Jesus Christ it's hot.

It's the only thing I can think as I sit on this dais, next to the freaking secretary of the Army. The sun beats down on us in searing waves, forcing sweat to come through every pore. And the fucking dress blues I'm wearing don't make it any easier.

I tug on my collar. It feels like the stiff fabric is purposely trying to suffocate me, what with the insufferable heat and the starchy cloth. Then I remember the way Felicity's eyes lit up in wonder and lust when I emerged from our hotel bathroom in my stupid dress uniform.

"Wow," she murmured appreciatively as her eyes wandered up and down my figure.

I couldn't help the smirk that stretched over my face as she examined me. She sauntered closer and closer until she was right in front of me, her arms snaking around my shoulders.

"You are indescribably handsome in your dress uniform," she smiled. Then she pushed herself up on her tiptoes to brush her lips against mine.

I indulged her for a brief second, relishing how soft she felt against me. The kiss was brief and chaste before she fell back onto her heels.

"I'm glad you enjoy the view," I told her as my arms reached around her waist, "because this is really uncomfortable."

She quirked her head to the side, a tiny smile spreading over her red lips and it stirred things inside of me that made the starched-to-hell pants I wore even more uncomfortable.

"It'll just make it even more fun when we take it off."

Her use of the word "we" definitely did not escape my attention.

But it's hard to feel even remotely sexy right now. The uniform and the cameras all around me force me into unforgivably straight posture, and the sun hanging high overhead makes it impossible to see without squinting. So not only is my aching back dripping with sweat, but my face is sore from the squinting.

This is probably the worst part about the Army, I think to myself as I drown out the chaplain's boring invocation. It's all the fucking ceremony. It's all the formality and posturing.

Ceremonies like this one look cool on the outside, sure. To people who don't know, who aren't a part of it, it looks like it's full of tradition and prestige. But really it's just pouring glitter on a piece of shit, trying to make it shiny and more important than it really is. Like awarding someone a DSC is supposed to make up for the fact that he got blown up in the first place.

Like having to sit through this goddamn ceremony next to the fucking secretary of the Army is worth having to sit through the Tennessee summer heat in my fucking dress blues.

Apparently this uniform makes me cuss more than I normally would.

Irony.

After news broke that the famous billionaire playboy Oliver Queen had surreptitiously joined the armed forces under a fake name, it was all the entertainment news industry could report for weeks on end. First they found out my fake name. Then they found out where I was stationed. Then they found my old squadmates. And that's when tales of Ollie Queen's undercover bravery found its way into the tabloids.

I'm not trying to kid myself or anything. It was incredibly likely I was going to get a DSC even if they hadn't found out who I really was. Wilson kept telling me over and over again that he was going to recommend me and he wouldn't let up until I got it.

But the minute my secret became known to the world, it put even greater pressure on my commander to push the recommendation through.

I close my eyes and remember when the letter first arrived.

I'd just gotten home from my criminology class at Starling City Community College. Felicity was sitting on the couch in the living room with a glass of wine and a bridal magazine in her lap as she lazily flipped through it.

She'd recently taken to unwinding at the end of a long day full of surgery by flipping through bridal magazines. We hadn't set a date yet (though we'd vaguely talked about perhaps pulling the trigger on a date two years into the future), but she said that, for some reason, looking through the magazines helped her relax. It was apparently soothing to her, though I didn't quite understand it.

I toed off my shoes beside the door, then padded across the room to collapse into the spot next to her on the couch. She smiled, setting the wine glass aside and pushing the magazine off her lap to make room for my head, which I gladly took.

"How was school today?" she sang in that playful voice of hers I loved so much.

"Good," I grinned up at her. Her fingers went to my scalp and I closed my eyes, relishing the feel of her fingertips carding through my hair. As relaxing as bridal magazines were for her, scalp massages had much the same effect on me.

She hummed her acknowledgment, and for a long while we were silent. We'd been living together for probably four months at that point, which wasn't very long in the grand scheme of things, but it felt like we'd been together for far longer.

