Archive of Our Own ^beta

‘Perhaps it isn’t love

when I say you are what I love the most—

you are the knife I turn inside myself,

this is love.’

Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

Ron couldn’t remember the last time he had done a reconnaissance mission. Actually, he might never have done one. It was always a private, an NCO or some other lower-ranking officers that would do it. However, here he was, walking through the forest surrounding Haguenau alongside Carwood Lipton, the man who had somehow taken his heart and stolen it for himself. 

“It’s a nice day out, sir,” Lipton observed, motioning at the forest that surrounded them with his M1. He had been doing that for the last several minutes, making nervous conversation. If it had been anyone else, Ron might have simply remained silent or told them to shut up. Yet, Ron didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop. Every time, it caused his heart to flutter, the grip on his rifle tightening. 

“I guess,” Ron answered, glancing around them. The forest was like something out of a fairy tale. Trees and their leaves reached for the heavens, birds sang their melodies to one another, the faintest sound of a thawing stream in the distance, light snow barely floating down through the pines. The frigid winter finally seemed to be melting into spring, small flowers sprouting through the dirty, eroding snow. This place seemed so separate from the war, a safe haven in the eye of the storm. 

The war. It was ending, Allied advancements getting further and further into Germany with each passing day as the Germans grew tired and the Allies hit them with everything they had. Soon, there would be no war left to fight. Only hundreds of thousands of young boys returning to their mothers broken. 

“You’re not very good at small talk,” Lipton commented. Ron froze for a second, his eyebrows shooting up. Lipton stopped, his eyes widening a little. “I don’t mean it in a bad way, sir. It’s… nice.”

Ron cocked his head before he continued walking, leaving Lipton to trail behind him. He took a deep breath and then he said, “I find it useless.”

“I’m not surprised, sir,” Lipton laughed, his reaction causing confusion to surge in Ron. 

“You’re,” Ron paused, swinging his M1 over his shoulder, “Not surprised?”

“You don’t seem like the type, sir. You’re too serious for it. Hmm, maybe not serious,” Lipton thought for a second, a stitch appearing in the space between his eyebrows, “Pensive. That’s the word. Yeah, pensive. You always seem lost in thought. What you’re thinking about, I don’t know, sir,” Lipton shrugged, smiling sheepishly.

“Right now,” Ron paused, stepping over a surprisingly large log, “I’m thinking about the war.”

“Aren’t we all?” Lipton laughed as he moved a branch out of the way, signalling for Ron to go ahead. With a curt nod, Ron walked forward, his lips parting slightly as he spotted a small stream, flowing just in front of him. Across the small stretch of water, a deer drank from the clear liquid, the sunlight illuminating it from behind. Remembering the starving, freezing boys of Easy Company, Ron considered shooting the thing, it's meat enough for everybody. However, as he grabbed the strap of his rifle, he stopped as he spotted Lipton out of the corner of his eye, awe painted across his face. 

“Wow,” Lipton whispered from Ron’s left, “It’s beautiful.”

Ron glanced at Lipton, focusing on the way that Lipton’s tired eyes lit up as he gazed at the deer. For someone who had seen so much violence, Lipton still looked as if he had never seen a day of war. Yet, as Ron eyed the scar on Lipton’s face, he couldn’t help, but remember the fight, the war, everything. Lipton didn’t deserve that permanent mark on his face. No one deserved any of it. Ron wanted to reach out and wipe it away, smearing the consequences of war as far away from Lipton as he could. Even that day when he was huddled next to Lipton in Foy—the wound still an uneven scab on Lipton’s face—watching a chunk of cement hit Lipton’s face and cause his cheek to bleed, Ron wanted to grab him and hide him away from the fight. However, there was no one else Ron would rather fight alongside than Lipton. 

Lipton looked over at Ron, their eyes locking. He was beaming, his smile so perfect that Ron wanted to feel it under his lips. He wanted to see it every moment, he wanted to be the one to make Lipton smile like that. Yet, what was he thinking? What was he even considering?

Ron snapped his head away, the sharp movement causing the deer to look up from its drinking. As its brown eyes focused on the two of them, it seemed to pause, scanning them both. However, that only lasted a brief moment before it was bounding away, disappearing further into the dense wood of the German forest. 

“We should keep moving, Lipton,” Ron stated before he jumped the stream, landing hard on the stony bank. Lipton moved to jump as well. Yet, his foot hit a slippy patch of the gravel, his balance careening off of its axis and before Lipton could fall straight into the stream, Ron grabbed his hand, stopping his fall. 

Lipton blinked, glancing up and down from their joined hands to Ron’s face before he said, a smile appearing across his face, “That was close.”

“Yeah,” Ron chuckled, heat rising up his neck. 

“Thank you, sir,” Lipton said, releasing Ron’s hand. As a result, a vacancy seemed to be left behind as Ron’s hand fell back to his side, flexing his fingers. 

“Don’t mention it,” Ron answered, shrugging his shoulders. 

“No, really. Thank you, sir,” Lipton repeated, his smile growing smaller and his red cheeks growing brighter. 

“I,” Ron trailed off, his heart racing in his chest, “I… we should—we should keep moving.” Ron wanted to punch himself for his choice of words. ‘ We should keep moving?’ I just fucking said that , Ron thought, his conscious screaming in his mind at his childish failure at a smooth recovery. Frankly, Ron was acting like a child, his heart beating erratically and his cheeks becoming noticeably warmer when Lipton’s eyes lingered too long for Ron’s standards. 

“I’ll try not to fall this time, sir,” Lipton joked, falling into step behind Ron. The corner of Ron’s lip lifted up, a huff escaping his lips. 

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” Ron added, craning his head to glance at Lipton who was still smiling, his brown eyes shining. 

“You know,” Lipton started, “No matter what the boys say about you, you’re funny, sir.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. All of his life, no one, no one had ever described him as funny. Not a single soul except for Carwood Lipton of course had ever pegged Ronald Speirs as funny , just days after properly meeting him in Foy . Several beats went by before Ron stilled, turning to face Lipton. 

“Sir?” Lipton said, furrowing his eyebrows at Ron’s abrupt stop.

“Call me Ron,” Ron stated, smiling slightly as Lipton’s eyes widened in disbelief. Lipton’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He blinked once, twice. A bird sang out a call in the distance. 

“Ron?” Lipton repeated, Ron’s heart skipping a beat as he heard Lipton say his name properly for the first time. 

“That’s my name,” Ron smiled, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Ron,” Lipton echoed again. He smiled softly, saying the name again. Ron nodded, his helmet falling down slightly on his head. 

“If I get to call you Ron, you can call me Carwood,” Lipton said, offering his hand for Ron to shake. Ron raised an eyebrow, eyeing Lipton’s hand. Nonetheless, he shook it, squeezing Lipton’s calloused fingers. 

“Nice to meet you, Ron,” Carwood breathed, nodding his head once at Ron. 

“Nice to meet you, Carwood,” Ron said, tasting the name on his tongue for the first time. Carwood , Ron thought, attempting to hide the smile on his face. God, Carwood was slowly chipping away at Ron’s carefully built reputation bit by bit. Soon, there was going to be nothing left of it. 

“Alright, Ron , let’s keep moving for a bit and then we could turn back,” Carwood suggested, pointing forward. 

“Good plan,” Ron said, following Carwood as they both continued through the forest. They walked in a comfortable silence, strolling through the tall, untouched trees of the seemingly never ending wood. The sun was still high in the sky, yet, with the tree canopy and drifting snow above them, it felt later, as if the forest was in a constant state of sunset. 

“10 o’clock,” Carwood stated, pointing forward. Ron removed the rifle from his shoulder, viewing what was up ahead of them. Just to the left, there was a cottage, its windows boarded up and its paint chipped and rotting. There was no sign of life, the chimney void of any smoke floating up into the atmosphere. Moreover, the valley the house laid in was quiet save for the sounds of the fauna and flora that surrounded them. 

Ron straightened, swinging his M1 back over his shoulder. Carwood did the same, a sigh of relief escaping him. He moved forward, stepping out from the cover of the brush they had hid behind and he turned to the meadow surrounded by white mountains and a crystal clear lake that sat in front of the cottage, snow covered plants swaying in the cool breeze. 

“Breathtaking, huh?” Carwood said, that same smile from before on his face. Ron’s heart warmed, watching Carwood enjoy the nature that enveloped them.

“It really is,” Ron agreed, his gaze never straying from Carwood’s face for a second. Carwood, however, was clueless, his eyes glued to the gorgeous scenery in front of them. Ron couldn’t remember the last time he had stopped and watched nature and its living things. Observing life, it was something for a man that didn’t destroy it. It was something that Ron didn’t deserve to appreciate, the blood on his hands heavy reminders of his place in the world, the red that trailed behind too much of a sin to wipe away. 

“Wish I had a camera,” Carwood laughed, turning away from the scene to look at the small cottage, “Gosh, imagine living here. Sure is different from West Virginia.”

“It’s not too bad,” Ron responded, snapping out of his thoughts and looking at the abandoned cottage. It could use a fresh coat of paint, but, save for that, it was in pretty good condition. Those that must have owned it probably had run away long ago, fleeing the country for safety in Switzerland. 

“I’m going to check it out,” Carwood said, Ron glancing at Carwood’s back, “I bet there might be some canned food inside we could bring back for the boys.”

Ron turned away from Carwood, chuckling as Carwood opened the door of the cottage. Gazing at the beautiful meadow, Ron heard Carwood take a step inside. And then, the world went still as a scream rang in Ron’s ears. Ron whirled around and he froze for a split second, watching Carwood grip his stomach, the end of a bayonet embedded into his lower abdomen.

“Carwood!” Ron bellowed as he stormed forward, grabbed Carwood, threw him out of the way, entered the cottage and locked the door behind him. In turn, he had separated what turned out to be a squad of German soldiers and Carwood, only himself and the decaying door standing in between. Ron didn’t care that he was severely outnumbered. Carwood was not going to die and Ron was going to give him as much time as possible to run even if he himself died trying. 

Ron heard Carwood’s screams for Ron to open the door, the doorknob rattling. Ron ignored it, focusing on the 11 men standing before him, checking for every detail, every weapon. Ron was going to end the lives of every single one of the men in the room. No one hurts Carwood, not on Ron’s fucking watch. 

Throwing his rifle at the closest man, Ron grabbed his knife from the strap on his leg, flipping it over in his grip. There was something so impersonal about using an M1 to kill someone. It was only a pull of a trigger and then the job was done. Efficient, but impersonal. Ron wanted to feel the life of the men in front of him seep away, he wanted to rip away their breath and feel as his knife sunk into their flesh and bone.

They had used a knife to stab Carwood. 

Ron would do the same. But, he would not miss his mark. 

The young soldier who’d stabbed Carwood was the first to fall and then man after man fell to the floor. Ron didn’t check if they had their hands up in surrender or not, he wasn’t going to leave that room until every single goddamn man was on his back, lifeless and gone forever. 

Ron was no god. He was no one to give and take life, but today, he was going to reap every single one of the soldiers that stood in the cottage’s living room and bring them their death.

A gunshot went off, but Ron didn’t give a second thought to it, dodging the failed attempt on his life. Moreover, he couldn’t feel the punch that managed to land on his cheekbone. Adrenaline poured in every single vein of his body and he would be damned if pain was going to stop him from paying out retribution. 

In less than a minute, four men lay dead on the floor, not even a single one of them still struggling for life, their last breath long since taken. Ron went still for a split second, watching the remaining seven men that stood around him, their rifles knocked aside, only three of the soldiers still gripping their knives. A soldier who must have been barely the age of seventeen was shaking, his knife bouncing around in his inexperienced, weak grip. 

Ron crossed the room, putting his knife up to the throat of an older soldier, not particularly caring which one it was. Unintelligible words came out of his new target’s mouth, something about ‘not being made dead’ and to ‘spare my life.’ However, Ron didn’t hesitate, his knife making quick work and another body fell to the floor, blood splattering on his new boots.

As Ron turned, he didn’t know what happened but he felt the worst pain in his life coming from his shoulder. His knife clattered to the floor as his grip loosened and he collapsed on one knee, suppressing a scream. His vision blackened at the edges and it became difficult to focus. To the best of his ability, he looked up and saw the young soldier, his hands still, his knife nowhere to be seen. Ron raised an arm to his back and everything fell into place. 

A knife was lodged in Ron’s back.

“Ron!” Carwood screamed again, trying to get up, sending a fresh shot of pain up from his torso. “Ron, get out of there! Please!”

