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Dick
Spina's been restless for a few days now, fidgety, distant, with eyes that keep wandering towards the front gate. Today is worse; their junior medic can't focus at all, didn't sleep last night from what Dick heard at breakfast -- not that Spina ate anything -- and has been wearing a path in the grass underneath his boots, chewing at the skin around his nails, ever since.
"Think it'll be today?" Nix asks, coming up to stand next to Dick.
"Hopefully, for his sake," Dick replies. "And ours, too, I suppose."
They're meant to be shipping out in three days even though Easy hasn't gotten their senior medic yet. Sink wanted to give them as much time as possible but the other companies left yesterday and General Taylor apparently wants the full 101st Airborne through training and over to England by spring. Four extra days in Georgia, mostly based on Spina's behavior, is all the time Sink had to offer and Sobel took it, greedily and gratefully. No one wants to ship out without their senior medic; Spina's good, it's rare for a company to have two, but they all know Spina's the junior partner, won't get his full breadth of gifts unlocked until his senior comes, and without those, well -- a medic's just a medic, at the end of the day. They might be able to perform what look like miracles but they don't breathe them the way true healers do.
Dick looks around, sees Lipton leading a round of PT, sees a couple of the other sergeants passing around a pack of smokes, doesn't see Sobel anywhere and can't hear him either. He's about to glance back at Spina when he feels Nix stand up straight. Dick turns to look at him and then follows his gaze.
An MP, young, fresh-faced, leading a man in civvies towards them -- walking far enough away from the civilian that calling it an escort would be kind.
Like a punch to the gut, Dick feels something inside of him move, slice open and spread wings; despite their distance from each other, he's only two steps behind Spina when the medic starts jogging.
--
No one is quite sure what they are or where they come from, how it's decided when one person becomes more. There's references to their kind from the beginning: in the epic of Gilgamesh as a great healer and source of comfort after the death of Enkidu, one of Sappho's fragments as '[comely] maid with…hands of healing,' a slight hint at Telemachus perhaps carrying the gift. They're feared and discriminated against, mostly by people who never encounter them except in stories and rumors, and revered by those they claim as their own.
Scholars and theologians throughout the centuries have argued and wondered and written: are these people prophets, judges, divine healers, nephilim, possessed, gifts? Are they set outside the moral precepts and codes that the mundanes are supposed to follow? Once medicine grew as a discipline, once science could start looking at blood and atoms and genes, more questions: are they different at a baseline level? Is it a mutation? What can they withstand? What are the limits of their power?
The biggest question, though, over the millenia: what do we call them?
--
Spina
Ralph's full-on sprinting in seconds, crossing the distance between their barracks and the stranger like a man used to running three miles up, three miles down, in full gear. There's too much space between them, too much air; he needs to be close, needs to be right there, standing at this man's right hand, needs to feel the burn of the mark claiming him, needs like breath, like food, like water, to feel the throbbing in his back finally split apart and let out his wings.
He's been feeling the pain for months, ever since he got to Toccoa, drawn here to Easy Company like a fish hooked on a line and reeled in achingly slowly. It's been so bad this week that he hasn't been able to sleep and he thinks, resentfully, that no one ever mentioned that in the books: the hurt dug in deep, the relentless torture of knowing he's not complete, the desire to just have someone carve his back open and pull out his wings with their bare hands, even though the thought of someone touching them before someone else -- him, the man walking towards him -- gets the chance makes Ralph want to vomit.
He is here, though, finally -- Ralph's not alone, he won't have to ship out alone, he won't have to be responsible for these men knowing he's second best, he's --
He's standing right in front of the stranger.
"You got it from here, Lieutenant Winters?" the MP says, halted off to one side, one hand resting over his sidearm.
Ralph didn't even know Winters was right behind him but -- oh, of course he is, of course it's Winters, that makes so much sense.
