Drawing the Line. 1/?
Title Drawing the Line.
Genre Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Pairing US/UK
Rating T
Summary A British soldier is diagnosed with tuberculosis during the chaos of the second world war. In the understaffed and war-weary English hospital, he and a volunteer physician from America find comfort in each other.
Chapter Rating M for Arthur's rather unpleasant surroundings.
Warnings Arthur reaches his limit at an incredibly untimely fashion.
Keep running. Keep your feet moving.
Just an intricate game of hide-and-go-seek - that's all this is. Swerve about the lorry caught aflame, billowing great black clouds into a sky already deadened by the relentless smog; ignore the mangled body of a fallen comrade that has long since stilled. (The acrid stench is just a small detail in the vast fields of playing ground and there is no room for emotional displays for the players whom have been found.) Take a left at the sharp whistle of stray shrapnel whizzing just shy of your jaw; concentrate with every fibre of your being and jump - dive - behind the haven of what was once a proud and majestic building, now reduced to little more than a massive pile of misshapen wood and plaster. (The grounds will fight back if the seeker has anything to say about it, so be on guard and don't let yourself be caught.) Get up, ignore the screaming ache in your legs and grip your rifle closer to your breast.
Keep running. Keep your feet moving. Keep playing.
Arthur knew the game well. It was coming up on the five-month mark since he'd joined in the play (Or was it six?) and he was hardly unscathed by the dire conditions he'd faced upon participating. Gruesome acts and heinous sights had ground away at the once brilliant emerald eyes, leaving a dulled, hollowed hue in their stead. Though his face was young, the haunted look behind those irises gave away the snatches of horrors that he strived to keep locked away - for his own benefit rather than others'. He had given witness to far too much in far too little time; it made his past twenty-two years of life seem a mere drop in the bucket in the face of a massive tidal wave of death and destruction and hurt.
Despite this, the eyes were still sharp; still calculating and ever-vigilant as they scanned the field before them. But any flicker of innocence that one might have had the privilege to see in them before his enlistment had bled and meshed into the muck and blood beneath his boots long ago.
But Arthur had caught snatches of hushed murmurs and hurried whispers in the trenches; stories of men in arms before him. Men that were sentenced to the torture of the death and destruction of combat to flicker behind their eyes like a never-ending film reel; men that threw caution and logic to the wayside in order to escape the reality that they had so willingly let themselves be led into. They were brutally wounded men and try as they might, no medic nor doctor could find a cure for their ailments. Countless had struggled to trace the steps that might have forced those unfortunate soldiers down the path of self-destruction, fearing for others who might be at risk of falling victim to the same future. Only one vague notation from fellow combat mates could be found as the common denominator.
"His eyes... they just died."
Thus the young man resolved to keep one bit of optimism in his life, if only a small thought to cling to in the nights where his thoughts were particularly muddled with the fear and confusion and exhaustion that the haunted images the field conditions forced upon him. He would not look at his situation as taking part in a war. After all, war had such a barbaric connotation; men fighting one another for the sake of power and greed, completely disregarding the well-being of fellow men. There was no comfort to be found when staring into the listless eyes of a body whose life slowly bled out in a steady flow of crimson into the dead grass below; only a cold, hollow feeling that settled in the pit of Arthur's stomach.
As the days wore on, a deep, boiling self-loathing began to bubble in chest. The realization had settled - he was taking young men's lives (Stolen it in the boy's prime!) for the sake of patriotism and pride. So he braced his resolve and enveloped himself in a delusion. He was simply taking part in a game. Child's play, really. Two teams, both with the goal to seek out the other and, in turn, capture those that were found.
The fact that one was to stab the offending team member through the jugular artery with a bayonet and promptly follow with a bullet to the skull was irrelevant. Knowing that once you're found you will be left a mutilated shell in a ditch with no thought for your past, present, or future was inconsequential. And though Arthur knew these thoughts were false, knew he was lying to himself in the worst ways, he was able to rest heavy lids that ached with fatigue under a little persuasion of a bottle of rum in a cold, sodden trench every few stormy nights.
"Kirkland, get the bloody hell out of there!"
