Title: war!drabbles
Author: Sofie K Werkers
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Marcus Flint/Lee Jordan
Rating:
Summary: A collection of drabbles, all set in the same universe.
Status: In progress, but individual drabbles are finished.
Date: 1 October 2002 and onwards.
Archive: Please ask.
Email: minerva@femgeeks.net
Feedback: If you like this story, please let me know. If you don't,
please let me know why not.
Web Page:
Disclaimer: JKR owns everything, quite possibly including my soul.
Profit? I see no profit here.
Author's Note: This whole universe is Jeanne's fault
(
). Also thanks to elfie for encouragement and support, and for
drawing the picture of which the banner
( ) is made.
War!drabbles
============
by Sofie K Werkers
Requiem
-------
Three years into the war, and Marcus thinks, not for the first time,
that he should've done what was expected of him and joined
Voldemort's side.
He's on the winning side, but it doesn't feel like it. He hears the
news of his friends' deaths, but he's not allowed to mourn them,
because that would be seen as a sign that he isn't trustworthy, that
he's still a true Slytherin. He hears about Terence's death, and an
hour later he's bent over maps and codes and strategies.
He isn't allowed to mourn the others, either, because despite
everything he's given up, this is still not *his* side. Percy
Weasley dies at the hands of an Auror, yet Marcus is the one Oliver
Wood glares at throughout the funeral. Seamus Finnigan, one of his
best field operatives, simply doesn't come back from a mission one
day. Marcus knows that anything he says to Dean Thomas will only get
him a fist in the face, so he says nothing.
He stops going to funerals when he starts thinking too much about
his own, which will no doubt be soon, quick, and unattended.
The Weasley twins go missing on their twenty-third birthday. Only
one of the bodies turns up, a month later, and Marcus realises he'll
never have a chance to learn the difference between them now. He
supposes it doesn't really matter in the end, and toasts them
anyway, in a Muggle pub somewhere in London, where nobody knows him.
And still, suddenly, a voice from behind him: "Buy you a drink?" He
turns, and it takes him a few moments before he recognises the man
standing there as Lee Jordan, older, more scarred, and his famous
dreadlocks replaced by the crew cut they're all sporting these days.
"Sure. Have a seat."
Perspective
-----------
When Lee walks into the pub and sees Flint sitting at the bar, he
realises that Fate has a rather nasty sense of humour.
Flint has his back towards him, but he recognises him immediately.
He looks the exactly the same as the last time Lee saw him: back
straight, neck and shoulders tense, every inch the Quidditch
Captain. Lee wonders if Flint would recognise him, if he looks at
all like the fifth year Quidditch commentator being kept in check by
the teachers.
The last time Lee saw Professor McGonagall -- still "Professor
McGonagall" even though she hasn't taught a class in more than two
years -- was when she asked him to join the Order.
"You have a keen eye, Jordan, and if there's one thing we need right
now, it's information. You'd be very useful to the Order."
So he joined, because it was the Right Thing to do, because he
couldn't just sit back and watch his friends go to war. He does what
he's good at, watching and reporting, calling things as he sees them
no matter whether people liked what he said. He always has, and they
rarely do.
He called Flint on his faults, and earning himself the eternal
hatred of most of Slytherin House, but he never cared. The
Slytherins always claimed Lee was biased against Flint, but what
Flint never realised -- what none of the Slytherins ever realised --
was that it wasn't about House rivalry, but about the fact that
Flint was a great player and wouldn't need to cheat.
All of which, of course, is now in the past. There hasn't been a
professional Quidditch match in three years, and even the Hogwarts
matches are cancelled more often than not. Flint isn't a Chaser
anymore, and Lee is no longer a commentator, and when he thinks of
Flint, he thinks "chief strategist", and not "cheater".
War tends to break things down to their basics, and the bottom line
about both of them is the same: they're soldiers. They are alive in
the midst of death, and fighting on the same side, and Lee has long
ago come to the conclusion that there's no use in suspecting anyone
of treason. If they are, they are, and that's the end of it whether
you suspect them or not.
Which, ultimately, is why he finds himself walking up to the bar.
"Buy you a drink?"
Personal
--------
Marcus is bent over maps and charts, trying to find a way to get
closer to the Death Eater stronghold, when Dean comes in. "News on
Lee Jordan."
He looks up. "Where?"
"Bole," Dean says, and that's all he needs to say.
