Sacrifice is the Watchword
Jan. 6th, 2010 08:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dirigoSpot, as a rule, didn't sleep when Race did. He couldn't. Someone had to keep watch, the quiet voice said in the back of his head as he stared at the ceiling for hours on end. There was nothing to watch out for, of course. They were living in Brooklyn these days. Spot hadn't said it out loud, but he didn't really feel safe anywhere else, even Manhattan. Brooklyn was just familiar enough, so deeply ingrained in his mind that even when he would pass construction sites and a jackhammer would go off, he wouldn't jump. Anywhere else and a loud noise sent him diving for the nearest foxhole. He hated that.
The ceiling of their bedroom had a crack running diagonally across it, from one corner to the opposite. He couldn't count the times his eyes had traced it as he waited in futile desperation for sleep to come. Race snored slightly, something Spot had discovered a long time ago, but the sound was a comfort. The lights from the street would peak in under the drawn curtains and provide just enough illumination for Spot's eyes to go up and down, up and down, up and down. Sometimes he found himself imagining the crack getting wider because of the pressure of his eyes. Up and down, up and down.
It had only been six months, Race had told him in an effort to console him. Of course things weren't going back to normal. It had only been six months. Six months since they'd arrived on that troop ship, very different from the boys who had gone off two years prior. Spot couldn't bear to think of the day they'd left for Europe. He couldn't remember who had gotten on that ship, cracking jokes with the rest of his platoon. And that platoon. He and Race were the only ones who remained of that band of brothers. Spot had spent a long time marveling at how useless all their training had been in the face of German artillery. Useless, he thought over and over, useless, useless, useless. Up and down, up and down.
Race snuffled, breaking the monotony of his snores briefly, and Spot turned his head to look down at him with bloodshot eyes. The Italian had noticed something. He'd commented on it, but Spot had ignored him. There was nothing to talk about, really. Race knew what was in Spot's head because it was in his too. They'd both seen death, dealt death, avoided it at all costs. Up and down, up and down. The radiator dinged next to his ear and Spot felt a rush of warm air. He supposed he should be grateful. He'd made it back. Not only that, but he'd made it back with Race. He looked down at the man sleeping next to him and nodded once. Yeah, that was something. He'd made it back with Race.
Spot had served most of his time weighted with the deep dread that he would come home alone. He'd felt like a mother hen more often than not, hovering around Race as though something as small as a bruise on his shoulder from the butt of his gun could possibly kill him. Race, for his part, hadn't noticed, because what Spot didn't understand about himself was that when he got worried, he got detached. So Race had served most of his time wondering why the hell Spot was so aloof. It was such a change from their days running around the streets. Spot had laughed then, laughed while pummeling some foe. Spot hadn't laughed while he killed the Germans. He'd morphed into a grim stone of a man, someone who Race had trouble recognizing. But occasionally, and only after they'd admitted how they felt for one another, had Race seen the young man he'd grown up with.
Of course, Spot knew none of this. He knew up and down, up and down, keeping watch, machine gun fire, the man he'd stabbed in the farm house that time it was raining so loudly he couldn't hear him die. That's what he knew.
The ceiling of their bedroom had a crack running diagonally across it, from one corner to the opposite. He couldn't count the times his eyes had traced it as he waited in futile desperation for sleep to come. Race snored slightly, something Spot had discovered a long time ago, but the sound was a comfort. The lights from the street would peak in under the drawn curtains and provide just enough illumination for Spot's eyes to go up and down, up and down, up and down. Sometimes he found himself imagining the crack getting wider because of the pressure of his eyes. Up and down, up and down.
It had only been six months, Race had told him in an effort to console him. Of course things weren't going back to normal. It had only been six months. Six months since they'd arrived on that troop ship, very different from the boys who had gone off two years prior. Spot couldn't bear to think of the day they'd left for Europe. He couldn't remember who had gotten on that ship, cracking jokes with the rest of his platoon. And that platoon. He and Race were the only ones who remained of that band of brothers. Spot had spent a long time marveling at how useless all their training had been in the face of German artillery. Useless, he thought over and over, useless, useless, useless. Up and down, up and down.
Race snuffled, breaking the monotony of his snores briefly, and Spot turned his head to look down at him with bloodshot eyes. The Italian had noticed something. He'd commented on it, but Spot had ignored him. There was nothing to talk about, really. Race knew what was in Spot's head because it was in his too. They'd both seen death, dealt death, avoided it at all costs. Up and down, up and down. The radiator dinged next to his ear and Spot felt a rush of warm air. He supposed he should be grateful. He'd made it back. Not only that, but he'd made it back with Race. He looked down at the man sleeping next to him and nodded once. Yeah, that was something. He'd made it back with Race.
Spot had served most of his time weighted with the deep dread that he would come home alone. He'd felt like a mother hen more often than not, hovering around Race as though something as small as a bruise on his shoulder from the butt of his gun could possibly kill him. Race, for his part, hadn't noticed, because what Spot didn't understand about himself was that when he got worried, he got detached. So Race had served most of his time wondering why the hell Spot was so aloof. It was such a change from their days running around the streets. Spot had laughed then, laughed while pummeling some foe. Spot hadn't laughed while he killed the Germans. He'd morphed into a grim stone of a man, someone who Race had trouble recognizing. But occasionally, and only after they'd admitted how they felt for one another, had Race seen the young man he'd grown up with.
Of course, Spot knew none of this. He knew up and down, up and down, keeping watch, machine gun fire, the man he'd stabbed in the farm house that time it was raining so loudly he couldn't hear him die. That's what he knew.
