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sapph--ire · 2 years

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Signals Lost - I

Photo Edits/Graphics/Page Breaks by me. Gifs as credited.

Signals Lost: Sy x Reader

Synopsis: Set at the start of the Iraq war, and the years that follow. Y/N (Reader) and Captain Syverson meet on base as he trains for a new role in the military. Warnings: 18+ Angst/Romance/Smut: (Update as I go) Slowburn, misogyny, swearing, drinking, smoking. A/N: I've been sitting on this one for a while, um'ing and ahh'ing over whether I should publish. My first series so please be kind, like, reblog etc. Feedback is always appreciated! I am but a wee Sy fan with big ideas for his character.

Do not steal, do not re-post to external sites or claim as own.

Disclaimer: Not Beta’d, all mistakes are my own. Details of military life from personal experience not fact. I do not own any rights to Captain Syverson/Sandcastle. Feedback and commentary are appreciated, enjoy BBZ. Saff x 🥸✌️

MINORS DNI! YOU WILL BE BLOCKED!!

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Signals Lost

Words: 6.5k Reading Time: 26 Minutes

I - September 9th, 2002:

The droning of your strained car engine blends with the booming pop beat coming through the old blown-out speakers. Indicating right onto the quiet motorway, you wind the window down to alleviate the late summer heat. Allowing your hair to whip around your face you can feel the cool lick as the wind finds the sweat at your hairline. Switching into 4th and pulling into the stream of traffic you turn your indicator back up and settle in for the next 20 odd miles of countryside. The sun sags heavily, looming over the wide horizon blanketing the expanse of flat fields. In the distance, a huddled group of hangers and buildings reveal your destination, a town rising in a wispy haze of heat blooms.

Living in the middle of bumfuck nowhere has its benefits, a sense of happy isolation from the world - but desperately boring at times. You think of your friends you left school with, happily married with children, the continual drip of dull, domestic life. But you are happy, at least this summer had been a happy one. Since graduating from Uni you’d made an effort to be more sociable, taking this job was one check off that list, meeting new faces getting to know the locals. It wasn’t a well-paid job, but a family friend put you up to it on the assurance the Americans tipped well. Which they did of course, but on the rare occasion they didn’t, they more than made up for it with a story or two.

Now 6 weeks in you felt comfortable, and conversation was something you’d always excelled at - you’d be lying if you didn’t admit the best part of the job was being able to mingle with some of the best looking men you’d ever laid eyes on, but that was just a perk. They were different to the men here at home, alien. You’d never encountered so many tall, broad men, fatigues filled with muscles - and that’s ignoring just how respectful they were. Yes Ma’am this, No Sir that.

Overtaking a tractor heavily laden with beet, a wobble from under your accelerator reminds you to book the wheel alignment on your piece of shit car, you sigh as you make a mental note to call the garage as soon as you get to the bar, more expense to worry about. The sun still setting on the skyline you reach the first sign for the base, your reminder to turn off. Making the turn into the left lane you see litter left behind from a recent anti-war protest, fluorescent signs plastered with the CND symbol, angry slogans zip-tied to the chain-link fence, and one very offensive cartoon of Bush and Blair in some sort of 69 position. If only you could stop and steal that one, it was bloody hilarious, thinking about how you might pick it up on your way back later to avoid explaining it to the entry guards on your way in. Pulling up to the gates you fish your ID from your bag, wind down the rest of your window, and make sure to slow enough to appease the 4 huge men gripping tactical firearms. Just to quell your anxiety you pull forward cautiously until the one at the front holds his hand out gesturing a stop.

“Good Evening Ma’am” He twangs with a short smile “Identification?”

“Sure, I’m headed to The Stoke, I’m a barmaid there,” You say trying not to look at the huge rifle clipped to his jacket. “uhh Civvy” you add.

“Ok, you know where you’re headed Miss?” he hands back your ID with what seems like a wink.

“Yes thanks” you nod awkwardly, ignoring the subtle twinkle from his eye.

“Lemme just get your slip” he notes pointing to the hut, “what time are you finished?”

