Hearts In Winter (RPF_Big_Bang 2009) [7/8]
seven
Staring around at the decrepit building in which he and the rest of the men whom Captain Dye has deemed a part of some mythically organised platoon will spend the hours of darkness, Eion wonders if his surprise and sense of terror show clearly within the expression upon his face. He cannot help but think that they undoubtedly do - a nagging suspicion that is only strengthened when Tim claps him soundly upon the shoulder, grins manically at him before silently pointing upwards.
The building has no roof.
It has barely any walls, and those which it does have, Eion notices as he glances around, cold fingers tightly gripping the rifle he has spent hours carrying in just such a position of readiness, are broken and battered. It resembles something in a war zone, he realises with an abrupt understanding of what Captain Dye and the others in charge are trying to force the actors to comprehend. A bombed out building whose very fabric has been as damaged and scarred as those humans who probably lived in it, for whom it was undoubtedly once a family home, or a bustling place of business, somewhere where people came together in friendship and harmony - until Hitler and his narcissistic dictatorship destroyed both.
“Well, let's just hope it doesn't fucking rain, eh, guys?”
Jimmy Madio's drawl interrupts Eion's thoughts and he tilts his head back down until it's properly aligned on his neck, smiles amicably at the other man. Grateful for the fact that Jimmy is not one to hold a grudge for long, that within hours of Eion having snapped and snarled at him on the parade ground, the incident was either completely forgotten or simply put to one side as not worth bothering about, he nods his head. “Yeah. Anyone heard a forecast?”
“Apparently there were some cows lying down a few fields away from camp -,” Tim says, his face completely straight, no hint of a twitch to indicate that he's joking around. “I heard Farnsworth telling Ron and Damian during the debrief.”
Eion's eyes narrow. “Cows?”
“Yeah. Cows.”
“They go 'moo', Eion...” Calil interjects in what some might perceive to be a helpful manner, but Eion cannot help but suspect there to be malice behind it.
Out of all the assembled actors, he knows that it is only really Calil whom he does not like, cannot get along with, will probably never get along with. Looking back to the slow moving clouds which he can see through the gaping hole where there had once been shingles secured onto a wooden frame, he absently wonders if the real George Alley and David Kenyon Webster had gotten along together, if they had been friends - or merely acquaintances. He makes a mental note to check when he is next able to do so.
“Yeah, but...” Even Jimmy sounds sceptical. “Cows?”
Tim's sigh is drawn out, exaggerated in its long-suffering sound. “It's an old country tradition. When cows lie down in their fields, then it's a sign it's going to rain. My Gran told it to me when I was a kid.”
“You mean you're not now?”
“Fuck you, McCall! I'm being bloody serious, here!”
Eion had frozen at the quiet noise of Ross' voice, reluctantly forces himself to relax enough to turn his head; try to meet the other man's eyes with his own. Almost twenty four hours have passed since Ross had kissed him, had revealed without actually saying so with words that he finds Eion attractive, and he has yet to speak one word of explanation, rejection, acceptance to him. At first, Eion knows that he found Ross' silence beguiling; sensed that there was an awkward reluctance to discuss something that it seems he had been loathe to share in the first place, and he spent a sleepless night wondering how best to tell the other man that his apparent feelings were reciprocated without ending up beaten to a bloody pulp. But now he knows, is aware of the fact that the more time that passes, the longer the silence goes on for, the more difficult it will be to break.
The less likely Ross is to believe him when he tells him how he feels, when he suggests that they perhaps explore their feelings towards one another together...
“I know you fucking are!”
There is laughter in the depths of Ross' voice and it chills Eion's heart as he realises that the other man is studiously avoiding looking at him, that there is a tension to the line of his spine, to the broad grin that curves his mouth which suggests his humour is deliberate, forced, unreal. Biting down on his lower lip, eyes narrowing with thought, he wonders whether he is the cause; if Ross regrets having kissed him, having forced his hand onto his groin, having made Eion touch him in such an intimate, familiar way...
“But cows?” Jimmy demands, his face furrowed in confused suspicion that Tim and Ross have somehow connived together to make a fool of him in some way.
“Yes!” Ross grins. “Tim's not making it up, mate - there really is an old saying that claims farmers have the ability to foretell the fucking weather by their dumb animals taking the weight off their bloody feet occasionally!”
Watching, Eion realises that Tim still looks aggrieved as he juts his chin out in something that he suspects is meant to resemble triumph, but merely serves to remind him of a small boy trying to convince others that he's not resentful in the slightest. He sighs, stifles a weary sigh and turns to wander outside, leave the others to their bickering for a while in the hope that when he re-enters the broken building, they will have worn themselves out with their quiet arguing and figuratively kissed and made up again.
“Webster!”
