Well, here I am with yet another fic for this fandom, I got way too attached to this team and specifically these two. Eventually, I'll write something with the whole squadron, but apparently for now my brain just demands traumatizing Jim and letting Greg look after him...

I don't own the characters or anything else related to this show!

Title from "I Won't Give Up" by Jason Mraz

Greg knew he was in trouble as soon as he saw the Zero coming in for the kill as soon as he dove on its partner. He was flying without a wingman, this run, because he had the most experience and they only had an odd number of planes in good enough shape to fly a mission without crashing halfway to their target. And Moore's orders were specific, everything they could put in the air had to go up.

But there was a good reason you didn't fly missions without someone to have your back. And when a string of bullets ripped across the cowling and Greg's Corsair started sputtering out black smoke, he was painfully reminded exactly why that was the case.

"I'm hit, I'm done." He called over the radio, preparing to bail out. "Watch out for yourselves, guys." He hoped they'd make it home okay. And that Jim wouldn't completely fall apart when he inevitably had to take charge. He'd said as much to Greg, once, that he couldn't command the unit without him.

Greg had confidence in Jim's ability, but he knew Jim was probably right on that count. He'd come to rely on Greg to steady him and create a balance, and whether he meant to or not, he'd grown to depend on having him around. Greg hadn't wanted to think about what that meant in a war zone, but now they were up against the simple fact that Greg was going to be leaving his squadron out both of their ranking officers unless by some miracle Jim pulled it together.

Jim was the best executive officer Greg could have asked for, and Greg couldn't help but think that if he'd done things differently Jim could have a promotion and his own command by now. But Jim didn't want out of the Black Sheep, and more importantly, he didn't want to do the job without Greg.

And now he's going to have to.

That was probably the biggest regret Greg took with him as his chute unfurled and he started floating down toward the jungle. I let him get attached. And now, it might destroy him.

When Jim saw the pair of Zeros setting up to come down on Greg's plane, he pulled off chasing one of his own and headed for them. By the time he got there, though, Greg's Corsair had been flamed and was headed down fast.

"Watch out for yourselves, guys," Greg called over the radio, and then he was pushing back the canopy and bailing.

Yeah, watch out for us, but who's watching out for you?

Jim circled, watching, holding a breath until he saw the white chute furl out and start drifting down toward the small islands they were fighting above. Jim circled once more, waiting to see if Greg came down on the east island or if that crosswind they'd run into at Angels 2 carried him over to the west.

If he landed on the east, there was a chance Air-Sea Rescue could nab him with a night run or send a boat over if a PT was in the area. But the west, over on the ridge, had a Japanese encampment. There wasn't a shot at saving him then.

Jim winced when the chute suddenly shifted course. Damn it.

He didn't really have time to worry about that when there was a crack of gunfire and shots tore into his starboard wing. Oh damn it all.

"TJ, I'm in trouble!" Jim shouted, but he knew it was already too late. He'd let himself get distracted, and a Zero had set up on him perfectly. He'd been paying too much attention to the chute below him to notice what was happening up above.

"I'm on my way!" TJ yelled back, but Jim was already struggling to dive away with his starboard wing shot all to hell. The Corsair banked poorly, and Jim winced as another round ripped through the body, shattering the canopy glass and stitching a row of holes in the fuselage.

He flinched as a sheet of flame ripped up from the engine, and black, choking smoke swirled in through the shattered pieces of the canopy. His plane wasn't going to make it home. Not even close.

"Don't bother, TJ, I'm done, I'm goin' in. Casey, you've got command." He pushed back the glass, what was left of it, and bailed.

It's not like I'm gonna be any great loss. Casey was better at the job than me the last time Greg was out of commission.

Jim felt his chute unfurl with a sharp jerk that sent a shock of pain through his shoulders and back.

Maybe he'd let this happen because some part of him knew that he wasn't going to be any good to any of them. Last time Greg got shot down, he fell apart and failed to lead the Black Sheep until basically all of them kicked his ass into gear by telling him they felt lost. And then when Greg burned his hands, Jim had insisted he shouldn't be left in charge, and he'd proved himself right when he tried to save Greg's friend and instead got the guy killed.

