Fic: Eight of Nine Lives (Lucifer Box, R)
Fic: Eight of Nine Lives
Fandom: Lucifer Box
Summary: Someone kindly told me you'd wasted eight of nine lives. Morrissey, You're gonna need someone on your side.
Notes: The huge sort of spoilers for the second novel, The Devil In Amber. Not sure there's much point to this fic besides me writing it out at last, but it's been stuck somewhere in my chest since I read the novel.
Eight of Nine Lives
"We're almost there!" Sergeant Jeremiah Forrester shouted over the noise of airplanes and bombs.
He had two more minutes before shrapnel slashed his throat open.
A good man to have in a tight spot, that was how Lucifer would remember Sergeant Jeremiah Forrester. How many times had the Sergeant's quick thinking gotten them out of a tight spot? No later than last week he had saved Charlie's (very fine) arse by sneaking up behind the German soldier headed for him and quietly slitting his throat. And that was just the latest occurrence.
"In need of savin' again, Charlie boy?" Latimer asked that night, a mocking snarl to his lips before he drank from his flask.
"Why don't you sod off, sir," Charlie muttered at his Lieutenant's back with the proper respect after Latimer walked off.
Forrester settled next to him, bumping shoulders as he did so. "You think he was that much of a drunk before the war?"
"Probably less of a bitter one," Lucifer remarked.
Ill-tempered, and often drunk, that was how Lucifer would remember Lieutenant Harold Latimer.
A bullet went right through Latimer's throat, splattering Lucifer's face with crimson drops. He barely had time to take aim, fired to save his life. Baron Feldmann's man dropped to the ground, right as another one appeared on his left.
Lucifer saw him fire, saw the shot go, knew he was done for. Thought he heard Charlie's voice, and prayed that the kid wasn't doing something incredibly stupid that would get him dead right along with Lucifer.
Charlie didn't, but Private Samuel Fortune did, jumping in front of the bullet aimed for Lucifer.
Gloomy, Welsh, loyal to a fault, that was how Lucifer would remember Private Samuel Fortune. The squat little man had an accent as thick as his mood could be dark, never one to see the silver lining when there was even so much as a small wisp of cloud. In such dark times, the sky tended to be covered with dark clouds anyway.
"We'll never see the end of this war," he grumbled as he lit a cigarette. "More like it'll see the end of us."
"Don't be so grim, Sam," Roper retorted as he came and settled by Lucifer. "We've made it this far, we'll make it further still." As Fortune walked off with a gloomy mumble, Roper leaned closer to Lucifer and offered an informal rendezvous a little way off from the others. "Feel free to bring Jackpot along," he added with a roguish smile.
Small, keen, and absolutely delightful, that was how Lucifer would remember Private John Roper.
"Charlie, come on!" Roper shouted, offering the taller man a hand to help him to his feet.
Lucifer had run ahead, scouting the area. They appeared to be clear for the next fifty yards, which would bring them right to the encampment.
Roper and Charlie made it to his side, the familiar lean of Charlie against him heavier than usual. Something was wrong, but Lucifer had no time to worry about it.
"They're coming from behind!" Sergeant Boothe shouted as he came into view. "Run!"
It was too late for Roper. A bullet made him slope against Charlie, who looked at him with wide blinking eyes. Lucifer grabbed him by the arm and pulled, forcing him to slalom after him between the trees, stumbling on uneven ground and treacherous roots. What was wrong with Charlie had to do with his leg, Lucifer surmised, as he had never known him to limp before.
They ran for their lives, in silence amidst the whistle of bullets, the loud bangs of guns and their harsh breaths. Miracle joined them out of nowhere, miraculously unscathed, and the four of them burst into the enemy camp, shooting at any and everything that moved.
"Remember our objective is Feldmann!" Miracle shouted over the noise of battle, as if any of them needed the reminder.
More men of their unit joined them, lucky survivors. For the moment, anyway; luck always ran out at one point or the other. But if it just stuck with them a little moment longer... All it would take was for one of them to find the Baron and end his life, snatch the documents, his plans, all his plans, take them back to British intelligence. Boothe fell, and they couldn't afford to stop and see if he was still alive.
A prim, humourless Yorkshireman, that was how Lucifer would remember Sergeant Gabriel Boothe. Now and then he called him Gabe, flirted with him just to see that glimmer of panic in the Sergeant's eyes, the flush that burst bright on his cheeks.
"Box!" the man would gasp.
"Leave the poor Sergeant alone," Hollis used to ask him, often bent over a pan, the only one of the lot of them able to cook half decent grub. "He's not used to the likes of you."
"Unlike you, you mean," Lucifer retorted, switching targets, and his wicked smile was only increased by the easy way with which Hollis invariably turned him down. "You're entirely too fetching, Peter, do you know that," he would tell him, just to see the man fail to blush.
A real smasher, who made decent grub, that was how Lucifer would remember Private Peter Hollis.
