This is for a prompt by Churchlady63, so I hope you think I did a good job! The guys in this fic do too, because they want all this torture to be for a reason…. You know what I mean. I apologize in advance for any mistakes. Kirby understands :) (I think he does...)

Disclaimer: Honestly? Need I say more?

First of all, there was pain. Nothing but it, surrounding him, squeezing his lungs so that each breath was short and uncomfortable. He coughed, shifting with the oncoming agony that followed. His ribs were going to snap any minute… unless they already were broken, which was more than possible.

"S'rge?" he whispered into the darkness. Someone, but not the Sarge, placed their hand on Kirby's forehead. The hand was calloused, but not from holding a gun, he could tell. From holding a scalpel, and dying soldier's hands. There was a grunt as the owner of the hand stood and walked away.

Kirby opened his eyes to slits. The air felt so still and hot. Why him, every time?

He remembered something inside of him lighting up with adrenaline, what seemed like only minutes before. That kind of fire felt good, the kind that burned out fear…it was a good pain, like massaging sore muscles.

Soon he had been running, BAR still giving its full burden to him, but he didn't care. His hands and feet moved without him knowing it, and he had pulled the pin from the grenade and was hurling it far beyond himself before he knew what was happening.

Then he was here. If he hadn't been flat on his back, he could have been sure someone just shoved their fist into his midsection. Through it, in fact. Slowly, he turned his head to see what else lay beyond his cot. To his left, a man sat half-propped against the wall, a deadened cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth as he stared at nothing. His eyes were the eyes of a dead man who looked no longer upon a world like this one.Shock, Kirby diagnosed. Next to that man, the cot was empty, but evidence of a former occupant showed clearly by the bloodstains. Kirby cringed and gagged at the sight, looking away quickly.

Turning fully to his right with slow caution, the BAR man blinked in surprise at the nearness of a hip. He looked beyond it and saw a slumped figure. Sarge, maybe. Yes, it was him. Through bleary eyes he noted to camouflage helmet resting in the Sergeant's lap, and the wild dirty-blonde hair, the only thing evident of the Sarge's head; his chin was tucked against his chest in a silent slumber. Kirby gazed at the other person, whose hip was right next to his head. Right away he saw the red cross on the arm; the soft expression of nearly unconscious rest had fallen upon the features of the southern medic. Doc's chest rose and fell lightly as he lay slumped against the wall, on the edge of Kirby's own cot. The wounded soldier let out an involuntary sigh, and began to close his bleary eyes. He wasn't alone; he didn't remember falling into the hands of sleep…. But he knew he belonged there.

One last, faint smile etched its way onto his face, before he surrendered his consciousness.

Hope you all liked it! Sorry it's so short :( Please R&R, and if anybody wants a sequel and/or has a prompt for me, shoot a pm or review my way! I love hearing from you guys, and of course, so does poor Kirby, who I must say, is tortured in so many fics, I'm surprised he is still alive.