I turned over until I was on my stomach and I wrapped my arms around her waist. Felicity giggled while I adjusted and kept running her fingers through my hair.

I hadn't known that such contentment existed, especially with another woman. Before the Army, I was just a stupid kid, running around town, looking for the next woman who would open her legs. I never understood the need other people had to be settled down with one person, every day for the rest of their lives.

But that was just because I hadn't met Felicity yet.

"Oh, by the way," she said softly, "You got a pretty official-looking letter from the DOD."

I groaned and buried my head into her sweater.

The news that I had been serving in the Army broke just a week earlier, and in addition to dodging overzealous paparazzi, I was waiting with bated breath for the moment I'd get court-martialed for serving under false pretenses.

Felicity must have felt my tension because she looked down to gaze into my eyes. "Hey," she whispered. "I very much doubt you have anything to worry about in this letter."

I quirked an eyebrow up at her. "You read it already, didn't you?"

A smile spread over her gorgeous face. "Well I wanted to be prepared. See if I needed to call your lawyer or something."

With a grunt, I got up from the couch and retrieved the mail from the little table next to the door. I flipped through the envelopes until I found the seal of the department of defense, and sure enough, the flap had already been torn open.

I pulled the letter out as I made my way back to the couch and started reading. With every word, my heart sank further and further into my chest until I could hardly feel where it was. In its place, wave after wave of disgust washed up against me.

The Distinguished Service Cross. The second highest honor you could receive as a U.S. soldier. "Awarded" only to those who had committed exemplary acts of valor at the risk of their own well-being.

Honestly, I couldn't quite decide if I would have preferred the court martial.

"Hon?" Felicity prodded gently. She scooted closer to where I was on the couch and laid a gentle hand on my forearm. "Are you OK?"

"They want to give me a medal for getting blown up," I said dully.

Her face was sympathetic as she laid her cheek on my shoulder. "I know."

Of course, once my mother found out she demanded to know why I hadn't been awarded the Medal of Honor instead, since it's the highest honor you can receive as a serviceman, period. I answered that they might as well call it the Medal of Death because they rarely ever give it to people who survive the attack they won it for.

I scan the crowd in front of me. It's filled with soldiers, my former squadmates, local notables...and then there's my "civilian entourage." Felicity, Tommy and the rest of my family sat in the front row. Mom and Dad wear their proudest expressions, and Thea smiles contently. Tommy, of course, is twitching around in his seat, trying very hard not to look bored by the whole thing.

Then my eyes land on my fiancee. She's watching me closely, because she's the only person in my civilian entourage (her words, not mine) who understands just how much I don't want to be here. Mom and Dad and Thea and Tommy treat it like they're at a gala or benefit back in Starling — they're enthusiastic about the cause, eager to show "support" for the troops like good, patriotic Americans.

But Felicity understands. She knows that this "award" is nothing more than a crock of shit.

When our eyes meet she offers a supportive smile. I do my best to return it.

The emcee introduces the secretary of the Army. He pats me on the shoulder before heaving himself up out of his chair to take to the lectern.

"What a beautiful day on Fort Campbell," he booms into the mic, and everyone in the audience laughs and claps politely. I barely manage to rein in my disgust at the obvious pandering.

"And it's even more beautiful because we get to celebrate something momentous today. Today, we get to celebrate the heroism of one very special soldier: Oliver Queen. Though, some of you probably know him as Oliver Jonas."

More laughter. I want nothing more than to shoot an arrow through this guy's back.

Then for the next ten minutes, he waxes poetic about what it means to be a soldier. How, as a soldier, we're supposed to put our country before our own well being. How we're supposed to look out for our battle buddies. How no man gets left behind.

At this point, my bullshit meter is just going so haywire that it's laughable. God, no man gets left behind? If that were true, we wouldn't have so many soldiers and veterans offing themselves after multiple tours because they couldn't handle the night terrors. If that were true, we wouldn't have veterans waiting months for the care or medicine they deserve because the VA couldn't get its shit together.

If that were true, we wouldn't have so many goddamn widows or orphans pinning gold stars to their chests.