"Hollis!" Lucifer gasped out in a whisper, surprise and thankfulness, as the soldier came across them, hands clutching at Lucifer's arms. He had been beginning to wonder if Charlie and he weren't the only ones left alive. The Lord knew where Miracle had gone off to, and Lucifer could only hope that his old friend was still alive.
"B-Box," Hollis stuttered, his usually charming blue eyes now lost and terrified, cheeks pale but for the blood streaked across them. "Jackpot. I'm - this isn't meant to - save me, plea..."
And as he died in his arms, Lucifer realised that the young man had suffered a grievous bullet wound to the guts.
"Lucifer," Charlie had said, low, urgent, and Lucifer had torn his eyes off the lifeless corpse to direct them on Baron Gustavus Feldmann, the cause of all these deaths.
The British bullet lodged itself neatly in the German heart.
A trench, a tent, a clearing, wherever the missions took them, whatever the war pushed them to. Sometimes they only smoked a cigarette in silence, shoulder to shoulder; others they talked, of inconsequential things, missions past but never of the future, what future; sometimes they kissed, long and slow, kisses Lucifer had vowed to himself not to read anything into; others they fucked, they fucked as if it were their last day on earth, and for all they knew, it was.
There were no words to do justice to how Lucifer would remember one Private Charlie Jackpot.
They had almost made it to the plane when Charlie stumbled, fell. Lucifer didn't realise immediately what the cause had been, didn't think, didn't pause, simply doubled back and fell to one knee, hands under Charlie's armpits to help him up. Probably just his leg wound, after all.
He scrambled away with a ridiculous noise, a cry of dismayed fright caught in his throat in a whimper, when he saw the lifeless eyes. Blue, and glassy already. Lucifer Box had seen his fair share of corpses, but not one had seemed as dead as Charlie's.
"Anyone else?" the pilot had asked once they had taken off, German fire still trying to reach them.
Lucifer shook his head. He did not know. If Charlie was dead, then there was no one else.
"Are those Feldmann's?"
Lucifer realised that the pilot meant the documents he was clutching in his hands. "Yes," he managed to say, and wondered at how like his usual self he sounded, for all that he was covered in the blood of his unit. Was any of it Charlie's?
"You'll be a hero back home," the man pointed out, and Lucifer could have replied a lot of things to that, a lot of things he kept quiet.
"I find myself craving a cigarette," he remarked instead, tilting his head at the pilot. "You wouldn't happen to have a gasper, would you?"
~ And here I am
Well, you don't need to look so pleased ~
Fandom: Lucifer Box
Summary: Someone kindly told me you'd wasted eight of nine lives. Morrissey, You're gonna need someone on your side.
Notes: The huge sort of spoilers for the second novel, The Devil In Amber. Not sure there's much point to this fic besides me writing it out at last, but it's been stuck somewhere in my chest since I read the novel.
Eight of Nine Lives
"We're almost there!" Sergeant Jeremiah Forrester shouted over the noise of airplanes and bombs.
He had two more minutes before shrapnel slashed his throat open.
A good man to have in a tight spot, that was how Lucifer would remember Sergeant Jeremiah Forrester. How many times had the Sergeant's quick thinking gotten them out of a tight spot? No later than last week he had saved Charlie's (very fine) arse by sneaking up behind the German soldier headed for him and quietly slitting his throat. And that was just the latest occurrence.
"In need of savin' again, Charlie boy?" Latimer asked that night, a mocking snarl to his lips before he drank from his flask.
"Why don't you sod off, sir," Charlie muttered at his Lieutenant's back with the proper respect after Latimer walked off.
Forrester settled next to him, bumping shoulders as he did so. "You think he was that much of a drunk before the war?"
"Probably less of a bitter one," Lucifer remarked.
Ill-tempered, and often drunk, that was how Lucifer would remember Lieutenant Harold Latimer.
A bullet went right through Latimer's throat, splattering Lucifer's face with crimson drops. He barely had time to take aim, fired to save his life. Baron Feldmann's man dropped to the ground, right as another one appeared on his left.
Lucifer saw him fire, saw the shot go, knew he was done for. Thought he heard Charlie's voice, and prayed that the kid wasn't doing something incredibly stupid that would get him dead right along with Lucifer.
Charlie didn't, but Private Samuel Fortune did, jumping in front of the bullet aimed for Lucifer.
Gloomy, Welsh, loyal to a fault, that was how Lucifer would remember Private Samuel Fortune. The squat little man had an accent as thick as his mood could be dark, never one to see the silver lining when there was even so much as a small wisp of cloud. In such dark times, the sky tended to be covered with dark clouds anyway.
"We'll never see the end of this war," he grumbled as he lit a cigarette. "More like it'll see the end of us."
"Don't be so grim, Sam," Roper retorted as he came and settled by Lucifer. "We've made it this far, we'll make it further still." As Fortune walked off with a gloomy mumble, Roper leaned closer to Lucifer and offered an informal rendezvous a little way off from the others. "Feel free to bring Jackpot along," he added with a roguish smile.
