He usually sleeps well the last leg of the tour. Complete crash, out for hours, dreamless sleep- all that jazz. Tonight- he's not that lucky. He dozes for a few hours, sure, but starts twitching in the middle of the third, the too sweet tinge of that smoke shifting to something acrid and hot. There is no rescue, there's just the flash of the grenade, the sudden shout of his pointmant.

Dreaming of the ambush never ends well. At least he's over the screaming nightmares. York jolts awake in a cold sweat, panting as he lets his surroundings register. Bridal Suite. End of the tour. D's in the next room. Right.

He shuffles off the bed and scrubs at his eyes, walking by feel to the coffee maker.