Hearts In Winter (RPF_Big_Bang 2009) [3/8]

[ellie_fic]

three

Their days fall into an accepted routine with surprisingly easy speed. Woken at five so that they can be forced into doing countless push- and sit-ups, Dye, Farnsworth and the others placed in overall charge of them stalking around offering the Army's version of 'encouragement', they are then unceremoniously dragged halfway around Longmoor Ranges, at speed, before breakfast. Hours, upon hours of various training exercises follow - during which they are all shown how to handle a rifle, and taught how to shoot it without amputating their shoulders because of the powerful kick-back it makes when fired. They listen to theory lectures, they complain amongst themselves about the distinct lack of alcohol, they valiantly attempt to dutifully obey every word that Damian throws in their general directions, they smoke too much in an attempt to compensate for the lack of other mental stimulants, and they find themselves muddling along the best that they can until the end of the day, when they have two and a half hours of what is euphemistically, optimistically termed 'free time'.

By the third day, Eion already knows that it is this brief interlude in what he suspects is torture borne of absolute madness, which he likes best.

Whilst the others assigned to his barracks hut collapse wearily onto their bed frames, drowse away the only time in which they are permitted to be themselves, to be mere men instead of wannabe soldiers, Eion bulls his boots until they shine, then picks up a dog-eared paperback book with creases folded into its battered covers from constant use, and wanders outside to sit in the chill late winter air of twilight and read...

He is alone for little more than ten minutes; just long enough to forget enough of his surroundings, immerse himself in the densely packed writing deeply enough that when he hears the harsh, spluttering cough of somebody clearing their throat behind him, he jumps; startled.

“Sorry -,”

Ross' voice drifts lowly to where Eion sits upon the steps that lead up into the barracks hut behind him. He sounds bemused, not sorry in the slightest for having frightened the other man, and Eion narrows his eyes, irritated as he breathes raggedly, tries to calm his racing heart enough to respond without a crack in his voice.

He has spent nearly three days doing his utmost to avoid spending time alone in Ross' company; doesn't want the treacherous tremor that assaults his body every time the other man is within touching distance to become something dangerous. An impulse that Eion's body cannot ignore, for example; the stretch of an arm and the stroke of a hand against skin that still looks soft despite the grime which is rapidly becoming ingrained upon it, the bristle of stubble where Ross is lazily absconding from his apparent 1940s need to shave perfectly and keep doing so... Breathing deeply, Eion forces himself to remember that he hurts enough already; he doesn't need any more physically incriminating bruises - and certainly none that will form the shape of Ross' fist against flesh marked in fury.

“Didn't mean to scare you, mate.”

Holding his thumb against the page that he's reading, Eion presses the book closed; shrugs a shoulder as he glances round at Ross; sees the slight smirk that belies the apology, gives the lie to the statement. He sighs, softly; looks away, back out at the distant tree-line that surrounds the camp. “You didn't.”

“Sure.” Ross snorts derisively, lowers himself onto the step alongside Eion, huffing out a sigh of seeming contentment as he settles, reaches for his pack of cigarettes in one fluid movement. “Fucking cold out here, isn't it?”

“I like it.”

For a moment, silence stretches between them, envelops the habitual, polite movements of Ross' hand as he holds out the crumpled cigarette pack in Eion's direction; quirks an eyebrow in an unspoken question that is answered equally silently when the other carefully digs fingertips into the cardboard confines and pulls a slightly crooked stick of tobacco from within its depths.

“Our lungs are going to be like fucking tar when this damned project's done with!” Ross chuckles, half-turning away so that he might light his cigarette, suck upon its filter with a greed that makes Eion wonder...

Dragging another deep breath inside of him, trying valiantly to control the shaking of his hands, the fine tremble that watching the slow curve of Ross' mouth about the filter-tip, the steady hollowing of his cheeks as he'd inhaled that first perfect lungful of nicotine and smoke, Eion fumbles in the pockets of his jacket for the box of matches that he knows should be there.

“Jesus!”

Ross' voice is obtusely low, bemused, affectionate, almost intimate, Eion cannot help but think - cannot stop himself from thinking, as he stills in his search for the matches; watches his companion turn and lean towards him, hands cupped about the flicker of a lighter's flame. Feeling himself flush with both embarrassment and the slow burn of a desire he has no real wish to explore, Eion places his cigarette between his lips and leans forward until its shaking tip strikes the flame of Ross' lighter.

