Love Language
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Era-typical homophobic language is used.
And now a non-era typical response... Poor, innocent Carter.
Chapters
Chapter 01 [2024-02-05]
Chapter 02 [2024-02-06]
Chapter 03 [2024-02-10]
Chapter 04 [2024-02-11]
Chapter 05 [2024-02-13]
Chapter 06 [2024-02-15]
Chapter 07 [2024-02-16]
Chapter 08 [2024-02-17]
Chapter 09 [2024-02-17]
Chapter 10 [2024-02-17]
Chapter 11 [2024-02-17]
Chapter 12 [2024-02-17]
Chapter 13 [2024-02-17]
Chapter 14 [2024-02-17]
Chapter 15 [2024-02-17]
Chapter 16 [2024-03-03]
Chapter 17 [2024-03-15]
Chapter 18 [2024-03-17]
Chapter 19 [2024-03-17]
Chapter 20 [2024-03-17]
Chapter 21 [2024-03-17]
Chapter 22 [2024-03-17]
Chapter 23 [2024-03-17]
Chapter 24 [2024-04-07]
He holds in his pain. Nobody knows. Except now he's back from his journey all hurt and feverish and he just wants...
He stands in the threshold, panting slightly and locks eyes with him. Then he casts his eyes down.
Baited and hooked.
"Newkirk!" LeBeau is on his feet, dragging him to the table to sit. Coat on, he is still shivering. "You are frozen!"
LeBeau stands before him. He leans, lays his head on LeBeau's midsection, breathes him in. The room goes silent.
"Louis." His voice shudders.
"You are alright, Pierre. I have you. You are safe, mon pote."
Hogan moves toward them, but retreats as LeBeau holds up a hand, says a silent "shhh," then turns his attention back to Newkirk.
"You're shaking," he says. "Did you shelter?" Newkirk was out of camp for an urgent trip to the dentist when the blizzard started.
"Yes."
LeBeau unbuttons his coat buttons. "Let's get you out of these wet things and warm you up."
Newkirk, his face still pressed into LeBeau's midsection, groans. "No. Too cold."
LeBeau tries reasoning as he continues unbuttoning. "You'll be cold for a minute, but we'll warm you up fast."
"No. Mate, I broke something."
"Broke?" LeBeau is alarmed.
"Yes. My shoulder. When the car crashed."
"Crashed?" Hogan is on his feet now. "How did you get back?"
"Langenscheidt's sidecar," Newkirk replies wearily. "Oy, slow down." LeBeau is removing his coat now, protests unheeded.
"The left side," LeBeau says. It wasn't a question. He knew something was off when Pierre laid his head down. "Kinch," he says quietly, "help me get his good arm out of the sleeve."
Kinch pats Newkirk's back to stand. He gently maneuvers his arm out of the right sleeve of the coat, then the left.
Newkirk's left arm hangs limp.
"Your sweater," Hogan says. And just like that, three sets of hands are on Newkirk, gingerly peeling him out of his rollneck while he frets, "It's my only jumper. Don't cut it."
They know what it represents to him, so they stretch, tug, and pull until he's out. He sinks back onto the bench and shivers in his vest.
Hogan probes the injury. He frowns. "Not your shoulder. It's your collarbone. We need the medic."
Carter, who has hung back uncertainly, takes off. LeBeau slides onto the bench beside Newkirk, drapes a blanket over his shoulders, and gathers him close.
"Does it hurt much?" LeBeau asks.
"I've had worse." Newkirk shrugs, then winces. Bad idea, that. Must stay still.
Wilson blows in, Carter on his heels. Wilson takes one look and knows, but he runs his fingers over the bump in the middle of the bone anyway. Newkirk hisses. LeBeau, still seated beside him, takes Newkirk's right hand in his left and squeezes.
"Midshaft. Nondisplaced," Wilson says to himself as much as anyone. "It could be worse. Needs a figure-of-eight bandage," he adds, dipping into memories of first aid training.
Carter's eyes light up. "Hey, I was a Boy Scout..."
"Not a chance," Newkirk growls. LeBeau presses a calming hand on his shoulder.
"I haven't done anything yet," Carter replies, eyes wide.
"I'll do it, but Carter will check it and make sure it stays snug," Wilson says, reaching into his bag.
"But LeBeau can..." Newkirk protests. "He would... I mean, well... wouldn't you, Louis?"
Take care of you? LeBeau fills in silently. Who else would? Pierre tips his head the way he always does when using his charms. LeBeau replies apologetically, "Unlike Carter, je n'ai jamais été scout."
He pats Newkirk's shoulder, stands, and declares, "I'll make your tea."
Carter studies Wilson as he binds up Newkirk. "We could make a sling, but the figure-eight keeps his shoulders back and stable, and hands free," the medic explains. "You'll need to adjust it a few times a day to maintain the correct position."
Carter nods in agreement.
Newkirk glares, annoyed and aching. He doesn't want to be coddled, not by them. He's deep in his own misery when LeBeau slides back onto the bench and pushes a mug of hot tea toward him. With milk, somehow.
