Waking up in Stan's arms felt very awkward to me the first few times, but he didn't seem to mind it. Even when I had nightmares that would cause me to scratch and kick at his wounds, he took it in stride. Which isn't to say that he was physically unhurt by it, but he always calmed me down before he allowed me to tend to him. It was nice, but I was frightened by how fast I was falling for him, especially because I wasn't even sure he was gay. He knew I was Jewish, though that was one of the only details about my personal life that I had told him, and I felt like omitting the rest was dishonest. But I was so afraid.
I wasn't sure why, since as his doctor he trusted me with more horrifying things than an unconventional sex life, although that wasn't always by choice. For example, he wasn't able to get to his feet on his own for the first day or two, so I had to assist him in dealing with certainly bodily functions. Nothing builds trust like helping someone squat over a chamber pot. It was disgusting to me, although after living in such filthy conditions in Warsaw and Treblinka I'd gotten over some of my squeamishness with such matters, but poor Stan was humiliated by it. It took him a while to be able to look me in the eye after each time, and in some ways I felt worse about that than the pain he was in.
Christophe teased me once or twice about sneaking peaks at Stan's goodies, but I was determinedly professional about it. I suppose some people might be into such things, but watching someone relieve themselves is just about the least sexual thing I can think of.
On top of the daily discomfort of our situation, I felt afraid for Stan, too, because I felt incapable of dealing with some of his injuries. I was relieved when Christophe sent a doctor more experienced in battle wounds to come sort him out.
I was filled with apprehension at the idea of someone else knowing that I was hiding out there, but Dr. Black hardly glanced at me when he climbed into our tiny room.
"How old are these injuries?" he asked, examining Stan's leg. Dr. Black didn't speak English, and Stan spoke no French, so I translated the question for Stan.
"A little over a week," Stan answered, wincing as Dr. Black prodded at the broken area.
"It seems like a pretty messy fracture," he said to me, "I can set the bone, but there might be other fragments inside that I can't address without surgery. And unfortunately I don't have the proper equipment for that. But if I set it it will heal straight, and maybe the fragments can be removed at a later date."
Though I had anticipated that happening, I felt my stomach lurch at the prospect of being there for it. Setting bones had always made me feel sick.
"You're a doctor too, yes?"
"Yes."
"Can you assist me? It's going to be very painful so I at least need someone to help hold him in place."
"He's going to set the bone," I said to Stan, "And it's probably going to hurt a lot. He wants me to help."
"Please," he said, with fear in his eyes. As much as I hated it, I couldn't abandon him.
"Yeah, ok," I said, "Um, I'll be right back."
I left the closet, and found Gregory loitering in the living room.
"Help me find a wooden spoon or something for Stan to bite down on," I said to him.
"Is he... is the doctor going to do surgery?" he asked, looking a bit green as he got to his feet.
"No, nothing like that, but he's going to set the bone, so..."
He helped me rummage through the kitchen for something appropriate, and pressed a glass of water into my hand for Stan. I was so nervous that I barely looked at him the whole time, but he seemed as frightened as me, and he didn't seem to mind my brusqueness.
Stan was laying with his eyes closed as I went back into the room, and for a moment I thought he had passed out, until he opened his eyes to look at me. I set the glass of water to the side and handed him the spoon.
"You'll want to bite down on this," I said, "It will help."
"I'm scared," he said, taking the spoon from me, "Stay with me, please."
He reached for my hand, and I let him take it. Something about his vulnerability ate at me, and it was as though he was starting to outright shove over the wall around my heart, rather than just chip away at it. Bastard.
The sound of the bone grinding back into the place was so awful that I nearly threw up. But that was nothing compared to the scream Stan gave. I desperately hoped that there was no one at the bar downstairs, or they'd think someone was being murdered in the apartment.
Stan cried as I stroked his hair, and eventually passed out as Dr. Black splinted and bandaged his leg. I admired his steady hands, because despite all I'd seen and done I didn't think I'd ever be able to handle hurting a patient in such a manner, even though it was being done to help him.
He wiped his hands on a towel, and picked up the water that I'd brought in for Stan, drinking it all in one go.
"I'd rather have wine, but I suppose water's sufficient," he said, handing the empty glass back to me. I was grateful to him, but his attitude rubbed me the wrong way. He seemed like he was used to having people wait on him.
"Now, do you think you can handle the rest of it?" he asked, "The burns seem to be healing well and the infections seem to be receding, so as long as you keep everything clean I think he should heal up quite nicely."
"Yes, of course," I said, irritated at being spoken down to.
"Well, I'll leave you to it," he said, smiling and leaving the room.