I woulda let Greg down. Let them all down. Maybe it's better they don't even have to try to deal with me. He would just crumble, again, under the pressure, without Greg there to keep him going.

When he felt the crosswind catch his chute, he sighed. He and Greg were both in for a lot of trouble.

Greg knew he was out of luck the moment he felt the air currents start pulling him west. The island there was known to be home to a Japanese listening post, their own squadron had flown a couple scouting flights over it but never found its exact location. There was no chance Air-Sea Rescue was going to get him.

And he wasn't so sure he had it in the cards to make it back from another enemy island. He'd already beat the odds once. True, Lard often called him the luckiest bastard in the Marine Corps, but he had to run out of luck at some point. And this was probably it.

He could hear the battle still going on up overhead, and the sound of gunfire and then an explosion. He hoped it was a Zero on its way down, but then out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of white and dark blue.

Damn it.

Another of his guys was down. He tried to glance around for a chute, but there wasn't a chance before he was down in the treeline of the island.

His chute snagged a high branch, and yanked him backward, slamming him into the trunk of another tree. He winced when his left side and hip made impact, hearing a crack that was most likely one or two ribs. He forced his breathing to steady out and waited until his body was no longer swinging back and forth before cutting himself loose, and dropping awkwardly the eight feet to the ground. His right ankle protested more weight being put on it than the other, but he couldn't risk screwing up his side any more, driving a rib into a lung would be a death sentence out here.

He looked up to see if there was any sign of a chute, and caught something white against the cloudless sky, that looked like it was coming down to the south of him. Maybe his other pilot had made it out too. He started walking in that direction, mostly for lack of a better idea. He figured the listening post would have seen them landing, and it was probably suicide to head toward another chute, but they probably knew that, so it might be the last thing they were expecting.

They probably figure us for doing the smart thing. Which was not something Greg often did. He'd only stayed alive this long by doing crazy things no one else would, because they figured it was impossible.

And right now, finding his pilot and getting the both of them the hell off this island was sounding pretty insanely impossible. So Greg was definitely going to try.

If it was just me, I might not bother so much. But that's one of my boys down here too. And I owe it to them to at least try and get us home. His own number might be up, but he'll be damned if he lets one of his boys check out without fighting for them.

And if Lard could hear me right now, he'd say I already am.

Jim grimaced when his chute snagged in a branch and brought him to an abrupt halt. He stumbled, unable to catch himself as he was dragged backward on landing, and ended up skidding on his back through the sticks and rocks on the ground for a moment before he stopped and lay still, looking up at a small patch of sky between the branches.

He reached up to unbuckle his chute straps and bit back a scream when his shoulder seemed to ignite on fire. He glanced to the side and sighed when he noticed the dark stain on the left shoulder of his flight suit. One of those bullets must have hit more than the canopy. He gritted his teeth through the pain and pulled himself free. Trying to get on his feet, though, proved to be more difficult than he'd thought, another bullet had torn into his thigh. He dug though his gear for his jungle pack and wrapped bandages around his leg, pressed some gauze to the wound in his shoulder, which as far as he could tell wasn't through and through, and wrapped that up as well. He was wasting precious time when the Japanese would certainly have seen the chutes and come looking, but he couldn't afford to leave them a clear blood trail to follow, either.

Last he'd seen, Greg had come down north of him.

He wasn't sure it was so smart to go looking for him. If they were together, that would make it twice as easy for the Japanese troops to find them. Staying split up, especially if Greg wasn't as wounded, would be the smarter move. That way, at least maybe one of them would make it out of this.

He started limping away from the chute, up toward the ridge. He was counting on the Japanese scouts to assume he'd take the route of least resistance, down toward the ocean. Especially if they saw the blood on the chute harness. And the shore was the only spot it was even remotely possible to get rescued from.

So he was going to do the exact opposite of expectations and hope that they didn't figure that out.

