As mentioned, warnings for H/C.

Chapter Twenty-one

Caje stepped through the cellar door and closed it, leaning against it and taking a deep breath. He could have walked out into pitched battle and been happy for it, he was just so relieved to be topside. He rubbed his hands against his uniform, vaguely wishing he could wash them. He felt like he'd been immersed in sewage for the last twenty minutes. He didn't bother with the hutch; they'd just be moving it again in a few minutes.

He gave himself only a few seconds to breathe before he pushed off, glancing only briefly at where Hanley sat quietly beside Saunders before hurrying towards the front door. Feeling the pressure of lost time, the peaceful silence he moved through did nothing to assuage his taut nerves; if anything it made it worse. He eased the door open and peered around the jamb, staring hard into the cold, wet forest.

He felt no regret in how much time he'd spent in the cellar – there really had been no way around it. Concern… yes, regret no. Everything he'd said down there had been the truth, and it had all been necessary if Ehrlich was going to comprehend that Caje was not only more than able but had every intention of tracking him down if warranted, to the very ends of the earth if he had to. That meeting would be just as he described it and there would be none of the games he played tonight; he would kill him, without hesitation or mercy, and not lose a minute's sleep over it.

If they had to let that butcher live for any length of time at all, something good had to come of it. Who knows what the Nazis had in this area – maybe a research facility for some new secret weapon, maybe an underground rocket installation, maybe they were growing Christmas trees for all Caje knew or cared right now. All he knew was that planes would continue to blow up when they shouldn't and bombers would still fall out of the sky, but not a single one of them would be because Paul Cadron LeMay couldn't govern himself.

But it had been… close.

He watched the woods tensely for a full minute without seeing anything but it didn't matter, he could feel it now. As surely as if there were a Kraut standing in the doorway he could feel it. They were running out of time.

He turned from the front door and ran soundlessly through the house, flowing over and around debris, to do a perfunctory check out the back door.

Again seeing nothing, he stalked into the kitchen and looked behind the damaged sink. He didn't see anything at first and checked the floor underneath, finally finding the broken first aid kit and its scattered contents. He swept everything out with the edge of his hand, mindless of the tiny bits of sharp-edged debris cutting into him and picked anything they could use out of it, including a small, intact bottle of what looked like aspirin.

When he made his way into the north-west bedroom he doubted there could be anything salvagable there; this room had borne fully half the brunt of their first grenade, the one he'd thrown himself. The desk was made of heavy oak though, and once he'd kicked and muscled the side drawer out he'd found the brandy, the bottle undamaged and half full.

He moved back out into the great room, looking over at where Hanley still slept. He nodded to himself. Good, very good. He'd be forced to wake him in a couple of minutes, but maybe it was enough. It would have to be. Caje swept through the dead then like a grim hurricane, jerking clothing from the stiffening bodies and grabbing canteens.

Keeping with his priorities, he then gathered the few weapons and grenades they had into a small pile. It was when he reaching for the last Schmeisser that the air bent out of shape, and he corrected and reached and corrected again and still fell short of his goal, stumbling to his knees. He closed his eyes and sat for a minute, taking a deep breath. Okay. he thought. I already know what I need: rest, water, food. He took another long breath, sighing it out softly. Slow down, fix what you can.

He carefully reached out for the SMG again and pulled it into the pile before obtaining and draining an entire canteen. He suddenly realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd had anything to drink and fished another one out the several he'd gathered and finished that one off, too, irrationally thinking of his older sister. She wouldn't even drink after him. Here in the war, everybody drank after anybody. Caje's water discipline was second only to Saunders', maybe, but it was still hard to believe there was anyplace in the world where you only had to turn a handle and clean water would come out.

Caje shook his head. You're shutting down, keep moving. He could sit and rest just as well putting the litter together. He struggled to his feet and grabbed up a couple of the Kraut jackets he'd gathered and sat down next to the poles he'd abandoned earlier. From here he was close to where Hanley and Saunders were resting, and he leaned over far enough to push a piece of the barricade out of the way, allowing him to look over at them occasionally as his hands worked.

"C-caje?"

Unused to being startled by anybody, Caje dropped the pole he was holding. "Sarge?" he asked incredulously. "Sarge…!" He rolled to his knees and shuffled closer to where his squad leader lay on his side facing him, overjoyed to see him awake.

Saunders rolled ever so slightly onto his back, wincing and momentarily squeezing his good eye shut as he did. He tried to speak several times before scratching out a dry whisper.

"Water?"

Caje already had a canteen in his hand. "Yeah, Sarge, right here." He slid a gentle hand under the side of Saunders' head and lifted slightly, trying to help him drink. "Not… working," Saunders rasped after a second. He grasped Caje's arm roughly with one hand and used it to push himself the rest of the way onto his back. He gasped and arched slightly, his eye fluttering closed, the hand on Caje's arm going slack. The private he was sure he'd passed out again. "Sarge…?"

"'M still here…" he slurred. "…gimme a… m-minute…"

"Are ya sure ya wanna lie on your back like that, Sarge? I know it's gotta hurt pretty bad."

