137
memories wrapped with paper and twine
McFly (Danny/Harry)
5,444 words, rated r. This is a WWII AU, heavily based on Band of Brothers, because I'm fucking obsessed. Written for 2lineschallenge. Thanks to kawaii_tenshi for the read through, and to oh_mumble for the constant support. The title is from The Tain, by The Decemberists.

Prompt: this is a time in my life where everything is falling apart
and at the same time it's all coming together
-grade, a year in the past, forever in the future

i.

“Medic! Medic!”

Tom’s out of his foxhole and rabbiting across the frozen ground before he can even think about it, shots exploding against the trees around him. One zings right past his face but he gives it no notice, running as fast as he can. His feet skid over the snow, and he can still hear that voice, screaming for him.

“Medic!”

He’s darting past foxholes, soldiers firing their guns across the line, through the fog and the snow and the frigid cold. Over all the gunfire, the explosions and creaking trees, he can hear Dougie’s voice screaming for him.

“Medic!”

At last, at last, he slides into Dougie and James’ foxhole, taking cover.

Dougie’s hands are covered in blood, and Tom grabs them, searching for the source, searching –

“No, Tom, no, not me,” Dougie says, gasping, “James, James!”

Tom turns, and James is just sitting there, hands clasped over his stomach, smiling weakly. Judd is barking out orders over the sound of the guns, but Tom’s not paying attention.

He scrambles over to James, pushing his hands out of the way, and doesn’t let himself think about the blood pooling in the folds of James’ uniform. He rips the fabric away until he can see, fingers swiping over skin. He’s only got a few bandages left, but he lets them soak up the majority of the blood while he searches through the wound with his fingers, trying to find the bullet. What he wouldn’t give for a fucking pair of tongs.

James heaves a huge, shuddering breath, and Tom puts his free hand on James’ chest.

“Easy,” he says, “easy. You’re gonna be fine.”

His fingers are slippery, covered in blood, but he can feel the metal of the bullet against the tip of his index finger. James is grunting in pain, almost whimpering, and Tom can hear the vague sounds of Dougie shooting across the line again. His breath is white when he exhales, but he hardly feels the cold, just the warm slide of blood collecting in the palm of his hand.

Finally, he gets his fingers ‘round the bullet and pulls it out – gently, gently – and then lets it fall to the frozen ground, pushing a pad of bandages against the open wound.

“Jeep!” he yells at the top of his lungs. “Someone get me a fuckin’ jeep over here!” James is breathing heavily, too quickly, so Tom just swipes a hand over the side of his face, trying to comfort through touch, and settles down to wait.

He keeps his ears trained and hopes that he won’t be needed.



ii.

Danny’s teeth are chattering when Tom slides into his foxhole.

“Where the hell is your jacket, Jones?” Tom asks, eyebrows raised. There’s been a lull for the past few hours, and he’s going ‘round, checking on the men. He’s only got two syrettes of morphine left, and he’s in fucking trouble if he runs out. Not to even talk about bandages.

“G-gave it to Pugsley,” Danny says. There’s a tinge of blue around his lips and nothing Tom can do about it. “Lost his in the last mortar blast, letting it dry. He needs it more’n I do.”

“You know we don’t have more,” Tom says, and sighs. “Keep your fucking gloves on, I’ll see what I can do.” He’s about to scramble out of the foxhole, when he remembers. “You got any morphine in your kitbag? Bandages?”

“I g-got,” Danny pauses, gloved hands scrambling as he checks, “one syrette, no bandages. Here.” He hands it up to Tom, who nods, tucking it into his pack. “I get hit, though, you better fucking be here in a flash.”

“I will. I got chosen for this fucking job, remember? Fuck if I know why, but I’ll do it right.” Tom looks over his shoulder again when Danny laughs, voice shivering with cold.

“Don’t worry, Doc, I got faith.” He’s smiling, wide the way he always does, but Tom can’t return it. He turns away.



iii.