Greg had been slogging through the undergrowth for what he figured was close to an hour when he heard voices. He dropped to the ground and stayed as still as possible. The jungle foliage here was good cover, and if he tried to move to find better, he'd make noise that could alert pursuers to his location.

Whoever was out there was definitely speaking Japanese, so it wasn't his pilot. He breathed in shallowly, the moldy, wet-earth smell of the forest floor ticking his lungs, his rib aching painfully every time a breath pressed it into the soil.

He knew enough Japanese by now that he could translate a bit of the orders, at least the ones that were instructions to move downhill toward the water.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the footsteps moved away from him, then winced and choked back a cough. He was going to have to be careful. He got to his feet again and kept moving, headed slightly uphill and still south.

Jim stopped to take a small sip of water from his canteen and immediately noticed that the jungle sounds had gone silent. There had been a whirl of small tropical birds to the north a bit ago, but whether Greg had spooked them out or a Japanese patrol had, he wasn't sure. He was probably setting a pretty good trail himself, unable to move as lightly as he should have, given how bad his leg was hurting, and how hard it was to move.

This was something else. He looked up, trying to figure out what was causing the strange silence, and realized that the jungle was getting darker, the shadows thicker. The sky was no longer clear blue, but a hazy grey, getting darker and thicker every second.

He remembered flying recon over this island. The ridge up ahead was a formation that trapped weather fronts that hit it, keeping most of the rain on the side he'd come down on, the one covered in jungle. They'd had one hell of a time keeping the planes out of it, and figured the Japanese listening post was hidden down there somewhere they couldn't get close enough to spot because of the updrafts and weather patterns coming off that ridge.

It must have been catching another wet, heavy front, and it was about to push it up and turn it into rain.

Jim figured the jungle was as good of shelter as he was going to find without risking running into enemy troops using the area caves as shelter, so he tucked himself in amongst the roots of one of the larger trees the best he could as the sky darkened to purples and blacks, lightning cut across the sky, and a grey sheet of rain started marching down inexorably along the mountainside.

When it hit, the storm was worse than he expected. The wind whipped the surprisingly chilly rain sideways, turning the ground into a sea of mud and soaking through his flight suit in minutes. Jim curled into himself, but remembered in time to pull out his canteen and tuck it under one of the large leaves of a nearby plant that funneled the pouring rain into it. He cupped his hands underneath it after the canteen was full, knowing full well that he ought to take advantage of the available water while he had it. He'd kick himself later if he didn't.

When he'd drunk as much water as he could, and his canteen was full and capped, Jim huddled back into the comparative shelter of the roots and sat shivering, waiting out the storm. He couldn't walk in this on his bad leg, not unless he wanted to slip, fall, and end up halfway down to the shore in the slick mud. He'd hunt around for a sturdy stick later, to at least give himself a little more support, but that was later. For now, he just had to stay alert and hope this storm sent the Japanese scouts back to their base.

Greg watched the light fade and the sky turn grey and purple overhead. He knew how that ridge was affecting the rain patterns here, and that he was about to be in the middle of a deluge. It would be insane to keep walking through it. Rainstorms like this had carved deep gullies in the land, ones he'd been crossing repeatedly. Those would turn into chaotic rivers, and the mud would get knee deep.

But the rain would effectively prevent the Japanese scouts from seeing more than a few feet in front of their own noses, and they wouldn't expect him to keep moving in this weather. Greg ducked his head against the cold downpour and kept walking.

He'd slogged through the mud for several more minutes when he reached a rushing gully of brown, muddy water that looked and sounded disturbingly dangerous. He turned uphill, hoping to find somewhere he could eventually manage to make it across.

Lighting split the purple-black sky, and thunder growled. Greg ducked on instinct, the sounds and flashes a bit too much like the night bombings that occasionally plagued the Vella La Cava base.

In the echoes of the thunder, he heard it. A sound like a whimper, coming from his left. Greg glanced toward it.