Is lit.

“What the fuck'd you do without me, huh?” Ross laughs easily, leaning away as Eion inhales deeply; almost chokes on the fumes that instantly invade his system. There is a warmth that lingers about his eyes, though, that creases the corners as he continues to watch Eion as he splutters and coughs; that twists his mouth into something that should resemble a smirk... but lacks the sardonic curve that would make it so.

Shrugging his shoulders awkwardly, Eion coughs; manages to swallow down on the sudden thickness that coats his throat before he speaks. “I swear - I never smoked more than one a month before coming here!”

The incredulous look upon Ross' face is almost beautiful, Eion thinks absently as they stare at one another; wreathed in smoke, he peers through the dusk at him, his cigarette clenched tightly between his lips as he obviously tries to process the statement.

“One pack a month?”

“No -,” Eion admits quietly. “One cigarette a month. I'm from California, Ross. Healthy living capital of the world...?”

“Always had that figured as a cover of some sort -,” Ross says around the end of his cigarette, inhaling deeply from it once more, seemingly oblivious to the fascination that Eion suddenly finds in the way his mouth moves, the suckling motion of his jaw as he draws the smoke into his body...

“Yeah?” Eion is only vaguely aware that his mouth is forming words, but he's definitely proud of the fact that his voice does not tremble despite the shiver of sudden lust that races through him, the half-remembered shift of his dick below the multitude of layers that he's enshrouded himself with in an effort to prevent parts of his body that he's rather obscenely fond of from getting frostbite in the cold English climate and dropping off...

Tightly, he turns away; drags furiously against his own cigarette, glowers into the distance as he fights against his own impulsive nature, struggles to ignore the sudden need that has consumed him to commit virtual suicide by assaulting Ross in some desperate, possibly quite depraved way.

“Yeah, but -,” Ross starts, but is interrupted by a flurry of motion behind them, the hut door being flung almost theatrically open, and Tim practically falling through it.

Startled, Eion and Ross both turn to stare at the interloper upon the otherwise quiet evening, their bodies twisting towards one another as they do so, faces adorned with near identical expressions of confused puzzlement.

“Oh!” Tim's grin is wide, but lacks its usual warmth; seems, Eion thinks as he watches the way in which the other man twitches nervously in front of them, squeezes his eyes briefly shut and heaves a deep sigh as there sounds a burst of raucous laughter from behind him. “Hi, guys!”

“Hi -,” Ross' voice is smooth, calm, bemused - completely at odds with the irritation that Eion recognises illuminating the depths of his eyes when he glances quickly towards him, astonished by his composure. “You want something, Penkala?”

It is the use of his character's name, the heavy American accent in which he has chosen to speak that alerts Tim to the threat which appears to be building within Ross, and he blanches, the colour draining fluidly from his skin to leave it pale and almost waxy looking in the dull light that surrounds them.

“I... uh... that is...”

“A smoke, maybe?”

Eion cannot help but be amused by the methodical, easy way in which Ross is manipulating Tim, the panic and fear that he can see build within the depths of the young Englishman's eyes as they skitter helplessly between their faces. He laughs lowly, a soft noise of humour, that draws Ross' own eyes skimming towards him where they hesitate for a scant moment, before returning to glower at Tim.

“Or... what?”

“You... we... uh...” Shamefaced, he looks down at his boots; hesitantly glances back up at them both, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, the soft skin over the bridge of his nose. “Calil reckoned you were... well...”

“Okay -,” Ross says slowly, lifting one hand to scrub at a cheek. If he notices Tim's instinctive flinch, then he gives no sign, ignores too Eion's slight frown of concern. “And let's guess and see if I got this right, shall we, eh? Calil shoved you out here to interrupt the chat which Eion and I are having about books and the weather... yes?”

Helplessly, Tim nods his head; throws Eion an apologetic glance as he does so.

“Right.”

There is no longer any hint of irritation, burgeoning anger to the lilting cadence of Ross' voice, Eion realises as he listens; allows his gaze to dance between the two men's faces, recognising only tiredness in one and embarrassment in the other. That Calil should have been the one to - it would seem - practically toss Tim out into the cool night air, doesn't surprise Eion in the slightest. Even though he's gone out of his way to try to avoid spending time in his company, they run alongside one another each morning, have been assigned to the same platoon of men for most of the training exercises that Dye has dreamed up... and if he knows one thing about George Calil, Eion thinks with a tiredness which almost mirrors that upon Ross' face in that moment, it's that he's a malevolent bastard who has apparently taken against Eion simply because Ross had initially showed compassion towards his exhaustion.