Gregory came and shut the wall back up, and I was sealed in with Stan once more.
I fell asleep after a while, and I woke up with my face buried in Stan's shoulder. I was pleased and embarrassed when I realized he was stroking my hair.
I sniffed and sat up, and he looked away, blushing.
"How are you feeling?" I asked, rubbing at my eyes.
"Um. Ok," he looked at me, and then grinned sheepishly, "Actually it hurts like a bitch."
"I kind of expected it to. And, you know, even if it heals perfectly, which it probably won't, it'll probably ache for the rest of your life."
"Ah," he said, closing his eyes, "Well that's great."
I immediately felt bad for saying it, but I figured telling him the truth might be more important than sparing his feelings. After all, that was the harsh reality of it. Still, I wondered what that meant for his future.
"What did you do before the war?" I asked.
He looked surprised, probably because I had never asked him any personal questions. Getting to know him seemed too scary to me.
"Well, I did construction work right after high school, but that was only for a year or so before I joined the Air Force. I wanted to go to college, but my parents couldn't afford it."
"What did you want to study?"
"Oh, um, well I've always thought about doing something in the outdoors. Like being a park ranger or something like that. I always felt like something was missing in my life... I grew up in this small town in the mountains, and I never had a lot of friends, but when I felt lonely going out into the woods always made me feel better."
"Tell me," I said, and then realized I was being awfully vague, "Tell me about your home."
And so he did. It was nice to hear about this place that hadn't been ravaged by war. I'd never lived in a small town, and had never really wanted to, but it sounded so peaceful that I started to imagine myself there, living a simpler life where I didn't have to worry about being beaten or killed because of who I was. Of course, I realized that it probably wasn't as simple as that. From the few relatives that I had who'd moved to the US, I'd heard about some of the discrimination they'd faced, but nothing would ever compare to what had happened to me, so there was a small part of me that felt as though a fresh start somewhere else would be the most wonderful thing in the world.
It was when I started to think about moving to wherever Stan ended up and taking care of him forever that I put a halt to my train of thought.
I must have had a funny look on my face, because Stan stopped mid-sentence and asked me if I was ok.
"Fine," I said, not meeting his eyes, "Just thinking."
He sighed and rolled his eyes. It was the first time I'd actually seen him be legitimately annoyed with me.
"I wish you'd talk about... whatever it was that happened to you. I mean, I'm glad that you're asking me things, but I want to know about you, too. Even if it's something awful."
"Look – it's not... You don't get it."
"I just don't understand why you won't tell me," he said, not quite angry.
"What the hell do you care?" I asked, definitely angry.
"Uh, I don't know if you've noticed this or not, Kyle, but I like you, and I want to get to know you."
"You like me?" I asked, taken aback. I wasn't sure what exactly he meant.
"Well, yeah, I mean you seem like a nice guy. And I want to help you, and I've found that telling other people about my problems helps ease the pain a little."
I stared at him incredulously, still trying to work out what the hell he meant by 'I like you,' but, well...
"You think you can help me? You have no idea! You can't even imagine!"
"If you'd just fucking tell me maybe I'd understand a little better!" he said, finally angry with me.
"Fine! I was forced to live in a ghetto in Warsaw – practically a prison, where hundreds of thousands of people starved to death or were killed by disease, if they weren't outright murdered by the SS. Everyone I knew died in one way or another, including my parents. Then I was sent to a death camp where I helped facilitate the murder of nearly a million people. And I had no choice but to do it, unless I wanted to be killed, too. Can you fix that, Stan? Huh? Does me telling you that change anything? You think just because you've gone through something bad that you understand how I feel, but you don't at all!"
He stared at me for a moment, clearly shell-shocked, and I was surprised when he reached out and pulled me against him. I struggled and tried to push him away, but it was no good. He was determined, and my resolve crumbled, and suddenly I found myself sobbing against his chest.
"I'm sorry," I choked out, though I wasn't sure if I was apologizing for yelling at him, or for losing my composure and making an ass of myself. He didn't seem to care either way. He shushed me and rubbed my back, holding me close against him.
"Don't be sorry," he said, sounding choked up, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pressure you like that. I was – you just – you seemed so haunted. I wanted to help. That all – that really happened?"
I nodded against him, too upset to speak.
"Well um – shit."
He held me tight until I began to calm down. I realized that some of his bandages had gotten caught up in my tight grip on his shirt, and I let go, smoothing a hand across his chest in a silent apology.
"I really want to hear about it, when you're up to it," he said, "I mean, there's been rumors of what the Krauts have been doing, but nobody really knows. You can talk to me, if you want, but if I had... I mean, if I'd known I wouldn't have bothered you so much."
