Yeah, so this plot bunny nagged at me. Got the idea from a dream.

Just a quick little thing. Three chapters long. Never wrote a war or songfic before...just trying it on.

I apologize for limited postings. I find myself with little motivation to write fanfics. I must admit, I've been writing a novel. Timeline note cards and everything. My phone notes are fit to burst with ideas. I keep getting ideas and it's just flowing from my fingers. And to think it was a stupid little thing I started at the age of 12 hehe. It's a bit more adult like now...violent, some scandal, sexual.

Also I've had classes. This is my last semester before I transfer. Got a whole buncha shite to do. Then I'm directing a short play, not pro-bono. Then I'm also acting in a full length play, pro-bono. Secretary responsibilities. Getting snow-raped. ShitIgottaregisterforgraduation. MY GODS THE FRESHMEN ARE HORNY AND EVERYBODY WANTS THE T...

Yeah...little stressed...

Anyways, my knowledge of Vietnam is strong in certain places rather than all places. And the 60s and 70s are not my strongest. But ask me about anything during the reign of Alexander, the Viking Age or the 90s and I'll tell you all you want to know.

And I'll say now so that there's no butt-hurt that I am most certainly not a racist. Nor a gay-hater (that thought is preposterous since I'm super everybody-sexual). I'm just writing in the time where a lot of fools were racist, gay-hating cockwombles.

Please do enjoy my lovelies. Just because I'm getting older and bitterer...bitter-er...bittererer...doesn't mean that we can't have nice things...mehehehe

The leaves of the native plants whipped at the sniper's fatigues, wet with water and mud. The wild branches and protruding roots tried to seize him, to slow him down and to trip him up. Still, he pushed on, holding tightly onto the burden upon his shoulders. The booms of explosions the calls of gunfire and the yells of men, friendly and unfriendly seemed to stay at his heels no matter how far he ran.

After the ambush had failed, the Company Commander had ordered all platoons to retreat. He didn't need telling twice as the fire, putrid with blood, gunpowder and napalm, rose over them. Despite his love for fire, Warren was fucking scared.

He'd had no problem turning tail and running after his fellows through the jungle, frantically slapping out the flames that had caught him in the right side.

So many of them had run off in different directions, no matter how many times Warren called for them to keep East. He could only hope that they'd make it to the trail by the river they'd been told to reconvene at for evac. His fear only grew when pain had exploded in his elbow when a bullet had found him. But still, he'd kept running.

"Might as well enlist, Hothead," that fat-skulled fuck said…"War's gonna be over before you even get there," he said…

There was nothing Warren wanted more now than the comfort and safety of a six by eight, complete with steel bunk, table, stool, sink and shitter.

Don't think…just run.

The pyro's heart leapt to his throat when he spotted movement up ahead. Quickly, he ducked into a grouping of trees, concealing himself in the reaching leaves of the growth.

He knew that if he set down his load now, he'd never be able to pick him back up again. The idea of leaving the man behind was not even remotely present in Warren's mind.

In favor of not puking, the pyro refrained from looked at his left elbow. He could feel blood trailing along his forearm from the gunshot wound. The entire joint was alive and burning with agony. If it started going numb, then he knew he'd have a problem. It was a horrible struggle to do his very best to endure it. He kept his left arm and hand hooked around his unconscious companion's leg and wrist to keep him on his shoulders.

Shaking and trying to pant quietly, the sniper got his rifle into his right hand and aimed carefully through the leaves, supporting the barrel on a leaning tree trunk. Through the smoke, less than a hundred yards away from his hiding spot, he saw two Congs emerge.

Their voices echoed in the momentary silence, obviously shaken, wounded…and ridiculously young. Trying to calm his breathing, the pyro swallowed and listened to their words, translating to himself while his finger moved over the trigger.

They were unarmed aside from a knife and what looked like a lonely bayonet. They were both bloody as hell, burned, limping and cradling bullet wounds.

"I don't know. I thought I heard something. I'm scared."

"Don't be. Come on, I hear planes. They must have called in an airstrike. We have to keep moving, little brother."

He didn't even need to sight them through the scope. They were getting closer…he could kill them both with one shot.

But he let them pass.