I didn't used to be this cynical about the Army. Honestly, I don't know when it really started, but I think it probably snowballed after I was officially out.

The minute I answered the Skype call, I was greeted by a screenfull of my former squadmates, newly-released from the hospital, with Sin sitting right in the middle of all of them.

"CONGRATULATIONS, YOU LUCKY BASTARD!" they all shouted.

I laughed and shook my head. "Thanks," I answered. "But I thought for sure that once I was out I'd never have to see you twat nuggets ever again."

Sin scoffed. "You fucking wish."

Billy got up in front of Sin, his square-shaped head taking over my whole screen. "Yo, where's your hot fiancee? Is she there? Is she naked?"

I rolled my eyes. Felicity was still at the hospital, but even if she was, she knew better than to walk into our room when I was Skyping with the guys, because if she did they would not stop trying to hit on her until I forcibly hung up the Skype call out of sheer irritation.

"Josh, get your ugly face out of the camera," Shaw demanded, and soon enough Billy was yanked away. "You're going to make him go blind."

"Hey, Oliver!" Shrapnel shouted from behind Sin. "Now that you're out, what's the first thing you're going to do?"

Without batting an eye, I answered, "Your mother."

I grinned at the sound of all four of them simultaneously shouting, "OHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Being around my squadmates sometimes felt a lot like being Ollie Queen. It could be easy and fun, goofing off with a bunch of guys, making really awful "your mother" jokes and calling each other obscene names.

But there was a key difference: with them, there were no pretenses. I wasn't a billionaire scion with them. With them, I was just some average guy who graduated high school, couldn't figure out what I wanted to do, then joined up for need of a job and some adventure. I was just like practically every other guy who enlisted.

I was just another guy.

We shot the shit for a little while together, but eventually all the other guys had things they had to attend to, leaving just Sin and me.

"How's the arm?" I asked her.

"It's good," she answered, moving it around a bit to emphasize her point. "I still don't have complete range of motion, but my docs say I'll get it there. What about the leg?"

I stood up from my seat and walked around a bit. "It's good, thanks to Felicity. I still get some pains, but at least I'm not going to have to run any ruck marches on it anymore."

"You left just in time, you know," she informed me. "We've been hearing rumblings again. We're supposed to start heading back in December."

Fuck, I thought. They'd barely been home four months and already the DOD was talking about shipping them back out.

"Some of the other guys are excited about it," he continued. "Billy already started a countdown. He said he hadn't even been home for two hours and already Ashley was driving him up the wall."

I shook my head. Billy's marital problems notwithstanding, this was bullshit.

"What about the others?" I asked. "How are they taking the news?"

Sin shrugged. "They're soldiers, man. They took it like soldiers."

I sighed and rubbed a hand over my face. I understood that deployments were a part of the job description, but for fuck's sake. They hadn't even gotten their bags unpacked and already they were having to prepare to go back. And here I was, on the other side of the country feeling guilty about the prospect. I wasn't even in the Army anymore and I was practically drowning in anxiety.

"Hey, no, nuh-uh," Sin said. "No, I see what you're doing there, man. I see your face. You're getting all guilty and shit and that needs to stop, like right fucking now."

"Shut up."

"Nah, man," she insisted. "I know what you're thinking. We're going to be fine without you. In fact, we're going to be better without you."

I rolled my eyes, but Sin was having none of it.

"Don't roll your eyes at me. You were the one that was holding us back in all those supply missions in the first place. We were late on our deliveries every fucking time because you had to hang back and kick around a ball with every fucking kid in the fucking village."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is?" she demanded.

I rubbed a frustrated hand through my hair. "Do you ever just get sick of it?" I finally burst out. "Every few months, just having to brace yourself for another deployment? Or for the announcement that you're going to have to pack your shit in two years and move to a completely different place?"

She shrugged. "Yeah. I mean, what else is there?"

"It's fucking bullshit!" I shouted. "It's all bullshit that you have to get used to the thought of dying every day, or you have to get used to the thought of never having to put down roots!"

Another stretch of silence grew between us as I struggled to rein in my emotions after the outburst.

