I've got a thing for solider AUs, and I'm more familiar with the U.S. Marine Corps. than anything else, because of my cousin and multiple Marine friends, so I had this idea and decided to write it. This is an AU in which Ian and Jared are both U.S. Marines (no aliens involved here, everyone's just human), and Ian is introduced to Wanda through Melanie, her adopted sister. This is sort of just a longer drabble, meaning I won't be adding onto it. Enjoy.

When the car pulls to a stop outside of Ian's apartment complex, his palms are sweaty. He swallows hard, looking up at the building, up at the window on the seventh floor that he knows is his apartment. On the balcony, like always, is that old white wicker chair that a beautiful girl likes to sit in while she watches the sunrise and listens to Chopin through her headphones.

She prefers the peace of instrumental music. She's the only girl he's ever known that prefers to download the instrumental versions of popular songs rather than the radio versions. She says that she likes the peace of mind she finds when she can live to a tune, but doesn't have to worry about someone else's words in her head. She can write her own lyrics. She can't dance to save her life, but she finds joy in her jerky motions and spinning until she's dizzy and nearly knocking things over.

Ian promised her before he left that they would learn to waltz together. She'd always wanted to learn how to waltz. He hadn't told her in their brief phone conversations over the past four months that he'd started to teach himself by way of online tutorials – that was a surprise that she'd find out now that he was home. Better to have one person know at least a little of what they were doing than to have two clueless people stepping on each other's toes.

"Ian?" the girl in the driver's seat asks.

Ian turns his head toward Melanie, tearing his eyes away from that sweet white wicker chair and all of the memories it brings with it.

"Are you going to stare up at the window forever, or are you going to go kiss your wife good morning?" Melanie asks, laughing.

Ian smiles at his wife's adopted sister and pushes a hand through his black hair. "Right. I'm sorry. Jared must be pretty annoyed with me for asking you to drive me home at four A.M.," Ian murmurs, thinking of Melanie's fiancé. Ian has known Jared for years. They met at training camp, and Jared had introduced Ian to Melanie. Through Melanie, Ian had met his sweet, gentle, and kind bride. "I would have called her, but I wanted to surprise her."

Melanie nods, her smile still soft on her lips. "I know," she murmurs back. "It's sweet. She's my little sister, Ian. I like helping you do these kinds of things for her." Playfully, she shoves Ian's shoulder. "Get out of the damn car. Mrs. O'Shea misses her husband."

Ian laughs again and leans forward, grabbing his smaller bag from near his feet. He reaches up, pulling on the handle so that the car door swings open, and steps out of the car, his posture straight from months of discipline.

He makes his way to the trunk, popping it open and retrieving his two large duffle bags. He swings them over his shoulders easily – their weight doesn't bother him. He's carried heavier.

Melanie places her hand on the passenger seat so that she can angle her body towards Ian. "You're hosting dinner tomorrow night, by the way," she grins.

Ian raises an eyebrow. "Thanks for the warning, Mel. I'd probably have kept her in bed all weekend if I didn't know." It's only slightly a joke, but a smile plays on his lips as he says it.

Melanie rolls her eyes so hard that Ian wonders how they don't get stuck. "Speaking of beds, I'd like to get back to mine. Could you hurry up?"

"Thanks again, Mel. I'll see you later."

Ian shuts the trunk and Melanie pulls out of the parking space, waving at him through the rainy windshield. He smiles and gives her a small salute before turning on his heel and beginning up the multiple flights of stairs to get to his own apartment.

As he climbs, he thinks back to the months without his wife. The months of camp – running at the break of dawn, rankings and taking orders from people higher up, hard workouts and sub-par food – made his heart ache for the gentle smile of his quiet bride and the comfort of their cozy home. It wasn't much, the small apartment, but it was home.

Ian is ready to remind himself of how golden his wife's hair is when it catches the sunlight. He's ready to experience again how soft her red lips are when she grabs his chin and pulls him down for a kiss. He wants to feel the warmth of her breath against his lips and smell the sweetness of her perfume while he kisses the soft skin of her neck and shoulders.

