Though I Am in Still Water 4/5
Written for the Eagle's Nest Crossover Challenge.
Title: Though I Am in Still Water 4/5
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! ♥
"I am young, I am twenty years old; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow. I see how peoples are set against one another, and in silence, unknowingly, foolishly, obediently, innocently slay one another.
~ Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet On The Western Front, Ch. 10
Hotch threads a belt of ammo through the machine gun. He drops down behind the gun, rests his hands on his knees. So far there's no movement near Foy, but he'll be ready if there is.
Earl McClung's beside him, reading an old issue of Dick Tracy. McClung takes a drag on his cigarette, flips the page.
"Hey, Hotchner."
Nobody uses Hotch's full last name. The fact that Roe just did can't be a good sign. Hotch leans forward, sees Roe emerge from behind a copse of trees.
"What?"
"You seen Reid? He back yet?"
Hotch glances at his watch. Thirteen hundred hours. Reid's been gone nearly three hours. "I thought he was with you," Hotch says slowly.
"Nah, I just got back. Took longer than I thought, we hadda wait for the goddamn 82nd convoy." Roe shoves a hand through his hair, heaves a sigh. "So you ain't seen Reid since I left?"
"No." Hotch stands, heads for Muck's foxhole. "Eugene, I don't think he's here."
Roe grimaces. "Shit."
Skip, Don, Penk and Luz are all gathered in Skip's foxhole. Muck's telling some story about when he was a kid that has to do with a hornet's nest and the Niagara River.
"Skip." Hotch's tone stops the story immediately. Luz stops laughing. All four faces look at him.
Skip speaks around his cigarette. "What's wrong?"
"Any of you guys seen Reid?"
Skip rubs a hand over his jaw. He exchanges a look with Penk. "Not for a couple hours at least. He was headin' over to D Company."
"He never came back," Hotch says.
Luz, Muck and Malarkey immediately scramble out of the foxhole.
"No," Hotch points back toward CP. "You don't need to look for him. I'll go. But somebody should tell Winters we might have a man MIA, and track down Dike."
"Good luck with that," Luz mutters. Then: "I'll get Lip."
"You sure you don't want help?" Skip asks Hotch. He clearly wants to join the search.
"I'm sure. You should be here in case he gets back. If you see him, you tell him he's gonna get it good."
Gene levels a steady look at Hotch. "I'm comin' with you."
Hotch wants to protest, but he knows why Roe wants to come. Hotch doesn't pray much, but he makes up for lost time now. He hopes to God Reid doesn't need a medic.
It doesn't take long to find Reid's footprints once they're clear of camp. "Only one set," Roe points out.
Hotch doesn't reply. It's clear enough Reid left for Dog Company but never returned. At least not by the same route.
"I shoulda gone with him," Roe says. Regret sharpens his accent.
Hotch glares at the doc. "I should have gone." Christ, what had he been thinking?
They walk in silence. The snow squeaks beneath their boots. Snowflakes fall. Dead leaves whisper. The air smells like frost and pine.
Roe rubs his nose. It's red with cold. "You know, D Company's short a medic. Maybe Speirs ordered Reid to stay and help a while."
Hotch scans the trees, the horizon, for any sign of his friend. Worry twists his gut.
"Maybe he got lost."
"Reid's no Boy Scout, but he's got a good sense of direction. He's better at geography than anyone I know."
"This ain't pickin' Luxembourg out on a map," Roe says shortly, "this is finding another company through an unfamiliar forest, in shitty weather, with a buncha Germans breathin' down our necks."
Hotch stops walking, glares at Eugene. "I thought you were trying to make me feel better."
"I ain't tryin' to make you anything. I'm trying to find Reid."
"Then let's try more walking, less talking."
Roe shrugs. "Fine."
