Though I Am in Still Water 3/5
Written for the Eagle's Nest Crossover Challenge.
Title: Though I Am in Still Water 3/5
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Band of Brothers / Criminal Minds crossover
Rating: R for language and drug use
Total Words: ~33,000
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Skip Muck, Carwood Lipton, Don Malarkey, Roy Cobb, Bill Guarnere, Joe Toye, Lewis Nixon, Babe Heffron, Eugene Roe, Derek Morgan, Alex Penkala, Dick Winters, George Luz, Don Hoobler, Lester Hashey, etc.
Summary: Easy Company receives two new replacements while stationed outside Foy: a young medic named Spencer Reid, and a sergeant named Aaron Hotchner.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Band of Brothers book or miniseries. I also don't own Criminal Minds. In fact, I own nothing except my own addled imagination. I'm sad to be me.
A/N 1: This fic came about for two reasons. The first, is, I love Spencer Reid and decided I wanted to see him as a World War 2 medic. The second is, I'm crazy I thought maybe I could trick fans of Criminal Minds into watching Band of Brothers. *evil laugh* Note: This is NOT some wacky cracky time travel fic. This is a Criminal Minds A/U where the characters from that show live in the 40s and some of them are replacements in Easy Company. This fic takes place during The Breaking Point. You don't have to be familiar with Criminal Minds for this fic to make sense (I hope.) Lastly, I've kept the story true to the times. That means, don't expect to see Derek Morgan as a replacement. Lastly for real: for bobfans hesitant to read this (and I don't blame you) there's a LOT of Doc Roe and Skip Muck in this. If that makes a difference.
A/N 2: Info on Criminal Minds and Band of Brothers with pics and links to characters for those interested.
A/N 3: Thank you to __kat__ , degare , and venacavarex for the absolutely gorgeous artwork. I'll be sharing their pretties throughout the fic. Thank you! ♥
We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces. The first bomb, the first explosion, burst in our hearts. We are cut off from activity, from striving, from progress. We believe in such things no longer, we believe in the war.
~Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet On The Western Front
artwork by degare
Hotch moves among the men, helping shore up damaged foxholes, digging new ones. First Sergeant Lipton sits next to Luz while Hotch digs.
"Thanks a lot," Lip says quietly. He looks exhausted, his face smudged with grime.
Luz puffs on a cigarette, his eyes far away. "Yeah." He shakes his head, refocuses his gaze on Aaron. "Thanks."
"Sarge?" Skip looks from Lip to Hotch.
Lip pulls off his helmet, sets it in his lap. "Yeah, boy?"
Muck offers a little mock bow. "I beg your pardon, sir, I meant this sarge." He points at Hotch.
Aaron leans against his shovel. He can't imagine what Skip wants with him.
Lip waves one hand in an elaborate gesture. "You're hereby pardoned."
Skip looks at Hotch. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Luz cocks his head, eyes Skip. "Hey, I'm a Tech Sergeant, how come you don't wanna talk to me? Come to think of it, you're a sergeant--God knows why--why don'tcha just talk to yourself?" He grins at his own wit.
Muck rolls his eyes and flips Luz off.
George feigns shock. "You see what he just did?"
A hint of a smile passes over Lipton's face. "Why George, I believe Skip just saluted you."
Hotch shakes his head, gestures to Muck. "Let's get out of here so these guys can take their routine on the road." He drops the shovel next to Luz.
"What about our song and dance number?" Luz calls after them.
Faintly: "You know I don't dance, George."
"Not even if I lead?"
Aaron and Skip move out of the clearing and into the woods.
When they're alone, Skip straightens his shoulders, clears his throat. "Look," Skip says hesitantly, "I...might be out of line, and if I am, I apologize."
Hotch blinks, surprised. He doesn't know Muck as well as Reid does, but he knows Skip to be a happy guy, genial, always willing to help. He's almost always smiling, laid back. This is the first time Hotch has seen the guy look nervous.
"What is it?"
Muck opens his mouth, shuts it. Frowns. He sighs, starts again. "I shouldn't say anything, it ain't any of my business." He turns, shoves his hands in his pockets. For the first time, Hotch notices a spoon sticking out of a button hole on Skip's coat.
"I know you're friends with Houdin--Reid. From before the war, even. I just think he might be having a hard time after Bill and Joe..." he trails off, pulls his hands out of his coat and in a gesture that apparently means got their legs blown off.
"And maybe he's fine," Skip finishes, "but he didn't look so good a little while ago."
Hotch's first instinct is to tell Muck to get the hell out of his face. Skip's known Reid for what, two seconds? Reid's known him for four years. But looking into Skip's worried face, Hotch realizes that right now, between the two of them, Skip Muck is the better friend.
Aaron bows his head, embarrassed. He scratches his neck.
"I don't mean to step on anyone's toes or whatever," Skip says, taking a step backward.