“Calil's a fucking idiot, Tim -,” Ross' voice is quiet, gentle, at odds with the sharp expression of ire that continues to dominate his face. “You know that, mate, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Tim agrees quietly, slouching as he shoves his hands deep into his pockets, kicks ineffectually at the tightly nailed floorboards beneath his feet, with the toe of one boot. “I know. Sorry.”

“Okay. Tell him he'd better start sleeping with at least one eye open, won't you?”

Another grin shifts across Tim's face, laughter bubbling behind it, warm and genuine even as he steps backwards, shivering dramatically as he does so, hands already reaching to grasp the door in order to pull it shut behind him, between them. “Definitely!”

Certain that his astonishment shows clear upon his face, Eion stares at Ross for a moment or two, the sharp clatter of the door's closing behind Tim still ringing faintly in the air between them. “Were you a fucking schoolmaster in a previous life, or... what?”

“You mean a teacher, yeah?” Ross asks blandly, dropping his cigarette butt onto the step that his feet rest upon; stubbing it out before glancing back to Eion, tutting faintly, reaching out and plucking the smouldering cigarette from between lax fingers and sending it to the same fate as his own. He sighs deeply, drags his hands through his hair before seeming to settle once more. “Christ, you're about as switched on as your fucking character's supposed to be, Eion...”

“Webster was 'switched on' -,” Eion retorts without thought, no heat of irritation behind his words. He continues to stare at Ross, trace the line of the other man's nose with his eyes, wonder how it can be both aquiline and snubbed at the very same time...

“Yeah. 'Course he was.” Ross turns slightly, cants his head towards the book which Eion continues to hold in one hand, his gaze almost wistful. “So. I said we were talking about books, yeah?”

“Guess so...”

“So - what're you reading?”

Frowning faintly, Eion turns the book which he holds over in his hand, allows his thumb to slide nervelessly out from between the pages where it had marked his page; stares down at the cover, reads the familiar title, the sight of the author's name causing a now familiar flip of his heart as his gaze brushes across it. Exhaling deeply a breath that until that moment he'd not been aware he'd taken, he blinks back the sudden spring of moisture that flows across his eyes, purses his mouth slightly in an effort to secret away the slight tremble that he feels ricochet through his lips, chuckles mirthlessly as he tilts the book towards Ross; permits him to answer his own question.

“David Keny -,” Ross reads the words aloud, stopping so suddenly that Eion cannot help but wince; wonder whether this unfamiliar attempt at friendship that has been building between them is likely to crumble around him.

He waits for the outburst of mockery that he's nigh on certain Ross will verbally throw at him for having brought his own character's autobiography along to camp, for being a... Eion's brow furrows as he struggles to remember the words of the phrase, the jeering turn of phrase which he's heard Rick Warden laughingly say to Damian on occasion for having done precisely what he has.

'A suck up', he thinks miserably, the words sliding abruptly into his mind, causing him to flush dully as he listens to the quietness that the man sitting beside him continues to exude. Rick had called Damian a suck-up for having brought his file of notes taken during telephone conversations with the real Dick Winters, from written letters sent to him by the elderly gentleman who has agreed to help his quasi-doppelgänger give as accurate a portrayal of Easy Company's leader, as he possibly can...

“You have no fucking idea just how lucky you are -,” Ross' voice is low when it breaks through the silence which has fallen over them. “Do you?”

“Lucky?” Eion frowns, unable to comprehend the meaning behind Ross' words, the question he has asked of him, the soft despair that he thinks he's caught within the sound of the other man's voice. “What d'you mean?”

“Webster wrote a book.”

“Well -,” Bemused, puzzled, slightly exasperated, Eion turns his eyes back towards the paperback; runs his gaze across the creases in the cover, the multitude of lines that adorn the spine from where he's bent it open in order to scribble notes in the margins. He shakes his head, trying to convey his bewilderment at the statement. “Yeah...?”

“You have something to use for reference material, mate. I don't.”

Suddenly, Eion understands. “Oh.”