Hotch pulls the collar of his jacket up. Fucking wind chill. They start walking again, this time in silence. Hotch holds his rifle at the ready, squinting through the endless snow. Reid has to be okay. Having Spencer here is like having a piece of home. Reid isn't just a student, or a friend, he's like a kid brother. Reid's not like Sean, because Sean never really depended on Hotch. Sean was self confident and easy going. Reid is neither. But he was getting there. And Aaron Hotchner's not about to let some war get in the way of Spencer's potential.
"Hotch."
Aaron's been so busy thinking about Reid he's barely been looking for him. He glances up to see Roe running toward a figure in the snow. Oh, shit.
Reid's on his side, hands tucked between his knees. They can see exactly how far he's walked because one of his boots leaves a bloody print behind. He's got a bandage wrapped around his head. Beneath his coat, his OD jacket is stiff with blood.
"Oh shit, oh shit," Hotch babbles. "Reid, can you hear me? Reid, you okay? We've got you. You're okay." Aaron's hands grope at Reid's neck, searching for a pulse.
Roe shoves Hotch away. "Stop it. He's alive. He's shakin' enough to start an earthquake. Take off your coat, put it over him."
Hotch nearly dislocates his arm trying to get out of the wool coat. He lays it over Spencer. Reid opens his eyes. His glasses are crooked. Hotch grabs Reid's hand, rubs it between his own. "You're okay, Reid. You're okay."
Roe pulls out a lighter, holds it above Reid's face, peers into his eyes, looks under the bandage. "Reid? You hear me?"
Spencer's voice is barely a whisper, but it's there, it's there. Hotch rubs his mittened hand over his eyes. Thank God.
Reid's gaze slides over to Hotch. He smiles with cracked lips. "I knew you'd find me."
Roe snaps his fingers. "Hey Reid, look at me, okay? Look at me."
Reid rolls head until he's looking at Roe. "I'm sorry, Eugene."
"Sorry for what?" Gene asks, lifting Reid's shirt, feeling carefully around the shrapnel.
Spencer hisses in pain, tries to roll away. "No, no, no," Doc says quickly, "you gotta keep lookin' at me. You gotta stay awake."
"That...that hurts."
"Yeah, I bet it does," Roe soothes. His voice is calm and steady. He speaks like he's actually listening to Reid, like he gives a shit about Reid's rambling while he's trying to keep the kid alive. That's when Hotch realizes Eugene Roe is more than a medic, he's a man with a gift. He's a goddamn saint. Hotch is never going to snap at Roe again. Aaron would gladly kiss the doc right fucking now, right on his wind-burned cheek if he didn't think it would distract Roe from Spencer. And possibly get him a punch to the face.
"What're you sorry for, Reid?" Roe asks gently. "You got nothin' to be sorry for."
"I stepped on a mine."
Roe looks at Reid's boots, then at Hotch. "He got both his feet in those?"
Hotch slides over to check. The left boot is fine, but the right one is soaked in blood. There's a jagged hole in one side of the boot, but not the other. "Looks like he's got a piece of shrapnel stuck in his foot."
"Okay, you didn't step on a mine, Reid. If you did, your feet'd still be back there."
Reid frowns, his eyes roll. "I dropped my bag. I dropped my bag on a mine. Everything's gone. I didn't get any supplies. I didn't get any supplies and everything I had is gone." Reid's voice is frayed, it starts to unravel. "I'm sorry, Gene. I'm really sorry."
"Don't be sorry, it's fine. I'd rather have you in one piece than your kit. Can you stand?"
Reid nods. "I-I think so." His voice drops, as if he's ashamed. "If I have help."
"You got plenty a help. Okay, here we go. Hotch, put your arm like this." Roe slides an arm beneath Reid's armpit, around his back. Aaron does the same. "Yeah, good. Okay, on the count of three."
Hotch takes a deep breath.
"One...two...three."
They lift Reid in one smooth motion. He doesn't weigh anything at all. Jesus. Hotch pulls his coat so it covers Reid's shoulders.
"Can you walk?" Roe asks.
"Yeah. I can't feel my feet."
Roe barks a laugh. "Believe me, that aint' a bad thing right now. We're gonna walk slow, now. We got you."
