Happy Birthday, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
halotolerant
Jun. 1st, 2012 12:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
przedHope you have a wonderful day!
In celebration, and as thanks for dragging me into a fab fandom, I seem to have written you a small Take That fic.
It's a sequel to Some Desperate Glory, since I have noticed that you're a little bit fond of military fic. Plus, Howard started talking to me and would quit until I'd got his story down.
Peace in Sleep
For Howard, it is the worst day of the war. Worse than his first battle. Worse than the day Mark was shot. Worse even than the two times he was wounded himself.
All week they'd been warned of a coming German offensive, all week the platoon had shivered in the trenches, awaiting the impending slaughter. This day they wake in the grey light of pre-dawn to the blowing of whistles, the shouting of officers, and the roaring of an artillery barrage over their heads.
With Jason at his side, he scrambles out of their dug out—emptier now with Mark and Rob back in England--grabs his rifle, straps on his webbing, and runs to the fire step to defend this little length of trench they've called home for far too long. For hours, the Germans throw wave after wave of men at them, and they manage to keep pushing them back. They manage it until dusk, at least, when a last desperate surge of German soldiers brave the bullets coming from the trench and the shells bursting overhead and jump in amongst them with screams of anger and fear and triumph.
Here in this hole in the ground, the fighting is too close for the rifles. Now the combat is done with bayonets, rifle butts, and the odd shot fired by an officer's side arm. Howard is as exhausted and tired and scared as everyone else, but he takes a deep breath and stands his ground, yelling as he smashes his rifle into a German private's gut, gritting his teeth as he slashes his bayonet through the meat of a sergeant's leg.
Jason is at his side through it all, defending Howard's back as Howard defends his, never straying more than a few paces away. But as the sun dips completely below the horizon and the light starts to go completely, a new group of Germans jump into their midst, separating the two of them. Fighting through these newcomers, struggling to get to Jason, Howard comes as close as to panic as he's ever done. He batters aside one man, and sends another sprawling, then there, at last, he sees Jason up ahead.
And he sees the blow that takes him down.
The German is a tall man, as tall as Howard and as powerfully built. As Howard watches, too far away to do anything, the German raises his rifle and brings his bayonet down in a slashing cut across Jason's face.
Howard bellows, his cry loud enough to be heard even over the noise and clamour of the battle. The man who attacked Jason turns towards the sound, but he can do nothing to defend himself from Howard's fury. Howard thrusts his own bayonet forward, feeling the now dull blade catch on uniform and a rib as he slides it into the man's chest. The man looks at Howard in surprise, even as the light goes out of his eyes and he collapses in a heap on the muddy ground.
Twisting his rifle, Howard pulls his bayonet roughly out of the corpse and turns to Jason.
Jason is standing still, his eyes gone wide with shock, his own rifle held loosely in his hands, but with no visible injury, and Howard thinks for a moment that he got it wrong, that the German didn't strike Jason. But then Jason takes one staggering step forward, and his knees buckle, and the blood starts to flow. So much blood, and from such a long gash.
Without knowing quite how he gets there, Howard is at Jason's side, catching him as he falls, pulling his lanky frame out of the way of the worst of the fighting. He's screaming. Screaming for a stretcher bearer, screaming for Jason to stay with him, screaming with rage and frustration and grief.
At some point the Germans are thrown back for good and the fighting ends around him, but Howard doesn't notice. By that time he's spent far too much time trying to stop Jason's bleeding with a dressing that's nowhere big enough or clean enough for the job, as Jason tries not to fight his efforts. By the time the stretcher bearers arrive, Howard's hands are painted with Jason's blood, and Jason has—finally, blessedly—lost consciousness.
They won't let him go with Jason, and afterwards he vaguely remembers threatening the stretcher bearers and throwing punches at Matthews and Fisher. But then Captain Barlow is at his side, telling him he has to let Jason go, that he must let the stretcher bearers save his friend. Telling him that he needs Howard here, to defend their position in case there is a night attack. He respects Captain Barlow more than anyone but Jason, so he listens to him and he obeys his orders, watching as Jason disappears down the trench on the way to a dressing station.
He spends the night standing sentry duty, his worry for Jason overcoming the exhaustion that has seeped into his bones. Other members of the platoon stand with him in shifts during the night. They all try to cheer him up, assuring him that Jason will be right as rain soon enough. Sporting the black eye Howard gave him, Fisher even brings him a cup of tea. Howard wishes nothing more than that they'd all shut the fuck up and leave him alone, but he can't muster the energy to actually say the words.
When dawn comes, he's near asleep on his feet, but stubbornly refuses to rest. Only a summons from Captain Barlow draws him from his position on the fire step.