He tells himself it's because Jordan is one of the few people with
field experience he has around, and he can't send rookies out
against Bole. He tells himself he's just doing his job. He tells
himself he'd do this for anyone else.
And he would, but slitting Bole's throat, he knows this at least is
very personal.
Pretty Boy
----------
"Fucking Gryffindor pretty boy" Flint used to call him, growling at
him in a voice that made Lee bite his lip until it bled, and tugging
his dreadlocks, just hard enough to hurt.
He's not that pretty anymore.
He's barely twenty-four, and he walks onto what used to be the
Quidditch field to teach the new recruits how to survive. They look
at him and they see a veteran, weary and battle-scarred and old. He
looks at them and he sees children, some of them barely sixteen and
volunteers, others eighteen and drafted into this mess. And every
two months, he sends them off to die.
*When I was their age,* he thinks, but doesn't finish his thought.
When he was sixteen, the most eventful thing in his life was being
pressed against the wall of the broom shed by the captain of the
Slytherin Quidditch team, and being fucked hard and long and
thorough. Best sex of his life, he realises now. Of course, now it's
too late, because he's not pretty anymore, and he's not a boy
anymore, and his dreads are just a vague memory now.
*When I was their age,* he thinks, *I was fucking happy.*
Sometimes
---------
Sometimes he catches himself looking at Jordan, sees him reaching
for his dreads, fingers grasping into thin air.
Sometimes, he wants to tell Jordan to grow them back, because he's
not going out into the field again, so practicality isn't an issue
anymore. Except, of course, *Why would I care?* He remembers how
Jordan used to gasp when he pulled them. Seven years ago, but he
remembers every detail.
Sometimes he wants to run his hand over Jordan's head, see what it
feels like now. Except, of course, Jordan still flinches when he's
touched, and Marcus hates Bole for that.
Time
----
Marcus started smoking before the war, but Lee didn't start until
after Bole. That's how Marcus thinks of time: Before The War, Before
Bole, After Bole. He doesn't know when he started thinking of Lee as
"Lee" rather than "Jordan", but Lee started calling him "Marcus"
soon after, somewhere around the time he started stealing his
cigarettes.
It's not easy to get cigarettes, but Marcus doesn't care. Enough
people owe him favours, and they're happy enough that all he asks of
them is that they bring back a carton of cigarettes every time
they're in a Muggle area. So he doesn't care that Lee keeps stealing
them, if only because now he's not the only one taking smoke breaks
anymore. They're not allowed to smoke inside, with all the vital
paperwork lying around, so they just stand outside in companionable
silence.
They spend most of their time in Marcus' small office, bent over
maps and charts, and only really leave the room for meals, out in
the Great Hall, and they usually talk work even then. Neville
Longbottom joins them sometimes, when he can get away from fixing up
the rookies -- ex-rookies by then -- and berates them both for
"looking like Snape on a really, really bad day, and are those
nicotine stains on your fingers, Lee?" and then shakes his head at
Marcus and mutters something about how corruption and filthy habits.
Lee usually goes to his room to sleep, but Marcus only gets a few
hours every night anyway, so he just naps on the couch. Sometimes,
when things are frantic and they spend two or three full days in the
office, Lee collapses on the couch for a while. Sometimes, Lee tells
him to go get some sleep already, and how long has it been since
Marcus slept in an actual bed, anyway?
It's on one of those days that Marcus wakes up to find Lee asleep on
the couch with him, half on top of his legs, and he thinks about
getting up, so Lee can have the whole couch, because he doesn't look
very comfortable, but every time he tries to move, Lee makes a
little protesting sound in his sleep. He watches Lee for a while,
thinking about how Lee still flinches every time someone touches
him, and then realises Lee doesn't flinch anymore when Marcus
touches him. Eventually, he just goes back to sleep, and when he
wakes up again, he's lying on his back with Lee's head on his
stomach.
They don't talk about it, but they don't talk about most things.
They just go on with their lives, but Marcus finds himself touching
Lee a lot more than he used to. Just casual touching, a hand on his
shoulder, brushing his hand when handing him a cigarette, and once
he gives runs his hand over Lee's head when he's sleeping on the
couch. Sometimes, Lee leans against him as they're leaning over the
desk.
Marcus supposes it's a start.
Focus
-----
Lee remembers, clear as day, the Christmas break of his fifth year.