Carwood couldn’t do anything as he watched Ron run into what they had thought to be an abandoned cottage, slamming the door in Carwood’s face. Carwood knew Ron was only doing it for him. Ron was just one of those soldiers, the one who didn’t give a single care for his own life as long as his men were alright. Carwood had seen it too many times in Ron, the first being on D-Day, watching him jump out of the trench like a madman as he seized the last German gun. Furthermore, he had seen it days earlier, Ron bolting through the German line in Foy. Yes, it was something amazing, something that made the men—even Carwood—tremble in fear and respect as they would watch Ron walk by every day. However, there was nothing Carwood wanted to do more at that moment than break down the door and help Ron. He couldn’t just let Ron take on everything alone again, running through danger. Carwood wouldn’t let him. 

Carwood opened his mouth to yell again, but a wail came out instead. His stab wound was leaking blood everywhere and if Carwood didn’t do something about it now, he was going to end up bleeding out. That is to say, Ron’s sacrifice would be in vain. 

Rummaging in his pockets, Carwood ripped out his first aid kit with his left hand—his right hand busy trying to stem the bleeding—and he dug around for the sulfa, swearing again when he dropped it. Ripping it open with his teeth, Carwood poured the stinging antiseptic over his wound. Furthermore, he grabbed an old handkerchief that his mother gave him he carried around, stuffing it into the open wound to create a false bandage and blockade against the leaking blood. 

A scream echoed from the cottage and Carwood went still, very still. It could have been Ron. It could have been Ron . 

With as much strength Carwood could muster, he pushed himself up with his rifle, a hand still pressed over his wound. Carwood gripped the handle of the cottage door and he shook it. Still locked. A sound came from inside the cottage and a thud was heard and then there was silence. 

“Speirs?” Carwood quavered, banging his shoulder on the door. Carwood couldn’t hear anything, his heart racing in his chest, new found adrenaline pumping throughout his entire body. It was quiet, too quiet.

“Ron?” Carwood repeated, nearly screaming it. 

Carwood banged on the door with his shoulder again, the wood creaking and pain rippling throughout his whole body. He backed away, looking around for something to pry the door open. Carwood clenched his jaw and he looked back at the doorway. Gripping his rifle in his hands and praying Ron was alright, he slammed the butt of it into the lock, the door banging open. Carwood bit his lower lip as the worst jolt of pain he felt in his life exploded from his abdomen. He pressed a hand to it, swearing again and then he charged into the cottage, gripping his M1 in his hand.

Carwood froze, his hand unmoving over the stab wound on his torso. He didn’t know how to describe what he was seeing. It was something out of a nightmare, something Carwood had never even imagined. Yet, his eyes weren’t tricking him. A room that had once carried the lives of a squad of German soldiers he didn’t even know existed contained so much death that Carwood would have thought he was in a cemetery and Ron was the monster that haunted it. 

Ron was breathing heavily, his eyes never leaving Carwood’s. His gaze was unnaturally dark, the once forest green irises blackened into a deep emerald. There was no life left there. No glint of light, nothing. They looked empty. It was suffocating, as if Ron was destroying Carwood with only his piercing gaze. However, Carwood’s heart raced, thundering against his chest. He couldn’t speak, he didn’t know how. There were no words that Carwood could think of to say. He could only watch through his own eyes the horror that lay in front of him. 

Carwood used almost every ounce of strength to break eye contact with Ron and take in the rest of the room. The bodies of eleven German soldiers lay lifeless around him, their guns unfired and their blood leaking across the wooden floorboards. Blood had splattered over every single wall of the living room, the pictures of the house’s owners' loved ones forever stained with maroon. The sofas were covered in so much gore it looked like a butcher shop. 

Ron’s knife, still in his grip, was gleaming red. There was no metal left visible, there was only blood. If Carwood didn’t know any better, he would have thought Ron was holding a weapon made of blood itself, an impossible weapon formed of human life used to distribute death. Furthermore, Ron’s uniform was stained with blood. His face had splattered blood all over it. His hair was sticking to his forehead, the once chestnut hair darkened to a stark red and brown.

What Ron had done, what he had done for Carwood, disregarding his own life to save just him, it was a living nightmare. In other circumstances, it could have been something from a romance novel, the knight saving the damsel. However, this was no fairy tale, there was no dragon, no evil villain. No, there was only a soldier standing in a room full of fresh corpses, his knife still dripping with their warm gore. And he’d killed them all for Carwood. 

“Ron?” Carwood whispered, looking Ron straight in the eyes again. Ron didn’t blink, he didn’t even move. He was like a marble statue save for his unwavering eyes that would not break eye contact as Carwood took a step forward over a dead soldier. 

“Ron?” Carwood repeated, stepping closer until he was only an arm’s length away from him. From even closer, Carwood could see every little detail on Ron’s face. A bruise was already blooming into a deep purple on his left cheekbone. There was a small cut on his lip, the remnants of what must have been a punch to his mouth. Carwood blinked, realising he was staring at Ron’s parted lips. 

“Are you alright?” Ron murmured. Carwood looked up, locking eyes with Ron. 

“Are you?” Carwood muttered, searching Ron’s gaze. Now, a fire seemed to burn behind the green irises, flames that Carwood wished would consume him. He leaned forward without really registering it, his lips parting slightly.

Ron made a step forward, the space so small now that Carwood could see nothing except for Ron’s gore-covered face. Moreover, save for Ron’s breathing, Carwood could barely hear anything over his heartbeat that beat like the drums of war, drowning out everything but what lay in front of him.

“I’m alright only if you are,” Ron exhaled. 

Carwood didn’t hesitate when he grabbed Ron’s face with both of his hands and he mashed their lips together, his M1 clattering to the floor. Soon, Ron’s knife would follow as he threw it away from the two of them to grab Carwood’s face, deepening the kiss until Carwood couldn’t breathe, suffocating underneath his touch. So close to death's door, Carwood never felt more alive. 

The kiss was everything. It consumed every single part of him. Every touch, every graze of their lips, it was like a fire that would soon burn Carwood to ash. Carwood forgot what surrounded them, his hands gripping Ron’s waist as he pulled him closer. He needed him closer, he needed to feel every single part of him. When Ron’s tongue licked at Carwood’s lips, Carwood strongly considered dying right then and there, gripping Ron’s back, his nails digging into his blood-soaked coat, and the wound in his torso still throbbing with pain. 

Ron hissed against Carwood’s lips, his body arching against him and his hands pulling Carwood closer. Carwood smiled at that, his hands roaming farther up Ron’s back. However, as his hands reached Ron’s shoulders, it felt as if a stream of warm liquid was running down Carwood’s hands. At first, Carwood ignored it, never wanting to leave Ron’s embrace. Yet, his hand grazed something on Ron’s back that almost made Carwood sick. 

Carwood ripped the two of them apart and he forcibly turned Ron around to get a view of his back. Right on Ron’s left shoulder, there was a deep wound that was bleeding everywhere. Carwood hadn’t seen it when he first came in, Ron’s back facing away from him. Thousands of alarms went off in Carwood’s head. Ron was seriously hurt and Carwood had kissed him, forgetting to even seriously check if Ron had any wounds or not. Of course Ron would lie about if he was alright or not. Of course he would and Carwood had believed him. 

“It’s nothing,” Ron whispered, turning around so he would face Carwood. He brushed a hand on Carwood’s face, smiling ever so slightly. 

“Nothing?” Carwood nearly yelled, clenching his hand into a fist. “Ron, you could bleed out with that kind of wound.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ron deflected, his thumb rubbing at Carwood’s cheekbone. Carwood scoffed, raising his hand to grip Ron’s wrist. Ron narrowed his eyebrows, pain flashing across his eyes. Carwood’s heart skipped a beat and he inhaled deeply, trying to calm the annoyance that had begun to take hold of him. 

“Ron, it matters to me,” Carwood breathed, lowering their joined hands, “Let me treat it. Please.” 

“Fine, but let me deal with your wound first. It’s worse than mine,” Ron insisted, placing his other hand on Carwood’s abdomen, sending several sparks across his body. 

“Let me do this for you,” Carwood pleaded, placing a hand over Ron’s. Although he did it hesitantly, Ron nodded, the pain in his face fading away. Carwood sighed and he looked around them, trying to see if there was some space for Carwood to treat Ron. However, Carwood thought against staying in that living room any longer, the bodies starting to turn cold and the rays of the setting sun starting to shine through the black curtains. 

Carwood looked around and he saw a door leading to a bedroom, no signs of blood staining the furniture anywhere. Dragging Ron along, Carwood led them into the bedroom, checking his surroundings this time to avoid a repeat of the last few minutes. Luckily, the room was empty and the bed was relatively clean. With his hands on his shoulders, Carwood guided Ron to sit on the floor by the bed, a grunt coming from Ron. Carwood sat on the bed and looked through his pockets, trying to find his first aid kit that had suddenly disappeared. 

“I left my first aid kit outside,” Carwood huffed, going to get up. Nevertheless, Ron was holding up his first aid kit, waving it around for Carwood to take and Carwood whispered, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Ron hummed, shrugging his shoulders again. Carwood smiled, warmth rising to his cheeks. However, Carwood looked back at the wound on Ron’s back and the heat quickly grew cold. Carwood wished Doc Roe would have been there to deal with it and not him, but Carwood had no choice. Taking in a deep breath, Carwood began to rip at the blood-soaked fabric, a sharp inhale from Ron the only sign of any discomfort. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Carwood fretted, trying again to rip the fabric which only made Ron hiss more. 

“One second,” Ron muttered, pulling away from Carwood’s hands. In a matter of seconds, Ron had removed his overcoat, his shirt and his undershirt, his chest bare. At first, Carwood didn’t know whether he should just die right there from a heart attack or continue to stare at the muscle on Ron’s back. Sure, Carwood had seen plenty of naked men over the last two years after being stuck with an entire company of them with no personal space at all. However, watching Ron, it felt as if it was the first time he had ever seen another man’s torso, his tongue going dry in his mouth and the heat in his cheeks returning. 

“Carwood?” Ron remarked, turning his head to look at Carwood through his eyelashes, sending another shiver down Carwood’s spine. 

“Yes?” Carwood squeaked.

“Do you need help?” Ron inquired, raising an eyebrow. 

“Help?” Carwood asked, cocking his head, staring at Ron. His mind had gone blank, but as his eyes focused on the single stream of blood that trickled down Ron’s bare back, everything fell back into place, “Right, right. Your wound.”

Carwood fumbled around in the first aid kit until he pulled out the sulfa, trying to forget the sight of Ron’s bare back as he sprinkled the white powder onto Ron’s wound. A hiss escaped Ron’s lips, the muscles in his back tensing up. Carwood whispered another sorry and he began to assess the rest of the gash. Thankfully, the blood had already begun to clot and by some grace of God, the stab wound hadn’t hit something important—at least from what Carwood could tell. However, blood was still leaking from it and Carwood had to do something about it. He considered giving Ron morphine, but he could already hear Doc Roe yelling at him in the back of his mind, telling him not to use morphine nonchalantly like it was some plaything—Carwood had heard about Doc Roe blowing up at Welsh and Winters on that fateful night on the train tracks and Carwood was heavily against getting lectured by an angry medic. 

Applying pressure over the wound with one hand, Carwood used his other to unwrap the battle dressing, swearing under his breath when it refused to open which earned a laugh from Ron. After what felt like an eternity getting the battle dressing open, Carwood placed it over Ron’s shoulder, applying as much pressure as he could; Ron wasn’t laughing anymore. 

“Sorry, this part is gonna hurt, but just hang tough,” Carwood comforted, searching for some bandages. 

“Whatever you say, Carwood,” Ron huffed, his voice surprisingly high. Carwood rolled his eyes and he nearly jumped out of his skin when he realised what he needed to do next. To finally finish stabilising Ron’s wound, Carwood would need to wrap the bandage across his chest, one way or another. Trying not to think about it, Carwood unravelled the bandage, planning out how the hell he was going to wrap up Ron’s wound without losing his mind in the process.

“Hey, Ron. I have to bandage the wound now,” Carwood began, grabbing the beginning of the bandage, “Just so you know.”

“Alright,” Ron monotoned, nodding his head. 

Carwood inhaled sharply, telling his brain to shut up and then he began to bandage the wound, slowly, but surely. Luckily, Ron knew to raise his arm when Carwood neared it and his hand had only briefly brushed Ron’s chest for a moment that Carwood knew he would never ever forget. With a satisfied huff, Carwood crossed his arms looking at his masterpiece of bandaging. It was surprisingly not terrible, the boring bandaging lessons at Toccoa finally paying off. However, as Ron turned around, a small grin on his gory face, Carwood’s vision unfocused for a second, nausea overwhelming him. 

Ron quickly got up, catching Carwood before his head hit the wall behind him, the grin dissolving away into worry. The Ron that Carwood knew was back, the man who was always there for his men, no matter what, even if he really was the scariest man to exist on Earth. There was no sign of the monster that Carwood had seen before, no sign of the man that had so much blood on his hands he may as well have been the devil. No, this man was the one that existed underneath all that, the one that truly kept Ron human. 