Chances were it was a strange bird or maybe a wounded animal trapped in some of the flooding. But he couldn't make himself just keep going, without finding out for sure. He turned toward the sound, ducking under the branches of a massive tree and glancing around. Whatever made that sound had to be close, or he wouldn't have heard it over the thunder and rain. He frowned, staring into the dim twilight under the branches, and then caught sight of a flash of color that didn't belong, pale khaki against the dark wood and darker earth.

He bent down for a closer look, and heard shaky breaths and another soft whimper.

"Hey, it's me," he whispered, and the person curled in between the roots moved just enough that Greg could see his face, the dirty-blond hair dark and plastered to his forehead with rain, brown eyes too wide and terrified in the round, mud-streaked face.

Jim. Greg sighed, rocking back on his heels. Of course Gutterman got himself shot down too. Now the 214 was left with no officers higher ranking than lieutenants. Lard was going to bust them up for sure.

"Greg?"

Jim sounded painfully unsure of what he was seeing.

"Yeah, Jim, it's me. What happened?" he asked, knowing now was the best time to talk, the rain drowning out most of their words even from each other.

"Saw…saw you go down." Jim sounded like he was having trouble speaking, his words slurring like he was drunk. "Was gonna…call it in once I saw where you came down…then one of them Zeros got the jump on me."

"Damn it, Jim," Greg said, sharper than he'd intended. "Didn't I tell you the first priority in a fight is keeping yourself in the air?"

Jim nodded slowly, eyes closed.

"You should have called for backup before you decided to try and follow me down. You were paying so much attention to the chute, you missed the Zero, didn't you?"

Jim nodded again, more slowly, and Greg frowned. It wasn't like Jim Gutterman not to come back swinging when scolded.

He looked a little closer at Jim's flight suit and then cursed himself for missing it. There were bandages on Jim's shoulder and leg, stained almost the same color as his flight suit from the muddy water, but stained deeper than that with dark brownish-red. Jim had been wounded.

"Damn it, Gutterman, you didn't tell me you were hit. What's the damage?"

"Took a bullet to the left shoulder, think it's still in there. And one sliced across my left thigh, that ain't so bad bleedin' but it hurts like hell." He sighed.

"Ah, damn it, Jim." Greg whispered. "Sorry I yelled at you."

"Sorry I got shot down."

"Look, it's over. Let's just worry about getting the hell outta here, huh?"

"How we gonna do that?"

"Well, I hadn't really thought that far ahead," Greg admitted. "I didn't even think I was gonna find you."

He slipped down into the root crevices beside Jim. It was as good a place as any to wait out the storm and try to come up with a plan.

Rain continued to pound down, seemingly endlessly, sending chilly streams of mud into the hollow in the roots where Jim and now Greg had taken shelter. Jim shivered, curling a little tighter against Greg's warmth. He'd been injured enough times to know the blood loss was making him feel colder, that even though the tropical rain was only really cool enough to be refreshing, it felt more like a freezing deluge in his state.

He also knew that he didn't have much longer before his injuries started getting infected. The jungle wasn't a good place to have raw, open wounds.

Thunder cracked, a loud, echoing sound, and Jim flinched, trying to tuck himself further into the shelter of the roots. Everything felt a little hazy, and he kept forgetting exactly where he was. Between the flashes of lightning turning everything midday bright before plunging it back into darkness, and the thunder splitting the silence and shaking the ground, he kept slipping back and forth between the jungle storm and the bombing raid on the 905 that had cost him his wingman and been the last straw before he ended up out of that unit and off to Sydney for evaluation when his flashbacks and nightmares got so bad he couldn't sleep enough to fly a mission right.

Then he'd socked that smug colonel in the jaw and instead of a section 8, he ended up slated for court martial.

Greg had intervened, not that Jim had cared much at the time. He'd felt pretty much nothing after they lost Hank. The kid had been like a brother to him, and then one awful night had changed it all.

It had been a roll of the dice which side of the tent that damn prop had ripped through. When the bomb hit the flight line and turned three of their Corsairs into scrap metal. There had been almost no warning. Radar hadn't caught the bombers because they'd come in low, and they'd cut engines before making their run.