He doesn't know what Winters replies, too busy focusing on the man in front of him, wearing jeans and a shirt with long sleeves pushed up to his elbows, collar and pits damp with sweat in Georgia humidity. He carefully sets down a canvas bag he'd been carrying slung over one shoulder and whatever's in the bag clanks and clatters. Ralph can tell just from how slow and controlled the movement is that the man must have muscles hidden under his clothes.
He's dark haired, dark eyed, has stubble on his chin and the beginnings of a thin mustache, has a ridge between his furrowed eyebrows like that's a common, worn-in expression of his. Not tall but not short, either, fine boned and tanned, calmer than Ralph was when he showed up here. He looks at Ralph and Ralph feels stripped bare down to marrow, swallows unsteadily like he might be found wanting.
God, please don't let him be found wanting.
"Nah," the man says, and in that one word, Ralph hears an accent, feels his own pulse start to slow, steady, ground itself in the rhythm of the other man's breathing. "You good. What -- what do I call ya?"
"Spina," he says. "Uh. Ralph. Ralph Spina, from Philly. Philadelphia, I mean."
He'd ask about the man's name, where he's from, who he is and what he knows, but that's not his place. He steps to the side, to the man's side, where he belongs, and feels something in his bones go still.
After a week of torturous jitters, it feels good. It feels right.
--
They appear like clockwork every year, but there's more of them in times of war. They come to their group -- tribe, phalanx, house, battalion, legion, ward, ship, company -- on their own, led by instinct, following a call that only they hear. Some call them soldiers, because of that, others say that they're a blood-thirsty group who attach themselves to the battle-worn to feed off of pain and chaos. The US Army folds them into the medic corps and tries not to differentiate them for fear of alerting the enemy to the presence of one of the gifted, the Navy calls them corpsmen for much the same reason. Some call them healers while others claim that all they do is prolong a man's ability to fight so he can shed more blood, that of the enemy and his own. Some call them enslavers, possessers, because of the mark they give to those they call theirs. Some call them angels and others call them demons.
That's mostly because of the wings.
--
Dick
With Nix on one side and Spina out of the way, Dick -- doesn't know what he's feeling. He should be escorting the man right to Sobel, should be letting them bond while he goes and reports to Sink, should be letting the men know they've got their senior medic and they'll be ready for jump school and, beyond that, England.
"Y'feelin' all right?" the man asks, frowning at Dick. "Look some kinda way that ain't good."
"I --," Dick starts to say, trails off. Nix elbows him and Dick doesn't even react. He can't tear his eyes off of the man. It's like he can feel his insides spooling out, hooking into the man's, twining up and curling 'round, and it shouldn't be him, he's not supposed to get this.
One side of the man's mouth curves up, just the slightest bit, but it makes Dick's thundering heartbeat calm. A moment later, he's even smiling back.
"I'll take you to the lieutenant," Dick says. "Sobel, he's in charge of the company."
Spina instantly stiffens and Nix makes a noise, but they both stop when the man tilts his head, confused.
"Don't know nothing 'bout a Sobel," the man says. "I ain't his. I'm yours, and you're mine." He tilts his head in Spina's direction, says, "He's mine, too," and then he glances at Nix, pauses. "And he's mine because he's yours," he tells Dick, "but I don't think he would be otherwise." When he says, "Sorry," he says it to Nix.
"I'll take what I can get," Nix says, mildly. "Mark or not, any way I'm connected to one of you works for me."
The man lets out a noise that might be a chuckle -- and god, Dick's gonna have to get used to small expressions, quiet noises, isn't he? "Fair 'nough," he says, then turns those eyes -- what color are they? -- back to Dick. "I'll tell this lieutenant face to face if you doin' it would cause trouble, but whatever I answer to, it ain't rank."
The man holds out his right hand in clear invitation. Dick looks down at it, at the slender fingers, the dirt under bitten-short nails, one long scratch, white and healing, on his forearm, and makes his choice.
"Richard Winters," he says, and takes the man's hand. "Friends call me Dick. You -- you can call me whatever the hell you want."