"You didn't step on my toes," Hotch reassures him. "Besides, my feet are so frozen I wouldn't feel it even if you did."
Skip grins a little. "Okay then. I said my bit." He nods back the way they came. "Now I gotta check on Malark."
With that, Muck walks off.
Hotch considers Skip Muck on his way to Reid. Muck is easily as popular as Luz with the men, maybe more so. Aaron's never seen so many selfless men in his entire life. He's exceedingly thankful he ended up with men of this caliber by his side.
He finds Reid curled in the bottom of their foxhole. It looks like he's holding a purple blanket. Hotch drops in beside him.
"Reid?"
Reid ignores him.
Hotch sighs. "I know you're faking. You snore when you sleep."
"Go away," Reid whispers.
"When I can sit here and relax with my friend and former student? No thanks."
"Please." Reid's voice is thick and dark, the sound of the mud beneath them.
"Why?"
"I just...I want to be alone for a little while."
"And I want an eight-ounce rib eye with a baked potato and sour cream. I don't think either of us are going to get our wish," Hotch says gently.
Reid turns his head, glares hard at Aaron.
Spencer's glare is impressive, but Hotch has been on the receiving end of one of Johnny Martin's looks. Reid's pales in comparison.
Hotch shakes his head. "You're going to have to do better than that."
The anger melts from Reid's face. He gives Hotch a beseeching look. "I don't think I can do this."
Hotch firmly believes Reid can do anything if he put his mind to it. He could easily become a doctor, a scientist, a lawyer. Or an Army medic. "You can do whatever you want, Spencer."
"That's just it," Reid says miserably, "I don't want to be here." He snatches up one of the branches from the dirt, bends it back and forth.
Hotch shrugs. "Neither do I."
Reid's voice is quiet, but Aaron can hear the accusation. "You signed up, Hotch."
"Not because I want to be here. I feel like--like I need to be here. There's a difference."
"That's semantics," Reid snaps.
"No, that's how I feel," Hotch says evenly. "Feelings aren't right or wrong, Spencer. They just are. You can't do an empirical study of my feelings and declare them invalid just because you don't agree with them."
"Your guilt isn't going to bring Sean back."
The words hang in the air between them. Reid's always talking about World War I and that damn book. For the first time Hotch can see a similarity between then and now. Spencer's words infect the foxhole like poison.
Hotch doesn't want to argue, but he can't help himself. "And your guilt isn't going to get you back home to Mommy."
More silence.
Aaron looks up at the circle of ruddy pink sky above them. He can see the faint fingernail of the moon.
Reid's branch finally snaps. He throws the pieces down, puts his head in his hands. "I'm--I'm sorry."
"So am I."
Reid picks up the scarf, balls it up in his hands. "I just...I just don't understand how your being here helps Sean."
"It doesn't," Hotch admits. "It helps me. I couldn't save him, Reid. And that's hard for me to live with. But if I can save someone else's brother, someone else's son...I think...I think I could live with that."
Reid looks at Hotch for a long moment. Then he shifts closer to Aaron, puts a thin hand on his arm, leans his head against Hotch's shoulder. Hotch swallows down the pain in his throat, smiles into the top of Reid's head. Spencer Reid has just said more with this single gesture than some men say in their entire lifetime.
* * *
Skip keeps an eye on Don. Don's quieter than usual, but a lot of the guys are, after what happened. Skip knows it's not just the loss of Gonorrhea and Toye that's bothering Malark, buck the loss of Buck, too. They'd been pretty fuckin' close. It's a helluva thing.
Muck pokes Malarkey in the neck with his spoon. "Come on."
Don bats the spoon away, shoots Skip a dirty look.
"You look like an angry leprechaun when you do that," Skip remarks.
"You're gonna look like a guy with a fat lip if you don't knock it off with that goddamn spoon."
Skip tucks the spoon back into his lapel. "I'm sorry, Don. I just thought...well, I thought if we spooned it might cheer you up."
Don scowls. It's an epic scowl. A thing of beauty, really. Don drops his head into his hands, groans. "That's it, you're no longer my friend. Get the fuck away from me, Muck."
Muck pulls a sad face. Takes out the Lucky Strikes he pilfered from Luz. "Huh. Guess I'll just have to smoke these with Penk then."
"For Chrissakes, Skip. You drive me nuttier than a fruitcake." Malark makes a gimme gesture. "Hand one over."
"Aww, I don't hafta drive you nowhere, Malark. You were nutty the day I met you."
Malark lights his smoke after a few tries, takes a long drag. Skip doesn't let on that he knows, but Malark's hands have been shaking all afternoon. It makes Skip nervous. He's not usually a nervous guy. The war's no picnic, that's for damn sure, but he's getting by. Mostly because of Malark and Penk. Christ, he can't even think about losing either one of them.
And now there's that new kid, Reid, to worry about.
Skip pushes the anxiety out of his mind, goes back to harassing Don. "You wanna play chess?"
"No."