The walk back takes forever. Reid shivers between them, but he remains upright. Hotch is soaked in sweat after a dozen steps. He's terrified he's going to accidentally step on Reid's wounded foot, accidentally knock him down.
Roe talks the whole way. He cajoles Reid, compliments him. He wheedles, bribes, threatens Spencer forward.
Reid's quiet most of the way, his face tight, teeth clenched in concentration. They stop every few feet. "You're doin' great," Roe says, patting Reid's cheek. "We're almost there. We can get you to the aid station."
"No," Reid says, his voice loud enough to make Hotch flinch. "No aid station, no hospital. I gotta stay with you. With Easy."
Eugene and Hotch exchange a look. "Well, we'll see what's what when we get back to camp."
"I just need to sleep," Reid says, petulance bleeding into his voice.
Roe huffs. "Yeah, you need more than that, buddy."
"I saw a butterfly," Reid says, petulance replaced by melancholy. "Only it wasn't a butterfly." He rubs his face, stumbles, rights himself. "Hospitals are where you go to die. My mom's in a hospital." He looks from Roe to Hotch. "Don't make me go to the hospital. Hospitals show what war is really like. That's what Paul says."
Hotch feels like he's been kicked in the gut. He doesn't know exactly what's wrong with Reid's mom, except she's mentally ill. (Crazy.) And hearing Reid talk like this, well. It makes him feel like punching somebody. New worries vie for Hotch's attention. Exactly how hard did Reid hit his head? What if his brain is--is messed up? Hotch squeezes his eyes shut for a long second. Reid's a genius, he can't have brain damage.
"Hotch."
Roe's looking at him, concerned. "He took a good knock to the head," Gene says quietly. "It's okay if he doesn't make sense. It doesn't mean anything." He offers Hotch a small smile.
Hotch clings to it.
Lipton and Muck emerge from the gloom. Lipton takes one look, picks up Reid's legs.
Reid protests. "Put me down! Lip, I can walk!"
Lip grins, walks backwards. "That's some coincidence, Reid, so can I. And right now, I'm gonna do your walking for you."
They half carry, half drag Reid, and within minutes he's lying beneath a shelter half. "Who's got a flashlight?" Roe demands.
Skip kneels down, shines it at Reid's head. Roe pulls off the bandage, and for the first time, Hotch sees the cut along Reid's temple. It's deep and ugly. Bits of bark glisten in the wound. Roe checks Reid's shrapnel wounds for a second time.
"How is he?" Hotch asks, as far from Reid's earshot as he can manage. "He gonna make it?"
"Yeah, but I gotta get him to the aid station. He needs stitches, the shrapnel removed. I'm a medic, not a surgeon. I can't do that here."
Reid shakes his head. "No. I want to stay here."
"Fuck that," Luz says amicably. "You gotta listen to the doc, Reid. Get yourself fixed up, then you can come back and tell us how much you missed us."
"How is he?"
Everyone turns to look at Winters. The Captain is crouched next to the shelter half, eyes on Reid. He looks tired. There's a cut on his neck, probably from shaving.
"I think he'll be okay. He's got a nice gash on his head, maybe a concussion. Shrapnel in the left flank and right foot. Don't look like either piece went in too far."
Winters leans toward Reid. "Spencer? How are you feeling?"
"I've felt better...sir."
The men chuckle nervously. Winters grins. "I bet you have. I know you don't want to go to the aid station, Spencer, but I'm giving you an order. You're going. We'll be here when you get back."
"Unless the war ends," Skip pipes up.
"Unless the war ends," Winters echoes dryly.
Skip, Malarkey and Luz get Reid to the jeep. They lay him on a stretcher mounted across the hood. It looks about as safe as dragging Reid behind the jeep in a mummy bag. There's a black driver behind the steering wheel. The guy better drive like he's carrying his mother and her good china on that stretcher.
"Doc?"
Roe's busy fixing a tag to Reid's jacket. "Yeah?"