“Midnight, but can you make it one please?” he looks at you expectantly “oh sorry…I mean I’m locking up tonight so it will probably take a bit longer, you can check in with my manager if you need to, um Brian West”

“No it’s fine Ma’am just make sure you're off the base by one, or I’ll be in the shit” he smirks. After a short moment in the hut he comes back with a parking slip on a piece of receipt paper:

The barrier lifts and you wave your thanks as you make your way over the speed bumps. A handful of flag poles line the road, the ropes clinking against the metal posts in the late-afternoon breeze. Little roads meander from the hub of the base twisting to meet behind the administration building towards your right. Here the streets are named after states, to your right Iowa leads across to the rear of the admin block, and straight on California to the airfield. Making sure to stick to the 10mph speed limit you drive past clusters of airmen huddled at junctions, some guarding entrances to unmarked doors, others checking the array of parked cars with mirrors on sticks. The base has been on high alert ever since what happened last year, but even more now the anniversary was approaching.

The bar is found at the recreation plaza a little further back from the building you just passed, but still nowhere near the bulk of the small town here. In the distance, you can see the heavily guarded interior gates that block the operational base from the residential side. The airfield and hangers slowly fade into the dusk, and you can make out a dozen or so figures lumbering seats and benches to a roped-off area on the tarmac. To the east of that, there’s a huge middle school for the kids here on base, a complex of married quarters and row upon row of small houses lining what looks like the streets of a model village; as if someone tried to replicate an American suburb with very little space. Not nearly enough to house the 1500 strong population of families here on PCS. Bathed in the yellow floodlights you note the group of men jogging down the path toward the entry gates, and park your car around the back of the bar. You place the parking slip on your dashboard, grab your bag and slide out of your car. It’s not really a ‘plaza’, just a group of buildings huddled around a small fountain lined with more flags and an outdoor seating area. Directly opposite a bustling pizza shop serves a growing line of Friday night customers. Next door is a now-closed donut shop, that one gets real busy in the morning, and past that the gym specifically for relatives on the base. Checking your watch you note the time 17:19 and walk through the open double doors into the bar.

A cloud of cigarette smoke lingers above the mass of bodies at the entrance, practically squeezing through the huddle of men, you see all the tables are filled. Mostly groups of men drinking together after work, but some are families and couples. In the far corner past the pool table, you see what appears to be an unofficial creche of misplaced children playing cheerfully, several running and sliding on their knees to the noisy music. Hugging through the crowd you raise your hand and smile at Mary behind the bar, letting her know you’ve arrived. She barely notices you as she’s taking cash off a woman with one hand and pouring red wine with the other. Setting your things on the hook behind the kitchen entrance, you sign in to the clipboard on the back of the door and check your reflection in the mirror. A crumpled paper sign saying Smile hangs aside it from a small strip of not-so sticky tape. Before you’ve even got time to tie your apron around your waist Mary comes wobbling back to greet you, “Y/N so glad you’re here, I would ask how you are but I’m rushed off my feet, do you mind starting a bit earlier?”

“I’ll be right there Mar” quickly finger-combing your wind whipped hair, you check your mascara and apply a quick coat of lip gloss. Whilst practicing your best smile you unashamedly adjust your top to expose more of your chest than normal, extra tips you think. You scoot around the barrels of oil and kegs of beer in the hallway, and squeeze past Brian who is making his way back to the Kitchen holding an empty tray from the hotplate, “Brian!” you give him a friendly smile, “Busy tonight!” you quip. He grumbles under his breath and in his typical quick wit shouts back “for my sins!”, limping off to refill the fries.

The back of the bar is small, only room for two to pass, but pretty much covers the length of the room, “you take that end Y/N” Mary shouts, you can barely hear her over the band that’s playing on the small stage at the right of you, smiling at the sea of hands waiting for service, you move closer to Mary, “I said you take that end” she repeats into your ear, a waft of cheap perfume and cigarette ash lingering around her head. “I need to get another crate of bottles, you man the fort”, you nod in understanding.

“Can I do that for you, what about your back?” almost yelling into her face, it’s so bloody loud. Yet another night the band ‘forgets’ to soundcheck.

“Don’t mind me dear just get these people away from my bar” she shouts and turns before lifting her hand “don’t forget to take a card if you’re doing tabs, for the love of god Y/N” Mary smiles at you and slaps you on the back as she teeters off to the storeroom on her heels. Mary wasn’t elderly, but she was small and hunched. Clearly once a very beautiful woman, she was prideful in her appearance - always neat. She never wore flat shoes regardless of her back pain, always wore dresses, and styled her perm with what smelled like a full can of Elnette. Given her pack a day habit, it was a total surprise she didn’t self-combust. A never-ending bundle of energy despite her aging years, she and Brian had managed the bar here for well over 30 years, even before the Yanks descended. Turning back to the baying crowd at the bar you take a deep breath and start on orders, a pitcher of draught beer and 2 glasses, whiskey chasers, red wine, more beer, 3 bottles of Pepsi for the kids. Being a barmaid wasn’t hard but it was difficult getting around the expectations of the customers. We didn’t have those fancy cherries or all the brands of liquor they wanted, we didn’t even have an ice machine - but we did our best with a smile, no matter how forced.

