Quiet Secret

Change

If there's one thing I despise more than anything, it's change.

When I was little, my parents moved the couch to the opposite side of the living room, and I lost it. Threw a tantrum so big that they thought there was something wrong with me, until I fell asleep and they put me to bed. I ended up, little six-year-old me, scooting this massive couch across the room, until they woke up in the morning to see me asleep on the floor next to a crookedly positioned, but correctly placed, couch.

They realized a pattern when my mom got bangs, and I sobbed so hard I puked. And again, when my dad said we needed a new car.

The worst was when we moved in the eighth grade, even though it was to a nicer house, I felt sick for weeks.

My parents were as shocked as anyone when I decided to join the military right out of high school. But I felt confident at that point - I hadn't had an outburst since we moved, and there had been plenty of changes since.

So I joined, and that was that.  I started classes, accelerated the completion of my masters, and four years later, here we are.

Medical-surgical nursing was my goal, and I got it. I'm damn good at it, too, and I barely have to wear the stiff uniform, instead wearing scrubs with an embroidered rank and name: Sergeant Lavender Campbell.

Now, though, as I unload my bags, boxes, and suitcases from the moving truck to the driveway of what is now my home, the familiar sense of panic creeps up in my chest.

I got stationed at the Task Force 141 base. The actual base doesn't really matter, just that the notorious 141 is here, and it's intimidating. I keep wondering if I'll see them around, but to be honest, I don't know what they look like.

I stand up, suddenly feeling dizzy, taking in a couple of deep breaths to calm myself down.

I am a short flight away from home. I am a short flight away from home. I am a short flight away from home.

I don't realize I'm saying the words out loud until I hear tires on pavement, slowing down as this person sees that I'm standing in a sea of belongings, one hand on my chest to force the air in and out, eyes clenches shut.

Slowly, I open them, choosing to pretend that I didn't just get caught managing an anxiety attack and talking to myself, and busy myself unloading the rest of my things.

I only have time to toss them all inside the door of the house before having to head over to my new medical unit.

It's next to a large training facility, and my skin tingles at the thought of the Task Force training in there, but I ignore my star-struckness and head inside.

As a non-commissioned officer, I'm assigned a few junior enlisted individuals, a (small) office, and directed to meet all of the other nurses I'll be working with.

"You're our very first medical-surgical nurse!" a woman in plain blue scrubs exclaims. "How exciting."

I assume the rest are standard or combat nurses, but I smile politely, feeling out of place in a uniform in a sea of scrubs. The material already feels too thick on my skin.

A few pleasantries are exchanged before my host leaves me to my office to complete in-processing paperwork and get settled in. I leave the door open to eavesdrop on the goings-on outside before I hear several doors slam open and the unmistakable sound of man-talk in the middle of placing my desk decorations, snack box, and laptop at my new desk.

"Time for your physicals?" a nurse asks, and I hear a European - Austrian, maybe? - voice respond a quick yes.

"The rest of you may wait."

As I rifle some of the in-processing papers, I see the tentative itinerary for the remainder of the year. In red, I see, on today's schedule, 141 checkups.

My eyes grow wide as I see they get them every other month.

Does that mean that I'll see them today?

Right as I ask myself the question, footsteps round the corner, and a tall figure walks past.

The footsteps stop, and I hear the awkward squeak of boot on tile as the person reverses.

I look back down at my desk, quickly filling out some more of the forms, when someone knocks on the open door of my office.

I look up to see a tall, built, incredibly attractive - to be honest - man, with dark hair cut into a tastefully-executed mohawk, piercing blue eyes, and stubble that makes me wonder what it would feel like on my - 

"Hello," I say, instead, forcing my face into a smile and the blush back down my cheeks as I remember what I was just thinking. Curse the genetics of being strawberry-blond.

"Hello," the guy says, voice thick with a Scottish accent. "You're new."

"That I am," I say, nervously. "Just arrived a few minutes ago, actually."

"Nurse?" he asks.

"Medical-surgical," I confirm.

"Ah," he says. "Will you not be working with the regulars then?"

"I'm sure I'll be put in a variety of positions," I say, the words polite, but then, too late, I realize the accidental implication of my words.

Oops.

He smirks, and I pretend not to notice.

"Lavender?" he asks, motioning towards my name plate on my desk.

"Yes," I say.

"You prefer your first or last name?" he asks.

"First is fine," I say.

"Alright then," he says. "I'm John MacTavish."

"Nice to meet you," I say.

"Soap!" a deep voice calls from the waiting area. "We're waiting on you!"

Violently British, that was.

Soap. Soap sounds familar.

"I'm coming, Ghost!" he calls back, winking at me.

The moment he winks, I realize.

Soap. Ghost.

My question from earlier is answered.

I'll see the 141 today. I'll see them right now. I'm seeing one right now.

"Soap," I echo, quietly, and he gives me an odd look.

"It's my callsign," he says.

"You're in the 141," I say.

"That I am," he says. "Why?"

"Just... surprised to meet you, is all. We heard a lot about you guys at my old base. Medical miracles, some of you."

Soap - John - Soap - ? laughs.

"Famous, are we?" he comes inside, even as Ghost calls his name again.

"A bit," I say.

"Well," he says. "Medical-surgical nurses are a novelty around here. I'd say we're equal." As he talks, he picks up a sticky notepad and a pen from my desk, jotting something down.

"It's a Friday," he says, a statement of fact. "You'll come out with us tonight. Text me and I'll pick you up, we can show you around."

"Okay," I say, though I was hoping to just go to bed early.

"Okay," he says, handing the note to me.

"See you later, Soap," I say, awkwardly.

"John," he says.

"John," I say.

"Soap!" Ghost shouts, louder this time, and he laughs.

"I'll see you later, Lavender."

With that, he rounds the corner, footsteps falling back into the checkup rooms.