These thoughts have him climbing quicker, and he can't reach the door soon enough. He's surprised to find it locked, but grateful.

His wife isn't one for locking doors. The only times she ever really thinks to lock the door is when they're leaving town for vacation or when Ian is away. "I'm married to a Marine," she protests. "I really don't need to lock the doors."

She trusts too easily, he thinks. She believes in the good of people, and sometimes the darkness of humanity isn't clear to her until she experiences it firsthand. However, Ian fell in love with her wide-eyed innocence. Her soft blonde curls and big blue-gray eyes were that of an angel.

He has experienced the brutality of the world, and seen the hardships people go through. To find someone who still trusted, still loved unconditionally, was a miracle – a miracle, and a breath of fresh air.

Ian twists the doorknob, removes the silver key from it, and steps over the threshold. The apartment smells of cinnamon.

He's met with a framed picture of himself and his bride that hangs on the wall just inside the door.

In the photo, she is a vision of Aphrodite. Her lips are the perfect shade of pink, pulled into a smile, and her cheeks are tinged a slightly darker color. Her white gown falls beautifully around her and her veil covers her blonde curls. She's holding a bouquet of light pink flowers in her hand, and they make her simple dress appear more elegant.

Ian is standing in front of her. He's in his uniform, his cap tucked under his arm. His hands are cradling her face, and his lips are pressed against her forehead. They're standing under an arch of hanging flowers and vines in the picturesque garden that she'd insisted they be married in.

Ian can still hear her laughter from that day; the best day of his life.

Bringing himself back to the present, he sets his keychain down on the small table inside the door, careful not to make much noise.

The apartment is dark. Only the small touch-commanded light is on where it sits the small table near the couch. As he passes, Ian taps it twice, blinking as the light goes out so that he can adjust his eyes to the darkness.

There's a plate of cookies on the counter in the kitchen, but Ian passes them up for the promise of something sweeter waiting for him in the room down the hall.

Eagerly, he makes his way down the hall, careful not to bump his bags into any of the pictures documenting their lives together that his wife has hung so carefully along the walls.

The bedroom door is shut, and he places his hand on the handle gently, turning it so slowly that it makes no sound. Their bedroom contrasts starkly to the rest of the apartment. Its walls are a dark maroon, nearly opposite from the beige-y colors of the kitchen and living room and bathrooms. His wife insisted on the darker color scheme in this room specifically because it's a room that is "used for everything, from fighting to comfortable silence to making love." She found the darker colors to be comforting, and at first, Ian had teased her about it, insisting that the dark scheme was like a cave. But he had come to see that she was right – the darker scheme helped him to relax and made sleeping easier due to the extra darkness the color added to the room at night.

Ian blinks and his heart skips a beat when he sees her lying on top of the covers – why she's always found herself more comfortable that way, he isn't sure. He prefers to be tucked under the blankets and very frequently finds himself annoyed when her tossing and turning pulls the blankets off of him while he sleeps. It's a nuisance he's missed in the past few months without her. In sleep, neither Ian nor his wife is much for cuddling. He tends to sprawl, and she tosses while she dreams. This isn't to say that the two of them don't cuddle in the waking hours – they find it almost impossible to be in the same room and not be touching each other. Ian craves the feeling of his wife's warm palm against his own, and she obliges him most of the time.

His bags slide from his shoulders, and he sets them down carefully on the carpeted floor by the door, but his eyes never leave her sleeping form. Her golden hair is like a halo, curled and tangled wildly across her pillow. She's wearing her favorite flannel pajama pants and a simple gray tank top. It's riding up just a little, showing the fair skin of her waist. He sighs, the sound only a whisper. She is everything he's missed and more.

The clock on her bedside table glows, informing him that it's now five thirty-two in the morning on December twenty-third; two days before Christmas. Ian knows that her alarm is set to wake her up in time for the sunrise, and he toes off his boots, walking quietly so that there isn't any chance of waking her. Her phone is balanced precariously on the edge of the mattress, and he lifts it into his hand, sliding his finger across the screen to unlock it and then typing in the passcode that he has memorized – it's their wedding anniversary.