“Liebgott just disappeared -,” Ross slouches further into himself, folds his knees loosely towards his chest in order to balance the weight of his arms against them. Eyes narrowed against the slow dip of the fading sun, the cold glint of it shimmering in the windows of the various buildings that form the camp, sparking off to almost blind those who lounged outside during their brief moments of freedom, of down-time, he seems loathe to meet Eion's steady gaze; glares almost defiantly at the distant arch of trees which adorn the Ranges. His sigh, when it sounds, is slow and drained. “You're lucky. I know that Webster's dead, but you, and Damian, and Ron, and Matthew and... well, all of you who managed to get hold of someone to talk to about whoever the fuck it is you're going to play in this... you're lucky bastards!”

“Nixon's dead, Ross -,” Eion points out carefully, frowning slightly as he imagines Ron chatting to a grave about its occupant's inner motivation during the war that Easy Company helped to fight.

The smile which twitches at the corners of Ross' mouth is bitter. “Ron called Dick Winters. And he has Nixon's wife, to ask about him.”

“Really?” Eion feels his eyebrows lift in surprise, finds himself surprised by Ron's ingenuity even as he wonders how easy it would be to find contact details for Webster's widow, Barbara - if she'd be happy to tell him what the real Webster was actually like... “I didn't know that.”

“And you have a fucking book all about how Webster won the war...”

“He doesn't take credit where it's not genuinely due!” Eion snaps.

He cannot help but feel irritated by Ross' obvious innuendo that Webster had exaggerated his part in the various battles in which he fought as a part of Easy Company; knows from the research that he has done, that wasn't the case.

At all.

An unreadable expression flickers across Ross' face as they watch one another, as Eion continues to glare at him. It is, Eion thinks, almost but not quite, not yet fully formed, lingering at the very edges of the other man's features, a sneer.

“Really?” he scoffs, turning away from Eion as he does so, pushing up onto his feet, half-stepping backwards, in the direction of the hut. When he speaks again, his voice practically hums with sarcasm. “Oh, what am I saying? You're obviously a world expert on the fucker - right, Web?”

There is a moment where the world seems to shimmer in front of Eion, his vision blurred from the anger, the simple rage that coalesces within him, burns his blood to the point where he's oblivious to everything but the urge that twists and coils within his gut to make Ross take back his insults, to simply apologise for having spoken of David Webster in such a way...

Later, when he thinks about it; runs it over in his mind, Eion will be unable to recall the precise moment that he lost control of his temper, that he allowed the momentum of his fury to drive him forwards, his paperback tossed haphazardly onto the ground somewhere, temporarily forgotten as he throws himself against the backs of Ross' legs; topples him to the surface of the hut's bizarrely constructed porch in a miasma of startled shouts and incoherent growls of rage.

As the incident is actually happening, all that Eion is able to understand is that Ross' fists sting with a viciousness that the rational part of his mind is aware comes from the badly executed tackle, the surprise of his attack, and that he can taste blood against the back of his tongue in the moments of flailing limbs and determined punches, violent knee jerks and scrabbling feet that consume them both.

It seems as though hours pass before the small area in which they struggle for dominance over one another is suddenly full of stamping boots, the noise of other voices raised in astonishment and bemused anger, and the feel of various hands pulling up on Eion's arms, dragging him and Ross apart, holding them each captive in tight embraces designed to prevent a second bout from occurring, one on each side of the hut's porch, but in reality, he knows that only seconds have passed.

Light spills out through the still open door, illuminates the caps of Eion's boots and strikes Ross' glowering, bleeding face before him in such a way that most of his expression falls into shadow. Night has finally fallen, he thinks absently, running the tip of his tongue across his lip; instinctively proving the delicately thin flesh there for tears, wincing and spitting away the cloying blood that flows across his taste-buds as he finds a split in the skin, pulling ineffectively against the hands which restrain him, rage subsiding as suddenly as it had consumed him, leaving in its wake nothing more than a dull sense of irritation.

“Get the fuck off me, would you?” Ross snarls from the other side of the porch, and Eion tenses; waits to see if his assault is going to be replicated in reverse...

He is obtusely disappointed as he watches Ross deftly shrug away the hands which clung briefly, uselessly - Calil and Andrew Lee Potts', Eion thinks vaguely, his gaze darting across their stunned expressions, the anxiety which twists the latter's almost feminine features as he reluctantly lets go of Ross' arm, waits in vain for the older man to launch himself furiously across the porch.

