hi!

so, this is my latest fic. shoulda' known that i couldn't stay away for too long. some reviews would be nice.

disclaimer: rafe, danny and other such characters alluded to in the movie pearl harbor belong to michael bay and/or randall wallace. i do not own anything. i do not profit in any way from writing fanfiction (in fact, i lose precious studying hours and all semblance of an active social life), so don't sue me.

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It happened on the 23rd of May 1933. As he stole an illicit kiss from Stephanie Camden hanging out of her bedroom window in the wee hours of the morning when the sky was still dark and the world asleep, Rafe never imagined that his life was about to change forever. It was to him nothing more than an exceptionally good day and his only concern was getting back home without being caught by his or her parents. Still, even the chances of being caught and grounded were not enough to dampen his mood, not when he could call the best kisser in their year his girl.

As Rafe drove down the dark, empty road that led home, he rolled down the window to allow the cool breeze to alleviate the summer heat, which Stephanie's kisses had done nothing to quench. He smiled again, thinking of her luscious lips. The sounds of the night filtered in; the dull roar or the tyres on the road, the cree-ee-eek of various glowing insects and the rustle of the ears of wheat blown by the wind. These were the sounds he had grown up with and no matter which girl he was returning from, be it Stephanie, Mary Lou or Agatha, these were the sounds that always accompanied him on his journey home.

Lulled into a state of complacency by the continuous monotony of these familiar sights and sounds, he didn't see the dark blur charging across the road until it was too late. Rafe slammed on the brakes, almost standing as he pushed the pedal to the floor of the pick-up. The truck screeched to a halt, but with an unmistakeable thump that jarred the driver's seat. And then there was silence again. Rafe released a shaky breath he didn't know he was holding and dropped his head against the steering wheel. Damn that animal. Damn him too, for not paying attention. Slowly, he exited the pick-up, shivering lightly as his adrenaline-fuelled body came down from its chemical high. For once, the warmth of the summer night was welcome.

Lying in the glare of the headlights was a large, dark shape. A pool of blood had already formed around it. At first, Rafe thought it was a smallish deer – great, he's just killed Bambi – because of its size, but as he drew closer, realised that the proportions were wrong and that its coat was far too shaggy to be that of a deer. It looked more a very large dog or a wolf, except that it was extraordinarily huge and that there hadn't been a wolf in these parts since the turn of the century.

He knelt by it, trying to figure out the best way to move the carcass off the road without getting dirty. It was sad, Rafe thought, that he was responsible for the death of such a beautiful animal. Running a hand through its soft fur, he marvelled at the defined muscles that met his hand; whatever it was, it was clearly a powerful creature. The fur that he was currently stroking would make a fine pelt. It was predominantly black, but lightened considerably towards the animal's throat and underbelly to a colour that was almost golden.

Suddenly, it growled. Startled, Rafe drew his hand away, accidentally smacking the side of its head as he did so. In a swift move that was surprisingly agile for an animal was that for all intents and purposes dead up to that point, it turned and sank its fangs into his hand. Instinctively, he snatched his hand away, but was rewarded only with the sound of snapping bone. The pain followed less than a second later. One moment he was too shocked to do anything but try to get away from the animal that was attacking him, and the next he was screaming into the night as the white-hot pain rolled over him in waves. Even the sound of his distress did not prompt the dying animal to let go; it clung to his hand with a vengeance and blood leaked out from the corners of its mouth, running over his battered hand and onto the road.

Half-furious and half-scared, Rafe used his left hand to try and force its jaw open, but only succeeded in cutting his fingers on its teeth. Now in full survival mode, he raised his free hand and punched the wolf, realising that the only way it was going to release him was if it was dead. It growled again, but its grip loosened somewhat. He hit it again, harder this time and it yelped; his hand fell free and Rafe lost no time in drawing the wounded limb away. For a short moment, they were at an impasse, man and animal, and Rafe looked into the wolf's golden eyes, hurt and scared but still aware of how beautiful they were. Then those golden orbs gave way to white as the wolf's eyes rolled; the majestic head hit the pavement with a meaty smack, a sound the graceful beast would not have made in life.