"Yeah, it is," Sin eventually acknowledged. "But we're soldiers. We do what we're told."

"Once a soldier, always a soldier."

The secretary of the Army's voice booms over the expensive speaker system, across the rolling green lawn of McAuliffe Hall. Headquarters sits behind me, lined with the flags of all our allies. Fifty yards in front of me stands the the memorial statue of fallen soldiers. It towers over everything, like a gigantic monument to all the destruction we've caused, all the lives we've ruined.

I feel sick thinking about it.

"Oliver Queen may no longer be in the Army, but his bravery and heroism will forever remain a part of our honored organization," the secretary says, "and we honor him today."

The conclusion of his speech brings on a polite round of applause. Then, with a heavy sigh, I lift myself up from my seat and step forward for the ceremony, where he presents me with the honor, with the help of the commanding general of Fort Campbell. As he pulls the medal out of its case and drapes it around my neck, the emcee reads off the citation, complete with an account of what happened that day.

"Command Sergeant Major Jonas distinguished himself with heroism and exceptionally meritorious service," the emcee drones. "Jonas and his squad were returning from a dismounted patrol when an improvised explosive device detonated in the middle of his squad as they attempted to enter their combat outpost. Four soldiers were wounded severely, and Jonas sustained major shrapnel wounds to his torso and damage to his legs.

"While soldiers struggled to gain situational awareness, the enemy initiated a complex ambush, firing on the patrol from an estimated seven fighting positions with small arms and rocket-propelled grenades. With little regard for his own safety or care, Jonas refused medical treatment and instead comandeered an all-terrain vehicle and moved back into heavy enemy fire to provide an evacuation platform for his wounded comrades."

I want so badly to roll my eyes. Good lord, evacuation platform?

"Jonas immediately provided suppressive fires from the vehicle, allowing two of his injured to get in the vehicle. As bullets ricocheted off the vehicle and narrowly missed Jonas, he continued to provide fire direction for the remaining soldiers on the ground. Jonas then quickly pulled the vehicle back into the entrance of the outpost, where medics were standing to receive the injured.

"Jonas helped move the injured to care, then moved back into enemy fire a second time to continue evacuating and directing his fellow soldiers. Jonas is credited with saving the lives of four of his fellow soldiers, while risking his own on multiple occasions. Only after all the wounded soldiers had been evacuated and were receiving medical care, did he accept treatment himself."

It's the most sanitized version of the attack they could possibly give, and I realize that it's sort of the point. They're trying to make it sound all heroic and shit.

God forbid they read a real account of what happened that day.

"Jesus Christ, there's so much fucking sand everywhere," Shaw grumbled as we trudged through the stuff itself. The outpost was still fifty yards away, but at least it was within our visualization.

We had just completed a patrol of the nearby village, and every skin cell in my body was itching to get back. I was always ill at ease whenever we had to leave the base, but my anxiety that day was particularly intense. I just couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

Shrapnel let out a laugh. "It's called the desert for a reason, you dipshit."

"I know that," Shaw snapped back. "But this is like being at the beach without the water to cool you down. I swear to God, I'm going to be scrubbing sand out of my ballsack for a year."

Sin grimaced. "What a lovely image."

"For fuck's sake, with all the whining you're doing, are you sure you even have a ballsack?" Billy demanded.

"I don't know, Billy, why don't you ask your mother since she had it in her mouth last night," Shaw shot back.

Sin and Shrapnel let out a chorus of oohs, but underneath their vocalizations, I could hear it.

Before I could turn around and tell them to shut up and duck, I was flying through the air with a burning pain shooting up my legs. I landed with a hard thud twenty yards away from where I'd been — the sand Shaw had been complaining about just minutes ago had cushioned my fall.

I tried to get on my feet, but I let out a roar of pain. I looked down at my legs and saw it — my left leg had almost been torn off. The ragged flesh revealed the bleeding muscle inside. I almost threw up at the sight.