Damian's voice intrudes upon his thoughts, and Eion stares at him in surprise; watches as he strides easily across the heath upon which the building stands towards him. Ron staggers along behind him, Damian's constant shadow and despite himself, Eion smiles; wonders vaguely how much of the other American's devotion to the composed, almost permanently in character Englishman is because of the friendship between the men whom they are pretending to be... and how much is because of Ron's own feelings for Damian. As they reach him, he automatically stands to attention, barely manages to restrain himself from saluting, knowing that such a gesture is neither required nor strictly accurate whilst on patrol.
“Sir?”
“What are you doing outside, Webster?”
Damian's voice reverberates with impatience, yet there is a bemused gleam, almost a twinkle to the eyes which watch him that reassures Eion he's surprisingly not in trouble. Even so, he swallows nervously. “Securing the perimeter, Sir.”
“Good man -,” Damian dips his head into a nod, seems impressed by the quickly given, almost honest reply. “Perhaps we'll make a soldier out of you, yet...”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
Ron's eyebrows have lifted so much that they are lost in the sweaty tangle of his hair as he stares from Eion's bemused face to Damian's expression of composure. “We?” he demands, lowly. “Don't you mean 'Dye and that lot'?”
“Same thing, isn't it, Nix?”
“Dick, I don't think -,”
Struggling not to laugh, trying his hardest not to ache at having to interrupt the almost domestic argument occurring before him, Eion coughs discretely, clearing his throat to remind them of his presence. Startled, they both turn towards him; Ron stares at him as though he'd forgotten that Eion was standing with them, whilst Damian simply eyes him coolly, seeming to appraise him in some way that he cannot yet fathom.
“We need a watch,” Damian announces curtly, narrowing his eyes as he looks past Eion into the dilapidated building behind him. “Webster, seeing as how you're already out here, you can take first guard. I'll go round someone up to keep you company...”
“Good luck with him tonight!” Ron mutters darkly as Damian immediately strides past Eion into the building, leaving them alone to survey the heathland. “He's driving me mad!”
“Who?” Eion frowns as he realises the stupidity of his own question. But surely Ron couldn't mean... “Damian?”
“The one and fucking only.”
“But I thought that -,”
“Dye's leaving this whole fucking detail to him to sort out -,” Ron explains, the low tone of his voice mutinously bitter as he glowers sullenly towards the empty, door free entrance into the building through which Damian had disappeared. “And he's taking it to perfectionist fucking extremes!”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, 'oh'. And hey, guess what?”
Suspicion pools in Eion's gut as he peers nervously at Ron's suddenly jubilant expression. “What?”
“He's bunking in here with you guys tonight!” Ron announced, his grin wide and seemingly genuinely amused by the thought. “Apparently it's what Dick Winters would have done, given half a chance. Allowed him to bond with his men... or something along those lines. I'll be honest with you, Eion; I stopped listening after the third time he went through the rules and regulations list with me!”
“He's pretty stressed over this, then...”
“That would be putting it fucking mildly, my friend.”
Bemused, Eion watches as the grin upon his companion's face falters into a smile, then fades completely; leaves Ron looking momentarily lost and confused. For a moment or two, he scours his brain, searching for something to say, some idly given words of wisdom that might reassure Ron as to the depths of emotion - be it only friendship, or something... more that he obviously feels towards Damian - but there is nothing that Eion can think of which won't result in him sounding like a complete hypocrite.
Even if only to his own ears.
Sighing softly, turning his gaze away from Ron's mobile, heartfelt expression, he stares at the distant tree line, allows his thoughts to drift towards his own situation once more. He realises that he has to talk to Ross, has to at least try to clear the air between them - even if doing so results in another bitter struggle for one-up-man-ship between them, Eion knows that he cannot bear the lonely confusion of being left hanging; likes to believe that Ross does not either... but he does not yet know how to broach the subject of what has already happened between them, nor that of what he would very much like to happen. All that Eion can truly comprehend is that Ross is obliquely ignoring him, probably has only registered the fact that he did not return the bruising force of the sudden kiss, and not that he wasn't viciously shoved away in disgust. That he stood and let Ross assault him in such a way, rather than lash out in the panic and terror which he he has so often witnessed from men who flirt with the notion of being gay until they actually have another man's tongue pushing into their mouth, probably hasn't even registered in the apparently sulking actor's brain, and Eion cannot help but suspect that unless he verbally reassures Ross that he bitterly regrets not having returned the kiss, instigated ones of his own, behaved like a maiden aunt caught unaware beneath the mistletoe, he will lose what little ground he has already managed to gain.
The sound of footsteps behind him alerts Eion to Damian's return, and he turns his head; feels his heart sink as he realises that the other man is accompanied by a rather sheepish looking Jimmy. Immediately, Eion realises that he had hoped it would be Ross whom Damian chose to undertake the guard watch with him - that he had subconsciously presumed the other man would do so in order for them to...