Gritting his teeth, he lowered his weapon. Being the best sniper in the entire division had nothing to do with the fact that he could have easily put a bullet through their brains one-handed. They'd been so close and completely unaware. And if the rifle wouldn't suffice, he had a loaded pistol strapped to his thigh.

"They're still people," the pyro remembered him saying. Glancing over his shoulder, he could just see the tip of his burden's bloody ear.

He knew that his father would've greased the two men without a second thought. He might have laughed while doing it. But that kind of mentality (or lack thereof) was why he'd been executed by a firing squad…Warren wasn't his father despite everything people thought about him no matter where he went.

"Kill one, save the twenty that he'd kill." They'd told him after completing sniper training. It had sounded logical enough. He didn't know where the number came from, but the idea made sense. Warren himself had probably killed more than that in less than a month.

He was just doing what he had to do.

"They're just like us. We're all just doing what we have to do."

Moving his rifle quietly back to his side, trusting the strap it hung on, he bit back on a growl. You people are always telling me shit…I was fine before I ever met you, Stronghold…

As he gingerly made his way to his feet, he looked carefully around. The planes were indeed getting closer. He guessed that he probably had about five minutes to get the fuck out of the jungle and to the river. The pyro checked his compass and started running again, due East.

His boots pounded against the ground. Like drums. The vibrations of the planes closing in were the deathly winds. The booms of the explosions were the roaring chorus. The sound of the bullets cutting through the trees were the ungodly bells, calling out for him. It was a symphony of fear and death, threatening to consume all in its path.

Pain blazed through Warren's muscles. His lungs burned like they never had before. His heart beat wildly in his chest. He felt like prey to the predator that was this land.

The sniper would admit to himself right then and there…he didn't want to die. He wanted to be home. Oh, how he longed to look upon the vastness of the mountains and smell the pine trees. He wanted to feel the coldness of winter. He yearned to hear his mother whispering to the wind.

They were all things that Warren had never thought of before. He never thought that he would miss things like that. Growing up, he'd complained often that there was nothing to do in their home in the mountains. He'd shivered and cursed the freezing cold of winter. He'd rolled his eyes when his mother had talked of the spirits.

All that had occupied his mind before was those who had wronged him, his anger and his hatred. That was what had gotten him arrested in the first place. As an…what did those assholes call him? As a "red-assed Injun" and a fugitive, you knock a couple of white boys unconscious and you tend to get hell poured down onto your head.

"Enlist or go to jail."

It had seemed like a no-brainer. People had been saying back home that the war would end any day now. But then Warren had jumped off of that chopper with his knapsack and rifle fresh from training. And just as quick as the blink of an eye, he realized that people back home didn't know jack shit.

The only thing that had made any of this less…horrible…was meeting Stronghold…

The guy had a kind and crooked smile. Brown hair that he was constantly pushing back off of his forehead. In his defense, haircuts were scarce while they were out on the hump. And he had these bright blue eyes…Warren had never seen such gentle eyes.

While he wasn't a very big man, he was deceptively strong…strong as a bull. He was the platoon's gunner, and he carried the machine gun on his back all by himself as if it weighed twenty pounds.

The second that the sniper had met him, he'd hated him. He was too happy…plus he was the son of that Company Commander…fucking Captain Stronghold, one of the guys who'd voted yes on Lieutenant Baron Battle's execution. The fact that Warren hadn't really had any relationship with his father was beside the point…you're supposed to dislike people who fuck with your family aren't you?

But despite Warren's display of disdain, little Sergeant Stronghold had always made it a point to sit with him and talk with him. The brawn's stupid jokes, his positive outlook on life and his ability to tell stories had grown on Warren.

Sergeant William T. Stronghold somehow had become the only real friend he'd ever had.

Relief spilled through him when he broke through the trees. The sun shined through the sparse, healthy white clouds. A light breeze brushed through the tall grass. The river flowed gently. Warren wondered for a moment at how bits and pieces of this land could be so beautiful and vast, while at the same time being so poisonous and cruel.

"Warren! Warren! Over here!"

Looking up the trail, the pyro saw the tall, blond, gangly idiot that was Stronghold's buddy from back home. Zach. The twit who always talked about how he missed catching the "glowbugs" back home with his kid sisters or something.

