, the soldiers began to trickle out, yawning. Another half hour later and it was just you and Kyle left. The lights were off and the shades all drawn, though it must have been pretty late by now. The only illumination in the breakroom came from the television. Your Coke was long finished and you felt comfortable in the circle of Kyle’s arm.
Your eyes were fixed on the screen when he shifted beside you. Kyle was a kind man so he would never say anything, but you could tell. You had learned over the years, through much trial and error, to understand those unspoken urges of men. It was something about the way he sighed and shifted, his legs extending out longward and then crossed. He subtly changed positions three times in what was perhaps five minutes.
You clicked pause on the remote. There was another hour and a half to the movie. “Sheesh,” you said, and turned to him, frowning. “I didn’t realize it was so long. Maybe we could finish another night?”
He smiled at you, and you were, not for the first time, taken aback by how handsome he was. All of the men were handsome – well, you imagined Ghost was, but you couldn’t say for sure – but Kyle was something else. Warm eyes, soft smile. He looked like he could have been an actor, or a model, or anything, really, that he wanted. The small scars nicking his face and neck did nothing to detract from his good-looks. He was nowhere near as rugged-looking as John, or even Johnny, but you knew he was no pansy.
“What’s that look for?” he asked.
You blushed a little. “No reason.”
He hummed. “How about a kiss?”
You smiled and leaned forward. His lips were warm and soft. Kissing Kyle was different from kissing John. It was more simple, in a way. Less intense, but still very pleasant. He cupped your cheek with a warm hand and stroked your hair.
“Hm.” His breath fanned over your lips. “Are you clean?”
“Yes. I took a shower after Captain Price.”
“Ghost?”
You just shook your head.
Of all the men in the 141, Kyle was the most peculiar about hygiene. The others didn’t really seem to care very much, but you tried to be sensitive about it, always washing yourself first before visiting him. A subtle tension released in him, and he drew you back in.
“Poor Soap is last again,” he chuckled.
You pulled back from the next kiss, chiding breathlessly, “Be nice.”
Soon, he had you flat on your back on the sofa, kissing you deeply. The room was quiet without the movie playing. You were fogged up and warm from the kissing, brain a little scrambled. When his hand dipped below your collarbone, you caught hold of his shirt.
“Wait, Kyle,” you whispered.
“What?”
You looked around. “Not here?”
“Why not?” he said, kissing down your throat.
“What if– what if–”
“It’s late,” he said, “Everyone’s in bed. No one’s going to come.”
“But–”
“I missed you, luv,” he said. “Please don’t make me wait any longer.”
You sighed, and relented. It may have been against the rules to fornicate in public areas, but that hadn’t stopped you from walking into dimly-lit corridors at night to find one of Nicole’s fellas practically mauling her. Or in the gym. Even once, in a broom cupboard (you had looked because there was a strange noise from behind the door; you should have known). In comparison, sex on the coach in the breakroom that was only used by a very small percentage of the men on base, was not that much of a risk.
Kyle was just as hungry as John was, but a bit more restrained. He tugged down the top of your dress, baring your breasts, and also reached under your skirt to pull your knickers off. He kissed you all over, but did not much prepare you before pressing hard and fast inside you. Kyle was a nice man, but he was still a man. And men never seemed to understand that vaginas did not stay stretched out for hours on end after the previous intercourse.
It wasn’t that bad though. You hid a small wince behind a moan and satisfied yourself by running your hands all along Kyle’s smooth muscles. You enjoyed the feeling of his lips on your skin and his arms wrapped tight around you.
Sometimes, when you had sex, you had the sensation of being caught in the motion of smooth, lapping waves. You imagined yourself laying on the sandy, wet, reflective surface of a beach, staring up at the enormous blue sky. In this imagination, the sky was always bright blue, and sunny. The ocean – it was always an ocean, not a lake – was calm, and the rush of water receded and returned, over and over. The water, cool but not cold, crashed gently onto the shore in frothy white. By the time the wave reached you, it was just deep enough to rush up over your ears. The sound of the water was soothing. Rhythmic, crashing, roaring. You breathed with the inhale and exhale of the ocean as some man, however kind, used your body for his own means.
“You like that?” Kyle groaned.