Eion blinks.
Realises belatedly that it doesn't matter. That such a hope had only ever been a futile one, even though he had been unaware of having made it in the first place. Damian has no idea as to what happened between Eion and Ross after they'd left his barracks hut, and probably assumes their argument hinges still upon the matters before that which passed between them in the alley.
“You okay, Eion?”
Despite himself, Eion cannot help but smile as he catches a glimpse of Damian's thunderous expression at Jimmy's slip of procedure. “I'm fine. How're you, Perconte?”
For a moment, Jimmy simply stares at him, seemingly oblivious as to the reason why Eion has used his character's name, why he has emphasised doing so with deliberately widened eyes and a smile fluttering around the very corners of his mouth. And then, as Damian mutters something to Ron about 'getting back' and Captain Dye, it appears to click inside of Jimmy's brain and he grins ruefully.
“Oh! I'm just great, Webster!” he says, watching as Damian and Ron saunter away back across the scrubby ground in which they will all be spending the night. Only then does he huff out a breath and roll his eyes comically. “Jesus...”
Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Eion rolls one shoulder into a shrug. “He means well.”
“He's... he's like a fucking drone!” Jimmy insists. “I mean - and don't get me wrong, I like the guy! But what the fuck is with his constant refusal to call us by our actual names? All because Dye and Farnsworth say he can't?”
“He wants this to work,” Eion says softly, his gaze upon the backs of Damian and Ron as they steadily increase the amount of distance between them. “And I think Dick Winters would have jumped before even thinking to ask how high his superior officers wanted him to do so...”
“We all want this to work -,” Jimmy says reasonably, and Eion turns back towards him; watches as he hefts his rifle around enough so that its butt doesn't dig into him as he slumps down into an uncomfortable looking crouch. “The difference is that most of us also don't want to be completely taken over by it!”
It is, Eion realises as he lowers himself carefully to the ground, sits beside Jimmy and simply watches the horizon, a valid point. One that, until now, he hasn't fully considered. He has always been in favour of method acting, of finding his muse by research into the characters he has played - hopes to continue being paid to pretend to be... but this project is different, and deservedly so. Suddenly, the prospect of what Spielberg, Hanks, Captain Dye, Sergeant Farnsworth and all the others wish to achieve, is one that daunts Eion.
A shiver rolls through him.
“... ever going to actually get on together?”
Blinking in confusion, Eion stares at Jimmy. “Sorry - missed the first part of that... what were you saying?”
“I said -,” Jimmy's grin is friendly, belies the exasperated roll of his eyes. “Are you and McCall ever going to get on together? Damian asked him to take this watch with you instead of me, you know. And he wasn't too happy with the fact that Ross downright refused to do what he was being told to!”
Deep inside of him, Eion's heart twists - the pain of it almost physical to accompany the emotional ache of realising that Ross no longer wishes to be anywhere near him. Closing his eyes, tilting his chin down towards his chest, fervently hoping that Jimmy cannot see, will not recognise the pain that he knows consumes his face, distorts his features in that moment, Eion concentrates desperately upon breathing.
Upon not revealing precisely how much the second-hand, repeated rejection hurts him.
There is a moment of silence, one laden with tense awkwardness as Eion tries valiantly not to snivel like the teenage girl he's beginning to suspect he ought to have been, and Jimmy realises that the reaction he was probably expecting is not going to materialise. Aware that the longer he holds his tongue, the more time that passes between Jimmy's question being asked and his laughingly given lie of a response, the more his companion is going to actually understand, Eion tries to concentrate; to force his mouth into a smile, glib words of mockery to pass from between his lips...
But he can't.
Knowing that he has finally managed to drive an unreachable wedge between himself and Ross, that the other man has verbally stated he does not want to be alone with him in any way, shape or form, hurts.
“Oh, for fuck's sake, Madio - what the fuck have you said now?”
At the sound of the irritation conveyed within the voice which comes from behind them, from the doorway into the dilapidated building, Eion's back stiffens. A sense of determination, of his own pride surges through him, and he inhales deeply; opens his eyes narrowly to stare at the stony ground beneath him.
“The truth?”
There is enough confusion within the bounds of Jimmy's voice for it to be genuine, and Eion cannot help but smile faintly at the realisation that the other man really has no depth of idea as to why he should have been so upset by the fact that Ross didn't want to take first watch with him. And yet... Ross has wandered outside to where they sit, has seemingly sought him... them out. He frowns, struggles to resist his urge to look up and round, to seek sight of Ross' face in order that he might gauge the other man's intentions in some way.
