On Her Majesty's Secret Service ~ H.S.

Chapter 7

I wake to the familiar sound of General Sander's whistle bellowing throughout the dorm. This morning, for the first time, I'm not prepared like usual. As I sit up and slide out of bed I realize that Harry's oversized sweatpants still rest upon my hips along with my tight black top I wore during paintball.

This realization makes me panic just a bit. I know I'll be slightly later to the field, and I don't want General Sanders to think my resolve is slipping. I also don't want General Sanders to know about the little cut on my thigh. I just know I'll be forced to rest and take leave and once that happens there's no way I'm winning my spot as an agent.

I spring out of bed and push Harry's thick pants down my legs. Standing, surprisingly, is not as painful as it was just 8 hours ago. Harry was right; Sleep did help.

I change into my newly-clean track suit, grab my water bottle, and dash through the common area up the stairs in the gym to the track. General Sanders stands there as usual, monitoring his watch closely.

"Frasier! You're late!" He shouts loudly, just a couple feet away. My cheeks heat with embarrassment but I can't help looking around to the rest of the empty field. No one else is even remotely close to being ready, but I won't mention it. I don't need to be cited for talking back to the General.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Won't happen again." I respond as politely as I can. I was late. Usually I'm 5 minutes earlier. It's unacceptable to let myself slip like this.

General Sanders issues me a curt nod and sends me on my way. I find that although I can run, I can't run very fast. I take about twice the time I usually do to run my 5 laps. Thankfully I still finish first and head to the mess hall before everyone else, however they all join me after only 5 minutes rather than 20. It bugs me that I seem to be losing my edge, but I know that as soon as my stupid leg has healed I'll be back to 100%.

I sit in the mess hall lazily shovelling eggs into my mouth. I allow Sarah and Isla to chatter lowly across from me while I sit silently, pretending to listen. For some reason, the only thing they seem to care to talk about are the other recruits. After a while, gossiping about who Victoria might fuck gets boring. Besides, I don't want to hear them gush about Harry, the person who, as of right now, I hate the most in the world.

I recall the events of last night. For a split second, Harry and I got along. Surprisingly, he actually seemed willing to help me remove the pellet shell from my wound. If things had gone as I expected them to, he would have just pushed it in further and left me to bleed out.

So, the fact that Harry cared enough to help me is astounding. Furthermore, the fact that we joked around, even for just a second, is even stranger. I saw a side of Harry that I've never seen before, but even from his own words I know that I won't see it often. It was late, he was probably tired, and maybe, just maybe, felt a little guilty for shooting me seeing as I was gushing blood.

I sigh in annoyance. The whole reason I have a bum leg now is because of him. If Harry wasn't such a prick I never would have been shot and he wouldn't have had to remove the pellet from my leg in the first place. I'm reminded that there really is no good side to Harry. There can't be. Not after what he did to me. I don't care if he helped me after- it was only the decent thing to do since he caused the injury.

I huff as I glance towards his table. His mouth is stretched in a smile. He always seems to be grinning, unless he's around me, of course. I force myself to ignore how deeply dimples indent either of his cheeks and how rosy his face seems to turn. All I feel when I look at Harry is disgust.

What if he tells General Sanders about my leg? What if he tells the other recruits? I wouldn't put it past him. If he snitched on me it's certain that I would be taken off of active duty and forced to discontinue training. He would just love that.