The man's grip is firm, his laugh is low, warm. "Eugene Roe," he says, as Dick's left shoulder starts to burn. "Friends call me Doc, family calls me Gene. You can call me whatever the hell you want."
As the man's grip falters, as his knees give out, Dick sweeps him up in a bridal carry. Roe -- Eugene -- weighs less than nothing in arms used to drill training.
"Sobel's gonna be pissed," Nix says in a low voice as Dick heads back towards the barracks. They're both ignoring the smell of blood, of torn flesh, the sight of red starting to soak through Dick's sleeves and into his shirt.
"Let 'im," Spina hisses. "Apparently we don't gotta worry about him anymore."
Nix hums, murmurs, "Thank god."
Dick can't bring himself to outwardly agree. This is going to kill the lieutenant.
--
They call it bonding. Someone gifted will bond to a group, starting with one person, the group's leader. The first time they touch, the gifted starts to grow their wings. Their partner gets the crest.
Most nations formalized a process for this centuries ago, forced it on their colonies and conquered nations, and despite cultural differences, the ritual is remarkably similar world-wide. In the US, in the Army, it's become something of a ceremony. Other countries throughout history have had the members of the group touch the gifted while they're unconscious, deciding who stays by who blossoms a crest. The thought went, for a long time, that doing it this way was best, that the pain of bonding would be less burdensome if the gifted wasn't aware enough to feel it.
The Army's different. In this one thing, among all others, they prioritize consent. The gifted will only touch those they want, after their wings have grown. They'll learn the names of those they claim at that time.
That's when they choose their Vanguard.
--
Dick
Sobel looks a mix of devastated, confused, and wrathful, pacing back and forth in front of Sink's desk, by the time Dick gets to Sink's office.
Dick left Roe -- Eugene, Eugene, his -- in the officers' quarters, with Nix inside and Spina at the door, both of them with strict instructions to not let anyone in and to not, under any circumstance, let anyone touch the man half-naked on Dick's bed. It took every ounce of discipline inside of Dick to leave, to gently bury his hand in Eugene's hair for a too-short moment, feel the curve of Eugene's skull in his palm, and then walk away.
Sobel's eyes are wild and wide, and he spins on his feet and points at Dick as Dick enters, closes the door behind him. "He was supposed to be mine! Easy Company is mine, and you just -- you just -- why the hell did you touch him?!"
"Now, Lieutenant," Sink says, standing up from where he'd been sitting behind his desk. "You know it's not like that. Lieutenant Winters didn't have a choice, neither did -- what's his name, Dick?"
Dick's eyes flick to look at Sobel, briefly, as he says, "Roe. Eugene Roe." He can't help the way the name comes out of his mouth: like something precious, like something coveted and rare and priceless.
It still doesn't feel real.
"Neither did Eugene Roe," Sink continues, shooting a warning glance at Dick. "Nothing would've changed even if you'd gotten to him first. Hell, maybe we should've seen it with Spina; he never was drawn to you the way we all thought he would've been. Should've been." Sink takes a deep breath as Sobel sits down, hunched over and staring at the floor. "Now, Herbert, there's got to be some discussion about your future. Easy Company is one of the finest in the 506th, if not the finest, and we all know that's down to you. If it were up to me, I'd want you to stay here, train the next batch that comes through, wait for your medic. Or we could use you in England. Could use you in a lot of places, doing a hell of a lot of good for the Army. You have options. I want you to take some time and think about them. All right?"
It takes Sobel a long, long while before he looks up and swallows. "Yes, sir," he says, and it's another long moment before he's standing to his feet and walking out, unsteady.
They wait for the door to close, for Sobel's footsteps to fade, and then Sink turns to Dick.
"Well, hell," Sink says, sitting back down while Dick stands there at parade rest. "Your boy sure knows how to mix things up."
His boy. Dick likes the sound of that, likes the sound of it more than he should with Nix waiting at Eugene's bedside. It's not -- no matter what anyone would think it's not sexual, not exactly, but it is possessive. It's cruelly possessive and Dick thinks that whatever force is responsible for pairing them up might have made a terrible mistake. There are horror stories about bonds gone wrong through the centuries, some of them memorialized by Shakespeare, by Euripides, by Sun Tzu, even.