Lowering Carwood until he was lying on the bed, Ron pushed and probed at Carwood’s injury. Before, Carwood had barely felt a thing, his focus completely aimed at making sure Ron was alright before he himself was. Now, he felt every single jolt of pain and it was like a punch to the stomach each damn time. 

“You really should have let me treat you first,” Ron cursed, lifting up Carwood’s shirt and grimacing at the blood that had continued to stain all of Carwood’s exposed torso, “My god, where’s Eugene Roe when you need him?” 

“You could say that again,” Carwood laughed, running a hand through his hair. Ron, however, wasn’t laughing, a scowl painted across his face. Ron proceeded to remove the handkerchief Carwood had shoved into his wound earlier, pocketing the blood stained cloth. Then, grabbing his discarded undershirt, he slipped it back on, swearing under his breath. Carwood, although he didn’t want to admit it, wished Ron would have left his shirt off.

“I need to get you back to CP,” Ron claimed, grabbing the sulfa packet that Carwood had used. He shook it about and he swore. “You used all the sulfa?”

“I disinfected it earlier, there was no need to save any for me,” Carwood hissed, his wound sending a fresh wave of pain across his entire body. Ron looked through the kit and he picked up a syrette of morphine, holding up to the light that barely entered through the boarded up window of the bedroom. 

“No, no morphine,” Carwood denied, placing his hand over Ron’s.

“Carwood, you’re in pain,” Ron stated, nodding his head at Carwood’s injury. 

“I’ve dealt with worse. We should save the morphine,” Carwood answered, remembering Bastogne. Although the war was coming to a close and supply routes began to flow with more ease throughout continental Europe, Carwood still hung on to the habit of saving all he could even if he had to suffer for it. He would rather be in pain than take the supplies from his men. 

With a huff, Ron nodded, moving his hand to put it back yet Carwood’s was still over his, his fingers wrapped around his. Ron looked down, focusing on their locked hands. Carwood pulled his hand back, watching the way Ron’s eyes darkened slightly as if he missed Carwood’s hand on his. Then, Ron blinked and it was gone, just like that. Ron found another battle dressing that Carwood had left for him, unfolding the pine green packet, the white cloth unfurling out like a parachute. 

“Alright, I’m going to need you to sit up,” Ron dictated, placing his free hand under Carwood’s shoulders. Using as much strength as he could, Carwood pushed himself up onto his shoulders, Ron’s hand there to support him. 

“Reminds me of Foy,” Carwood huffed, smiling just barely, “You taking care of me and the men again.”

“And this won’t be the last time,” Ron breathed, not looking up from his work as he, slowly, began to secure the battle dressing onto Carwood’s torso, wrapping the bandage around and around. Without truly focusing on what he was saying Carwood began to speak again, the silence between them becoming too awkward for him to stand any longer. 

“About before,” Carwood paused, biting the inside of his lip, trying to find the right words, “It–”

“I did what I had to do,” Ron answered, not breaking his focus on Carwood’s wound. Carwood froze at that, his hand hovering over his mouth, his fingertips brushing the scar on his cheek. 

“What you had to do?” Carwood repeated, his eyes never leaving Ron’s face. He was still covered in blood, the red beginning to slowly flake away as it gradually dried. Carwood wanted to reach out and wipe it, to wipe away the weapon Ron claimed himself to be—even if he didn’t verbalise it, Carwood knew it was what Ron firmly believed. 

“What I did to those men,” Ron breathed, glancing up at Carwood briefly, his eyes darkened as they were whenever Ron would speak of killing. Those were the eyes the boys claimed they feared, the eyes that led men to shrink away from Ron without a word. Before Foy, before Carwood had truly begun to speak with Ron, Carwood may have been one of those to run away from Ron. Yet, Carwood wanted to do nothing more than stay with Ron the moment he had watched him sprint across the German lines. However, Carwood couldn’t help but think the kiss had meant nothing to Ron, that it was a mere mistake Ron had committed in his emotional turmoil, fueled by what he had just done. 

Falling back into silence, Carwood stared back up at the ceiling. On the tip of his tongue, he tasted the words he wished to tell Ron. He wished to tell him of his feelings, those he had buried to be forgotten in a hidden alcove of his mind, those that had grown so much that Carwood couldn’t refuse to deny them anymore. 

“Finished,” Ron nodded, a faint smile across his face. Carwood looked down, the bandage surprisingly well done. For some reason, Carwood would have thought Ron to be atrocious at doing anything related to medical treatment, but he had done really well, maybe even better than Carwood had on Ron’s wound. 

As Carwood moved to stand up, Ron stopped Carwood from getting up any further, pressing both of Carwood’s shoulders down into the bed with his hands, “No, no, no. There is no way you’re going to walk right now.”

“Then how else am I going to—” Carwood’s words lodged in his throat. A new wave of pain came from his abdomen, every muscle in him tensing and his back arching as he tried to swallow the scream that began to rise in his throat. He felt cold, so, so cold.

“Carwood? Carwood, are you okay?” Ron asked, his hands still pressing down on his shoulders. When Carwood didn’t answer, the effort to speak too much, Ron swore, scoping Carwood into his arms, careful not to hurt him too much. 

“Just hold on a little longer, okay? Just wait till I get you to Doc Roe. He’ll fix you right up,” Ron breathed as he rushed them outside of the room, making sure that Carwood’s feet wouldn’t hit the furniture they passed. He artfully dodged the many limbs that lay forever unmoving at his feet—only stopping for a split second to grab Carwood’s M1 and his knife and rifle that had been discarded on the floor. As he stepped outside, Ron didn’t bother to close the door behind them, something vengeful flashing behind his eye. 

Carwood sucked in a breath glancing forward at the clearing before them, the meadow littered with spring flowers and its existence seemingly impossible in his eyes. Carwood would never forget what he saw in that meadow. That cottage, the flash of a bayonet piercing his own skin, Ron disappearing behind a door that may have very well been the door to hell. Every single detail would be seared into Carwood’s brain. 

Nonetheless, what he would always remember is the way that Ron’s calloused hands had brushed his scarred face, how Ron’s lips had captured his. Carwood may never forget the death he saw that day, but he won’t ever forget the manner Ron had lit a dimming fire in him, fanning his soul back to life. Carwood faded into the sweet lullaby of unconsciousness, the darkness pulling him under. 

“Doc! Where are you?” Ron yelled, running through the makeshift camp that was set up in Hagenau. Several of the soldiers turned their heads, confused as they saw Ron bolting through the streets, carrying an unconscious Carwood in his arms. Mixed among the faces of confusion was horror, watching Ron walk through like a bloody wraith down the cobblestoned streets, trailing a long line of blood behind. 

“Speirs?” Winters asked, coming out from the company CP that had been set up in an old, barely structurally sound building. After several moments passed, Winters finally seemed to realise what was happening, his face paling as his eyes focused on Carwood, “Speirs, what happened? Why are you covered in blood? And what happened to Lipton?”

“Get me Eugene Roe. Or any medic. Just get someone to help Carwood,” Ron commanded, ignoring the differences in rank, ignoring Winters’ surprise and his demands for explanation. 

Snapping to attention, Winters began to yell at the nearest NCOs, “Liebgott! Webster! Find Doc Roe and find him now!” Without even questioning the order, Liebgott ran off, Webster trailing behind him. Winters turned to Ron, motioning for him to come inside. 

The main entrance of the building was once grand, the ghosts of chandeliers hanging down from the ceiling, their crystals reflecting the sun in thousands of fractals across the room. Torn couches were to the right, some sort of sitting area from the looks of it. However, Ron turned away from them, rushing to a crumbling dining room of sorts. 

“Clear the table,” Ron ordered, a private at the table startled as Ron kicked the door open, hefting Carwood up further. When the private didn’t move, his hands still over the papers and maps that were in his hands, Ron boomed, “Did I fucking stutter, private? Clear the goddamn table!”

“Do it, private,” Winters added, following Ron into the room. Soon, the main table that had been used as a planning space for future operations, littered with maps and other assorted paper, was cleared, the slips of paper fluttering to the floor. 

“What the fuck is going on right now?” Nixon asked, walking into the room, dark circles under his eyes as they always were. He was barely dressed, his jacket thrown over his shoulders and his shirt untucked. His hair was mussed, black spikes sticking up in all different directions. His eyes widened as they focused on Ron and Carwood and he whispered, “Sparky? What happened to Lip?”

“Carwood was stabbed, right through the torso,” Ron stated as he gently set down Carwood onto the table, cradling his head to prevent it from hitting the surface too hard. Nixon said something to Winters, but Ron was already turning towards the trembling private again. 

“Get me a pillow,” Ron commanded. This time, the private didn’t hesitate to rush away, going back out the wide doors to complete his mission. In seconds, the boy was back, a stained cushion in his hands. Ron snatched it from him, his dirtied hands soiling the fabric to an even greater extent immediately. 

“Speirs?” Winters called from behind him, his voice tight and strained. 

“Sparky, what happened?” Nixon said this time, appearing in Ron’s view. However, Ron ignored both of them, checking Carwood. He was still fading in and out unconscious, only the occasional whimper echoing for Carwood’s lips a confirmation that he was alive. He was deathly pale, his lips turning into a duller and duller red with each passing second. Ron laced his fingers in Carwood’s, pressing their interlocked hands to his forehead. 

“Please be okay,” Ron muttered, praying to any higher power that would listen to him. 

Footsteps crashed into the hotel and Roe appeared in the doorway, Heffron, Liebgott and Webster standing behind him. In his thick Cajun accent, Roe began to direct everyone around him, “Alright, everybody move out of my way.”

Ron made way for Eugene, albeit refusing to unlock his hands from Carwood’s. 

“Who was with him?” Roe asked, probing at the wound and slowly removing Ron’s careful work. 

“Me,” Ron answered, “We were on a reconnaissance mission. Ran into a group of about 11 Germans by my count. Carwood was stabbed with a bayonet. I tried my best to patch him up.”

“You use any morphine on him?” Roe inquired as he removed his helmet, setting it on the ground. 

“None, he insisted I didn’t,” Ron confirmed, looking from Carwood’s pained face to Roe’s expression of confusion. Yet, he snapped to attention, nodding at Ron, and began to search through his aid kit, working his medical magic. 

Soon, Ron had been pushed aside, guided away by Winters, Nixon, and Welsh—who had shown up moments earlier. Although Ron hated it, he sat waiting in the waiting area of the hotel lobby, the cushions feeling too comfortable. 

“Ron, where did this happen? I need to know so we can send out a platoon,” Winters said, crouching in front of him. 

“There’s none left,” Ron deadpanned, still staring forward at nowhere in particular. 

“None left?” Welsh echoed, his eyebrows shooting up. 

“I killed them. Every single last one of those damn bastards,” Ron clarified, his voice low and hoarse in his throat, “I made sure there was no one left breathing.” 

Winters, Nixon and Welsh were silent, exchanging glances between one another. However, Winters grabbed Heffron who was making his way out the door, saying, “Assemble 2nd platoon here as soon as possible, we might need to check all the surrounding areas again more thoroughly in case of an ambush,” and, just like that, Heffron was running out the door, searching for the others. 

Thinking back on the cottage, Ron wished it could have been him. It should have been him. He should have been the one to check the crumbling house, to make sure that everything was alright. He should have been standing right next to Carwood, there to push him out of the way and save him. 

Ron couldn’t stop seeing the way Carwood’s eyes bulged as the bayonet skewered him, his beautiful face turning pale. He couldn’t stop seeing the men that he had slaughtered, their bodies a horrifying tapestry of blood and gore on the floor. He couldn’t stop feeling the way Carwood kissed him, his hands lacing themselves in his hair and his body pressed up against his. 

“... Ron?” Winters repeated, his voice breaking through Ron’s mental replay of the events that had transpired.

“What?” Ron snapped, his gaze locking with Winters. 

“You’re bleeding,” Winters said, pointing a finger at Ron’s shoulder. 

“It’s nothing,” Ron said, raising a hand to touch his shoulder which caused him to hiss, a fresh bite of pain coming from his shoulder. Winters raised an eyebrow, shaking his head slightly. 

“I’ll get Spina,” Nixon said, rushing out the door. 

“I’ll go with him, make sure he doesn't lose his way,” Welsh added, disappearing out the door with Nixon, leaving Ron and Winters standing in the lobby, waiting for the closed doors of the dining hall to open and Roe to walk through. Winters sat next to Ron, facing forward, pursing his lips. 

“I can hear the cogs turning in your brain from here,” Ron snarled as he wiped the fresh blood on his hands on to his already sullied trousers in hopes of cleaning them. Winters huffed a breath, shaking his head. 

“Then you can probably hear me thinking of all of the ways I’m going to strangle you for assigning yourself and my best NCO—well almost lieutenant now—on a reconnaissance mission,” Winters started, turning to face Ron who, in turn, refused to look at him, worrying if he did he would melt like the Wicked Witch under the ginger’s gaze, “You want to tell me what you were doing out there? Just the two of you?”

