"Holy fuck, did you boys see that?"
"What?"
"A fox!"
"Buck… that's Winters."
"I know that's Dick, I'm saying behind him."
"That's Heffron."
"What?"
"Edward's got red hair-"
From somewhere in the ethers, Lipton shouted, "Babe! Put your fucking helmet on!"
"There, see? No more fox."
"Whaa… the fuck did it go?"
Eugene sympathetically patted the gaping man, who probably now thought that foxes had chameleon-like abilities, or some sort of instant cameo suit, and eased his freezing legs out of the foxhole. Harry and Luz, who were also trapped in the hole with a scatter-brained Buck Compton, may have grabbed at their foremost sane person there, unsure if they'd survive the night with a put-together mind. The medic walked, no, hurried away- messenger bag bouncing against his hip.
"I'm going to the front." He uttered over his shoulder, "Have fun hallucinating, Buck." Buck offered a wave and a giggle, like a blushing French maid, dropping the talk of foxes faster than a mortar whistles to the earth.
"Bye bye Shakespeare."
No one questioned it.
"Heffron, where's your jacket?" The question was repeated roughly twenty times before he got an answer... In the form of Babe jumping onto a snow coated log, and howled:
"Let it gooooooo!" To which Lipton cast aside the curiosity and let concern guide him.
"Put your fucking jacket on!" He yelled right back, matching volume.
"The cold never bothered me anyway!"
"You'll catch pneumonia!"
"I'm never going back! The past is in the paaaaaaaaast!" A wad of blankets bashed Heffron off the log, and Speirs' gruff 'You're fucking welcome' ended the scene, drew the curtains, and someone- possibly Doc Roe –dragged Heffron into a foxhole; blankets, horridly catchy singing, emotional instability, and all.
"Hey Dick? Do you know what a fox sounds like?"
"I'd assume they'd sound like a dog, or a wolf? Somewhere in between?"
"Really? Because Compton is under the impression that a fox makes a sound like a… a… A broken typewriter. Dinging constantly, and the keys sound like gunshots, and the reel grinding like a chair scraping on a floor."
"Well, Luz. We may never know what a fox… says… and maybe that's for the best." Luz nodded, and retreated from Dick's foxhole- letting the man get on with his morning routine. Which, of course, was shaving his hairless chin. In a fucking blizzard. Winters spoke up as he left, "You never know, Private. In fifty odd years, people might make a song out of this."
To that, Luz chortled with as much of a smile as the cold allowed. Preposterous, to think of such a thing. No one could sing about fox language, whatever it may turn out to be, for a solid three minutes. Not without changing the topic… or adding in completely random subject matter.
"Let's all pray that never happens, sir."
A/N:
[But it did.]
I'm sick and I'm bored =]