Sink clears his throat, seemingly aware of Dick's distraction and willing, it looks like, to work with it -- at least for now. Dick wonders if Sink has a crest on his arm, under the uniform.
"Every single person who's bonded with a medic and sent out to the field has been a captain, at the very least," Sink says, once it's clear he has Dick's attention again. "It's fast, and some of the others may look at you like you don't deserve it. But judging by Roe, by Spina, you're going places. Best to get some of the preliminaries out of the way." He pauses, asks, "You have things under control, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir," Dick says. "Thank you, sir."
Sink waves him off, says, "I have a shit ton of paperwork to do because of you. Get out of here, get Easy marked, get your boy up to speed. You're all still shipping out in three days."
Dick salutes and leaves with perhaps a little more speed than would normally be proper.
--
Getting chosen as a gifted's Vanguard is a blessing and a curse, all wrapped in one nice little package that other men would kill to receive. A member of the Vanguard will not die in battle, it's never happened before. Oh, some of them come close, some of them even wish they had, at the end of it -- that's the curse part of being chosen. Sometimes it would be easier to die, would mean less suffering, would mean not letting the bond wither up with regret, loathing, sometimes even hate. But the blessing is knowing that there's a damn good chance they'll make it through whatever the war of the day is without too much of a major injury.
There's no rhyme or reason to who gets chosen, no way to tell how many people will be in the Vanguard, just like there's no telling who's destined to be chosen by a gifted in the first place. Brothers have been separated, one of them getting marked, the other not; families have killed each other in attempts to claim membership of the Vanguard.
Most people only look at the good that comes out of it. Very few remember the other part of the curse: the chosen leader, the Vanguard, are tied to the gifted, right down to lifespan. When the gifted dies, so do those most closely connected to them.
Treaties have been created to protect the gifted: they can be taken prisoner but not executed; they can be kidnapped but not targeted, they can be isolated but not forced to bond. But treaties are only as good as the people bound to them and everyone knows that taking out one or two of the most importantly placed gifted can end wars.
The rumors coming out of China, out of Poland, in this war, are terrible.
--
Dick
There's a small crowd around Spina when Dick gets back to the officers' barracks. He pushes through them and then turns around, stands shoulder to shoulder with Spina.
"I want everyone in formation, at parade rest, here, in fifteen minutes," he orders. "Liebgott, make it happen; the sergeants are waiting here." When the majority of the people have gone, he looks at Spina and asks, "Anything?"
"No, sir," Spina says. "No one went inside, no one came out. Didn't hear anything either."
Dick's eyes narrow. "Feel anything?"
Spina winces, lifts one hand as if he's going to point out a sore spot. He catches himself, lets his arm drop back down to his side. "Hurts," he murmurs, though judging by their reaction, Lipton and Guarnere heard that softly spoken word. They both stiffen, look as if they're ready to burst past Dick and through the door, consequences be damned. "Hurts like a bitch, sir. He's -- they must be massive."
"And he hasn't made a noise," Dick says.
"Not loud enough for me to hear," Spina says.
Dick's already decided that Eugene's quiet, contained, but this speaks to either some fierce self-control or an insanely high pain tolerance. Either way, Dick's not exactly pleased. He's also not pleased that he hasn't felt anything more than a prickling in his mark that he chalked up to it settling on and inside of him. He won't make that mistake again.
"Good man," he says, squeezing Spina's shoulder and then heading inside.
He put Eugene on his own mattress before he left and Nix pulled up his foot locker so he could sit next to the bed. They haven't moved in the ten minutes Dick's been gone. Eugene's still on his stomach, head resting on his arms, and Dick can't help the shocked inhale at the sight of him. Two long lines, six or so inches, stretch from his shoulderblades down his back, on either side of his spine. The mass emerging from them is a gloopy, sodden mess of blood, mucus, some other clear liquid, and wet, bedraggled alabaster-colored feathers. The clump of wet feathers is large, already, and still growing; Dick's never seen someone's bones break from beneath their skin but it has to be close to what this looks like, protrusions moving and growing and squelching.