"I could steal Shifty's cards."
"No." Pause. Then: "He'd probably shoot you."
"We can ask Houdini to do some magic."
"Yeah?" Don blows a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. "You think he can magic us the hell outta here?"
Skip considers. "I guess anything's possible. But the real Houdini probably coulda. Done that metamorphosis trick. You and me go in the box and viola, we trade places with Peacock."
That earns Skip a laugh. "Now that'd be somethin'."
They're standing in line for chow. It's bean soup again. Cold bean soup. Joe ladles a spoonful into their cups.
They walk shoulder to shoulder toward Reid. "Just pretend its Vichyssoise," Muck suggests.
Malark makes a disgusted sound. "Screw that, I'm having trouble pretending it's food."
Reid's sitting on an overturned ammo crate, morosely spooning soup into his mouth. A purple scarf is looped around his neck. Muck gestures to it with his cigarette. "That's regulation."
Spencer looks up from his soup. "So's your spoon."
Skip sniffs disdainfully, then looks down at the most useful utensil ever invented. "I'll have you know this here is a medal, Doc. The Distinguished Service Spoon, awarded for bravery in the face of constant, adverse eating conditions." Skip lowers his voice, speaks confidentially. "It's awarded only very rarely."
"Hey," Joe bellows irritably, "I heard that."
"You're a prince among men, Joe" Skip shoots back cheerfully. He pulls up a square of snow and hunkers down.
Don drops down next to him. "Seriously," Don asks, "where'd you get the scarf? You gotta girl back home?"
"Can we put in requests?" Skip holds up his hands. "I could use some new mittens." Pause. "And an afghan. Oh, and my favorite color is yellow."
"I'm fine with blue or green," Don adds helpfully.
Reid's mouth twists into grimace. "I don't have a girl, I have a friend who happens to be a girl. And she knits. She knitted me a scarf. End of story."
Skip leans forward. "I hate to tell you, but truthfully? That was a pretty shitty story. Try again, only this time, can you add a bear?" He snaps his fingers. "Or how about a werewolf?"
"Oooh," Don says, clearly approving Skip's brilliance, "that's good."
Muck beams. "Isn't it?" He chuckles, pats Reid's knee. "Okay, okay, I'll give you a break. It doesn't have to be a story. A fable or anecdote will do."
Reid holds up his spoon. "If I give you this, will you stop talking?"
"I doubt it, but it never hurts to try."
The three of them look at each other for a moment, then break into laughter.
Don rubs his eyes, grinning. Reid wipes his mouth, the smile still visible behind his hand. Skip beams. He loves making his friends laugh. There's nothing better. No-thing. And best of all, when Don slurps down a spoonful soup, his hand isn't shaking.
When their mess kits are empty, Skip hands out the after-dinner cigarettes. He offers one to Reid, but the doc shakes his head. Skip pats his pockets; he's got a frozen stick of Wrigley's somewhere, that counts as dessert. He finds it, holds it out to Spencer. That, the kid takes.
"Okay," Skip says to the other two men. "Look at it this way. It's a fuckin' shame what happened today. But Bill and Joe? They're not dead. They're the opposite of dead. They're on their way home to the land of extra blankets, electricity, and indoor plumbing. That's not a bad thing. You know those guys are tough. They can deal with anything. Anything. Losin' a leg?" Muck exhales noisily. "Pffft. That's nothin'.
"And Buck? He'll be okay too. He can get his feet fixed up, get a transfer, whatever the fuck he wants." Skip looks at Don. "You get that, right? Buck's off the front line," he says, lowering his voice. "That's a good thing."
Don nods, eyes down. He's blinking hard. Skip feels a rush of affection for his friend, throws an arm around his shoulder. "Besides, you always got me. How the fuck can anybody feel sad when I'm around?"
Malarkey laughs. It sounds a little forced, but he's trying, so Skip gives him points for that. He's a great guy, that Malark.
Don gives Skip a playful punch in the arm. "You even think about leaving me here and I'll scoop your fuckin' guts out with that spoon."
"I'm gonna have Houdini's friend-who's-a-girl-but-not-his-girl stitch that lovely little sentiment on a pillow. I think that'll make the ol' foxhole nice and homey."
Neither man laughs at Skip's wit. Philistines.
Skip tries a final time. "Come on, you guys. You can say they're in a better place and actually mean it for once."
Don looks thoughtful at that. "Huh. You might actually be right about that one."
"Might?" Muck scoffs. "Please."
"I know what you're saying," Reid says softly. "And I appreciate it." He rubs his dark eyes with one fist. "I just don't know how you guys do it."
"Do what?" Don asks. He pulls off his helmet, itches his head. His red hair sticks up in all directions. It's greasy, the red so dull it's nearly brown.
Skip cleans his spoon in the snow, wipes it dry on his ODs. Then he proceeds to poke at Malark's hair with it. He thinks maybe he can sculpt it into a sort of mohawk.