Small, keen, and absolutely delightful, that was how Lucifer would remember Private John Roper.
"Charlie, come on!" Roper shouted, offering the taller man a hand to help him to his feet.
Lucifer had run ahead, scouting the area. They appeared to be clear for the next fifty yards, which would bring them right to the encampment.
Roper and Charlie made it to his side, the familiar lean of Charlie against him heavier than usual. Something was wrong, but Lucifer had no time to worry about it.
"They're coming from behind!" Sergeant Boothe shouted as he came into view. "Run!"
It was too late for Roper. A bullet made him slope against Charlie, who looked at him with wide blinking eyes. Lucifer grabbed him by the arm and pulled, forcing him to slalom after him between the trees, stumbling on uneven ground and treacherous roots. What was wrong with Charlie had to do with his leg, Lucifer surmised, as he had never known him to limp before.
They ran for their lives, in silence amidst the whistle of bullets, the loud bangs of guns and their harsh breaths. Miracle joined them out of nowhere, miraculously unscathed, and the four of them burst into the enemy camp, shooting at any and everything that moved.
"Remember our objective is Feldmann!" Miracle shouted over the noise of battle, as if any of them needed the reminder.
More men of their unit joined them, lucky survivors. For the moment, anyway; luck always ran out at one point or the other. But if it just stuck with them a little moment longer... All it would take was for one of them to find the Baron and end his life, snatch the documents, his plans, all his plans, take them back to British intelligence. Boothe fell, and they couldn't afford to stop and see if he was still alive.
A prim, humourless Yorkshireman, that was how Lucifer would remember Sergeant Gabriel Boothe. Now and then he called him Gabe, flirted with him just to see that glimmer of panic in the Sergeant's eyes, the flush that burst bright on his cheeks.
"Box!" the man would gasp.
"Leave the poor Sergeant alone," Hollis used to ask him, often bent over a pan, the only one of the lot of them able to cook half decent grub. "He's not used to the likes of you."
"Unlike you, you mean," Lucifer retorted, switching targets, and his wicked smile was only increased by the easy way with which Hollis invariably turned him down. "You're entirely too fetching, Peter, do you know that," he would tell him, just to see the man fail to blush.
A real smasher, who made decent grub, that was how Lucifer would remember Private Peter Hollis.
"Hollis!" Lucifer gasped out in a whisper, surprise and thankfulness, as the soldier came across them, hands clutching at Lucifer's arms. He had been beginning to wonder if Charlie and he weren't the only ones left alive. The Lord knew where Miracle had gone off to, and Lucifer could only hope that his old friend was still alive.
"B-Box," Hollis stuttered, his usually charming blue eyes now lost and terrified, cheeks pale but for the blood streaked across them. "Jackpot. I'm - this isn't meant to - save me, plea..."
And as he died in his arms, Lucifer realised that the young man had suffered a grievous bullet wound to the guts.
"Lucifer," Charlie had said, low, urgent, and Lucifer had torn his eyes off the lifeless corpse to direct them on Baron Gustavus Feldmann, the cause of all these deaths.
The British bullet lodged itself neatly in the German heart.
A trench, a tent, a clearing, wherever the missions took them, whatever the war pushed them to. Sometimes they only smoked a cigarette in silence, shoulder to shoulder; others they talked, of inconsequential things, missions past but never of the future, what future; sometimes they kissed, long and slow, kisses Lucifer had vowed to himself not to read anything into; others they fucked, they fucked as if it were their last day on earth, and for all they knew, it was.
There were no words to do justice to how Lucifer would remember one Private Charlie Jackpot.
They had almost made it to the plane when Charlie stumbled, fell. Lucifer didn't realise immediately what the cause had been, didn't think, didn't pause, simply doubled back and fell to one knee, hands under Charlie's armpits to help him up. Probably just his leg wound, after all.
He scrambled away with a ridiculous noise, a cry of dismayed fright caught in his throat in a whimper, when he saw the lifeless eyes. Blue, and glassy already. Lucifer Box had seen his fair share of corpses, but not one had seemed as dead as Charlie's.
"Anyone else?" the pilot had asked once they had taken off, German fire still trying to reach them.
Lucifer shook his head. He did not know. If Charlie was dead, then there was no one else.
"Are those Feldmann's?"
Lucifer realised that the pilot meant the documents he was clutching in his hands. "Yes," he managed to say, and wondered at how like his usual self he sounded, for all that he was covered in the blood of his unit. Was any of it Charlie's?
"You'll be a hero back home," the man pointed out, and Lucifer could have replied a lot of things to that, a lot of things he kept quiet.
"I find myself craving a cigarette," he remarked instead, tilting his head at the pilot. "You wouldn't happen to have a gasper, would you?"
~ And here I am
Well, you don't need to look so pleased ~