“I believed it to be the best way to get to know my men,” Ron claimed, not even believing the outrageous statement himself. Ron could have sworn he felt the tips of his ears grow warm, blood rushing to his head, as he thought of another reason. He blamed it on his bleeding shoulder, yet he knew he couldn’t stop thinking about Carwood, his rough hands pulling him—

“Ron, you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” Ron snapped, his head cocking to the side. Winters looked unimpressed, an unkept eyebrow raised. 

“Losing focus,” Winters clarified, crossing his arms over his chest, “And in pain.”

“You must be mistaken,” Ron growled, leaning back onto the couch, “I’m completely focused. And I feel just peachy,” however, he bit the inside of his mouth when he felt a piece of the rotting wood of the couch dig into his shoulder, poking at the semi-bandaged wound. 

“Where did it happen?” Winters asked, raising his head to look forward at the door where Eugene Roe was busy at work on Carwood. 

“Up the dirt road on the East side of town, about 10 minutes drive to where the squad had been hiding,” Ron snapped, a headache budding rather sharply. 

“Look,” Winters paused, fiddling with one of the seams of his jacket, “I know how much you value the men of our company, the extent to which you put your own life on the line to protect them and,” Ron was ready to roll his eyes, listening to Winters’ lecture on the integrity and drive of Easy and its unusual closeness, flashbacks of Lieutenant Colonel Turner flashing in his mind, “I want to thank you for what you did.”

That—that was not what Ron was expecting. 

“I’m aware of what you did to save Lipton, how much he means to you,” Winters continued, ignoring Ron’s slack jaw, “I can only assume it was not something easy. And I want to thank you for it. You’re a good man, Speirs, and I need you alive. Hence,” Winters tone began to become sharper, “I urge you to remember that you are important to this company and its men. You are important to every single officer. To me. To Welsh. Even to Nixon. And, especially, to Lipton.”

Winters stood up, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off of his trousers. He checked his watch and looked outside where the men of 2nd platoon seemed to be gathering rapidly, ready to fight. Before he left, he turned to Ron one last time and said, “Next time, don’t put your life on the line for the sake of your reputation and your honour, Speirs.” 

Leaving the room to order his men to sweep the forest surrounding Hagenau, Ron reached a hand into his pocket, pulling out a bloody handkerchief with the initials C.C.L. embroidered on it, the fabric old and coarse underneath his soiled fingertips. He almost smiled, running the pad of his thumb over the uneven green stitches. Carwood was going to be alright. He was going to be alright. 

The sound of arguing was the sound that pulled Carwood from the thick blanket of unconsciousness first, soon followed by the unrelenting need for water. He stirred, the light almost blinding as it seemed to pierce his retinas as he cracked an eye open. 

“Sir, I can’t treat you if you keep moving,” Spina hissed, his voice muffled through the closed door as the rather loud discussion seemed to be occurring from the other room. 

“And what? You expect me not to write this goddamn report?” Ron snapped back. 

“You are bleeding.” 

“It’s just a scratch.”

“Sir, you were stabbed with a knife . That is not a scratch.”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

A moment of silence passed and a yelp came from the other room, the noise unmistakably coming from Ron. 

“As you were saying sir,” Spina goaded, the image of his smirk floating through Carwood’s mind. However, it was overridden when Carwood imagined the cold relief of crisp water trickling down his throat, washing down the grime that stuck to the back of it. 

“Water,” Carwood choked out, not waiting for anyone to particularly hear it. 

“Lipton?” a heavily accented voice said from the corner, drawing Carwood’s attention. Sat in an unsurprisingly dirty chair, Eugene stopped fiddling with his aid kit, his bloodstained hands still. Next to him, Babe pushed himself off of the wall, rubbing a hand over his tired face. The arguing outside quieted down and then the closed door of what Carwood assumed had been the previous company CP slammed open, Ron standing in the doorway panting and a half done bandage hanging down from his exposed shoulder, only his undershirt covering his blood soaked chest and an angry Spina standing behind him. 

“Ron,” Carwood whispered, blinking. Once. Twice. 

The room seemed to grow still, even the small flecks of dust reflecting the setting sun’s rays becoming immobile in the air. Carwood could only watch the way Ron’s chest profoundly rose and fell, as if his heart was trying to jump out of his chest. His mouth parted, a soft, relieved sigh escaping his lips. However, the moment ended as a rising coughing fit broke out from Carwood’s throat and it felt as if rusty nails were scratching at Carwood’s throat. 

“Does someone have a canteen of water?” Eugene asked, looking around at Spina and Ron. Yet, the both of them didn’t have water which only made Carwood cough more. Ron turned, and he began to yell down the hallway, “Winters, Nixon, get your sorry asses over here and bring some fucking water!” Spina jumped, his eyebrows raised as Ron nearly knocked him over. 

“Sir, I still haven’t finished bandaging your wound yet,” Spina sighed, grabbing the white cloth that hanged from Ron’s shoulder. Ron huffed, letting Spina do his work until several more agonising seconds passed by and then a half-dressed Winters and Nixon appeared in the doorway, Winters holding his canteen of water and Nixon holding a bottle of Vat69. Ron snatched Winters canteen, sending a glare towards Nixon before he handed the bottle to Carwood who fumbled to grab the canteen, but once his fingers wrapped around the cold metal, he began to swallow down the cold liquid like it was taken from the cleanest, sweetest stream in the world even if it was most likely dirty and polluted. 

“Woah, calm down, Carwood,” Doc intervened, shoving Ron away and separating the canteen from Carwood’s lips, “Don’t want to over do it.”

Carwood nodded his thanks, smiling softly. As he moved to support himself, he found it wasn’t a soft surface underneath, but a hard slab of wood, slips of paper sliding underneath him. Carwood looked around and a revelation he didn’t know how to process dawned.

“Am I,” Carwood cleared his throat, “Am I on the CP table right now?” Moreover, he came to realise that he was half-undressed, his lower torso only wrapped in a bloody cloth which made Carwood feel rather naked in front of the six other people in the room. 

“Speirs put you there,” Winters clarified as he attempted to fix his misbuttoned shirt, pulling the wrinkled, green fabric to straighten it, “It was chaotic when you were brought in.”

“Babe, give me a hand,” Eugene motioned, Babe coming away from his spot by the wall without a complaint.

Carwood refused to glance at Ron, fixing his eyes to Eugene and Babe who began to fiddle with Carwood’s bandages, switching the old ones for relatively fresh strips of sheets to wrap around his torso as Winters began to ask his questions, “Eugene, is there a way we could move Carwood somewhere more comfortable for him?”

“And us?” Nixon added, almost every occupant in the room began to stare at him, “What? This is our company CP and we can’t keep using the abandoned sitting area. It stinks like rotting fish in there.”

“That’s just the stink coming from you, sir,” Ron snapped, moving forward which earned another huff from Spina as his half-finished work on the bandage began to unfurl. 

“Says you, Captain I’m-too-cool-to-clean-the-dry-stinky-goddamn-blood-off-of-me,” Nixon retorted, waving at Ron with his hands and his whisky bottle.

“I can’t hear myself think,” Winters breathed, Nixon quickly going quiet and Ron clicking his jaw shut before he could make another sad comeback. 

“I can move him, he’s stable enough,” Eugene continued, acting as if everything was perfectly normal, but the slight twitch in his eyebrow said otherwise. 

“Shouldn’t we move him to an aid station?” Babe inquired, looking up from pressing his hands down on Carwood’s abdomen, his hands slipping for a second which led Carwood to inhale a sharp breath, “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Carwood smiled, shrugging his shoulders. He turned his head and his eyes lingered over Ron. He watched, silent, his lips just parted barely. His eyes were shining, his pupils large and his hands clenched into fists, the phantom of a smile on his lips. His wound was finally bandaged up, Spina done and satisfied with the intricate wrapping that put Carwood’s bandaging work to shame. Soon, his eyes began to drift lower, looking at the way that Ron’s undershirt clung to his abdomen and he remembered Ron’s words before. Carwood blinked, glancing down at Babe and Eugene’s efforts, focusing on the pain that came from his abdomen, not his heart. 

“Supply lines are still tricky to get through. The Germans keep making random attacks on them day and night and we can’t confirm if Carwood would be safer there or here,” Winters responded to Babe, and then he turned to Eugene, “Is Carwood in such a position that he needs to be sent to an aid station?”

“I would advise it if we want to ensure he heals properly,” Eugene answered. Carwood pressed his lips together, biting the inside of his lip before he blurted out, “I’m fine. I feel fine. I don’t need an aid station.”

“Lipton, are you sure?” Nixon inquired, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’m fine,” Carwood repeated, Nixon’s eyebrow raising higher, “I do. It hurts, but I can last. I can’t leave the men now. Not after all they’ve been through.”

“Is he—as he says—fine?” Winters asked, looking at Eugene. Carwood held his breath as Eugene checked his wound again, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Carwood’s back began to tighten, laying on the hard wood of the CP table beginning to get to his creaky, war battered joints. Luckily, Eugene was quick, looking over the clotted wound and the surrounding area before he straightened, turning to Winters. 

“I can treat him here with the proper supplies.”

“Then it’s decided,” Winters said, clapping his hands together, “Lipton stays. I’ll get you your supplies, Doc.”

“Thank you, sir,” Eugene nodded, smiling in gratitude. Carwood sighed with relief when they were finally done checking his wound, fresh bandages wrapped around his torso and the stain of his blood gone from his torso. However, as he ran his thumb over his fingers, he could still feel Ron’s flaking, dry blood, sticking to his hands as he frantically had turned Ron around, realising Ron had lied. 

“We should probably move Lipton,” Nixon observed, shrugging his poorly dressed shoulders. Ron glared at him again, his lip curling and his eyes darkening which led Nixon to exclaim, “What? I can’t keep up with operations in that excuse of a company CP. Not that I care what he thinks, but I don’t know how Colonel Strayer would react knowing we’ve turned our operations into a makeshift aid station. Moreover, the other room’s giving all the guys back aches and I don’t think Carwood is too comfortable on that table, is he?”

“Not really, sir,” Carwood muttered, smiling sheepishly and feeling his cheeks heat up. 

“Let’s move him then,” Ron said, ignoring Nixon’s smug grin and turning to those that were in the room, “Where in this building can we move Carwood?”

“I believe there’s a room with a relatively intact bed that Lipton could use,” Winters offered, pointing down the hall, “It’s a couple doors down that way.”

“Perfect,” Ron said before he walked forward and he scooped Carwood into his arms again like he was a sack of potatoes and as if the entire room wasn’t watching the whole embarrassing ordeal go down. Carwood hissed, the pain in his abdomen growing sharply which caused Ron to go still, his eyes shining with worry. 

“I’m fine,” Carwood whispered, smiling again and trying not to think about the way his cheeks and neck burned. 

“Are you sure?” Ron asked, his words reminding Carwood of the cottage, the two of them standing in a freshly created hell, their lips smashed together and their hands roaming—Carwood stopped himself from thinking any further as he was in Ron’s arms at that very moment. 

“Alright,” Winters started, “Eugene, Babe, find me some privates to clean this all up and then get some shuteye, it’s getting late.”

“Yes, sir,” Babe and Eugene said together before they left the room. Yet, before Eugene went through the doorway he turned to Carwood and said, “Carwood, I’ll come to check you again tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Carwood answered, feeling awkward responding to him as he was being carried by Ron. 

“Everyone else is dismissed,” Winters said, turning back down the hallway, Nixon trailing behind them. Ron, however, was stationary, staring down at Carwood’s bandaged and exposed torso. Carwood refused to make eye contact with him, focusing on the CP table that was stained with his blood. It was twice in what Carwood had assumed that had been 24 hours that he had been carried in Ron’s arms like this and he couldn’t tell if he was a fan of it or just dying to get away. 

“You weren’t lying before, were you?” Ron began, causing Carwood to inevitably meet eyes with him.  

“About what?” Carwood asked, his hands plastered against his stomach clammy all of a sudden.

“That you’re okay,” Ron clarified, finally beginning to move through the doorway and towards the room with the supposed bed. 

“I,” Carwood paused, at a loss for words, “Okay in what way, sir?”

Ron was silent, breathing in and out through his nose profoundly, his footsteps echoing in the dirty hallway and the sound of Easy and artillery in the distance. When a rather loud shell exploded, Ron continued to speak, “Your wound. You should be sent back to an aid station with that kind of wound.”

“I’m fine,” Carwood repeated again, losing count of how many times he had said the word ‘fine.’

“I don’t believe you,” Ron answered, his eyes narrowed. Yet, he took a deep breath, “But, I’ll trust you.”

“Trust me?” Carwood breathed, the words coming out a little too quickly for his liking. 

“Yes,” Ron affirmed, “Shouldn’t I?”