Before Bole, before the war, before everything else, there were two
weeks with no one else around, and even the fact that he was away
from his family and friends on Christmas didn't dampen his holiday
spirit.
He spent the two weeks in a daze as they took full advantage of the
emtpy dorms, sneaking in and out every night. On Christmas Eve he
fell asleep in Flint's bed and didn't wake up until the early
morning. He remembers there was still a fire going in the fireplace,
which meant Flint must've woken up during the night and not woken
him up, and Lee really didn't want to think about what *that* meant.
With time, he's perfected the art of Not Thinking about things.
Fifth year, the twins, Bole, Marcus, he can ignore everything as
long as he concentrates on something else. It's what made him the
perfect spy -- he could sit absolutely still for hours on end,
focussing on nothing but his target.
He's not allowed to go out in the field anymore, and it's hard to
really focus on maps, so instead, he focusses on Marcus.
War
---
It's the worst battle yet, and losses are heavy on both sides.
Derrick, Crabbe, Cho Chang, Katie Bell, the list goes on. Marcus
holes himself up in his office for two days, going over plans and
tactics and trying to see where he went wrong. Eventually, he falls
asleep on his desk, waking up with Lee standing over him.
"Go to bed."
"I can't. I ..." gesturing towards the maps. "Thrirty-seven deaths,
Lee."
"It's a war, Marcus. People die."
"And I'm supposed to make sure they *don't*."
"It doesn't work that way. Go to *bed*. They won't come back to life
just because you collapse of exhaustion. You'll get another chance.
The war isn't over yet."
"Yeah, I guess," and he lets Lee pull him to his feet and walk him
to his room.
He hasn't actually been in his room for weeks, and before that even
just to change clothes. He sits down heavily on the bed, and looks
at Lee.
"Do you think we're safe here?"
Lee shrugs. "The one certainty in war is that in an hour, maybe two,
you either still be alive or you'll be dead. That goes for the
people outside, but for us as well."
He doesn't know what to say at that, so he says nothing, but simply
gets up and searches for the bottle of whiskey he vaguely remembers
putting in the back of his night stand, months ago. He manages to
find it, and two glasses, and holds up the bottle at Lee. "You
want?"
"Sure." So Marcus pours them both a triple shot, freezes some water
from the tap with his wand, adds ice cubes, and hands Lee one of the
glasses. It's a comforting ritual.
They sit down on the bed, side by side, almost touching.
"How did you do it? Go out there every day and ..."
"Kill or be killed?"
"Yeah."
Lee shrugs. "You do what you have to do to survive, I guess. You've
done it yourself.
Marcus's jaw clenches. "That was different, though."
"Because he used to be your friend?"
He grins, a little bitter. "Bole didn't have any friends. He was a
bastard even at school. Ter ... Ter used to make me sleep in the bed
between his and Bole's, because I was the only one who wasn't
terrified of that fucking psycho." He stops, a little abruptly, and
looks down at his drink.
"He knew," Lee says. "Bole, I mean. He knew about ... about what we
did, at school. Said that since I kept going back for more, I should
enjoy ... him."
"Well. He's got a point," wincing, because that came out all wrong,
but Lee seems to know what he meant anyway.
"There's a difference between rough and rape, Marcus."
"Is there?"
Lee's answer is to crush his lips against Marcus's, and mutter
something that sounds vaguely affirmative. Marcus wants to say
something, ask something, slow down, but Lee is insistent, and in
the end Marcus just gives in. Lee is familiar in a way Marcus feels
he shouldn't be, like putting on his old school robes. Familiar, but
out of place, out of time. Familiar like a memory, except this isn't
then, it's now, and it's real.
So Marcus concentrates on the now, on the differences. He memorises
the scars on Lee's body, the way Lee's hands feel on his back, the
raspy, slightly beard burn-like feeling of running his hands over
Lee's head. He tries to be gentle, careful, *something*, but Lee
won't let him, and it's been so long, and it's over so quick.
Outside, the war goes on.
END
Additional Author's Notes: "The one certainty in war is that in an
hour, maybe two, you'll either still be alive or you'll be dead." --
obviously, I could never come up with something like this on my own.
The quote is from the pilot of the sadly cancelled Space: Above and
Beyond, in which they are spoken by James Morisson as Lt-Col T.C.
McQueen. As such, they are property of Twentieth Century Fox, Hard
Eight productions, Glen Morgan and James Wong.