“Yeah,” you breathed, and all at once returned to the reality of the breakroom. You put your hands on his shoulders. “Here–”
He sat back on his haunches and helped you up into his lap. You liked to be on top. The first time you had ever been on top had been with John. You felt more in control, and it felt more romantic. You kissed Kyle and shivered as he lauded you with all sorts of sweet-talking. You felt a surge of affection.
“I missed you,” you told him.
That was enough to send him over the edge. His pleasure reverberated through you, and his vocalizations even more so. When he came down, breathing heavily, face buried in the crook of your neck and your hands smoothing his hair, he kissed your collarbone and slid a hand down your belly.
He circled two fingers over your clit and you tensed, grabbing his wrist. “It’s okay.”
He raised an eyebrow and you just shrugged. “Don’t worry about me.”
“But I do worry,” he said. “Seven months is a long time for a lady, too.”
“Lady,” you said, scoffing. You smiled a little to take the edge off. You raised yourself up to come up off of him. Without a towel to protect the sofa from a mess, you sat sideways in his lap, ringing your arms around his neck. “Like you boys didn’t…” Then you shook your head. “It just takes too long.”
He smirked. “I have all the time in the world, luv.”
“But I–” you wiggled your eyebrows. “-–Need to go see Soap. Best, before he has a riot.”
“He can wait a little longer.”
You slapped him lightly on the shoulder, and smiled. “I told you to be nice, didn’t I?”
He sighed. “Oh, alright. Did Price at least get you one?”
You nodded.
“Gonna go see Soap now?”
You nodded again, shyly.
He let out another large sigh, banding his arms around your shoulders and under your knees to lift you both right up off the couch. Your belly swooped as he spun you and then released your legs so your feet could find the ground. As he buckled up his pants, you readjusted your dress. Then he pulled a hankie from his pocket and handed it to you.
“Is this clean?” you squinted.
He made a face, like he couldn’t believe you would ask that. “Of course.”
You laughed a little, and wiped yourself off. When you were finished, you held the cloth in the air between you and him. “It feels rude to give this back to you, but laundry isn’t for another two weeks.”
He plucked it from you and tucked it away in his pocket. “Come on, I’ll walk you to Soap’s.”
No. 4 (Sgt. John “Soap” MacTavish)
Kyle left you outside Soap’s door with a pat to the bum. He walked a short distance down the hall to the washroom, leaving you with a cheeky smile and wave. When he had disappeared, you turned to the door, and knocked. It wasn’t so late, really. Only a little past midnight.
But you began to doubt yourself when there was no response. You knocked again and waited, suddenly noticing how quiet everything was. The corridor was dim, and all of the doors on either side were shut. Usually sergeants did not get their own private rooms, but due to the status of the 141 and the highly classified nature of their work, an exception had been made for Soap and Gaz.
You felt lucky for it. You knew that several of Nicole’s men shared lodging with another unit. She often complained about wandering eyes, and had confided to you that she was afraid some of her squad might decide to share her one day. The only things preventing that from happening were the word of her C.O. and the strict health etiquettes enforced by Mr. Calwell “in order that the Credenhill arm of the FPA may continue operating efficiently.”
It was risky passing a woman around willy-nilly, after all. Calwell’s requirements consisted of frequent STD testing, namely, as well as a thorough approval process for the potential sharing of a woman beyond the bounds of her immediate assignation. But, even though approval was technically required… realistically, that didn’t always happen.
You hesitated but decided to knock on the door for a third time. He might have been out. (You’d made him wait; had he gotten impatient and gone out to town to find himself a bird? The thought made you surly, but it was his right). Or maybe he was in the gym, or the showers. Or maybe he had his headphones on, unable to hear his surroundings. But that didn’t track as likely. You had noticed on more than one occasion that it was impossible to catch any one of the 141 off-guard. They were always aware. On the few occasions they’d taken you out to town, their heads could be seen on a constant swivel, clocking everyone and everything around them. And even during the couple of times John got leave to take you out to his cabin, it was clear as day that he couldn’t relax for the life of him.
When the door finally opened, you winced. Or, he was bloody sleeping. Idiot.
