For Mythology, Task #5 - Ares, God of War: Write a story set in wartime.
Scavenger Hunt: write a crossover
Resolutions: write a crossover
Hedgehog Day - Write about someone who looks cute but is quite prickly or dangerous / Write a Sherlock crossover (10 points/review)
..
The new kid looks so goddamn young.
John looks at him, his red hair shorn military short, his freckles beginning to blend into his already sunburnt skin, and wonders how long this one will last.
Maybe that's terrible. Maybe that makes him jaded.
Maybe jaded is the only way John can survive in the Afghani desert, shooting at people he's never sure deserve to be shot.
In the end, maybe the new kid is a little too much like John. In all the ways he shouldn't be.
His name is Charlie. He grew up outside of London, on a small farm with a large garden. He has a big family — five brothers and one baby sister. He adores all of them, but especially his older brother Bill.
He is twenty three years old, Jesus.
He is twenty three years old and he is not afraid of anything. Except maybe snakes.
John wonders why he isn't an air force parajumper, to be honest. The adrenaline rush seems like exactly what Charlie would love.
His aim isn't perfect but he makes up for it with pure enthusiasm. He's too snarky to make a perfect soldier, but honestly, that kind of makes John like him more.
The thing about Charlie is that he comes in with bright eyes and John hates that, because he never wants to watch it fade. But with Charlie, it doesn't fade.
He becomes a better shot, good enough to keep a kill count if he wanted (John's is 78, with only two that he doesn't regret) but his eyes are still bright.
John is terrified of what that might mean.
In the end, all it means is that Charlie is somehow too damn naive and too wise at the same time, and as much of an adrenaline addict as John himself.
John doesn't mean to fall for him.
He's nearing forty too soon, and the kid just turned twenty four out here. But then, twenty four out here is different that twenty four anywhere else.
He's still not going to do anything about it.
He doesn't have to.
One day after a skirmish, Charlie corners him, hugs him tightly, and says, "I thought you were hit."
And John remembers falling to the ground at the sound of a bullet, realizes how that could've looked like falling on impact.
Charlie pulls back. His blue eyes are wild.
And then Charlie's hand is on his cheek and his face moves in close and Charlie whispers, "Can I?"
And John looks at him, this beautiful young man that he's fallen for, and he nods.
Charlie kisses him, fierce and desperate. It is the kiss of a drowning man set adrift at sea, desperately grasping for a life preserver.
It makes John ache for him, so young and yet already so wounded.
It makes John kiss him back just as fiercely.
Charlie deepens the kiss and then John is pushing his back against the barracks, giving himself a better angle because Charlie has a small height advantage.
And when John takes a minute to pull back and gasp out, "Is this okay?" Charlie's response is to pant,
"Please don't stop."
And so he doesn't.
…
One time turns into occasional thank-god-we're-alive sex which turns into Charlie creeping into John's bed some days just to sleep and John waking up early in the morning just to listen to the small sleepy noises Charlie makes as he drifts from sleep to wake.
They don't talk about it. John wonders how much of it is because of heightened emotions because of the circumstances and how much of it would exist if they stripped that all away.
He's not sure he wants to know the answer.
He doesn't ask.
…
And so it is that John falls in love in Afghanistan. In the middle of a war. With a man sixteen years his junior.
It isn't what he ever expected, but then, life never is.
…
They're in the middle of a firefight. It's just like any other. Bullets are flying every which way. John is trying to triage wherever he can, his rifle slung over his back, unused.
Time doesn't slow down, although it feels like it should. Instead, he sees the bullet impact Charlie's leg in live time, and he sees Charlie go down. Hard.
John ducks and sprints over to him, only to find Charlie's bright blue eyes struggling to stay open. John takes a look at his leg, but he can already tell he's too late.
The bullet splintered the tibia, ricocheted, and took out the anterior tibial artery.
Charlie's already lost too much blood for any amount of battlefield triage to be enough.
He can tell by Charlie's eyes that he can see this truth written across John's face.
"I love you," Charlie says, his voice thin. "I've never said it, but I wanted you to know."
"You deserved better," John says. Better than this, better than me.
"I deserved to be happy. And I was," Charlie says.
His eyes slip closed.
"I love you," John says, because he's never said it out loud but it's true.
He's not sure if Charlie hears it, or if the words are just one more case of too little, too late.
John closes his eyes. "I love you," he says again, to the Afghani wind. And then he pulls in a deep breath and braces himself to stand, to keep moving, to keep fighting.
