Chapter Text
Andy didn't know what to make of it, when his mother opened his door and set his Silver Star in his lap. He traced a finger along its embossed wreath and looked up at her questioningly, but she only smiled and ran a gentle hand through his hair. She left the room as quietly and neatly as she had entered, and Andy looked back down at the medal.
What was her intent? To remind him of what he had once accomplished? That hadn't been an accomplishment, all he had managed was to survive the night. God, that scant hour, blacker than pitch, had stretched on and on. Andy remembered crawling back and forth between his men, trying to make some sort of connection with just his hands and his voice, trying to keep them from breaking. The Japanese charged their barely held position five times, and each time they did Andy groped blindly in the dark until he found Eddie's arm or shoulder, orienting himself by his body, the man was more reliable than any lodestone, and directed fire more by sound than sight. For all that horror, the lull between the charges had been worse, each one seeming to last a lifetime. But those still hadn't been the longest moments of his life.
He set the medal on the windowsill and stood, turning in a slow circle and surveying his room. He took his time, tried to lock in everything he saw. Then he closed his eyes, started listing items out loud. He started with the shelves, then moved on to his desk. He was improving, or thought he was at least. When he'd first returned home, he could stare at an object for what felt like hours, struggling fruitlessly to put a name to it. It was even more shameful when it happened with people, when he looked into a familiar face and remembered how he knew them, who they were to him, but couldn't for the life of him recall their name. But he was improving. He had to believe that he was improving.
For reasons he couldn't understand, he didn't seem to have that problem when it came to remembering the faces and names of the men he'd served with. He could close his eyes and name them all, see them as clearly as if he were still back there with them. He started listing them next, trying to move in order of when and how he'd met them, forward on from Quantico. For reasons he understood far too well, he named Eddie over and over again. Sergeant Jones, then Hillbilly, then Lieutenant Jones. Then Eddie, although only in Andy's thoughts.
It was because he'd fallen slowly into knowing him, his countless shaded layers, until the man was as necessary as breath or sustenance but still only half understood. They had been in Melbourne when he'd had his first glimmering of the truth, the burgeoning notion that there was more to Eddie than he could ever uncover.
Andy had been monitoring the amount he drank, but there was only so much any man could do in the face of endless beer and goodwill. The cricket ground was packed with marines and soldiers from Australia's 9th, everyone reveling in the breakdown of tensions between the two groups. He was starting to feel the effects, the faint foggy warmth that told a man he'd had just the right amount, although few heeded the feeling, and Andy couldn't claim any difference. He was chatting pleasantly with some fellow officers when he happened to look over and see Hillbilly, standing in the beer line, his foot tapping along to the raucous music rolling out from the hastily erected stage. Andy excused himself, tossing back the last of his cup and moving to join him.
"Sergeant Jones." He leaned in and made a show of inspecting his collar. "Or is it Lieutenant now?" Hillbilly's lip curled up in a sharp smile.
"Not yet, Sir. The skipper's given me to understand it'll be coming through soon." He had a way of looking a man square in the eye, an intent gaze that never felt heavy. "Thank you again for putting in that request, Sir. It's not something I'm likely to forget."
"One thank you was sufficient, Hillbilly, really." He was just pleased the man had finally accepted it. Andy nudged him with his elbow. "I'll have to start avoiding your company if you insist on repeating yourself." Jones slanted him an odd, sideways glance, gave a short laugh.
"Not my intention, Sir." He glanced around the beer party. "Seems like relations have been repaired."
"Hmm. Were you caught up in any of the brawling?" Andy surveyed the sea of hats spread out in front of them as they neared the makeshift bar. Hillbilly's own cap was set perfectly askew on his head, his curls twisting out wildly around its edges.
"No," he answered with a snort. "I had my fill with that sort of foolhardiness years ago. I stayed in, had a nice warm meal with the family I've been put up with." Andy found himself enjoying the pitch of his voice, its checkered intonation. He was, perhaps, a bit drunk. "Heard it though. Scared their daughter some, I ended up sitting in the parlor with her for a time until things settled."
Andy chuckled. "Losing your heart? It seems to be going around." They had only been in Melbourne for a few months, but the romances were already flourishing. Half his men were sunk in love, or lust masquerading as love, with a warmhearted local girl. He hadn't expected it of Jones. He'd suspected quite the opposite, in fact.
"The lady's sweet," Hillbilly said agreeably. "But she's not to my taste." He looked over at Andy, gave him a crooked grin. "She's thirteen." Andy laughed at that, shaking his head and silently marveling at the creeping relief he felt at Hillbilly's words. They shared an amused glance, and Andy watched Hillbilly's eyes heighten with something, watched him drop his gaze. It was a certainty.
They didn't speak to each other as they got their beers, exchanging friendly banter with the marines doling out the drinks instead. Andy hardly knew what was said, all his focus turned inward. After all, when would he have another opportunity like this? Hillbilly was an officer like himself, and belonged to a different company besides. There was nothing standing in the way in that regard. More importantly, Andy liked and respected him. He had yet to meet a marine to equal Jones in levelheaded grit, that unique combination of daring and steadiness that distinguished him. And attraction, well. Andy watched Hillbilly as they walked away with their beers, the cup sweating and cold against his hand. He liked that Jones was taller than him, leaner. He liked the thought of pulling sweat from his pores with the effort and heat of their dragging flesh, that sweet work.