“You okay?”

Tim's voice is raised in the heat of the moment, Eion thinks as he registers the fact that one of the pairs of hands that continue to hold on to him, must belong to him. Still staring at Ross, watching him twist his head; spit over the railings that surround most of the hut's porch, Eion nods his head. “I'm fine.”

“'Course he fucking is!” Ross hisses across to them. “You fuckers think I want Dye on my back for fucking up his fucking face?”

“Y'know -,” Jimmy Madio says from beside Eion where, it seems, he's lurking whilst hanging onto the taller man, hands tight against the woollen fabric of the allegedly authentic uniform. He sounds amused, as though interrupting a brawl is something that he does on a regular basis, and Eion cannot prevent himself from making a mental note to question him about it at some later point. “That's a lot of fuck being bandied around over there, McCall!”

“Christ, Jim -,” Tim exclaims, his voice pitching ever higher as he does so, the noise of it against his eardrums causing Eion to wince slightly. “Are you trying to set them off again?”

“Well, c'mon! A guy's gotta have some sort of entertainment, right?”

Watching Ross intently, Eion sees the impatience that flickers across his face, the almost tired way in which he draws his eyebrows together, the absent way in which he scrubs at the blood that trickles from his nose with the side of one hand. As the adrenaline which had flowed through his system begins to drain away, relaxing the muscles which he'd tensed for fight, calming his heart rate, easing away the semblance of pain relief that his own brain had provided during his rush of aggression and its immediate aftermath, Eion breaths raggedly; wonders whether the trail of blood that Ross' nose continues to release was caused by the punch which has created a throbbing ache to assault his own right hand.

“Yeah?” Ross snaps, the harsh undertone of his voice distracting Eion from his thoughts. “Well, we ain't it, Madio - you got that, you fucker?”

“No - but you are ours!”

The voice which sounds out of the darkness is one that they all instantly recognise, their backs straightening without hesitation, Tim and Jimmy letting go of Eion, allowing him to stand alone as they turn to face their quasi-leader. Before he turns, Eion's gaze catches Ross' - and a nervous shiver tickles along his spine, causes goosebumps to rise upon his skin, the hair at the nape of his neck to stand on end as he recalls Ross' idly made threat to Calil about sleeping with his eyes open...

“Would someone care to tell us precisely what the fuck is going on here?”

Blinking, twitching his tongue briefly against the edge of his torn lip, Eion turns to face the two men who stand upon the steps of the hut, each wearing a bemused expression upon their faces, both looking a thousand times more dignified than he realises he and Ross must do...

“Well?” Damian asks quietly.

Silently, the six faux soldiers stand together, each holding their silence, each steadily refusing to meet the eyes of their falsely superior officers. Eion can only hope that Ron's neglected his extra duties to HBO, forgotten to take the camera out on guard duties with him that evening. Evidence of his transgression into violence is not something that he particularly wishes to know exists - especially not against Ross.

Damian's sigh is unforgiving. “Don't make me choose one of you to snitch on the others, guys -,”

“Yeah, come on and just tell us what the fuck's going on, would you?” There is a slightly complaining tinge to Ron's voice that Eion quirks an eyebrow at in silent, slightly sullen petulance. “My bed's calling and, y'know, I don't know about you guys, but I'd love to just get some good old-fashioned shut-eye before they drag us all up and at 'em at the crack of dawn, again!”

“There was...” Calil says after a moment, hesitating as five pairs of his peers eyes turn accusingly towards him. He coughs, clears his throat before continuing. “There was a slight altercation, Sirs - that much is true... but it's sorted now. Everyone's kissed and made up again, right guys?”

The snort that erupts from Ross at Calil's attempt to spread the blame, any possible punishment around, sounds painful, Eion thinks guiltily; resisting the urge to turn and check that he hasn't injured the other man too badly. He swallows audibly, tucks his hands behind his back in an effort to replicate the stance which they've all been shown how to assume when an officer is standing before them, looks straight into Damian's passively intrigued gaze.“It was my -,”

“Our fault, Sir.”

One of Damian's eyebrows twitches, rises towards his hairline as his eyes shift between Eion's outraged expression and Ross' merely irritated glower. “Go on, Liebgott...”