In the hours since they returned, Johnny had shaved down the overgrown sides of his hair and his beard. His mohawk was in full glory. As well as rumpled. His left cheek was creased with pillow marks and he was shirtless. When he saw you, his eyes lit up. “Bonnie.”
“I’m sorry,” you rushed. “I– didn’t know you were asleep.”
“No’ asleep.” He grinned.
“Uh-huh.”
But he just kept smiling, taking your wrist and pulling you inside. “Ah’m no’ lyin’.”
“You’re such a goof,” you said once he closed the door behind you and you saw the state of his bed. It was all rumpled, pillow depressed from the weight of a head and sheets and blankets all turned down. “Go back to sleep. I’ll come see you in the morning.”
“No fuckin’ way, bonnie,” he said, bending down to wrap arms around your waist and lift you up.
“Johnny–” you squealed. You were airborne for two seconds before you were dropped right onto that rumpled, warm bed. You lifted your feet into the air:“I’m still wearing my shoes!”
“Ye think ah care about that?” he said, but took your ankles in his hands and pulled your shoes off. He flung them over his shoulder with no concern, and they thudded on the ground behind him.
Then he climbed in beside you and glommed on. He sniffed your hair, and whined. “Ye smell like Gaz. Am ah bloody last again?”
“Best for last,” you assuaged, stroking your hand along his clean-shaven cheek. Then, before you could hide it, you yawned. After, you looked at him contritely.
“Ah feel so wanted, lass.”
“I’m sorry,” you frowned. “It’s not you. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Ah’m just playin’,” he said, pecking you on the lips with a quick kiss. “Get some sleep for me. I want you good an’ energized in the mornin’–”
“But–” you began to protest.
“– shut that lamp off for me, will ye, bonnie?”
You sighed and reached for the lamp. Soap contented himself with one grope of your bottom but otherwise remained gentlemanly as darkness settled.
“Johnny, really,” you tried. You felt bad. He had been last the previous couple of times. Not purposefully, but still.
But he just said, “Hush. Ah was sleepin’ anyway. Get yer shut eye.”
Ridiculous man. You marked it as a losing battle and got yourself comfortable against his chest. Sleep tugged on your limbs and eyes, heavy and warm, until there was black.
You woke up next to the unmistakable grinding of a man. There was huffing against the back of your neck, and two hands snaked around your torso, fondling your breasts. The man was hard against your bottom, and fear surged suddenly within you. You were on your side, and when you tried to move away, those arms just clamped you tighter.
Your heart thundered and your eyes finally popped open. You were on your side, facing a bedroom window, lit by a purple dawn. When you saw the distinctive sketches pasted up all over the walls, reality crashed back.
Johnny purred right in your ear, “Mornin’, hen.”
You went boneless in relief. “Johnny.”
“How’d ya sleep? Y’were tossin’ an’ turnin’.”
“Fine,” you said, trying to regulate your breathing so he wouldn’t notice how stupidly frightened you had just gotten. “What… about you?”
“Eh,” he said. “S’hard to sleep that first night after bein’ back from mission, ya ken?”
“Yeah,” you said, though you didn’t really.
He resumed his grinding and now that you knew who it was, you were significantly less bothered. You yawned and shifted. He groaned right in your ear. “Bonnie, please, can ah have ye? Please say yes. I canae wait any longer. Yeh’ve no bloody idea. Please, please, please–”
You giggled. Johnny was such a handful sometimes. That’s why you’d been surprised he’d just let you sleep last night. “I don’t know…” you teased. “I’m still a little tired.”
“Bonnie,” he exhaled, sounding half in pain.
“Hush,” you said. “I’m just playing. You know you don’t have to ask.”
He nipped the sensitive skin behind your ear in punishment. “Tricky.”
“Are you going to do something about it, or what?” you goaded.
That was all the permission he needed (not that he really needed it). He rolled you over onto your belly and soon your dress was pushed up over your head and flung to the ground, your knickers yanked down your legs, following shortly behind. You clutched the pillow beneath your head and braced yourself as he slid clumsy fingers between your legs.
“Ye’re no’ wet,” he said, put-out and out of breath.
“Don’t worry about that.” You arched your back a little so he could get a better view. “I will be soon.”