"It's not a bother," I said, pulling back and wiping my eyes, "No, I'm lying. It is a bother, but I know you don't mean any harm. I just... I can't talk about it just yet. Especially not... I mean, I barely know you."
He looked kind of sad when I glanced up at his face.
"Well, I'd like to change that," he said, smiling sadly.
I allowed him to dry my face and curled up against his chest, letting the soft murmur of his voice soothe me.
We fell asleep not long after that. I knew the pain in his leg must be wearing him out, and I felt emotionally drained. But I was starting to think that maybe I could actually trust this man.
It must have been some time in the evening when I woke up. At first I wasn't sure what had awoken me, but Stan was laying next to me, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes. It only took me a moment to realize why.
Through the walls we could hear the sounds of Christophe and Gregory having sex, clear as day. They sounded like they were in the dining room, and I decided right then and there that I never wanted to eat off that table again. Gregory was remarkably loud, and I was embarrassed that I was a little turned on by the whole thing. We had drifted apart in our sleep, so there was no way for Stan to notice, but his face was flushed when he turned to look at me.
"Are they, uh..."
"Fucking?" I supplied, and he laughed.
"Well that's, uh... surprising," he said, still glowing red.
"Does it bother you?"
"Other than the fact that I don't want to listen to it? Not... no, not really. I just. Well I guess I didn't think Christophe was like that. Gregory, though..."
I laughed, but I wondered if he'd figured me out as well. If he had, he didn't seem bothered by it, for which I was grateful. I had enough things to worry about.
Things were fairly calm for the next few days. I started to tell Stan more detailed bits and pieces of my experiences, and he always listened with a sympathetic ear. It was cathartic, in a lot of ways, because there was so much that I could never tell Ike, or anyone else. With Ike it was a matter of sparing his feelings, and no one else seemed interested enough to pry for details. Gregory, in particular, seemed to be too wrapped up in his own problems to worry about my own.
"I don't understand Christophe at all," he said to me one afternoon, while Stan was asleep. "I mean, he likes me, he kisses me, we... well, and then he goes back to acting as though I'm some burden he has to deal with."
I sighed, wondering how the hell he could be so dense when he was obviously an intelligent man.
"He likes you, and he's trying to distance himself from you, obviously. And then fighting it becomes too hard, and he caves, but then he gets mad at himself and at you for the whole thing."
"Why would he do that, though?"
"His biggest concern has always been fighting the Germans. So I guess he sees his affection for you as an obstacle. There's nothing you can do but wait it out, really. He's very stubborn."
"I noticed," he said with a wry grin.
There was definitely a part of me that could sympathize with Christophe. After all, I was also trying, and failing, to keep someone I liked from getting to me.
After a few days of laying in bed looking bored, Stan was finally starting to attempt moving about on his own. There were baby steps involved. First was standing on his own, and then he attempted to hobble around our tiny room without any assistance. It was sad to watch his slow attempts, and even sadder when he failed, and needed me to come to his rescue. But still, any progress was good, and he seemed determined not to let his setbacks get to him.
And despite myself, I was growing more and more attached to him. We'd go to sleep at night, curled up together. In the morning he was usually awake before me, and when I opened my eyes I'd often be greeted with a smile, his face just a few inches from mine. I had no idea if he knew how much of an effect he was having on me, but I was slowly opening up to him, and I think that made him happy. But despite all the cuddling and soul-wrenching confessions, it still felt pretty platonic to me. I kept thinking that I should tell him that I was gay just to test the waters, but the opportunity never came up, and I was too afraid to spoil the closeness we'd achieved.
During my time in Rouen the aerial bombings had come and gone, sometimes without causing us any real concern, but sometimes terrifying me out of my wits. Although I knew the Allies were trying to help, it reminded me too much of when Warsaw was bombed by the Germans. Stan and I would usually huddle closer together during the worst of these bombings, but on one particular night it became too terrifying to bear. It started out normally enough: just some booms off in the distance. But then it grew closer and closer, and I began to panic. With good reason, it seemed, because I was starting to wonder about hiding in the cellar when a bomb hit close enough to the building to rip part of the roof off. I screamed and ducked under Stan's arm.
"Holy shit," he said, holding me against him.
I shoved him away, and tried to get the wall panel open so we could go hide downstairs. Christophe had told me time and time again that I had to wait for him to give me an all-clear before I left the closet, but I figured to hell with that. I wasn't going to sit idly by and get blown apart by the soldiers who were supposed to be helping us.