Eion knows that it's pointless to attempt such a thing; understands suddenly that Ross is a better actor than he has previously accused him of being, and cannot help but wonder if that is the entire reason as to why the events of the alley actually occurred. Was Ross' kiss merely a way of his proving to Eion that he was wrong about him? Some sort of revenge over Eion's thoughtless, hurtful comments upon the parade ground?
“Get your backside in through that door, would you, Jim?”
Ross sounds tired, Eion thinks absently, listening to the rise and fall, the inflection of the other's voice and words. His frown scores deeper into his expression as he wonders, almost despite himself, why Jimmy is being verbally shepherded back into the building. Whether Ross intends for him to remain out there alone as night falls across the Ranges...
“Make your fucking mind up, would you, man? You said you weren't going to take the first watch!” Jimmy complains, petulance colouring his words even as he hauls himself upright; staggers slightly as he turns to stalk away from Eion, into the building behind him.
“No - I said, if you'd actually listened, that I wasn't going to let Damian fucking Lewis tell me what to do!”
“And if you'd said that to his face -,” Jimmy snaps, the fall of his footsteps deliberate and heavy as he walks away from Eion. Leaves him almost entirely alone in the darkening gloom of twilight.
Ross' chuckle is low and warm, the mere sound of it bringing a smile to Eion's face.
“Yeah, yeah...” Ross mutters, bemused perhaps by Jimmy's confused petulance, before he settles on the ground beside Eion. His elbow jabs deftly into Eion's arm, startling him enough that he actually lifts his head and looks round; realises that Ross is holding out a stainless steel mess-tin towards him, its contents steaming slightly in the tepid air. “Here. Figured you'd want something to eat, and - well, Scott's taken it upon himself to act like Mother fucking Hen in there, and heat up everyone's ration pack!”
Instinctively, politely taking the mess-tin out of Ross' hands, Eion glances down at the contents; sniffs the air appreciatively as he does so. A fork rests amongst the steaming food, and shuffling his rifle so that he has both hands free yet it is within easy reach of his grasp, Eion starts to eat, realising only as the first forkful enters his mouth precisely how hungry he is.
“Chicken stew with rehydrated dumplings,” Ross tells him, folding his arms about his knees as he watches Eion eat. “Apparently. Scott's decided to call it 'Malarkey's Mess' - which is probably more accurate than he actually thinks!”
Eion cannot bring himself to respond. He recognises the anxious tone of Ross' voice, finds himself perversely delighting in its presence, thinks that it's only fair the other man should share a little of the same uncertainty and confusion that he, himself, feels. Chewing carefully, salivating at the rich gravy in which the Army ration-pack meal is drenched, he focuses upon the distant tree line, absent mindedly wonders when Damian will return from his self-inflicted duties, knows that...
“I'm from Port Glasgow, Eion.”
Startled, Eion's head snaps round, muscles straining in his neck at the sudden movement, and he stares at Ross; realises that the other man's gaze is both steady and shrewd. He cannot understand the significance of the statement, feels his entire face furrow in abject bewilderment.
“Oh.” he says, then; “And?”
“And it's a rough place,” Shakily, Ross exhales; tiny tremors of warm air striking Eion's skin they are sitting so closely together. “My old man... well -,”
Breathing deeply, Eion cannot help but derive small comfort from the familiarly tobacco scented aroma of Ross; knows that it drifts off the other man's skin, as perfume once had from that of his mother.
“ - let's just say he'd rip my balls off and stuff them down my bloody throat if he ever found out I liked another bloke!”
Eion frowns, wonders obtusely whether this is all some sort of twisted mind-game that Ross likes to play, his appetite instantly waning. “I don't understand.”
“Yeah. Figured as much.” Ross shifts his weight, looks awkward and uncomfortable as he does so, his voice dipping into a confidential murmur. “Dad always reckoned I went into acting for the girls, Eion.”
“Okay...?”
“Well, either that - or the money.”
Eion's brow furrows. “Right.”
“The massive crush I had on Jeremy Irons?” Ross' grin is like quicksilver; there one moment, gone the next. “Well, that apparently went whooshing over both Mum and Dad's heads singing the theme-tune from It Ain't 'Alf 'Ot, Mum!'...”
“Jeremy Irons...?” Eion questions, glancing briefly down at the mess-tin he continues to hold onto, it's slowly congealing contents. He wonders whether someone's stirred mind-altering drugs into the stew, reasons with himself that such a thing having happened can be the only explanation as to Ross' sudden need to confide in him. Surely, Eion thinks as he returns his gaze to Ross' nervously smiling face, he's aurally hallucinating...
“What can I tell you?” Ross chuckles lowly, scrubbing a hand through the short lengths of his hair. He looks embarrassed. “It was my first job, my first part in an honest-to-fucking-God film, I was fifteen - and Jeremy Irons ticked all the right boxes. For a while, anyway. Until I met Grant.”