"I n-need a…" he paused for a long moment with his eye still closed. "… drink 'lot worse, can' drink on my… s-side." He weakly reached a trembling hand out, turning his head toward the Cajun. "Gimme."

Caje again raised his head and held the canteen, this time with more success. He shook his head in regret after just a few seconds and pulled the container away, resting Saunders' head back to the blanket-pillow. "I'm sorry, Sarge…"

Saunders made a forlorn sound and closed his eye. "Caje…"

The private shook his head again, his voice tinged with remorse. "I… I'm sorry, Sarge, I just don't want you to be sick again. If you keep that down, I'll give you more in just a little bit."

"…kay," he sighed. He opened his eye a few seconds later and peered up at Caje. "How 'bout now?"

Caje chuckled quietly and relented. "How's your stomach feel?"

Saunders curled an arm over his midsection and tried not to groan. "Like s-somebody… punched me there…" He tensed and clenched his teeth as a wave of pain washed through his rib cage, before relaxing again. "…s-several times. But not… not sick."

"Okay." Caje gave him another small drink, stopping when Saunders swallowed down the wrong pipe and started to cough. He groaned miserably and crossed his arms over his chest, still coughing and trying to roll back onto his side. Caje helped him turn and curl a little before resting a light hand on the side of his head and speaking to him quietly.

When the worst had passed Caje touched him lightly on the arm. "Sarge, you still with me?" Not trusting his voice, Saunders nodded slightly, his eye still squeezed shut.

"Listen, Sarge, if you think your stomach can handle it, we have aspirin, and cognac. I know it's not much, but maybe it'll take the edge off and keep your fever from getting worse."

Saunders unfurled a little and peered blurrily at Caje, who sighed with concern and compassion at the look in Saunders' one functional eye. Not even counting the whipping or the broken ribs, he'd never seen anyone look this bad, not even Kirby.

Saunders relaxed slightly and carefully rolled over a little more. "Asp… aspirin, and …what?"

"Cognac."

"From… where?"

Caje smiled over at where Hanley was leaning with his back against the couch, deeply asleep. "The lieutenant sent me shopping."

Saunders started in surprise, not having realized he was there, mortified that he hadn't even thought to ask. He lifted his head, squinting and peering at him, trying to see. "Lieutenant…?" He looked back toward Caje. "'S he okay? What's wrong?"

"He's okay, Sarge, he's just tired."

Saunders shook his head slightly, wincing when he did. It was getting hard to think again. "Don't… snow me, Cajun, I n-need to know…" he paused to breathe through a strong wave of pain, trying to get enough air without moving his chest. "…need to know… wass' goin' on."

Caje shook his head in frustration and ran his fingers through his thick, black hair, an unusual gesture for him. "What do you want me to tell you, Sarge? Somebody bounced a slug off his head yesterday and he needs sleep, water and food, same as the rest of us."

He shook his head again and got quiet, looking down and busying himself with getting the aspirin bottle open. "He was gone a long time before he brought you back, a real long time." He shrugged slightly before looking up. "I don't know if you remember any of it but it sounds like it was a pretty bad time, for both of you. It's really bugging him."

Saunders blinked, struggling to keep his thoughts in order. He probably couldn't string together five minutes of cohesive memory from the last twelve hours. The bits he could, though, had all the form and character of a terrible nightmare; tiny chunks of awareness shot through with terror and excruciating pain, all swirled together in a confusing jumble. He knew from experience time would eventually bring a more accurate recollection, ninety-nine percent of it while he was trying to sleep.

After a few seconds he forgot what he was trying to remember and drew a short, shuddering breath, trying to keep from biting his split lip. All he knew for right now was that he hurt so badly; significant damage from a half-dozen different places assaulting his brain constantly in waves of intractable pain.

After he had been quiet for several long moments Caje looked down at him, thinking he'd passed out. "Sarge?"

Saunders started to say something before pausing and closing his eye. He breathed steadily for a couple more seconds before bringing his unfocused gaze back up to his scout. "Caje, is my… is m-my shoulder… dislocated?"

Saunders couldn't see the Cajun's lips thin in anger and pity but he heard him sigh. "No, Sarge, I don't think so. The lieutenant checked you over pretty good, and he would have put it back in if it was."

The non-com drew another careful breath and closed his eye again. "F-feels like it is… if it is… go ahead and f-fix it."

When he heard the Cajun speak again, it sounded like it was through his teeth. "Which one?"

Saunders chuffed out a sound that was half laugh and half sob. "Both?"

He felt Caje pull the covers away just enough to expose his shoulders. Not surprisingly, his touch was light and careful, the coolness of his hands soothing. The blankets were drawn back over him and he opened his eye to see the Cajun shaking his head and reaching for the canteen.

"They're okay, Sarge, the joints are just a little swollen. You're doing okay with the water, let me give you some aspirin."

"How many… are there?"

Caje shook them. "Whole bottle."