Gregory was on the other side of the wall when I finally removed it, and he looked just as terrified as I was. He helped me haul Stan out of the room, but I insisted upon getting him down the stairs on my own. He was my patient, and I wanted to take care of him myself. Plus I suppose subconsciously I wanted to impress him. I wasn't really thinking clearly at the time.
Christophe was laying out blankets when we got to the cellar, and I helped Stan down to one. Going down two flights of stairs had exhausted him, and he looked sweaty and pale. I sat next to him, accepting the bottle of wine Christophe handed me.
"I think this calls for a celebration!" he said, ignoring the fact that everyone else in the room was currently fearing for their lives.
"A celebration of what, exactly?" Gregory asked.
"I might be wrong, but I'm pretty sure this is the start of the Allied invasion. This could all be over soon."
The idea hit me like a ton of bricks. It could all be over, and I could go back to my life. But would I? Could I go back to Warsaw after everything? Could I stay in France? A lot would depend on what Ike decided to do, but I had lived a life of running and hiding for so long, I wasn't even sure I'd know how to go back to a normal life. I felt myself tearing up, but I was broken out of my thought when Stan reached over and pulled me against him. I was shocked when he kissed my forehead.
"Isn't this what you wanted?" he asked me very quietly.
I didn't know what to say, so I just took a hearty swig from the bottle of wine in my hand.
It was eerily silent when we awoke the next morning. Christophe and Gregory were asleep beside us, and Stan was beginning to rouse as well.
"Mm, morning," he said, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He looked like hell.
"Are you hungover?" I asked, brushing his bangs from his eyes. They were getting long, and I wondered if he'd let me cut them.
"A little," he said.
He didn't move for a moment, and I studied his face. His wounds were beginning to heal, and though he had a few scars on his cheeks and neck, he seemed more handsome than ever. He gave me a questioning look, and then grinned sheepishly.
"I have to pee," he said.
I laughed, and helped him get to his feet.
As we made our way upstairs, I peeked out the bar windows, examining the mess in the street. There was rubble everywhere, and I knew that it would upset Christophe when he saw it. Still, we were all alive, and that was something to be grateful for.
The apartment itself had taken some damage, but nothing too terrible. The windows in the bathroom were shattered when I helped Stan into it, and when we got back to our room the roof was patchy, and the whole room smelled like smoke.
"I'm glad we got out of here," Stan said, sitting upon the bed.
He watched as I began to reorder some of the chaos. I could feel his eyes upon me, and it was making me nervous, so I was grateful when Gregory showed up and provided a distraction.
"Oh good," he said, "You're both up here."
"Where else would we be?" Stan asked, and I couldn't tell if he was joking or irritated.
"Oh, nowhere I guess. Christophe's going to be patching the roof, so hopefully it'll be fixed before nightfall."
"Where's Kenny been, anyway?" I asked. His frequent absences seemed ominous for some reason.
"He's dating some girl who works at the bar, so I assume he's been spending all his time with her. You know how exciting new romances are," he said, his face flushing.
"Do I?" I sighed, but he left the room without answering.
Stan was still watching me, so I sat down on the bed next to him. He bumped me gently with his shoulder.
"Why does the idea of the war being over upset you?" he asked me.
"What?" I snapped at him, and immediately felt bad when he winced at my tone.
"Last night. You were upset about the invasion starting. I would have thought you'd be happy about it."
I sat in silence for a moment, trying to figure out how to express how I felt.
"Think of your home," I said finally, "and imagine it had been torn apart by war. Your family is dead. Your home is destroyed. And you've been treated so reprehensibly by the people in your community that it's made you completely lose touch with the person you once were. Could you go back to that? Once you were free, do you think you'd be able to just go back home, and go on with your life like nothing happened?"
I appreciated the long silence that followed that, because I could tell he was thinking about my question. He looked sad when he finally looked at me.
"I don't think I could, actually. I just never thought of it that way."
"Well-" I started, but the words died in my throat when he placed his hand on top of mine.
"It doesn't have to be that way, though," he said, looking nervous, "I mean... you... you could go anywhere, you know? Even, I mean – um."
He gave up on talking, and leaned over to kiss me.
X
A/N: Heh, oh I'm sorry am I leaving you hanging? Um, A. Thank you all so much for the kind reviews. They really do motivate me, so I always encourage them. Even if they're a critique or you just want to say, 'Hey, I like this', please leave feedback. Or. Man I feel like a whore when I write that. B. This chapter seems rushed and ….not so great to me, but today (the 27th) is Holocaust Remembrance Day, so I thought Kyle should at least get a kiss. Until next time!