"Skip," Don says loudly. "Don't make me take away your spoon. Cuz you know I will."
"Christ," Muck laments. "You're a cranky bastard."
"And you're an annoying one. Now let the guy talk."
"Oh. Right. Sorry." Skip sweeps the spoon toward the doc. "Pray continue."
Reid looks dubious, but finishes his thought. "I don't get how to go from joking like this, to--" He stops. He leans back on the crate, steeples his fingers. Christ. It looks like he's about to give a lecture. "It's like what Erich Maria Remarque said in--"
"Okay, I'm gonna have to stop you right there," Skip says, holding up the spoon. "A quote from All Quiet on the Western Front is not the way to improve anybody's mood."
Houdini looks surprised. "You've read the book?"
Skip sighs. "I've read that book, plus a one or two more. Maybe three. My brain might not be as chock full of genius as yours, but I can read."
Reid looks instantly mortified. "Oh, I didn't mean--I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to imply that you didn't, or couldn't read." He twists his hands into the bottom of his scarf.
"Don't worry," Don mock whispers, "I was surprised to find out he could read, too."
"Ha, ha. All I'm sayin' is, if All Quiet on the blah blah is your favorite book, you need to look a little harder. You need something that's more fun, more...I dunno, upbeat."
Malark and Houdini give him a look.
Reid asks first. "Like what?"
Skip grabs his tin cup, holds it out toward the doc. He tries to look pathetic and hungry, which sadly, is pretty fuckin' easy. "Please sir, may I have some more?"
Malark stares at him like he's just gone crazy. Silly man. Skip's pretty sure he caught the crazy the day he signed up for the Paratroops. Or when he swam the Niagara.
Houdini blinks at Skip, then smiles. He pokes the air with an index finger. "Oh, I know! The Parish Boy's Progress!"
Skip frowns. The Parish Boy's what?
"Uh, more commonly known as Oliver Twist" Reid adds quickly.
"I think we read that in school," Don says dubiously.
"Man, I loved that book," Skip sighs. He thinks of all the times he dressed up in his dad's too-big suit coats, a broken pocket watch tucked in his pocket, a lipstick beard on his chin. He spent a whole summer trying to pick the little pink wallet out of his mother's purse. It drove her batty.
"You're telling me you think Oliver Twist is happier than All Quiet on the Western Front?" Ried holds up a hand, ticks various themes off on his fingers. "There's a starving orphan, poverty, abusive adults, attempted murder, actual murder--" he starts on his other hand, "alcoholism, prostitution--."
"Yeah, yeah," Skip interrupts. "That's real sad. But, Oliver gets to be a pickpocket and he gets a nice aunt and he gets adopted by Mr. Brownlow and lives happily ever after. Plus, Oliver Twist automatically wins cuz nobody gets gassed."
Don looks at the doc. "He's got a point."
Houdini shakes his head, like he can't believe what he's hearing. "That's--that's not a point."
"You know," Skip admits to Don, "there was a time I'd have sold my sister to be a part of Fagin's gang."
"I was more into Tarzan and Bomba the Jungle Boy," Don says dreamily. "Can you imagine living in the jungle and swinging around on vines? Man, that's almost as good as jumpin' out of an airplane."
Houdini has such a look of horror on his face that Skip bursts out laughing. "I'm thinking Doc here ain't much for swinging on vines. Not an outdoor type, huh?"
"Then what the fuck are you doing out here?" Don asks with a goofy grin.
Jesus, Skip loves that grin. He looks up at the stars, sends a good thought toward Bill and Joe, his sister Ruth. This, right here? Is the life. It's moments like this that make all the shit worthwhile. Sure, the war's fucking terrible, but not that terrible, because Skip gets to be with his best friend every single day. And what could be better than that?
* * *
Hotch hands Reid his morning coffee.
Reid takes it absently, offers a vague "thank you." He's reading Penelope's letter for the ninth time. He doesn't need to read it, of course. He knows the letter by heart, he could recite it verbatim the first time he read it. But he likes to look at her flowery handwriting, the little smiley faces she draws in the margins. He likes to rub his thumb over the pen indentations in the paper. Looking at the familiar backward slant of Garcia's writing is like listening to her voice. The letter is in blue ink, the smiley faces are in red. Across the top of the page is a large, lopsided sketch of a helmet with a big red cross on the side. Every time Reid looks at that helmet he smiles. He can picture her drawing it, eyes narrowed in concentration, tongue between her teeth.
God, he misses her.
Aside from his mother and Hotch, Penelope is the closest thing he has to family. She's the sister he's never had, but always wanted.
"What's Garcia have to say?" Hotch seats himself on the edge of the foxhole next to Reid.
Reid looks up, still smiling. "Want me to read it to you?"
Hotch nods eagerly. "I'd like that. I miss that kid. She was my favorite student."
Reid lifts his eyebrows in consternation.