You prepared yourself for that first pinching thrust, clenching your eyes and forcing yourself to relax, but then the bed was shifting and creaking and he was lifting your hips right in the air. A wet suck on your clit had you squealing. When you looked back, Johnny was crouched behind you, eyes alight and cheeks flushed pink with excitement.
“Wait!” you gasped. “I was with Gaz last night.”
His lips glistened when he pulled back. “Ye think I care about that shite, bonnie?”
He dove back in and you hung there, limp like a doll, strung from his hands on your hips, shuddering, as he licked and sucked and fingered you. A little while later, when he slipped two thick fingers inside and they slid easily in and out, he must have determined you were ready enough. He slapped your bottom, leaving a smear of arousal, and lifted up again. You cried out, back arching, as he pushed his cock inside you in one swift thrust.
He went hard and fast, leaving you squirming and gasping beneath him. He scandalized you with a whole slew of dirty words and noises and actions. He said he was going to sketch you like this, taking his cock like a good girl (you were sure he already had sketched something like this), so that he could have something nice to look at on the next mission. He fingered the small bulge of the birth control implant in your arm and said how he wanted to make you big and round with his baby (or babies; twins run in the family, ya ken?). He tugged on your hair and sucked on your neck. He groped your breasts and pinched your clit.
Johnny was rambunctious. He was insatiable. He was overwhelming. But even with all this energy, he couldn’t last forever. He came inside you, bursting with curses and obscenity, and you gasped into your pillow, clutching it like it was a lifeline. When it was over, he slumped over you, panting. He peppered your face and your upper back with kisses. He climbed out of the bed for a moment, leaving you to catch your breath, and soon turned with a wet cloth, which he tossed to you so you could clean up.
It was only when you sat up to sip from the glass of water on the nightstand that you realized how sore you really wore. After months of them being gone, your body had forgotten the demands of juggling three men at once. You ached everywhere. Your hip bones sported soft, blooming bruises, and you were sure your neck was a right sight. You did not envy some of the other girls on base, like Nicole, who were stuck with much larger squads.
When Johnny begged you to pose for him so he could draw you, you could not refuse. You leaned against the headboard and let him position you how he wanted.
“Yer beautiful,” he told you, looking between his sketchbook and your body. “Most beautiful woman in the world.”
Your eyes softened. “Thanks, Johnny.”
As he sketched, the two of you talked for a while. He told you as much as he could about the recent mission – which wasn’t much – and about how he was going on leave for a couple weeks pretty soon to see his family. His sister was getting married to one of his old buddies from secondary school, and he was very relieved about it.
“She doesnae like him much,” he said, shrugging, “But she’ll learn to. Ma dad kept her around too long. She’s twenty-five already, an’ the state’s gettin’ inquisitive, ya ken? An’ Rory’s a good fella. He would no’ hurt her. He knows ah’d kill him otherwise.”
“She’s lucky to have a big brother to watch out for her,” you said. “And a father, too.”
“Yeah,” he said, but looked a bit worried anyway, pencil still scratching away. “She’s mad at me, though. Ah was the one tae suggest it. Trust me, if it was possible, ah’d keep her hidden away forever so she could do what she wants. But…”
“She’ll get over it,” you said. “Things could be a lot worse for her.”
He looked up, and caught your eyes. There was an unusually serious bend to his expression. “Is it terrible wi’ us, bonnie? Would ye even tell us if it was?”
This turn of the conversation made you feel a bit nervous. Your fingers twitched at your sides, and you had the urge to cover yourself with the sheet. He had stopped sketching and was just watching you. You averted your gaze.
“If it was terrible, I probably wouldn’t tell you, because you would be different sorts of men, who wouldn’t care at all.” You sighed. “But it’s not terrible.”
“Why’re ye lookin’ so sad, then?”
You blinked, then met his eyes again. “Well, I guess, there was a lot of terrible I had to go through to get to this point. And whatever comes next… will also probably be terrible.”
“Ye’re no’ goin’ anywhere, hen.”
“Eventually, the four of you will retire,” you pointed out.
“Tha’ might no’ be for a long time.”
“Yeah,” you said. “That’s true.”