Cautiously, Eion places the mess-tin on the ground to one side, curls his hands about his rifle once more, holds it protectively close to him even as he tries to fathom Ross' confession. Because that, he thinks, is the only thing that it could be. He swallows thickly, isn't certain that he actually wants to hear anything more - yet aware that if he doesn't ask, if he doesn't know, he will always wonder... “Grant?”
“One of the leads,” Ross says, his gaze skittering away from Eion's, the hunch of his shoulders suggesting that whoever Grant had been, he had been more than just 'one of the leads' to Ross.
There is a moment's soft pause between them, a fraction of time where Eion is able to silently observe Ross, to witness within the other man's face a familiarity of expression that he has spent a lifetime hoping to never again witness, and he barely manages to stifle a heartfelt sigh at the misery, frustration, angry resentment that he can see trembling below the surface of the man who sits beside him. The look which illuminates Ross' face is one that Eion has seen peering back at him from mirrors, his eyes fogged with tears of impotent rage towards himself, towards his own pathetic attempts to hide from who he is. Because of his refusal to understand that it doesn't matter one iota to those who truly love him whether he's hetero-, bi- or homosexual, his lack of comprehension that his family and true friends will accept him regardless, Eion has wasted entire years of his life, missed countless opportunities, grown intimate with regrets he knows that he will never be able to fully let go of. Thoughtfully watching Ross, taking note of the self-conscious way in which the otherwise confident, brash young man's head is canted towards the ground, his fists white-knuckled as he grips onto the loose fabric of his uniform trousers, Eion realises that he does not want for him to become simply something else... someone else whom he regrets. He breathes deeply, steadily, a wave of tranquillity crashing over him as he understands for the first time that Ross is just as uncertain, as nervous, as anxious about fouling everything up - not only for him, for them, but for everyone else involved so intricately with the project - as Eion is, himself.
“What about George?”
His head jerking as though Eion's quietly spoken question has startled him, Ross blinks dazedly; stares uncertainly at him. “George?”
“Calil.”
“Well... what about him?” Ross asks, confusion clouding his face until, almost immediately, he seems to understand the point which Eion is trying to make, the question that he is attempting to discretely ask. “What? Jesus, no! No, you pratt! He fucked one of the girls I know - years ago, it was... but he broke her heart, and she kept whining about it to me and our mates, and... yeah. That's all!”
Relief slews through Eion at both the denial and the fervent explanation that flows from between Ross' lips. Watching the other man through the encroaching gloom, Eion knows that he's being told the truth; can almost taste the desperation which consumes Ross in his need to be believed, can see the honesty of the words shimmering in the depths of his gaze.
“It's...” Ross pauses, his gaze drifting momentarily away from Eion's so that he might stare across the Ranges, sighing as he does so. “It's complicated, okay? And I know that's a fucking cliché - believe me, I know! But... one thing I've found, is how it's not necessarily the greatest idea in the world to go round pissing influential people off.”
“Except me.”
Ross' smile is sly as he returns his gaze to Eion's. “Especially you.”
“I'm not disturbing you, am I gentlemen?”
Damian's question is lightly spoken, his arrival silent and sudden enough to cause Eion's head to snap around upon his neck; his fight or flight instinct for survival to kick in and his arms to brandish the rifle which he continues to hold onto. As he stares up into Damian's tired, faintly amused expression, he finds himself feeling both slightly foolish and grateful that he hadn't still been holding onto the mess-tin with the remnants of Malarkey's Mess in its depths. Eion cannot be certain, knows that he might have to do some research into the matter, but he's ninety-nine percent positive that tossing the congealing contents of a soldier's meal into the face and across the unusually pristine uniform of a superior officer is not the greatest thing to be doing.
Even if they are merely pretending to be an officer and his subordinate.
“No, Sir -,” Ross says lightly, and it dawns upon Eion that when his gaze had shifted, it had been Damian's soft footed approach that he had been watching. “Not at all. We were just chewing the fat, Sir...”
“Hm.” One of Damian's eyebrows arches towards his hairline, the expression upon his face inherently stern as his gaze flickers between Eion's wide-eyed, slightly embarrassed face, and the genuinely amused grin that consumes Ross'. “Well, Webster - as nice as it undoubtedly is that you and Liebgott have proverbially kissed and made friends again, I have to say that you fail horrifically at standing watch.”
Eion can feel the flush flood through his system, heat his chilled flesh in embarrassment - and he isn't sure whether he's blushing because Damian has accused him of being lousy at what he was asked to do, or because he's inadvertently reminded him of how it felt to have Ross' lips pressed against his own. Trying to be discrete, he risks a glance sideways, tries to discern how Ross has reacted to the other man's calmly spoken words, to decipher whether or not he, too, has remembered their not-quite-but-almost-so intimacy in the alley between the barracks huts.