Aaron backpedals. "After you of course."
Reid smirks. "Of course." He takes a sip of the coffee, makes a face. It tastes like hot rainwater flavored with dirt. "Ugh."
"Good, isn't it?"
"I miss real coffee," Reid says wistfully.
"I miss Garcia, so read already."
"Okay. Here goes." Reid makes a big production of clearing his throat.
"Dear Marvelous Medic, Reid can feel the blush creep up his neck, but he keeps reading. I hope you're doing okay. I also hope you're doing good, great, or even fantastic. I miss you a crazy amount. More than I can possibly say. Mostly because this pen is running out of ink. Everything is dull and boring without you. Of course, it was dull and boring with you as well, but I liked the way you could reach stuff on the top shelf of my pantry. Just kidding. We both know sometimes you couldn't reach those crackers. Just kidding again!
Seriously, I hope the war isn't too horrible or scary. I wish I could be there with you. I'd teach those Army boys that olive doesn't need to be quite so drab. I hope you spend all your time handing out lemons because rickets and scurvy are the most serious things you have to deal with. What I really hope, is, by the time you get this letter the war's already over. My fingers are crossed. Not right now though, because I'm writing this letter.
I have no idea where you are. That feels so weird, not knowing where you are, beyond "somewhere in Europe." I looked at a map the other day, and jeezly crow, there's a lot of countries over there. I don't suppose you're on a beach in Spain (wearing a giant floppy hat so you don't burn your pretty girl skin) instead of a foxhole?
Speaking of pretty girls, I figured something out this morning. I was trying to decide if you were Bob Hope and I was Bing Crosby on the crazy road to adventure, or vice-versa. Then I realized I'm the funny, witty one who can sing and dance, and you're the tall, skinny brunette with a pretty face. That means I get to be Bob Hope and Bing Crosby and you're Dorothy Lamour. Who says I need Professor Hotchner around to have actual insight?
Hotch looks up from cleaning his M-1. "Huh. Rude."
Reid snorts. "At least she didn't call you a girl." He takes another drink of the horrible coffee and continues. I've been reading the papers. There are all kinds of stories about the "Battered Bastards of Bastogne." I really hope you're not there. But since I don't want you to be anywhere near Belgium, I figure that's probably where you are. The upside is, now I can call you a bastard and say I mean it as a compliment. Ha ha.
Okay, time to wrap this up. I had Jennifer take a picture of me with my new glasses. Keep it in your pocket at all times. You know how there are stories about pocket Bibles stopping bullets? I believe my photo is so awesome, it will do the same. But just in case the Nazis have invented some kind of evil anti-awesome device, I would appreciate it if didn't go anywhere near actual bullets. Thank you.
Lastly, you probably noticed the lovely scarf. I don't know if you're allowed to wear it since it's not boring, ugly, or green, but here's hoping. I wore it for a few days before sending it to you, so please enjoy the complimentary Penelope perspiration.
You're my hero, Reid. Never forget that, okay? And not just because of the top shelf thing. Hurry up and come home because I miss you. And I'm really frigging bored.
Love,
Penelope
P.S. I went to see your mom last week. She didn't remember who I was, but she was in a good mood. I told her I was your friend and she talked about you for almost ten minutes. She'll be okay, Spencer. You just take care of yourself.
P.P.S. If you're reading this to Prof. Hotch, please tell him his class was a giant snooze and he looked funny in a suit.
Hotch laughs. "I do not look funny in a suit." He glances at Reid, a little too casual. "Do I?"
"You like fine. Garcia's just being Garcia. I mean, it's not like I really look like Dorothy Lamour."
Hotch runs a rag over the barrel of the rifle, ominously silent.
"Hotch," Reid prompts.
Aaron grunts. "Huh?"
Reid sighs. He does not look like the girl from The Road to Morocco. When he writes back he's going to tell Penelope she looks like--like, well. He'll figure out something suitable by the time he starts the letter.
Roe walks up, nods a greeting. "Doc Reid."
Reid nods back. "Doc Roe."
Roe's face is somber, but his eyes smile. "How you doing?"
"Okay," Reid says, returning Garcia's letter to its envelope. "How about you?"
"Not too bad, not too bad." Roe worries at his lip, squints up at the bright sky. "You think we'll get snow today? Seems too cold for more snow, but Webb's bound and determined we're gonna get more."
"Is that a problem?" Hotch asks, suddenly interested. "You hear something?"
"There's a rumor goin' 'round we might get hit tonight. Guys are tryin' to get ready."
Reid's fragile spirits fall. He sighs, reaches for his medic bag. "Do you need supplies?"
"I do. And so do you. How much you got left?"
Reid counts bandages. Between the recent shellings and the occasional soldierly mishap, his supplies have dwindled precariously since the day he arrived.
"I'm down to three bandages and I don't have any tourniquets. I have two morphine syrettes. You should take one." Reid hands Roe one of the small boxes.