"Are you going with him?"
Roe shakes his head. "Nah. If we get shelled I wanna be here for the guys. Reid's on his own." He puts a hand on Hotch's arm, adds. "Just for now. He'll be okay."
Hotch rubs his nose. "Can I go with him? I mean, what if he has a seizure or something on the way? Don't concussions give you seizures, or convulsions or whatever?"
Roe sighs, shrugs. "Yeah, sure. But I don't think Houdini's gonna have a seizure." He gestures to the jeep. "But if you think you're gonna have one if you don't go with him, fine. I'll tell Lip, but you find him the minute you get back. And you're only there 'til Reid's settled."
Hotch grins, more than a little relieved. "Thanks, Doc."
"Yeah, yeah," Roe says, smiling.
Hotch jumps into the passenger seat, leans forward to pat Reid's hand. "Everything's gonna be okay."
Reid's eyes are closed. His face is pinched, his hands clenched. Hotch can see the pale veins beneath Reid's skin, the hard lines of his skull at his temples, his jaw. God, he looks so young.
"Hey, I know you," the driver says, all friendly like, and starts the jeep.
Hotch glances at him. There aren't exactly a lot of black guys in the Army. At least not around here. It's the same guy who drove them into Bastogne, what, 13 days ago? Christ, that was another lifetime. The guy's name is Eric. No, Derek.
Hotch isn't in the mood to talk. He nods curtly. "Yeah."
Morgan pulls the jeep onto the road. Hotch waits for him to drive faster, to put on some speed. He doesn't. Christ, he drives like a fucking grandma.
"Can't you go any faster?" Hotch finally asks. He's this close to pushing Morgan out the door so he can drive.
Morgan nods pleasantly. "Sure. As long as you don't mind your friend bouncing off into that ditch over there." Derek lifts an eyebrow, regards Hotch thoughtfully. "I was kinda under the impression you wanted babyface here to reach the aid station without further injury."
Hotch glares at the dashboard, wishing swift death upon Derek Morgan.
"Look," Morgan says quietly, "I'm a pretty good driver. Between that doc and me, your friend'll get to the aid station okay."
Hotch lets himself relax slightly. "Uh, sorry," he finally says. "I didn't mean to bitch about your driving."
Morgan laughs. "Man, if I had a nickel for every white guy who apologized to me, I'd have--" Morgan purses his lips, like he's doing some complicated equation "--exactly one nickel."
Hotch grins in spite of himself. "You have to put up with a lot of shit?"
Morgan shrugs. "Don't we all." He nods toward Reid. "You two come in together, right? You friends?"
"Yeah. I'm--was--his college professor."
"Huh. What'd you teach?"
"Psychology."
"Whoa. Impressive." Morgan taps on the steering wheel with an index finger. "I was a police officer."
Hotch stares at the driver with new eyes. "Really? Where?"
"South Chicago. Thought it would prepare me for some of the shit I'd see here, but no."
"You've seen a lot of action?"
Morgan snorts. "Sure, if you count driving trucks all over the place action."
"You get us where where we need to be," Hotch says earnestly. "There's nothing wrong with that. We'd be lost without you." Aaron chuckles. "Literally."
Morgan flashes Hotch a brilliant smile. "Thanks, man."
There aren't many lights in Bastogne, but the windows of the aid station are bright and welcoming. "And here we are," Morgan says, pulling to a stop in front of the station. "Everybody present and accounted for."
Hotch slaps Morgan's shoulder. "Thank you."
* * *
When Reid wakes up he's lying a cot. There are men all around him. Men lying on cots like his, men lying on the floor, men propped against the wall. There are men wearing white coats, men with white armbands emblazoned with red crosses like the one he and Roe wear. There are nurses. Some with kind faces, some with stern. They are all beautiful because this is war, and they are women. An unexpected beauty in an ugly place.
The men on the cots moan. Some scream. The men in white coats and armbands move among the wounded, they check bandages, stitch wounds, treat trench foot and frost bite. They carry no weapons; they are armed with needles, stethoscopes, scalpels. With morphine.