About an hour after arriving, the crowd starts to quieten as the early birds make their way home before the evening drinkers pile in. The families and children, some carried sleeping by their parents, leave the bar; satisfied and ready for bed before the weekend ahead. You take advantage of the change in pace and move to the far end of the counter to count the cash and deposit it in the till, punching in the numbers to ensure it all totals at the end of the night. Don’t want a repeat of last week. A major fuck up on your part had the till declaring to be hundreds over what you actually had counted out back. An awkward conversation later everything was fixed, but you just didn’t want to go through that again.

“I’m back dearie” Mary appears from the back door clutching napkins in her neatly manicured hand, “want to take a break? Get some air?” she says while fiddling with the napkins and making little piles of paper umbrellas for the pots. The band has stopped for a quick break, their instruments resting on the stage - only the backup CD playing now, a slow country ballad. Looking across the dance floor you note the dirty tables full of glasses and a few couples slow dancing in the disco lights.

“I thought you’d never ask! Do you mind if I make a call from the phone?” you say wiping the sweat from your top lip.

Uninterested she waves her hand “yes dear that’s fine” she’s now measuring out bowls of bar nuts.

“Thanks Mar, I’ll just grab these dirties from the floor first”. Moving around the room you bring them up to the bar, noting the stack of glasses and pitchers left on the pool table. Tutting to yourself, you have no idea why they won’t get someone else to help. It’s going to be even more manic later. Remembering to make your call to the garage you have a sly smoke break out the back door and make your way to the toilets. It’s not even 7 pm and you’ve been so busy you didn’t even have time to piss. Reaching for the paper you feel an empty roll, typical! - thankfully you have a napkin in your apron, you wash your hands, and get started on checking the customer loos for the same problem.

It’s not long before the bar is filled again with heated bodies bustling towards the counter, cash in hand eager for service. Thankfully Brian has closed up the kitchen and is diligently working the floor, grabbing empties from tables and replacing the back of the bar with boiling glasses from the dishwasher. A group of airmen on your right side propping up the bar, are keenly keeping you busy in bottles of beer and tequila chasers. The band is back now, but instead of the previous crowd-pleasing country music, they’ve switched to some rock and roll. Mostly oldies but a few you recognise and love. A pretty decent cover of ZZ Tops – Gimme All Your Lovin blasts over the noisy PA system. Dancing along to the music you swiftly take orders and cash in return for booze including the odd kiss on the cheek. You’re raking in the tips tonight. In your head, you’re not just the barmaid, you feel as if you were Violet from Coyote Ugly, free pouring whiskey into the mouths of rabid men, spraying them with water when things get too wild. Taking a swig from your bottle of beer you lean across the bar to greet another nameless regular with a friendly face.

“Two beers babe” he shakes a 10 in your face, teasingly pulling away when you go to take it. Following his lead, you put the 10 in your cleavage, cheekily pocketing the change and hand him the bottles.

“Service with a smile” you grin. Have a nice day arsehole.

In the corner of your eye, you see Mary dancing with a young serviceman who’s found his way behind the bar, doing her best Tina Turner impression strutting in her wobbly heels. Brian simply raises his eyebrows to subtly acknowledge what is clearly a regular occurrence and carries on stacking cups. Whilst Tina’s getting her rocks off you try your best to move up and down the bar, pouring pitchers and pulling beer caps at the same time. It’s getting late, past 10 at least, and your back heaves, impatient with the mob.

The thumping bass line from the speakers hits your chest relentlessly as you hurry from punter to punter your shoes sticking to the mess of soda and spirits spattered on the linoleum. Taking short breaks you pull your cold bottle of beer to your cheeks to ease the burn of the humid room on your skin. Before you realise it the optics on the wall need changing and you shout to Brian to grab more whiskey and another bucket of ice.