It had been over before they even knew it began. And the 905 had lost four pilots.

A deafening crack sent Jim ducking and curling into the person next to him, grabbing for purchase and gasping and whimpering. He couldn't help it and didn't really want to. He was too tired and cold and in pain to care one bit about how any of this looked to anyone.

A hand worked its way around his shoulder, and another carded through his hair gently, and Jim took a shaky breath.

"Jim, it's okay."

Greg's voice was grounding, and that was enough to give Jim a moment to breathe. Greg kept talking, slowly, talking about some wild story from his Flying Tigers days, about some old Scotsmen and a big black dog, and his voice began to drown out the thunder, until it was the only thing Jim could hear in the jungle.

By the time the rain turned to a drizzle, and the clouds began to break up and turn the brilliant coral, pink, and purple of a tropical sunset, Greg had the beginnings of a plan. It wasn't a great one, but it was one he thought just might actually work.

Jim had said he'd left Casey in charge of the Black Sheep. He'd also said the last time Greg got shot down and went MIA, Casey had been determined to find a way to get him back off that island, even if it was enemy held. Without Jim's little black raincloud of loss hanging over them this time, maybe Casey decided to take a chance.

He'd have to know the Black Sheep were on their last leg anyway. Lard was going to break them up for sure, and they had nothing to lose making an unsanctioned rescue mission. If Greg had to guess when they'd try it, they'd do it tonight.

He knew Casey, and he knew what was likely to be the plan. Casey kept track of all their deals, and there was an outstanding debt a PT boat captain owed them for several cases of scotch. They'd been planning to collect in engine parts that the captain said he could get from a contact, but Greg figured Casey would consider the debt paid up if they could get some help picking up their downed pilots.

Which meant he and Jim should probably get down to the beach.

It was possible he'd totally miscalculated. Maybe Lard had already broken up the squadron. Maybe the PT captain wouldn't want to risk a rescue this insane, with no guarantee of success. Maybe Casey had a totally different plan. Maybe he wouldn't be able to get in touch with anyone who could help. Maybe the whole beach would be covered with Japanese troops tonight and they'd be caught before there was even a prayer of making it out.

There were a lot of maybes. But Greg was always willing to put his money on the long shots. This was one hell of a long shot if he'd ever seen one, but it just might pay off.

He glanced down to where Jim had fallen asleep against him, his head resting on Greg's shoulder, one hand still clenched into a fist in the front of his flight suit. Jim was shivering slightly, although whether it was a result of the chilly rain or the nightmares the storm had been plaguing him with, Greg had no idea.

"Hey Jim, wake up, I've got a plan."

Jim blinked blearily, and Greg didn't like the glassy look in his eyes. Whether it was blood loss, or fever from whatever awful stuff lived in the jungle mud soaking his bandages, Jim needed a hospital, right away. Greg really hoped rescue was coming for them tonight.

He started to get to his feet and then grimaced. His rib twinged painfully, and his ankle was now so swollen after sitting that he could feel the pressure against his boot.

"Greg, you okay?" Jim asked, his own voice shaky and rough.

"Just my ankle, landed on it wrong." Greg took a moment to catch his breath and support himself against the tree. "Think you can walk?"

"Where to?" Jim asked, slowly getting himself to his feet as well. Greg winced when he saw the extent of the bloodstains on Jim's clothes. There was some fresh red staining around the shoulder wound, as well. None of this was good.

"The good news is, if I'm right, it's all downhill." Greg said. "I think Casey's gonna call in our marker with that PT boat captain."

"Yeah?"

"It's what I'd do," Greg said. "Besides, Don Young's one crazy son of a gun. I mean, he has to be, to deal with us, but…you know him."

"Yeah, he's the guy who bluffed out that Jap sub." Jim scrubbed a muddy hand over his face as he yawned, then grimaced and shook his head. "He's probably the only person nuts enough to try and come get us. Well, besides the Black Sheep."

Greg nodded. "That's what I'm thinking."

