Oh, Courtney, you are much more like Cole than you think you are. I'd like to think that he had this sort of relationship with Ira before the events of the game, especially considering that Courtney was a medic, and thus would like to watch over his former comrades after the end of the war. Writing Ira was difficult, as I didn't want to write him as completely mentally lodged in World War II to the point of utter lack of functionality in the years following the war, otherwise he would not have been hired on by the bug spraying company. I'll have to credit the song, "Strawberry Gashes," by Jack Off Jill for inspiring this one.

Prompt: Select at least 3 words from the randomized list. Please use the words only as they are listed (i.e. if any are listed as "Verbs" but could be used as a noun, only use it as a verb). Words used: Gently, moon, low, sheepishly, seriously, decide, smile
Word Count: 491

"Ira! Are you in there?" Courtney yelled, pounding on the screen door. Squeaking floorboards answered him. Flies buzzed in the low light, the sparse furniture displaying tiny teeth marks. "It's Courtney!" He added, "I brought you dinner!"

"…Doc?" Ira's shadow poured into the main room from a side doorway. He drew back just as fast. "How do I know this ain't a trick?"

"I wouldn't let you down, would I?"

Minutes ticked by, and Courtney lowered the bag to the porch. "I'll leave it for you."

"No, wait! Don't go!" Ira bawled, and Courtney couldn't find it in himself to smile.

"It's too open out here to have a safe picnic dinner," Ira muttered seriously, folding his hands on the porch railing.

Courtney smiled reassuringly from where he sat on the stairs. "We can stay right here, then."

"You always take care of me," Ira sheepishly replied.

"It's my duty," he patted the bag, "Hungry?"

Ira nodded. Aluminum foil glowed in the light of the moon as Courtney removed the covered dish, followed by a napkin and some silverware. Ira's eyes lit up as Courtney pulled out a bottle of milk. "That's rationed!"

Courtney unscrewed it. "You can have as much as you want."

Ira shook his head. "Give it to someone else."

"No, it's for you."

He looked down at the dish. "What's that?"

"A friend of mine knows country cooking. There's chicken fried steak and fried okra."

Tears glistened on Ira's face. Shoving the dish toward him, he exclaimed, "I ain't hungry!"

Courtney lowered the bottle to the floor. "I won't leave until you eat. You're going to get sick like this."

"I'm already sick, Doc."

"You'll feel better if you eat a little," Courtney gently reassured.

Ira bent his head, his tears hitting the wood below, "I can't eat when I think of the fire and the screams. Those people won't be sitting down to dinner."

Bending his knees, Courtney folded his hands on top of them. "That's okay, we'll talk until you think of something else."

"You've got places to be, right?" Ira asked, "I think I had somewhere to go once, but I can't remember."

"The only place I had to be was here."

Hogeboom rubbed his eyes. "Maybe I'll have that milk." Courtney smiled warmly as he held it up again. He accepted it with shaking fingers, the bottle nearly slipping from his grasp. As Ira took a tentative drink, Courtney decided that tomorrow he would talk to Dr. Fontaine concerning his friend.

He wondered if Phelps ever sat with Ira like this, but he figured probably not. To Phelps, Ira was just another means toward medals and merits. After shooting Phelps once, Courtney had no intention of finishing the job, as an empty man like him was already dead inside. Ira smacked his lips, and Courtney sighed. He just wished that Phelps hadn't had to drag so many people into the grave with him.