“I—there’s no reason not to,” Carwood squeaked, wanting to slap himself thoroughly, but his arms being pressed up against Ron and his strength at the lowest it had been since he was a small child were not exactly helpful. 

“Home, sweet home,” Ron said, snapping Carwood’s attention away from his blank thoughts. 

“What?” Carwood exclaimed, looking around, only finding a door in front of them and a dank hallway surrounding it. To answer, Ron opened the door with one hand, still supporting Carwood, and he took both of them into the room, an old, crumbling bed the only occupant along with furniture that had seen better days. 

“At least the door is still intact,” Ron observed, raising his eyebrows at the mess that Carwood was supposed to be living in. He placed Carwood down on the single bed gently, Carwood both relieved and annoyed to be out of Ron’s arms again. An unusual smell hovered in the room, most likely due to a lack of airflow. And, as if Ron had heard Carwood’s thoughts, he went to the small window that lay in the wall across from the door and he cracked it open, a cold, but fresh smelling wind flowing into the room. Outside, the sun had set and the military men were beginning to settle down for the night, only the sound of privates patrolling the streets and automobiles driving through any indication that a military encampment had been set up in the crumbling town. 

“You alright?” Ron asked—again Carwood nodded. 

“The bed’s comfy enough,” Carwood said, smiling. 

“That’s good, that’s good,” Ron answered, his voice sounding as if he was speaking to himself more than he was speaking to Carwood. 

“Not cold?” 

“A bit.” Carwood didn’t have the heart to admit he was, of course, freezing. However, it was impossible to not be cold and Carwood and the rest of the company had almost forgotten what heat truly felt like. 

Everything then seemed to grow quiet, even the constant cacophony of war occurring outside halting as the room grew still and the atmosphere suffocating. The walls, covered in a grime that seemed to have been there since its making, began to grow darker, their plaster crumbling and turning in on itself as Carwood tried to contemplate what to say, failing drastically to continue the conversation, to prevent Ron from leaving. 

“Where are you going to sleep?” Carwood blurted out, not entirely sure why that was the question that had popped up in his mind.

“Winters must have a place for me somewhere,” Ron shrugged, rubbing his hands together. 

“I—You could sleep in here,” Carwood offered, his thoughts screaming at his mouth to stay shut, but it was too late now, “There’s enough space here. Plus, it’s—it’s warmer with more people.”

With each word Carwood choked out, Ron’s face began to grow more and more confused, his eyebrows narrowing and his lips pressing further into a straight line. He opened his mouth, and then closed it, and then opened it again. Carwood wanted to rip his tongue out, attempting to blame the copious amount of medicine and adrenaline left running in his veins as his heart thundered like it never had before. 

“I,” Ron hesitated, running a hand over his lips before he continued, “I’ll be fine. I can sleep anywhere.”

”Right, right, forgive me, sir,” Carwood said, relieved Ron was leaving and yet, underneath it all, yearning for Ron to stay right by his side. Ron, gripping the door handle, seemed indifferent, as if his hesitation was gone. However, behind his eyes, Carwood could have sworn he saw something else, something more, as if Ron was waiting. And yet, with the sound of a jeep’s engine turning over outside and a blink of Ron’s eyes, it was gone, the fraction of a man Carwood could have sworn he knew gone. 

“If you need anything, come and find me, for whatever you need,” Ron breathed before he was out the door, his footsteps fading down the hallway and Carwood attempting to fall asleep, dreaming of a world not painted in red and a place where the men of Easy could live a life without taking others. 

Ron didn’t sleep a wink. His back ached, his shoulder throbed, his neck creaked, and the rancid military black coffee was as bad as ever. Normally, the brown acid would be enough to snap Ron back into shape—especially after a night of attempting to sleep on a rotting couch with an injured shoulder. However, this particular morning, he was considering strangling the idiot who decided to add too much coffee powder to the kettle that morning. And, it turned out, that idiot was Welsh; hospital escapee, happy, blond, little Welsh. 

“Morning, fellas,” Welsh greeted as he sat down at the table, a steaming cup of joe in his hands and a wide smile across his face, “Guess what I got this morning?”

“If you say a letter from Kitty I’m going to burn every single last one of those damn sheets for a foot heater,” Ron muttered into his coffee as he took another horrifying sip. Nixon snorted into his coffee, glancing at Winters who shook his head. 

“What was that?” Welsh asked, waiting for Ron to elaborate and when he didn’t, he shrugged and boasted, “I got a letter from Kitty.” Unfortunately, Welsh’s smile and his pride for receiving a letter from his lover, the stunning, gorgeous Kitty, was too precious for Ron to destroy that morning.

“Let me guess,” Nixon started, “She misses you and is as lovely as ever.”

“Ding, ding, ding. Nixon, you won yourself a car, now what are you going to do with it?” Welsh beamed, toasting Nixon with his coffee. As a result, Nixon rolled his eyes and Winters smiled, pausing to look up from his pile of morning reports and maps. 

“How many letters from Kitty have you received this last month alone?” Winters remarked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Good question that I don’t have an answer to because I lost count,” Welsh started, “Last I checked, it was around 20.” He shrugged and then went back to sipping coffee and making another pot of copiously steeped coffee for everyone. When he went past everyone to offer to pour a cup, Ron denied it so quickly it caused Welsh to roll his eyes before he poured another cup for Winters—Ron wouldn’t be surprised if around seventy percent of Winters’ blood was coffee; the man always seemed to have a cup with him since Ron had joined Easy. 

A sound of something clattering onto the floor coming from the hallway caused all four men to glance at the doorway, Ron even going so far as to put a hand over his pistol. However, supporting himself on the doorway, stood Carwood, a hand placed over his abdomen and a sheepish smile on his face. 

“Morning,” Carwood said, everyone frozen, their jaws hanging open and their eyes wide, “I’m sorry, but I knocked a stool down in the hallway.” He searched the eyes of the men, waiting for a response. When Carwood’s eyes locked with Ron, Ron could have sworn his heart had skipped a beat, his chest filling with air as he sucked in a breath and the tips of his ears grew warm. Carwood was wearing his undershirt and his trousers, a hastily thrown-on jacket hanging over his shoulders unbuttoned. 

“Sergeant Lipton, you should be resting,” Winters said, snapping out of his shock first, getting up to help guide him to the table. However, Ron practically jumped out of his seat, forgetting all common sense, nearly shoving Winters out of the way so he could help make sure Carwood settled in his chair. 

“Carwood, Winters is right. You should be in bed,” Ron agreed, his tone sharper than he wanted it to be, avoiding the thought of Carwood getting worse than he already was. Ron thread a hand around Carwood’s waist, placing his other under his forearm as he guided him to the nearest empty seat—which happened to be next to his. Under his fingertips, Ron felt Carwood’s muscles tense, his grip on Ron’s wrist tensing. 

“Thank you, sir,” Carwood murmured, his voice low enough for only Ron to hear. Sir , Ron thought, a twinge of pain pulsing in his chest as he opened his mouth, the combination of his little sleep and the horrendous coffee on his tongue causing words to spill out that he would surely hit himself over the head because of later. 

“I thought I told you,” Ron started, his voice barely a whisper, pausing to help Carwood sit down, his hand lingering over Carwood’s, “It’s Ron.” Before Ron could hear Carwood’s reply, he moved back to his seat, taking a sip of the brown waste again. In Ron’s head, thousands of alarm bells were ringing, his heart racing and his hands just barely shaking. What was I thinking? What the fuck was I thinking? Jesus Christ, pull yourself together, you bumbling idiot , Ron screamed in his head, the urge to slap himself very strong. 

When he glanced up again from his metal mug, Carwood had gone from pale to blushing and Welsh, Nixon and Winters seemed indifferent, continuing their conversation about Kitty. Welsh paused his blabbering, grabbing the coffee pot again, offering a cup to Nixon and then turning to Lipton. 

“Would you like some coffee, Lipton?” Welsh asked, holding up the jug of hell juice.

“Yes, sir,” Carwood said.

“You got a mug?” Welsh asked. Carwood searched the table and then he pressed his lips together, shaking his head. 

“Have mine,” Ron said, pushing his cup towards Carwood, wanting to be as far away from the devil liquid as possible. Carwood took it reluctantly, his fingers barely wrapping around the mug as he took it from Ron. Welsh’s jaw fell open, Nixon’s eyes bulged and even Winters was deathly silent. When they didn’t move, Ron snapped, “What’s wrong with you all? I’m just lending my damn mug.”

“You—Never mind,” Welsh said, brushing aside the matter with a wave of his hand as he poured the coffee into Carwood’s mug, “As I was saying—”

The unmistakable sound of artillery fire coming from the distance and the whistle of shells growing closer began, sending the men in the room to attention. Welsh threw the coffee pot aside, Nixon grabbed Winters and Ron slung Carwood’s arm over his shoulder, dragging him through the hall and down the stairs into the dank, dirty basement as explosions echoed across the town, the walls shaking and dust and other debris being knocked about. 

“Get down stairs! Let’s go!” Winters yelled in the doorway of the basement, waving in other officers and privates that had been in the building, the most noticeable among the bunch being an annoyed Luz shoving his way in with the box of Hershey bars under his arm. Ron guided Carwood under a table, helping him down until they were both sheltered, a pained grunt escaping Carwood’s mouth as he hit the ground hard. Ron’s arm was still wrapped around Carwood’s waist as they waited out the barrage of shells raining down on them. In the chaos, Carwood was pressed up against Ron as a private shoved himself under their table, pushing both of their bodies against the wall and into each other. 

Carwood hissed in a pain which led to Ron turning around, his face much closer to Carwood’s then he thought. His mouth opened, his apology dying on his tongue as he was shoved forward again, another private diving under the table, and Ron accidentally kissed Carwood, their faces pushed together. It only lasted an instant, out of view from everyone else in the trembling room, but Ron could have sworn Carwood leaned into it, his lips moving forward gently and his body tensing against Ron’s. 

When the private pressing against Ron’s back moved further away, giving them enough space, Ron pulled back enough to watch Carwood’s reaction, his heartbeat racing and the hair on the back of his neck rising. Ron’s mind was pulled back to the cottage, Carwood standing in front of him, his eyes gleaming the same way, the breath of his lips against Ron's. Ron had sworn the kiss they shared had been done out of worry, out of the adrenaline of the moment. 

Yet, as he watched the way Carwood glanced up and down from Ron’s lips to his eyes, as he felt Carwood pressed up against him, as he heard the artillery fire raining down over them, Ron could have sworn that time had begun to slow down and that maybe that moment in the cottage wasn’t a mistake. And neither was the kiss they had just shared. 

Ron’s arm tightened around Carwood’s waist, inherently pulling him even closer until their faces were barely apart, their noses just touching. However, before Ron could do something he could regret on purpose this time, the world grew silent, an unusual emptiness left behind as the sounds of hell raining down on them died and the remnants of the barrage was all that remained. 

“Is everyone alright?” Winters asked, the sounds of ‘okay’ and ‘yes, sir’ echoing across the room. Ron, however, didn’t move. And neither did Carwood. 

“Are you alright?” Ron whispered, looking Carwood up and down. 

“Only if you are,” Carwood answered, the ghost of a smile blooming on his face. Ron blinked, recalling his words in the cottage. He had said that to Carwood before their kiss, before everything that Ron seemed to hold dear crumbled as he did the irrational. 

“Speirs?” Winters called. Ron pushed himself away from Carwood, still keeping his eyes locked with his as he answered, “Yes, sir?”

“I need you to check the damage. See if we lost anyone,” Winters commanded, the orders like a sharp reminder of a reality slicing at Ron’s muddled mind, “Luz, help Lipton back up to his room and, if he isn’t occupied, find Doc Roe to check up on him.”

“Ron?” Carwood whispered, his eyes searching Ron’s.

“Yes?” Ron asked, pausing his attempt to get out from underneath the table. Carwood’s lips were parted, his hair full of dust and dirt that had fallen from the bomb-shaken ceilings. He opened his mouth and then shut it, smiling instead. 

“Speirs!” 

“I’ll be right there! Just,” Ron sighed and he looked back to Carwood, locking eyes with him for a split second before he ran off, his heart feeling like a weight being dragged behind him.

— —

 Ron took one last drag of his cigarette before he walked back into the company CP, a frown across his face. It had been hours since the barrage that had hit them had ended. In that time, one man had been lost, dealt with and a letter already written and sent to the poor boy’s mother. Moreover, 15 men had been chosen to infiltrate enemy lines, their orders instructed and clear. 

Ron had not been in charge of Easy company for long, his leadership still fresh and unknown to the men. However, he tried, even as he wrote the words detailing the heroics of a man he had never truly known to the boy’s desperate mother, to convey the worthiness of her son’s life in his inked words. Ron tried, even as he knew he was the one to send each soldier under his command to their certain deaths. Each man’s life was worth everything, the air going in and out of their lungs, the blood pumping in and out of their heart and through their veins; it was all priceless. 