Gritting his teeth, the sniper hurried as best he could to the small group that sat on the edge of the trail, panting and mostly wounded.

"I need a field kit!" He called as he approached. The sniper watched as the giant's eyes widened, finally recognizing the patch on his burden's sleeve.

"Shit! Get a field kit! Medic! Ethan! Will's hurt!"

Warren sucked in a breath and sunk down to his knees, leaning forward to lay his friend down in the grass.

Glowbug tugged too quickly, making Stronghold's limp form brush across the pyro's surely ruined elbow. Yelling out, he pulled back, outright dropping the unconscious man, cradling his arm to his chest. The adrenaline was starting to lessen. The pain was slowly becoming more apparent. His muscles burned, his elbow was on fire with agony, and now suddenly he had the uncontrollable urge to puke his guts out.

The Private fumbled in his pocket for his lighter. He needed something to focus on and flicking the thing open and closed had always calmed him.

A young black man dropped down beside them, pushing his helmet up off his glasses. "Jesus, Will."

Warren turned, supporting himself on his right arm and vomited into the tall grass. His body felt wet with sweat, mud and his friend's blood.

"Warren, you okay?!" Glowbug cried out, grabbing at his shoulder.

The pyro shook him off, another wave of nausea spilling the lack of contents of his stomach. Black spots danced in his vision. Fuck, he felt light-headed.

"Zach, do not let him pass out. Stone! Stone! Fucking Christ, Larry, get your ass over here! Keep pressure right here." The sniper heard Ethan instructing faintly.

"Hey, hey," The giant's shaky voice sounded near him. A steady hand cupped his forehead and another moved to support his chest. "Warren, Ethan says you gotta stay awake. We're gonna be okay, evac is two minutes out. Just stay awake."

"Stronghold," The pyro rasped, retching emptily again.

"Ethan's gonna take care of him. He'll make it. He's got to."

Will stared at his friend sleeping in the surely uncomfortable chair by his bed.

The brawn didn't know where he was, an American field hospital somewhere he was sure. Out of curtesy to his body, he hadn't moved upon waking. The misty pain from his chest to his right thigh, and the throbbing of a headache had been enough warning. He was experienced enough to recognize when pain meds were wearing off. So, he laid there quietly as the med ward still slept around him; just watching the sniper, and ignoring the awakening pain and his dry mouth.

The Sergeant studied the bandages heavily wrapping the man's left arm from bicep to forearm. His eyes moved along the sling that lashed it firmly against his body; and trailed along the bandaged wrapped and taped to his right side and arm.

A blanket was draped around his shoulders to ward off any chill that would come to assault the Private's half naked form.

Damn…

Oh, had all the platoons been hit impossibly hard.

He remembered running into the trees, shoved away from the front by his father. The brawn remembered seeing Warren tearing through the growth at a stunning speed ahead of him. There had been the sound of rapid fire, a tsunami of pain, the ground coming up at him and then nothing.

Swallowing hard, Will started to worry about whether people made it out alive or not.

"Will?"

Jumping slightly, Will turned his head and saw a redheaded nurse who looked damn familiar. "Layla?"

The woman smiled, coming over to his bedside, "Hey, how are you feeling?"

"Shh," Will glanced at Warren to see if he'd awoken. The pyro remained still. He turned back to his old school mate and friend from back home. She looked a little tired, as if she'd just woken up. But her uniform was crisp and clean despite that possible fact.

"I thought you were against the war." The brawn whispered in disbelief to the flower child.

She grimaced, "Oh, I am. But after you left, I couldn't just sit around. I had to do what I could to help. Exercising my rights and saving lives and all that groovy stuff." She added a small smile to the end, reaching to adjust an IV tube that was wrapped around one of his arms.

"Do you know if my Dad made it out? Ethan? Zach? My squad? The rest of the platoon?" He asked, staring warily up at her for any negative signs.

"There you go like always, worrying about everyone else. Your Dad made it, and I treated Zach and Ethan yesterday for some minor burns and gas inhalation. A few of your men are in the next ward over. Most weren't wounded, and go shipped out. I heard there are still some MIAs…but they're um…presumed after Air Force naped the area you were in."

