The helicopter blades came to a slow stop as Reynolds slid outside with a bag slung on her shoulder. The light breeze brushing against her face felt delightful after coming from quite a humid place for her mission.
Thankfully, the mission was a success, which meant that she could breathe for another day, but it took a devastating toll on her body. With each step she took, a jolt of discomfort surged from her right ribs and spread through her body. She winced, holding her right side tight, hoping that it would mute the agony.
As she entered the barracks, she grumbled at the sight of the flight of stairs that took her to her room. She went upstairs step-by-step, taking a painfully long time to arrive to the first floor. In the corridor, she leant against the wall, a pained groan escaped her lips. Unable to go on, she took deep breaths to ease the discomfort, but it sent ripples of shock through her right side instead.
Suddenly, the bag on her shoulder lifted and it felt a literal weight was lifted off her. With great difficulty, she turned her head and saw MacTavish slinging her bag on his shoulder. One look at her, and he made an effort to suppress a gasp. Even though her hair acted like a curtain, he could still peer underneath.
Half of Reynolds's face was bruised and swollen; her lips had a deep cut running through them. Underneath her t-shirt, bruises creeped up from her chest to her neck. Clutching her right-side, she winced with every breath she took.
"Going to your room?" he asked indifferently, trying to mask his displeasure.
She nodded slowly and he took off, resisting the urge to interrogate her on what the hell did she need to do on the mission to end up in that condition. He walked as slow as possible, calmly waiting for her to catch up to him finally going into her room.
"Where do you want it?" he asked, holding her bag.
"Anywhere is fine," she mumbled.
She shuffled towards her bed and sat down, expressing a sigh of relief.
MacTavish turned to observe her. His teeth gritted and his eyes darkened as he grazed over her bruises and cuts.
"Christ, Reynolds, what the hell happened?" he finally blurted.
"Nothing. Don't worry about it," she responded bluntly.
His voice dropped dangerously low and growled, "Is this what you meant the other day that there was a possibility of you not returning?"
She avoided his stare, unable to withstand the way it seemed to see straight through her. "It's none of your business, MacTavish."
"What do you have on your right side?" he demanded, as he observed her clutching her side tightly.
He approached her suddenly and went to lift her t-shirt. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist, and he winced at her hold. Despite her obvious injuries, the sergeant still held her own. She recoiled, her eyes throwing daggers at him. MacTavish threw his hands in the air and took a couple of steps back.
"I don't take kindly to my men being injured, Sergeant," he said, menacingly.
"I'm not your man, Captain."
"You are, as long as you are on my base. Remember that."
He took a couple of steps back, unsatisfied at the whole situation
"You need to go to the medical centre. And no discussion!" he added quickly as she opened her mouth to retort. "That is an order. And remember what we said about orders."
He left her squirming in misery. Trying to lie down to soothe the pain, she realised that nothing worked. Maybe sleeping will.
In the evening, MacTavish was sitting down on the sofa in the rec centre. He did not join his men for dinner yet. The television was on and there was a football game on, but he was not paying attention. His thoughts drifted elsewhere, his leg bouncing restlessly.
"You haven't eaten anything yet," remarked Ghost.
MacTavish got up from the sofa and walked towards the kitchen with Ghost right behind him.
"Have you seen Reynolds today for lunch?"
"No."
"And she hasn't come down for dinner," continued MacTavish.
"She's probably resting. Didn't she just come back from a mission?" asked Ghost. "It's probably nothing."
"That's because you haven't seen her," he replied, darkly.
"Is it that bad?"
MacTavish threw a look at Ghost. He grabbed two plates of food, but Ghost stopped him.
"I can take it up to her and you can eat in peace."
"It's fine mate. No worries."
Loud booms echoed in Reynolds's room as it seemed someone was kicking on her door. With her face contorting in pain with every action she took, she opened the door.
MacTavish placed two steaming plates on her desk, the smell of stew and bread filling her room. Reaching into his pockets, he tossed a couple of ice packs onto her bed.
"I figured you'd need those. Now come eat," he ordered, leaving no room for argument.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked crudely. "You came to throw some more jibes at me?"
"You haven't eaten the whole bloody day. What does it look like I'm doing here?"
She ignored him and gladly pressed one of the cold packs against her ribs and expressed an exaggerate long sigh of relief. Her lips curled in a smile as she finally was experiencing some effective pain relief. She sat near MacTavish who already wolfed half his plate down and kept staring at him.
"Does the captain do this to all of his subordinates?" she inquired.
"Only the ones I tolerate," he replied, his eyes gleaming.
She snorted. "As if you tolerate me."
She was not really hungry but forced some food down knowing he wouldn't leave until she did.
"Contrary to what you think, yes, I do tolerate you, Sergeant. So, you're not going to tell me what happened, are you?"
"I can't," she replied annoyed.
"Whoever did that they sure did a number on you."
His gaze softened as it wept over her cut lip and bruised neck. He hate seeing it and despised how it marked her skin.
"He did..." she murmured.
Her eyes became unfocused, and she stopped eating. He knew that she was probably reliving the mission.
"He?"
The question cut like a knife. She snapped back to reality, her fork clattering against the plate.
"Chris, who is he? Is it Al-Jabbar?"
She gawked at him. How did he manage to read her mind? And did he just call her by her first name?
"I cannot say," she whispered.
He slammed his fork down causing her to jump out of her skin, her eyes widening at the strange reaction.
"Someone put their bloody hands on you. And I want to know who, now. I don't give a shite about the mission objective. I give a shite about the bastard that broke you."
Her mouth dropped as she glanced at him. His expression dripped with a type of rage that she was unsure where it was coming from.
"I'm handling it, MacTavish. Like I usually do."
He simply shook his head, clearly disagreeing with her. Without arguing further, he pointed at her plate and asked, "Are you done?"
"Yes."
He grabbed their plates and headed for the door.
"Remember to go to medical," he said quite brashly.
She nodded and went to lie down again. The food in her system increased the existing nausea and felt more like throwing up than nourished. Pressing the cold pack even more, she drifted into a not-so peaceful slumber.