When he arrives in Barlow's dugout, Howard throws the captain a crisp salute, daring him to declare him not fit for duty. He can see the captain examining him carefully, but he says nothing about his condition, says not a word about the blood staining the sleeves of his uniform tunic the hue of rusted iron.
"I've had the morning report from the Medical Officer," Captain Barlow says. "He tells me Corporal Orange is responding well."
"Good, sir." Howard takes in the news, but he can't feel relief. Not yet. Not when his last sight of Jason was of him covered in all that blood.
"They've moved him to the field hospital in the next village." Barlow's face is impassive but his hands betray him, his fingers in constant restless motion. "They've stitched him up and think he'll recover in a few weeks. He'll be back here in no time."
Howard feels too much all at once. He feels thankful Jason is alive, that he will return, but also guilty at his own relief that Jason won't be sent home without him.
"Thank you, sir," he chokes out. "Is that everything?"
"Almost everything." Barlow smiles slightly. "We have reinforcements coming in the next hour. The transports will be returning past the field hospital. I was wondering if you might want to pay Corporal Orange a visit?"
Which is how he comes to be sitting beside Jason in the field hospital. The hospital is in a converted, bombed-out church. Half its roof is missing, only three walls remain, and it's filled with more men than it should be able to hold, but there is still a shabby peace to be found within.
Jason is sedated when he arrives, so Howard simply sits beside him, trying not to look at the bandage that takes up so much of his face, concentrating on the basic fact of Jay being alive.
He's so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he doesn't notice when Jason wakes up.
"They've spoilt my looks, I'm afraid," Jason whispers. The one eye not covered by the bandage looks intently at Howard.
"You didn't have any looks to spoil," Howard says, the teasing second nature even now. "I always was the handsome one."
"Modest too," Jason says, then they're reaching out their hands, fingers knit together so tightly that their knuckles go white, neither of them giving a toss who sees or what they think. Not now.
Then Jason shifts over on his narrow bed, pulling Howard towards him. Howard hesitates for a moment, looking over at the nearest nurse. She has the tired look of a woman who has seen much and forgives all. She merely raises an eyebrow, then gives him a nod. Permission tacitly given, Howard lies down beside Jason, their hands still locked together.
Knowing that Jason is alive and safe and cared for, the tension begins to leave Howard's arms, his legs, his chest. There will be other battles and other bad days, but for now he feels some peace settle over him. And finally, with the faint puff of Jason's breath on his cheek, he sleeps.
In celebration, and as thanks for dragging me into a fab fandom, I seem to have written you a small Take That fic.
It's a sequel to Some Desperate Glory, since I have noticed that you're a little bit fond of military fic. Plus, Howard started talking to me and would quit until I'd got his story down.
Peace in Sleep
For Howard, it is the worst day of the war. Worse than his first battle. Worse than the day Mark was shot. Worse even than the two times he was wounded himself.
All week they'd been warned of a coming German offensive, all week the platoon had shivered in the trenches, awaiting the impending slaughter. This day they wake in the grey light of pre-dawn to the blowing of whistles, the shouting of officers, and the roaring of an artillery barrage over their heads.
With Jason at his side, he scrambles out of their dug out—emptier now with Mark and Rob back in England--grabs his rifle, straps on his webbing, and runs to the fire step to defend this little length of trench they've called home for far too long. For hours, the Germans throw wave after wave of men at them, and they manage to keep pushing them back. They manage it until dusk, at least, when a last desperate surge of German soldiers brave the bullets coming from the trench and the shells bursting overhead and jump in amongst them with screams of anger and fear and triumph.
Here in this hole in the ground, the fighting is too close for the rifles. Now the combat is done with bayonets, rifle butts, and the odd shot fired by an officer's side arm. Howard is as exhausted and tired and scared as everyone else, but he takes a deep breath and stands his ground, yelling as he smashes his rifle into a German private's gut, gritting his teeth as he slashes his bayonet through the meat of a sergeant's leg.
Jason is at his side through it all, defending Howard's back as Howard defends his, never straying more than a few paces away. But as the sun dips completely below the horizon and the light starts to go completely, a new group of Germans jump into their midst, separating the two of them. Fighting through these newcomers, struggling to get to Jason, Howard comes as close as to panic as he's ever done. He batters aside one man, and sends another sprawling, then there, at last, he sees Jason up ahead.
And he sees the blow that takes him down.
The German is a tall man, as tall as Howard and as powerfully built. As Howard watches, too far away to do anything, the German raises his rifle and brings his bayonet down in a slashing cut across Jason's face.