Predictably the serviceman who was dancing with Mary is now behind you playfully rocking his hips to the music against your back as you pass drinks across the counter. Refusing to rise to it, you try to push him away with an awkward laugh at the men in front of you. He drunkenly stumbles back against the wall of optics and comes back closer forcing you up against the bar, humping you insistently in time to the music, laughing as if it’s all some kind of big joke. Drinks spill over you as he pushes you further into the countertop. You look at the faces in front of you, some of them women cheering him on in howls, the others laughing at the display in front of them. A flush rises to your cheeks, embarrassed by the attention. You’re used to being teased by these types of guys, but right now you feel entirely humiliated, fucking pig. Pushing again you move your right elbow back as hard as it can to meet the side of his ribs.

“Get the fuck off me” you yell. “Arsehole!”. A chorus of boos erupt from the baying audience.

“You’re no fuckin’ fun” he spits in your face, before swiftly jumping back over the bar into the commiserating thumps of his friends, pulling off a strip of stars and stripes bunting with his boot as he goes. As hard as you try to shake it off a wave of guilt enters your mind, you worry you were too harsh, and take a deep breath. Moving the hair from your face you use a bar mat to mop up the spillage as best you can, chuck it in the corner of the floor, and turn to serve the airmen waiting on the right-hand side of the bar; holding back a burn of tears you summon your best fake smile.

“You ok?” The taller of them leans in and hollers to your ear, you step back and meet his heavy-lidded eyes, he’s probably just doing the gentlemanly thing. “Fucking trench monkey” he jibes whilst the 4 others beside him roar in agreement. “4 more shots!” he waves a note.

“I’ll be fine, typical Friday night” shrugging it off, you take his money and lay out the glasses pouring warm tequila to the brim. On decanting a 5th for yourself you snicker at the handsome face eagerly watching you, “emotional compensation” you add with a wink.

“Hell yeah baby!” he howls following your lead and in passing back the drinks to his buddies they chant and down them in unison.

“Free Bird! Free Bird!” an anonymous voice booms from the crowd toward the exhausted band. A smattering of claps and cheers punctuates the request as agreement. The band reluctantly continues for one last song as the ring of the bell signals it’s time to move on.

“Jesus!” you slump your tired arms against the counter, your hazy head falling on your hands.

“Another packed night” Mary pats you on the back in appreciation. Moving up and down the bar, cigarette in hand - unphased by the wild events before. “Good for business” she chirps, spraying the wood and polishing each section fervently.

“Yeah, about that Mar, any chance you can find someone else to help out?” you straighten and look toward her optimistically, the last of the rabble slowly rolling out of the open doors and crisp evening.

“It depends, you’re not planning on leaving us?” pointing at the grate above the hatch she pulls herself onto a small step stool to reach the top.

“No!” you laugh, “despite the over-friendly customers, I really enjoy it here…”

“1, 2, 3” and you both pull down on the metal together, closing the bar for the night. You fiddle with the lock on the grate and put the key in her small hand.

“I mean, the 3 pm shift not so much” you joke, “it gets kind of slow, you know?”

“Well,” she starts “I’ll speak to Brian, he’s the man with the money.” A smile forms at her mouth and she winks. “Speaking of, do you want to be paid now or Sunday?” from nowhere she has a mop in her hands and with her back turned she gets stuck into relieving the sticky mess from the floor. The lights buzz on from the left to right, and all that’s left is the loud ring of tinnitus and Brian shaking the hands of the weary band on the far side of the floor.

Sunday is planned to be a quiet day, the base has a full day of anniversary events lined up, the bar will probably host a few small groups – mainly the regular crowd before they head back to their homes. “Sunday is more than fine” you reply.

Shutting the back door ensuring it clicks, you turn the key in the lock and replace the key chain to your ID lanyard. All that’s left of the night is the navy blue of the star-dotted sky and a misty amber glow from the many floodlights dotted across the estate. Rummaging in your bag you quickly check the time - 12:25 am.

“Night Y/N” Mary waves out the passenger side of her car as Brian drives them back toward the entry gates along the vast airfield.

Still time for a quick smoke, you think, before you get back in your car and head home. Lifting the filter to your lips you pull a lighter from your pocket and drag the thick burning vapour to your lungs, a wash of peace falls over you and you flex your heavy shoulders. The base is practically silent, save for the whir of generators and vehicles on the breeze. It isn’t until you walk a little way to your car you suddenly hear a cacophony of raised voices - angry voices. Around the corner of the bar, a small gathering of people litter the plaza, refusing to give in to the call of their beds. Directly in front of the now locked doors, you see the airmen you served earlier, arguing with a couple of guys sitting on the wall. One of them seems to be spitting sick into a bush, hunched hands on knees into the raised flower bed. Lovely. Not wanting to be seen you slide back against the cool brick and continue to meditate on the evening gone. The burning embers of your cigarette light your face as you take a deep breath and sigh heavily.

