Chapter Text
He's in the desert.
There is no mud here, no cold air. And certainly no grey sky. The Heaven's are a pale orange, in fact, and the ground under his feet is of the driest kind. The horizon is a shimmering haze of heat. Everything is covered in dust, himself included.
The tank, too. It can't be more than 6 months old, yet it bears the dirt of decades. The dust coats it like a layer of flour.
He walks towards it and with a few more steps he remembers why.
He's been assigned to this tank. Specifically; the gun of this tank.
He's in North Africa. It is 1942.
A tug of his hands brings the bag on his shoulder closer to his neck. He's sweating though he's barely walked at all. His boots crunch in the dirt. He'll be as dusty as the tank soon. Maybe even more so.
He halts in front of the metal beast, fingers carding through his hair as his bag hits the cracked ground. He's not wearing his glasses. He doesn't really think about it; he only needs them for reading.
Because how can a gunner shoot without keen eyes to guide him?
"Which one 're you, then?"
There's a man perched on the tank's turret. He's slicing an apple with a pocketknife, silhouetted by the sun behind him. His elbow is slung over the machine's barrel, blank and freshly painted under the layers of dust. The insignia on his jacket tells Boyd that this man is a sergeant.
The sergeant with the eggs, and the Book of Isaiah. From before.
Boyd corrects himself. From after. They have never met before now.
The man is looking at him expectantly, with a cold and grim expression. Yes, this is his sergeant.
"Boyd Swan." The soldier recites, craning his neck to look up at the commander of the tank, "Fifth Grade Technician."
"Mnn." His sergeant grunts, distracted as he slices another piece off the apple, "You're my gunner."
And that in itself seems more fitting than any name Boyd had ever been given before.
"Yes'ir."
The chunk of apple disappears inside the other man's mouth, and he chews it thoughtfully. He looks his gunner up and down.
And his gunner stares back, appraises him similarly. Though he's more subtle about it, unlike his sergeant, who drags his eyes up and down the soldier like he's a piece of meat. And in retrospect, that's exactly what he is. They all are.
They just don't know it yet. But they will come to, soon.
"Yer' been here long, sir?" Boyd asks, and his curious frown hides a smile.
The sergeant shakes his head. "Not nearly long enough." He nods towards the direction his gunner came from. "Got here yesterday."
Though he acts solid, Boyd is now confident that this man is no more experienced than he is. And he takes solace in that fact, smiling politely.
"Well, sir, I don't know what the custom is here, but back home when someone tells ya' their name, yer' traditionally supposed to give 'em yours 'n return."
The gunner is pleased; he catches his sergeant off guard. The man abruptly stops peeling his apple, his disinterested chewing coming to a halt. He stares mercilessly at the other man for another moment.
And Boyd stares right back.
His sergeant laughs. First a chuckle, small and quiet - then louder as the man shakes his head in disbelief.
The apple is tossed off the tank, falling away half-finished. A now empty hand extends down, offered willingly.
"Name's Don." Boyd takes his sergeant's hand, smiling softly as he's pulled up atop the turret. "Don Collier."
"Please t'meet ya', Sergeant Collier."
He sits bolt upright.
No ceiling greets him, nor the frantic shaking of someone trying to wake him up. Only darkness, accompanied by the soft purr of Gordo's snores from the bed across the room. They may as well sleep in the same bed, the space between them is so small.
Boyd's eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. A few blurry shapes appear - the crumpled blankets, his bare feet resting near the end of the matress. There is a string of hazy lines, each one protuding pale light, that he can only assume is the window blinds.
They're closed. The sun is only just starting to rise.
Boyd looks to the alarm clock, its plastic lid crooked from when he'd smacked it two nights ago. The red numbers glare back at him. He fumbles for his glasses on the bedside table, slipping them up his nose and bringing the world back into focus.
He leans over to squint at the alarm clock.
6:15 AM.
The white pages of the calender stand out in the din. It reads March 20th.
Boyd reaches out and carefully flips the top page over, revealing the next date.
March 21st.
2006.
His elbows sink into the mattress as he leans back, allowing himself to return to a laying position. His fingers card through his hair as he stares up at the ceiling. It's in focus now, his eyes adjusting to the darkness with the help of his glasses.