Yet, as he thought back on the behaviour of some of the men, Lt. Jones coming to mind, Ron couldn’t help, but imagine throwing them in the river to knock some sense into them. 

The main door creaked on its hinges and the floorboards groaned with each step Ron made through the hallways of the company CP. In the distance, conversation could be heard from the operations room, Winters’s voice the most distinguishable among the many others. Even as the sun was setting, as most of the boys—save for 2nd platoon—were getting ready to fall asleep, operations was still buzzing with chatter of infiltrations, operations and other military plans ending with the suffix ‘–tions.’

Lost in his train of thought, Ron had passed the couch he had claimed the night before, Carwood’s door in front of him instead. He froze, his spine locking in place and the muscles in his arms tensing. Why had he walked here? Ron bit his lip, fiddling with a belt loop on his trousers as the events of that morning replayed in his mind. The way his hands had supported Carwood’s body as he had guided him, the words that had spilled from Ron’s tongue, the hidden, accidental kiss under a rain of explosion and fire. Ron wasn’t sure if he could face the consequences of his actions at that second. But, he had no choice as a voice called out from inside the room, “Ron? Is that you?”

Ron rapidly opened the door, coming in to find Carwood laying in the old, rotting bed. In his hands, he had papers that must have come from operations, complicated lines of navigation and supply lines lining the crumbling paper. At the foot of his bed, a discarded rations box lay half empty, its content left out for the mice that squirried around the village. 

“You’re not hungry?” Ron asked, a twinge of worry blooming in his chest. 

“No, not really, sir—Ron,” Carwood corrected, that apologetic smile he always gets appearing across his blushing face, “Doc said it wasn’t a good idea for me to eat too much anyway. Might make me more sick or something. I’m not entirely sure.”

“So the check-up went well?” Ron inquired, leaning against the doorway, unsure whether he should enter the room or he should stay standing, waiting in the entrance, an air of awkwardness floating around him. Carwood, however, was unaware, answering Ron, “I’m stable quoting Doc’s words. I should get my strength back soon, but he said not to get my hopes up. Supposedly a wound like mine can be volatile, especially when I’m not at an aid station or a hospital, recuperating on a war front and all.”

”No problems? At all?” Ron questioned, removing his helmet and placing it underneath his arm.  

“Don’t think so,” Carwood smiled, looking Ron up and down, “You know, if you want, you can sit.”

”I—Sure,” Ron, walking forward slowly, as if he was surveying an occupied position. Carwood moved his legs, swinging them down so there was a sufficient amount of space on the bed for the two of them to sit. However, once Ron sat down, he nearly collapsed on top of Carwood, his shoulder digging into the blond’s and the mattress creaking inward under the weight of an added person. 

“Sorry,” Ron said, pushing himself away from Carwood who winced, pressing a hand over his abdomen, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, I’m fine,” Carwood affirmed, the corner of his lip rising, pulling the scar on his cheek, “My torso just bent wrong for a second. It’ll blow over soon.”

”Good, good,” Ron said, nodding his head. Carwood began to nod his head too, and soon, the two of them were sitting in an uncomfortable quiet, Ron trying to search for what to say. He racked his brain, searching for something to say. Nonetheless, his thoughts kept backtracking to that moment in the basement, pressed against each other and their lips accidentally colliding, hidden from all the others that surrounded them. When Ron had determined that it was all hopeless, that the two of them would sit in an embarrassed silence forever, Carwood spoke, “What happened after the barrage? Are all of the men okay?”

”We lost one,” Ron responded, staring forward at nothing in particular, “Kiehn.”

Carwood was silent, pressing his lips into a thin line. He sighed, fiddling with his fingers and the blanket, “And the others? Are they alright?”

”2nd platoon’s going to be making a patrol tonight, to capture some German prisoners.”

”Who’s in charge? Malarkey?”

“Martin,” Ron nodded, leaning back against the wall, sighing. 

“What’s wrong?” Carwood asked, his voice low. Ron sat there, continuing to stare forward at nothing. What’s wrong? What isn’t wrong is the question that should be asked. The events of yesterday, the war, the unnecessary loss of good men, his feelings that kept building to the point that he wasn’t sure he could lock them away anymore. His heart felt as if it was being dragged across No Man’s Land, left to decay and rot over the corpses of other men and be sliced up by bullets and barbed wire. And yet, he was still fighting to not only survive, but ensure the lives of the men under his command survived. 

“I’m tired,” Ron breathed, leaning his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes.

“You,” Carwood hesitated, only the sound of their breaths remaining in the empty silence, the dull constant of the war across the river nothing more than that of a sad melody playing on a broken record in another room. Ron cracked an eye open, his gaze lingering over Carwood who sat watching Ron pensively, a small notch in the space between his eyebrows. “You should get some sleep.”

“I’d like to,” Ron breathed, turning to face Carwood, “But, I need to be present at 0100 hours. I’ll need to assess the operation, make sure the men get back alright.”

Carwood was silent, his eyes glancing from Ron’s to a random spot on the wall in front of them. He seemed lost in thought, opening and closing his mouth, going to say something and then stopping. If it was any other man, Ron might have told him to speak, to spit it out. However, again, the way Carwood’s eyes focused, the way his face visibly displayed the inner workings of his mind, Ron couldn’t help, but be transfixed. 

“I’ll wake you up,” Carwood beamed, his eyebrows raising and a satisfied smirk spreading across his face at the finding of his solution, “It’s still a couple of hours till 0100. That’s enough time to get a relatively good sleep in.”

“No, no. I really shouldn’t.”

“You should get some sleep. I won’t care, I need to catch up on some paperwork anyway.”

“No, I can’t, I can’t—”

“Ron.”

The rolling of Ron’s name off of Carwood’s tongue, his voice coarse and comforting, caused Ron’s breath to still, his heartbeat picking up. 

“Okay.”

Carwood stumbled through the hall, propping himself up on the wall to prevent himself from falling over. Outside, the sun had set and it was about 0030 hours, the search lights shining into the moonlit sky and the echoes of RAF planes flying in the distance filling the empty rooms of the company CP. The still quietness that settled across Haguenau was stuffy and confining, a stiff reminder of the chaos that would soon follow. 

“Lipton?” Luz called, his voice high and surprised, “I didn’t expect you to be up this late.” Standing behind his supplies desk like a clerk, Luz left his collection of Hershey bars and other assorted goods to help guide Carwood down to the couch that Carwood had been calling home for his work purposes during the day. “You feeling any better?”

“A bit,” Carwood breathed, sighing as he leaned back on the couch’s backrest, the tenseness in his muscles releasing. 

“Well, at least you’re a bit better,” Luz smiled, “Wouldn’t want you getting all cranky on us.”

“Yeah,” Carwood chuckled, shaking his head. 

“Do you want me to get you something?” Luz asked as he made his way back around his desk, searching through the supplies. “Hershey bar?” Luz said, grabbing and waving around the illustrious chocolate. 

“No, I wouldn’t want the men to feel left out,” Carwood denied—even if he really wanted one. 

“Trust me, the boys have stolen their weight in Hershey bars today alone,” Luz sighed, “I leave my station for one second and boom. All gone.”

“That sounds like them,” Carwood smiled, a bittersweet feeling filling his chest. Since the rumoured battlefield commission had been confirmed, Carwood had grown accustomed to living and spending his days with the officers. However, with each passing day, Carwood began to miss the NCOs more and more and more. It was like a small part of him that had grown in the last two years had been stripped away. 

Carwood sighed and he slowly got up, placing a hand over his throbbing abdomen as he stood. 

“Need me to walk you back to your room, sir?” Luz asked, his voice surprisingly sincere. Carwood turned, Luz looking at him with a warm and genuine smile on his face. At Toccoa, Luz had been the jokester, the misfit. However, even though he still is, Carwood couldn’t help, but feel that Luz had grown, that he wasn’t completely the man Carwood had grown to know and appreciate as the glue of their company. And yet, it made Carwood proud to see the men grow together, even under the most strenuous of circumstances. 

“Thank you, Luz, but I’m good,” Carwood said, giving Luz one last smile before he shuffled down the hallway, making his way back to his room.

So much had changed in two years. Carwood had gone from a skinny boy from West Virginia to a war-battered soldier from Toccoa, a man of Easy Company. Sometimes, he wished he could go back to those days surrounded by the forested hills of his hometown, far away from the artillery. He dreamed of the scars dotting his body fading away into forgotten paint strokes in the painting of his life. It would be blissful, never knowing the consequences and demands of war. 

However, as Carwood shuffled and limped through the small, dank house, located in the forgotten French town of Haguenau, Carwood couldn’t help, but feel he was meant to be there, leading the heroes of Easy Company. Leading them alongside Ron, a man that Carwood couldn’t imagine his life without. He’d only truly known him for a few days, only hearing bits and pieces of his reputation and catching glimpses of him on D-Day before the occupation of Foy. Nonetheless, Carwood couldn’t help, but know, as if it was carved into his bones, that Ron was a man that Carwood trusted with his whole heart and mind.

And yet, Carwood also felt in his heart, the beating of drums that played a melody that could only be heard when he was with Ron. It was as if his heart was meant only to beat for Ron. Even as he saw Ron dripping with the blood of other men, Carwood couldn’t help but understand that Ron was a man he felt something profound for, something he had never felt for anyone else. It started that one day in Foy, when time seemed to come to a halt as he watched Ron run through certain death, not a scratch on him. Or did it start when he had first seen the man walking through Toccoa, leading his men with that stern look of his? 

Carwood stopped, just in front of the door of his room, where Ron was still asleep. Checking his watch, the time read 0036, four minutes before Carwood would have to wake Ron up. He sighed, running a hand over his face, the pull on his abdomen causing a sharp pain to wash across his torso causing him to suck in a sharp breath. The pain had been growing weaker with each hour thanks to the work of Eugene. However, it was still undeniably painful when he moved the wrong way. Carwood didn’t know when he would get better, but he hoped it would be soon. Sitting alone in the room, waiting for Doc Roe to check on him was causing him to go stir crazy. 

“Lipton!” Luz called from down the hallway, waving around two Herhsey bars in his hand. Carwood snapped his head to the side and his eyes widened, his hand stilling just over the doorknob. 

“Luz?” Carwood exclaimed, seeing George jog down the hallway, that cheeky smile he always has on his face. 

“Take ‘em. The guys have had enough chocolate to last them a lifetime,” Luz beamed, shoving them into Carwood’s hands before he was back running down the hallway. 

“Thank you!” Carwood yelled before he clicked his mouth shut abruptly, cringing at how loud his voice was. It had been loud enough to not only wake up Ron, but the Germans across the river as well. Gripping the Hershey bars in his left hand, Carwood cracked the door open, praying to God he hadn’t startled Ron awake. 

Carwood inched his way into the room, biting the bottom of his lip as he whispered, “Ron?” Yet, Ron hadn’t stirred, the soft sound of his snoring echoing around the room. The tension seeped out of Carwood’s body like water dripping out of a wet sponge, washing away the stress that had been gripping his heart.

Shutting the door again, Carwood shuffled to the bed where Ron sat sprawled across it, only a small space by his head unoccupied. Almost collapsing onto the mattress, Carwood sighed with relief as he took the weight off of his feet. The low light emitting from the lantern in the corner flickered, a draft causing the flame to distort like orange waves across a dark sand. Carwood shut his eyes, letting his head fall back against the wall. Although the last few days had been filled with more pain than Carwood could dare to express, the length of time he had gone off of his feet felt like a new record for him since he was ten. 

Ron moved in his sleep, pushing himself up on the bed until his head was resting on Carwood’s lap and his hands were just touching his thigh. Carwood froze, unsure of what to do, his arms hanging midair. He looked around expecting to find something, but he only found he had forgotten to place the Hershey bars down and they were still in his hand. Carwood swore under his breath, stopping himself short from reading out the entire vocabulary list of curse words that he knew. His chest was thundering, his heartbeat surely loud enough for Ron to hear, even in his dreams. 

In his mind, Carwood couldn’t quit remembering the stunt he had played that afternoon; accidentally kissing Ron on the damn mouth. Why had he done that? Carwood easily could have moved his head to the side, but no. He had to risk it all and tell himself that he accidentally caused their lips to press together for just a second because he was desperate. Carwood had tasted Ron once before, and now there was no getting away from it. He thought he could leave it alone, that he could get rid of it. However, Ron was too addicting to let go and now Carwood was going to let the two of them suffer for it. 

Finally letting his arms fall, Carwood let his empty hand fall on his lap, his fingertips a hair’s breadth away from Ron’s hair. It was so tempting, to reach out, to let his fingers glide over Ron’s chestnut hair. He had felt it before, gripped in his hands and pulled it to bring him closer in that cottage. Nevertheless, Carwood couldn’t help, but imagine what it would be like to let his fingers gently brush through the curly locks, truly appreciating its texture. 

