Hearts In Winter (RPF_Big_Bang 2009) [4/8]
four
Designated to play the role of the Company medic, Shane Taylor isn't someone with whom Eion's spent much time, segregated as they are in the producers effort to preserve the mystique which the medics had over the men. Even though Shane runs with them each day, eats with them at mealtimes, sleeps in the same barracks hut as some of them, takes a non-confrontational role in their diligent training exercises, he keeps to himself. Deliberately, it seems, holds himself separate from the rest of the makeshift Company, maintains an aloof façade in much the same way that Eion knows from his background research, the man he's playing, the real Doc Roe, did.
It is, therefore, something of a shock to Eion's system when he blinks open his eyes the following morning to find Shane peering down at him with an intensity that is, by itself, frightening. “What the...?”
“Hm?” Shane's hum is off-hand, as though he's used to startling people half to death by holding his face scant inches from theirs when they open their eyes, and thoughtful. When he speaks, his voice is thick with its feigned accent, rich with the adopted Louisianan thrum of Doc Roe's homeland. “You're still alive then. That's good.”
Overall, Eion thinks as he tries to calm his heart rate out of its startled pounding, Shane is probably one of the nicest guys in the camp. He's just a little... peculiar. A method actor who has, perhaps, taken getting into character slightly too far. He swallows nervously as Shane bends his head closer; uses the curved pad of one thumb to prise his eyelid further open so that he might peer into Eion's eyes; gauge the reaction of his pupils through narrowed eyes.
“What...” Horrified by the hoarse croak of his voice, Eion pauses; coughs discretely in an effort to unclog his throat. “What happened? Where's Ross?”
“Outside,” Shane says shortly, leaning back, out of the prone man's personal space once more. If he notices Eion's relieved intake of breath, he gives no outward sign of having done so, turning instead to scribble hasty notes onto a pad of paper that he holds against the bend of his knees as he sits on the edge of Eion's bed frame. “Smoking. Probably. You gave him quite a scare...”
“Oh.”
“Mild concussion.”
Confused, wondering whether he is somehow managing to miss pertinent parts of the conversation, Eion frowns; instantly wishes that he hadn't done so as his jaw sends a sharp shiver of pain skittering along its length and his head begins to ache in sympathy. Despite his valiant effort to contain it, a low whimper of pain echoes from between his lips.
“Nothing serious,” Shane tells him solemnly, glancing at him warily. “You'll live.”
Arching one eyebrow, Eion looks at him steadily; obtusely craves the familiarity of a cigarette between his lips, the taste of nicotine sliding over his tongue. “Don't get me wrong, Shane, but - aren't you taking this getting into character thing a little too seriously...?”
“Well -,”
A raucous burst of laughter upon the hut's porch interrupts Shane, startles him enough that the mask of Doc Roe slides slightly, a glimmer of irritated tiredness sweeping in to replace it, before Eion blinks, and the calm, composed, almost tender expression that usually dominates the other man's face has returned once more.
“Well -,” he says again, then hesitates, leans closer and lowers his voice confidingly. “The others seemed to think it'd be funny if you woke up and found me sitting here checking your vital signs, instead of the Camp's medical officer.”
Eion's eyes narrow. “Funny?”
“Yes.” A small smile twitches one corner of Shane's mouth. “I'll level with you, shall I?”
“That would be... nice.”
“The medical officer looked you over last night -,” Shane explains softly, the rhythm of his accent soothing away the edges of the irritated confusion that otherwise threatens to consume Eion. “You weren't exactly aware of what was going on at the time, I don't think... you kept babbling about finally getting it - whatever 'it' might be...?”
Carefully, Eion begins to shake his head, bewildered as to what on earth the answer to Shane's question might be - until a sliver of a memory cuts into the fore of his mind, the sharp clarity that had consumed him the previous evening, alone in the hut with Ross, relegated there because of his own foolish inability to hold back his temper, because of a niggling suspicion which had abruptly become clear.
He whimpers softly again, this time the noise of it laden with mortified horror instead of pain; lifts his hands to cover his face, a futile effort to hide from the vague interest that he has seen clearly within the depths of Shane's gaze.
“Anyway -,” Shane continues, blithely, patting a soothing hand against the swell of Eion's bicep. “There was also a lot of talk about Hell, and sinning, and how Webster wasn't really the coward that everyone seems determined to paint him as...”
“Oh, God...”
“And then there was something about how Sergeant Farnsworth is undoubtedly Satan in fatigues -,”
Shane's voice bubbles with barely repressed mirth, and Eion lowers his hands cautiously; suspicious suddenly that he is being teased. Through the ache of his head, the throb of his jaw, he eyes the quietly smiling man before him warily; wonders whether this is another bizarre effort of the rest of the men to amuse themselves at his expense.