Reid's head hurts, his side hurts, his foot hurts.
He's at the aid station. There are many faces, but none are familiar. Reid closes his eyes, tries to stay calm. He tries to tell himself this is a good thing, that he can be evacuated to a hospital, get away from the front. Get away from the war. But even as he thinks it, he knows he would never leave Hotch or Eugene or Skip. The men of Easy Company depend on him.
He's still alive. So he has to go back. There's nothing Reid wants less. Despite his dread, the need to go remains. At last, Spencer understands Hotch's point of view.
Reid feels for his watch. It's still on his wrist. No one stole it while he was sleeping. He sits up slowly, carefully. His head feels as if it's full of ball bearings. As he moves, they slide from one side of his head to the other. They weigh him down, make his movements heavy, sluggish. He looks at his feet. His boots are gone. Reid's left foot is white, translucent marble. White indicates first degree frostbite. His right foot has a bandage wrapped around it. His foot feels like an anchor. Spencer drags it toward him, but the pain in his side forces him to stop.
"You should rest, Private Reid."
A doctor stands beside Spencer's cot. "You're a very lucky young man."
Lucky. The word feels like a slap. If Reid were lucky, he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be in the war. His mother wouldn't be in a sanitarium. His father wouldn't have walked out on them. If Reid were lucky the mine would have killed him so he wouldn't have to listen to this condescending idiot.
Reid's voice feels like it's spent the last month in a drawer, collecting dust. "Do I...do I have a concussion?"
"A mild one. We stitched your head up good as new. The shrapnel in your side punctured the muscle and came to rest right against your kidney." The doctor smiles, like he's the bearer of good news. "Again, very lucky."
"And my foot?"
"The shrapnel was stuck in the first metatarsal. It's a wonder it didn't break the bone. We removed it, patched you up. It'll hurt like a bitch, but as long as you stay off it, you'll make a full recovery."
"I can't stay off it," Reid tells him. "I'm a medic."
"Not right now you're not." A soldier screams on the other side of the room. "Get some rest," the doctor instructs, and hurries off.
One of the stern faced nurses is placing a compress on an injured man's forehead.
Reid calls to her, tentative. "Excuse me?"
She looks up.
"Is there a chance I could get a bowl of water and a wash cloth? Whenever you have a chance," he adds, "I'm, uh, happy to wait."
The nurse smiles, and instantly, she is kind. "Just let me finish up here, sweetie."
Reid smiles at the nurse's small endearment. Garcia calls him sweetie. So did his mother. The smile fades. He locks his hands together, fingers twisting nervously.
Spencer's cot faces the wall. He can see out a window, the frosted glass marked with a large X of tape. It's night. He pushes his glasses up on his nose, squints. There are no flashes in the sky, no misplaced stars that indicate shelling. He listens. There is no thunder. There is nothing but the sound of men's misery.
Is this what his mother hears at night? When she hears the voices, do they scream this loudly? Or do they mutter quietly, hopelessly, like the man in the next cot over?
"Here you go." The nurse places a metal bowl of water in Reid's lap. She hands him a clean rag and a square, chipped mirror. She has dark hair done up in a bun. "How's your pain?"
Reid thinks of the rectangular box in his jacket. His jacket. He looks around. The nurse seems to read his mind.
"Your belongings are under the cot."
"Thanks." He smiles weakly. The muscles in his face don't seem to be working right. "My pain is--"
Unbearable.
Constant.
Oblivious to words.
Untouched by medicine.
Exhausting.
"--is fine," Reid manages. "I'm fine."
The nurse nods and Reid is left alone with the water. He cleans his face carefully, his neck, his arms. He rinses the cloth out, wipes at his armpits. The water is warm. Reid can't remember the last time he felt warm water on his skin. What he wouldn't give for an actual shower. Or better yet, a bath.