"Yeah," Nix says. "Real pleasant. Me 'n Doc have been trying to figure out what it sounds like."
"What'd you decide on?" Dick asks, as he sits down gently on the mattress next to Eugene. He reaches out, gently places his palm on the curve of Eugene's shoulder, and feels two sudden whiplash-screams of agony scald their way down his back.
He makes a noise, must, because a moment later the feeling's gone, tied up and tangled away out of his reach. "Sorry," Eugene murmurs. "I'll learn t'get a better hold on it soon."
"I hope you don't," Dick says. "I want to know -- I want to know everything."
Eugene lets out a little noise of amusement, turns his head so he can look at Dick. He opens his eyes; it takes a moment, long eyelashes sticking together. Dick still doesn't know what color Eugene's eyes are, couldn't describe the shade even if he was the most talented painter or the most verbose wordsmith in the world. They're dark, shadowed, like all the secrets in the world are hidden behind them. Hell, they might be; the wings, even matted up and messy look huge, and when Fox Company left with their medic, his wingspan was barely three feet and he always looked like he knew more than he should.
"'The hurt's easy 'nough to deal with for now," Eugene says, and rolls the shoulder Dick's not touching. The wings jerk a little with the movement, another two or three inches emerging from his back in a sudden rush to which Eugene doesn't show any reaction. "It's worth it and it'll be over soon. I'll survive. But I wanna see the mark. Show me; I might be able to decipher parts of it."
Dick doesn't want to take his eyes off Eugene, doesn't want to take his hand off; he does, though, and once he rolls up his sleeve, his ears drink down Eugene's laugh like he's dying of thirst.
"Yeah, makes sense," Eugene says. "Lew, can you --?"
"Fleur-de-lis," Nix tells Dick, answering to that nickname like Eugene's known him since childhood and has been calling him that for just as long. "Right in the middle, sitting on a bed of oak leaves. There's a rope twined around the stalk, and what I'm assuming is your -- let's say personalization is a crown dangling from the top left petal." He pauses, adds, "Very French."
Eugene hums, closes his eyes. "My people, we're Cajun. I was born in a place called Bayou Chene, moved to Morgan City when I was a kid, came here straight from Tulane. That'd explain the iris and the oak. The rope and crown, I dunno. When're you gonna let me meet my people?"
Dick grins, can't help it. Eugene's going to keep him on his toes, that's for damn sure. "Sergeants first," he says, and rolls his sleeve back down. Rather than put his hand back on Eugene's shoulder, he gives in to the urge to run his fingers through Eugene's dark, thick hair. It needs a good wash, is caked in sweat and dust, and Dick's already mourning the need to cut it down to regulation. "They're outside the door. The others can wait until you're ready to go outside."
There's a tiny hint of a frown, again, on Eugene's brow; Dick wonders if that's his default expression. It looks old and carved deep, familiar. "Tell me what I gotta know?" Eugene asks.
"If I knew what you needed to know, I'd sing like a canary," Dick says, "and so would Nix. Why don't you tell me: how many do you think you'll end up with in your Vanguard?"
"Six, eight," Eugene says. "I can't -- some of 'em ain't here yet, some of 'em ain't ready yet. So not that many today. But I can put a -- we call it a cohort bond, less than a Vanguard and no sign of it on the mark, but a slight bit more than just the regular. Who needs that?" Dick looks up at Nix, raises one eyebrow. Nix shakes his head, eyes wide. "Don't ask," Eugene says. "I dunno how I know, I just know that I know. Who?"
Dick suddenly feels too young for this.
"Lipton," Nix says into the silence. "Carwood Lipton. If he's not Vanguard, then whatever extra you can do for him would be appreciated."