Then I heard Sin's scream, followed by a barrage of sniper fire. Adrenaline surged through my veins, so I tamped down down my fear and disgust and dragged myself to the Humvee about ten yards away from me. With an almighty roar of pain, I pulled myself into the driver's seat, turned the ignition and gunned the gas, looking for where the rest of the squad had landed.

I saw Billy first. He was trying to take cover behind an overturned vehicle. But his helmet had been blown off and blood was flowing down his temple, obscuring his eye. And his left arm was hanging at the wrong angle.

"BILLY!" I shouted. "BILLY, GET IN!"

He pulled himself to his feet as fast as he could while I grabbed my weapon and started back. It gave Billy enough time to throw himself into the seat next to me.

"Where are the others?" I shouted.

"I think Shaw was a few meters west!" he answered, grimacing in pain as he tried to rearrange his arm. "And I heard Sin screaming, but I couldn't see her!"

"What about Shrapnel?"

"I don't know!"

I fired off a few more rounds, then made a sharp turn. Billy spotted Shaw unconscious, lying in the open, so he leapt out of the vehicle and ran to pull him in. Once they were both back in, I stepped hard on the gas and grabbed for the comms on the dash. I alerted the base that we had incoming injured and to be ready for us once we came back.

We tried looking for the others on our way back to the outpost, but no such luck. Once we got to the gates, I helped Billy and the medics unload the unconscious Shaw. Then I started climbing back into the driver's seat.

"Wait!" Billy shouted when he saw what I was doing. "You can't go back out there!"

"I have to! Sin and Shrapnel are still out there!"

He grabbed me by my vest and pulled me toward him. "Jonas, they almost blew your fucking leg off! You shouldn't even be walking right now!"

I pushed his hand off me. "I can't just leave them out there!" The longer we stood there talking, the more desperate I became. Sin's scream still echoed in my ears, reverberating in my bones. I needed to find her. I needed to find Shrapnel. I couldn't leave them out there.

"You're going to get yourself killed!" Billy exclaimed as I pulled myself once again into the Humvee.

"I have to try!" I shouted. Then I threw the massive vehicle into reverse and ran back out into the firefight to find them.

The shooting had died down a little bit as more soldiers were dispatched to provide cover fire and I went back to where we had been before the device detonated. Then I went the opposite direction of where I had landed to see if it would lead me to my missing soldiers.

I found Shrapnel first. He was lying unconscious, huge wounds visible through the layers of kevlar. Ignoring the extreme pain in my injured leg, I stumbled out of the Humvee and dragged myself to where he lay.

My shaking fingers searched him, running over his bloody uniform, searching for any sign of life. As I dug my middle and forefinger under his chin in search of a pulse, his eyes fluttered open.

"Jonas?" he muttered.

"Come on, Shrap," I grunted, as I tried to get him to his feet. "We gotta get you out of here."

My words must have registered because he very slowly struggled to get up and followed me back to the Humvee. It wasn't until we were both up and moving that I noticed he also had something wrong with his leg. His pants were were ripped to reveal a huge gash on his thigh, and he limped as he moved.

"Do you know where Sin is?" I asked once we were safely in the vehicle. "Did you see where she landed?"

He shook his head. "No," he grimaced as he adjusted his leg. "But I was right next to her when the thing went off. I swear to God, I saw her come apart right in front of me, and then she was gone. She just fucking disappeared. She was there and then she wasn't."

I could hear the terror in his voice, so I reached across the console and grabbed a hold of his shoulder. "We're going to find her, Shrap. I need you to be calm, because we're going to find her."

His eyes were still clouded over with fear and pain, but he nodded.

I continued to drive farther and farther out in search of Sin. Sweat and blood poured down my face and into my eyes, but I wiped them away with a brush of my hand. I was perpetually aware of fiery pain in my leg, but my fear for Sin far outweighed my concern for myself at the moment.

After about fifteen minutes of searching, we finally found her.

She was lying, crumpled in the sand, her helmet off and blood raining down her head. But that wasn't the worst part. No, the worst part was that her arm was almost completely severed.

"SIN!" Shrapnel shouted from the Humvee. Together we scrambled out of the vehicle and ran as fast as our injured legs could carry us.