"Thanks. I'm gonna get a ride to the BAS, see what I can get my hands on. I'll bring back as much as I can, along with Zimmerman. If nothin' else, I'll bring back strips of sheets." Eugene's face hardens. "Those work just fine."
Reid knows what's coming next. If Roe's going begging in town, Reid's going begging to second battalion. He doesn't really mind. At least it's something to do. Maybe all that walking will warm him up.
"Easy Company don't got shit," Gene says. "I don't think Fox is much better. But Dog might have some morphine and aspirin, which is what we really need."
Reid slings his medic bag over his shoulder, ties his scarf, adjusts his helmet. "Got it."
"I'll meet up with you this afternoon and we can divvy up."
"Okay." Reid pauses. "Good luck, Gene. Be careful."
"You too." Gene gives Reid an gentle slap on the arm. He walks off, slogging through the snow. Abruptly, Roe turns back. "Hey, Reid?"
"Yeah?"
"Watch out for the line. No falling in German foxholes, okay?"
"Sure thing," Reid calls back. To Hotch he says, "German foxholes? What's he talking about?"
"I just listen to his accent, not what he actually says," Hotch replies, completely unhelpful.
Spencer checks his pockets, makes sure he has a few K ration bars. He also has one of the unbreakable, unmeltable, uneatable D ration chocolate bars. They're like trying to gnaw on chocolate-scented cement. What he wouldn't give for some French chocolate. Or a good old Hershey's.
Reid considers asking Hotch to come along. Or maybe Muck and Malark. He thinks better of it. If they really are going to get hit, the guys'll be busy cleaning rifles, zeroing weapons, reinforcing foxholes. Reid's glad to get away from that for a while.
"See you later," Spencer says.
"Watch yourself," Aaron tells him, "I hear there are Germans out here."
Spencer waves Aaron's words away with one hand and stomps off. Well, he doesn't actually stomp off because the snow is up to his knees and it's impossible to stomp. Especially when his feet are frozen solid. But if he could stomp, that's what he'd be doing.
As he heads out of camp, the guys call to him, wave.
"Hey, Houdini!"
"Hiya, Doc!"
"Mornin' Reid."
"Seen Hinkel?"
Reid doesn't know who Hinkel is, but he's sure it's some inside joke he's not privy too. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. But here, unlike at school, Reid doesn't mind. These jokes are harmless, well-meant. There's never any malice. The men of Easy Company have accepted Reid as one of their own.
Spencer's been here almost two weeks now, and it still surprises him these soldiers seem to like him, respect him, even. It's enough to make Reid laugh. Not once did he ever except to find friendship or acceptance in the Army. Maybe Garcia, Hotch, and his mother aren't his only family after all.
Reid stops by Muck's foxhole, shows him the new trick he's been working on. He can make Skip's spoon disappear by letting it slide down his sleeve, then, when he shakes Skip's hand he transfers it to Muck's sleeve. When Muck drops his arm, the spoon falls right into his hand. Skip yells so loud, nearly a dozen guys tell him to shut up.
"That is fucking amazing!" Skip beams. "I know it's just sleight of hand, but I love it." He elbows Penk. "I feel like I'm at the fuckin' circus!"
Penkala pokes Reid's sleeve. "You got any cotton candy in there?"
Reid grins. "Sorry, I'm fresh out."
Penkala gives a dejected sigh. "Figured as much."
Reid heads out of camp, good spirits restored. He has a general idea where D Company is located. His boots crunch through the snow, icicles hang from tree branches like ornaments. He walks as fast as he can without tiring himself out, fast enough to work up a sweat. Garcia's scarf really does help keep him warm. Maybe she can knit him some socks.
He's been walking for at least fifteen minutes. Spencer looks over his shoulder at the trail of footprints he's left behind. The snow and fog make for slow going, but any minute he should--
He should--
There's a butterfly on that tree.
Impossible.
A Monarch butterfly sits on the branch, regal, like she's holding winter court. Right in front of him. It makes no sense because Monarchs live primarily in North America, New Zealand and Australia. They migrate to the warmer climates of Mexico and California. Monarch butterflies are rarely found Western Europe, and never in winter.
The butterfly's wings move. Reid feels a strange sense of deja vu. He thinks of Paul Bäumer's butterfly collection, the colorful wings pinned beneath flat glass shrouds. The end of the 1930 movie showed Paul's hand reaching for a butterfly just before he was killed.
Reid's hand reaches now.
His medic bag slips from his shoulder to his elbow.
He plucks the butterfly from the branch. It's not a Monarch butterfly, it's not a butterfly at all. Reid is holding a dead leaf. It's a faded orange-brown, stiff and fragile in the cold.
Spencer stares down at it, crushes it beneath his numb fingers. The bag slips off his arm, drops into the snow beside his left foot.