"Hillbilly," he said, leaning in close, the music loud enough to excuse the breach. He let his free hand graze along the side of his hip, felt the sharp jut of bone. "Would you be interested in finding a quieter spot? With me?" Jones frowned, looked sharply around them.
"All due respect, Sir," he said, turning his bright blue gaze back to Andy. "But I ain't that grateful."
It took Andy a moment to understand what he meant. "No, of course not," he said quickly, stepping back. "I didn't mean to imply, that is," he stopped, collected himself. "My apologies, Sergeant. I'll leave you to it." He managed to smile, hold his eyes. "Enjoy the party."
"Thank you, Sir," Hillbilly replied evenly. It was Andy who dropped his gaze, turning away and moving through the crowd as swiftly as he could without shoving up against any of the men. He found himself struggling against a strange urge to laugh, at himself, at his error. Some things had come to him all too easily, up to this point. He hadn't ever made an offer and been refused before. Most of the offers had come to him. There was a lesson in humility to be found in there somewhere, but he was too syrupy with drink to chase the thought down. Instead he retreated to the edge of the cricket ground, sipped his beer and nodded to the friendly greetings that came his way and tried his damnedest not to watch Hillbilly. But he still saw him, saw him settle down into the grass with a mix of soldiers from either side, hooking a long arm over his knee and watching the entertainment. And he saw him, a few hours later, leaving with an Australian soldier, the two of them walking a careful distance apart. Andy did laugh at that, crossing his arms and shaking his head at the irony. To have been so right, and so completely wrong. Those last hours spent at the beer party had slid by at a snail's pace; mortification had a way of drawing time out into endless loops. But those weren't the longest minutes of Andy's life, either.
Andy sat down at his desk and started working on another letter. Writing was a laborious task for him these days as well. He had to think long and carefully over what he wanted to communicate, and then put it to paper immediately before it left him. It was May now, the weather briefly perfect. Andy had been home for six months. Six months, six letters. He told himself he would give it an even dozen, and if he didn't receive a reply after a year he would give it up. It should be enough, just knowing that he was alive. That had been the first letter Andy had written, and he had received a reply quickly enough. After all, it was right and good that a captain ask after the welfare of his XO. Lieutenant Jones had indeed made it home, and had been honorably discharged to the care of his family, whose address was provided for Andy's convenience. It didn't say anything about the state he was discharged in, that was left to Andy to twist over. He couldn't imagine why Eddie hadn't replied to any of his letters; they had been friends, after all, if that light term could even begin to capture the bond that had existed between them. It had remained unspoken, but neither of them had turned away or denied it. But perhaps there was no place for a friendship like that here at home. Perhaps Eddie was answering him with each month that passed. He had always said more with careful silence and a quick glance than he ever had with words. But Andy finished the letter anyway, just a few sentences, he was likely to give himself a splitting headache if he pushed himself too much. He folded it away in an envelope, wrote both their addresses on the front, and walked downstairs to post it.
Summer laid its heavy hand down on the town, and Andy continued to test himself. He began running errands on his parent's behalf, asking them to describe what they needed him to do and writing down what they said. It was like his mind had become fixed and inflexible, but all that meant was that he needed to train it to bend again, the same as he would any other muscle. Or so he told himself. People beamed when they saw him coming, that or spoke to him far too gently and slowly. Andy knew they no longer saw him, really. They saw his injury, or a decorated marine captain. Regardless, he was no longer a whole person to them, but a representation of something else.
He mailed two more letters, June and July. He started to turn his thoughts to what he might do next, towards an occupation. They would take him back at Bowdoin if he asked, on the merit of his service and his history with the college. They would stick him in a little office and give him light, harmless work. Or he could easily get a job at the textile mill his father still worked at. He could handle that, fix his mind on the task in front of him and keep his focus there. He had to find something, he didn't intend on sleeping in his childhood bed the remainder of his life. But he waited.
In August the war ended and Andy sent another letter. They were becoming longer as he grew more assured in his ability to hold a thought. He started to write more carelessly, under the growing confidence that Eddie was not going to answer him. Only three more letters, and he would have to accept that it was over and done.
But not even a week after he sent out his ninth letter, he received a reply.
He had been taking breakfast with his father, discussing the newspaper, another daily chore he had set himself, when his mother walked in and handed him a large manila envelope. Andy saw the return address, with a singular 'Jones' provided as the sender. He opened the packet, amazed at the steadiness of his hands, and dumped his own letters out onto his lap. He counted them carefully, they were all there, save the one he'd just mailed a few days prior. They hadn't been opened. A heavy curtain started closing in, narrowing his vision, and then Andy gave the manila envelope one last aggrieved shake, and a single sheet of lined paper slid out. He grabbed it, forced his fingers not to clutch, not to mar whatever might be written there. He looked up to find his parents watching him.
"Excuse me," he said, rising from his seat and gathering the packet of letters in his hands. He retreated to his room and sat down at his desk, turning the letter over slowly. He forced himself to not skim its contents, but start at the beginning and read slowly.
Captain Haldane,
I am returning the letters you have posted to my brother, with apologies. We have not lived at the address you have been writing for nearly a year now. I happened to stop by the old home to pick up some items left behind, and discovered your letters sitting in our box.