“No...” he whispers, hopefully.
“Just be glad you have the excuse of a concussion to blame it on,” Shane says cheerfully. “And that you were thrashing around so much at the time that it took both Ross and Tim practically sitting on you, to stop you from getting up off this bed in order to go out and find Farnsworth in order to tell him this to his face! So, frankly, I'm sort of glad that I'm not actually a medic around here!”
“I didn't...” Eion hesitates, dread sitting heavily inside of him as he tries to think how to phrase his question. The fact that Ross had been in the room whilst he was apparently out of his tiny little mind and rambling incoherently, had allegedly been forced to help hold him down to prevent him from behaving in an irrationally stupid fashion, does little more than make Eion wish he were a few thousand miles away from the Army Camp, on the opposite side of the world to the men who have now seen him at his very worst, at his most vulnerable, and that he'd never met any of them.
That he'd never met Ross.
Shane pats his arm reassuringly. “Don't worry about it. Happens to us all. At least you didn't throw up all over the place!”
“Mm...”
“Anyway. You have a mild concussion. That's all. And you missed the run this morning. Captain Dye said to let you sleep instead - but if I were you...?”
Eion eyes him anxiously, wondering what else Shane has to say, what further words of wisdom he has to offer. “What?”
“Well, I'd probably try to stay out of Ross' way for a few hours,” Shane confides, throws a casual glance in the direction of the hut doorway beyond. “I'm told he didn't get much sleep last night. Apparently he spent most of it poking you to make sure you were still alive and actually going to wake up this morning...”
Warmth pools in the pit of Eion's belly at Shane's words, the off-hand way in which they have been spoken despite the bemused glitter of the pretend-medic's eyes as they turn back to his. Feeling his face flush, obtusely hoping that he's carrying enough bruising from his brawl with Ross, Eion rolls his eyes in embarrassment and exasperation; cannot prevent his mouth from curving into a small, pleased smile.
“You're fit for the exercise they've got planned today, though - and if you manage to get through that without passing out again, then Captain Dye wants you to take part in the camp-out tomorrow night, too.” Shane says as he rises from the bed-frame, moments before there is a clatter of booted footsteps in the doorway, and Tim bustles chaotically into the hut. “Okay?”
“You're alive!” Tim crows jubilantly, clasping one hand to his chest as he fakes a swooning stagger along the small corridor between the bed-frames placed on either side of the hut. “Thank God for small mercies!”
“Indeed -,” Shane agrees, smiling as he glances back down at the still prone Eion. “Up and at 'em, soldier...!”
“Yeah -,” Laughing, Tim jostles Eion's bed-frame with his knees, hands reaching out to grasp hold of the front of his shirt and haul him upwards, grunting with the effort that it apparently takes to move him. “Quick! Before Jimmy and Calil fail in their mission to keep Ross out of here!”
“He's still moaning, then?” Shane questions, stretching out a steadying hand towards Eion as he wobbles slightly on his feet.
“But of course -,” Tim shrugs his shoulders, hands patting affectionately against Eion's elbows as he manages to stand upright without falling back down. Concern wars against his humour for a moment or two as he eyes the dazed, slightly nauseous Eion, before glancing round at the watchful Shane. “You sure he's okay, Doc?”
“He will be.”
“I'm fine!” Eion protests belatedly, cautiously moving out of Tim's reach. In truth, the world swims a little at the edges, a stomach shifting sensation which does little to reassure him that Shane is correctly relaying the Camp's medical officer's assessment of his vague injury, but he is determined suddenly not to lose any more time, to miss out on any more of the exercises designed to bond the actors together as soldiers.
A dubious look upon his face, Tim eyes him silently for a moment or two; glances fleetingly towards Shane, who shrugs his shoulders and twists his face into an expression that even Eion recognises as being intended to convey that he has no idea whatsoever.
“Tim, really -,” he says, firmly, pleased by the fact that his voice does not tremble, the words do not falter at the back of his throat before allowing him to speak them. “I'm fine.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course you are!” Tim says, trying valiantly to sound enthusiastic, encouraging, genuine... yet succeeding only in causing Eion to wonder whether or not he ought to suggest Shane take a look at the man before him; check for neural damage of his own.
Mouth puckered into a distressed frown, Tim nods his head once... twice... then heaves a dramatic sigh. “Jesus, I know I'm going to regret this, but...”
“But...?”
