So this was the fic that was only supposed to be a few started paragraphs (if that) and it turned into a full 2k+ chapter. One day my brain will stop coming up with aus that require it to be more than just a oneshot. Anyway, I wasn't sure to post this but its-a-story-of-love said I should and this is why I'm posting it. It's set during ww2 and even though I did learn bits of it at school, I am refreshing myself with it and learning more as I go along so any mistakes, I'm sorry. This is completely out of my comfort zone but it wouldn't leave me alone so I thought I might as well give it a go and yeah, this is it. I tend to stay away from actual historical events because I'd probably fuck it up. Also, there is no actual place called Glücklich Street, I made that place up. Neither am I German so any German in this is either from some form of translator or an actual German (especially for future German sentences) And I'm gonna shut up now. Enjoy :)

The ball thuds against the side of the house, bouncing off and landing into a nearby muddy puddle, splashing his once clean white socks.

His whole uniform is a mess- the light brown shirt now sporting patches of a darker brown, both from the puddles and the ball, itself. On the way back to Glücklich Street, Henry and Rudy's friendly game of football had turned into a game of Who-Could-Hit-The-Other-Hardest-With-The-Ball, and by the time they'd reached the top of their street, their once clean, smart, and presentable uniforms had been sullied with mud- not that either of them cared.

The tattered ball whacks against the wall harder and Henry's certain Mama will come out and scold at him for making the house shake but right now, he can't really bring himself to care for that, either. He hates these uniforms. The itchy, scratchy, horrible uniforms. Hates having to go there nearly every day- hiking, and marching, and trying to read maps he doesn't really understand- hates all of it. But most of all he hates the Führer!

He hits the ball hard, once more, against the wall, ducking as it sails past his head, before landing and rolling down the slope. Henry sighs, glances a look at the window- and when he sees Mama isn't watching him- he takes off, following the ball.

He was told he shouldn't say things like that; say he hates the Führer. Mama says it's not allowed, that bad things will happen to him if anyone catches him saying it. They say that at HitlerJugend, too. They tell them how they must respect Hitler, must follow all his commands, and never say anything against it.

But Henry can't help it. How's he supposed to respect someone who starts wars?

And Henry knows a war has been started. Mama might not let him listen to the radio but that doesn't mean he doesn't hear things. Mostly, he gets his information of Rudy, his friend telling him everything he overheard the night before when his parents thought he was asleep.

Still, Mama tells him he has to go, that it's practically law and that all the sighs, and scoffs, and face pulling aren't going to persuade her otherwise.

He likes to think the ruined uniform is some kind of rebellion. When they have Hitlerjugend again the next day, Mama has to have Henry's uniform washed and dried before Henry's off out. The guilt of his actions doesn't set in until he lingers by the kitchen doorway, watching as she scrubs and scrubs and scrubs in an effort to have the stains removed. There is some shame that sneaks in when he sees her stressing over it but it goes the next day, when she's urging him out of the door, and the cycle starts all over again.

He spies his ball in the gutter, running over to it and picking it up. He twirls it in his hand, the mud- and whatever else- staining his hands. Mama will tell him to wash before he eats.

He's about to walk away when a groan sounds from somewhere nearby him. Frowning and turning, his eyes scan along the road and there's nothing. No drunk old man leaning against the wall, nothing.

Biting his lip, he tosses the ball back into the gutter, walking over to the gate to the field, leaning against it, feeling the cold under his hands, when he sees it. In a bush- not far away- a foot sticking out.

Henry doesn't know what to do. He could pick up his ball and leave, pretend he never saw anything, or he could see who it is, what's wrong him them.

Mama taught him that he should always help people, no matter what, but she also said how he should stay away from strangers. What one does he choose?

The person groans again, louder this time and Henry summarises that he's in some sort of pain.

That's what does it for him. Throwing "stranger" out of the window as he begins to climb over the fence. He lands with a thud, falling into his hands before standing up right and wiping the soil against his shirt and moving towards the bush.

His steps are slow, unsure. He wonders if he should speak. The person might not know he's there.

And he does so. A little, meek voice coming out. "Hallo?"

"Hell-...Hell-p- me…"

Henry's eyes widen as he walks closer. Heart thudding in his tiny chest. Perhaps he should run back- No! He's here now. Might as well go all the way.

He reaches the bush, the foot lying right next to his own.

"Are you okay?" he asks, voice no different from before.

"Need...help." the man chokes- or at least Henry thinks it's a man, if sounds like a man. "Pleas."

Henry grips a twig shielding him from the man, it's thorns digging into his skin as he moves the plant out of the way. And there he sees it. A man, pale, lying on the ground, with a giant hole in his leg.

Henry gasps, eyes widening as he looks at the person. And for a moment, he's frozen, unsure what to do. But the man croaks out another breaking hell-p and that restarts Henry. He nods, I'll go get my mama, it's automatic- who else would he get? So he runs back, jumping back over the fence and running up the slope, when he's closer to his house, it's then he begins shouting Mama! And his mother is out of the door in a second.

….:...:...

Everything runs through her mind when she hears Henry shout her. It's rushed and panicky and there's a moment when she thinks he's hurt or maybe his ball has busted next door's window (it wouldn't be the first time) or the soldiers came and Henry got in the way and is suffering because of it.

It's that last thought that has her running out of the house, not even glancing a look out of the tiny window, just saying to get the chance to explain what happened before Henry throws himself into more trouble.