My brother returned home to us in December, but he did not stay long. He's purchased a little land for himself down in West Virginia and has been living there since the cold broke. He writes me regularly and is in good health and spirit. I thought at first to forward your letters to him, but decided it best to return them to you.
Captain Haldane, I want to thank you for all that you did for my brother while he was fighting over there. Eddie doesn't care to speak much on the war, but he told us stories of some of the men he served with, and you most of all. I'm sure my brother would not have returned home to us if not for the care you took for him.
I have enclosed the name and location of the post office Eddie receives mail through. Should you wish to write to him, I've no doubt he would be happy to receive it.
With sincere gratitude,
May Jones
Eddie had never been one to go on about himself, but he had also never been one to avoid a question directly asked, and so Andy knew a little about his family, his spitfire sister. Eddie had described her as five flat feet of tempered steel, and judging from the heavy impressions her pencil made on the paper, Andy was inclined to agree. She had written the letter with care, erasing and replacing words until she had said exactly what she meant to say. If she was standing in front of him right now, he might have kissed her. He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, reached for his pen, but stopped, looking down at the name of the town that May had provided him. Eddie's home.
The longest moments of Andy's life had been spent behind an abbreviated line of snaggled rock on Peleliu. It was only by the grace of God he hadn't received his head wound then instead of two days later, the way he stood and watched his men struggle with the stretcher, his heart in his throat. Some distant part of him was shouting, ordering a retreat, but all the rest was roaring Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Then he saw the man in front stumble, the stretcher tilt. He saw Eddie get hit, hit again, the way the blood sluiced up. That was when time slowed to the point where he could track every one of his racing thoughts in the span of a footfall, where he recalled every word they'd ever spoken to each other in the length of time it took for Eddie's hand to rise in the air, and then fall to his side, limp.
When, what felt like years later, the boys had stumbled around the other side of the rock and dropped the stretcher, he had been certain that Eddie was dead. He wasn't moving, didn't seem to be breathing. Andy had hovered over him, fought not to touch him, clear his sharp, dear features of the coating of ashen debris they were covered with, and then a corpsman was shoving him out of the way, shouting for hands to help him with the stretcher. Andy had watched them go, and then turned back to his men.
That night, when he finally found his way to his hole and collapsed back against the dirt, he hadn't allowed himself to dwell on the fact that Eddie would not be sleeping beside him, would not be waking him with a brief hand to his knee in four hours' time. He didn't allow himself to think of him at all. If he thought about him he might weep, and if he wept he might not be able to stop, and that he couldn't allow. They were pressing forward again come first light.
Andy tapped his pen against the sheet of paper before him, staring at the blank white space. He could fill it up with enough words to rival the good book itself, but they wouldn't be sufficient to express what he wanted to say. He saw him again, his long frame pressed flat and lifeless against the stretcher. His torn and blood soaked shirt, his pale face. He threw down the pen, rose and went to his closet door.
Eddie heard the car bumping its way up towards his house before he saw it. It annoyed him, mostly. What in the hell was the point of having a dirt track for a road if fools still chose to force their cars up its shitty length to reach his door? But he kicked his feet down from where they had been settled along the top of the porch rail and stood from his seat, curious despite himself.
He frowned when he saw the car, far too new and well kept to belong to any of the locals. Folk around here drove ten year old trucks or their tractors, if they drove at all. A car this nice only meant bad news of some sort. But there wasn't any reason for revenuers to be coming to his door, he owned the land outright and was all paid up on the property. The rooster crowed from his pen on the other side of the porch, a harsh challenge that set the hens to cooing and fluttering. "Hush," Eddie said over his shoulder, not looking away from the car. "Ain't no one bothering you yet." He didn't know if he was speaking to himself or the rooster.
The car rumbled to a stop and the noise of the engine dropped away as the driver turned it off. The track up to the house came in from the west, and the sun had started slipping away behind the trees an hour ago, so Eddie wasn't able to make out the driver's features well from where he stood on his porch. He watched as the door opened and a man stepped out, straight shoulders, a faint smile. A body that settled naturally into whatever landscape it found itself in. Haldane had always had that way about him, as comfortable and easy laying in a pit of mud as he was dancing under crystal fixtures in dress blues.
"Hello, Hillbilly," he said, standing behind the door of his car, one hand settled along the top. His voice was just the same, quiet and low.
"Sir," Eddie near stuttered. He had been leaning against the post, but straightened as soon as he realized that it was Ack-Ack. Haldane closed the car door and walked slowly towards him, until he was standing at the bottom of his porch steps. He craned his neck back to take in the house, exposing the strong line of his throat. He was wearing a knit vest over a white collared shirt.
"You've found yourself a beautiful spot here," he said, looking back at Eddie. "It's almost overwhelming."
That was one word for it. Eddie took the three steps down off his porch, tugged forward by a wrenching confusion of feeling and long habit. Where the hell else was he supposed to stand, except next to Ack-Ack? "Skipper," he said, and even as he spoke he was reaching out, helpless, his arms going around him. Haldane went still for a moment, then returned the embrace. He was warm, his hold tight. They were alive, alive. Eddie felt an embarrassing sting of tears and blinked furiously to clear them, glaring in agitation at Haldane's car until the feeling went away. He felt Haldane's chin dip briefly down and settle against his shoulder, and then they were both pulling back. Eddie couldn't help the bewildered smile that he knew was near to splitting his face in two. "Damn it. It's that good to see you, Sir."