"Strong name," Eugene murmurs. "Strong man. The heart?"
Dick thinks that no, that's wrong. Eugene's going to be the heart, already is, in a sense, but it'll grow roots when the men meet him.
"I'd give you the name of every man out there if I could," Dick says. "But if I can't, then -- yeah. Lipton. It won't hurt you?"
"Want me to lie about it?" Eugene asks. When Dick says no, Eugene says, "Then stop askin' stupid questions, sha. Bring in the sergeants and tell 'em not to laugh at me for meetin' 'em on my belly."
Nix is the one who stands up, who shakes his head and says, "Doc, I promise, not one of them's going to laugh at you, but if anyone even so much as thinks about it, Dick will kill them. And I think I'd help."
--
Before they grow wings, the gifted are just as normal a human as anyone plucked off the sidewalk in any city around the world. Afterwards -- something inside of them changes. Just like the wings grow, the knowledge grows. No one can explain it, and yet.
And yet.
--
Dick
Lipton comes in first, followed by Harris, Guarnere, Alley, and Martin. All five of them stop, shock written over their faces, the instant they see Eugene's back. Harris turns a startling shade of white but manages to keep his breakfast down; Martin gasps sharply. Dick clears his throat, tilts his head in unspoken order to come closer. Eugene leans up, elbows digging into the mattress to support his upper body as he rests his chin in his palms, apparently unconcerned about the noise his wings make at the movement and the way his shifting sends a thick, pinkish glop of liquid down his right side, across the curve of his hip, and onto the mattress.
"Introduce us, Lieutenant?" he asks.
"Lipton, Carwood," Dick says, and Lipton steps forward, close enough to the bed for Eugene to see him without squinting.
Eugene still says, "Ah, crouch down so I can look at ya," and Dick watches with amusement as Lipton obeys the order without hesitation. "Hm. Oh, I can -- yeah, I can see it. Yeah, you're mine. Go ahead, I'm a lil' indisposed right now."
Lipton looks to Dick first -- smart man -- and, at Dick's nod, reaches out and gently touches his fingers to Eugene's arm. Lipton doesn't make a noise as the mark blossoms -- exactly like Dick's, apart from the crown. Not Vanguard, then.
"This is Terrence Harris," Lipton says, softly, as if he feels the reverence that Dick does, just by being in the same room as Eugene. He gestures and Harris steps up, crouches down where Lipton had.
Eugene's eyes narrow. "No," he says, "I'm sorry; you ain't one of mine."
Harris stands back up looking like he's just gotten a punch to the gut. He opens his mouth as if to argue but Nix takes him by the elbow and leads him away, to the door.
Dick would say something, would try to offer some compassion, but Eugene hadn't wasted a second before pinning his eyes on Guarnere and saying, "You, though. You're mine. Vanguard, if you want it. What's your name?"
"Bill," Guarnere says, crossing the distance between them in a hurry. "Bill Guarnere. And I do. I want it. Thank you."
"Ain't always a good thing, living," Eugene says. "You sure?"
Guarnere nods, twice, the movement firm, without regret. "I want it."
"Go ahead and touch, then," Eugene says. "Let's see how the mark changes for a Vanguard."
Guarnere doesn't hesitate. He reaches out, rests his palm on Eugene's upper arm, and shudders in either pain or surprise, Dick thinks, as the mark blooms: exactly like Lipton's apart from a skull resting on the oak leaves in front of the stylized iris.
He stands up, seems unsteady in more ways than just the physical, and backs away as Alley and Martin move forward. Alley crouches but Martin drops to one knee, and they wait there, together, for Eugene to decide if they're his or not. There's a chance, after Harris, that they won't be.
It doesn't take long, another narrow-eyed frown, and then Eugene's gaze goes to the door as if he can see through it, as if it answers some question that had been provoked by the men in front of him. Dick looks at Nix, who shrugs one shoulder as if to say, 'You're the one bonded to him, not me. How do you expect me to know what he's thinking?'
"Mine, both of you," Eugene says. "Names?"