The fact that Ross' smile is smug, self-contained, does not surprise Eion in the slightest.
In fact, he thinks as he returns his attention to Damian's bemused face, recognising the slight twitch at the corners of Ross' mouth as one that he seems to make whenever he is most pleased with himself, with a situation, serves only to reassure him.
“It was mostly my fault, Sir -,” Ross says, laughter echoing just below his words as he hauls himself upright; stands before Damian with obtusely relaxed limbs. When he glances back down at the motionless Eion, a smile lingers in the gleam of his eyes. “I brought some of Malarkey's ration pack stew out to him - so that he could eat it whilst it was still hot, rather than have him wait and see if the others left him anything out of the pot - and then I just... well, I guess you could say, it's my fault he fucked up, Sir, because I was talking to him. Distracting him from his duty. Sir.”
Shaking his head slightly, Damian smiles slowly, and Eion is pleased to see the lines of exhaustion at the corners of his eyes smooth out slightly; finds himself wondering precisely how much sleep those in line to be the officers, the men in charge, are actually getting. He suspects that it's probably less than he and the other actors in his barracks hut are managing to survive on.
“I see -,” Damian says, glances back down to the watchful Eion. “And I take it that Jim... Perconte is eating this Malarkey's Mess, too, is he?”
“I... guess.” Eion's brow furrows as he carefully picks up the mess-tin; stands up. It dawns upon him belatedly that Damian is probably going to be irritated by the fact that Jimmy left his post, abandoned Eion to perform the duty that their faux-superior officer had set them both to do, and he feels awkward and obtusely uncertain.
As though he has told tales on Jimmy out of turn.
Sighing, Damian scrubs a hand through his hair; turns his head to glance through the empty doorway into the building behind Eion and Ross. “Right. Liebgott -,”
“Sir?”
“Go and tell Perconte that as soon as he's done eating, he is to relieve Webster, here, on duty...” Damian pauses, his brow furrowing seemingly in thought. “Tell Malarkey that he'll be joining him.”
“Yes, Sir...”
Eion stands silently until Ross has walked away, stridden through the doorway into the roofless building to do Damian's bidding, before he clears his throat quietly. Slowly, Damian turns his head towards him, meets his gaze with a steady curiosity that reminds Eion of the fact that the man standing before him is no more an actual soldier, has no greater idea as to what the correct procedures and protocols are than he, himself, does.
“What?”
“I don't mind doing a second watch, Sir -,” Eion says, the words surprising him even as he gives them voice. He frowns slightly, cants his head a little to one side, watches Damian closely. “That is... I mean...”
“I know what you mean,” Damian's voice dips low enough that his words resonate with a hint of intimacy, of secrets shared between them. “And, honestly, Eion, this isn't about punishing Jimmy for going inside. I dare say that Ross can be very... persuasive when he wants to be.”
“I -,”
“Everyone needs to take a turn out here -,” Damian continues as though Eion hasn't spoken. He sighs deeply, ruffles his fingers through his hair once more until its short lengths stand haphazardly on end. “It's only fair.”
Although he cannot help but wonder if he is alone in his thinking, Eion doubts very much that fairness comes into such a thing. Biting back a sigh, he finds himself wondering whether Captain Dye and the others who are actually in charge have taken Damian and the other false officers to one side and dictated that the subordinates, himself and the others who have been selected for the roles of the enlisted soldiers, need to be treated like recalcitrant children. Because that, he thinks, is what it feels like. Eion hasn't felt quite so mismanaged since his own days at school, since his mid-teens when everything in his life seemed to coalesce to leave him a silently seething ball of irritation and confusion.
Perhaps it's the extreme tiredness that consumes them all, or even the constant flux of his own emotions concerning whatever is - or, conversely, isn't - happening between himself and Ross, but Eion's eyes narrow as he ponders the possibility that lines are being drawn, men who in the real world are equals are being segregated one from the other purely because of the roles they have been selected to play in the project. Damian, he thinks, is no more qualified to be an officer than he himself would be, and a small sparkle of ire ricochets through his brain at the thought that perhaps he could have been the one standing in front of Damian issuing orders around, if only he'd resembled Dick Winters a little more closely...
Dragging a deep breath into his body, trying habitually to quash his irritation, to quell the impulse to actually broach the subject with Damian, to question why he's so much better than everyone else... than Eion is... he nods his head tightly in response to whatever it is that the man in front of him is saying; glowers sullenly after him as, ducking his head down, hunching his shoulders forward into a slightly defensive, self-protective stance, Damian enters the building.