Before Danny even meets Judd, he’s pretty sure he’s going to hate him. It’s not such a surprising reaction – Judd wasn’t with them at training and isn’t anything now but the guy suddenly in charge of the whole company. Danny’s already heard things about him – he’s a good soldier, shrewd and smart, he’s not afraid of enemy fire – but that doesn’t mean anything until Danny sees him in action. He’s also Danny’s superior officer.

Doesn’t mean Danny has to like it.

Danny lets his weight shift from one foot to the other, flicking his cigarette butt onto the cold ground. The cherry smolders for a few seconds before flickering out. When he looks up again, Judd’s looking at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Got a question, soldier?” Judd asks, voice calm and even.

“You gonna get us killed, sir?” Danny asks. It’s an audacious question, but he’s spent the last two and a half weeks in the snow, cold and underequipped, watching his friends get shot and blown up, and at least half of the blame goes to their fool of an officer who went and got himself killed. He’s still hasn’t forgiven Willis for Charlie. Doesn’t think he ever will.

“Not if I can help it,” Judd says. “Jones, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” Danny says. He should salute, but he doesn’t. Most wouldn’t let him get away with this kind of brass, but Danny’s always had the reputation for being crazy. Doc would be mortified, and Pugsley, well. Pugsley’d probably just find it funny. “Danny Jones.”

“Harry Judd,” Judd says, like Danny doesn’t know. He holds out his hand, and Danny just stares at it for a second, not sure what to do with it. Finally, he reaches out. Judd has a strong grip.

“I went to school with Charlie,” he says, like that explains everything. In some ways, it does. “Well get the bastards back.”

“Yes, sir,” Danny says, voice harsh. He’s still got Charlie’s dog tags in his pocket. “We will, sir.”

Judd smiles. Danny thinks that maybe he won’t be so bad.



iv.

“You’re kind of a shrimp, ain’t you, Pugs?” Danny asks, leaning back against the wall. Dougie, Danny, Charlie, James, and Tom are all sitting around the barracks, playing poker. Tom’d bowed out the hand before, cutting his losses, but hadn’t gone to bed like he’d said he was going to. Dougie isn’t really surprised.

“Not my fault,” Dougie says, discarding two and drawing, “and you know I’m a better shot than all of you.” It’s true. He’s one of the best gunmen in the whole company, and no one was more surprised than Dougie himself. He’d lied when he was enlisting, and he’s still only seventeen. He hopes his eighteenth birthday isn’t in the field.

“Don’t mean you’re any good at cards,” James says, smiling. He’s kind of an asshole, but Dougie appreciates it. He at least keeps things interesting. He’s had latrine duty more than the rest of them put together. Always pissing off the higher-ups. He calls it ‘taking one for the team’, but Dougie’s pretty sure he just likes being a rebel.

“You’re not one to talk, Bourne,” Danny says, and draws one card. “Don’t see you winning any money.”

“No one wins when you play, Jones. We’ve all accepted it and moved on.” Charlie’s smile is mean in that way he always is, and Dougie laughs.

“’S why we don’t play with the big money,” Tom adds. “Some of us got families back home to feed.” He’s sitting cross-legged, propped up on his hands as he watches the game. James snorts.

“Who’ve you got waiting for you, Doc, ‘cept that pretty sister of yours?”

“You lay off, James. She’s too good for you,” Tom says, punching James in the arm. James winces.

“Motherfucker. That fucking hurt!”

“Serves you right, talking about my sister like that.” Tom crosses his arms over his chest. Charlie’s laughing at both of them, his voice deep and loud, and it’s a nice sound to hear. James flicks Tom on the ear.

Dougie looks at Danny, watching the argument but not participating, and wonders how many of them will live to see next year.



v.

Danny’s watching the line when the shells start falling again.

“Motherfucker,” he says quietly, and then yells, “Take cover! Take cover! Everybody in your foxholes, find cover!”

A tree to his left shatters, and the trunk falls with a creak and a thud, hitting the snow just to the left of Danny’s foxhole. He tries to ignore the branches falling on him, sliding as far down as possible.