He leans over, sets the bowl on the chair next to his cot. He picks up the mirror, inspects his face. His left eyelid is red and angry, a deep purple rings the eye. He counts ten stitches along his temple. There are five in his side. Four in his foot. Nineteen mild and lucky stitches.
Spencer swings his legs over the side of the cot. The ball bearings roll in his head, the room tilts. He waits for it to settle. When it does, he reaches under the cot. His fingertips find the box, pull it out. There are his boots. And his uniform. He pulls his bloodstained t-shirt on, then his jacket. He lies the wool coat over himself like a blanket, puts the purple scarf beneath his head like a pillow.
Very faintly, he can feel the comfort of the little box against his chest. He closes his eyes.
He sleeps fitfully. His dreams are full of men who choke to death on their own blood, who cling to disembodied, mangled limbs like drowning sailors. He wakes periodically to find Tobias offering him a drink of water, only Tobias turns out to be the dark-haired nurse.
Reid wonders where Tobias is, if he's still alive. Does his mother know where he is, worry for him? If Tobias steps on a mine, will an American soldier be there to help him? Reid doesn't think so.
He dreams of Paul and Kat and Mueller. He dreams Paul sits at his bedside. He doesn't ask for Reid's boots. He sits quietly, a colored halo of butterflies around his head. Reid reaches for one. It's yellow and bright, the color of sunshine and childhood.
When Spencer wakes he is not holding a butterfly. He is holding a box which contains a syrette of morphine. Dawn presses her pale face to the window. Reid sits up slowly. His bones creak. He flicks a quick gaze to either side.
There are no nurses, no doctors, only wounded men.
Spencer tells himself he doesn't need the morphine. He knows this.
Spencer Reid knows a lot of things. He knows there are 168 prime numbers between 1 and 1,000. He knows convulsive therapy was introduced by an Hungarian neuropsychiatrist named Ladislas Meduna in 1934. He knows ECT no longer helps his mother. He knows the main schools of thought on criminology are classical, positivist, Italian, Lacassagne, sociological and Chicago. He knows the term "criminology" was coined by an Italian law professor named Raffaele Garofalo as criminologia in 1885.
Reid knows morphine was first discovered as an alkaloid by Herr Freidrich Wilhelm Sertürner in 1804. Sertürner named his discovery after Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams. Reid knows Morpheus is the son of Hypnos, the god of sleep. He also knows that the only Greek god who visits Bastogne, Belgium with any regularity is Ares.
Spencer knows morphine is highly addictive, that so many Civil War veterans became dependent that morphine addiction was called "The Soldier's Disease." Reid is simply following in the shuffling footsteps of his forebearers. Reid knows he's already addicted, that he wants (needs, craves) more, that desire has nothing to do with his physical pain.
He knows enough to know better.
But the morphine makes him feel warm and peaceful, like afternoon sunlight in June. It makes him feel like everything he's ever done is right. It takes away the guilt with a single prick like a newer, better religion. It makes him feel like his mother remembers him. It makes him feel like his father was never disappointed in him. It makes him feel like Hotch will live through the war, that he will live the war. It makes Reid feel like he actually wants to. Morphine speaks in a voice more soothing than Eugene Roe's, sweeter than Garcia's. It speaks to him now.
Reid expects his hands to shake when he pulls out the ampule. They don't.
* * *
The doctor and two nurses try to get him to stay at the aid station. The doctor raises his voice, throws words at Reid like rest and recovery and report. He launches the word charges like a grenade.
Reid shrugs them off. They drop to the floor and shatter. The pieces shine like kaleidoscopes on the stained cement. It doesn't matter if he goes AWOL. He's not at a hospital, the doctor is simply enjoying the sound of his own voice, his illusion of power. Reid smiles. It's not like he can be demoted. There's nothing lower than a private.
On the way out he takes a medic bag. A replacement medic bag. There are a pile of them on a table, empty. They look lonely. He fills one with clean strips of rags and three tourniquets. It's not much, but it's better than the nothing he had.