"So we just go down to the beach and wait?"

"Yeah, more or less. There's one cove that's blocked from view of the ridge, mostly, and seems pretty safe for a PT to put in. If we can get to that, I'd imagine that's where they'd come for us."

"That one with the white sand around the edges?" Jim asked, accepting Greg's hand to pull himself to his feet, then leaning heavily on the tree trunk. "Saw that when we were scouting."

"Yeah, that one. Looked like I came down just a little north of it. So if we head north and west from where we are right now…"

"We should make it there about nightfall?" Jim asked. "Greg, I don't know about you, but I'm pretty much done in. I'm gonna slow you down."

"Well I'm not leaving you here, after I went to all the trouble to find you," Greg argued. He reached for Jim's free arm and slung it around his shoulder. "Come on, let's go."

Jim was sure Greg was going to regret deciding to take him along. They had barely covered half the side of the ridge by the time twilight set a chorus of night birds and biting insects swarming. Jim's bad leg meant they had to keep detouring around ravines and fallen trees that Greg could have scrambled over or through if he was alone. And Jim was pretty sure something was wrong with Greg besides the ankle, because he sounded short of breath and occasionally made a choked gasp when Jim shifted his weight and put more pressure on Greg's shoulder or side.

He didn't really want to ask about it, though. They had enough against them as it was.

Jim tried to take another step forward, and the ache in his leg flared up into a searing, burning pain. With a choked scream, he fell, dragging Greg down with him. Before either of them could react, they were sliding, half-swimming in what felt like a river of mud. Jim tried to keep a grip on Greg's hand, afraid if they lost each other now, they were doomed.

Finally, the ground evened out, and both of them were able to struggle back to their feet. Greg was panting, holding his side, and Jim frowned. There definitely was something wrong.

"Greg, what happened?"

"Banged up my ribs on a tree. Think hitting that rock on the way down actually broke at least one." He shrugged. "But hey, at least we're down here now. That was one way of speeding up the process."

Jim forced out a weak chuckle.

They stayed silent as they slogged the rest of the way down to the shore. There was no telling if there were Japanese troops just waiting for them to do all the work coming to them. Jim was pretty sure if he was them, that's what he'd do.

The beach, however, seemed empty when they made it to the edge of the trees. Nevertheless, they stuck to the treeline, moving north until they reached the smooth indentation that looked like someone had taken a spoon and scooped out a little bit of the island's shoreline. The moon, whenever it peeked out from behind the ragged clouds, reflected off the water and glittered on the white sand.

"If it's Young, his patrol will come past here at about two am," Greg said, consulting the watch on his wrist. "Little over an hour and a half to wait."

Jim nodded, exhausted, and sank down to the ground. He'd lost the bandages on his shoulder and leg somewhere on the way down the hillside, and he was definitely bleeding again. He could feel the blood hot against his chilled skin.

It crossed his mind that he shouldn't feel so cold when they'd been walking for so long. He pressed a hand to his shoulder wound, cringing at how hot it felt under his palm. This was bad.

Greg knelt beside him. "I think there might still be some bandages in my pack. They're probably soaked through by now, but it might do a little good."

Greg fumbled through his gear and pulled out a roll of soaked cloth. He held it up to the moonlight, frowned, and then dipped it into the ocean water in the cove. "That mud can't be good for you." He swished them around for a bit, then wrung them out and held them up. "I'm sorry, this is going to sting."

Jim bit his lip, but a muffled scream still slipped out when the salt water from the bandages seeped into the wounds. He managed to hold it down to a hoarse whine, but it was still too loud for comfort.

"Greg, I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Greg said gently. "See if you can hold still while I wrap these."

Jim nodded, clenching his fingers into the leg of his flight suit while Greg worked. The moon slipped fully behind the clouds again, plunging the whole cove into blackness. That was good for them, Jim knew, the PT boat stood a much better chance not being spotted if there was less light.

Now they just had to hope that Greg was right about this.