He can feel the ground shake with explosions, and he glances up, peering over the lip of the hole. There’s someone still scrambling over the snow, trying to find a hole to slide into, and it’s –

“Charlie! Charlie! Get the hell over here, you fucker,” Danny yells, gesturing wildly with his hands. Charlie clambers through the slush and dirt, belly to the ground. Danny can see his hands, gloveless, pushing aside snow and leaves and branch shrapnel. “Charlie! Hurry up!” Danny yells, again, and he sees the determined look on Charlie’s face, set and serious. Close, so close.

A shell goes off somewhere to his right, but Danny’s just focused on watching Charlie, his fingers digging into the ground, trying to keep himself from just launching himself out of the foxhole and dragging Charlie back with him.

And then – an explosion, and Charlie is just –

Gone.

Nothing but rubble, overturned earth and snow churned up to a muddled grey. No blood, even. Nothing.

He’s just gone.

Danny can’t process anything but surprise, can’t do anything but fall back against the wall of the foxhole and stare. Snow and ash and a hole in the ground where Charlie used to be.

Later, Danny will spread his hands through the rubble and find nothing but Charlie’s dogtags, bent and scuffed. Later, he’ll mourn. Now, he just sits back in his foxhole, surrounded by the frozen earth, and listens to the shells exploding all around him.



vi.

Harry shifts uncomfortably on the table in the aid station, and lets out a deep sigh.

“Stop moving,” Tom says. “Can’t stitch you up if you won’t sit still.”

Tom’s hands are callused and gentle on his arm, and Harry’s just angry that he has to be here at all. It’s a graze – give him a few stitches and set him loose, that’s all he needs. He bites the inside of his cheek and shifts back on the table.

“Haz,“ Tom sighs. “Sit fucking still or I’m not giving you anything for it.”

“Don’t need anything. I can barely feel it,” Harry says. He sighs again. “What a dumb fucking wound this is.”

“What, grazed with a bullet when you’re standing in the middle of the street, shouting out orders like an idiot? Least you didn’t get anything worse. Last thing the company needs is another dead commanding officer.” Tom pauses, before adding, sarcastically, “Sir.”

Harry almost says something about his tone – almost calls it overly familiar, not befitting a superior office, but Tom’s a medic and a friend. Medics mostly don’t give a fuck about chain of command, anyway – if you get hurt, you’re theirs.

Plus, Tom would probably take it the wrong way.

Harry winces as Tom pricks him with the needle, pulling the thread through. It hurts, more than he said it did, but he’s not going to complain. He’d been so busy getting the company behind cover that he’d let himself get shot. He’s fucking lucky he’s still alive.

He concentrates on listening to the sound of Tom breathing, ignoring the tugs and stab of the needle in his skin, and it doesn’t take long for Tom to tie off a knot and cut the thread.

“Be careful with it for a few days,” Tom says, wrapping the arm in a bandage. “I know you can’t keep from using it, but make sure it stays clean, okay?” He waits for Harry to nod, his expression skeptical. Harry fakes a salute in his direction, smiling sardonically.

“I’ll see what I can do, Doc.”

“See that you do,” Tom says. “And Haz?” Harry turns back, hand on the doorframe. “Don’t get yourself killed. The boys need you.”

Harry nods, thinking about how angry Danny’s probably going to be with him for getting shot. And Dougie’s been quiet since James was taken to the hospital.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”



vii.

“Volunteers?” Willis asks, and Danny, crouching in the brush, wonders why he bothers. The barn house looks relatively dilapidated, but it’s about as likely that there’s a sniper hiding on the top floor as it is that the barn is empty, and they have no way of knowing. Danny hates these stupid recon missions. At least the trees and shrubs give them some good cover.

“I’ll go,” James says quietly, from Danny’s right. Bourne is a cowboy, and he’s going to get himself killed one day, Danny’s pretty sure. Danny huffs over the barrel of his rifle, and keeps an eye on the barn house.

“Jones, Simpson, you go with him. Bourne, you’re scout,” Willis says, and Danny just manages to keep from rolling his eyes. Willis always seems to ‘volunteer’ him for stuff like this.

“Sir,” he says, instead, keeping his voice low. He waits for James to take the lead, and follows after. He can hear Charlie’s careful steps behind him, but the three of them are still making too much noise. Danny curses the leaves drying on the forest floor and does his best to be cautious.