"'Kay. Give me f-four." He twitched a hand in Hanley's direction. "Make him take some… when he wakes up." He chuffed again weakly. "Tell 'im… tell 'im it's an order."

Caje smiled very briefly and looked down at him. "You want some of the cognac?"

Saunders shuddered and bit back a moan. "Later…" he whispered.

Caje nodded and gave him the aspirin, lifting his head and giving him a long drink. He didn't have to pull the canteen away this time; Saunders suddenly reached out a hand and batted it aside, turning his head away and crying out quietly in pain.

"Sarge?!"

Saunders arched slightly and rolled toward his side again, panting while he fought the agony down. "G'way…"

Caje nodded again, wholly understanding the need for privacy. He made sure the sergeant was far enough on his side that if he did throw up he wouldn't choke, then stood up, his expression dark. "I'll be right back, Sarge, I gotta check on something."

When Saunders looked blearily up a minute or two later the Cajun had already returned, rubbing the knuckles on his left hand. "Wha' happen'?"

The private smiled and shook his head. "Nothing, Sarge. Just bumped my hand against something in the dark." He brought out the brandy and used the lid as a shot glass, pouring just a capful. "Here, try this…" he said, and helped him drink it. Saunders coughed a little and grimaced as the fiery liquid burned all the cuts on his lips and the inside of his mouth before spreading its warmth into his empty stomach.

"Okay?"

"Yeah," he rasped. Caje tilted the bottle to his lips and gave him as much as he thought he could tolerate. Saunders wheezed for a few seconds.

"Good?"

"'Spensive…" The roof creaked a little from the dying wind outside and Saunders looked around blindly, suddenly realizing with vague alarm that after all this time he wasn't sure where he was, or for that matter, really anything that had happened. Something distressing nagged at him, hopelessly buried in many hours of fear and suffering.

Caje settled down next to him with a German uniform shirt in his hand. "Sarge, I gotta try and get this on you… can I sit you up if we move slowly?"

Not having heard him, Saunders was still trying to look around, the effort making him nauseous. "Caje, where are we? What… happ'ned?"

Caje shook his head. "It's a long story, Sarge, and we don't have a lot of time. I'll tell you later. It doesn't matter where we are, we're leaving." He held the shirt so Saunders could see it. "The lieutenant told me to get this for you. I know it'll hurt but it's freezing outside, if the blankets slip down you won't have anything else."

Saunders looked uneasy but resigned, holding one arm up. Caje took him by his elbow and gently lifted him, excruciatingly slowly. Saunders went white at the grating in his lower chest but stayed resolutely quiet, until he was finally sitting up and leaning against Caje. His blood pressure dropped and the room darkened, but still he fought to hold on to his thoughts, to something he vaguely knew was important.

Caje assumed his right shoulder would hurt worse and so clothed that one first, so it wouldn't have to be moved as much. He reached for Saunders' left arm, trying to manuever his mangled wrist as carefully as possible through the sleeve. "Krauts," Saunders muttered against his shoulder.

"It's okay, Sarge, almost done."

Saunders dragged in a sudden breath and pulled away. "Krauts… where…?" He brought his head back and wavered a little, trying to look at Caje. "Did Billy get across okay, Caje?"

"Billy's not here, Sarge. C'mon, give me your arm, we're almost done." He was reaching for his arm again when Saunders suddenly jerked it away and stared at Caje, his expression bordering on panic and his breathing accelerating into a pant. "Krauts! There was… was half a platoon that left… they left…" He looked shakily around the room before reaching out and grabbing a weak fistful of Caje's jacket, trying to hold himself up and shake him at the same time. "Caje, you have to leave…!"

"Sarge, we are! That's why I gotta get this—"

"No! Leave now!" He peered unsteadily around the room again, his unfocused gaze settling on Hanley.

"Can you carry him?"

"Sarge, you're not thinking straight, he's—"

"I asked you… if you can carry him." Saunders interrupted, fading adrenaline modulating his voice into a familiar growl.

"Yeah, if I want punched in the nose and court-martialed! He's just sleeping, Sarge, he's not unconscious…"

He watched as Saunders started to sag, his grip on his jacket weakening, and Caje's voice softened slightly. "We're leaving, Sarge. I just have to put another jacket on the litter and wake the lieutenant and… and we're gone."

Bracing his ribs with his free arm, the sergeant gave one last hazy look around and Caje finally realized he was trying to check the exits. "Don't…" Saunders began and shook his head dully, his voice suddenly slurring. "N-no litter, jus'… jus' go…" Caje watched patiently as that single bloodshot blue eye finally glazed over and rolled back and he reached out to grab the slumping form. He held him for a moment and sighed wearily, looking over Saunders' shoulder into the grayness of this miserable place.

"You're right," he said to him softly. "We should have left already." He shook his head. "I don't know what's wrong with me… tired, I guess." He made quick work of getting the shirt on, now that there was nobody fighting him, and lowered Saunders gently back to his blankets. "C'mon, Sarge. Let's get the lieutenant and grab our baggage and get out of here."