The brawn closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. He lifted his left hand up from the blankets and scrubbed at his face. Grimacing, he looked at his wrist and found a ring of dark, finger-shaped bruises.

"Got any idea what happened to me?" Will finally asked, wincing as his fingertips brushed a bandage around his head.

Those knowing green eyes moved down the bed, frowning at the frailness of her friend. He'd always been strong and confident, and now here he was weak and vulnerable. She had never wanted this kind of life for him, but she hadn't been able to convince him to escape the draft. He'd been a shoo-in for a college degree and had the money to do it, but he'd refused and enlisted before the draft found him.

Stubborn as always to prove himself to his father, his mother and those around him…even though he didn't have to.

"Well, you sustained some rapid fire gunshot wounds from your chest to your thigh. Six bullets." She reached forward and pointed out small, rusty red stains on his bandaged chest. "The first one just missed your lung. The next two cracked some ribs. This one tore up your kidney. The next one got your pelvic bone. And the last one hit an artery next to your femur bone. I guess when you went down, you hit your head on a rock."

Will frowned, "I'll take some more of that morphine stuff, please. I don't think I wanna know how much that all really hurts…how the hell am I still alive, Lay?"

The redhead looked up from the syringe she'd been filling to administer to his IV drip. She didn't think that he'd been looking for a real answer on that last part. The brawn had laid his head back heavily into his pillows, and had spoken in bewilderment to the ceiling.

She glanced over at the wounded sniper, sleeping in the chair on the other side of his bed. "Him."

Will looked at her in confusion, "What?"

"I'm answering your question, Will," she said, slowly injecting the numbing agent into his blood stream. "You're alive because of Private Peace, there."

She watched those blue eyes turn onto the man beside him. They were soft and inquisitive. Admiring. Adulating.

She'd seen that look on him a few times before.

When they were kids, he'd looked upon his father as a hero. When they were just barely teenagers, he'd looked upon Gwen Grayson, his first crush with dopey eyes like that. And a few times he'd looked at Layla herself like that.

She smiled warmly, feeling slightly jealous. It had been close to a year since she'd last seen him. So of course, he'd find other people to like, to lo…

"I guess he went back for you. Ethan said that his belt was tied around your leg to staunch the bleeding, and your wounds were already salted. He slung you over his shoulder and carried you to safety." She looked over at the sleeping man. While she might not be the object of the Sergeant's affections anymore, she was glad that he'd kept him alive.

This rude, abrasive man with copper skin and black hair had kept Will alive. Any frustration she'd felt the previous day over his refusal to leave the comatose brawn's side faded away. Layla knew well that you protect what you hold dear.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Will asked drowsily, feeling the effects of the medicine creeping through his body.

"He's got some bad burns on his right side and his arm. The surgeon put his elbow back together as best he could. He's a sniper, right?" After the brawn nodded, she shook her head, "I'm not sure if he'll be cleared for active duty with that injury. He'll probably have limited use of his left arm now. He might be going home…you too."

Will's blue eyes fluttered closed. Any other time he'd protest that statement red-faced. But Layla had doped him up well enough to put him back into sleep's embrace. He supposed he should be grateful. Being here meant that it wasn't necessary to feel pain to know you were still alive. It wasn't his first gunshot wound, so he knew the drill.

He just hoped that when he woke up next, the pyro would still be there.

The brawn awoke the next day to see the chair beside him vacant. When he'd asked Layla where his friend was, she'd told him that he was being seen by the doctor. She'd also told him that they'd be shipped out to a more secure hospital tomorrow morning to make room for another wave of injured. Promptly, he was then fed, and drugged again, sending him deep into unconsciousness.

However, he found himself awake again that evening. The chair beside his bed was most certainly not vacant. The pyro was reasonably covered with the blanket this time, and very much awake.

Those dark chocolate eyes had watched warily as Will came around.

"Hey, War." The Sergeant rasped.

Scooting closer, Warren picked up a cup of water in his right hand and carefully held it to his lips. Gratefully, Will drank deeply, and let his head sink back into the pillows when he was done.

"You okay?" he asked the pyro, noticing the man fiddling with his lighter the way he did when he was nervous or bored.