James crouches behind a shed about halfway between the platoon and the barn, turning around to mime directions – keep close to cover and keep moving, he says, and Danny gives him a tight nod.

James moves, cautious and quick, toward the house, and Danny turns halfway to beckon Charlie after him.

He hears the zing of a moving bullet, and Charlie immediately darts behind the shed. Danny crouches behind the nearest tree and looks through the sight of his rifle.

“Sniper!” James yells, breaking silence, and Danny still can’t figure out where the sniper is, exactly, but he hears the twang of another bullet moving too fast to see, and then feels the stinging, scraping on the side of his neck that means he’s been grazed.

“Motherfucker,” he says, but doesn’t look away from the sight of his gun. If he can just spot the light from the gun when the fucker fires again –

“Fall back!” Willis barks. Danny just crouches lower and searches the top windows. He can feel the blood trickling down the side of his neck and soaking into his uniform.

“Lieutenant said fall back, idiot,” Charlie says in his ear, tugging hard on his arm.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Danny mutters, and lets Charlie haul him back toward the platoon, lowing his gun from his eye. Willis gives him a look, but Danny’s used to it by now. As long as he doesn’t give any lip, Willis will leave him alone – Danny’s one of the best and knows it, so it earns him some wiggle room.

“Hey,” James says, coming up behind them, “you’re bleeding. Jesus.”

“It’s just a scratch,” Danny says.

James’s pulls at the edge of his collar, brushing his fingers over the cut. It’s still bleeding, Danny can feel it, and he hisses between his teeth in pain. “And you’re just insane,” James says, sourly. “Hey! Can we get a medic over here, please?”

Danny looks over his shoulder at the barn and wonders how many people they’re going to lose on stupid missions like this before the war is finally over. He’s hoping not to be counted in that number.



viii.

“Oh, Jesus,” Danny says, voice hushed. “Beds. Honest to god beds.”

Harry laughs at him, and doesn’t stop at the sour look he gets for it.

“What, Judd, you’d rather go back to cold foxholes in the middle of winter, right? Show everyone you’re a real man?” Danny’s tapping his fingers against the footboard, the way that he does when he’s a little annoyed. He doesn’t like being made fun of. Harry covers the hand with his own, pressing it down a little too hard against the wood. Danny sucks a breath in through his teeth.

“Never thought we’d get to do this in a bed,” Harry says, leaning forward to whisper the words against the shell of Danny’s ear. Danny shudders, and Harry grasps his fingers harder. He kisses the side of Danny’s face, the curve of his jaw, and bites into his neck, the shiny, pale scar where he’d been grazed with a bullet before they even met. Danny’s breath is shallow against the top of Harry’s ear, and then he’s pushing at Harry, wrapping his free hand in the back of Harry’s uniform and yanking the fabric up. His fingernails find skin first, scratching into Harry’s back hard enough that he’s sure to leave marks. Harry’s not all that fussed – he’s pretty sure he’s still got bruises from last time they managed to find time to fuck.

“Fuck,” Danny says in unconscious echo, and Harry’s still licking over the skin of his neck. The scar tissue feels thicker, smoother, and Danny shivers whenever he bites into it. Harry knows that the mended skin has to be less sensitive than the surrounding tissue, but he loves the way Danny’s breath sticks in his throat.

Danny manages to pull his hand out from under Harry’s, and shoves Harry down onto the bed. Harry almost gasps at the feel of the sheets under his bare arms, at the way the mattress gives under his weight. It’s nothing he’s felt for over half a year.

“Yeah,” Danny says, watching Harry carefully. He unbuttons his jacket and pulls his undershirt over his head, unselfconscious and graceful. Harry props himself up on his arms, enjoying the view. He watches as Danny unbuttons his trousers and pushes them and his underwear down over his hips, letting them puddle on the floor. He steps out of his shoes last, pushing his socks off of his feet with his toes. Harry watches the play of muscles in his thighs and stomach, and the way he pulls his lower lip into his mouth.