He is still made of sunlight when he steps outside. Not early afternoon sunlight, but the final golden hours that border twilight. Reid blinks. His mouth is dry.
The morning is bitter, the sky chalk. Reid doesn't mind, he has his own warmth.
He stands in front of the aid station. The wind blows his hair, his scarf. He holds his helmet in one hand. In the other, his new medic kit. Next door is the PX. There's a soldier inside, sorting mail. There's a Screaming Eagle patch on his sleeve, the 506th parachute emblem on his cap.
The soldier looks up. "Help you?"
"Is any of that mail for Easy Company, 506th?"
The man nods. "Sure is. You lookin' for a letter?"
Reid smiles. "Just a ride."
* * *
Luz doesn't even have to think. "Warm feet. Like, three pairs of socks and big fuckin' slippers warm feet."
Skip looks disappointed. "That's what you miss the most?"
"Fuck yeah, I miss havin' goddamn circulation down there." He makes a face, rolls his eyes. "And down there."
Muck laughs. Liebgott smirks.
"I'd still rather have a great big juicy hamburger," Penk says dreamily.
"The only thing I miss is Faye." Muck smiles beatifically.
Luz takes a drag on his cigarette, glares at Skip. "You're a terrible person, you know that?"
Muck gives Luz a little nod. "Takes one to know one."
Liebgott takes his turn. "I miss big soft titties." He's shivering, his lips blue around his Lucky Strike.
Several of the other guys whistle and guffaw.
Don leans toward Muck. "What, like some kind of ghostly floating titties or the whole package?"
Skip shrugs. "I ain't gonna ask."
Luz fiddles with the radio, still chuckling. He tries to wipe the frost off with his sleeve, succeeds in smearing it around some, but that's all. There's movement and he turns, expecting to see Johnny or Lip. He stares, cigarette dangling. Ash drops onto his hand but he doesn't even notice.
"Reid."
Muck flaps his hand at Luz, annoyed. "You already picked."
"No," Luz says, pointing. "Reid."
The gangly medic stands beside Allen Vest. He looks like he's had the shit beat out of him. Or lost to Winters in a wrestling match. His stupid purple scarf is tied around one boot, his helmet's dented, and his glasses are crooked. What the fuck is this kid doing back here?
George decides to find out. "It's not like we ain't delighted to see you, Doc, but what the fuck are you doin' back here?"
Muck and Don are already running over to him, shaking his hand, patting his back.
"I'm fine," Spencer tells them. Reid's voice is nearly as thin as the rest of him. "The doctor declared me fit for duty." He shrugs, smiles. "So here I am."
"Hey guys," Vest says, "I'm here too. How about some love?" He holds up a bag. "I got mail."
"Whatcha got for me?" Luz asks, reaching for the bag.
Vest pulls it away. "I got nothin' but the utmost respect for you, George Luz."
"Fuck that," Luz says, "what about a package from my ma?"
Vest shakes his head. "Sorry. But how's this?" Allen reaches into his pocket, tosses George a rectangular object.
Luz catches it in one hand. It's chocolate. Real chocolate. Holy jumping fuck, there is something better than warm feet. He beams. "Thanks, Vest."
Vest does a little two-finger salute. "You betcha." He moves off through the men, calling names, handing out letters and parcels.
George walks over to the guys clumped around Reid. "You sure you're okay, Doc?"
Reid nods, his long hair obscuring his face. "I'm good as new."
* * *
Roe's on his way back from the latrine when he hears Shifty and Popeye. "--back faster than Joe Toye did. That's mighty impressive."
Eugene stops, rubs his hands together. "Who's back?"
Shifty smiles at him from beneath his snow-camouflaged helmet. "Doc Houdini's back."
"I guess he really is magic," Popeye drawls through a smile.
Roe walks off, on the lookout for Hotch. He's not angry Reid's back. Not exactly. He's thankful to have help. But how the hell is Reid supposed to help if he's too injured to do anything? Dammit, Reid's supposed to cut the workload in half, not give Roe more to do. What's he thinking comin' back this fast?