What you didn’t say was: at some point, probably before they retire, you will age out. You will become just a little too old to be desirable and you’ll be transferred, likely at their own request. You’d obviously never had the chance to get married and there was absolutely no chance of that now. Your value as a potential bride was subzero, considering the number of men that had been given access to your body. After you age, maybe you’ll be transferred to a lower ranking squad, or put to menial labor, or more likely they’ll see if you’re still able to bear children. Of all the possibilities, that last is what scares you the most. Unfortunately, the birth-rate was declining as a result of the rising tide of female infanticide (what a girl child could ultimately contribute to her family was very dependent on her health and beauty, and for a lot of lower class folk, the investment of raising a young woman wasn’t worth the usually limited return; most poor girls were sent to brothels, sold by their father for a thousand pounds or less, or married to whatever man would have them), so that was the most likely avenue. You dreaded the day that you might have to bear a child and that child be snatched right from your arms to be put under the care of a strange family or – in the case of a daughter – under the care of the state.
You didn’t say all this, because even if Johnny was sympathetic, no man liked to be reminded of his role in the control and servitude of women. No man liked to be reminded that the woman he enjoyed, who he felt he cared for, was not there of her own free will. There was never such a thing as free will for a woman. That was what you had tried to explain to Ghost.
“All that reminds me,” Johnny said, jumping up from the bed and over to the bureau. He left the sketchbook on the rumpled sheets and you got a glimpse of the half-finished drawing of yourself. Even from upside down, you were touched. He drew you tenderly. Your hair mussed and soft, your eyes and smile and expression warm. He drew you nude, but even so you were overly sexualized. Your breasts were there, but so were your arms and your knees and your belly and your ears.
“Here, bonnie,” he said, climbing back up on the bed and handing you a book. “Another one for yer collection.” It was a small, red-bound thing. The title was stamped on the front in austere black type: “If Women Ruled the World.” The author was left anonymous, as most books of its ilk were.
“Oh my god, Johnny,” you gasped, flipping through the pages. “Thank you.”
“Ah got it from this old widow on the mission. She said it’s one o’ the hardest books tae find, but that ye mighta heard o’ it.”
“I have,” you said, eyes riveted on the words of the introduction. “This is, like, the book.”
“Glad ye like it.”
“Like it?” you looked up, grinning. You jumped across the distance to hug him. “Thank you, thank you.”
“Alrigh’, bonnie,” he laughed. “Ye’ll get me excited again, an’ I want to finish the sketch.”
You settled quickly back into your spot. “Did you read it?”
His pencil resumed sketching. “Nah. I donae have the patience to read much of anythin’ these days, ye ken.”
“Yeah,” you said. “Really, Johnny. Thank you.”
He was almost finished with the sketch, but you passed the time thumbing through the book. It wasn’t the first time he had brought you some extremely illicit piece of literature. The first time, you had been stunned. Why was he giving this to you? Was it a test? Was there finally a man who saw women as not just objects to own, but people who had agency, same as men? But though he never snitched on you, he also never read the books himself. Johnny may have been sympathetic, but that did not mean he didn’t enjoy the benefits of the world as it was.
You were only two pages in, throat tight with excitement, when there was a loud knock on the door.
You startled.
“WHO IS IT?” Johnny yelled.
The door swung right open.
“Lt!” Johnny exclaimed, bunching a section of sheet over his crotch as he stood up in a rush. This left very little sheet to cover yourself with. You clutched the book to your chest, heart hammering. Ghost stood hulking in the doorway, surveying the scene.
“What’s goin’ on, Lt?” Johnny said. “It’s bloody rude to walk in on a lass like that.”
“You didn’t answer your phone,” Ghost said flatly. The door was not so far away that you did not notice his eyes lingering on you. He addressed Johnny even as he looked at you. “Price wants to debrief at 0900 on the dot.”
“Fuck,” Johnny said, leaning over to the side table, dragging the sheet even further away. You clutched at it, holding it high enough over your hips that you only needed to worry about your breasts. You were mortified, staring at the bedspread as Johnny picked up his mobile phone. “It’s dead.”
“No excuses,” Ghost said. “Give the woman something to cover up with and let’s go.”
