Work Text:
I. Twelve buttons on a uniform
Malarkey delivers the news of who's manning the patrol. You listen, wait for your name: Grant, Liebgott, Jackson, Wynn, Shifty from 3rd and there we go, Webster - bound to be chosen. He who doesn't volunteer of course, must be picked. You stand silent for a moment, mentally chugging through the possible outcomes, wondering how much they'll tell you at this briefing. It's drizzling slightly, the heat from the showers is almost palpable from where you stand, and you can see the stream rising from a gap in the canvas roof into the frozen French air. Your gut stirs.
Cobb, never one to pass on an opportunity to barb someone, spits as he passes.
-Has it been a long time since your last shower, Professor?
It's not a question. In a way you think his anger is justified, but there's still that part of you that wants to tell him to shut the hell up, to start something. However, that's probably just what he wants so you shut up and take it. A bit like how you didn't join in with the laughter after that brush with artillery in the house. You know now that more has happened in the past three months than you could ever imagine.
Maybe a shower would be good, and Lieb is there telling you, hell in some way, allowing you to join in. For the rest of them it's been a long time -too long- since water, and warm water at that, has hit their flesh. You had a shower in the depot before moving out. There's not much dirt under your fingernails and your uniform is still crisp; theirs are covered in blood and earth.
Your gaze falls on Malarkey, who's staunchly staying upright while stripping off. You hadn't quite realised about the others, all his friends, until Babe spoke. You'd known, but now you see it through looking at him. Your fingers itch as you watch him undress. Watch him fumble ever so slightly with the buttons on his shirt, his gaze glassy and fixed on a point far away. Lieb speaks, asks you if you're awake. You shake your head; you really don't need a shower anyway.
As you move away Liebgott calls you again, presses his lucky strikes into your hand and winks with a grin.
-Wouldn't want to get these wet.
You tuck them away out of sight and watch vaguely as he strips off outside the tent with the others; pulling off mud encrusted fatigues, peeling off his sweat stained vest, fingers fighting with bootlaces that haven't been opened in weeks.
The light's fading, and you think about getting back to the house that's bunking 2nd platoon. As you take back your M1 and walk away you spot Lt. Jones; prim and to attention even though he's allowed to be at ease. Maybe there was something you could do, maybe. You see Malarkey trunch by and the sight steels your nerve. As you watch Jones talk to a reluctant Malarkey you wonder if Lieb would do the same thing for you. And just as Jones nods in a pleased gesture back at where you're standing, Lieb's at your side. Still damp.
-Surprised you're not trying to convince him to take your place, Web.
Nothing you've ever said in retaliation to Lieb seems to have made an impact, so you say nothing and jog back to the platoon base.
Lieb jogs right beside you.
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