Gnashing his teeth against the agonizing burn in his weary legs and the precarious slip of his boots across the mud, Arthur scrambled for the forest lining where his company was quickly falling back. He could hear the Messerschmitts' deafening machine guns rattling off above and shook with the tremors of the earth with the accompanying explosion of a tank returning fire. All around him men were screeching in pain and shock, collapsing due to a mortal wound or otherwise - caught. He clenched the rifle tighter in his hands; the soft squeak of leather gloves and the feel of creaking joints in his fingers grounded him, willed him not to be lost in the chaos. He couldn't afford to be. He can't be found.
Another round of fire from a Messerschmitt boomed in a rapid beat, the bullets piercing the earth dangerously close to Arthur's sprinting form. Desperately trying to fight through the haze of agony lacing through his lungs, he careened his run to the right, willing the gunner of the plane to focus his ammunition elsewhere. A sharp metallic roar above announced that a propeller had been blown out; he vaguely registered the falling frame of a Spitfire in a magnificent display of brilliant yellows and reds against the violet-pink hues of a darkening sky. If he had the energy to spare, Arthur would have laughed at the impossible irony.
But there was no room for trivialities on the battlefield. Sight of his company was fading in the twilight as the sun lowered itself into the horizon. God knew that lack of light only added disorientation and panic to the already heady mix of pain and steadily depleting energy. Arthur flicked a tongue over chapped lips as he jumped over another body. He was well aware of his torch tucked away in his pack, but damned if he was going to use it out in the open. That would be giving the seeker far too much leverage; the safest route would be to keep together with his combat mates and make it back in numbers into the safety of darkness.
Another flash illuminated the grounds; a man's blood-curdling cry joined the chorus of noise in the midst of a gunshot. As if the fucking Luftwaffes don't have us by the throats as it is.
As if on cue, a bullet whistled by his helmet from his right, nearly sending it toppling from his head from the forceful gust. He hurled himself behind the cover of a broken-down lorry, mounted his rifle to his shoulder and took a knee into a defensive crouch. The steel casing of the vehicle shuddered from the onslaught of bullets, a few managing to puncture through and continue into the broken land behind.
One-Two. One-Two-Three-Four. One-Two-Three. One. One-Two-Three.
Arthur gritted his teeth. If the timing and frequency the rounds of ammunition hinted to anything, there were at least four players behind the guns. Hardly a fair advantage, but this game certainly wasn't known for its outstanding morals. Arthur bit his lip; he needed to focus. He didn't have the time needed to sit and draw precise calculations - he needed to move, and quickly. He gave a last lingering look to the sky and set his jaw. It was dark enough to where he'd have a bit of stealth on his side; a far cry from running in broad daylight. Shrugging the butt of his rifle back to its place between the crook of his elbow and side and catching the barrel in a tight grip, he took off at a sprint.
Shapes passed by in a blur as he ran and a rapid succession of gunfire followed him. His lungs and legs screamed all the while, but he continued on, diving behind what cover he could find in the remains of the outskirts of the town. The trees that bordered the edge of the forest were so close; if he could just make one last mad dash, it would be little more than a few metres to safety. But a nauseating dizziness was settling in, making every movement a battle to maintain balance and coordination.
Almost, almost! He held desperately to the thought, clinging to it as he pleaded his feet to carry him faster. But his body had other plans as the ache in his lungs flared with a vengeance, causing a hitch in his breath and a lurch in his stomach at the sheer pain.
He gave a sputtering cough that sent him reeling in agony. What's wrong with me? The pain in his chest had never reached anywhere near this magnitude before - it was usually little more than a dull ache with the accompanying wet cough - a mere cold, he assumed. But as he pushed onward, the coughs racked his body, shaking him to the very core from the force and filling his mouth with an unpleasant mixture of phlegm and blood.
With every step he took he could feel a weakness seeping into his muscles, coaxing them into a forced state of relaxation as he struggled on. Sweat poured down his furrowed brow and into his eyes, his matted blond hair slicked down with the perspiration and grease and mud, but he could see them - he could see his mates in the clearing, waiting and he was there, in a blur of loud cheers and hands clapping his back and it was simply too much -
Arthur fell forward with a choked sob and collapsed into slick grass below him, a hacking cough ripping through his raw throat. He was dimly aware of the sounds of alarm from those hovering over him, but there was simply too much hurt for him to care as blood and mucus oozed from him lips. Someone turned him over and called his name. He dearly wanted to tell them he heard and understood; that he was really alright, he just needed a minute. But the blackness was swelling and clotting his vision at a disconcerting pace and his tongue felt too thick and heavy to formulate any words. Giving one last rattling cough, he allowed the darkness and exhaustion to claim his senses and knew no more.