“Eion... I mean Webster, and I got into it over something I said about the real Webster, Sir -,” Ross explains. His shoulders roll into a loose shrug and he refuses to meet Eion's incredulous, irked stare when it is turned in his direction. “It got a little out of hand, Sir, I admit that - but it's nothing serious. Won't affect our training together. Sir.”

Ron's face crumples slightly in his effort to hide a grin at the laconically added final 'Sir' to Ross' statement, but Eion is grateful for his continued silence, his relegation beside Damian to a mere observer. As a wave of exhaustion crests through him, his body's natural reaction to the lack of adrenaline which had consumed it only moments before, Eion shuffles his feet a little; tries to continue looking as composed as Damian.

“You're right - it won't,” Damian's voice intrudes upon Eion's vague tumble of thoughts, his words equally measured and as composed as though he were remonstrating with objects as opposed to people.

Dimly, Eion wonders if this is Damian's actual personality shining through, or merely his notion of how Dick Winters would have reacted, treated the real Webster and Liebgott should he have ever stumbled across them scrapping like school yard bullies...

“Because you are both going to be relegated to one of the empty barrack huts until you've thrashed whatever caused this kerfuffle out between you.”

Damian's words hang heavily in the air despite the light, almost easy-going tone of voice in which he has spoken them. Eion can physically feel his mouth dropping open in shock, feel the tendrils of disbelief curl invitingly through him as he processes his quasi-leader's words, the instruction that has been given.

The order which has been made.

Across the porch, Ross' body makes a slight lurch forwards; as though Damian's words have struck him physically, knocked him off balance, perhaps caused his instinct to retaliate to kick in... before he stills. Watching him from the corner of one eye, Eion notices the pained expression that dominates the other's face amidst the streaks of blood that are drying against his skin, the shadows which the light from inside their barracks hut - their former barracks hut, he mentally amends - cast across them all.

“Get your bedding together -,” Damian instructs, firmly rubbing at the curve of one eyebrow with the nail of one thumb as he casts a glance back at the abruptly stoic Ron. “We'll let Captain Dye and Sergeant Farnsworth know where you are - and why.”

Eion's stomach drops at the thought of having to face the distinctly frightening Army men at some point; explain to them precisely why he was caught brawling with Ross, aware that he is the one who started it, who threw the first punch, who made the assault...

“Is that really necessary, Sir?” Tim queries from beside Eion, concern reverberating through his voice.

“Yeah -,” Calil chimes in, and Eion realises for the first time that the others are as frightened of Dye and Farnsworth as he is, himself. “Can't they just kiss and make up? And can't we just... I don't know... pretend this never happened?”

“C'mon, Dick -,”

Ron's voice is low, beguiling, confident as he leans slightly closer to Damian, and it seems peculiar to hear him use the other man's character's name instead of his own for a moment or two - until Eion remembers that the occupants of the barracks hut behind him are probably the only ones deliberately flouting the Camp's rule of abandoning their own identities.

“Give 'em a chance to sort out their differences -,” Ron continues, turning until his body faces towards Damian's, his darting gaze skimming briefly across first Eion's, then Ross' silently watchful expressions the only indication that he's aware he and Damian aren't actually alone. “You know as well as I do that Dye and Freddie-Joe will only take it out on the whole Company, right?”

Damian's eyebrows twitch slightly. “Well -,”

“How is that fair to the rest of the men?” Ron asks, pressing his advantage. “I say we segregate them tonight, give them a chance to sort themselves out, and then - if they're caught scrapping again? Then you can snitch on them to Dye.”

“It's not snitching, Nix...”

“No, I know that, but honestly... what would Winters do?”

Eion's mouth twitches slightly, a brief smirk flickering across his face at the urgent tone of Ron's voice as he addresses Damian. It is, perhaps, the correlation between the age-old phrase, 'What would Jesus do?', coupled with the simple fact that to Easy Company, to the men whose identities they are all inadvertently stealing away, infusing them alongside their own, true personalities, Dick Winters was a man formed in Christ's shadow.

By the time that Damian glances up, returns his gaze to those of the waiting, bemused men upon the porch, Eion has managed to swallow down on his amusement. His expression is as composed as it can be, given the fact that his skin aches in the places where Ross' fists, elbows and - Eion thinks with a slight frown of confusion - his left knee managed to catch against, and he can feel the scratch of blood drying upon his chin.