Johnny gave you a wide-eyed look, for the first time noticing your exposed state. “Sorry, hen,” he said sheepishly. He grabbed your dress off the floor and tossed it to you. He dug in his own bureau for a pair of trousers
“It’s okay,” you said, and yanked the dress over your head in what must have been record time. When you opened your eyes again, you gasped. Ghost stood over you, holding your little red book in hand.
“Sir,” you started, kneeling on the bed. “I– I–”
Johnny looked up from where he was dressing. “Bloody hell. Lt. Donae worry, ah gave it to her.”
Ghost turned the book over in his hand and was quiet for a long, terrible moment. “If the FPA found out about this,” he said. “You’d both be in big trouble.”
Water filled your eyes. “I’m so sorry. I– I–”
“Jesus,” Johnny said, now fully dressed. He gave Ghost an irate look. “Ye’re scarin’ the girl.”
Ghost dropped the book back on the bed. It landed beside the sketchbook – open to the page Johnny had been working on. It was a sketch much like the ones he himself had tacked up on his wall. His gaze lingered on it for a moment, before he looked back at you.
“Do you have any others?”
“W–what?”
“Other banned books, girl,” he growled. “Have you got any others like this?”
You reflexively glanced at Johnny, whose jaw was clenched tight. When you turned back to Ghost, he was piercing you with that look. “N–no,” you stuttered. “Sir.”
“Hm,” was all he said. He turned toward the door. “0900, Sergeant. Don’t be late.”
When the door slammed shut behind him, you sat there in a stunned, frightful silence. Your heart pounded in your chest and your palms were clammy with sweat.
Johnny looked harried as he sat on the edge of the bed to pull his boots on. “Sorry, hen. Donae take it personally. Lt’s just…”
“Worried?”
“A grouch,” Johnny said, rolling his eyes.
You swallowed. “Do you think he’ll tell Mr. Calwell?”
“Nah. He donae care about the book, bonnie. Trust me.” He stood up with a groan and looked at the clock. “Look, I have tae go. Ye ready?”
You nodded and stood up on wobbly legs. You found your knickers from that morning discarded on the floor. You tucked them in your dress pocket and slipped on your shoes. You looked at the book and hesitated for a moment. “Maybe I shouldn’t take this one.”
“It’s fine,” he said, a bit distracted. “He’s no’ gonna tell, alright?”
“Okay,” you said, and picked it up. It was small enough you could slip it into your other pocket; it only bulged out slightly.
The whole thing left you a bit deflated. You followed him out in the corridor and watched as he locked the door behind him. He kissed you one last time before turning down the corridor, a quick stride to get him where he needed to go. A couple soldiers passed him in the opposite direction. They did nothing to hide their stares as they watched you.
No. 5 (Female for the British Armed Forces #FBAF8125)
If the boys were all at a debrief, that meant you had some time to kill. Definitely a couple hours at least, but probably the whole rest of the day. Even for the men of the 141 – who were surely pleased to be back on base with regular access to a warm body – there was only so much of the same face they could take. Besides, they had work to do. You were always very aware of not overstaying your welcome. Over time you had learned how to time your visits in a way so as not to pester or distract them. For the most part, you let them find you when they wanted you. The rest of your free time was mostly spent in the FPA dormitory wing, with the other women. It was the safest place to be on base; soldiers weren’t allowed.
That was where you went now. You felt the eyes on you as you maneuvered the base, but you were long used to that. It felt safer now that John and the boys were back. When they were gone for a long time – like this last mission – your only real protection from out-of-bounds molestation was the uptight Mr. Calwell, and even he only provided a tender thread of safety. You were constantly wondering: how long would it be before the men on base – those especially who were not lucky enough to have an assigned woman – lose their self-control and take advantage?
It had yet to happen to you, but you’d heard the horror stories.
You reached your room, feeling a little worse for wear. The room was a small gray box, only slightly bigger than Johnny’s room. That was only because this one had two bunk beds, space enough for four women total. There was a small window on the far wall, enclosed on the outside with bars. There had been attempts to decorate the room with scrap posters and photographs and, sometimes, gifts from the men. But it was still a sad little place.
“Back already?” said a sour voice as soon as you entered.
