"Maybe instead of telling him what he can't do, you can have him show you what he can do," I suggest.
"Maybe you should've been there for four months watching him heal instead of screwing him up and dropping him in my lap." That glint is in her eyes, the one that says she's about to slap me again.
"You got a freebie at Mikael's funeral," I warn her. "Slap me again, and things will go differently this time."
"What? You'll hit me back?"
"No, ma'am, I won't ever raise a hand to you. But you won't like what does happen," I assure her. "There will be consequences."
The taut silence that follows makes me think there's more than frustration between us, something I'll keep attributing to not getting laid in too long. She's small enough for me to lift with one arm, her flushed features and the challenge in her gaze warming me on the inside.
Someone like this would be wild in the sack.
"If we're done here, leave please, so I can change," I tell her with forced politeness.
Another pause, and then she stalks out, slamming the door behind her.
I release my breath, suddenly identifying what I feel. It's the sense I get before I walk into battle, the combination of roaring adrenaline, exhilaration and extreme focus.
Shaking tension from my shoulders, I know she's angry but can't quite write off everything she said.
Maybe you should've been there for four months watching him heal instead of screwing him up and dropping him in my lap.
There's some truth in that, a sense of guilt I experience whenever I think of Petr. I promised to be there when he woke but wasn't. I don't know exactly what goes into amputation and giving someone a new leg, but I can't imagine the experience is simple or remotely pleasant.
If there's one thing I know about Katya, it's that she didn't leave his side the entire time. Which means, I brought the war home to her, too. One dead, one crippled for life, and one scarred emotionally.
I fucked up her family, her world. She'll never forgive me.
That makes two of us.
I change quickly. The others are wearing jeans. After so long in uniform, I've lost some fashion sense, so I pull on dark jeans and don one of the polos, tucking it in. It irks me not to wear a belt; I end up using my uniform belt. I'm pulling on stiff hiking boots when someone knocks.
"Captain Mathis?" It's Petr's voice.
I cross to the door and open it. He's dressed similarly, wearing an assigned polo.