Being on base always feels a little like trespassing into a place you’re not supposed to be, the last thing you want is to be caught in all this. The echo of retching and vomit hitting the pavement turns you around. You know you should really get going but he was kind to you earlier, checking in on you – and you really couldn’t forgive yourself if you didn’t try to help, fuck. Whilst crossing the cobbles you dig in your bag for tissues, maybe you could even grab him a water from the kitchen, it’s the least you could do. You flick the half spent cig to the side and squat down to face the Airman.

“Hey, I just wanted to say thanks for checking in on me ba…” you are quickly interrupted by a scoff on the other side of the pathway.

“That’s the fucking bitch”. In the low glow of the parking lot lights, you realise it’s your insistent dance partner from before. His mouth curled up in disgust. “Don’t flatter yourself” he jeers clearly hurt. Fucking fuck! “What’s your name?” You offer the tissues to the man at your side.

“It’s Y/N,” you say timidly. “Look, I didn’t mean any offe..”

“Well you’re a Cunt Y/N!” he spits on the floor at your foot punctuating the disgusting word from his mouth as you step back trying your best to avoid the inevitable confrontation.

“Hey that’s out of line buddy” a bystander points back.

“Go home, Bryant,” another says shaking his head.

Before you can process what the hell is happening or even bother to try and argue back, the nauseous airman is wobbling ahead of you. Squaring up to your aggressor, unstable fists raised for a fight, he lunges forward pushing him back into the bush. A symphony of groans and shouts erupt as his colleagues run to pull him back. The men grapple with each other for an uncomfortably long time, their arms pulled back in anger over and over again, battering whatever they could find. A sickening thud and snap echoes across the plaza, and the airman falls back on his bum clutching his nose.

I can’t believe this, FUCK. “Shit man, what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you groan as you push the wad of tissues under the airman’s nose, his warm blood emptying all over your hands.

Without warning a truck surges into the parking lot, brakes shrieking as you cover your eyes from the blinding white beams of the headlights. The stragglers hanging about the plaza quickly scatter and tramp back to their respective quarters, a sign that you should too. You get back on your feet, backing up between the entrance to the bar and the men in front.

If you had a chance to dash it, it’s definitely gone now. Two figures emerge from the cab, slamming their doors in time, resonating a loud bang off the circle of buildings. They’re looking in your direction, or at least at the group of exhausted men in front of you. The bigger of them is wearing smartly pressed fatigues with a green beret, he towers head and shoulders above the rest. His thick arms swing at his side as he advances. Considering you’ve been working on base for 6 weeks, you still have zero idea what any of the uniforms or patches mean - but just from the swagger of this hulking guy…you know someone’s in deep shit, and a deep ache in your stomach says you should leave before you find out who.

He lumbers up the curbside and you audibly gasp as you notice he has a handgun strapped tight across his thigh. What really takes your attention, however, is the flash of steel clipped to his belt. A tactical knife longer than your forearm sheathed in a crested leather scabbard. Apart from the guards patrolling on site, you’ve never seen any other weapons up close. The proximity alone raises your heartbeat, a mixture of fear and curiosity rushes over you as you wonder why this soldier, in particular, carries a handgun so close to their body.

Without a word the men jump to attention, swaying drunkenly from side to side. The smaller of the two approaches locking on to the airman, blood oozing from his nostrils.

“What in the ever-loving fuck is this!” He booms “Peterson, do I have to hose you down like a rabid dog”

“No Staff Sergeant” he burps, the pungent smell of vomit and alcohol wafting from the vapours of his mouth.

You feel your cheeks flush at his mere volume, trying not to jump with each staccato boom of his interrogation. Don’t panic, don’t panic you relay to yourself. Just explain what happened, you’re not in trouble. You haven’t done anything wrong. Squinting your eyes to adjust to the headlights you search for some sort of way out of this mortifying scenario.

“Are you inebriated Shitbird?” he yells a mist of spit dusting onto Peterson's face.

“Ineb…inebriat? Staff Sargeant” he stammers flicking his head to prevent the blood from his nose trickling down his top lip.