Author: Sofie K Werkers
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Marcus Flint/Lee Jordan
Rating:
Summary: A collection of drabbles, all set in the same universe.
Status: In progress, but individual drabbles are finished.
Date: 1 October 2002 and onwards.
Archive: Please ask.
Email: minerva@femgeeks.net
Feedback: If you like this story, please let me know. If you don't,
please let me know why not.
Web Page:
Disclaimer: JKR owns everything, quite possibly including my soul.
Profit? I see no profit here.
Author's Note: This whole universe is Jeanne's fault
(
). Also thanks to elfie for encouragement and support, and for
drawing the picture of which the banner
( ) is made.
War!drabbles
============
by Sofie K Werkers
Requiem
-------
Three years into the war, and Marcus thinks, not for the first time,
that he should've done what was expected of him and joined
Voldemort's side.
He's on the winning side, but it doesn't feel like it. He hears the
news of his friends' deaths, but he's not allowed to mourn them,
because that would be seen as a sign that he isn't trustworthy, that
he's still a true Slytherin. He hears about Terence's death, and an
hour later he's bent over maps and codes and strategies.
He isn't allowed to mourn the others, either, because despite
everything he's given up, this is still not *his* side. Percy
Weasley dies at the hands of an Auror, yet Marcus is the one Oliver
Wood glares at throughout the funeral. Seamus Finnigan, one of his
best field operatives, simply doesn't come back from a mission one
day. Marcus knows that anything he says to Dean Thomas will only get
him a fist in the face, so he says nothing.
He stops going to funerals when he starts thinking too much about
his own, which will no doubt be soon, quick, and unattended.
The Weasley twins go missing on their twenty-third birthday. Only
one of the bodies turns up, a month later, and Marcus realises he'll
never have a chance to learn the difference between them now. He
supposes it doesn't really matter in the end, and toasts them
anyway, in a Muggle pub somewhere in London, where nobody knows him.
And still, suddenly, a voice from behind him: "Buy you a drink?" He
turns, and it takes him a few moments before he recognises the man
standing there as Lee Jordan, older, more scarred, and his famous
dreadlocks replaced by the crew cut they're all sporting these days.
"Sure. Have a seat."
Perspective
-----------
When Lee walks into the pub and sees Flint sitting at the bar, he
realises that Fate has a rather nasty sense of humour.
Flint has his back towards him, but he recognises him immediately.
He looks the exactly the same as the last time Lee saw him: back
straight, neck and shoulders tense, every inch the Quidditch
Captain. Lee wonders if Flint would recognise him, if he looks at
all like the fifth year Quidditch commentator being kept in check by
the teachers.
The last time Lee saw Professor McGonagall -- still "Professor
McGonagall" even though she hasn't taught a class in more than two
years -- was when she asked him to join the Order.
"You have a keen eye, Jordan, and if there's one thing we need right
now, it's information. You'd be very useful to the Order."
So he joined, because it was the Right Thing to do, because he
couldn't just sit back and watch his friends go to war. He does what
he's good at, watching and reporting, calling things as he sees them
no matter whether people liked what he said. He always has, and they
rarely do.
He called Flint on his faults, and earning himself the eternal
hatred of most of Slytherin House, but he never cared. The
Slytherins always claimed Lee was biased against Flint, but what
Flint never realised -- what none of the Slytherins ever realised --
was that it wasn't about House rivalry, but about the fact that
Flint was a great player and wouldn't need to cheat.
All of which, of course, is now in the past. There hasn't been a
professional Quidditch match in three years, and even the Hogwarts
matches are cancelled more often than not. Flint isn't a Chaser
anymore, and Lee is no longer a commentator, and when he thinks of
Flint, he thinks "chief strategist", and not "cheater".
War tends to break things down to their basics, and the bottom line
about both of them is the same: they're soldiers. They are alive in
the midst of death, and fighting on the same side, and Lee has long
ago come to the conclusion that there's no use in suspecting anyone
of treason. If they are, they are, and that's the end of it whether
you suspect them or not.
Which, ultimately, is why he finds himself walking up to the bar.
"Buy you a drink?"
Personal
--------
Marcus is bent over maps and charts, trying to find a way to get
closer to the Death Eater stronghold, when Dean comes in. "News on
Lee Jordan."
He looks up. "Where?"
"Bole," Dean says, and that's all he needs to say.