"Ta," Newkirk says. He suppresses a shiver, but LeBeau notices and rewraps the blanket.
Wilson isn't done with him yet. "You're bruised," he says, closely inspecting a cheekbone. "And swollen."
"Toothache'll do that," Newkirk replies, his head tilting toward LeBeau as Wilson examines him.
"Did the dentist pull the tooth?" Wilson asks, prying open his jaw to get his own answer.
"I told him no!" Newkirk says, words garbled from the intrusion of Wilson's fingers. "Oi!"
"Hmm," Wilson replies, his other hand on Newkirk's forehead. "OK, he drained the abscess but you're feverish. Get some rest."
"I'll be fine," Newkirk grunts.
"Drink," LeBeau says, handing around his tea. "I'll see that he rests, Wilson."
Wilson heads out. Hogan moves closer and drops a hand on LeBeau's shoulder.
"My bottom bunk is free," he says.
"Parfait," says LeBeau. But Newkirk is talking over him before the second syllable is out.
"I don't want to be put away. I want to stay out here with me mates," he says stubbornly.
"You can't very well climb to your bunk," LeBeau chides.
"You can take my bunk, Newkirk! I don't mind," Carter says cheerfully.
"Don't want to," Newkirk pouts.
The penny drops for LeBeau. "Use my bunk, then. It's close to the fire, so you can warm up."
"Where will you sleep, then?" Newkirk replies.
LeBeau sees relief in Newkirk's eyes, even as his words say otherwise. He waves his hand airily.
"Who says I'll sleep? There's a mission tonight," LeBeau says. "Your bunk is lumpy, so if I want to rest we'll double up. We've done that before."
No one bats an eye. The Yanks know longtime POWs were once two to a bunk, but they can't grasp the bond that developed as these two looked after each other, day and night.
"Alright," Newkirk answers. "But don't try anything."
Everyone laughs, including LeBeau. "You wish," he jokes.
There's even more laughter at that remark. As if.
"What if you had to share a bunk with an actual fruit?" Olsen wonders. He cringes dramatically, covering his crotch with his hands, then his backside. He plays up his horror as the room roars. "They let some in the Army, you know."
Carter is turning pink. "I just don't get what they would do."
That elevates the noise level even higher, with a few illustrative gestures thrown in.
"OK, enough, guys," Hogan says. He has a few zingers he could add, but someone has to be the adult around here.
"Carter, come with me," Hogan says, gesturing toward his office.
No one has the gall to make the obvious joke, but it's hanging in the air. Hogan cuts it off with an eyeroll skyward. "Your virtue is safe, Carter," he quips, and that breaks the ice. Everyone's laughing as he shuts his door.
"Carter, is there anything you want to ask?" Hogan says gently.
"Just what those guys were saying, Sir. I don't know, it creeps me out to think that two guys... well, not Newkirk and LeBeau, but what Olsen was saying... like..."
"Carter, take a seat," Hogan says.
Hogan speaks deliberately. "What if it was Newkirk and LeBeau? Your friends?"
Carter looks alarmed. "Are you saying... Sir, I don't see... I mean, nothing fits... and it's not normal. Them?"
"It's war. Nothing's normal. No, I don't mean Newkirk and LeBeau specifically. I'm saying things happen. Don't let it bother you."
"But it's against the rules of God, and the Army, and everything!"
"If someone was prowling around preying on my men, I'd put an end to that. But Carter, if two men agree to find comfort with each other, I won't interfere. Life's too short, and too hard."
Of course Hogan knows. How could he not know? They're never obvious, but he sees the looks his two Europeans exchange. Sees the depth of their connection. Knows they share painful memories.
He knows they're close and protective. And he knows what that means.
There's a reason they fight like an old married couple.
He assumes the physical part happens rarely. That it's only when opportunities arise and needs overwhelm them. In the cooler, for sure. He's heard them joke, heard Schultz recount their antics. He's put two and two together without witnessing a thing.
He hopes it helps them.
"I still don't get how it works, Sir. I guess the kissing part's the same, but..."
Hogan is done trying. "Don't overthink it, Carter. Ignore the other guys. They're joking around to let off steam; don't take it so seriously. Focus on your friends. We're a team."
Carter wanders out and sees LeBeau steering Newkirk to his bunk, maneuvering him to lie down, getting elbowed for his troubles. Newkirk's face is swollen and puffy and he's stiff, tired and grumpy as he struggles to get comfortable.
But he lets LeBeau brush a hand over his face and cup his cheek.
"Stay right here," LeBeau says softly.
"Where else am I gonna go?" Newkirk replies with no bite. His eyes follow LeBeau to the stove. As LeBeau busies himself, Newkirk's eyes flutter shut until Carter crouches down by the bunk.
He looks up wearily. "What is it, Carter?"
"Just checking to see if you need anything, pal."