"You too, Eddie. I didn't know," Haldane cut himself off, oddly diffident. It was a rare thing for him to hesitate over his words, even more so for him to look so openly uncertain. Eddie stood and waited, and Haldane eventually sighed and set a hand on his shoulder, a comfortingly familiar gesture. "I've driven twelve hours to deliver a lecture, I'm afraid." There he was, amused eyes and a small smile.
"What about, Sir?" Eddie asked, game.
"The importance of keeping an updated record with the Corps, Lieutenant. I've apparently been writing an old address since Christmas." His smile flashed at Eddie's dismayed look, and he gave his shoulder a squeeze. "But I'll save it. I'm just relieved to find you well and whole."
So that was what this was about. Eddie clasped his hands behind his back, feeling more steady now that he had an idea what was going on. "That I am. You look the same. I tried to write you once, when I was still in the hospital. Got a letter back that you'd been wounded and sent home." Whatever it was, it was able to be hidden away beneath his clothing. He still had his limbs, wasn't disfigured as far as Eddie could tell. But Eddie sure as hell wasn't going to pull up his shirt and show his own, and couldn't expect Ack-Ack to feel any differently.
"Yes. I'm sure you won't be flattered to hear it, but it turned out I couldn't get by very well without you." His eyes were smiling, but his tone was somber. "I only made it two days on my own."
"Nothing to do with me, Skipper. It was Bloody Nose. Got the best of us both."
"It did," Haldane said, looking away. He spoke with a quiet, honest pain that had Eddie mentally fumbling, reassessing. There was something else, something he wasn't seeing.
"You bring anything with you?" He asked. Haldane looked back over at him, quizzical. Eddie gestured at him. "Don't suppose you're planning on sleeping in this spiffy get up."
"I have my suitcase," Ack-Ack answered after a strangely long pause. Eddie moved around him and opened his car door. He could feel his eyes on him as he pulled his case from the back seat.
"What'd you think, Captain? Think I'm gonna send you off after a two minute conversation? Anyways, there ain't any hotels around here. C'mon." He closed the car up and made for the house, heard Ack-Ack following after him.
It was dark in the house, orange light coming in only faintly from his one western window. Eddie closed the door behind Haldane and went to turn the wick on the lamp sitting on the mantle. "Have a seat if you like," he said, gesturing towards the furniture. "I'll take this on up." He moved quick across the room, took the stairs to the loft two at a time. It seemed important for some reason that he not leave Ack-Ack alone for too long. He set the suitcase at the foot of the bed and forced himself to make his way back down at a more sedate pace. He found him standing in the kitchen, looking the space over with that deliberate gaze of his. "Want some coffee?" Eddie asked. Lord, he'd let the oven fire go out hours ago. "Got some rye around here somewhere if you feel like something stronger."
"I'm famished, to be honest," Haldane said apologetically. Eddie went to the ice box and peered inside.
"Got some cold stew. Slice of chess pie I picked up last time I went into town." He looked back at Ack-Ack.
"Hmm," he said, mouth pulling down in a smile. Eddie grinned and grabbed them both.
They sat at the table, the kerosene lamp between them, and Eddie watched Ack-Ack eat in its warm light with unabashed pleasure. It was good to see him eating something other than slop out of a can or the tasteless chow they got when off rotation. Ack-Ack took a bite of the stew and paused, his brow lifting up.
"Did you make this?"
"Yes, Sir."
"It's edible," Ack-Ack said neutrally, his eyes warm. Eddie huffed a laugh and leaned back in his seat. "How have you been, Eddie? How'd you find your way back to West Virginia?"
Eddie had grown accustomed long ago to Haldane's sincere interest in his childhood, his life stateside. There was nothing unique in it; the skipper was that way with all his men, genuinely invested in their lives beyond the scope of war. What he wasn't used to was this new easy way of saying his name, like they were friends from before that time. Like they hadn't met on a boat on their way to Guadalcanal, surrounded by the heat and stink of nervous marines, the war already closing its fist around them both.
"I was just looking for some quiet." It had been a spur of the moment decision. He'd always remembered the handful of years his family had lived in West Virginia fondly, and it had been the first place to come to mind when he decided he needed a change. He thought about leaving it at that, but he'd never been able to be anything but honest with Ack-Ack. "Shook me up, coming home, seeing folk I'd known for years stare at me like something shining through a windowpane. I couldn't cut it." It would have been impossible to say to anyone other than Ack-Ack. "People around here only know what I choose to tell them. It's cowardly, I know."
"Not at all," Haldane murmured. "I know the feeling."
"Needed a break from it?" Maybe that was why he was here. Haldane was the kind of marine they put on posters and paraded around the country. Eddie could only imagine the fuss his hometown had been kicking up for him. Ack-Ack shook his head around a forkful of pie.
"No." His gaze was steady. "I just wanted to see you." Lord, why'd he have to go and say that? Eddie dropped his eyes against the clenching feeling in his stomach. Damn it.