He tells himself it's because Jordan is one of the few people with
field experience he has around, and he can't send rookies out
against Bole. He tells himself he's just doing his job. He tells
himself he'd do this for anyone else.
And he would, but slitting Bole's throat, he knows this at least is
very personal.
Pretty Boy
----------
"Fucking Gryffindor pretty boy" Flint used to call him, growling at
him in a voice that made Lee bite his lip until it bled, and tugging
his dreadlocks, just hard enough to hurt.
He's not that pretty anymore.
He's barely twenty-four, and he walks onto what used to be the
Quidditch field to teach the new recruits how to survive. They look
at him and they see a veteran, weary and battle-scarred and old. He
looks at them and he sees children, some of them barely sixteen and
volunteers, others eighteen and drafted into this mess. And every
two months, he sends them off to die.
*When I was their age,* he thinks, but doesn't finish his thought.
When he was sixteen, the most eventful thing in his life was being
pressed against the wall of the broom shed by the captain of the
Slytherin Quidditch team, and being fucked hard and long and
thorough. Best sex of his life, he realises now. Of course, now it's
too late, because he's not pretty anymore, and he's not a boy
anymore, and his dreads are just a vague memory now.
*When I was their age,* he thinks, *I was fucking happy.*
Sometimes
---------
Sometimes he catches himself looking at Jordan, sees him reaching
for his dreads, fingers grasping into thin air.
Sometimes, he wants to tell Jordan to grow them back, because he's
not going out into the field again, so practicality isn't an issue
anymore. Except, of course, *Why would I care?* He remembers how
Jordan used to gasp when he pulled them. Seven years ago, but he
remembers every detail.
Sometimes he wants to run his hand over Jordan's head, see what it
feels like now. Except, of course, Jordan still flinches when he's
touched, and Marcus hates Bole for that.
Time
----
Marcus started smoking before the war, but Lee didn't start until
after Bole. That's how Marcus thinks of time: Before The War, Before
Bole, After Bole. He doesn't know when he started thinking of Lee as
"Lee" rather than "Jordan", but Lee started calling him "Marcus"
soon after, somewhere around the time he started stealing his
cigarettes.
It's not easy to get cigarettes, but Marcus doesn't care. Enough
people owe him favours, and they're happy enough that all he asks of
them is that they bring back a carton of cigarettes every time
they're in a Muggle area. So he doesn't care that Lee keeps stealing
them, if only because now he's not the only one taking smoke breaks
anymore. They're not allowed to smoke inside, with all the vital
paperwork lying around, so they just stand outside in companionable
silence.
They spend most of their time in Marcus' small office, bent over
maps and charts, and only really leave the room for meals, out in
the Great Hall, and they usually talk work even then. Neville
Longbottom joins them sometimes, when he can get away from fixing up
the rookies -- ex-rookies by then -- and berates them both for
"looking like Snape on a really, really bad day, and are those
nicotine stains on your fingers, Lee?" and then shakes his head at
Marcus and mutters something about how corruption and filthy habits.
Lee usually goes to his room to sleep, but Marcus only gets a few
hours every night anyway, so he just naps on the couch. Sometimes,
when things are frantic and they spend two or three full days in the
office, Lee collapses on the couch for a while. Sometimes, Lee tells
him to go get some sleep already, and how long has it been since
Marcus slept in an actual bed, anyway?
It's on one of those days that Marcus wakes up to find Lee asleep on
the couch with him, half on top of his legs, and he thinks about
getting up, so Lee can have the whole couch, because he doesn't look
very comfortable, but every time he tries to move, Lee makes a
little protesting sound in his sleep. He watches Lee for a while,
thinking about how Lee still flinches every time someone touches
him, and then realises Lee doesn't flinch anymore when Marcus
touches him. Eventually, he just goes back to sleep, and when he
wakes up again, he's lying on his back with Lee's head on his
stomach.
They don't talk about it, but they don't talk about most things.
They just go on with their lives, but Marcus finds himself touching
Lee a lot more than he used to. Just casual touching, a hand on his
shoulder, brushing his hand when handing him a cigarette, and once
he gives runs his hand over Lee's head when he's sleeping on the
couch. Sometimes, Lee leans against him as they're leaning over the
desk.
Marcus supposes it's a start.
Focus
-----
Lee remembers, clear as day, the Christmas break of his fifth year.