Now looming down onto Airman Peterson's head, eyes freakishly large behind his wide brimmed hat, he repeats “Are you so fucking wasted you don’t know what that means, shit head?”

“Sir, yes I am drunk Sir” Peterson announces to the smirks of his friends.

“Get the fuck out of my sight and back to bricks before I send you to the stockade” he yells “all of you!”. The crack in his voice at the end of ‘you’ is somehow so childishly hilarious at that moment that you let out involuntarily snort in a self-conscious chuckle. The silent taller man snaps his head in your direction, although just a silhouette you can feel the burn of his eyes as he scrutinises you. You bring your hand to your mouth wishing you could sink into the floor and disappear never to be seen again.

“Yes Sir” the four airmen bark in agreement and swiftly exit past the pizza shop in the direction of the inner gate. As they leave a series of awkward laughs disappear into the darkness with them. Now it’s just you, the officers, and your assaulter.

Feeling a chill you realise the novelty of the situation has long gone, what the eff do I say, think THINK!

The Staff Sergeant continues, “Can someone explain to me what in God’s name is going on here?”

In the heavy silence you take your chance to speak up, nervous waves sound as you try to excuse yourself. “Look, I am so sorry” Shit do I say, Sir? Sirs? You contemplate it for a second. “The Airman…um Peterson…was unwell, and I was just trying to make sure he got home alright” shut up, shut up, shut up ”S…Sir?”. Pulling your hands to your arms in comfort, you feel your goose-pricked skin tighten from the chill of the Sergeant’s inspecting glare. Is it fear or nerves? You know this is it, you’re going to get shouted at by at least one of the most terrifying men you’ve ever met. Remembering that time you got called to the Headmasters office for swearing at Ms. Dixon – and subsequent suspension, a worse thought crosses your mind. What if I lose my job! Oh god. If only I’d just gone home when I could.

The larger of the commanders pushes forward, “Not you” he drawls in disdain. Without even looking at you he points his finger, commanding you to shut up and stay put. You don’t know if it’s the gun on his thigh or some sort of mind trick, but you freeze in submission, chest tight, too scared to even breathe. He eclipses the light from the truck with his body as he advances on your aggressor. In the halo of white now lighting his face you can make out his features, a thick 5’o’clock shadow stubbled around a striking moustache, dark curls lay on his forehead. Something else catches your attention, something you can’t quite place at first. The early morning wind picks up, creating a vortex around the small plaza, gathering up leaves and litter as it rises. It’s the smell of his deodorant or cologne, a rich musk mixed with a lilt of whiskey. The fragrance lingers around you, distinctly masculine, a sudden twinge in your belly follows budding wetness in your knickers. Really? You chide your growing schoolgirl crush, a bloom of heat visibly rising to your face as you realise you’re turned on by his icy disregard.

“This is the second call I’ve gotten about you this evening Bryant”, he rumbles at the serviceman now shadowed by his superiors broad frame, “first for assaultin’ a barmaid and now for fightin’ in the God damn street?!” he doesn’t need to raise his voice, a disappointed grumble punctuates his words so perfectly you shift from side to side, feeling scolded in turn. He scrunches his face, bringing his hand to the bridge of his nose.

“Apologize to Staff Sergeant Holmes, Cadet” he orders, his deep voice gravely and fatigued. Something in his tone tells you this is not the first time Bryant has fucked up in his charge.

Bryant turns, ego bruised but still at full attention to the man beside him. “I am very sorry Staff Sergeant, Sir.”

“I am disappointed in your behaviour on my base Son. Hardly becoming of an Officer in training. Given the circumstances, I will let Captain Syverson decide how best to penalize you” Holmes starts, a smirk on his smug face. “But!” He cuts, chin to chin with the Cadet “If I see you as much as piss in my direction I will gladly PT you until you’re shitting blood for a week. Do you understand Son?”

“Yes, Sir!” Bryant jolts. Satisfied, the Staff Sergeant shares a confirmatory nod with the Captain and silently turns back toward the truck. A series of revs signal his departure, and the truck fades from view.

“You fuckin’ idiot Bryant” The captain throws his hands to his hips. You can’t help but notice how large they are, the pads of his thick fingers drum into the woven band of his belt as he contemplates what action to take. “Are you purposefully tryin’ to make us look bad?” He grimaces as Bryant bursts into raucous laughter. Am I bloody invisible?