As if God was listening to Carwood’s sad prayers, Ron’s head moved forward, Carwood’s fingertips snaking through Ron’s hair. Carwood inhaled sharply, a protest growing stuck in his throat. Yet, as he pulled his hand back, he couldn’t stop himself from letting his hand tuck Ron’s loose curls behind his ear. And then, his hand wouldn’t stop moving, tracing Ron’s hairline and pushing his brown hair back to watch Ron’s sleeping face, a sense of ease settled Ron’s features that Carwood felt no one else had ever seen before. 

Here Ron was, the man rumoured to have killed twenty POWs in cold blood, the man who had slaughtered eleven men for Carwood, the man who had run through a battlefield without a single care for his life. And here he was, sleeping silently in Carwood’s lap with his hair running through Carwood’s fingertips and soft snores escaping his chapped lips.

 Carwood discarded the Hershey bars on the bed. As if under a spell, he let his now free hand lay on his lap, the pad of his thumb hovering over Ron’s parted lips. Carwood’s inner voice was yelling at him, questioning every single decision he had made since he had been conscious. However, as he felt Ron’s breath blow against his fingers, as he felt Ron’s hair through his fingertips, as he remembered the look in Ron’s eyes before he had run off to check the damage of the barrage that had occurred that morning, Carwood let himself lean down, the pad of his thumb pressing into Ron’s bottom lip and his mouth hovering over Ron’s. It was so easy, to move forward and close the distance between them, to let their lips just barely touch as they had that morning. 

“Carwood?” Ron whispered onto Carwood’s fingertips, his eyes cracking open and a soft sigh escaping his lips. 

“Oh my god,” Carwood jumped up, practically throwing himself off of the bed, a wave of adrenaline and guilt taking hold of him. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. I—I was going to wake you up and something came over me. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Ron. I don’t know what I was thinking. ”

“Carwood, calm down,” Ron whispered as he rose from the bed, holding his hands forward as if he was comforting a stray. However, all Carwood could see was a dying future, the phantoms of his mistakes haunting his life. Ron reached out, his forefinger just barely touching Carwood’s shaking skin, his touch leaving behind warmth. 

“I’m so sorry. Please, please don’t tell the authorities. It won’t ever happen again. I don’t,” Carwood’s words were cut short as Ron grabbed him by the shoulders and he kissed him. 

Before, Carwood may have questioned the sincerity of Ron’s actions. The kiss could have been out of sheer adrenaline back at the cottage. The kiss down in the basement could have merely been an accident. However, as Ron pressed himself up against Carwood, as he laced his fingers through his hair and as his tongue entered Carwood’s mouth, there was no question anymore. Carwood let his hands roam, snaking their way around Ron’s waist until there was no space left in between them, his panic gone and replaced by need, desperate, desperate need. He avoided the growing tenderness from his abdomen, drowning in Ron’s touch. 

Ron pulled them both over to the bed, carefully laying Carwood down until he was over him, never breaking away from their kiss for a second. Carwood thought he had experienced passion before. Nonetheless, the manner in which Ron was so careful, so thoughtful in his every move made Carwood realise that the way his heart pulled like the fish on the end of a line at the thought of Ron was not some little affection. It was more than that. It was so, so much more than that and he was scared it would haunt them both.

Ron stilled, pulling back to take a breath, his eyes shining even in the flickering candlelight. Carwood breathed deeply, his heart beating faster than it might ever have before. The light danced around them both, leaving golden paint strokes across each other’s faces, highlighting the pinkness of their cheeks and the shine of their lips. In the background, Carwood could have sworn the sounds of war seemed muffled, as if the two of them, at that moment, were locked away from the demands of their life, just existing for each other’s beating hearts. 

“Are those,” Ron paused, scrunching his eyebrows and tilting his head, a tiny smile appearing across his mouth, “Are those Hershey bars?” He grabbed them, looking at the chocolate as if it were the holy grail. 

Carwood looked to where Ron was looking and he laughed. Sitting there, on the bed, were the two Hershey bars Luz had given him minutes ago. In all of the commotion, he had forgotten he had left them there, one on top of the other on the creaking bed. 

“Luz gave me them,” Carwood remarked, chuckling at Ron’s sheer confusion at the appearance of the endangered chocolate. 

“Luz? George Luz? The supply officer?” Ron huffed, shaking his head in disbelief, his eyes never leaving the priceless rectangles for a second. 

“That’s the guy,” Carwood smiled, pressing a kiss to Ron’s neck.  

“May I?” Ron asked, holding up one of the Hershey bars. Carwood nodded, laughing even harder as Ron, of all people, seemed so happy to eat the chocolate. He sat up, moving to give space next to him to allow Carwood to sit up alongside him. 

“You know, you keep surprising me,” Carwood breathed, smiling at the way Ron practically devoured the chocolate. 

“A man can’t stay a soldier all of the time,” Ron commented, a sobering look appearing across his face, “Took me a long time to learn that. I was beginning to believe taking lives was all I was made for, to die serving my nation.” Ron was silent, pausing to place down his half-eaten chocolate bar. He laced his fingers through Carwood’s, the corner of his lip raising. 

“But,” Ron continued, “I think I’ve finally found something to live for.”

Carwood’s world began to spin, as if he was dancing in the ballroom of a make-believe world, in the arms of a dazzling prince. He was dizzy, his heart thundering against his chest and his blood rushing to his head. No one, no one had ever felt that way about Carwood before. At least, they had never vocalised it. And now, Carwood felt like he was floating, his vision blurring and his sense of balance falling away. 

Yet, Ron wasn’t the reason. Carwood’s abdomen began to burn, as if someone was taking a hot coffee and smearing it across his stomach. He clenched his teeth, gripping the sheets of the bed with his right hand, squeezing Ron’s hand with the other. Fighting against an invisible tidal wave, Carwood brought his fingertips to his abdomen and as he glanced at them, a fresh river of blood began to stain his white shirt, like spilled ink on a slip of parchment. 

“...okay, Carwood?” Ron asked, his words barely making it through the dizzying blanket that had shrouded his senses. “Carwood, say something!” Ron exclaimed, his voice growing more desperate with each word and more distorted with each breath Carwood took. 

Suddenly, the world shifted on its axis and it took Carwood a few confusing seconds before he realised he was being carried through the house, Ron rushing through the rooms and yelling for a medic. Reality began to shift and skip like a scratched record. Yet, it was only in the tiniest details, minute things that one would often overlook. Somewhere, Carwood would see Luz’s eyes widen with shock and worry. Sometime later, the flash of metal from Eugene’s first aid kit would bring him back to a semi-consciousness that would quickly fall. Somewhere else, Ron’s piercing gaze full of tears and anger would streak across his vision like a burning comet. 

Time became like clay, something moldable and uncertain. And Carwood let himself succumb to it. But, through it all, he hung onto one thing: Ron. 

Eugene had seen men break before. He had seen the remains of men’s souls left for others to scrutinise, to pity, to mourn. And as he watched Speirs, the new CO of Easy Company, burst into Eugene’s quarters and demand that he had to make Carwood better, Eugene knew that if he did nothing, he would watch Speirs shatter.

Pulling Carwood’s shirt up, Eugene searched for anything and everything he needed to understand. Carwood was too far gone in a dizzy semi-consciousness to ask any questions of him, his eyes cracked open and blinking in a drunken-like manner. Carefully unwinding the bandaging, it did not take long for his hands to be covered in the familiar sticky substance that was someone’s blood. 

“His stitches burst,” Eugene observed, speaking to no one in particular as he wiped the leaking blood away to clear his working area. 

“Will he be okay?” Speirs asked, his voice high and to the level that Luz, standing next to the fresh CO, winced. 

“Captain,” Eugene paused, rummaging through his bag full of his various medical supplies, his fingers finding his sewing kit, “I need you to focus on the patrol. That will benefit not only the men, but me and my patient.”

“I’m not leaving,” Speirs snapped, his signature scowl plastered on his face. However, his eyes were not sharp as they always were. Painted in his irises was despair; the kind that could sink ships at sea, that could leave a soul ruined. The shine in his eyes haunted Eugene’s sleep, the cold irises of those looking onward with nothing left to view. 

“Speirs, let’s go,” Luz said, gripping Speirs’ arm. Spina, coming in through the doorway, jumped with a start, Luz nearly barrelling into him as Speirs ripped his arm from Luz’s grip. 

“No, I will not leave,” Speirs shouted, planting his feet firm into the ground and squaring his shoulders, “I am your Commanding Officer and you will listen to me.” 

Eugene prayed he’d find a way to learn how to bite his tongue one day. However, as he slammed his hands down on the table and he whirled to face Speirs head on, several inches shorter than him, did Eugene realise he did not have time to pray at that moment as he began to yell, “I am a medic and, if you want your friend to live, sir , you will listen to me.”

The room seemed to collectively drop their jaws, Speirs’ scowl faltering for just a second. Eugene bit his lip, but as he heard the whistles sound outside and the sounds of conflict grow with each passing second, did Eugene continue to let his tongue loose, “Your men are dying out there. This man is dying right here. I can save him and you can save them. Now get out of my sight… sir.”

Speirs stood frozen, his face unchanging and Eugene began to come to terms with his own death as fear began to grip him from every nook and cranny in his mind. And yet, he did not back down, his feet rooted into the ground. 

“Spina,” Eugene said, his word enough to snap his fellow medic to attention as he ran forward and he began to work on Lipton, all the while Eugene did not break eye contact with Speirs’ for a second. They were at a standoff, the two of them waiting for the other to move, to speak, to lash out. A large battery of artillery crashed onto the ground, shaking the riverside of Haguenau. 

Speirs blinked, his face unchanging, but his eyes. Behind them, a shining wave of realisation dawned and Eugene’s shoulders went slack. “Go join your men, sir,” Eugene said before he turned, leaving Luz to deal with Speirs as he joined Spina, getting to work. The only sound that Speirs and Luz left sounding through the click of the door behind them. 

“How is he?” Eugene asked, scanning the way Spina’s hands moved like clockwork, moving with purpose and precision as he checked multiple points on Lipton, probing and poking.

“He’s lost a lot of blood. We need to stitch him up again,” Spnia said, already reaching into the bag at his hip, rummaging around in the countless supplies. Eugene did the same, his hands gliding over the metal casings and the cloth bandages, until he Spina remarked, “Roe, I’ll sew him up. One of us should be ready in case.” Another particularly strong burst of artillery hitting the ground shook the building Spina and Eugene had been calling home for the last two nights. 

“Okay,” Eugene accepted, taking his hands out of his bag and beginning to press down on Lipton’s torso, wiping away the blood that had begun to accumulate and build on the man’s torso. Doing so, it became easier to see the maroon stained stomach of the soon-to-be lieutenant, only the irritated and red stabbing wound from the day before. By some grace of God, the wound wasn’t dark with infection, only bubbling with blood and festering with pain. 

A grunt came from Carwood’s mouth, drawing the attention of both of the medics. His eyes were just barely open, but there was a shine of life there, hidden behind the haze of unconsciousness and the bite of pain. Eugene moved up, lightly slapping Carwood’s face. “Hey, Lipton. Are you there? If you can hear me, blink twice for me, will you?” Carwood made another grunt, this time sounding as if he was trying to whisper something.

“Say what you need to,” Eugene insisted, pulling closer until his ear was close to Lipton’s mouth, the man’s short and heated breaths falling against his skin. Lipton was silent, his chest heaving and the hisses of pain escaping his mouth. Yet, underneath it all, Eugene heard one word. 

“Ron,” Lipton whispered before his eyes fell closed and his breathing began to slow. 

“Lipton?” Eugene exclaimed, slapping the man’s face again. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Lipton was still. Still as a corpse. Eugene raised a finger to his nose and there was no breath coming in and out. “Spina! He’s not breathing!”

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Spina spat as he stood up, checking Lipton’s heart beat. “Fuck, no heartbeat either.” Eugene straightened up and he began to work, using his scissors to cut Lipton’s shirt open, placing one hand over the other on Lipton’s chest, and beginning to rhythmically, with all of his strength, press down on Lipton’s chest, one movement after another. He let himself push farther into Lipton’s chest than he would normally do onto a living man, the resounding snap of a rib echoing underneath his fingertips as he worked as hard as he could, pushing and pushing Lipton as far as he could from death’s door.

“Spina, get me Speirs,” Eugene choked out between his pants. Expecting Spina to go running, the man was frozen, his eyes glazed over with fear and confusion. Something within Eugene breaking, Eugene yelled, “ Did I stutter ?” 

And like a plane taking off, Spina was gone in seconds, the door slamming behind him. Eugene sucked in a breath, continuing to let his weight fall onto his shoulders and onto Carwood’s chest over his heart. 89 , Eugene counted in his head, adding one more number with each press of his hands. At 100 chest compressions, Eugene stopped and he took a deep breath before he pinched Lipton’s nose and he breathed air into Lipton’s mouth three times, praying the sweet oxygen would bring enough of it to let the man not die from a lack of air. 