"I'm glad to see you too, Skip," he said, looking down at the table. He didn't know what else he could say. He couldn't tell him how he'd been half-mad on the hospital ship, driven to the reaches of his mind by the drugs and the incredible pain and the thought of Ack-Ack and the rest of the company struggling on without him, the distance between them growing every day. He couldn't tell him how he'd all but collapsed in the middle of the goods store a few weeks back, when he happened to make a trip into town, and found out that the war had ended. He'd leaned against a bin of dried beans and thought about Haldane, tried to imagine what little thing he might have said to set him straight, have the world making sense again. Now he was here, and it made even less sense than it had before. He looked back up at him. He was watching him with that quiet gaze of his.
"Where'd you go, Hillbilly?" He asked gently. Eddie shrugged and shook his head, and Haldane's eyes drifted over his shoulder. "I suppose I can imagine the general area. It's unnerving, isn't it? The quiet we live in now. I don't mean actual quiet, of course." He leaned slowly back in his seat, crossing his arms against his chest. "We had the time and the impetus to think very painstakingly over a great number of things, over there. That's what I mean. All the realizations that seemed to fall on us, large and small. And now we're home and there's only this," he lifted a hand and gestured towards himself. "This vacuum." He frowned suddenly and touched the side of his head, then lowered his hand and looked over at him. Eddie stared back, trying to understand, trying to get a bead on him. "Or maybe I'm just tired," he said with a rueful smile.
"It's getting late," Eddie said, although it wasn't. The sun had gone down an hour ago at most. He grabbed the dishes and stood, crossing the kitchen to dump them in the sink. "Suppose we should both turn in. You'll take the loft."
"I don't intend to turn you out of your own bed," Haldane said, rising to his feet.
"You ain't sleeping on the couch, Sir, and that's the end of it," Eddie said firmly. He came back to the table and picked up the lantern, holding it out to Haldane until he accepted it. It was a tactic he took with him only rarely, coming at him sidewise and telling him what to do, and only when the man had run himself so ragged he was fit to drop. Ack-Ack had a way of growing colorless when he was nearing his limits, stiff jokes and smiles, the gentle manner that covered his inner oaken strength slipping away in stages. He responded now the way he had then, with a self-deprecating chuckle and a warm, firm hand on Eddie's arm.
"Alright, Hillbilly." He turned and made his way towards the stairs and Eddie trailed after him, lingering at the bottom of the steps and waiting until Haldane disappeared on the other side of the rail. He propped his elbow along the sloping banister and watched the lamp's light flicker along the wall as Haldane moved about the room. "Standing first watch, Lieutenant?" Haldane's voice floated down to him, laced with wry amusement.
"No, Sir," Eddie answered, grinning. He moved away from the steps and stretched himself out on his couch. He listened to the creak of Ack-Ack's footsteps over his head, listened to him settle into his bed. The thought of him there shouldn't hit him so low and humming in his stomach, shouldn't pull at him like it did. But he'd always been a fool when it came to Andrew Haldane.
Eddie had trained himself years ago to not let his eyes linger on a likely looking man, to skim quickly and not look again. But he'd developed a weakness for watching Ack-Ack early on, long before he joined K Company. The man looked like he'd stepped down off a marble pedestal, who the hell wouldn't take another look? Eddie remembered their conversation at that beer party in Melbourne with a familiar shiver of lust. Ack-Ack had surprised him; Eddie hadn't suspected before that moment that the two of them might have similar inclinations. But Haldane had been working his way over to soused, and Eddie didn't shit where he ate. He was never certain, afterwards, if it had simply been the drink talking, or if Haldane had actually meant it. They certainly never spoke of it again; the next time they saw each other was at a swank officer's party after Eddie's commission came through. Haldane had smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, asked a few polite questions and then moved on. A couple months later Eddie had been transferred to K Company, and was relieved he hadn't been so foolish as to say yes, that Haldane seemed to have forgotten the whole exchange.
Kostecki, Haldane's XO, took a bullet their fourth day on Gloucester, and Eddie hadn't known how to react when Ack-Ack informed him the next morning that he would be taking Kostecki's place. He hadn't wanted to accept. His place was with the boys; it was why he had tried to refuse his commission when they first offered it to him. But just like then, he knew he couldn't really refuse. And it had turned out to be a good fit. Most days Eddie thought it was what God had put him on this earth for, to be Ack-Ack's right hand through those dark days. To look after him.
That had been his real purpose. Sure, he bellowed out orders on Haldane's behalf; the captain should only have to say a thing once to have it done, and it was Eddie's job to make sure he didn't ever have call to repeat himself. Sure, he looked after the boys as he could, keeping them square when they were on rotation and trying to bring them a little joy when they were off. But looking after Haldane was what really mattered. The skipper shouldn't need to ask for anything, because it was Eddie's job to know it before he did. After all, he couldn't ask: he was the captain. He could only order, command. But some things a man needed to be given. So Eddie brought him coffee when he was struggling over a letter to the family of a fallen marine, sat beside him and traded stories about the boy until Haldane knew what to write. He made sure he ate, made sure he took some time for himself. The way Eddie saw it, Ack-Ack was the best man in the world, and if he had some small part of helping him bear up under his heavy load, then that was a life with some meaning.
He was obviously struggling under something now. Eddie hadn't figured out what it was yet, but he would. And once he knew, he'd make sure Haldane got whatever he needed. He'd get him steadied up and send him back out into the world. Ack-Ack deserved the world, and the world needed more men like him.