“Okay -,” Damian's voice is resigned, his expression revealing nothing of the thought processes which have led him to listen to Ron's quiet urging to do the right thing by the entire Company. He tilts his chin towards first Ross, then Eion. “Get your bedding. Barracks hut number thirteen's empty and it's close to ours. You can bed there for tonight. Resolve your issues amicably. And clean yourselves up a little, before someone else catches you looking like you've both been dragged through a hedge backwards, whilst you're at it...”

“Sir, yes, Sir!”

Snapping to attention, Eion turns awkwardly; paces behind the stiff-backed Ross into the hut, past the curious, intrigued, slightly stunned group of men who stand by the open doorway, trying to eavesdrop on the situation outside but loathe to actually get involved in the dispute, doing his utmost to avoid meeting any of their staring gazes. Embarrassment that he's been caught attempting to punch Ross' face into the smooth wooden floor of the hut's porch, that he's been ordered by the man placed in vague command over them to vacate his own bed for a night, traipse across the camp to an unused hut and... he snorts indelicately... resolve his issues with Ross amicably, surges through his system, altering the rise and fall of the remnants of his adrenaline rush, causing him to yank furiously at the blankets that cover his mattress.

The thought of spending time alone in Ross' company, does not fill Eion with joy. It sits inside the pit of his belly, a brooding dark mass of disbelief at his own stupidity; aware that this is his fault, his doing, his mistake... and Eion doesn't think that he's going to be able to forgive himself for behaving so crassly, for quite some time. Why, he wonders mutinously, folding his bedding into some semblance of a square, bundling it untidily before stuffing it under one arm so that he might reach for his pillow with his other hand, should he?

The silent hut, the other men's wary stares as they watch the chastised pair sullenly collect their bedding, stiffly going out of their own way to avoid looking at one another in the small space around their neighbouring bed frames, only serves to irritate Eion further. As much as he loathes the hut he's spent the past few nights trying to sleep in, it is - at least - familiar and, because of the fact that eleven other men have been billeted there, warm.

His new billet for the night, he knows, won't be.

Two men alone, he thinks as he stalks towards the hut's door, not even bothering to check and see whether Ross has gathered his bedding, is ready to walk with him to barracks hut number thirteen, cannot adequately heat one large room on a cold March night in Hampshire, England.

They're going to freeze...

oooo

Wrapped in the blankets which he'd brought over to the new hut with him, chin buried beneath the obtusely sharp fabric out of which they've been made, Eion watches Ross methodically soak a wash-cloth in a mess-tin of cold water and wipe it across his face; cleanse his skin of the congealed, dry blood that clings to it. They haven't spoken since Damian and Ron had ordered them out of their usual barracks hut, across the camp ground, into the otherwise empty building in which they now sit, sullen in their silence, each apparently waiting for the other to say something first.

Deep down, Eion suspects that Ross is waiting for him to apologise.

He knows that he was at fault; accepts his part in the brawl with a grace that he is determined not to share with Ross until the other apologises for having caught the underside of his jaw with the sharp bend of his kneecap as they had scuffled upon the floor together. Every time that Eion swallows back the words that linger against the back of his tongue - querulous demands to know precisely why Ross shifts and changes from being friendly to him, to apparently thinking he's worth neither the time or effort which he knows the other man gives freely to the others - his jaw aches dully. It isn't broken, he knows that much; remembers absently the lessons in basic first aid that his mother had insisted he attend if he were going to train as a pilot, knows that the throb which ricochets through the underside of his lower mandible is due to bruising, the marbling of blood beneath his skin which he thinks, hopes he might be able to disguise with stubble until it lessens, given that he's aware it's going to hurt intensely if he tries to scrape his razor blade against the skin there...

“I'll give you this -,” Ross grates out, the words sounding thicker than usual as he dabs effectively at the crust of blood that darkens his nostrils. “For a fucking Yank, you pack quite a wallop!”

His nose twitching in some semblance of sympathy - Ross' nose looks painful, he thinks distantly, trying not to stare at it too much, to lift his gaze towards his companion's eyes, aware that he is being glanced at - Eion shrugs a shoulder beneath his shawl of blankets; mutters. “Good to know my years at high school weren't a total waste...”

