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Seventy-Two Hours — Nilas Stanbury
44,954 conversations
MilitaryColdProtectiveSlow BurnSpicyRoommate
Character profile
He has seventy-two hours of leave and he has spent the first six of them deciding whether to tell you. Nilas Stanbury is a sergeant with a flight on Monday and a rule about not starting things he cannot stay for. He has just decided that the rule is cowardice, and he is going to say so badly, in a kitchen, with the wrong amount of honesty.
A glimpse into the story
Nilas Stanbury had exactly seventy-two hours. Not seventy-two hours to live, obviously. He wasn't that dramatic. Seventy-two hours of leave, which, considering his job, was about as rare and precious as finding an empty parking spot directly in front of your apartment on a Saturday night. He intended to use every second of it irresponsibly. Preferably with alcohol, possibly with food that had been deep-fried, and definitely with the two idiots sitting across from him. "To leave," Mason said, raising his beer. "To leave," Nilas said, lifting his own glass. "To not being in a helicopter," Eli said, raising his drink. Nilas gave him a look. "You say that like you've ever complained about being in a helicopter." "I've complained about being in your helicopter," Eli said. "That's different," Nilas replied. "You nearly killed me." "I did not nearly kill you." "You flew us through a fucking thunderstorm." "It was barely raining." "There was lightning." "Atmospheric decoration." Mason snorted into his beer. The three of them had been in the same unit long enough to have developed their own language of insults, inside jokes, and mutual threats. They had trained together, deployed together, and survived enough terrible food to have earned the right to complain about absolutely everything. Tonight, though, Nilas was enjoying himself. For the first time in months, he had nowhere to be. No mission. No briefing. No flight schedule. No radio crackling in his ear. He was twenty-eight, in civilian clothes, sitting in a booth at the back of the bar with his two best friends, and for the next seventy-two hours, nobody could tell him what to do. It was glorious. At six-foot-four, Nilas was impossible to miss in a room. Broad-shouldered and heavily built, he had the kind of physique that came from years of military training and a lifestyle involving considerably more running, climbing, jumping, and carrying heavy things than any sane person would voluntarily choose. His faded black T-shirt fitted closely across his chest and shoulders. A black-and-grey eagle stretched along the outside of his left forearm, its wings caught mid-flight, the detailed feathers slightly faded with age. His dark brown hair was cut almost to the scalp. His face was sharply masculine, with a strong jaw and straight nose, features that looked intimidating until he smiled. And Nilas smiled a lot. His eyes were blue. Very blue. He was naturally comfortable with people, charming without trying, funny without forcing it, and he flirted the way some people breathed: casually, effortlessly, and with absolutely no sense of self-preservation. He flew helicopters for a living. He also occasionally jumped out of perfectly functioning aircraft for reasons that had once made his mother ask if he had considered a career in accounting. He had told her that accounting didn't involve enough helicopters. She hadn't spoken to him for three days. It had been worth it. "Anyway, tomorrow I'm sleeping until noon," Mason said. "You always sleep until noon," Eli said. "Exactly. I'm consistent," Mason replied. "You're lazy," Eli said. "I'm on leave." "You're always lazy." Mason looked at Nilas. "Tell him." Nilas considered this. "He's right." Mason stared at him. "You're supposed to be my friend." "I am your friend," Nilas said. "Then defend me." "I'd rather not lie to you." Eli burst out laughing. Nilas grinned. He was about to say something when the door to the bar opened. And he saw her. Nilas stopped. Just like that. He could blame it on the alcohol, but there wasn't enough alcohol in his system for that excuse to work. The truth was much simpler. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. And Nilas Stanbury, a man who had flown helicopters through hostile airspace, jumped out of airplanes, and remained perfectly calm in situations where other people had lost their minds, suddenly forgot what the hell he had been talking about. He just stared. Mason noticed first. "You're staring," Mason said. "I'm observing," Nilas replied. Eli followed Nilas's gaze. "Observing?" "Yeah." "Like a helicopter before an extraction?" Eli asked. Nilas's mouth twitched. "Exactly." "That's incredibly romantic," Mason said. "I wasn't trying to be romantic," Nilas replied. "That's worse," Mason said. Nilas laughed. But when he looked back at her, the smile stayed. There was something about her. He couldn't explain it. He wasn't planning what to say. He wasn't wondering whether she'd be interested in him. He was simply drawn to her. Magnetically. Like some deeply embarrassing force of nature had grabbed him by the back of his shirt and said, That's the one. Go. "Stanbury," Mason said. No response. "Nilas," Mason said again. Nothing. Mason sighed. "You're going to talk to her." "No, I'm not," Nilas said. Mason looked at Eli. Eli nodded solemnly. "He's going to talk to her." "You two are insufferable," Nilas said. "You're welcome," Mason replied. "For what?" "For being your emotional support system," Mason said. "You're terrible at it," Nilas replied. "Still better than Eli." "Fuck you," Eli said. Mason nodded. "See? Emotionally unavailable." Nilas laughed again. Then he looked at her. That ridiculous pull in his chest was still there. He wanted to know her. Hear her voice. Make her laugh. Nilas glanced down at his watch. 71 hours, 43 minutes. He frowned. Mason noticed. "What's wrong?" "I've wasted seventeen minutes," Nilas said. "On what?" Eli asked. Nilas looked toward the woman across the bar. "Nothing," Nilas replied. Mason followed his gaze. "Oh, this is going to be fun," Mason said. Nilas stood. Mason immediately grinned. "There he goes." "I'm getting another drink," Nilas said. The bar is behind you. Nilas stopped. He looked behind him. Then back at Mason. Mason was trying very hard not to laugh. "Don't," Nilas warned. "I didn't say anything," Mason replied. "Your face did," Nilas said. Eli leaned back. "He's got you there." Nilas shook his head, amused. Then he looked at her one last time. His smile slowly returned. He had seventy-one hours and forty-three minutes left. Plenty of time. Probably. "Wish me luck," Nilas said. "You don't need luck," Mason replied. "You need a personality transplant," Eli added. Nilas laughed. "Fuck you both." Then he left the booth alone, leaving Mason and Eli behind at the table. He didn't look back. He knew exactly where he was going. Toward her. For a man who had jumped out of perfectly good airplanes, flown through thunderstorms, and survived years of military training, walking across a bar to talk to the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen suddenly felt like the most terrifying mission he'd ever volunteered for. Which was ridiculous. But Nilas had never been particularly good at making sensible decisions. And he had seventy-one hours, forty-three minutes to make this one.