Genre Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Pairing US/UK
Rating T
Summary A British soldier is diagnosed with tuberculosis during the chaos of the second world war. In the understaffed and war-weary English hospital, he and a volunteer physician from America find comfort in each other.
Chapter Rating M for Arthur's rather unpleasant surroundings.
Warnings Arthur reaches his limit at an incredibly untimely fashion.
Keep running. Keep your feet moving.
Just an intricate game of hide-and-go-seek - that's all this is. Swerve about the lorry caught aflame, billowing great black clouds into a sky already deadened by the relentless smog; ignore the mangled body of a fallen comrade that has long since stilled. (The acrid stench is just a small detail in the vast fields of playing ground and there is no room for emotional displays for the players whom have been found.) Take a left at the sharp whistle of stray shrapnel whizzing just shy of your jaw; concentrate with every fibre of your being and jump - dive - behind the haven of what was once a proud and majestic building, now reduced to little more than a massive pile of misshapen wood and plaster. (The grounds will fight back if the seeker has anything to say about it, so be on guard and don't let yourself be caught.) Get up, ignore the screaming ache in your legs and grip your rifle closer to your breast.
Keep running. Keep your feet moving. Keep playing.
Arthur knew the game well. It was coming up on the five-month mark since he'd joined in the play (Or was it six?) and he was hardly unscathed by the dire conditions he'd faced upon participating. Gruesome acts and heinous sights had ground away at the once brilliant emerald eyes, leaving a dulled, hollowed hue in their stead. Though his face was young, the haunted look behind those irises gave away the snatches of horrors that he strived to keep locked away - for his own benefit rather than others'. He had given witness to far too much in far too little time; it made his past twenty-two years of life seem a mere drop in the bucket in the face of a massive tidal wave of death and destruction and hurt.
Despite this, the eyes were still sharp; still calculating and ever-vigilant as they scanned the field before them. But any flicker of innocence that one might have had the privilege to see in them before his enlistment had bled and meshed into the muck and blood beneath his boots long ago.
But Arthur had caught snatches of hushed murmurs and hurried whispers in the trenches; stories of men in arms before him. Men that were sentenced to the torture of the death and destruction of combat to flicker behind their eyes like a never-ending film reel; men that threw caution and logic to the wayside in order to escape the reality that they had so willingly let themselves be led into. They were brutally wounded men and try as they might, no medic nor doctor could find a cure for their ailments. Countless had struggled to trace the steps that might have forced those unfortunate soldiers down the path of self-destruction, fearing for others who might be at risk of falling victim to the same future. Only one vague notation from fellow combat mates could be found as the common denominator.
"His eyes... they just died."
Thus the young man resolved to keep one bit of optimism in his life, if only a small thought to cling to in the nights where his thoughts were particularly muddled with the fear and confusion and exhaustion that the haunted images the field conditions forced upon him. He would not look at his situation as taking part in a war. After all, war had such a barbaric connotation; men fighting one another for the sake of power and greed, completely disregarding the well-being of fellow men. There was no comfort to be found when staring into the listless eyes of a body whose life slowly bled out in a steady flow of crimson into the dead grass below; only a cold, hollow feeling that settled in the pit of Arthur's stomach.
As the days wore on, a deep, boiling self-loathing began to bubble in chest. The realization had settled - he was taking young men's lives (Stolen it in the boy's prime!) for the sake of patriotism and pride. So he braced his resolve and enveloped himself in a delusion. He was simply taking part in a game. Child's play, really. Two teams, both with the goal to seek out the other and, in turn, capture those that were found.
The fact that one was to stab the offending team member through the jugular artery with a bayonet and promptly follow with a bullet to the skull was irrelevant. Knowing that once you're found you will be left a mutilated shell in a ditch with no thought for your past, present, or future was inconsequential. And though Arthur knew these thoughts were false, knew he was lying to himself in the worst ways, he was able to rest heavy lids that ached with fatigue under a little persuasion of a bottle of rum in a cold, sodden trench every few stormy nights.
"Kirkland, get the bloody hell out of there!"
Gnashing his teeth against the agonizing burn in his weary legs and the precarious slip of his boots across the mud, Arthur scrambled for the forest lining where his company was quickly falling back. He could hear the Messerschmitts' deafening machine guns rattling off above and shook with the tremors of the earth with the accompanying explosion of a tank returning fire. All around him men were screeching in pain and shock, collapsing due to a mortal wound or otherwise - caught. He clenched the rifle tighter in his hands; the soft squeak of leather gloves and the feel of creaking joints in his fingers grounded him, willed him not to be lost in the chaos. He couldn't afford to be. He can't be found.