Instantly, he's hurtling through the air, snow and dirt pelting his face. His ear drums are crushed, a baseball bat connects with his foot. He has no time to think about anything--not butterflies or mines--except that he's airborne, a real paratrooper at last. He sees the sky, the shattered ground, the tree, and then--nothing.
* * *
Reid gasps, opens his eyes. He's on his back. He can feel cold fingers of snow poking into his neck, his hair, his wrists. A man stands over him with a rifle.
Reid's vision is blurry. He's lost his glasses. His head pounds. Someone has hit him, is hitting his skull with a hammer again and again.
Despite his blurry vision, the agony in his head, the blood in his mouth, Reid knows he's looking at a German soldier. He knows he's about to die.
Spencer doesn't know how he got here. He was walking to D Company for supplies, but found death instead. Did he cross the line? He gags on the blood on his mouth. Has he already been shot? Did he step on a mine?
The soldier looks down at him curiously. He isn't much of a soldier. He's younger than Reid. He looks nineteen, twenty at the most. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He looks as scared as Reid feels.
The boy speaks, but Reid can't hear him. His head rings with the sound of clanging metal. His head rings in time with the pain.
Spencer is afraid to die, but what he feels most, above the fear and pain, is an overwhelming disappointment. To know that he will never see his mother again, that she'll never know what happened to him, is too much. To know he'll never again see Garcia's smile is more than he can bear.
This boy has no reason to kill him. They are the same. They each have mothers, fathers, dreams. Reid starts talking. His words are only a faint buzz, a vibration in his throat. Reid isn't trapped in a foxhole with a dying German, but it's close enough. This isn't goodbye, only the truth. He recites Paul Bäumer's quote. The words taste liked pennies and salt.
"Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us--" a coughing fit racks him. Spencer chokes, turns his head, spits bright blood onto blinding snow.
The young German is still standing there, wide-eyed, listening. Reid is grateful. He licks his cracked lips, keeps going. "--that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, a-and that we have the same...the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony. Forgive me, comrade, how could you be my enemy?"
Reid looks up at the boy, whispers "comrade" a final time. Then, he closes his eyes. He waits to die.
The pain wakes him.
He jerks awake, shivering, his head burning. The boy sits beside him, holding his hand. Reid stares at him, uncomprehending.
The boy says something, but the words have no sound. It's like listening to snow. There are a thousand bees in Reid's head. He lifts his free hand weakly, points to his ear. "I can't...I can't hear you."
The soldier shrugs, shakes his head.
Reid closes his eyes, concentrates. "Ich kann Sie nicht hören."
The boy smiles. "Ah." He lowers his mouth to Reid's ear, his breath is warm against Spencer's skin. Spencer can hear the boy's words very faintly through the buzzing. They sound very far away, a hundred miles at least, like they're coming toward him through a network of underground tunnels.
Through trenches.
It takes a week for Reid to translate the words to English. "You stepped on a mine. I saw you fly in the air like a bird."
Oh. A mine. He wonders idly how badly he's hurt. He's too tired to think about it. He wants to sleep, but the boy asks a question.
"You are a medic?"
"Yes."
The boy pulls off his pack, digs through it. He offers Reid his canteen. "Drink."
Spencer tries to sit up, fails. Pain explodes in his head like a shell. Are they being shelled? He doesn't know.
"Ich bin Tobias," the boy says. He slides an arm beneath Reid's neck, helps him drink. The water soothes his throat, quiets a little of the hammering in his head.
"Ich bin Spencer," Reid replies.
Tobias pulls a rectangular packet from his bag, opens it. Inside is a bandage, sulfa powder, morphine. The American medic is being treated by the German soldier. It's very funny. It's very, very funny, but all Reid can do is cry soundlessly. Nothing makes sense.
Tobias bandages Reid's head. The pain sends Reid away. When he comes back, Tobias is jabbing him with the morphine. "No," Reid says, trying to move. "Nein, nein."
Tobias nods. "Ja." He jabs Reid again, and the pain floats away like a cloud. The cold recedes.
Tobias stands, picks up his rifle and pack. "Farewell, Ami."
"Wait," Reid calls. "Why...why did you help me?"
Tobias smiles and he is beautiful. "Why not?"
* * *
It's snowing. Not much.
Only a little.
Great white flakes fall, as big as feathers. Reid watches them. They whisper against his face and hands. He feels good. Sleepy. A small part of his brain is trying to get his attention, it's nattering on about morphine and hypothermia and the possibility of a concussion. Reid's not particularly interested.
The snow is surprisingly heavy, it presses against his eyelids. He drifts back into sleep.
His mother is standing barefoot in the snow. Her short, blond hair is unwashed, her face is older than her years, lined with worry. She wears a white hospital gown, a pink bathrobe hangs loose over her thin frame.
"Spencer," she calls. "Spencer, get up." She kneels besides him, pulls at his hand.