Greg could feel himself drifting off to sleep. He kept startling awake as his head fell down to his chest, but he knew that wasn't going to last much longer. Jim was already dozing, propped up against the tree beside Greg. They were sitting close together to share body heat as the night cooled. Both of them were still wet from the rain and their surprisingly fast (if uncomfortable) descent of the ridge. Jim hadn't stopped shivering since Greg rebandaged his wounds.

If the boat didn't show up soon, they'd need another plan. Greg wondered if he'd be able to stash Jim somewhere safe and raid the listening post's medical supplies. It was a half-baked plan, but Greg couldn't sit by and do nothing and watch Jim die. Even if he took a hell of a risk in the process.

Greg was just drifting off again when he heard it. The low, muffled growl of a Packard engine. Their PT boat was on its way.

Greg shook Jim's shoulder gently. "Jim, come on, they're here. We'll have to swim out." He knew even a skipper as crazy as Young wouldn't risk putting crew in the lifeboat to check out what might be a trap.

Jim blinked, then slowly seemed to focus on Greg's face. "Wha…"

"The PT boat. It came. Casey came through," Greg whispered. "But I don't think they'll come get us. We have to swim out to them."

"Don't know if I can, Greg," Jim said.

"Jim, you climbed all the way down here with me. I know you can." Greg reached for his arm. "Come on, we're almost home free."

"Better off without me."

It was so quiet Greg almost missed it.

"Jim, that is not true."

"Yes it is. Greg, I'm no good without you around. What am I gonna do if this happens again?"

Greg wanted to promise he wouldn't let it. But they both knew that was something he couldn't say.

"Next time, make sure you can go home with them to plot my rescue, alright?"

Jim chuckled, a weak, breathy sound. "Alright."

"Then let's go before Young thinks he wasted his time coming out here."

The ocean felt painfully cold against Jim's skin, except where it burned in his wounds. He was falling behind Greg's confident strokes, and he knew it, but the best he could manage was a weak sort of dog paddle that kept his head above water.

When he felt a hand on his shoulder he almost panicked completely, before he heard Greg's soft voice. "We're here. They're rolling down a rope ladder. You go first."

Jim blinked, and the unending darkness in front of him resolved into a silhouette of a PT boat. He made it. They both had.

He reached up for the first rung of the rope ladder, unthinkingly, with his left hand.

The pain seared through his shoulder like the bullet all over again, and he fell backward into the water, but he was unconscious before he heard the splash.

Greg sat in a chair next to the hospital bed, trying to remember to keep his back straight against the back of it. The doc had given him a hell of a chewing out when he found Greg slumped over asleep on Jim's cot.

"You'll drive one of those ribs right into a lung, Major. If you insist on sitting with your officer, then I must insist you sit up straight. Or God help me I will tie you to it."

Greg, not wanting to be relegated to another bed, agreed.

He'd bribed, argued, and bargained to get into Jim's room two days ago, after the doctors decided his condition wasn't so touch-and-go that he couldn't be allowed any visitors, no matter what kind of deal Greg was offering from Casey's stash of contraband. Jim's wounds had gotten infected with some jungle bug that had been a hell of a time to treat, and for a while no one was sure if he was even going to survive.

Now, they were just waiting for him to wake up.

Greg glanced at the door to make sure no nurses were walking past, and then leaned over, just a little, and took Jim's hand in his, lacing his fingers through Jim's motionless ones.

At first, he thought he was imagining the returned pressure.

But then Jim blinked, once, twice, and familiar brown eyes opened and turned up toward Greg.

"Greg?" Jim's voice was weak, and hoarse with disuse, but Greg still thought it was the best thing he'd ever heard.

"Yeah, it's me Jim. I'm here."

"We made it?"

"Yes we did. We made it."

Jim smiled. "Don't ever do that to me again, Greg, you scared me."

"You're one to talk." Greg gripped Jim's hand a little tighter. "Don't go threatening to leave us again any time soon."

"Don't worry. Us Black Sheep are stuck with each other." Jim squeezed back a little tighter as well.

"You got that damn right."