Leaving Eion alone.
oooo
Stepping inside the building, Eion is momentarily grateful for the fact that he is leaving the frigid temperatures outside - until he glances up towards where he knows the ceiling out to be, and sees only the purpling skies of twilight, a few glints of stars above. Even as he marvels at the fact that there is so little air pollution in the middle of the Ranges, that the skies are as clear as he has ever seen them, he shivers viciously, folding his arms around himself and tucking his hands beneath his armpits, knowing that even though the barracks hut he has spent the last few nights sleeping inside of smells hideous and old, he would much rather be within its confines for the duration of the exercise. Glancing around, narrowing his eyes against the gloom, the shadows which the crumbling walls with their wooden and steel framework clearly showing in places, still manage to cast, Eion cannot help but feel slightly relieved to discover he is not the only one who is feeling the cold. Each of the assembled men is pale with fatigue, with the frosty temperature which causes their breath to steam before their faces. Wrinkling his nose slightly, Eion instinctively wriggles his fingers, twitches his toes inside of his boots, tries to recall the facts of hypothermia, of frostbite - finds himself unable to, and sighs heavily, the heated fog of the exhalation seeping up to damply warm the very tip of his nose.
Despite the chill, the distinct lack of a roof over his head, walls to keep the cold night completely at bay, Eion is glad that his turn at watch has finished. Hunkering down by the pack he had abandoned upon arrival in the building, kicking it dismally with the capped toe of one boot, Eion sits with his back to the archaic wall; rests his head tiredly against the flaking plaster. He watches as the others begin to slowly reach for their own packs, the sleeping bags and bed-rolls they have brought with them for the scant hours of rest they know they will receive; smirks as he realises that Damian is seemingly trapped in the midst of an affable interrogation.
Standing in the middle of the room, looking distinctly uncomfortable, his sleeping bag clutched between awkward hands, Damian is being eyed by a few of the others, whose faces are adorned with expressions of something that resembles awe and disbelief, and Eion shakes his head; feels a faint tremor of sympathy ripple through him as he realises that Ross is amongst them.
“You worked with Ralph Fiennes?” Tim demands, his voice pitched high with incredulity. His eyes, Eion observes through the twilit gloom, are wide, appreciatively impressed even as they skitter around the room, shift from one face to another. Briefly, they meet Eion's own gaze, linger for a heartbeat... two... then shift away again. “Christ. My sister fucking loves him!”
The smile which Damian bestows upon him is distant and polite. “Really?”
“Fuck, yes!” Tim grins. “So... what's he like, then? Any salacious tittle-tattle I can bribe my sister with my knowledge of?”
“Yeah -,” Ross' mouth spreads into a grin of almost malicious amusement as he realises that Eion is watching him. “Is he really as up his own arse as the name suggests?”
“No, he's -,” Damian pauses, and once again, Eion is struck by the soft smile which briefly caresses the other man's face; softens its features enough that the Englishman seems almost younger, certainly less austere.
There is, Eion thinks, a story beneath anything that Damian might choose to reveal about Ralph Fiennes. Secrets which are barely hidden behind the slow, soft smile which Eion thinks he might understand, can certainly sympathise with...
Perhaps even feel jealous of.
“He's what?” Ross demands sharply, intruding upon the quiet recollection which has temporarily consumed Damian, which fascinates Eion.”A complete pillock?”
“No -,” Damian's eyes are no longer illuminated, darkened by his smile. “He's a nice bloke. A brilliant actor. A fantastic Hamlet.”
“Hamlet...” Ross' voice shifts into one that suggests thought and consideration, one that compliments his furrowed brow. “The mad Dane, yeah?”
“Yes.”
All but holding his breath, Eion waits - as he's near certain Damian, Tim, the others gathered within the building's broken down confines, are - for Ross to make a further mockery of either their rule-bending leader, or Ralph Fiennes...
“It's a good play,” Ross says quietly after a moment, his smile surprisingly soft. “Saw it when I was still at school. Big weekend trip down to Stratford during my last year there...”
“Really?” Eion is startled by the sound of his own voice, the curious tone to it, the doubt which radiates throughout its depths. A blush crawls across his face as Ross, Tim and Damian all turn to look at him, varying stages of slightly puzzled frowns pulling at their faces. “I mean... you studied Shakespeare?”
“Yes...” Ross says slowly, his brow drawing down across his eyes until he looks increasingly bad-tempered and querulous. “I studied Shakespeare. What of it?”
“We all have to study it, Eion -,” Tim says quickly. “Part of the syllabus for our exams.”
“GCSEs,” Damian adds, one eyebrow twitching up in bemusement. “Some of us even liked reading the plays.”
“Something you Yanks wouldn't -,”
Anger swells beneath the flush of embarrassment which has stained Eion's flesh and he glares tightly at Ross; cuts deftly in to the insult he knows is inevitably about to be spoken. “I liked Shakespeare at school, too, you know!”