Shaking his head, the Private finally spoke, "You need to stop worrying about everyone else and mind your own damn business."

The brawn smiled, happy to see that his friend was his normal self. "Oh, a man after my own heart." Warren looked away for a long moment after that, letting silence descend on the two of them.

Will wondered if he'd toed the line a little too much this time with those cheeky words. That line had been a little…faded between them the past few weeks. It hadn't been an odd occurrence to find their arms brushing one another as they'd walked out on the hump. Late at night when one of them was on watch, the other would make an effort to be near, even touching or leaning. One time, Warren had even let the brawn trace the fire tattoos on his forearms. Yeah, casual touching had become a little…more than casual.

They'd never said anything about it, or joked about it. You couldn't acknowledge things like that…

Even if things like that had once escalated to their being so close together one night that their noses almost touched and they could feel, almost taste their breath on one another's lips. It could've been a platonic demonstration…because Warren had been talking about a time he'd fucked a very rude but secretly shy girl in a village off the Mekong…her name was Magenta or something.

That wasn't their most unrighteous moment either…So, yeah…their companionable habits were a bit more than…just companionable.

"Tell me how you feel." Warren said quietly, jerking Will back to the present.

"I uh…well…the drugs they've got in me…I'm not exactly in pain…it's a little hazy." Will replied, glancing down at his covered chest.

Nodding silently, the pyro finally looked back up into the Sergeant's eyes.

Warren took in the deer in the headlights expression on the brawn's face. He'd seen it once before.

They'd been in a bar in Saigon. He'd managed to convince Will to drink with him. And hours later, the two of them had been pretty damn intoxicated…so the memories were a little frayed. At one point during what he'd thought had been a pleasant evening, they'd had gotten into an argument. It had been about the sniper's "vices" or something. He remembered tripping out the door into a cramped alleyway outside. Vaguely, he recalled the affronted, drunken look on Will's face as the two hissed and growled at each other.

The Private couldn't really remember the entirety of the conversation. He figured it was about how he needed to stop wasting his money on whores or something.

The pyro liked sex. He liked it most when it was happening to him. Before then, the Sergeant had looked the other way when Warren had made use of the rubbers that the army issued them. So, he hadn't really understood that night why it was all of a sudden such a big deal.

But then, he thought at least, the arguing had moved to "Why can't you use your skills to be all that you can really be? There's so much to you, and you could make the world see that easily if you tried. You don't need all that shit in there…I want…why can't you see what's right in front of you?"

That was where the deer in the headlight's expression happened. The sniper almost chuckled, thinking of the involuntary gasp the man had let out after those words slurred from his mouth. While most of that night was a fragmented, drunken daze, the Private remembered the debauched look on Will's face. The look had been the result of Warren grabbing a handful of the man's crotch.

"Is this what you want?"

He swore to himself that his 'superior' officer had let out a little moan and reached for him. But at the last second, he pushed away and stumbled off.

The two of them were sober now…well, mostly sober. But pain meds didn't or at least shouldn't count as much as being piss-wasted. If the brawn brushed him off again tonight like he'd done outside that bar in Saigon, Warren told himself that he wouldn't ever touch him again.

So, he moved the chair even closer, knees resting against the side of the bed.

"I'm…glad you're alive." He murmured, unconsciously cradling his injured arm against his chest.

Will smiled gently, "I'm only alive because of you. Thanks for pulling me out of there." The brawn watched his friend, trying not to think too much. Thinking was always the thing that stopped him. Quick action was what had kept him alive in the field.

The pyro placed his hand over Will's.

The Sergeant felt like his stomach did a back-flip.

Leaning closer, Warren rested his forehead against the edge of the brawn's. His hand snaked under the blankets. When the warm fingers brushed under his waistband, Will sucked in a breath. He glanced around the dark ward fearfully, trying to see if anyone was awake.

His mind yelled at him to tell the Private that this wasn't a good idea, here and now. If someone were to wake up or come in…they'd be caught. However, his ideas of protest left him swiftly as the pyro squeezed and stroked his cock.

"Warren…" He breathed, his heart beating wildly against his ribs.

"Shh…"

Pressing his lips together to stifle himself, Will leaned back against Warren's face. Don't think, don't think…don't think.