“But the alternative to declaring you fit to complete the camp is probably worse than keeping you in here,” Shane replies on Tim's behalf, exchanging a glance with him as he does so, a thousand words that Eion cannot understand, does not comprehend flowing instantaneously between them.
“What alternative?” he asks, mind whirling through several options - none of which he particularly cares to dwell upon. The silent conversation between the other two men has unnerved him, reminded him of the lonely sensation that lingers within him, seems to have consumed what little remained of his heart and twisted it into a bitter husk that causes more damage, creates more pain than it does anything else, and he sighs; shakes his head cautiously, tries to ignore the jolt of pain that twists against his nerve endings as he does so. “Guys, come on - what alternative? What happens if I don't actually get out there and complete the course?”
Tim meets his gaze sombrely. “You lose your part.”
“What? You're kidding! Right...?”
“Wish I were.”
“It has to do with the insurance,” Shane explains further, his voice obtusely calm in the face of Eion's horrified response to Tim's stoic replies. “Captain Dye told us all last night, whilst you were trying to go find Sergeant Farnsworth -,”
“Incidentally, mate, you kicked me in the shin when I tried to tackle you back onto the bed!” Tim throws in, looking suddenly aggrieved, as though he has only just remembered the incident. “All the others thought it was funny, but -,”
“It was funny.”
There is a snap of impatience to Shane's voice as he cuts into Tim's complaining that briefly distracts them away from Eion; allows him to draw deep, steadying breaths into his body and contemplate the stupidity of his own actions.
The consequences of his behaviour.
He knows that he has possibly, potentially risked his own part in the project; knows enough of the movie industry, the film-making business to understand that those who occupy its administrative echelons, who dominate the lives of the mere actors with their forms and their dictatorial insistence on every actor being insured left, right and centre on the off-chance that they might injure themselves and decide to sue their employers, do not make idle threats. If Captain Dye has brandished the information at the group of men he is trying to train, that if they screw up in any way, if they push the insurance premiums any higher than they already are, they're gone, so long, cheerio, don't let the door hit you on the way out... then it has to be true. And Eion, because of his foolish inability to behave like the grown man he often tries to convince himself that he is, is one step closer to losing his place in the group. To being kicked out of Camp and replaced.
Determination not to allow that to happen flows through him, and he turns his head cautiously towards the quietly bickering men who stand at the end of his bed-frame; stifles a small smile at the realisation that Tim, with his good natured jibes and affable look on life, has managed to break through Shane's instinctive reserves and draw him into a friendly argument. Deep down, Eion knows that he won't be surprised to one day find that Tim's natural sense of joy hasn't crept under Captain Dye's reservations...
Carefully, he clears his throat. “Guys?”
“Yes?”
The bemused expression that contorts Shane's face as Tim generally flails one arm about in a theatrical gesture of ire, returns smoothly to the blank look that he has spent the last few days bestowing upon all and sundry, and Eion realises that the medic's mask is firmly back in place. Swallowing back the sudden rush of acidic bile at the back of his throat, he forces himself to meet Shane's eyes with a steadiness that he certainly doesn't feel.
“I guess you're the one who has to report back to the Camp's real medics?” he asks carefully, noting the way in which Tim and Shane exchange a brief glance at his question. “Because I've worked too damned hard to have them replace me. I'm fine. You said yourself that it was just a mild concussion - well, I'm sure the real Easy Company went out and fought real battles with far worse, right?”
“They were actual soldiers, though, Eion...” Tim reminds him, his voice considerate and low.
Shane cants his head to one side, eyes Eion in consideration. “I don't know. A bang on the head can -,”
“I'm fine!” Eion snaps, can feel the snarl of rage behind his words, has to physically clench his hands into tight fists of frustration in an effort to control it. He is tired, in pain, and determined to be allowed back out amidst the hustle of the boot camp once more. “I'll see whoever I have to, and I'll sign whatever forms I need to - fuck, I'll even pay out on my own insurance if I need to! But I'm not going to be kicked off this, okay?”
They stare at him in silence for a moment or two, seemingly struck dumb by the anger that Eion knows is written across his face, the mutinous set of his jaw serving only to further aggravate the injury there from his brawl with Ross, and then... as though a switch has been flicked by an unseen hand, their faces crumple into laughter.
Puzzled, his irritation dissipating into simple confusion, Eion eyes them warily. Watches the way in which Tim bends practically double, his arms clutching at his stomach, hands fisting in the layers of authentic 1940s uniform, moisture sliding down his cheeks as he guffaws with laughter; listens to the quieter chuckles that Shane issues forth even as he absently claps a hand down upon Tim's bent back...
