One of Louie's baguettes had gotten loose and was banging around the inside of his skull. That was the only explanation. No other kind of weapon in the camp, contraband or otherwise, hit quite as hard as a loaf of bread in the hands of an angry Frenchman.

Then again, someone was also lightly slapping his face and saying his name in a distinctly Lebeau-like way.

Newkirk attempted to open his eyes and gave it up as a bad job. His ears, on the other hand, were open whether he wanted them to be or not. The voice was an air-raid siren that echoed in his skull, adding to the pain that was building there.

"Pierre, wake up. Wake up!"

Lebeau's voice sounded slightly panicky. He should probably oblige him, though it was a little rude of him to be slapping a member of the King's army like this.

"Oh, hello, Louie."

He cracked his eyes open, ignoring the pain. Where was he? Were they in the middle of a mission? In danger?

Cold, wet tiles lay under his head, and his clothes felt soaked.

In the showers?

Why was he in the showers wearing all his clothes?

Lebeau leaned over him, an uncharacteristic look of fear in his eyes. "Can you hear me, Newkirk? How many fingers am I holding up?"

Newkirk looked, and was solidly, definitely seventy-two percent confident that he saw Lebeau waving three fingers in his face. He waved the extra hovering digits out of his mind.

"Stop waving in my face, Lebeau, with all three of your fingers." His voice sounded far away but also unfortunately connected to the shot of pain that spiked through his skull. "Why are we in the showers?"

Lebeau slumped back, his tense stare softening. "You're awake. I'm going for Wilson."

"Wait, what?"

And Lebeau was gone, leaving Newkirk increasingly wet and confused.

—-

"Colonel Hogan, for the love of everything holy, get these men some helmets!"

Newkirk winced as Wilson shone a light into his eyes, watching their every move like a hawk. Returning to the upper bunk had seemed too much of a risk, and so Lebeau had temporarily taken his space. Carter would have been happy to volunteer, but everyone in Barracks Two with a concussion had been strictly regulated to the lower bunks. Head injuries should not come in twos. Usually, this would apply for the camp as a whole, but currently, all one could seem to hope for was that it would not apply to anyone more than once.

Hogan's own sharp vision was also fixed on Newkirk as he leaned against the table. But there was still a note of amusement in his voice when he continued. "Look, I get it. We had two head injuries last week. I'll speak to the men about protecting their all-important brain-spaces since they don't seem to take that as seriously as they should. But in this case…wearing a helmet wouldn't have helped."

An amused voice sounded right next to Newkirk's ear. "Pierre and his cap are seldom parted, except perhaps in the showers. And while the showers are the problem, I doubt he would wear anything in there."

"Why, pray tell, are we discussing my showering habits?" Newkirk shook his head, trying to clear it, but Wilson raised a threatening finger at him.

"None of that, Corporal. Seems like you stayed in the shower house long after everyone else for God knows what reason, and Lebeau found you passed out on the floor. You tell me what you were doing there!"

"I would if I didn't have this stabbing pain that seems to be interfering with remembering or anything else vaguely useful…" Vocabulary was in itself growing increasingly challenging. "Look, I like the quiet there after everyone leaves. I stayed and must've slipped on the floor or something."

Wilson shook his head. "The tile would have done it. Well, you don't seem to be concussed too badly. You can join the ranks of Carter and Garlotti, though I have to say that a "shower tile" concussion is a little less impressive than a "rogue-explosion" or "cave-in" concussion.

"Look at it this way, Newkirk" Hogan said, a wry look on his face, "You saved me the trouble of coming up with an excuse for Klink." He glanced over at Wilson. "I'm going to go see to that if there isn't anything you need."

Wilson shook his head. "Other than helmets? No. I think he'll be fine, nothing seems out of the ordinary. In fact, I'll come with you if you don't mind. Klink should know that head wounds aren't to be trifled with."

As the door swung shut behind them, Newkirk was left with Lebeau. An uncharacteristic look of concern swept across the Frenchman's face.

"Pierre, you can't do that to me. I walked in looking for you and saw you lying on the floor…Mon Dieu, I feared the worst."

"Sorry for the scare, mate, but it wasn't like I had control of it. Clearly I don't have control of my own bloody feet." Newkirk glared down at the offending limbs. "Slipping on the shower floor. Cor, Carter'll never let me hear the end of this." A few of the wise words he'd thrown at Carter after the sergeant's own concussion were already floating around before him. "I will admit, It would have been a real shame if I died on the bathroom floor and my last words were, "Oh, hello, Louie.""

He looked over Lebeau, expecting a laugh, but was surprised to find his face still looked tight. "Look, seriously, Lebeau, I'm fine! You don't need to worry!"

Lebeau sighed. "I'll stop worrying when we get out of here." He caught at Newkirk's hand, squeezing it. "Promise we'll leave here together?"

"You know I don't make promises I can't keep. Look, I'll promise you this. I won't go dying on you in the showers, alright? I'll track down one of those helmets Wilson was talking about or something."

"Good enough, mon ami."

—-

Four days later, and his concussion was still a constant reminder of his promise. Newkirk slipped out of the kommandant's office, a small bundle in his arms. He snuck himself into the showers and stripped before opening the small package.

Placing Klink's pickelhaube on his head, Peter Newkirk took his shower like a man.

A/N It's still Sunday in Honolulu! Finished just in time.