Once we got closer, we could see her labored breathing and her fluttering eyes. "Guys," she breathed. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The firefight had died down a bit, but we could still hear gunshots in the distance. "Come on," Shrapnel said as he slid his arm under her back. "We've got to get you back to base."

"No," Sin grunted. Her eyes were fluttering, like she was struggling very much to keep them open and stay conscious. "You guys go back. Leave me here."

"No fucking way," I growled. "We're getting you back."

"No!" she cried in a hoarse voice. "No, I can't go back! There's nothing they can do for me once I get back! I'm going to die, I might as well die here!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Shrapnel screamed. "You're not going to fucking die! We're not going to let you fucking die!"

I could see the fury and panic in her eyes. She took her good arm and she shoved him away from her. "Get the fuck out of here, while you still have a chance!"

To see Sin giving up like this terrified me on a level I never thought possible. I mean, this was Sin. Sin. She was the toughest person I'd ever met, period. She could run circles around us during PT. She could do a hundred pushups without even breaking a sweat. She grew up without a mother or a father. The streets practically raised her. She'd lived out of her own car through all of high school. She'd seen and experienced things that no teenager should have had to experience, ever. She fucking came through on the other side, better and stronger than anyone he'd ever known.

But here she was, lying in the desert, bleeding out with her arm almost completely separate from her body, begging to be left for dead.

There wasn't any way I could let that happen.

"Hey!" I shouted. I reached forward and grabbed Sin by both sides of her face. Tears were streaming from her eyes, but I wouldn't let her look away. "Look at me. Look at me, Sin."

She finally opened her eyes, and I pushed all the fear I was feeling off to the side. "We are not leaving you here to die, do you understand me?"

"Jonas," she rasped, "I'm better off here. Please. Please."

"No!" I shouted. "No, you're not! I know you think that no one's going to miss you when you're gone, but you're fucking wrong, OK? You're just fucking wrong! Think about Billy and Shaw and Shrap and me! What the fuck are we supposed to do when you're not here? You're part of the fucking squad and like hell are we going to leave you in the desert to rot!"

She closed her eyes and swallowed. "My arm," she whispered. "They're going to amputate my arm."

"They're probably going to amputate my leg after all of this is over," I answered her. "Come on, Sin. If we have to be amputees, we're going to do it together."

She opened her eyes to look at me. Then she glanced over at Shrapnel, who was still holding onto her like his life depended on it.

Finally, she nodded. Shrapnel and I didn't need a second acknowledgement — he grabbed her under her back and I lifted her legs and together we got her to the Humvee.

I stand between the secretary of the Army and the CG while the official photographers snap the photos. I try to stand still, but my leg aches from the way the boot squeezes the muscle.

Finally, when the photos are finished, the secretary and CG both take their seats. It's my turn to give remarks.

This is the part I'd been worrying about since I learned I was going to receive the award. What the hell am I supposed to say? Thanks for the award that almost killed me and four of my friends.

Once I get up to the lectern, my eyes automatically find Felicity. She's sitting in the front row with the single rose she's presented, as my fiancee. And she's smiling encouragingly at me.

I can't say what I really want to say. So I'll settle at least for something I can genuinely mean.

Taking a deep breath, I begin.

"The secretary of the Army is right," I say. "It's a beautiful day here on Fort Campbell."

The crowd claps politely, and I wait for them to finish.

"It's a lot different than that day we're remembering. That day that landed all of us here in the first place."

My tone sobers the crowd. Everyone's smiles drop off their faces, and I can't help but feel a little smug about it.

"As I understand it, we're here to celebrate to honor some heroic actions. And that's all well and good, but I think there are a few people who were missing from the citation that was just read.

"First and foremost, we should honor Specialist Billy Wintergreen, Staff Sergeant Mark Scheffer and Specialist Mark Shaw for the bravery they showed that day. Because even in the face of danger and imminent death, they kept their cool. They did what they could to help one another, even after they sustained huge injuries. They thought about the mission first, and their fellow soldiers, and for that we should give them a huge round of applause."