Howard bellows, his cry loud enough to be heard even over the noise and clamour of the battle. The man who attacked Jason turns towards the sound, but he can do nothing to defend himself from Howard's fury. Howard thrusts his own bayonet forward, feeling the now dull blade catch on uniform and a rib as he slides it into the man's chest. The man looks at Howard in surprise, even as the light goes out of his eyes and he collapses in a heap on the muddy ground.
Twisting his rifle, Howard pulls his bayonet roughly out of the corpse and turns to Jason.
Jason is standing still, his eyes gone wide with shock, his own rifle held loosely in his hands, but with no visible injury, and Howard thinks for a moment that he got it wrong, that the German didn't strike Jason. But then Jason takes one staggering step forward, and his knees buckle, and the blood starts to flow. So much blood, and from such a long gash.
Without knowing quite how he gets there, Howard is at Jason's side, catching him as he falls, pulling his lanky frame out of the way of the worst of the fighting. He's screaming. Screaming for a stretcher bearer, screaming for Jason to stay with him, screaming with rage and frustration and grief.
At some point the Germans are thrown back for good and the fighting ends around him, but Howard doesn't notice. By that time he's spent far too much time trying to stop Jason's bleeding with a dressing that's nowhere big enough or clean enough for the job, as Jason tries not to fight his efforts. By the time the stretcher bearers arrive, Howard's hands are painted with Jason's blood, and Jason has—finally, blessedly—lost consciousness.
They won't let him go with Jason, and afterwards he vaguely remembers threatening the stretcher bearers and throwing punches at Matthews and Fisher. But then Captain Barlow is at his side, telling him he has to let Jason go, that he must let the stretcher bearers save his friend. Telling him that he needs Howard here, to defend their position in case there is a night attack. He respects Captain Barlow more than anyone but Jason, so he listens to him and he obeys his orders, watching as Jason disappears down the trench on the way to a dressing station.
He spends the night standing sentry duty, his worry for Jason overcoming the exhaustion that has seeped into his bones. Other members of the platoon stand with him in shifts during the night. They all try to cheer him up, assuring him that Jason will be right as rain soon enough. Sporting the black eye Howard gave him, Fisher even brings him a cup of tea. Howard wishes nothing more than that they'd all shut the fuck up and leave him alone, but he can't muster the energy to actually say the words.
When dawn comes, he's near asleep on his feet, but stubbornly refuses to rest. Only a summons from Captain Barlow draws him from his position on the fire step.
When he arrives in Barlow's dugout, Howard throws the captain a crisp salute, daring him to declare him not fit for duty. He can see the captain examining him carefully, but he says nothing about his condition, says not a word about the blood staining the sleeves of his uniform tunic the hue of rusted iron.
"I've had the morning report from the Medical Officer," Captain Barlow says. "He tells me Corporal Orange is responding well."
"Good, sir." Howard takes in the news, but he can't feel relief. Not yet. Not when his last sight of Jason was of him covered in all that blood.
"They've moved him to the field hospital in the next village." Barlow's face is impassive but his hands betray him, his fingers in constant restless motion. "They've stitched him up and think he'll recover in a few weeks. He'll be back here in no time."
Howard feels too much all at once. He feels thankful Jason is alive, that he will return, but also guilty at his own relief that Jason won't be sent home without him.
"Thank you, sir," he chokes out. "Is that everything?"
"Almost everything." Barlow smiles slightly. "We have reinforcements coming in the next hour. The transports will be returning past the field hospital. I was wondering if you might want to pay Corporal Orange a visit?"
Which is how he comes to be sitting beside Jason in the field hospital. The hospital is in a converted, bombed-out church. Half its roof is missing, only three walls remain, and it's filled with more men than it should be able to hold, but there is still a shabby peace to be found within.
Jason is sedated when he arrives, so Howard simply sits beside him, trying not to look at the bandage that takes up so much of his face, concentrating on the basic fact of Jay being alive.
He's so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he doesn't notice when Jason wakes up.
"They've spoilt my looks, I'm afraid," Jason whispers. The one eye not covered by the bandage looks intently at Howard.
"You didn't have any looks to spoil," Howard says, the teasing second nature even now. "I always was the handsome one."
"Modest too," Jason says, then they're reaching out their hands, fingers knit together so tightly that their knuckles go white, neither of them giving a toss who sees or what they think. Not now.
Then Jason shifts over on his narrow bed, pulling Howard towards him. Howard hesitates for a moment, looking over at the nearest nurse. She has the tired look of a woman who has seen much and forgives all. She merely raises an eyebrow, then gives him a nod. Permission tacitly given, Howard lies down beside Jason, their hands still locked together.
Knowing that Jason is alive and safe and cared for, the tension begins to leave Howard's arms, his legs, his chest. There will be other battles and other bad days, but for now he feels some peace settle over him. And finally, with the faint puff of Jason's breath on his cheek, he sleeps.