Hotch is playing a game of chess with Perco. "Hey," Roe calls, "your buddy's back."
Hotchner looks up, confused. "My buddy? Who--?" He stares hard at Roe. "What? Reid's back? Already?"
"So I hear. You wanna tell me what that's all about?"
"No," Perconte interjects. "He wants to take his turn." Frank points at the little game board. "Right, Hotch?"
Hotch jumps to his feet. He looks stunned. "Can he even walk?"
"Aw, come on, guys. Can't we finish the game first?" Frank looks from Roe to Hotch. "Please?"
"Later, Perconte," Hotch says, and joins Roe.
Eugene can tell Hotch is pissed. No, pissed ain't right. Worried. And from the look on Aaron's face, Roe is betting this ain't the first time Hotch has been worried about Reid.
They find Spencer with Muck, Malarkey and Luz. They're huddled inside Luz's foxhole, Reid sits up top, on the edge. Roe narrows his eyes. Reid probably can't get down in there without pulling his stitches. Jesus.
Roe seats himself on one side of Reid, Hotch on the other. Reid smiles, but doesn't look too sincere about it. "Hi, guys."
"Hi yourself," Hotch says. "You look an awful lot like my friend Spencer, but he's got the brains to stay at the aid station or hospital until he's healed up." Hotch lifts an eyebrow. "So my question is, who the fuck are you?"
Reid sighs like he's been holding in a week's worth of air. "Hotch, it's no big deal. My foot's okay, the shrapnel didn't hit anything important, and my head's fine."
"I sincerely doubt that," Eugene says. "If you were thinkin' straight you wouldn't be here."
Spencer's smile has a little honesty behind it this time. "I could say that about all you guys."
Luz nods sadly. "He has a point."
Roe lowers his voice. "How you gonna help the guys when you can't even help yourself? Can you even walk?" Reid looks awful. His face is flushed, his forehead slick with sweat.
"I can walk. And I can get into the foxhole," Reid says, giving Roe a nice try look. "I just didn't want to cuz I figured you'd be looking for me." His smile turns sweet. "And I don't have a fever. I'm just a little tired."
Damn. The kid's good. "I just don't want--"
Reid interrupts. "I know. Don't worry. I just wanted to get back and help. What kind of a replacement would I be if you needed to replace me?"
Roe simply looks at Reid. Gene gets that Reid wants to help and he's thankful. But he doesn't need to kill himself doing it. Still, Reid's had the same training Gene has. If Reid thinks he can handle being back, Roe figures he should trust the kid's decision. Roe nods grudgingly. "Okay. But you hafta monitor yourself for any sign of infection. I'll be keeping an eye on you."
Spencer nods. "Okay." He pats his pocket. "Oh, by the way, I have something for you." He hands Gene a chocolate bar.
Roe's heart feels like a clenched fist. He swallows. "Where'd...where'd you get that?"
"Private Vest got a hold of some chocolate, he was giving it out." Reid shrugs, unaware of what this kindness, this gesture means to Roe. "I wanted to make sure you got some." Reid tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. He looks young. He looks innocent. He looks nervous. He looks like he belongs anywhere but here.
Gene looks at the chocolate. He looks at Reid's fingers. They remind him of Renée's. Her blue scarf is long gone, but sometimes, when Eugene is alone, he lets himself recall the soft music of her voice, her smile. He takes Reid's gift, touched.
"Thanks."
"What about me?" Hotch looks almost hurt.
Spencer shakes his head. "Sorry. Chocolate has medicinal properties, that's why Gene needs it. When you become a medic I'll give you some too."
Hotch frowns, folds his arms. "Fine. See if I share the next--"
Reid laughs. "I'm kidding. Here." He hands a second bar to Aaron.
The look of relief on Hotch's face is downright comical. He pulls Reid into an awkward hug. "I'm glad you're back."
"You just take it easy," Roe reminds him.
Spencer looks down at his hands. "I will."