The patients tend to be white, though once or twice there's been an East Asian face above the sheet. They have the worst injuries, their bones turning inside them into strange, vitrified corruption. Hawkeye has noticed his gloves are not latex; although they look very close to it, there is a layer of something protective inside, so his hands emerge tingling and numb, but intact. "What is this?"
There's no answer. The overseer looks down at him, his disapproval palpable even through the band over his eyes. When they're done for the day and about to be shepherded back to their camp, Hawkeye pauses in the doorway, looking out across the bare ground and the scrub, the curve of the landscape towards the sky. There's nothing he recognises.
"Thinking of making a break for it, soldier?"
Hawkeye turns, then inhales sharply, taking an involuntary step backwards. It's the overseer. "Firstly," he says, his words not matching his tone, fear unravelling in the rhythm of his breathing, "I'm not a soldier. Secondly..."
"Consider yourself drafted." The overseer turns away from him for a moment. "Consider yourself fighting a great battle that won't be won in your lifetime. The..." - there's a hint of a smile, under the mask - "experiments. What we learn is of enormous value. In a way, you're serving your country. Can you understand?"
"No," Hawkeye says, "please, no" - and BJ's there, with a hand under his shoulder, putting his own body between Hawkeye and the overseer.
*
More quietly than usual, BJ asks, "How'd they get you?'
They're sharing a bunk meant for one person, close enough to hide their words in each other. "I was in the city," Hawkeye murmurs into BJ's hair. "I just - I was going somewhere. I was meeting a girl. I was going to text her, say I'd be late. And then... I couldn't breathe. I thought... I woke up here."
"I was going to the public library." BJ huffs a laugh which Hawkeye feels in his bones. "Can you imagine? I stopped to cross the street and the streetcar... didn't stop. And then I was somewhere else."
"Do you think," Hawkeye asks very gently, "we'll ever go home?"
BJ places a finger on his lips. "Don't, Hawkeye. Please."
*
It's freezing cold when they bring the next batch in, and Hawkeye is shivering in the draught, watching his fingers shake. Not for the first time, he imagines taking the scalpel a few inches to the left, cutting through the layers of skin and tendons and carpal bones, taking off his own hand like a glove. Then how'd I do the other one, he thinks, and laughs. It sounds crazy, he thinks too late; it sounds like he's starting to want to be somebody else.
"Hawk," BJ says, quietly, and kisses him quickly, invisibly, on the side of his neck, on the pulse point. "If you don't... well, this guy's gonna die."
"I know," Hawkeye says, and makes the incision.
*
Hawkeye says, that night, "We could make a break for it. Threaten the overseer with a scalpel and run for the hills."
Outside the tent, the wind howls. Ice crystals are beginning to form on every surface, and Hawkeye, who grew up in New England, hasn't ever seen a sky such vivid blue, with such promise of bitterness.
BJ says, "You watched too much television", in the cadence that means, I love you, and for a moment they hold perfectly still.
"Winter's coming," Hawkeye says, feeling a strangeness creeping over him, as though his body is turning into glass.
no subject
The patients tend to be white, though once or twice there's been an East Asian face above the sheet. They have the worst injuries, their bones turning inside them into strange, vitrified corruption. Hawkeye has noticed his gloves are not latex; although they look very close to it, there is a layer of something protective inside, so his hands emerge tingling and numb, but intact. "What is this?"
There's no answer. The overseer looks down at him, his disapproval palpable even through the band over his eyes. When they're done for the day and about to be shepherded back to their camp, Hawkeye pauses in the doorway, looking out across the bare ground and the scrub, the curve of the landscape towards the sky. There's nothing he recognises.
"Thinking of making a break for it, soldier?"
Hawkeye turns, then inhales sharply, taking an involuntary step backwards. It's the overseer. "Firstly," he says, his words not matching his tone, fear unravelling in the rhythm of his breathing, "I'm not a soldier. Secondly..."
"Consider yourself drafted." The overseer turns away from him for a moment. "Consider yourself fighting a great battle that won't be won in your lifetime. The..." - there's a hint of a smile, under the mask - "experiments. What we learn is of enormous value. In a way, you're serving your country. Can you understand?"
"No," Hawkeye says, "please, no" - and BJ's there, with a hand under his shoulder, putting his own body between Hawkeye and the overseer.
More quietly than usual, BJ asks, "How'd they get you?'
They're sharing a bunk meant for one person, close enough to hide their words in each other. "I was in the city," Hawkeye murmurs into BJ's hair. "I just - I was going somewhere. I was meeting a girl. I was going to text her, say I'd be late. And then... I couldn't breathe. I thought... I woke up here."
"I was going to the public library." BJ huffs a laugh which Hawkeye feels in his bones. "Can you imagine? I stopped to cross the street and the streetcar... didn't stop. And then I was somewhere else."
"Do you think," Hawkeye asks very gently, "we'll ever go home?"
BJ places a finger on his lips. "Don't, Hawkeye. Please."
It's freezing cold when they bring the next batch in, and Hawkeye is shivering in the draught, watching his fingers shake. Not for the first time, he imagines taking the scalpel a few inches to the left, cutting through the layers of skin and tendons and carpal bones, taking off his own hand like a glove. Then how'd I do the other one, he thinks, and laughs. It sounds crazy, he thinks too late; it sounds like he's starting to want to be somebody else.
"Hawk," BJ says, quietly, and kisses him quickly, invisibly, on the side of his neck, on the pulse point. "If you don't... well, this guy's gonna die."
"I know," Hawkeye says, and makes the incision.
Hawkeye says, that night, "We could make a break for it. Threaten the overseer with a scalpel and run for the hills."
Outside the tent, the wind howls. Ice crystals are beginning to form on every surface, and Hawkeye, who grew up in New England, hasn't ever seen a sky such vivid blue, with such promise of bitterness.
BJ says, "You watched too much television", in the cadence that means, I love you, and for a moment they hold perfectly still.
"Winter's coming," Hawkeye says, feeling a strangeness creeping over him, as though his body is turning into glass.