“Wondered how long it'd fucking take.”
Scowling deeply, realising that he's been set up, that actors really are the last people he ought to trust, Eion turns towards the laconic sound of the familiar drawl, and glares furiously at Ross as he lounges in the doorway, a cigarette held loosely between the fingers of one hand, the other resting easily in a fist against the jamb of the door. A myriad of insults litter his brain, each one of them more spiteful and angry than the one that precedes it, but all that he can physically bring himself to do, is stalk furiously towards the doorway, ignoring the fact that his body feels lax, as though he has the skeleton of a jellyfish supporting him rather than his own, glowering at the seemingly unconcerned Ross in impotent fury.
“Bastard!” he hisses as he brushes past Ross, trying his hardest not to touch him in any way, suddenly loathe to be within spitting distance of him, steps out into the cold sunlit day and forces himself to keep moving, constantly away from the barracks hut and the sniggering sounds of laughter that he can hear echoing from within it...
oooo
The parade ground is quiet despite the amount of men loitering within its confines, waiting for Captain Dye, or Farnsworth, or someone else of their ilk to appear and inform them as to the plans for them that day, and Eion tries to garner peace from its atmosphere. Still simmering from what is apparently Ross' idea of a joke, silently furious with himself for having even contemplated having feelings towards the malicious, bad-tempered -
Grinding his back teeth together until his jaw, the bruise below it, aches with a sharpness that forces him to stop, Eion finds himself contemplating how many others were in on the joke. That Tim and Shane should have been the ones employed to help execute it, hurts. He has always liked Tim, held a quiet sense of respect for Shane, and the simple fact that they have turned on him, bewilders Eion's inherent sense of what is right and wrong in the world. Suspicious, now, of the rest of the men, of whether or not they, too, are deriving amusement from what happened, he stands alone amongst them, broodingly staring into the middle distance as he contemplates precisely how Ross presumed he would react to having his position in the project threatened in such a way.
Acting is such a precarious business, he thinks as he stares at a distant brick wall, absently realises the monotonous, muted orange and red shades of it are somewhat soothing. Simply being offered the part in a Steven Spielberg production had given Eion cause to wonder if his career had reached a plateau already - he can still remember his unbridled sense of joy coupled with the insecurities of doubt and disbelief, when his agent had called to let him know that, if he wanted it, the part of David Kenyon Webster was his.
Ever since, he thinks, he's been waiting to have it taken away from him.
To be told that he's not good enough to be a part of the project, that they've realised there's someone out there better suited to playing Webster, that he ought to give up on his dreams and realise that they're nothing more than foolish fantasies...
“Oh, thank God!”
The air in Eion's lungs huffs out of him in a startled breath as arms are flung about him from behind and he is squeezed tightly in some semblance of a hug. Turning his head, he is just able to discern the familiar darkness of Jimmy Madio's hair beneath the regulation hat he's got balanced on top of his head, even as his mind realises that it was, indeed, his voice in which the words had been spoken just prior to the bear-hug.
Ordinarily, Eion knows that he would have taken some small comfort from the display of contented affection - but now, he is left wondering what the joke is this time; whether Ross has talked Jimmy into trying to embarrass him further, if Ron is suddenly going to leap out, brandishing his camera and cackling gleefully at how they've caught him out again...
“Thank God!” Jimmy says again, mumbling the words into the back of Eion's shirt, creating an uncomfortable, damp heat against the furious line of the taller man's spine. “I thought we were going to have to break in a brand new Webster for a while, there!”
“Ha, ha.”
“Huh?”
Jimmy seems genuinely confused by the flat tone of Eion's voice, and he begins to regret his dour thoughts immediately, finds himself opening his mouth to actually apologise, to explain to Jimmy what had happened, when he hears a commotion over on the other side of the parade ground. Turning his head towards it, Eion's sense of alienation, of humiliation deepens when he realises that Frank John Hughes is cackling merrily and gesturing in his direction, Ron behind him holding his wretched video camera... with Ross standing dourly to one side.
“... look at Perconte and Webster!” Eion catches amidst the bursts of highly amused laughter, and his scowl deepens even as Jimmy's arms around him tighten slightly in apparent bewilderment.
“Very fucking funny,” he drawls out, shuffling slightly forwards and forcibly lifting his arms up and down beneath Jimmy's grip in an effort to be released, to have the shorter man set him free. “Look. Just get off me, alright?”
“Jesus!” Jimmy mutters, his voice radiating hurt and confusion as he immediately releases his hold about Eion's chest and steps away from him. “I was just trying to say we're all glad you're okay...”