“Come on Sy, that was fucking funny, you should have seen that guy's nose”. “Shut the fuck up Bryant. Apologize to…” he finally turns, taking you in with a pained inhale. “What’s your name darlin’?”

You step back at his sudden change, Darlin’? Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I am NOT your Darlin’ Grunt. The words you wished you could say, that is if you weren’t so scared of him. “It’s Y/N” you barely manage to get your words out. Searching the Captain's face you try to determine just how much trouble you are in. “Look I need to leave, my permit runs out in…”, you check your watch, “Fuck, I have to get off the base”.

“I’ll make sure you get back to the gate, OK?” he raises his finger again, a sign to stay while he deals with Bryant. He turns a frosty gaze toward the Cadet. His chest rises as he takes his beret in hand wringing it between enormous palms.

“Apologise to Y/N Cadet” he starts, louder than before. Bryant quickly reassumes his attention, clearly, the Captain is not playing buddy tonight.

Turning towards you he spits out his best non-apology, “Y/N I am so sorry you’re a CUNT” his words are full of spite, his eyebrows dance up and down in insult as he mocks you.

“Bryant!” The Captain smacks the cadet upside his shaved head, the slap reverberating in the still of the dark.

“Fuck! I am very SORRY” he virtually shouts, “I am sorry for bothering you” His eyes meet the floor, cracked like a scolded child”

“Right, now stop pettin’ the fuckin’ wildlife, are we clear Cadet?” The Captain orders back, his eyes boring a hole into Bryant’s drooping head. You shift uncomfortably on your feet, Just what exactly is that meant to mean?

“You’re lucky I don’t call the MP’s out this late.” He grumbles turning back to glance at you. You can’t control the shudder from your core as the cold of the night blankets your bare arms, or was it nerves still? “We are guests on this base and in this country” The Captain continues, “I’m takin’ your off base privileges for a month, you can spend your nights on CQ duty” He smirks content with his judgment as Bryant shakes his head to the floor, a whispered curse under his tongue. “FINE” he snarls, “0600 for write up, you can face the Wing Commander”.

“Yes Sir!” Bryant complies through gritted teeth.

“Right, now fuck off” he breaks his gaze from the dejected Cadet and steps forward to you. Placing his beret back on his head, he combs back the dark curls rebelling from the thick gel covering the rest. He presses his fatigues down with a flat hand searching for something in the velcro pockets.. “You said something about a permit?” he smiles, producing a pen from his chest pocket. You can feel the warmth of his breath as he closes in on you. The sheer proximity of his frame making your knees weak.

“Sure, it’s in my car.” You squeeze past the Captain, “it’s just here” you point to the dark at the back of the plaza and make your escape. “Look am I in trouble…becau…” you turn expecting him to be where you were just stood. “Fuck!” you jump, “you’re really quiet?!”. He simply chuckles, cocking his head at you. Laughing awkwardly you hope he doesn’t sense just how nervous he’s making you. Unlocking the passenger door with the key, you lean in to reach past the steering wheel. “I mean I’m just a barmaid…it’s not a big deal, we get arseholes like that most weekends” you ramble searching for the slip of paper in the dark.

“Vulgar Display of Power?” you hear him mutter behind you.

“Sorry?” you look from his pointed hand to the box of tapes spilling onto the footwell.

“You like metal?” he probes.

“Oh yeah I suppose. I like a lot of music, depends on how I feel that day”, You hear a soft ‘tsk’ behind you and glance back. He’s taking in the view of you, one knee on the passenger seat, bent at the waist, struggling forward.

“I mean there’s also a lot of shit I listen to in there, boy bands, Pop-y stuff” you remark, finally finding the paper that had slipped under the glass of the windscreen. “Shania Twain…”.

Pulling yourself back and tugging your jeans up – you cover what you assume was distracting him, the back of your thong. “Here” you stretch your hand to his and pass the piece of paper, he scribbles something on the back, turning to the light of the streetlamp to see better.

“All set Darlin’” he arrogantly pushes the paper back into your hand, the heat from his fingers brushing against your frozen knuckles.

“Thanks, for this”, you raise the paper between you and force a smile tucking the slip into your jeans pocket. “And for, you know, not kicking me off base”.

“Still time for that Doll’” he teases looking at his watch, “you have 9 minutes” stepping back and disappearing around the corner of the bar. His deep voice carries in the dark “Now get! Before I change my mind” he echoes from the shadow.

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