He pushed the body into the bracken by the side of the road, feeling in his heart that the animal deserved better than to be left to the mercy of scavengers, but there was nothing else he could do now. There were more urgent things to attend to, such as his completely mangled right hand; it throbbed dully, but twinged painfully every now and then as if to remind him of the fact. Even in the dim illumination provided only by his headlights and the half-moon that hung low in the sky, it was plain to see that his hand was in bad shape. It bled profusely, and Rafe was horrified to see white splinters protruding from outer edge of his palm; this was not a wound which he could plaster in a hurry and hope his parents would not notice. There was nothing he could do for it right now except bind it carefully with his outer shirt and get home before doing so ceased to be an option.

Not for the first time, Rafe thanked God that the road home was completely and totally deserted; the pick-up swayed all over the road despite his best efforts to steer left-handed. The scent of fresh blood, cloying and strong, filled the cabin and kept drawing his mind back to the mess that was his right hand. What if it couldn't be fixed? What if it remained mangled and ugly, with bits of bone jutting out everywhere? Would he ever fly again?

No, he told himself, that was one bridge he was never going to have to cross. No damn wolf was going to take that away from him.

Rafe drove as close to the house as he dared, killed the engine and watched the country house for signs of life. There were rightly none. Having gone through the ordeal of reaching home in one piece, it came as an unpleasant surprise to him how difficult it was to get back in. Where scaling the wall to the almost-attic that was his room was nothing more than a slightly dangerous climb owing to the lack of a safe landing should he fall, it was now a strenuous feat which had him panting and sweating. He only hoped that Danny was awake and would help him in – fat chance – or had found the night as warm as him and left the window open.

Luck was not on his side. The window was firmly shut and his friend was clearly asleep in his bed. Half-laughing and half-sobbing in desperation, Rafe rapped on the window; the sound seemed to carry through the stillness of the night, and he was beyond caring whether he would wake his folks. In all probability, he was going to have wake them himself soon, and whatever punishment they might want to hand out for breaking curfew paled in comparison to his injury. Danny must have been sleeping lightly, because he was up at the first knock, rubbing his eyes and grumbling under his breath.

At long last, the window opened and he crawled gratefully in, cradling his wrapped hand carefully and collapsing on the wooden floor. Danny must have realised that something was wrong, because he crouched over Rafe, forehead scrunched in concern. "Rafe, y'alright?"

"My hand," he croaked pathetically. Funny how he could move a carcass off the road, drive home and climb a two storey house all alone, but couldn't string a coherent sentence together now that Danny was here.

Danny disappeared for a moment, and came back with a flashlight. The fuzzy orange glow shone in his face for a moment and then came to a rest on his hand. The shirt that he had wrapped around it was wet and red, but he did not really feel the pain anymore and vaguely wondered if he was going into shock.

"What happened?"

"Got bitten by a big dog."

Danny was silent as he gently unwrapped the makeshift bandage, but the dim glow of the flashlight revealed his countenance to be pale. Rafe knew why; for the amount of blood that had been lost, the news could not possibly be good.

His hand was clean. It was perfectly fine; no blood, no bite marks and definitely no broken bones jutting out anywhere. Unable to believe what he was seeing, Rafe sat up and flexed his hand, fully expecting to feel the pain come rushing back. There was none. His hand was just fine in both appearance and function. "What the fuck?"

"I should be asking you that," Danny sniped. "You drunk?"

"No! Danny, I swear, half an hour ago my hand was in pieces. I…I hit a really big dog or something and it bit me before it died. The bones were sticking out and everything."

"What happened to the dog?"

"It died. After biting me. Weren't you listening?"

"Look, it's late. Maybe when you hit the dog, its blood got all over you and you thought it was yours. So you wrapped your bloody shirt around your perfectly fine hand and thought that it was in bad shape. Now you know it isn't."

"But-"

"It's three in the morning, Rafe. Just shut up and go to sleep." Danny slapped him on the back, trudged back to his own bed and sunk in, back turned to him.

There was nothing else he could do, seeing how his hand was apparently undamaged. Sleep should have come easily that night, but Rafe lay in the dark restlessly, the events of the night replaying on loop in his head. Could Danny have been right about his hand? As much as he wanted to believe that and as much as that was the only logical conclusion, he knew that the bite was not a figment of his imagination; that the crunch of broken bones and agony of severed tendons was not something that an overactive imagination and alcohol could simulate.

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well, don't keep me waiting now! hit that purple button and tell me what you think.