Closing his eyes tightly against the guilt that starts to immediately ricochet throughout him, Eion cannot help but wonder when he's going to stop getting it wrong. He accepts the responsibility of having been an idiot, a fool to have trusted some of the other men who continue to idly stand around him, waiting for someone to show up and call them all to attention - but he also knows that he isn't entirely to blame for having hurt Jimmy's feelings. In part, the ache in his head and the sheer exhaustion that has consumed each and every one of them - not to mention the fact that although everyone involved in the camp is an adult male in either their early or late twenties, they seem to have reverted quite easily back to teenagers, each trying to outdo the other in acts of bravado or simple stupidity.
“Jimmy had nothing to do with what happened earlier, Eion -,” Ross mutters sullenly from beside Eion, and he flinches away; wonders how the other man has managed to make such a silent approach. “So stop acting like a little girl with her knickers in a knot, and climb down off your damned high horse, would you?”
Eion turns; eyes him warily. “Knickers... in a knot?”
“Yeah -,” Ross shrugs, casts a fleeting glance sideways at the entrance onto the parade ground, almost as though embarrassed by his choice of words. “It's a saying. A phrase. That's all.”
“Oh. Right.”
There is an awkward moment of silence as Eion contemplates the other man shrewdly; folds his arms tightly in front of his chest and subconsciously tilts his head so that the dark mass of the bruise below his jawline is made more visible. Blandly, he observes Ross; notices the slight, anxious twitch of the other's eyebrow as they regard one another across the short distance they have placed between themselves, the disconcerted curve of his mouth, the...
He sighs wearily. “Aren't you going to apologise?”
“What the fuck for?”
The demand for clarification is accompanied by a belligerent sneer, a straightening of Ross' spine as he draws himself out of his habitual slouch and to his full, aggressive height - and Eion realises that whatever he says is more than likely to be misconstrued; taken as another attack, a verbal assault as opposed to the physical of the previous night. Biting down on the tip of his tongue in an effort to prevent himself from responding, from escalating the situation any further, he shakes his head and takes a few steps away, moving backwards, creating even more distance between them.
“Nothing -,” he says on a sigh of regret as Captain Dye strides onto the parade ground, the assembled Sergeants all barking orders for the men to fall into line, stand to attention, behave like the soldiers that they can never actually be. “Absolutely nothing...”
“No -,” Ross practically snarls, apparently loathe to do what Eion wants him to, leave the discussion alone until they are not on display for everyone to gawk at. “C'mon, mate - what the fuck for?”
Ross' mood swings, Eion thinks wearily, are anachronistic. Bad precedes good, precedes indifferent... and no matter the thought which he gives to the problem, Eion cannot be entirely certain that it can all be ascribed to Ross 'getting into character'. He knows, first hand, that the other man doesn't have very much material from which to build Liebgott, to flesh out the man whom the script-writers have cobbled together - and he finds himself unable to believe that the mercurial man standing sulkily before him, isn't simply being himself. Tiredly, furious with himself more than anything else, angry that he is allowing himself to be humiliated in such a way again, he turns his head to meet Ross' eyes; cannot help but wonder at the depth of calmness that lingers within their gaze.
“Okay -,” he mutters lowly. “So, which is it? You hate me, or Liebgott hates Webster. Because it's one or the fucking other. Has to be, the way you've been acting towards me ever since we fucking well met!”
To his credit, Ross manages to look truly startled by the accusation. “I don't hate you...”
“It's all Liebgott, then, is it?”
“Eion, what the fuck are you -,”
“Don't give me that bullshit!” he hisses, then viciously; “You're not that good of an actor!”
The insult resonates in the air between them, leaves Eion breathless with instant disbelief at the remnants of his self-righteous rage, laden with guilt that he could have said such a thing to someone whom he doesn't know well enough to understand how such a statement is likely to affect him.
Ross, he realises, simply looks hurt.
Agitation slews through Eion as he frantically tries to think of a way in which he can adequately withdraw his words; take them back, in order to lessen both the pain that he can see illuminating the very depths of Ross' eyes, and his own sense of remorse. Acting is such a precarious world, occupied by people whose insecurities about themselves and their place in their environment are often hidden extremely well. To insult a fellow actor's ability to act, to pretend to be something or someone that he or she actually is not...
Aware that he's committed a cardinal sin, broken one of the unspoken rules of acting, Eion desperately wants to repent - but before he can say, or do anything further, Captain Dye's voice rings out across the parade ground, calling them all to order, demanding that everyone pay attention to him. Helplessly, Eion can only watch as Ross turns away from him, and realise with a sinking heart that he's missed his chance...