Another round of fire from a Messerschmitt boomed in a rapid beat, the bullets piercing the earth dangerously close to Arthur's sprinting form. Desperately trying to fight through the haze of agony lacing through his lungs, he careened his run to the right, willing the gunner of the plane to focus his ammunition elsewhere. A sharp metallic roar above announced that a propeller had been blown out; he vaguely registered the falling frame of a Spitfire in a magnificent display of brilliant yellows and reds against the violet-pink hues of a darkening sky. If he had the energy to spare, Arthur would have laughed at the impossible irony.
But there was no room for trivialities on the battlefield. Sight of his company was fading in the twilight as the sun lowered itself into the horizon. God knew that lack of light only added disorientation and panic to the already heady mix of pain and steadily depleting energy. Arthur flicked a tongue over chapped lips as he jumped over another body. He was well aware of his torch tucked away in his pack, but damned if he was going to use it out in the open. That would be giving the seeker far too much leverage; the safest route would be to keep together with his combat mates and make it back in numbers into the safety of darkness.
Another flash illuminated the grounds; a man's blood-curdling cry joined the chorus of noise in the midst of a gunshot. As if the fucking Luftwaffes don't have us by the throats as it is.
As if on cue, a bullet whistled by his helmet from his right, nearly sending it toppling from his head from the forceful gust. He hurled himself behind the cover of a broken-down lorry, mounted his rifle to his shoulder and took a knee into a defensive crouch. The steel casing of the vehicle shuddered from the onslaught of bullets, a few managing to puncture through and continue into the broken land behind.
One-Two. One-Two-Three-Four. One-Two-Three. One. One-Two-Three.
Arthur gritted his teeth. If the timing and frequency the rounds of ammunition hinted to anything, there were at least four players behind the guns. Hardly a fair advantage, but this game certainly wasn't known for its outstanding morals. Arthur bit his lip; he needed to focus. He didn't have the time needed to sit and draw precise calculations - he needed to move, and quickly. He gave a last lingering look to the sky and set his jaw. It was dark enough to where he'd have a bit of stealth on his side; a far cry from running in broad daylight. Shrugging the butt of his rifle back to its place between the crook of his elbow and side and catching the barrel in a tight grip, he took off at a sprint.
Shapes passed by in a blur as he ran and a rapid succession of gunfire followed him. His lungs and legs screamed all the while, but he continued on, diving behind what cover he could find in the remains of the outskirts of the town. The trees that bordered the edge of the forest were so close; if he could just make one last mad dash, it would be little more than a few metres to safety. But a nauseating dizziness was settling in, making every movement a battle to maintain balance and coordination.
Almost, almost! He held desperately to the thought, clinging to it as he pleaded his feet to carry him faster. But his body had other plans as the ache in his lungs flared with a vengeance, causing a hitch in his breath and a lurch in his stomach at the sheer pain.
He gave a sputtering cough that sent him reeling in agony. What's wrong with me? The pain in his chest had never reached anywhere near this magnitude before - it was usually little more than a dull ache with the accompanying wet cough - a mere cold, he assumed. But as he pushed onward, the coughs racked his body, shaking him to the very core from the force and filling his mouth with an unpleasant mixture of phlegm and blood.
With every step he took he could feel a weakness seeping into his muscles, coaxing them into a forced state of relaxation as he struggled on. Sweat poured down his furrowed brow and into his eyes, his matted blond hair slicked down with the perspiration and grease and mud, but he could see them - he could see his mates in the clearing, waiting and he was there, in a blur of loud cheers and hands clapping his back and it was simply too much -
Arthur fell forward with a choked sob and collapsed into slick grass below him, a hacking cough ripping through his raw throat. He was dimly aware of the sounds of alarm from those hovering over him, but there was simply too much hurt for him to care as blood and mucus oozed from him lips. Someone turned him over and called his name. He dearly wanted to tell them he heard and understood; that he was really alright, he just needed a minute. But the blackness was swelling and clotting his vision at a disconcerting pace and his tongue felt too thick and heavy to formulate any words. Giving one last rattling cough, he allowed the darkness and exhaustion to claim his senses and knew no more.