“Come on, Lipton,” Eugene comforted, pouring all that he had through his fingertips, thinking of his grandmother and her healing touch. God, if only he could suck away the pain, tuck it away and save the life of the man that lay in front of him, his heart still and his skin cold. “Stay with me, Lipton. Speirs will be here soon, he’ll be here soon.”

And just like that, the door slammed open, wood crashing against wood as Speirs barreled in, desperation painted across his face. Spina followed in soon after, gripping the strap of his medical bag. “Tell me what to do,” Speirs demanded as he ran forward, standing opposite Eugene.

“Hold his hand,” Eugene said without missing a beat. 

“What?” Speirs exclaimed, his eyebrows furrowing and his eyes widening. 

“Hold his hand,” Eugene ordered, his voice sharper. He turned his head to Spina, locking eyes with him. “Check his pulse and be ready to switch with me on the count of three.” Spina ran up next to him, pushing his sleeves up and removing his helmet, letting it fall to the floor behind them. Spina quickly nodded his head and Eugene clenched his teeth. Only a few precious minutes left , Eugene thought, wanting to rip and shred the men who had damaged and killed every man he had ever known. 

Speirs seemed to finally get the message as he collapsed forward onto his knees, intertwining his fingers through Carwood’s, a single tear falling down the man’s face. “Come on, Carwood. Don’t die on me now.”

“Three. Two. One.” Eugene moved away, Spina quickly replacing him and getting to work on Lipton, his shoulders bouncing up and down as he helped the man’s still heartbeat. Eugene, on the other hand, moved to pinch Carwood’s nose again. Yet, as he did, Speirs grabbed his wrist, his grip like iron. 

“I know what to do,” Speirs said as he moved forward and without hesitating for a second, he pinched Lipton’s nose and he pressed his lips to his, breathing in a breath of air. To Eugene, what Speirs was doing felt so much more intimate than giving oxygen. It felt as if Speirs was giving Lipton his last flame of life, his last desperate plea before Lipton’s heart would stay still forever. What Eugene was witnessing, it was not for them. It was not for Spina, it was not for him, it was not for a single man besides Speirs and Lipton. 

The building rattled, an artillery round landing not far away, and then, with a start, Lipton’s eyes snapped open and he inhaled a deep breath, his back arching and his fingers growing tight and clenched. Spina quickly took his hands away like he was removing them from a hot plate of metal. Speirs jumped back, falling onto his knee as Lipton sat up with a start, gripping his chest. 

“Where am I?” Lipton choked out, his voice strained and hoarse. However, no one answered him. They were too stunned. Lipton was breathing. Lipton was breathing. He was alive. “How’s the patrol? Are the men okay?”

Eugene blinked and reality washed over him. “Lipton, I need you to lay back down,” Eugene commanded, his voice easy, but firm, “You may have a few broken ribs.”

“What?” Lipton said, bewildered, “How?”

“We had to perform chest compressions to save your life,” Eugene explained as he pushed Lipton’s shoulders down, ensuring his patient’s torso was firmly down on the table before Spina got to work, disinfecting Lipton’s wound and prepping it to be stitched. 

“Save,” Lipton hesitated, “my life?”

“You died,” Speirs said, his voice hardened. A silence fell over the room, the atmosphere becoming seemingly colder, as if a draft of cold air came blowing in through the cracks of the deteriorating household. Lipton pressed his lips together, a daunting fear in his eyes. And then, Martin was standing in the door, panting and covered in snow and dirt. 

“Sergeant Martin?” Eugene asked, his curiosity growing. 

“We need a medic,” Martin pleaded. Eugene’s curiosity quickly plummeted and his adrenaline skyrocketed. He grabbed his helmet and made sure he had everything, patting himself down and checking his medical bag as if someone’s life depended on it—which it did. Before running out the door, Eugene turned to Spina, asking, “You don’t need my help?”

“Go,” Spina responded and Eugene and Martin began to sprint down the hallway. 

Eugene took one last look at Speirs and Lipton, the two of them pale like ghosts. They had the same haunted expression, yet, as he focused, he saw that Speirs changed, as if something in him had snapped, sending a torrential wave that very well may destroy his way of living. However, it was all seen through a shift in his eyes, that hardened expression he always had switching into something else, something much more alive. 

“Doc!” Martin yelled from down the hallway, his voice echoing against the decaying wood. Eugene began sprinting and as he caught up and saw the back of Martin’s head, thoughts began to race in his mind, one after the other. 

This time he didn’t know if he could save the man he had been treating. This time he didn’t know if life would come out the victor and death the loser. This time he didn’t know if he could be enough and if his touch could bring out the pain of the suffering. This time he didn’t know if he could save the lives of the men and women that loved his patient. 

This time Eugene didn’t know if he was enough . But, he could only pray for God’s forgiveness and his own strength to fight for people’s lives. 

Ron rubbed a hand over his heart, feeling the scratchy fabric of his uniform pull against his chest and the rumble of his heartbeat beneath his scarred skin. The thunder of his heartbeat had grown dimmer, only a soft murmur in his chest, like the sound of a soft drum playing behind a trumpet’s slow and serene solo. He could feel his blood move through his veins, he could feel his oxygen be carried from his lungs to his cells, he could feel the nutrients be taken from his digestive system to every tissue and cell in his body. He had felt Carwood’s blood go still, only a dead man’s hand in his, and he had felt the flow start back up again, warmth returning to Carwood’s skin. 

Carwood slept near him, fresh bandages wrapped around his now clean and stitched torso, and soft snores escaping his lips. Before, he had been so silent, so very silent. No snores, no breaths, not even the slow fall and rise of his chest. He had been completely still. But, that's what happens when a man is dead, isn’t it? Carwood was dead. And now he’s alive again. Another man was dead tonight by his own grenade, barely old enough to give himself a shave. And yet, Ron was lucky enough to have Carwood back. 

Ron ran a hand through his hair, gripping it by the roots, pulling it till it began to be painful. Yet, nothing had been as painful as feeling Carwood’s lifeless hand in his. Ron scrunched his face, squeezing his eyes together so tightly he feared he’d never be able to open them again. 

“Jesus Christ,” Ron choked out, his voice broken and crumbling. Ron lowered his hands to his lap, letting his palms face upwards toward the smoke-filled sky. Carwood had died . Carwood had been dead. Not a breath running through his nose, not a heartbeat pumping under his chest. And Speirs hadn’t been there. He’d been standing on the edge of a riverside, staring at 2nd platoon getting shot at by the Germans, blowing whistles and stealing men from their beds. It had been his duty, it had been his mission; Ron knew that. Put the mission first, reach the objective, protect your nation. Yet, as he heard Carwood’s scream in the cottage, as he felt Carwood’s blood spread over his fingers, as he watched him wraith in pain and fall into unconsciousness, he couldn’t help, but feel that there was more to defend than an objective. 

Ron wasn’t fighting for his nation anymore. 

Ron was fighting for Carwood. 

Ron stood up, slightly swaying on his feet as he rushed out of the room that once had a dead man in it. He closed the door quietly and then he practically ran down the hallway, desperate to get outside. He needed to feel fresh air fall into his lungs, drowning away the oxygen that seemed to choke him within, taking away his sanity breath by breath. He needed to fall the smoke of a cigarette, its smoky pull dulling all the sharp thoughts that seemed to stab at him with each breath and heartbeat he had. 

Outside, Haguenau had become silent save for the constant sound of bombing off in the distance. MPs would occasionally be seen patrolling down the street, their helmets with the white strip visible from miles away for any military man. Ron walked down the stairs, taking in a deep breath as a pair of MPs walked by, saluting Ron before they continued on their way. He didn’t bother saluting them, knowing his track record wasn’t exactly saluting material. Ron made his way over to the small alleyway between the houses as he rummaged around in his pockets, finding a cigarette and lighting it up, the flame barely illuminating the grimy and rotting space. 

Ron sighed, the smoke of the light somehow comforting, the drag collecting in his lungs and muffling the bite of the cold. Several seconds passed and then Ron slammed a fist against the opposite wall, his skin pulling and ripping, his shoulder screaming in pain from the impact, his bandaged wound acting up. 

God, what was Ron doing? What was he doing? What was he doing, standing in an alleyway, smoking a cigarette? Jesus Christ, what was he doing? Why did it feel like his heart had been skewered, left to rot out in front of all to see. He had kissed Carwood’s cold and dead lips, in front of everyone . He had felt what it was to not feel the warmth coming from Carwood’s warm smile. He had felt the man that he might even love dead in his hands. 

Ron sank to the floor, gripping his knees and letting his uniform get stained with snow and dirt. Ron had never felt so lost as he had watched Roe’s and Spina’s shoulders fall up and down on Carwood’s chest, the two medics desperate to be Carwood’s beating heart. They had fought, together, for Carwood’s life. And Ron hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been there. Ron hit the floor with his fist again, the skin of his knuckles ripping and fresh blood oozing from them. 

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” Ron pleaded to no one in particular, “What’s happening to me?” Ron had never felt much when he had seen other’s die in front of them. If there was anything natural in life, it was death. It was the constant, the end all be all to all. There was no getting around it, there was no escape once it had knocked on your door. Ron had accepted that since he was a child. There was no point crying, no point grieving. What’s done, is done. There was nothing he could do about it. 

Yet, as he had watched Carwood, lifeless and motionless on that table, spasming with each press of the medic’s push against his chest, Ron had never wanted to see death ever again. He never had wanted to see Carwood’s scarred face to be lifeless like that again. He had felt a knife inside of him twist, causing a feeling in him that he had never felt before: grief. And here he was, grieving a dead man that lay breathing and snoring in the house he sat against. 

Ron’s eyes snapped open, his eyebrows shooting up and his muscles tensing. He shot up, threw his cigarette to the floor, and he began to run, faster than he had through Foy, faster than he had on D-Day. He let himself fly out the alleyway, up the stairs, through the hallway and to the door, his hand gripping the doorknob. He went still, feeling the way the cold metal of the doorknob felt in his grip, the dents, the groves. He noticed the door click, the way it swung open with difficulty, its hinges screaming for oil. He noticed the wood beneath his feet creak with each step of his foot as he eased his way into the room. And he noticed the way Carwood sat, his back straight, his eyes open and his legs swung over the edge of the table, clouded breaths escaping his mouth and tears falling down his cheeks. 

“Ron?” Carwood whispered, his voice cracking and burdened. 

“Yes?” Ron breathed, inching his way forward slowly. 

“I,” Carwood hesitated, shutting and opening his eyes, trying to blink away his tears.

“Yes?” Ron repeated, standing in front of Carwood now. 

“When I,” Carwood sucked in a breath, staring down at the floor, “When I was dead, there had been nothing. Nothing at all. It was dark. So, so dark. I searched for light everywhere. I searched and searched and searched, but I only found this suffocating and drowning darkness. Every corner, every cranny, every nook. Every part of my mind was shrouded in it. And its pull, its pull was so tempting. I wanted to let it take me, to let my heart remain unbeaten forever. 

“But,” Carwood looked up, his eyes locking with Ron’s, “I found you. And I never want to lose you again.”

“You won’t, I promise,” Ron swore, lacing his hands through Carwood’s, “I promise you, I will be yours when you need me. I will be yours through darkness, through light, through death, through life. If you’ll have me.”

“Of course, Ron, of course,” Carwood smiled, more tears spilling down his cheeks, tracing the scar across his face and seeming to wash away the pain from his expression. Ron took Carwood’s face in his hands, running his thumb over his cheeks, wiping away Carwood’s tears. 

“I’m here, Carwood,” Ron whispered, wrapping his arms around Carwood’s waist, holding his neck with his hand, “I’m here.” Carwood embraced him, pulling Ron closer even as he hissed with pain, a smile appearing across his face when Ron pulled back to check if he was okay. 

“I’m fine,” Carwood chuckled, his smile never more beautiful, “I’ve never been better.”

Ron couldn’t help, but smile, his heart fluttering in his chest like a bird beating its wings. Carwood was alive. Through it all, through the cottage, through the barrage, through even death, Carwood was alive and with him. 

“Ron?” Carwood whispered, his smile faltering for a second. 

“Yes?” Ron asked, rubbing the pad of his thumb on Carwood’s cheek and his finger through his blond hair. 

“Will you have me?” Carwood breathed, a sheepish grin appearing across his face. 

“Of course I will,” Ron said, embracing Carwood gently, kissing his neck and breathing in Carwood’s scent. God, Ron never wanted to let him go ever again. He never wanted to take what he had for granted ever again. He never wanted to forget what he finally had, what he finally could cherish.  

Ron made a promise to himself and to Carwood: he would learn to love life. Ron pulled back and then leaned forward, pressing his mouth against Carwood’s, sealing his promise with their kiss.