[fic] the pacific - let this madness consume us
Title: let this madness consume us
Fandom The Pacific
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 761
Characters/Pairing: Ack Ack/Hillbilly
Summary: A moment on Gloucester.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters--they are based off of the actors' portrayals of characters in HBO's The Pacific, not the real people themselves.
Author's Note: DEAR SPANNA, I STAYED UP PAST 4AM WRITING THIS, I KNOW I'M AN AMAZING FRIEND. LOVE, JENNY.
also fratboys should be finished soon.
There is the squelch of boots through mud, the disjointed chanting of men somewhere in the far distance, halfhearted attempts to keep their spirits up. The lull of the monotony is sometimes worse than the hail of bullets and the edge of fear accompanying the frayed nerves of battle. It’s even worse with the rain sleeting in through the thick of the canopy, this fucking neverending rain that drags on relentlessly, seeping into their clothes and their skin and sometimes it feels like the very marrow of their bones has been drowned out and driving them mad.
It doesn’t stop the flow of war though, doesn’t stem the trickle of orders sent in from command. It doesn’t stop the paperwork from accumulating, doesn’t give Captain Haldane a moment’s worth of reprieve. Maybe this is why he’s faring better than his men, his attention caught by battle reports to be scratched out in his attempt at neat handwriting. He doesn’t have time to think about the way that his ankles feel swollen from the persistent mud of this veritable swamp they’ve decided to build camp in.
The air is so thick and humid that when he writes letters with his fountain pen, the ink bleeds out almost immediately, leaving behind barely legible blotches on the damp paper. It’s goddamn hot in the tent where the heat rising up off the earth is trapped in the tiny enclosement but he can hear the patter of rain against the roof, the slick sound of water against thick waterproof canvas. His skin is damp with the heat and he’d walk out into the tepid rain if he didn’t know that hoping to be cooled by evaporation was a pipe dream.
The flap opens without announcement. Andrew tenses for only a moment-a reflex-before he recognizes the cadence of the footsteps and he’s smiling a little tiredly.
“How long you been writing that?” Eddie asks. He’s dripping rainwater all over what serves as Andrew’s cot, a luxury prevented from sinking straight into the mud by logs propped under the legs. Andrew doesn’t mind.
“Too long,” Andrew replies, finishing his sentence and setting the pen down. He turns, studies Eddie’s profile in the pale light slanting through the open flap. It’s goddamn hot out there too, like stepping through a shower of warm bathwater.
Eddie looks back openly, and the corner of his lips lifts slightly. It’s a question and an open invitation, all in one.
Andrew flexes his hand, smiles, shuts the door of the tent. They don’t say anything-Andrew steps closer and Eddie stands up, water sliding down the regulation poncho as he looks at Andrew and this-this is still new enough that every look Eddie throws him is a question, hesitation in the way that he fingers the edges of the waterproof fabric.
Andrew understands-has sat with this man through enough nights in too many miserable foxholes, has been fighting alongside him too long not to understand. He splays his hand across the length of Eddie’s damp neck and he steps closer. Eddie’s breathing is a flutter on his lips, the strong pulse beating faster under the light touch of his thumb and he looks like he’s anticipating, like he’s curious.
Andrew knows the way a rifle fits against this shoulder, the silhouette of it in the flash of Japanese gunfire. He knows the strength of these legs carrying them through a forever march in mountains and swamps. He knows the kind expression that Eddie assumes for his men-and he knows the other side of the coin: the quiet calculated ferocity that makes him such a deadly force in the field.
And Eddie’s hand is hovering over his shoulder and his eyes are searching Andrew’s face and it’s obvious there’s a question there can I? and Andrew has to breathe out, one hand slipping along the wet of the poncho. Eddie’s eyelashes brush against his cheek as he blinks and smoothes a hand across the damp fabric stretched over Andrew’s shoulder-
They’re not kissing but it’s a close enough approximation.
He’s touching a familiar body in unfamiliar ways and it’s strange, this heady feeling pushing past the persistent rain, thrumming in rhythm to the beat of his heart and he thinks maybe he’s going mad with all the rain and water and swamp and this damp haze that dulls all his senses and he just needs, he just needs-
Eddie drags him the last half inch and-oh.