“No one's saying you didn't, mate -,” Tim says, and it is immediately obvious to Eion that he is attempting to soothe a brewing squabble between himself and Ross.
Rubbing a hand across his eyes, picking disconsolately at the frigid polyester mix fabric of his sleeping bag, Eion wonders, stomach churning with an emotion he understands to be confused misery, whether or not he should simply cut his losses with Ross and leave the whole thing alone. It has been years since last someone had the power to make him so bewildered, feel so absolutely alone and uncertain simply by their words, the scathing glances bestowed upon him. He knows that he is worth more than Ross continues to imply - that he isn't merely a stupid American set loose in the wilds of England, that even without the project, without his having been chosen by Spielberg and Hanks, he is worth something to someone...
“I doubt there's an actor alive who doesn't appreciate Shakespeare in one form or another,”
Damian's voice cuts into Eion's thoughts; distracts him from his silent contemplation of whether he ought to believe that Ross actually likes him, or be eminently suspicious that he is simply being set up for a fall. He glances up, realises with a shiver of pleasure, that both Tim and Damian are both glowering furiously at Ross, who has - Eion notes with a small, barely there smile - at least the good grace to look ashamed.
“All I was going to say -,” Ross mutters darkly, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other as his eyes drift up; catch, meet, hold Eion's. “Was that seeing a fucking Shakespeare play in sodding Stratford is something that Americans don't necessarily get to do whilst they're damned well studying it!”
There is nothing within the statement that can feasibly be contradicted, Eion thinks; realises that beneath the aggrieved stance, the petulant expression upon Ross' face, there is a lingering sense of amusement, of camaraderie between them. Even as he shrugs his shoulders slightly, lifts himself up to unroll the sleeping bag enough to follow the example of those others keeping their distance from the quietly spoken apparent disagreement taking place in their midst, to climb out of the cold and into its hopefully warmer depths, Eion knows that it is enough.
An unspoken apology.
“He... does have a point... Sir.” Tim says after a moment, sounding slightly stunned. “I don't think they do. Americans, I mean...”
Hands moving to efficiently snap out his own sleeping bag, Damian sighs, the noise of it surprisingly loud in the encroaching night's stillness. He spreads it out beside Eion's own claimed space, narrows his eyes slightly when Ross does the same to Eion's right.
“I honestly have no idea whether they do, or they don't -,” Damian slumps tiredly down alongside Eion, hauls the sleeping bag over him. “Just... try to get some sleep, yeah?”
Turning his head, only half aware of the murmured agreements coming from the others around him, Eion stares silently at Ross; takes in the glitter and gleam of eyes that watch him in return, the swathe of his pale face as it emerges from the depths of his sleeping bag. His fingers itch to reach out and touch, to see whether the other man is as frozen as he, himself, is - but he resists the temptation to do so, to disturb his own burgeoning warmth as he, too, huddles into the constraints of his bed for the night.
“Don't think I'll be able to sleep if I can't hear you snoring in yours!” Ross whispers loudly, the words drawing bemused snorts from Damian and Tim from behind him, where they both have settled.
Scowling, certain that to respond to the undoubted insult - albeit one that Eion knows is entirely true; he does snore, show him someone who doesn't, he thinks as he enshrouds the lower half of his face beneath the edge of the sleeping bag - is only likely to encourage Ross further, he curls more tightly onto his side, closes his eyes and tries to ignore the cold, to forget the open sky where there should be a roof, the potential for icy rain falling onto them all as they sleep for a few hours, the possibility of being woken to perform another watch during the night... to sleep.
Moments pass, and Eion begins to feel the edges of his mind soften, grow lax in thought as slumber creeps towards him. He breathes in against the fabric of his sleeping bag, takes an almost childish delight in the heat of his exhalations warming the material against his face, allows himself to drift. Quiet sounds fill the air, of people shifting, their bodies moving against synthetic material as they all try to find comfortable positions against the ground; someone coughs, a muffled noise that stirs Eion's senses slightly, brings him a little closer to being fully aware once more, and then... he feels a soft thud against his knees through the padding of his sleeping bag.
Frowning, drowsily curious as to what has disturbed him, Eion cracks open one eye to peer through the gloom in the direction of his knees. It takes a moment or two for his sleep muddled mind to understand what it is that he's actually looking at, what he sees when his gaze shifts into sleepy focus, but when it does, the frown mutates into a small, pleased smile beneath the sleeping bag which covers it, and he closes his eyes once more.
Drifts off to sleep with the knowledge that Ross has shifted closer to him, has bent his own knees up until they rest against Eion's, separated only by the thick downy sleeping bags which enshroud them...