Ian grimaces as the phone makes a noise, acknowledging that it has been unlocked, and moves his fingers to silence the phone. His sleeping wife doesn't seem to be bothered by the noise. He finds her alarm in the appropriate application and turns it off before clicking the screen off and setting the phone down again, on the bedside table this time.

He kneels beside the bed and observes her. There's a faint amount of leftover mascara smeared under her eyes from the day before, but other than that, her face is clean of makeup. Her lips are pursed, almost as if she's thinking as she dreams. Ian's lips ache to touch hers, to move in familiar patterns with them, but he holds back. His hand reaches up and his fingers brush across her cheek.

Her pink lips pucker slightly and then press into a line. Ian smiles.

His fingers move, pulling through her hair. It's silky, soft between his fingers. He's forgotten how beautiful her hair really is. He loves her hair.

Minutes pass as Ian touches her hair, trails his fingertips across her skin. Finally, she whimpers quietly and her eyes flutter open. A sigh escapes her lips as her blue-gray eyes meet Ian's electric blue eyes.

Ian smiles and cradles her cheek.

It's quiet as the hand of hers that bears her small white-gold wedding bands and tiny diamonds lifts from the mattress. Her soft fingers find his cheek, brushing across the dark stubble there, and a certain sadness fills her eyes. Ian's head tilts to the side, and his eyes grow warm, caring.

"I miss you," she whispers, her voice nearly breaking as she does.

Ian smiles when he realizes that she believes she's still dreaming. He nods, playing along with her, and a small frown tugs his lips downwards. He doesn't want to break this peaceful moment with the sound of his own voice yet.

His wife's fingers push through his hair, push it out of his eyes, and she rolls onto her side so that she's facing him. After a few moments of this gentle touching, tears pool in her eyes. "I hate sleeping in this bed without you," she cries as the tears run sideways across her face.

Ian sighs, wiping at her tears, and nods. He understands.

"Why won't you say something?" she asks, pain in her voice.

He leans close and touches his warm forehead to hers. She inhales deeply and her tears come to a halt as her eyelids slide shut. Her fingers curl around the back of his neck, holding him close, and he begins to pull his fingers through her hair again.

"Wanda," he whispers, and her breath catches. It's quiet for a few heartbeats. "May I kiss you?"

Ian is surprised when he feels her shake her head, and his brow furrows.

"Why not?"

Wanda sounds determined when she speaks again. "I'll wake up. I always wake up when you kiss me. I want to stay here, and if I have to refuse kissing you to do that, so be it. Don't kiss me, Ian O'Shea. If you love me, don't kiss me. Let me stay here with you."

Ian laughs at her words and brushes the tip of his nose against hers. "I can assure you, Mrs. O'Shea, that I will not let you leave me. I have been far too far away for too long to let you leave me."

He can feel her defenses coming down already in the way that her fingers tighten around his neck. Her body slides closer to the edge of the bed, closer to him, and he strokes her cheek.

Ian's lips come down on hers, gently and carefully. He nearly gasps at how soft they are against his. They're warm and fit perfectly with his. He can taste cherry chapstick on them, and he sighs, tilting his head at a different angle so that he can kiss her deeper.

"Ian." They're nearly a moan, these words that escape her lips.

It's a struggle, pulling away, but he manages it, opening his eyes again. Wanda's eyes open, too, and they're filling with tears again. Ian frowns, touching her cheek. "Don't cry, honey," he whispers.

"You're home. I'm not dreaming?" she asks, her lips quivering as she speaks and fights against the tears that want to come.

"What tipped you off?" Ian grins.

In an instant, she's sitting up on the mattress, her arms around his neck and her face pressed into his shoulder. She's shaking, and Ian's arms wind around her protectively.

"I would never miss Christmas with my beautiful blushing bride," Ian chuckles, stroking her hair. He closes his eyes when he feels them begin to sting with tears.

"I love you," she cries against his shoulder, kissing where his neck meets his shoulder.

"I love you, Wanda," he murmurs. "I love you, I love you, I love you."