The crowd does as I ask, and everyone starts applauding. I see Billy, Shaw and Shrapnel sitting in the second row, beaming at me and I give them a smile in return.

"We should also honor Sergeant Cindy Simone — who's probably going to kill me for using her full name in public."

The crowd chuckles, and the woman herself is trying to hide her blush under a stern glare directed at me.

"Sin showed incredible bravery that day. Despite the chaos unfolding all around her, she gathered all her courage and she fought to live another day."

I look down at my notecards, which are just a jumbled mess of names and curse words. I'm sure they made sense at the time I wrote them, but now I can't understand what I mean to say.

Then I look up and the first eyes I see are my fiancee's. She's smiling encouragingly at me, and I can see just a small hint of tears in her eyes.

I feel my heart swell with love for her. God, she's amazing, I think to myself. With all she's been through, she still finds the strength to sit here, watching me accept an award I got blown up for.

Not for the first time do I wonder how the hell I got lucky enough to be with her.

"The Distinguished Service Cross is all about honoring courage and bravery," I continue. "But the thing about courage and bravery is that they both take on different forms. Sometimes it looks like driving a Humvee in the middle of a firefight. Sometimes it looks like choosing to live instead of choosing to die. And sometimes it looks like putting one foot in front of the other and enduring another day.

"We can't honor every single instance of courage and bravery in the Army and surrounding it, because there are simply too many, and if we did, we'd probably be here for a really long time. But for today, right here and right now, I share my DSC with everyone who was there that day.

"It's like I told my sister when I first saw her after the incident: No one died that day, and I still have all my limbs. In the Army, that's all we can ask or hope for."

The silence that descends over the crowd is almost deafening. The only discernible noise for miles is the American flag flapping in the late summer breeze.

"Thank you very much for being here," I conclude. "Army strong."

The reception is small and intimate. There are only a handful of people I know; the rest of the crowd is made up of local notables, people I couldn't tell from Adam.

The PAOs in charge of the event make me stand in a receiving line, next to the CG and the secretary of the Army. For what feels like hours, I shake hands with hundreds of people, accepting half-assed congratulations from people I don't know or care about.

But eventually the line shortens and disappears altogether, and I'm finally allowed to leave and grab food from the buffet table of hors d'oeuvres.

I cast an eye around the crowd, looking for my family. Mom and Dad and Thea are standing off to the side, talking to Wilson, my CO. Tommy's on the other side of the hall, flirting with a woman in a red sheath dress.

But Felicity is nowhere to be seen. A small part of me worries for her, but I tell myself she's probably in the bathroom or something.

As I go in for another meatball, I feel an arm descend over my shoulders and an almighty yell echoes in my ear.

"Jonas!" Shaw shouts.

I let myself smile, then turn around to receive my former squadmates with a hug for each of them. "Watch it," I say with mock sternness. "You're talking to a DSC recipient now."

"Yeah, yeah," Shrapnel waves it off, like he's not impressed. And truthfully, he probably isn't. "Congratulations or whatever."

"Your speech was stupid," Billy informs me.

I laugh, but Shaw shakes his head. "Don't listen to him, man. He was practically crying when you mentioned us."

"You fucking dickbag," Billy grumbles.

Finally, Sin pushes her way through the others and gives me a hug. "You did good up there," she informs me with a smile. "You made us all proud and shit."

"Thanks, guys," I said. "Truthfully, there's no way I would have been able to make it up there if you weren't in the audience."

"Jesus Christ, quit getting all mushy on us," Shrapnel says with disgust. "It's just a fucking piece of metal."

Shaw and Sin both shove him while I laugh.

Eventually they're called away by the PAOs to speak to the reporters covering the event. Once they leave, Felicity walks up to me and wraps her arms around my waist.

"Well would you look at that," she hums as she traces the medal hanging around my neck. "My fiance's a hero."

I grimace at her words. "Please don't say that. I'm not a hero."

"Yes you are," she says sternly. Then she pushes herself up on her tiptoes and presses a chaste kiss against my lips. "You're my hero."

A grudging smile makes its way across my face.

"I guess I can settle for that."