“C’mere,” he says, and Danny takes a step closer. He reaches out a hand, pressing two fingers against the curve of Harry’s lips, and Harry touches them with his tongue.

“The war’s almost over,” Danny says, his voice quiet. “Soon it’s back to real life.”

Harry reaches out with both hands and wraps his fingers around Danny’s hips – smooth, unscarred skin, lightly freckled. He wants to replace his fingers with his tongue, but he figures he has time. They have time.

“Soon, you go back to your bird, and I go back to my job,” Danny continues, his voice still quiet. “It’ll be like none of this ever happened.”

Danny moves his fingers from Harry’s mouth, brushing them over his chin and his cheek, the bridge of his nose. Harry tugs on Danny’s hips until he takes another step closer.

“Soon,” Harry says, leaning in to kiss the side of Danny’s rib cage. He can feel Danny shaking under his hands. “Soon. But not now.”



ix.

Jumping is everything Dougie thought it would be.

He hooks his carabineer onto the wire, and watches the back of Tom’s head, James fidgeting behind the lieutenant, second to jump. Dougie watches Willis gesture to them – stand at ready, equipment check – and he waits for his turn.

“Six, okay!” he hears behind him.

“Five, okay!” he hollers over the sound of the wind rushing all around them. He can feel it against his cheeks, blowing his hair against the back of his neck, and he can only vaguely hear Tom sounding off in front of him.

Finally, finally, the red light turns green, and he watches Willis jump. James doesn’t even hesitate, just launches himself out of the plane in the reckless way he does anything.

Dougie can see the huge breath Tom takes, but he doesn’t look over his shoulder when he jumps, and then –

Nothing prepares Dougie for the rush of freefall. He’s falling, speeding down, down, and then he jolts – the ‘chute’s unfurled. He glances at the ground, far, far below him, and looks at the hugeness of his boots against the field below. He can’t see Tom anymore, or James, and Danny’s on the next plane entirely, but he can’t keep the grin off of his face. He can feel it stretching his face, his cheeks red from the cold wind.

Most of the boys are doing this job for fifty extra dollars in their salary. Fifty extra dollars going toward their families back home. If asked, Dougie would say that, yeah, he’s a paratrooper for the money. His mum and sister both need it – what with his deadbeat dad up and leaving them. Any extra money would do them a bit of good.

So, he could tell them he’s doing it for the extra money, but he’d be lying a little.

Truth is, he can’t imagine anything more thrilling than jumping out of a plane, nothing between him and the air but a uniform and a parachute. First he heard about it, he knew that was where he’d enlist.

When he feet hit the field, he scrambles to his feet, pulling of the harness and rolling up the ‘chute.

“What’re you grinning about?” Tom asks him, as they head off the field.

“Nothing,” Dougie answers, shrugging. That’s really all it is.



x.

Dougie turns eighteen in a foxhole in the winter, shivering with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. He doesn’t have gloves, but then again, not many of them have gloves. He clenches and unclenches his fists, trying to keep circulation flowing, and stares out across the line. Things have been quiet all day, probably due to the fog, but that doesn’t really mean anything.

“Hey,” Tom says, sliding down next to him. Tom’s face is too pale, solemn and thin, and it reminds Dougie of what war means to Tom – to Tom, it’s not killing, not shooting them before they shoot back, hiding with your back against the wall. To Tom, it’s scrambling across the ground under fire, it’s blood drying under his fingernails, blood staining his hands and wrists, blood and the gagging sound a man makes when he dies. Dougie wonders if Tom thinks about all the people he couldn’t save, but it’s not even worth it. He can tell just by looking at Tom’s face. “I have chocolate,” Tom says.

“What, really?” Dougie asks. He can’t feel the tips of his fingers but he’s pretty sure he can taste just fine.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tom says. He pulls the bar out of his medkit, turning it over between his fingers. “Nurse in town, she – gave it to me. When we dropped off the wounded. Said I looked like I needed it.”

“You do,” Dougie says. But – “Can I have a piece?”