Boyd turns on his side, pausing to place the pair of spectacles back on the bedside table and bury his face in the pillow once more.
Somehow, though, it doesn't help. He's awake; alert in a way he hasn't been in months.
He sits up, and puts on his glasses.
Grady was watching from the other side of the counter, chewing thoughtfully on his eggs. His fork is balanced in his hand, resting on the half empty plate. His eyes are following Boyd's movements, squinting in a suspicious kind of way.
"What's up with bible-boy?"
Boyd can only give the coffee pot a look of disappointment; a deadpan stare that is long past frustration. He continues pouring out another mugful.
"What you say, Grady?" Gordo asks sharply, but somehow there's not even an inch of anger to it. Because they're all far too fond of each other for that, despite appearances.
At the counter, Grady jabs his fork in Boyd's direction. "He's peppier than normal." In typical Grady fashion, he shovels another mouthful of eggs into his mouth as he speaks, "And he ain't normally peppy."
Trini appraises Boyd for a minute before shrugging. "Maybe Jesus finally replied to his prayers."
Grady almost loses his eggs laughing. Boyd isn't sure what's so funny, passing the man his drink and giving Gordo the same deadpan look he gave the coffee pot.
It wasn't so much that he was peppy as he was lively, and even that word didn't fit. He wasn't dragging his feet, didn't feel tired to the point of exhaustion. Which seemed impossible, because he felt like he'd gained an even heavier weight upon his shoulders since yesterday.
Because he couldn't shake the nagging images, the blurry memories of his dream that were still clinging to his mind. Ringing in his ears.
Buzzing. Like a giant beehive in his head.
The doorbell jingles. Grady's chatting to Gordo. Boyd fishes around in his pocket for his notepad. Retrieving it, he finds the pen lodged behind his ear, jutting out from where it's pinned by his glasses. He takes it in his fingers, making his way from the counter in pursuit of the latest customer.
He finds himself standing at the same booth as yesterday.
With that same familiar face sitting before him, gaze currently buried in a menu. Somehow Boyd's sure the man isn't actually reading it.
"Hello, ag'in, sir; What can I get yer'?"
Scrubbing a hand over his face, the man answers; "Coffee. Whatever it was yesterday."
And Boyd's smiles absentmindedly, huffing out a laugh. It goes unnoticed. "Anythin' else, sir?"
Though he seems uninterested in it, the customer continues to scan the menu. And, as Boyd once again predicts, he isn't actually reading it.
"Mnn. No, thank you."
It's curt and firm and Boyd wonders why the man even took the moment to dwell on the matter, considering he already had his mind made up long before he walked through the door. But, then again, why this particular customer even bothered returning was a mystery in itself.
He wasn't a local, not with his slick city haircut and briefcase tucked beneath the table.
Boyd didn't dwell on it. He chose not to care.
"Alright. One coffee." He tucks the notepad back into his pocket, pen returning to its place behind his ear, "One moment then, Mr. Collier."
And it's his turn to feel smug with himself, catching the look of stunned confusion the man sends him just as he starts to walk away. It's a stare that follows him all the way back to the counter, watches him as he pours out a fresh mug of coffee.
Gordo gives him a look as he moves back out amongst the booths, with drink in hand and a blank expression that Boyd hopes hides his sinful feeling of victory.
"There you are, sir." He places the coffee on the table, straightening up to find the customer squinting at him.
The drink is ignored as the man looks him up and down. Boyd stares right back.
"How'd you know my name?"
And isn't that a loaded question. A million answers come to mind, all of them sounding ridiculous bar one. Because dreams are just that; dreams, no matter how many coincidences they are loaded with. And they certainly aren't something you share with strangers
Boyd smiles politely. "It's on yer' briefcase."
They both spare a glance beneath the table. A small bronze tag greets them, embedded in the dark leather of the man's bag.
'D. COLLIER '.
"If ya' need anythin' else, just ask." Wiping his hands on his apron, Boyd takes his leave, his polite smile turning to a smug one the moment he's turned away.
He's simply returning the favour, he tells himself. He's lying.