Before Bole, before the war, before everything else, there were two
weeks with no one else around, and even the fact that he was away
from his family and friends on Christmas didn't dampen his holiday
spirit.
He spent the two weeks in a daze as they took full advantage of the
emtpy dorms, sneaking in and out every night. On Christmas Eve he
fell asleep in Flint's bed and didn't wake up until the early
morning. He remembers there was still a fire going in the fireplace,
which meant Flint must've woken up during the night and not woken
him up, and Lee really didn't want to think about what *that* meant.
With time, he's perfected the art of Not Thinking about things.
Fifth year, the twins, Bole, Marcus, he can ignore everything as
long as he concentrates on something else. It's what made him the
perfect spy -- he could sit absolutely still for hours on end,
focussing on nothing but his target.
He's not allowed to go out in the field anymore, and it's hard to
really focus on maps, so instead, he focusses on Marcus.
War
---
It's the worst battle yet, and losses are heavy on both sides.
Derrick, Crabbe, Cho Chang, Katie Bell, the list goes on. Marcus
holes himself up in his office for two days, going over plans and
tactics and trying to see where he went wrong. Eventually, he falls
asleep on his desk, waking up with Lee standing over him.
"Go to bed."
"I can't. I ..." gesturing towards the maps. "Thrirty-seven deaths,
Lee."
"It's a war, Marcus. People die."
"And I'm supposed to make sure they *don't*."
"It doesn't work that way. Go to *bed*. They won't come back to life
just because you collapse of exhaustion. You'll get another chance.
The war isn't over yet."
"Yeah, I guess," and he lets Lee pull him to his feet and walk him
to his room.
He hasn't actually been in his room for weeks, and before that even
just to change clothes. He sits down heavily on the bed, and looks
at Lee.
"Do you think we're safe here?"
Lee shrugs. "The one certainty in war is that in an hour, maybe two,
you either still be alive or you'll be dead. That goes for the
people outside, but for us as well."
He doesn't know what to say at that, so he says nothing, but simply
gets up and searches for the bottle of whiskey he vaguely remembers
putting in the back of his night stand, months ago. He manages to
find it, and two glasses, and holds up the bottle at Lee. "You
want?"
"Sure." So Marcus pours them both a triple shot, freezes some water
from the tap with his wand, adds ice cubes, and hands Lee one of the
glasses. It's a comforting ritual.
They sit down on the bed, side by side, almost touching.
"How did you do it? Go out there every day and ..."
"Kill or be killed?"
"Yeah."
Lee shrugs. "You do what you have to do to survive, I guess. You've
done it yourself.
Marcus's jaw clenches. "That was different, though."
"Because he used to be your friend?"
He grins, a little bitter. "Bole didn't have any friends. He was a
bastard even at school. Ter ... Ter used to make me sleep in the bed
between his and Bole's, because I was the only one who wasn't
terrified of that fucking psycho." He stops, a little abruptly, and
looks down at his drink.
"He knew," Lee says. "Bole, I mean. He knew about ... about what we
did, at school. Said that since I kept going back for more, I should
enjoy ... him."
"Well. He's got a point," wincing, because that came out all wrong,
but Lee seems to know what he meant anyway.
"There's a difference between rough and rape, Marcus."
"Is there?"
Lee's answer is to crush his lips against Marcus's, and mutter
something that sounds vaguely affirmative. Marcus wants to say
something, ask something, slow down, but Lee is insistent, and in
the end Marcus just gives in. Lee is familiar in a way Marcus feels
he shouldn't be, like putting on his old school robes. Familiar, but
out of place, out of time. Familiar like a memory, except this isn't
then, it's now, and it's real.
So Marcus concentrates on the now, on the differences. He memorises
the scars on Lee's body, the way Lee's hands feel on his back, the
raspy, slightly beard burn-like feeling of running his hands over
Lee's head. He tries to be gentle, careful, *something*, but Lee
won't let him, and it's been so long, and it's over so quick.
Outside, the war goes on.
END
Additional Author's Notes: "The one certainty in war is that in an
hour, maybe two, you'll either still be alive or you'll be dead." --
obviously, I could never come up with something like this on my own.
The quote is from the pilot of the sadly cancelled Space: Above and
Beyond, in which they are spoken by James Morisson as Lt-Col T.C.
McQueen. As such, they are property of Twentieth Century Fox, Hard
Eight productions, Glen Morgan and James Wong.