“Oh – sure,” Tom says, and Dougie smiles gratefully at him. He hears the crackle of the wrapper, the brittle snap, and the Tom hands him a square. Dougie can’t help the way his eyes slide closed at the first bite. He sucks on it until it melts in his mouth, savoring the flavor.

“Thanks, Tom,” he says. He takes another small bite, glancing over Tom’s shoulder. “Today’s my eighteenth,” he says, finally. He doesn’t expect Tom to say anything about it and it’s not like – he wants anything special. He just. Wanted someone to know.

“Happy birthday, Dougs,” Tom says. His voice is soft, almost sad. Dougie looks up and shrugs.

“Thanks,” he says. There’s nothing else to say.



xi.

“Can’t believe they’ve got nothing better for us to do but sit here,” Danny says, sighing. Dougie’s curled up at the head of his bed, and they’re playing some card game that Danny’s pretty sure Dougie made up. The rules are definitely complicated enough.

“Least there’s showers and hot food,” Dougie says, and puts down the two of diamonds. Danny squints at it and then looks at his hand.

“I thought I was done with fucking training exercises when they deployed us.” He picks and then discards the three of spades.

“I’m just happy it’s finally summer,” Dougie says. Danny can hear it when he pauses, and then Dougie’s leaning forward and pulling down the collar of his shirt with one hand. “You’re being less careful now, unless there’s some girl that I don’t know about,” he adds.

Danny puts his hand to the side of his neck, and scowls. He knows he’s still bruised from Harry’s mouth, but there’s not much he can do about it at the moment. The – whatever it is. Arrangement between Harry and Danny is a pretty well kept secret among the men, but Danny knows for sure that Dougie and Tom, at least, have caught on. It’s probably because they’re the ones he spends the most time with, but that doesn’t make the situation a comfortable one for him.

“Keep your nose out of it, Pugs,” he says, and pulls Dougie’s hands off of his shirt. “It’s your turn.”

“What’re you going to do when we’re sent home?” Dougie asks, and Danny wants to ignore the question altogether. He waits until Dougie’s drawn a card, and then raises an eyebrow.

“What am I going to do? Nothing. What else is there to do?”

Dougie doesn’t seem to have an answer. Danny wasn’t expecting one.



xii.

Danny throws his tray onto the table with a clatter, making Tom jolt. The mess is loud enough with chatter than Tom hadn’t even heard him coming.

“Jesus, Dan, some warning next time?”

“Gotta stay on your toes, Fletcher. How else’re you going to notice the enemy sneaking up on you?” Danny’s smile is as wide as always, and Tom scowls at him. Dougie’s already laughing, his mouth full of gross army noodles. Tom’s not sure exactly how one can mess up spaghetti, but anything’s possible in the mess hall.

“In case you’ve forgotten, Jones, I’m a medic, I’m only supposed to be keeping you from bleeding to death, not sneaking anywhere. Wherever I am, there’s bound to be screaming.” Tom rips off a piece of bread and shoves it in his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Danny says, twirling his spaghetti around his fork.

“I’d still rather be me than you,” Dougie says, shrugging. Tom can’t exactly argue. It’s not like he volunteered to be the medic. He was just assigned that way.

“Either of you got a smoke?” Danny asks, holding out his hand, palm up. Dougie rolls his eyes, and pulls out a crumpled pack from his pocket.

“You’re such a mooch,” he says. He hands Danny a slightly flattened cigarette, and then turns back to his dinner.

“Hey, if we manage to hold onto our weekend passes long enough, I’ll see about buying you some more,” Danny says, placating. Dougie just rolls his eyes again.

“And when was the last time that happened?” he asks.

“A man can hope right?” Danny smiles, and tucks the cigarette into his pocket. Tom eats the last bite of his bread and thinks that, yeah, a man can hope. Doesn’t mean it’ll get him anywhere, though.



xiii.

Danny’s as surprised as anyone that he actually shows up to the first reunion. He’d always told them that once he was out of the army he was fucking gone, but it hadn’t turned out that way.

Danny steps across the threshold and looks around – a sea of familiar faces, and he thinks about how he’s not looking for anyone in particular. He’s really not.