Newkirk offers a shadow of a grin. "Nah, but thanks, mate. Louis's here." He peers over toward him. "I think he's fetching my tea."
LeBeau responds, "Mm-hmm."
"He's going to look after me." Newkirk swats playfully at Carter. "Go on, then. I'll be fine."
"Your tea," LeBeau tells Newkirk, who peeks through one eye and reaches for the mug.
"Ne sois pas stupide," LeBeau replies with a warmth that belies his words. He puts the mug on the floor, helps reposition his injured friend, then hands him the drink. He stands over him, hands on hips, as Newkirk sips his tea.
"Par-fay," Newkirk says, grinning.
"Shut up and drink. You need to rest," LeBeau chides.
Carter, looking on, braces for Newkirk to lash back at those words.
But he doesn't. "I'd like to see you make me," is all the Englishman has to say.
"Hmmph," LeBeau snorts, collecting the now empty mug from Newkirk. "You'll do exactly what I tell you."
He takes the mug to the sink, washes it, and returns to Newkirk's side. Crouching, he tucks the blanket around him. Newkirk smirks, and LeBeau bats him on the chest with a gesture that says "wipe that look off your face."
Newkirk flinches and lets out a moan: "Oooh, did you forget about my ruddy collarbone?"
"Ah, merde, yes, I did. Sorry, chéri." LeBeau smirks back and wanders to the table to sit.
"Beast," Newkirk says, but he doesn't sound angry at all.
Carter joins LeBeau at the table. "What did you call him?"
"Pierre?" LeBeau turns around. "Oh. Chéri. Dear. Because whenever he gets hurt he is un grand bébé." He jeers loudly so Newkirk can hear.
"Fuck off," Newkirk grumbles sleepily.
"Not tonight, dear," a guy on a nearby bunk interjects in a shrill voice. His neighbors chuckle. So do LeBeau and Newkirk.
"Fais dodo, Pierre, and thank God you hurt your left collarbone, because we all know you need your right hand at least twice a day."
Cue the locker room banter. Carter blushes. He just doesn't get these two.
Forget "these two." Carter doesn't get any of them, actually.
Crude talk. Boasts. Whispered stories of um, sexual conquests.
His parents would shake their heads if he ever said stuff like that. Not that he does those things, but if he did, he sure as heck wouldn't brag about it.
Maybe he's ogled a pin-up girl or two. Everybody likes Rita Hayworth and Betty Grable. But he doesn't look at their pictures and do things. Not in a room full of other guys. Maybe once or twice in the shower, but heck. The rest of the guys never let up.
At lights out, LeBeau finally slides onto the bed next to Newkirk. Carter can't sleep, he's wondering so hard.
He can't see, either. There isn't enough light.
But he can hear. His Grandpa taught him to move silently and listen closely.
Apparently nobody taught LeBeau and Newkirk that. Because when everyone else is asleep, he can pick out their movements. And their whispers.
It starts with a word. "Louis?"
"Oui, Pierre?"
"It hurts."
"I'll get you some aspirin." He hops out of his bunk, taps two pills from a vial, and returns with a glass of water. "Here, mon petit."
Carter hears the straw mattress crunching as LeBeau settles in. He makes out a shaky breath. Newkirk?
"Chut, chut," LeBeau whispers. "Tell me."
Carter hears Newkirk swallowing hard. "It was hard, is all. I don't want to talk about it."
"You never want to talk about it, c'est ton problème, imbecile."
"Tais toi," Newkirk replies. "And come closer."
"Tais toi, tais toi," LeBeau mocks. But he shifts onto his side facing Newkirk and murmurs something Carter can't make out. Blankets slide and shift, and the mattress creaks.
Before long, Carter recognizes a rhythmic rubbing and a throaty sigh: "Par--fay."
But it's over before it gets far. Soon Carter hears snoring. LeBeau chuckles, rolls out of bed, and sits at the table.
"LeBeau?" Carter says from his bunk.
The Frenchman jolts. "Carter! Why are you awake?"
"Just thinking," Carter replies. "About the mission. We leave at 0100 hours, right?"
"Ouais." LeBeau checks his wristwatch. "Three hours."
"Hey, Louis? How's Newkirk doing? Because Wilson wants me to check his bandages tomorrow, and he's kinda cranky."
LeBeau smiles. "He won't bite, André. It's just... whenever Pierre is hurt or ill, he remembers harder days."
"And he wants you."
"Oui, tout à fait."
"You guys are really buddies," Carter says.
LeBeau shrugs. "He trusts me. He doesn't trust easily, Carter."
In the darkness, Carter ponders that statement. "I know," he finally says. "I just wish..."
"That he trusted you as much?" LeBeau's practically reading his mind. "He's getting there, Carter, mais c'est très difficile pour lui."
"Sorry, LeBeau, what...?"
"It's hard for him." He sighs. "If you weren't here, you couldn't know, Carter. Be thankful when I tell you that you could not imagine how bad it was. He was punished often, and I helped him recover."
Survive, actually, LeBeau tells himself silently.