Andy woke up to a hoarse, warbling shriek sounding faintly through his window. He opened his eyes and stared in confusion at the slanted ceiling only a few feet above his head, the wide wooden beams cutting across. He turned his head, squinting against the light, and saw a long set of windows, cut in a triangular pattern to fit against the roof's incline. Ah, yes. He was at Eddie's, and that noise, what had that noise been? He heard it again, a loud, grating crow. A rooster.
He sat up slowly, mindful of his head, which could ache awfully in the morning, and had been nearly debilitating the night before, but there was nothing, the pain gone as if it had never been. He stood carefully, unable to straighten to his full height unless he stood in the exact center of the loft, and if he did that he had to duck to avoid the beams. He smiled at the thought of Eddie navigating the space, but it was large enough for a wide, comfortable bed, so he supposed it was sufficient to its purpose. And it was undeniably charming, tucked away above the rest of the house, the room filling slowly with morning light.
He dressed in slacks and a simple cotton shirt, then made his way downstairs. Eddie was nowhere to be found, and Andy took the time to look more closely around the house now that he could see it clearly. It was small, and militantly neat. The stairs leading to the loft bisected the space, one half the kitchen, the other half given over to a couch and armchair set around the fireplace. That was the house in its entirety. Andy wandered over to the kitchen sink, saw that Eddie had already washed the dishes from the night before and stacked them in the open cupboard. There was a small tin cup sitting on the end holding his toothbrush, a razor and a bar of soap beside it. Andy inspected the oven, the ice box. He hadn't imagined it: the house had no plumbing or electricity. Eddie, he thought fondly, shaking his head.
Eddie had lit a fire in the oven, and there was a percolator sitting on the stovetop, giving off the smell of hot coffee. Andy helped himself to a mug, then went out the door. The land fell gently away from the house, and there was a garden of some sort growing along the southern slope. Chickens were wandering the space between, clucking softly as they paced. Andy stepped down off the porch and came face to face with a large rooster. He stopped, admiring its long, silky brown feathers, and it tilted its head, made a low coughing sound, and charged him. He blinked, startled, then raised a hesitant foot, torn between astonishment and laughter as it attacked his shoe.
"Hey!" Andy looked up in time to see Eddie rising to his feet from the garden, a metal bucket in one hand. "Quit that, damn it." He strolled across the yard towards Andy and the furious rooster, and the wise creature cut its losses and took off with an outraged shake of its feathers, returning to the dithering hens and leading them away. "Next time just get your hands on his neck and back and hold him down, Sir," Eddie said, coming to stand by him and scowling after the rooster. "You put his beak in the dirt a few times and he'll learn to steer clear of you."
"Not so different from us, are they?" Andy commented, amused. He inspected his shoe, then took a sip of coffee and looked over at Eddie. "So. You keep chickens and grow vegetables these days."
"Eh. Just limits the trips I gotta make into town." Eddie glanced back towards the garden. "Give me a minute and I can fix us up some breakfast."
"I'm not here for you to wait on me, Eddie," Andy chided. "I'd like to help." Eddie eyed him uneasily. "I know I'm just as green to this as I was on the Canal, but I'm sure I'll fumble through somehow." He nudged him gently. "The same as then."
"Hopefully not quite the same, Sir." Eddie frowned thoughtfully, looking back and forth between Andy and the garden. "Alright." He handed Andy the bucket. "Pick any of the beans and peppers that look ripe and leave the rest. Then you can weed the bed." He gestured down the hill. "The pump's down that way. Give 'em some water, and by the time you finish with that I should have something scrounged together for us." He flashed Andy that brief, wolfish smile of his, then moved past him towards the house.
Andy stood with the bucket and mug of coffee and stared at the garden. Beans and peppers only, he thought, willing himself to not forget. Weed the garden. Get water from the pump. Water the garden. He repeated it to himself once more, then made his way across the grass, resolved to not fail. He stopped when he saw the rooster, waiting for him at the garden's edge. "I hope you and I won't have any more trouble," he said to it firmly. It made a growling sound in its throat and walked on. Beans and peppers only, Andy thought to himself, and walked into the neatly planted rows.
It was simple, honest work. The kind of work he was best suited for these days. Andy didn't suppose he was so unfortunate, if he could find satisfaction in something like this. Moving between carefully tended vegetable beds, the loamy smell of the earth rising up around him. One could argue that it was man's original purpose, to tend a garden, to watch it grow. Before hate and violence, before war, there had been a garden. Beans and peppers only, he reminded himself sternly. It was important that he not let his thoughts wander too far from his purpose.
He picked the vegetables and weeded the beds, not that there was much to weed, Eddie was clearly as fastidious in this as he was in all things. He stood at the edge of the garden for a moment afterwards and sipped his lukewarm coffee, looking down the hill towards the water pump. Get water from the pump, he thought, pleased and relaxed, his muscles warm from the light work. Water the garden.
"Who're you?"
He didn't jump, but his grip squeezed on the mug without him meaning it to, and he jerked his head around to see a man standing not ten feet away, staring at him. God, he could have killed him twice over, he had been so oblivious to his surroundings. But no. He shouldn't think like that, not anymore.
