Chapter Text
Cody Bowman liked driving when there was nothing chasing him.
No sirens, no convoy schedule, no radio crackling orders into his ear. Just asphalt unspooling beneath his tires and a sky big enough to swallow everything he didn't want to think about yet.
His car was a dark green 1996 Ford Bronco — used when he bought it, already a little scratched, but solid in the way he trusted. It smelled faintly of motor oil and old pine air fresheners, the kind shaped like trees that never really smelled like trees. The engine hummed steady as he guided it west, the late-morning Colorado sun cutting clean and sharp through the windshield.
February in Colorado Springs wasn't cruel, but it wasn't gentle either. Snow lingered in stubborn patches along the shoulders of the road, crusted and gray, while the fields beyond them were brown and dormant, waiting for something warmer. The mountains loomed in the distance, blue and massive and unapologetic, like they'd been there long before anyone decided to name a base after a general and park jets beneath them.
Bowman rolled one shoulder, then the other, easing out the stiffness that never fully left him anymore. Twenty-eight wasn't old. He knew that. But his body disagreed sometimes — knees popping when he climbed out of trucks, a dull ache in his lower back that flared on cold mornings. The Marine Corps had a way of aging men unevenly.
He kept the radio low, some classic rock station fading in and out between signals. He wasn't really listening anyway. His thoughts drifted where they wanted, skimming the surface of things instead of diving deep. He'd learned how to do that over the years. It was a survival skill, same as knowing how to clear a room or read a man's hands.
Colorado Springs came into view gradually — not a dramatic skyline, not some cinematic reveal. Just roads branching wider, traffic thickening, signs announcing strip malls and diners and gas stations. Ordinary. Real. The kind of place where life kept happening whether or not you were ready for it.
Bowman slowed as he merged onto a main road, the Bronco's tires crunching softly over grit and salt. He took it in without meaning to: the low buildings, the mix of old brick storefronts and newer stucco ones, the way the mountains framed everything like a backdrop no one could ever ignore.
Peterson Air Force Base sat off to one side of the city, its presence felt more than seen — security fences, controlled airspace, the occasional distant roar of engines. Bowman knew he'd be spending plenty of time there soon enough. For now, though, this was his day. His time.
He found parking easier than he'd expected. A spot opened up along a side street near a cluster of small restaurants and shops, and he slid into it cleanly, cutting the engine and sitting there for a moment longer than necessary.
Habit.
He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror — short brown hair, freshly cut but already refusing to behave, a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He wore civilian clothes that still somehow screamed military: faded jeans, sturdy boots, a plain gray long-sleeve shirt that fit his shoulders a little too well. No unit patches. No rank. Just a man passing through.
Bowman stepped out of the Bronco and locked it, the solid click grounding him. The air smelled different here — colder, cleaner, tinged with snow and exhaust and something faintly metallic. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked toward the nearest restaurant with outdoor seating, drawn by the simple promise of food that wasn't from a mess hall.
The place had a wide terrace with metal tables and chairs, half of them empty at this hour. A few locals sat scattered around — a couple of older men talking quietly over coffee, a woman with a book and a scarf wrapped high around her neck, a pair of college kids sharing fries and laughing too loud.
Bowman chose a table near the edge, where he could see the street and keep his back angled toward a wall. Another habit. He didn't fight it anymore.
A waitress approached a moment later, and Bowman noticed her the way he noticed most things — quickly, thoroughly, without ceremony.
She was pretty. Not in a striking, stop-you-in-your-tracks way, but in a warm, easy way. Dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail, a dusting of freckles across her nose, eyes sharp and alert. She wore a simple black sweater and jeans under her apron, and she moved like someone who knew how to navigate crowded spaces without bumping into anyone.
"Hey there," she said, friendly but neutral. "What can I get you?"
Bowman smiled, the familiar curve of his mouth that had worked more times than it hadn't. "I'll take whatever you recommend," he said lightly. "As long as it doesn't try to kill me."
One eyebrow lifted. "We aim for non-lethal cuisine here."
"Good policy," he replied. "Drink too — something non-alcoholic. Surprise me."
She scribbled something on her pad. "All right. Food'll be about fifteen minutes."
Bowman leaned back in his chair. "Take your time. I'm not in a rush."
She looked at him then, really looked, and whatever she saw made her smile polite but closed. Professional. Uninterested.
"Be right back," she said, already turning away.
Well, hell, Bowman thought, watching her go. You win some, you lose some.
He wasn't offended. Flirting was as much reflex as strategy at this point — something he did without thinking, without investing. It was easier to be the charming guy than the complicated one. Easier to keep things light.