He heads straight for the bar, and wishes that Tom had been able to show. He understands, he does, that some people are busy, and Tom’s got a new kid, and there’s no leaving that kind of responsibility this soon, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want the support. He knocks back a whiskey straight and then asks for another.

Dougie’s over at the table with James, and he waves at Danny from across the room. Danny will go talk to them, eventually, but right now he’s not sure he really wants to hear about Dougie’s new bird. He waves back, and takes a sip of his drink. He’ll take this one slow.

“I wasn’t expecting you to come.” It’s Judd’s voice, and he turns slowly, wondering if he’s actually ready for this.
Harry looks good, but Danny knew he would. His hair is short, but long enough to hold on to – not that Danny should really be thinking about it. Harry’s probably married by now.

“I wasn’t expecting to,” Danny answers, eventually. He takes another sip of his whiskey and watches Harry look him up and down. He tries not to shift under that gaze, tries not the think about Harry’s hot mouth on his, his back against the cold snow. “Is your – girl here?” he asks, and he thinks about how masochistic he is.

“Danny –” Harry starts. “We’re not – she didn’t.” He stops again, and it’s not often that Danny gets to see Harry unsure. “She didn’t wait, and I didn’t care,” he finishes, finally. Danny can’t help the way he breathes in, sudden and sharp.

“Huh,” he says. In everything that he’d thought about, all the possibilities he’d imagined, this hadn’t come up.

“Do you want – a drink, or something?” Harry asks, and Danny glances over to Dougie’s table. Dougie’s watching them, his expression curious. Danny’s going to have to answer questions later. He turns back to Harry, and holds up his glass.

“I’ve got one already, thanks,” he says, and takes another sip.

“No, I meant –” Harry says. “My hotel room has a minibar. If you want to – talk.”

Danny just raises his eyebrows. “I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”

Harry bites his lips, apparently frustrated, and Danny remembers that look from all the times Danny pushed him around, challenged him. “I’m not saying we should –” Harry says, and cuts himself off, glancing over his shoulder.

Danny knows that glance from every time they had to leave a room separately, from the way everything they did had to be careful and concealable. “This isn’t – people don’t do this, Harry, and we shouldn’t –”

“Fuck what people don’t do,” Harry says, his voice hushed and urgent. “I’m sick of what people don’t do. I fought for this fucking country, and I think that earns me some slack.” He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. “Just – give it a chance, Dan. Have a drink with me.”

Danny watches the way Harry worries at his bottom lip, and thinks about kissing him. Fuck it, he thinks, and he says, “Yeah, okay.”



xiv.

Throwing his duffle onto his bed with a thump, Tom looks around the barracks. They’re sparse, all exposed wood and plain windows. There are a few men sitting on their beds, playing cards or smoking, but Tom is pretty sure they won’t be having much downtime to speak of. He can’t imagine why they would, what with there being a war on.

“Hey, you just show up?” Tom turns toward the voice, and raises his eyebrows at the guy leaning against the wall, staring at him. He’s got a wide grin and a confident set to his body. Tom thinks that either he’ll like this guy a lot, or loathe him completely.

“Looks like,” he says, gesturing at the bag on his bed.

“Yeah, stupid question, sorry.” The guy smiles wider, which shouldn’t even be possible, and Tom finds himself smiling back. “I’m Danny. Danny Jones,” he says, and holds out his hand.

“Tom Fletcher,” Tom says, and shakes it. Danny’s got a firm grip, and Tom’s somehow not surprised.

“Rest of the guys got latrine duty,” Danny says, shrugging, “so you’ll just have to meet them later. We get shit like that a lot. We’re all a bunch of troublemakers. Right, Pugs?”

A kid lying on his stomach two beds down pulls his head up. He looks a little small for eighteen, but Tom’s not going to ask. “Just you and James, really,” he says. “And my name’s not Pugs. It’s Dougie.”

“Pugs has a better ring to it,” Danny says with a grin. He turns back to Tom and shrugs, his grin still firmly in place. Tom’s pretty sure he’s going to like this one. “Well, Tom,” he adds, with mock-solemnity, “welcome to the paratroopers.”