And that's when a bullet tears through his shoulder and John screams.
He's trying to triage his own through and through bullet wound when the world fades and goes dark.
…
John wakes up in a bed in his own hospital tent. The memories come back to him slowly, and then all at once.
Charlie is dead.
This is why you shouldn't fall in love when you're at war, John.
He tries to move his arms underneath him, to push himself into a sitting position. The left shoulder cries out in pain.
"Hey, hey, don't put any pressure on that yet, Doc," says Henries, the only other medic in their unit.
"I need to talk to Gershwin," John says.
"You need to let the through and through in your shoulder heal," says Henries.
"Damn my shoulder, I need to talk to Gershwin!"
"At least let me put your arm in a sling to get the weight off it, then."
John grumbles, but acquiesces, knowing that's sound medical advice. As soon as the sling is tied, he's up and moving.
"Doctors," says Henries. "Always the worst patients."
John gives him a wry attempt at a grin. "Never have truer words been spoken," John says. "Sorry, Henries."
…
He finds Major Gershwin in his tent, at his desk, head in his hands.
"Major," John says, attempting to salute.
"At ease, Captain," Gershwin says.
"Sir. I was wondering if you'd sent out Weasley's letter of notice yet."
Gershwin sighs. "I haven't. It's written but not sent. Why?"
"Sir, I know I'm going to be invalided home for this anyway. I know it's not a typical request, but… Could I deliver it?"
Gershwin looks at him closely. "Something I should know, Watson?"
John meets his eyes. "Not anymore, sir."
Gershwin sighs again. "Then I'm sorry for your loss, Watson. And we're sorry to lose you. But I don't see why you couldn't be the one to deliver it."
"Thank you, sir."
…
And sure enough, John is invalided home three days later, as soon as they confirm that the shoulder wound has left him with tremors in his hand too bad to fire a gun, let alone perform surgery.
John isn't sure how much of the tremor can be attributed to the shoulder wound and how much to the gaping, invisible hole in his chest.
It doesn't matter.
He goes home with a letter in his pocket. He changes into a jumper and jeans at the airport. He takes a cab. He knocks on the door to the small, slightly rundown farmhouse.
A man with Charlie's blue eyes opens the door. When he sees John, his face turns puzzled.
"Hello," John says. "My name is Captain John Watson. I was wondering if I could talk to you about your son, Charlie."
He watches something in the man's eyes dim.
John doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to tell these people their son is dead.
But he feels like he owes them this. He owes them the truth. From someone who knew Charlie personally. From someone who was there.
The man, who must be Charlie's father, fetches a woman who must be Charlie's mother, three young men who must be some of Charlie's younger brothers (two twins, one younger), and a young woman who must be his little sister, Ginny.
They collect in the living room, on a worn couch. John, at Mrs. Weasley's insistence, sits in the chair.
"Charlie and I were in the same unit in Afghanistan. And I thought it only right that you heard this from someone who knew him." John takes a deep breath. "Charlie died. About a week ago." His voice shakes slightly as he adds, "I'm sorry."
Charlie's mother puts her hands over her mouth. Mr. Weasley's face goes cold. All four of the siblings look angry.
John pulls out the letter. "This is the official notice from his commanding officer." He sets it on the table. Then he swallows. He told himself he wasn't going to cry, doing this, but seeing his own grief reflected five times over isn't easy. "And… I thought you might like to know. His last words were, 'I deserved to be happy. And I was.'"
Charlie's mother bursts into tears. His little sister flees the room.
"Thank you for telling us, son," says Mr. Weasley.
"It was the least I could do," John says. "Your son was a great man. The kind of man who made everyone else around him want to be a better one."
Mr. Weasley nods.
John stands. "I should… go."
"Wait." It comes from one of the twins. He stands, takes a closer look at John.
"You loved him, didn't you?" he says, finally. John is shocked at his perceptiveness, even in grief. But then, John thinks, his own grief is probably writ large across his face.
"I did," John says, because he won't deny it, even if he didn't plan to mention it.
Mrs. Weasley sniffs, and then says in a wobbly voice, "I'm glad. That there was more than just hate out there for him."
John smiles, bittersweet. He nods, and turns to go.
"Captain Watson?" calls Mr. Weasley. John turns to face him.
"John," he says.
"John, then. You're welcome here. Any time."
John nods, and then leaves.
He wishes he could take them up on the offer, but he doesn't think he will.
He suspects it would be too painful, just yet, to remember.