The terrace warmed as the sun climbed higher, and Bowman shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair. He watched the city move around him — the slow churn of traffic, people ducking in and out of shops, a dog straining at its leash toward something only it could see.
His drink arrived first: sparkling water with a wedge of lime, condensation beading along the glass. He took a long sip, letting the cold bite wake him up properly.
He hadn't realized how tense he'd been until he felt it ease, just a little.
Colorado Springs wasn't home. He didn't know if it ever would be. But it wasn't hostile, either. It felt... possible. Like a place where something could start without immediately demanding everything from you.
The waitress returned with his food — a plate stacked with grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, and a pile of greens he promised himself he'd eat eventually.
"Here you go," she said, setting it down. "Anything else?"
Bowman glanced up at her, considering another line, then decided against it. She'd already made her boundaries clear, and he respected that more than he needed the ego boost.
"Nope. This is perfect," he said instead, sincere. "Thanks."
She nodded and moved on, and Bowman dug in, surprised by how hungry he actually was. The food was good — simple, well-seasoned, the kind that reminded him eating could be more than fuel.
As he ate, his thoughts drifted — not backward, not forward, just... sideways. To the idea of this posting. New base. New routines. Old faces and new ones. Bowman wasn't running from anything exactly, but he wasn't standing still either.
He finished his meal slowly, savoring the quiet moment. When he paid and stood to leave, the waitress gave him a polite smile and a "Have a good day," nothing more, nothing less.
Bowman smiled back. "You too."
Back on the sidewalk, he paused, hands on his hips, taking one last look at the street before heading back toward his car. The mountains watched over everything, patient and unmoved.
He didn't know it yet, but this city — this place that felt ordinary and unassuming — was about to change the shape of his life in ways he couldn't predict.
For now, though, he just unlocked the Bronco, climbed in, and started the engine. And drove on.
The Bronco rolled back into motion with a familiar weight beneath Bowman's hands. The city slipped past his windows in pieces now — intersections, storefronts, stretches of residential streets where snow clung to lawns in uneven patches and kids' bikes lay tipped over near garages. Colorado Springs felt lived-in in a way he liked. Not polished. Not trying too hard.
Traffic thinned as he headed east, following the signs that pointed toward the base. The roads widened, buildings spaced farther apart. The sky opened up again, pale winter blue stretched thin over land that still remembered warmer seasons.
Bowman relaxed into the drive, one elbow hooked on the window ledge, fingers loose on the steering wheel. He let his thoughts drift again — not toward missions or orders or the inevitable stack of paperwork waiting for him, but toward nothing in particular. That empty space was rare. He didn't waste it.
That was when he saw the horse.
At first it registered as movement — fast, powerful, wrong somehow against the stillness of the land. Bowman's eyes flicked right, instinctive, sharp.
A few hundred yards off the road, past a low wire fence and a stretch of scrubby field, a chestnut horse thundered across the frozen ground. Its mane flew wild, hooves kicking up dirt and old snow as it veered hard, trying to break away.
And behind it...
Bowman's grip tightened on the wheel.
A rider. She sat the saddle like she belonged there, body moving with the horse instead of against it. She wore a dark jacket and jeans tucked into boots, her posture balanced and sure. A cowboy hat sat low on her head, the brim cutting a clean line against the sky.
In one smooth motion, she rose slightly in the stirrups and swung her arm.
The lasso unfurled through the air, a perfect loop cutting forward with practiced precision. Bowman felt his breath catch — not because it was flashy, but because it was efficient. Controlled. Confident.
The rope settled around the horse's neck, cinching tight. The animal fought for a second, muscles bunching, momentum straining forward, and then it slowed, yielding to the rider's hands.
She leaned back, boots braced, reins steady, guiding the horse in a wide arc until it came to a halt. Steam rose from both of them in the cold air.
Bowman realized he'd slowed the Bronco without meaning to.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath.
He caught more details in the seconds that followed — the way she dismounted with ease, movements economical and practiced. She moved to the horse's head, murmuring something he couldn't hear, one hand firm on the rope, the other resting against the animal's neck. There was no fear in her body language. No hesitation. Just calm authority.
She pushed the cowboy hat back slightly, and for a moment the winter sun caught her face. Ginger-blonde hair spilled loose beneath the brim, strands escaping in the breeze. Her face was smudged faintly with dirt, cheeks flushed from exertion, eyes — green, he thought, though he couldn't be sure at this distance — focused and steady.
She looked real. Not polished. Not performing. Just... capable.
Bowman didn't realize he was staring until a car honked behind him, sharp and impatient. He blinked, glanced in the rearview mirror, and eased his foot back onto the gas.