You sighed. Anna watched you from over the rail of the top bunk by the window. She was one of your two roommates. Nicole was the other, only a couple years older than yourself and your closest friend. There had been a fourth, just a couple months ago, but she had gotten pregnant and subsequently been removed from base.
“Where’s Nicole?” you asked, shutting the door behind you and slipping off your shoes. Your friend usually had some downtime during this hour. Most of you did. The first half of the day was when most soldiers attended their duties or training. The training you had undergone before being brought to Credenhill had really hammered in the importance of not distracting the men from their important work.
“Beats me,” said Anna. She was brushing her hair out, which was very long. “Puking her guts out, probably.”
“That’s not funny,” you snapped.
“Whatever,” Anna said. “Well, are you glad to be of use again? Thomas was this close–” she held two fingers together, basically touching, “–to having you transferred. I mean, there’s only so long you can wander around base doing nothing.”
You rolled your eyes. Anna thought she was better than the rest of the women because Mr. Calwell snuck around with her sometimes. She called him Thomas in front of the rest of you, even though you and Nicole had it on good authority she had once been soundly shouted at by him when she tried to call him that to his face.
You dropped your dirty knickers into the hamper and surreptitiously slipped your book from your pocket. You slipped it in your bedside drawer as casually as you could while you looked for your shower things. It was best to ignore Anna and her inflated sense of importance. The truth was, you were all equally unimportant. Inconsequential. Worth only your beauty, your youth, and what was between your legs. That was it.
“Rumor has it,” she continued, “The big one still won’t touch you.”
You clenched your teeth together.
“Did you do something weird?” she said. “Or are you just not his type?”
You slammed your drawer shut and stood. “I’m going to shower.”
“People say he’s actually gay–”
“He’s not,” you snapped. “Mind your own business.”
Anna scowled. “Well, how would you even know? If he’s never even touched you.”
You scoffed. “Don’t you have anything better to do than regurgitate gossip? Oh wait, that’s right, your Second Lieutenant is still under review for that fuck up in Bahrain. Yeah, I heard about that. Everyone did. Rumor has it they’re going to strip him of his honors and disband his platoon. What are they going to do with you then? Send you far away from your precious Thomas, I bet.”
It was a low blow. There was nothing worse than the uncertainty of your position as a woman, especially when the power structure of the men you rely on gets shaken. But Anna had never, ever been kind to you. Not since you first arrived on base and were assigned a task force of only four, with a commanding officer of higher rank than hers.
Rage transformed her face. Her jaw clenched, and for a long moment she didn’t say anything. Then, you noticed the tears in her eyes and your heart sank.
“Annie, I–”
She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Whatever.”
“Look,” you said a little helplessly. “We don’t have to be at each other’s throats all the time. We’re both in this… shitty situation… together. None of us want to be here–”
“Speak for yourself.”
You took a deep breath. “Annie, come on, wouldn’t you prefer to be married, to one man? Or, even, to– to be a man to begin with. This? This–” you waved your hand around wildly. “This isn’t life. This isn’t how things should be. We should– we should be free. To do what we want. To marry, or not marry. To work. To have children if we want, or not. To choose who we want to touch us. To– to fucking make art and go protest and– and change the world for the better. I–”
She was looking at you with wide eyes.
“We should– well, we should stick together,” you finished, a bit lamely. “That’s all.”
“That’s dangerous talk,” she said in a hush.
“Yes, it is,” you admitted.
“I–” she started, and then stopped.
“Doesn’t it feel good to admit those things?” you interrupted, stepping closer. You set your shower stuff on the table and stood on the lowest rung of her bunk bed. Your faces were at a height now. You felt a frisson of hope. Maybe you could convince her, maybe you could actually talk to her, about real things, and understand what she really thought, beneath all that anger, figure out a way to–
“No,” she finally murmured. “No, it doesn’t. Not really.”
A lump formed in your throat. “Why not?”
“Because,” she said. “Dreaming about how things should be doesn’t change how things really are. It only makes it worse. And if you’re stupid to believe that one day we’ll have, I don’t know, bleeding–” her voice lowered, “–freedom, then I… just feel sorry for you.”
She met your hurt gaze.
“Wake up already,” she said, her voice more gentle than you were used to from her. She gestured to the window with the metal bars on the outside. “This is it.”