Reid wants to move. He wants to please her, make her happy, but he can't. His whole life, he's wanted to make her happy, but she's beyond happiness now, she's gone, impenetrable. Still, when she asks, Reid tries to get up. He's frozen, a lead soldier left in the snow. He tries to move his hand, his arm, his leg.
The only thing that moves is the pain. It wakes, stretching bigger, bigger, inside his head. It ripples, spins, arcs like lightning.
"I don't know what to do," Diana says. She's weeping. "Please don't leave me, Spencer." She's sobbing now, and Reid's chest feels too small for his ribs. "Please."
Paul Bäumer kneels beside Diana Reid. His face is pale, his eyes the color of despair. His helmet sits crooked on top of disheveled brown hair. Reid wants to reach up, push the helmet straight.
Paul says, "A hospital alone shows what war is." His voice is is the sound of wind in the trees.
Reid wants to tell Paul he isn't going to the hospital, he doesn't need a dying room. He's going to die right here, in the snow. He's made his peace with that.
Paul is disgusted by Reid's thoughts. He tips his head toward Diana. "Do you think your mother is at peace?"
She doesn't even know where I am.
"She knows more than you think."
Paul leans down, attaches something to each side of Reid's head. They feel like....electrodes. No. Reid wants to move now. He'll get up. He will. Paul forces a stick between Reid's teeth. "Bite down," he whispers, and pulls the switch.
Reid screams. He bolts upright and the pain is so bad the world spins, goes gray. He vomits into the snow, coughing up spit and blood while he trembles violently. His head is full of thunder and light, but it has nothing to do with ECT. He was dreaming. He was dreaming, that's all. His mother isn't here.
She's in New York.
Reid's in Belgium. Alone. Freezing to death.
No, not alone. Paul Bäumer is watching him. He stands a few feet away in his dated uniform, hands in his pockets. Reid puts a hand to his head. It roars like the ocean. He can feel the makeshift bandage. The empty syrettes lie in the snow. Bits of dirt and branches are everywhere. So are cloth pieces of his medic bag. Reid has a concussion. He is hallucinating. He needs to move.
He needs to get up.
He needs his helmet.
He needs his glasses.
He needs Hotch.
Reid squints at the snow. His hands are numb. He's shivering, shaking so hard his breath comes in strangled gasps. The sense of peace, of goodness, is gone.
Spencer crawls slowly, painfully, forward. His side hurts. He lifts his jacket and shirt with stiff, uncooperative fingers. A shining piece of shrapnel the size of a dime sticks out of his skin. He blinks at it stupidly, pulls his uniform back down. That's not so bad. He's conscious, he's moving, he's lucid. That's good. He's not sure why a fictional soldier is keeping him company, but he'll worry about that after he has his glasses.
There's a small crater where the mine was. That's where Reid starts his search. He wastes precious minutes worrying about additional mines hiding beneath the snow. Eventually he decides he's likely to die out here regardless, and death via mine is faster than hypothermia.
He spends years in the snow. Decades. His hands are red and raw, the cracks along his knuckles turn the snow pink with blood. His side aches. His left eye is swollen shut. He has no idea what time it is. Time has stopped. Maybe the war is over. It ended months ago, and no one bothered to tell him. The war is over, and that's why Tobias helped him.
Reid finds the glasses about ten feet from his helmet. They're bent, the wire frames twisted. Spencer straightens them as best he can, puts them on. The trees sharpen into focus.
So does Paul.
"You're not real," Spencer whispers. "You're in my head. Y-you're a concussion."
Paul lifts his rifle, rests it against his shoulder. A bayonet is fixed to the end. "I'm just as real as you," he says. And then he's gone.
Reid holds up his hand, looks at it. His hand is still here. So is the rest of him. Good. That's good. He crawls to his helmet, tucks it under his arm. He leans his shoulder against the trunk of a tree, pushes himself up, slowly, slowly.
He manages one staggering step. And then another. He can still see his earlier trail of footprints. They're faint, half buried in fresh snow, but it's enough to get him back to Easy Company.
He can do this. Hotch believes in him. Garcia believes in him. Reid stumbles, puts a hand to his jacket, frantically patting the fabric. Her letter and photo. Please let them be there, please, please. They aren't. His pocket is empty. He checks the other pocket, barely breathing, and there's the edge of the envelope against his finger. He almost sobs with relief. Penelope's still with him. He pats the pocket gently, relieved, when he feels something else. A small rectangular shape.
Reid grits his teeth and fishes the box out. Small German words march around the box. Two of the words are Bayer Company. A third is morphine. Spencer looks at the box for a long time. Apparently Tobias went through his pockets, looked at his correspondence. Left him a parting gift.
Spencer stands there, shaking, sweating. He recalls that feeling of peace, of safety. Of relief. He wants that again. Reid makes a noise deep in his throat and shoves the box back in his pocket. It's a noise of despair, or disappointment, or both. He doesn't need the morphine. He's okay. But it doesn't hurt to keep it just in case. Not for him. One of the guys might need it.
It's not for him.