The Bronco picked up speed again, carrying him forward.
He didn't look back. Not because he didn't want to — but because the road demanded his attention, and because something about that moment felt like it didn't belong to him yet. Like a snapshot he wasn't meant to linger on.
Still, the image followed him as the fields gave way to security fencing and controlled access roads.
Peterson Air Force Base announced itself without fanfare. No grand gate. Just chain-link fences topped with barbed wire, cameras mounted high, signs warning of restricted areas and federal property. The American flag snapped in the cold breeze near the entrance, its colors stark against the winter sky.
Bowman slowed and pulled into the correct lane, rolling his window down as he approached the guard post. The sentry stood straight-backed and alert, uniform crisp, eyes scanning with practiced efficiency.
"Good afternoon," the guard said. "ID, please."
Bowman handed over his military identification without comment. The guard checked it, then glanced back up at him.
"Welcome to Peterson, Sergeant."
"Thanks," Bowman replied.
The barrier lifted with a mechanical hum, and Bowman drove through, the base unfolding around him. Wide roads. Low buildings. Aircraft hangars in the distance. Everything arranged with purpose, function over form.
It felt familiar in the way all bases did — different details, same bones.
He followed the signs toward his assigned area, passing rows of parked vehicles, clusters of service members moving between buildings. Air Force blues mixed with Army fatigues, the occasional Marine uniform standing out among them. Peterson had its own rhythm, its own mix of branches and responsibilities.
Bowman parked near the barracks and cut the engine, sitting there for a moment longer.
The quiet inside the Bronco felt heavier now, crowded with impressions. The city. The mountains. The base. And, uninvited but persistent, the image of a woman on horseback in an open field, rope flying true. He never experienced something like this before.
He shook his head slightly and climbed out of the vehicle.
The cold hit him sharper here, wind sweeping unobstructed across the open space. He zipped his jacket and slung his bag over one shoulder, boots crunching against gravel as he headed inside.
There would be check-ins. Paperwork. Briefings. Faces he half-recognized and others he'd need to learn. The machinery of military life spun on, indifferent to his thoughts, his impressions, the strange sense that something had shifted just a degree off center.
Bowman didn't believe in fate. Didn't believe in signs. But as he walked deeper into the base, the memory lingered anyway — quiet, stubborn, like a mark you didn't notice until you brushed against it again later.Somewhere beyond the fences, a horse was breathing hard and a woman was coiling a rope with steady hands. And he, unknowingly, had just driven past the edge of his own stillness.
The NCO quarters sat apart from the main enlisted barracks, a squat, practical building that looked less crowded and more intentional. Fewer boots piled by doors. Fewer voices bleeding through walls. The kind of place where people had learned — through years and rank — that silence was sometimes worth more than noise.
Bowman adjusted the strap of his duffel and stepped inside.
The temperature changed immediately. Warmth seeped through the layers of his jacket and into his bones, easing the stiffness left behind by hours of driving. The hallway was narrow but clean, painted in the same neutral beige that seemed to exist on every base across the country. A corkboard near the entrance held notices — training schedules, unit updates, reminders written in block letters and pinned with red tacks.
He slowed just enough to skim them out of habit, then moved on.
His room was at the end of the hall. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, nudging it shut behind him with his heel.
It wasn't large, but it was his. A single bed, neatly made. A sturdy desk beneath a window that looked out toward the far edge of the base. A tall locker against the wall. No posters, no clutter. The space smelled faintly of industrial cleaner and old paper — neutral, almost anonymous.
He dropped his bag at the foot of the bed and stood there for a moment, hands resting on his hips, letting the quiet settle around him.
This was different. Not better. Not worse. Just... different.
As a Sergeant, he had his own room now. Shared bathroom and kitchenette down the hall with the other NCOs, but this space — this narrow rectangle of privacy — was his alone. No snoring bunkmate. No whispered conversations after lights-out. No boots thudding inches from his head at dawn.
He'd earned this.
The thought didn't come with pride so much as acceptance. Rank had never been about the perks for him. It was about responsibility. About being the one others looked to when things went wrong. About carrying weight quietly.
Bowman set his duffel on the bed and unzipped it, methodically unpacking. Uniforms first. He hung them with care, smoothing creases, aligning hangers. His fingers paused briefly at the insignia on his sleeve — Staff Sergeant, clean and sharp. It still felt strange sometimes, seeing it there. Like it belonged to someone else, someone more certain, more settled.
He placed his boots neatly beneath the bed, toes aligned. Running shoes beside them. Civilian clothes folded and stacked with the same precision he brought to everything else. Old habits didn't disappear just because your life changed shape.