"Moe Alley," and "Johnny Martin" are the answers given quickly, and when Eugene tells them to touch him already, they do that quickly as well.
They're acting as though there's something a little -- eerie, a little off, about Eugene Roe. Judging by the looks Nix and Lipton are giving him, they're not the only ones who think so. It makes Dick want to hiss at them, chase them all away and wrap Eugene up in his arms, keep him safe and sheltered; if they won't properly value the treasure in front of them, they're not worth it, they don't deserve him.
"'Ey, sha, relax," Eugene says. He's moving, wincing a little as he tries to stand up, wings drooping and sagging as they hang limply from bones still growing. Dick doesn't hesitate to help, ignoring the way Eugene stumbles a little as he gets upright and smiling in fond amusement when Eugene makes an excuse about his center of gravity changing. Lipton and Guarnere are right there to help a moment later and Dick makes sure they're supporting their medic -- his boy, that possessive snake inside of him says -- before he heads for the door, Nix at his side.
"I'm not looking for a third," Nix mutters, so quietly that no one else can hear them, especially with the sergeants focused on Eugene. "But I wouldn't mind him." Dick looks at him, eyebrows raised as the only expression of his shock, hearing those words. Nix shrugs, says, "He said it right. We're both yours."
"It's not like that," Dick replies, just as quietly. "I just --." He stops there, doesn't know how to even begin explaining the emotions roiling inside of him.
Nix takes a deep breath. "Yeah," he says. "I think I get it. You ready for this?"
Dick huffs out a laugh. "Not remotely."
Spina whirls around to face them when the door opens. "Are --?" he starts to ask before cutting himself off, eyes darting past Dick and Nix to get a look inside. "What the ever-loving motherfuck are you doing up?" he says, moving to block the doorway. "Roe, get back inside."
"Nah," Eugene says. "Not yet." He pauses, then adds, "We gotta wait for you, if you're okay with that? Don't wanna have both of us down at the same time and I got a few hours yet before this is done." Spina gapes as Eugene gestures at his back, Lipton and Guarnere shifting to steady him without, it appears, even thinking about it before they move.
"Hours?" Spina asks, sounds strangled as he repeats himself. "Hours? Fox Company's medic fledged in forty five minutes."
Eugene snorts. "Y'know, for bein' called Easy Company, nothin' about this company's been anythin' close to easy since the moment I got here." He softens, then, and adds, "But like I said, you are mine. Just -- we'll make it official later, yeah?"
Spina's mouth opens and closes a few times as if he can't decide what to say. He settles on a wordless shriek, throws his hands in the air, and stalks off muttering about getting some water for some goddamned idiots who don't know any better.
If nothing else, Eugene's going to keep Dick amused.
--
The curses, the blessings, the gifted and their bondmates, their chosen Vanguard, their chosen group or tribe or company, whatever it's called in the day and time it exists -- they're all nothing, at the end of the day.
What matters is the person at the heart of it, the person who bears the weight of the wings and, with them, the weight of the lives of those who mean the most to them.
The weight of the world, in other words -- and no gifted has ever, not once, in all of history, backed away from that.
--
Easy Company
They come up one by one, tell Eugene their names as Eugene hangs off of Lipton and Guarnere, as Eugene's wings keep unfolding, as the puddle of red-tinged slime around his feet grows larger and larger. A few of them get a frown, a couple of them get that same narrow-eyed soul-search, and Eugene names Randleman and Toye as additional members of his Vanguard. He invites all but seven to touch him, seven who will be reassigned out of Easy as the others reach out and touch Eugene's arms, shoulders, chest.
When it's done, they get back into formation. They stand as a unit, bonded by their medic, with Eugene's mark carving itself into their skin and deeper, down to their bones, their atoms, the very oxygen that keeps them alive.
And then Eugene says, accented voice ringing through the silence clear and strong like church bells, like the air here in Toccoa isn't thick with humidity and tense anticipation, "My name is Eugene Roe, and Easy Company is mine."