Chapter Text
Ron sees him on his third day in Camp Toccoa, nearly faceplants in shock. He's older now, obviously, and he looks like he's filled out some, grown into the promise of those fingers Ron's never been able to put out of his mind, but it's definitely him.
He's frowning, sitting with a group of other men outside, all of them smoking and talking -- all of them talking except for him. He looks so different now, paler and older and closed up, contained. His freckles have faded; it's an odd thing to fixate on but Ron suddenly finds that he misses them. Ron eyes him, the way he's sitting hunched over like he's almost cold even though it's near ninety degrees with a hundred percent humidity, like Georgia's trying to wring dry every single man here.
New Orleans was hotter than this, more humid, the air thick enough to choke on. It makes sense he'd consider this colder.
"Which one of 'em's caught your eye and why?"
Ron glances to his side, to where Lewis Nixon has paused next to him. He doesn't know much about Nixon, assigned as they are to two different companies and with Ron coming in a couple months after Nixon and his OCS class, but he's heard things: Yale, near-genius, alcoholic, most likely to get transferred to Intelligence, somehow unerringly devoted to Richard Winters. He half wonders what Nixon's heard about him, thinks he can guess. It would explain the cautious curiosity in his voice.
"The dark haired one," Ron says, turning his gaze back to the men. "He reminds me of someone I met once."
Nixon laughs, says, "Must've left quite the impression for you to look as shocked as you did, but it's unlikely to have been him. That's Eugene, Eugene Roe. Cajun, speaks better French than he does English. If we drop into Europe, he'll be useful. He's -- he's quite the conundrum, our Eugene."
Eugene. So the name he gave Ron, back then, wasn't Jean as Ron had assumed, but Gene. An error deciphering the accent, most likely. Ron never was good at focusing when Jean -- Gene started talking. And Gene -- close enough to be a real nickname, maybe something his parents called him. Ron wasn't expecting that.
"Why is he a conundrum?" Ron asks.
"He's one of the younger ones here," Nixon says, "and yet he acts like one of the oldest. Quiet, self-contained, never complains, no matter what Sobel does. Dick thinks he's broken, somehow, inside. He's a romantic, though; Dick's always looking for broken hearts and grand tragedies." Nixon pauses there, waits for Ron to say something. When Ron doesn't, Nixon makes a noise like that's interesting and carries on. "Dick's also thinking about putting Roe's name forward for medic training; he already seems like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and the men seem to respect him, gravitate towards him. Personally, I think it's the accent. For as many Yankees as we've got in our company, a Southern accent like his is easy to get charmed by."
There's half a question in that statement; Ron hears it, ignores it. Instead he says, "You're probably right. Can't be him. Thanks for indulging my curiosity."
"Anytime," Nixon says. "It's something of a relief to know you're human at the core, Speirs."
Ron raises an eyebrow, gives Nixon one of those smiles that seems to terrify people: slight hint of teeth, no movement around the eyes, irises a black hole of loss and regret and yearning for death. "Oh," he says, "very human, unfortunately," and continues on his way. He only steals one more glance at Eugene Roe as he goes.
--
He doesn't run into Roe again until Aldbourne and, even then, only briefly. They come face-to-face in the aid station, Ron bringing in one of his men who ended up with a twisted ankle during training. Roe's the medic on duty and Ron has to make sure he's breathing calmly, evenly, as he explains the situation.
"Twisted ankle ain't nothin' too bad," Roe tells the Dog Company 'trooper. His voice is gentle, soothing, and as the injured man gets settled on an exam bed, Roe wheels a stool around, straddles it and sets a basket on the floor in front of him. "Now, what'd'ya say, let's get this off 'n see what we're workin' with, huh?"
Ron's eyes catch on Roe's fingers, unlacing the man's boot quickly, efficiently, peeling it off carefully and then the sock as well. His fingertips probe at the man's ankle, then slide around the arch of his foot as he settles the heel high on one thigh. Ron pulls his eyes away from Roe's hands, looks at his soldier. The man's flushing, just a little.
Ron can sympathize.
"Y'don't gotta hang 'round here if you got better things to be gettin' on with, sir," Roe says, glancing at Ron for a moment. There's something in his eyes that Ron can't make sense of. Ron opens his mouth to ask about it but Roe turns his attention back to the soldier. "We got crutches if it's bad," he says, looking up at the soldier through his eyelashes, giving him a shadowed smile. "Not that I'm thinkin' it's gonna be that bad, pistache, jus' you wait 'n see."
Ron clears his throat, waits for his paratrooper to look at him before saying, "I'll wait if you'd like me to."
"Uh, no, that's -- thank you, sir, but we'll -- I'll be okay," he says.
Roe's smile grows the smallest amount, hearing the flustered, stumbling words. Seems it still amuses him to watch Yankee boys getting tongue-tied around him. Ron swallows, nods sharply, and leaves.
It's a good thing Roe's in another company. Ron will be able to avoid him -- not that it seems he needs to. Apparently Roe doesn't remember him at all. Probably for the best, Ron thinks, and tries to ignore the urge to do something to make Roe remember him.
--
Ron doesn't cross paths with Roe in France. He hears people mention Easy's Doc Roe, though, so he knows that Roe's alive and apparently well enough to be the subject of rumor even as he's keeping his men in fighting form. Easy's protective of Roe, won't stand for any man saying one word bad or less than wholesome about him, but they go curiously quiet at times, too.
It's odd, a little, and the thing that makes it even more noticeable -- at least to Ron who is, admittedly, paying much closer attention than he should be -- is that Winters and Nixon act just as strangely towards Roe in their own ways. Ron catches glimpses of the three of them, sometimes, standing away from the rest of the company, talking in low tones, with Nixon sipping at his flask and Roe gesturing over his shoulder. Ron wonders what they have to talk about that takes so long; the Dog Company medics only report to their company commander when the company commander calls for them. It seems Roe searches out Winters and Nixon once, sometimes even twice a day.
Ron reminds himself to be relieved and to keep his distance. Easy's one of their sister companies; it's good to know that they have a competent medic, someone that keeps Dog's flank as full and protected as possible. Distance is simple, for the most part. All Ron has to do is stick with his own platoon and his own company, and resist the urge to seek out Roe.
He also has to tell himself that he has no right to be jealous, either, at just what those rumors are saying.
Maybe if he tells himself enough times, he'll eventually believe it.