But when she opens the door, there's nothing. Nothing but Henry standing there, a panting mess, staring at her. Relief spreads through her when she realises he's alone and unhurt, though she definitely has something to say about that uniform. Before she gets the chance however, Henry's speaking.

"There's a man..." he explains, between pants. "In the field. He's...he's hurt."

Regina sighs. Why should she care? Why does he care? Because you raised him to care. Well, he shouldn't care about this one. He's probably just some drunk old man stuck in a bush. She tells Henry as much.

"Henry, it's not our problem.'' But Henry's shaking his head, telling her no.

"It isn't, Henry. Now come inside and get that uniform off. It's filthy."

She goes to walk back inside herself, before Henry's halting her. It appears he's as stubborn as she is.

"Mama, we have to help him. He's got a giant hole in his leg and he's gonna die."

Her lips worms itself way between her teeth as she leans against the front door, eyes leading back to Henry as the boy stands there, ball by his feet, clothes a complete mess- something she should start on cleaning- but his eyes are full of pleading. Whoever he thinks this man is, he knows it's someone who really needs their- her- help and depending on how 'giant' the hole in his leg really is, Regina could have him stitched up and out in a couple of hours, no problems caused.

"Fine." she sighs and Henry's eyes light up. "Show me where he is."

...:...:...

His leg is throbbing. He'd been hoping it had gone numb by now, hoping maybe shock would have kicked in, maybe that way, each breath wouldn't be feeling so pained.

He wonders where that boy's gone. The little German one, the one who said he'd go get his 'mama'. If he even is. Maybe the lad heard his accent, that heard all that Englishness and went to get someone to finishes him off. Robin wouldn't mind, though, not now. Would do anything for this pain to go away, even if it involves death.

He thought sleeping would help. He walked as far as he could, each step giving off more pain, more throbbing, than the next, but he'd dragged and limped himself through the empty town until he found himself at this field and by this bush.

He's got no idea who shot him, he realises. Hadn't given it much thought as he buckled over in pain, leg on fire as he saw the blood pool. He'd look around and nothing, nobody, it was like a ghost shot him or something. Ridiculous, ghosts aren't real. It was a man who shot him. German, English...he doesn't know. Anyone shoots anyone now, opponent side or not. Perhaps Robin should thank the man, if he lives through this and ever sees him, should thank him; Robin's not going back to war anytime soon.

Still, if it does survive this, he probably won't last long. He's an Englishman in the enemy's country. It might not Berlin- or is it?, he doesn't know- but his time here won't be long.

Hopefully the boy does bring someone back to kill him, if his leg doesn't do it first.

Is he dying, he wonders. Sure, his gaze goes fuzzy at times, feels weak, but he expected more. Expected to see the colours of the world more, but he can barely focus on them (that fuzzy gaze going from 'at times' to 'more frequent') the sky is still just that same greyish colour and the grass and stones are hard beneath him. It's all ordinary. Nothing special. Nothing different.

He's this way.

His ears perk at the voice, the voice that sounds familiar...The boy! This is it, Robin thinks. A little boy is leading him to death. He shuts his eyes- he always wanted to die in his sleep, after all- but as soon as those eyes close another little boy appears. A little boy with curly hair and big brown eyes. A little boy miles away from him. Roland.

In all the time he's been away from his son, he's never once cried. Sure, he's wanted to, felt that lump form when he went to sleep every night, but he'd just manage to stop himself. Roland wouldn't want him to cry.

But now, now when he's metres away from death, in another country he's not even sure where, does he feel moisture by his eyes, only then does he cry for the little boy who'll never see him again.

We've got to help him.

Robin relaxes his eyes slightly, pushes the image of his son away, tries to focus on the words being said has is heart thumps in his chest. Help, the boy said. He does want to help.

Look, Mama. You can help him.

Mama. So he had gone to get his mother. Despite what he said earlier, relief spreads through him. He might have a chance yet. Might have a chance to see his boy once more.

I can't carry him, Henry.

No, it's okay, Robin wants to shout. He can walk himself. He got here. He's had his rest. He can walk.

We can try. I'll help!

Robin hears muffled footsteps run forwards him, feels a shadow cast over his face, and finally a little hand on his arm, shaking him.

He opens his eyes and finds himself looking at the boy, face dirty and brown eyes determined.

"Look, Mama!" the boy shouts. "Look, he's alive. He's still alive." The boy looks back down at him. "You need to get up," he tells him. "Mama will help you, she's good at helping people."

Robin nods, places a palm down on the dirt and another on the boy's hand as he tries to pull himself up. As he does so, his head goes dizzy, he wants to lie back down but the boy isn't letting him it seems, he's got his own little hand wrapped around Robin's wrist, using all his strength the pull the man up.

Robin brings his good leg up, keeping the bad on straight on the floor, foot planted on the grass as he uses the boy and his own hand to push him up onto his feet. He stumbles a bit, careful of that other leg, and the woman- the boy's mother- is running over to them, bring his arm over her shoulder as the boy- Henry- does the same and all together they help Robin walk away from the bush, Robin helping as much as he can, keep his bad leg off the ground and hoping along.

"We've got to get him over the wall." Henry says and his mother nods. Robin sees the wall, a small little thing, they'll be able to do it. It's the hill he can see that daunts him. Leading up, it's long, it'll take ages to get up.

His vision goes cloudy, he doesn't have long, his leg still thudding, feels himself growing hot, sweat gathering. He's going slack, losing consciousness as the world grows smaller and smaller before nothing.