“Funny what stays with you, isn't it?” Ross murmurs as he turns his head slightly towards the bed upon which Eion is sitting, huddled beneath his protective layer of blankets.

His hands continue to rinse the wash-cloth out in the water once more, before removing it from the mess-tin so that he might squeeze the excess water from its depths. His mouth twitches as though he wants to say something else, Eion notices, but is loathe to do so. It is, he thinks, as though Ross is perhaps wondering whether another fight will erupt, whether Eion will take whatever else he wants to say the wrong way, use it as a cause of due provocation to attack him again...

Silently, feeling unusually petulant, he holds Ross' gaze for a steady moment... two... then huffs out an irritated breath of a sigh; rolls his eyes. “What?”

“You've got blood on your chin.”

Almost against his will, as though he has no control over its movement at all, Eion's eyebrow arches indolently. “Really? I'd no idea!”

“You know something, Eion?” Ross demands, carefully placing the mess-tin to one side on the low unit that he's been using as a bench, before he turns to face Eion more squarely. Burgeoning anger shows clearly upon his face, sharpening his features even as confusion shivers at their very edges, and his eyes narrow into a tight glare. “You were the one who threw the first punch, yeah?”

Petulantly, suddenly very loathe to admit that he was in the wrong, Eion shrugs a shoulder; tries to look away from the heat of Ross' gaze, but unable to do so. His stomach turns over, a nauseating sensation that reminds him of past roller-coaster rides, of flying through turbulence in his father's small commercial aeroplane, of...

He blinks, eyes opening wide as the realisation strikes him with force, his mouth dropping open despite the dull throb of his jaw, his head already moving into an instinctive shake of denial.

… of falling in love.

“Oh, fuck...” he mumbles, dazedly lowering his gaze to the density of the blanket that enshrouds his knees, almost struggling to draw a breath into lungs that are suddenly too tight, feel as though they have shrunk beneath the onslaught of constant inhalations of cigarette smoke, the toxins that it contains, the sour taste of bile rising up from his stomach to coat the back of his throat with it's foulness, his heart pounding fretfully beneath the fragile, feeble protection of the body that encloses it.

“Eion?”

The race of his heart, the rapid shift of his blood through his veins renders him helpless, unable to do anything more than stare blankly down at the blanket which he clings to tightly, afraid suddenly, to loosen his hold upon it lest the slight movement renders him physically ill. He's annoyed Ross enough for one night, a tiny part of his mind rationalises his inability to move; vomiting on him really would be the last straw...

“Oh, Christ!”

Hands pull at him, curve deftly about the slope and rise of his cheeks; tug his face up until he has no choice but to look at his anxious assailant. Briefly, one of Ross' hands lets go of his face before returning, the chilled dampness of the wash-cloth being rapidly, frantically applied to the mess of his own blood and saliva which adorns his chin, the soft cloth rapidly moving against his skin until he shivers violently at the coldness that it leaves in its wake. Momentarily, gazing straight into Ross' concerned eyes, Eion cannot help but wonder if he's managed to fall asleep; is lost somewhere in the depths of a dream...

“Eion - talk to me!”

Slowly, serenely, Eion smiles; watches Ross closely, intrigued by the way in which the other man's face blurs before him until he blinks instinctively, allowing its features to swim back into cloudy focus once more.

“You okay?” Ross demands, his voice strained, reverberating with the anxiety that Eion can clearly see reflected in the expression upon his face. “Eion?”

A frown creases Eion's brow as it dawns upon him that he cannot think, cannot seem to order his thoughts into any semblance of coherent order. All that he can feel, is seemingly capable of feeling, is a soothing sense of calm which intermingles with a peculiar dread that reminds him obtusely of the training exercise that day - of the moments when he'd been dutifully, desperately firing his rifle at Dye's false enemy, only to have it jam; to be consumed by the heart-stopping realisation that at any moment, he could well be shot in the neck, killed by a well aimed enemy bullet as Death peered gruesomely over his shoulder.

The last thought that drifts across Eion's mind is that if he'd truly known that boot-camp would be his own personal version of Hell, that Ross' bemused assessment the first time they met would be proven to be correct, he would have made a point of confessing the few sins he has left to be bothered by - before the world not only blurs once again, but tilts alarmingly to one side at the same time, a sense of sleepiness consumes him and his ears ring with the panicked noise of Ross' voice raised into a screeching yell for help...