From the side pocket of the bag, he pulled out a framed photograph. He stared at it longer than he meant to.
A group shot — sun-bleached and slightly crooked. Hicks grinning like an idiot, arm slung around Bowman's shoulders. Slovacek standing solid and calm beside them, Elsie hugging him. Sullivan and Cope off to the side, closer together than they probably realized at the time.
It had been taken years ago, after a mission that had gone sideways and somehow still ended with them all standing.
Bowman set the frame on the desk, angling it just right.
"Guess we're all here now," he muttered. "The team is together again."
He shrugged out of his jacket and rolled his shoulders, tension cracking softly beneath the movement. His body was tired in that deep, satisfying way that came from long drives and new places. A shower would help.
He grabbed his toiletry bag and towel and stepped back into the hall.
The shared bathroom was a few doors down — clean, quiet, the kind of place that didn't see much chaos. Bowman turned on the shower and waited for the water to heat, steam slowly filling the space.
When he stepped under the spray, he closed his eyes.
The day replayed in fragments — the road stretching endlessly ahead of him, the city unfolding in layers, the restaurant terrace and the waitress's polite, immovable smile. Then the girl and the horse. The way the horse had surged forward beneath the woman, muscles rippling with power and control. The snap of the rope through the air. The calm certainty in her posture, like she belonged exactly where she was.
Bowman frowned slightly, water sliding down his face.
He shut off the water and dried quickly, pulling on a clean t-shirt and sweatpants. Comfortable. Unofficial. A reminder that for the moment, he didn't need to perform.
Back in his room, he sat on the edge of the bed and toweled his hair dry, listening to the muted sounds of the building around him — doors opening and closing, distant voices, the low hum of base life settling in for the night.
He checked his watch. Not late yet.
He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, hands folded loosely over his chest. The mattress was firmer than he liked, but he'd adapt. He always did.
His thoughts drifted — unbidden, persistent.
Hicks would be complaining already. Bowman could hear it in his head: too cold, too quiet, too far from anything decent to drink. Slovacek would take it in stride, like he always did, shoulders squared, mind already turning toward responsibility. Sullivan would be observant, careful. Cope — well. Cope would be wherever Sullivan was. It was still a strange thought, but by now everyone on the team had accepted that the two of them had become best friends. Bowman knew that Cope had looked up to Sullivan as a role model in the first year after boot camp, but as they had grown up, it had turned into a friendship. It was a strange thought, but Bowman thought that Sullivan could be to Cope what Hicks and Slovacek were to him.
Bowman smiled faintly.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood again. Sitting still wasn't going to help. He needed to see them, hear them, make this place real.
He slipped on his boots and jacket and headed back into the hall.
The kitchenette was occupied — two other NCOs leaned against the counter, mugs in hand, mid-conversation. They nodded at Bowman as he passed, a brief exchange of recognition and respect. He returned the nod automatically.
Outside, the night had settled fully. The base lights cast long shadows across the pavement, the air sharp with cold and pine carried down from the mountains.
Bowman walked without urgency, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, boots striking a steady rhythm against the concrete.
The rec room lights glowed ahead. He paused just outside the door, listening. Laughter drifted out — loud, familiar, unmistakable.
Bowman's chest loosened, tension he hadn't fully acknowledged easing away.
He pushed the door open. The room was crowded but not chaotic — a cluster of Marines scattered across couches and chairs, bottles and cans littering the table. Hicks sprawled in the center of it all, gesturing animatedly as he spoke, his voice rising above the rest.
Bowman didn't announce himself. He didn't have to. Hicks looked up mid-sentence and froze. Then he grinned.
"Holy shit," Hicks said. "Speak of the devil."
Bowman barely had time to react before Hicks was on his feet, closing the distance in three long strides and pulling him into a rough embrace.
"You look older," Hicks said into his shoulder.
"You look louder," Bowman shot back.
They broke apart, grinning like idiots.
"Finally you are here with us," he said with a smirk.
Bowman took it all in — the familiar face, the easy cadence of shared history.
For the first time since he'd crossed into Colorado, the restless edge inside him finally stilled. Because he was here with his best friend. Whatever waited ahead — briefings, responsibilities, unknown turns — he wouldn't be facing it alone.
Later, much later, when the room had thinned and the laughter softened into something quieter, Bowman found himself leaning back against the wall, bottle untouched in his hand.
He felt grounded. Settled.
And somewhere beyond the fences, beyond the lights and the rules and the rank, a woman with steady hands and calm eyes was living her own life, entirely unaware that she had already crossed his path.