"Andrew Haldane," he answered, deciding it best to return a straightforward question with an answer in kind. "I'm a friend of Eddie's." He stepped forward, held out his hand, but the man only folded his arms and scowled at him suspiciously. He was an older man, mid-fifties or so, the few remaining hairs left on his head growing out wild.
"That so?" He gestured with his shoulder towards Andy's car. "That yours, too?" His accent was quite similar to Eddie's, but far stronger.
"It is," Andy replied evenly, dropping his hand and settling back on his heels. "Is there a problem?"
"Hiya, Len." They both turned to see that Eddie had appeared on the porch. He was leaning against the post, one long clean line of a man. Andy felt a slow unfurling of admiring want start up in his chest.
"You really know this fella, Jones?" Len asked, his hostility dropping away only slightly.
"I do," Eddie answered. "You're talking to Captain Haldane, the finest man and marine I know. Skipper, this is Len Steele, another fine man. He and his wife run the post office and goods store in town. They also make the best damn barbecue you'll ever eat."
"Well, shit," Len said, grinning and dropping his arms. He stepped forward and shook Andy's hand. "Good to meet ya."
"Why don't you come inside and have a bite of breakfast with us," Eddie said, and Len's smile turned impossibly more pleased. "Don't worry about the watering, Skip, I'll see to that later."
The three of them sat down around Eddie's little table, and Andy tried to keep up as Len tucked into the food and proceeded to chatter his way through the meal. It was all local gossip, from what Andy could discern. Len was friendly now that Eddie had vouched for him, and he kept turning to Andy in order to further explain himself as he thought it necessary. From his and Eddie's easy familiarity with one another, Andy surmised that this was a regular occurrence.
Afterwards, Andy and Eddie followed Len out onto the porch. "Thanks Ed," Len said, giving his stomach an appreciative pat. "Don't wait on an excuse to come on into town and see us. You too, Mister Haldane."
"Please, it's Andy." Len threw his head back and laughed like Andy had cracked a surprising joke.
"You're alright, Andy," he said, after he recovered. "I'll see to it that everyone knows you're alright."
"Appreciate you stopping by, Len," Eddie said, and Len nodded to them both and set off across the lawn, disappearing into the line of eastern trees.
"You hear that, Hillbilly?" Andy said. He made a show of settling down into the chair on Eddie's porch, crossing his ankles and folding his hands along his stomach. "I'm alright."
"Means more than you might think," Eddie said, turning in to face him with his hands clasped behind his back. "Folk around here are downright clannish, and they don't trust strangers. Steele's got the ear of the whole valley; he tells them not to mind you, you're all set."
"Having you claim me isn't enough?"
"No, Sir," Eddie said with a snort. "They barely know me. None of 'em could understand it when I bought this bit of land and moved myself up here. People are going, not coming. Last twenty years have been hard on this place."
"Hmm." Andy thought it over carefully, visualized tucking the information away in a drawer where he wouldn't forget it. The whole country was recovering from the effects of the war and the hard years that had preceded it, but he knew some communities were struggling more than others. It was a shame that the people who called this beautiful land home were having to suffer in order to keep it. He looked back at Eddie. "Len seemed quite at home at your table."
"He stops by regular. He's an old busybody underneath the rest, but he means well enough." Eddie propped his hip against the porch rail, set his hands on either side of him along the wood. "Better than it was. First few months, both him and his wife were coming around nearly every day. Like to drove me mad." Andy tipped his head questioningly and Eddie looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. "Think they were hoping to get me tied to one of their daughters." He shrugged. "Like I said, folk are leaving, especially the young ones. Not a lotta prospects around here."
"Prospects," Andy echoed, amused. He couldn't blame them. Who wouldn't look at Eddie and want him, one way or another? "How did you handle that?"
If Eddie had looked uncomfortable before, he was openly discomposed now. "I might've." He stopped, standing back up and holding his hands at his side, like he was making a report. "I might've suggested to Len that my war wounds extended further south than they do."
"At ease, Lieutenant," Andy said wryly. "There are worse sins by far." He shifted his gaze past Eddie's shoulder to keep his eyes from dropping towards his chest, his stomach. He was constantly amazed by the human capacity to feel so many conflicting emotions simultaneously. Pain and humor, regret and desire. It seemed a miracle man could stand upright, against the twisting pull of their own hearts. "Most decisions seem to come down to choosing the lesser of two evils, don't they? We have to follow our own conscience, but I personally always found the idea of that level of deception distasteful. I can't blame any man for choosing a wife and family over a lonely life, however." He'd always wanted children of his own. He looked back at Eddie; he was staring at him as if he'd suddenly started speaking Japanese, his gaze piercing. "I hope I haven't offended you. I know you would act with integrity, no matter what life you chose for yourself." He smiled, but Eddie only frowned in response, looking away with a jerking motion of his head.
"No, Sir," he said. "Just. Just not something I'm accustomed to discussing, that's all."
Understandable. Andy had only ever had a handful of lovers with whom he'd felt close enough to confide those keenly felt fears, those hopes. Perhaps Eddie hadn't been so fortunate as to have even that. "What comes next?" He asked, and Eddie shot him a wary, questioning look. "Breakfast squared away, the garden tended to. How do you pass the rest of your day?"
"As I like," Eddie answered, his smile flashing, stance loosening. "That was the whole idea behind moving my ass up this hill." He drummed his fingers along the porch rail, then gestured with his head. "Wanna take a walk?"