It is his perfect moment of clarity breaking through the clouds.
Fandom The Pacific
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 761
Characters/Pairing: Ack Ack/Hillbilly
Summary: A moment on Gloucester.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters--they are based off of the actors' portrayals of characters in HBO's The Pacific, not the real people themselves.
Author's Note: DEAR SPANNA, I STAYED UP PAST 4AM WRITING THIS, I KNOW I'M AN AMAZING FRIEND. LOVE, JENNY.
also fratboys should be finished soon.
There is the squelch of boots through mud, the disjointed chanting of men somewhere in the far distance, halfhearted attempts to keep their spirits up. The lull of the monotony is sometimes worse than the hail of bullets and the edge of fear accompanying the frayed nerves of battle. It’s even worse with the rain sleeting in through the thick of the canopy, this fucking neverending rain that drags on relentlessly, seeping into their clothes and their skin and sometimes it feels like the very marrow of their bones has been drowned out and driving them mad.
It doesn’t stop the flow of war though, doesn’t stem the trickle of orders sent in from command. It doesn’t stop the paperwork from accumulating, doesn’t give Captain Haldane a moment’s worth of reprieve. Maybe this is why he’s faring better than his men, his attention caught by battle reports to be scratched out in his attempt at neat handwriting. He doesn’t have time to think about the way that his ankles feel swollen from the persistent mud of this veritable swamp they’ve decided to build camp in.
The air is so thick and humid that when he writes letters with his fountain pen, the ink bleeds out almost immediately, leaving behind barely legible blotches on the damp paper. It’s goddamn hot in the tent where the heat rising up off the earth is trapped in the tiny enclosement but he can hear the patter of rain against the roof, the slick sound of water against thick waterproof canvas. His skin is damp with the heat and he’d walk out into the tepid rain if he didn’t know that hoping to be cooled by evaporation was a pipe dream.
The flap opens without announcement. Andrew tenses for only a moment-a reflex-before he recognizes the cadence of the footsteps and he’s smiling a little tiredly.
“How long you been writing that?” Eddie asks. He’s dripping rainwater all over what serves as Andrew’s cot, a luxury prevented from sinking straight into the mud by logs propped under the legs. Andrew doesn’t mind.
“Too long,” Andrew replies, finishing his sentence and setting the pen down. He turns, studies Eddie’s profile in the pale light slanting through the open flap. It’s goddamn hot out there too, like stepping through a shower of warm bathwater.
Eddie looks back openly, and the corner of his lips lifts slightly. It’s a question and an open invitation, all in one.
Andrew flexes his hand, smiles, shuts the door of the tent. They don’t say anything-Andrew steps closer and Eddie stands up, water sliding down the regulation poncho as he looks at Andrew and this-this is still new enough that every look Eddie throws him is a question, hesitation in the way that he fingers the edges of the waterproof fabric.
Andrew understands-has sat with this man through enough nights in too many miserable foxholes, has been fighting alongside him too long not to understand. He splays his hand across the length of Eddie’s damp neck and he steps closer. Eddie’s breathing is a flutter on his lips, the strong pulse beating faster under the light touch of his thumb and he looks like he’s anticipating, like he’s curious.
Andrew knows the way a rifle fits against this shoulder, the silhouette of it in the flash of Japanese gunfire. He knows the strength of these legs carrying them through a forever march in mountains and swamps. He knows the kind expression that Eddie assumes for his men-and he knows the other side of the coin: the quiet calculated ferocity that makes him such a deadly force in the field.
And Eddie’s hand is hovering over his shoulder and his eyes are searching Andrew’s face and it’s obvious there’s a question there can I? and Andrew has to breathe out, one hand slipping along the wet of the poncho. Eddie’s eyelashes brush against his cheek as he blinks and smoothes a hand across the damp fabric stretched over Andrew’s shoulder-
They’re not kissing but it’s a close enough approximation.
He’s touching a familiar body in unfamiliar ways and it’s strange, this heady feeling pushing past the persistent rain, thrumming in rhythm to the beat of his heart and he thinks maybe he’s going mad with all the rain and water and swamp and this damp haze that dulls all his senses and he just needs, he just needs-
Eddie drags him the last half inch and-oh.
It is his perfect moment of clarity breaking through the clouds.