This will be a collection of unrelated one shots. I found them on a flash drive (since my laptop crashed, I've resorted to pulling fics out of storage) but I figure they are still presentable.
The title is from the song Get Up by Barcelona.
You had me worried. That seems to be one of your many talents. I guess some things never change. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to turn around and not find you? Whether it's the noisy streets of Brooklyn or the bombed-out remains of an Austrian village, I still get that uneasy chill when I can't find you. We both know how much trouble you get into without me there to get you out of it. Regardless, I'm glad you're here. Though, now that I can get a better look at your face, I wish I could have been wherever you were before you finally made it to camp.
An hour ago, I was nearly panicking because no one had seen you since we launched our assault. I was beginning to think Hydra had finally landed a lucky shot. But of course, that wasn't the case. Just when I had all but given up on you, you came rushing into camp, something clutched in your arms. I suppose I should correct myself. Not something. Someone-Private Joseph Lotta.
At first, all I could see was the blood. There was so much of it. But you already know about the blood. It's part of the reason your blue eyes are a stormy gray. When I first saw it, I thought it was yours. I confess, the thought was enough to make me want to vomit. I soon discovered that none of it was yours. It was all his. Little Private Joseph Lotta. You were talking to him. Over the shouts of the other Commandos and the doctors that immediately swarmed you, I couldn't hear all of what you were saying but from what I could pick out, it sounded like you two were talking about his girl. You were putting into use that bit of field medicine we learned from Doctor Henley. You kept him conscious, focused on his surroundings, fighting off that fatal sleep. I wish that had been enough.
You rub at your nose. I know you're upset. I would be too if I carried Private Joseph Lotta from the rubble to the camp, and stayed with him while the medics tried to save him. I told you to leave. But you wouldn't go. You stubborn son of a gun. Refusing to leave, you held his hand while the doctors cut him open, spilling more blood. He screamed something awful. You never even flinched. Instead, you just kept on talking to him, murmuring out a conversation about the future he and his girl could have. He didn't hear you at first, but near the end, I think he did and it calmed him down. Eventually, he quit struggling against the doctors. Eventually, they quit struggling against fate.
Must be real itchy, your nose. The way you're going at would make it seem like you got your hay fever back. After the serum and in the middle of Winter. It's a good thing the other men have enough sense to leave us alone. It hit you hard. It was bound to happen though. You can't save everyone, not matter how hard you try. Private Joseph Lotta was the first soldier lost under your command. It's a bit of a shock for you. But you're actually handling it pretty well. I don't know how your managing to stay this calm, but somehow you are.
Private Joseph Lotta bled out. He lost his leg when a bomb went off under him. That was not your fault. There was no way we could have known the town was booby-trapped. Even if we had, we would have gone ahead anyway. Everyone else made it out okay. That's really something. But of course you don't want to think about the people who're safe. You have to go and attach yourself to the one you couldn't save. You have to understand that there was nothing you could have done.
A shuddering breath comes in through your nose and out your mouth. I think you might be unraveling. But the next breath is steadier, in and out the nose only. You turn to look up at me, eyes moist but not tearful. They look like the sidewalk after the Autumn rain. A stray current of air twists through your hair.
"He was so young," you mutter.
I nod. "So are you."
You look startled. I think you've forgotten about that. They give you a bigger body, put you in charge of an army and you think you've got the world ahead of you and the years behind. This is why I didn't want you to come. You shouldn't be here because you don't belong here. You're a naive, hopeful child and war is for cold, hardened men. Too much caring makes you vulnerable. Your heart's too big and war too violent. I never wanted you to lose that.
Why do you think I bought you all those lollies? And the trip to Coney Island? The baseball games? What do you think all those crinkled cinema ticket stubs were for? I was trying to protect you, protect your childhood. You grew up when money was tight and food was scarce. A lot of folks were out of jobs and out of hope. But you had a little spark and that was something worth saving. So I grabbed my pocket money and brought you along with me to the candy shop so you could chew licorice and pop bubble gum, and never lose your sense of fun. The blood and guns, mud and bombs-well, they rip that right out of you. I can see it. Don't think you can fool me. I've known you your whole life. You're changing right in front of me. And there ain't a thing I can do to stop it. I tried so hard, back in the States. Hell, even the law tried to keep you there. Your determination found a way around that, didn't it? What year did you write on your enlistment form? How old did you say you were? How much did you lie? Did you say you were nineteen? Twenty? Twenty-one? You only just turned eighteen four months ago. You've been fighting this war for five.
I'm furious that you did that. But that's a conversation that's waited this long and will have to wait even longer because you look so down right now that I can't help but try to make you feel better.
"So am I," I amend. Although I, at least, am twenty.
You blink at me.
"So's half the army." I swing a hand at the tents huddled on the ground. "Old Schmidt and all his ancient goons don't stand a chance against such spry kids."
You grin with that serious smile. It's painful for me to see. The war's changed you. It's changed your lungs, your arms and your legs. Changed your fingers and your eyes. It's changed your mouth and that's the thing I hate the most. Because even when you smile, you're still frowning.
"Come on," I stand, boots pressing deeper into the soggy earth. "Let's get you something to eat."
You want to refuse. You don't feel like eating. But your huge appetite says otherwise and you reluctantly climb to your feet. You tower over me and I miss the days when I could sling an arm around your shoulders. But you sling your arm over mine and I find that I don't mind that too much.