They took a long, meandering walk through the woods, Eddie entertaining Andy with stories about the locals, about his childhood memories of the area. He seemed to know without a word being said that Andy would rather listen, and so Andy was able to sink down into the comfort of his sharp drawl, his near presence, so long relied upon. Eddie had always had a way of giving Andy exactly what he needed and nothing more. Andy walked by his side and let himself be content with that. They came across a berry bush, and Eddie loaded both their palms up with the purple-black fruit, so that by the time they returned to the cabin Eddie's lips and fingers were stained from their juices. Andy felt the low pooling want; it only ever seemed to deepen.
That evening, Andy stood in the kitchen and snapped beans while Eddie made dinner and poured them each a measure of whiskey. The remaining berries were piled in the center of the table and Eddie kept crossing over to stand beside him and pop a couple more into his mouth. He was humming, smiling, sharp movement and bright blue eyes. "Whatever happened to your guitar, Hillbilly?" Andy asked.
"Dunno. Probably left behind on Pavuvu, if I had to venture a guess." Eddie's brow furrowed in the way it did when he was turning a thought over. "Maybe some other marine picked it up, put it to use. That'd be alright."
"I'm sure they wouldn't have your same touch." Eddie had played with an ease and skill that consistently had Andy digging his feet into place to keep from wandering closer. He shrugged off the compliment with a laughing scoff. "Not interested in a replacement?"
"It's funny." Eddie pulled a skillet from the shelf and set it to the stove. "Not like I would say no if someone walked up and handed me a guitar, but I can't seem to talk myself around to buying one. Guess I got attached to the old thing. The fingers miss it." He waggled a hand, his back still turned. He went back to humming, and Andy made a new drawer in his mind, folded the moment up and tucked it away.
Late that night, Andy woke with a start, his heart pounding so hard he could feel its drumming in his throat. He listened intently, muscles coiling, and heard the sound of a hard thud and a low, muffled exclamation. He rolled to his feet and made his way to the stairs, moving carefully through the dark. "Hillbilly," he called, as he neared the bottom.
"I'm alright, Sir." Andy reoriented himself to his voice. "Fell off the damn couch, is all." But he sounded wrong, distant and flat. Andy groped his way forward until his thigh hit the back of the couch, then maneuvered his way around to the front of it and moved along until his knee bumped against Eddie's. He reached out, it was interesting, how his hand remembered exactly where to travel in the dark to find Eddie's shoulder. He eased himself down beside him, leaned against him just enough to get a sense of how he was situated. Eddie was leaning forward, his arms propped against his knees.
"One good thing to be said about sleeping on the ground. There's nowhere to roll away to." Eddie didn't answer, and he reached over and put a hand on his knee. "What was it?"
"Didn't mean to wake you," Eddie said in answer, and Andy tightened his grip.
"None of that." He thought for a moment, then spoke again. "I don't suppose I need you to describe it. And there's no answer that I know except to endure. But I won't have you apologizing or trying to shift away from me. There's no shame in it." Eddie sat back with a soft rush of breath, and Andy followed after, leaning back against the couch, his hand slipping along Eddie's leg as he went. He gave it one last pat, then removed his hand.
"It's not like I didn't expect it to stick with me," Eddie said after a long silence. "Just seems like I always get 'em right when I'm feeling straight. Like I gotta pay the balance for every good day." Andy could feel him turn his head to look at him, could just discern the outline of his face, a denser darkness, only a few inches away from his own. "Don't want it to be like this forever, Skip. Seems like I ain't ever gonna get any real distance from it."
"We're in the early days, Eddie," Andy answered, putting all the assurance he could into his words. "We have a whole lifetime to find a way forward from it."
"You really believe that?"
"I do," he said firmly. "More than faith or belief, I know you. You've always made your own happiness. You'll see, it'll win out in the end." Eddie slid down, twisted himself around until he was situated on the couch with his head against Andy's shoulder. The way he used to sleep when they shared a hole.
"You can head back up, Sir," he said, even as he settled against him. "I'm okay." Andy turned his head so that his nose brushed up against Eddie's curls, soft and thick. He'd like to dip his face down and bury it there, inhale him with huge gulping breaths. He held himself still.
"Despite how it may sometimes seem, the war is over. I think it's time you started calling me Andy."
"Andy." He said it slowly, awkwardly, as if his tongue wasn't shaped to form those sounds, string them together. "That'd be a hard habit to break. You'll always be the skipper."
Andy considered just taking the blow, not pushing back. It was a clear enough answer, after all. But something about the quiet, the familiar intimacy of Eddie's body leaned up against him, prompted him to speak. "I don't want to be. It was a privilege, but now it's done. I couldn't go back to it even if I wished to." Eddie lifted his head to look at him; Andy had to shift back a bit so that his lips didn't brush along his forehead and nose. He knew Eddie couldn't see him through the absolute darkness they were closed up in, but he could still somehow feel the weight of his eyes.
"Andy," Eddie said again, stern, like he was trying to convince himself. He chuckled, put his head back down. "Go on to bed, Andy," he said, voice ripe with amusement.
"Mockery," Andy said dryly, tipping his head back on the couch. "We're moving forward by leaps and bounds. And I'm staying right here, Eddie. I'm where I want to be."