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"Any movement out there?"
Vin feels Chris before he catches his movement out of the corner of his eye: the warm puff of Chris' breath against his cheek, the sudden change in the air where before was only stillness and silence. He turns his head fractionally, just enough to see a flash of white as Chris grins, and shakes his head.
The night is clear and cold for September, the moon full; a perfect night for a sniper and the Germans are no fools. He can hear the occasional cough carrying on the still air, the odd low guttural murmur, but there'll be no movement tonight, Vin is sure.
He keeps his eyes fixed on the moonlit darkness beyond the wire, on the barren humps and gullies of No Man's Land. He tries not to think about the bodies out there, the twisted mangled shapes of men he knew, men who talked and laughed and sang and died. Or all the men he doesn't know, will never know, men he might have talked and laughed with but for a war and a trench and a dirty patch of land he can't even pronounce, let alone care for.
He doesn't want to hate the Germans. They're just men, he knows, just men like him or like Chris, men with homes and families, and they'll be just as cold and wet tonight, just as miserable and lonely.
But since Soissons he can't stop hating, can't stop seeing every German as the one who pulled the trigger and turned JD's tousled hair and bright smile into a horror Vin sees whenever he closes his eyes. He can't stop wondering about Ezra, wounded and taken prisoner at Cantigny when the attack over-extended and their flank was exposed, wondering where he is or if he's even alive.
There's movement again beside him and Chris settles on the fire-step, leaning against Vin's legs just enough for the heat from his body to start bleeding through, just enough to wake Vin's frozen feet and set them aflame. He's been on observation duty for two hours - it's not his turn and he could be in the dugout sleeping but they've lost so many men.
The loneliness is worse than the cold, creeping insidiously through his veins, the empty solitude of one man and the dead; and he uncurls his frozen fingers from the barrel of his rifle, reaches down to run them through Chris' hair, needing that touch, that connection to the living.
He doesn't want to think about the men lying out there, doesn't want to think about Ezra or JD, or Nate and the 371st somewhere out there in the line with the French. He thinks about Chris instead, how his hair is soft beneath Vin's hand, how his weight on his legs is welcome and solid, and his presence a blessing, his existence a gift.
"What you doing out here, Captain Larabee?" Vin's voice is hoarse from enforced silence and if there's a quaver in it that's nothing to do with the night and the chill Chris will never say anything.
He stresses the rank deliberately, drawing out the syllables, his lips curling in a bitter grin. They'd both been promoted in the wake of the battle at Soissons; the 16th had taken heavy casualties, the 1st battalion almost wiped out, and any lingering pride they'd once had at being the first troops in France had long since been obliterated in the mud and the madness, the empty places at stand-to, the silence in the trenches.
Chris had wrestled Vin to the ground when he'd wanted to go back for JD, knees sinking into the mud behind the lines, Vin's flailing hands pinned at the wrist. "Let me go," Vin had howled, and he'd fought, he'd fought so hard, but Chris had weight and rank and compassion on his side and he'd let Vin fight until he exhausted himself, until he lay quiet and shaking beneath Chris. Chris had exchanged glances with Father Sanchez over Vin's head and bit his lip until it bled at the padre's sorrowful face, the slow shake of the head.
Chris shivers slightly in the cold air, nudges Vin's legs briefly and rests his head on Vin's hip. He closes his eyes for a moment - any longer and he'll risk falling asleep - and just breathes slowly. "Just doing the rounds, Lieutenant Tanner."
"Didn't know you was back from HQ," Vin murmurs, lifting his chilled hands to his lips and blowing on them softly. "What did the Colonel want?"
"Offered me an adjutant's position." Chris' voice is scarcely more than a whisper but Vin can still hear the biting tone, can almost see the wry sneer on Chris' face, the way his lip curls and his brows draw in. Chris has never bothered to hide his disdain for the General Staff and Vin has pulled him aside on more than one occasion, urged him to keep his thoughts to himself, but there's not a better officer in the regiment and even Travis is honest enough to know it.
"You gonna take it?" Vin asks. He tightens his lips, curls his palm around his rifle once more, the touch of the cold iron and wood painful and welcome.
"No."
Vin glances down quickly but all he can see is the moonlight catching on the blonde hair resting against his hip and Chris' hands folded and relaxed in his lap. Chris is silent for a long moment, shifting his weight on the fire-step as Vin stamps his feet to keep warm, kicking out once at a rat that scuttles fearlessly across his boots.
"You ever heard of the Sacred Band of Thebes, Vin?" he asks eventually and Vin shakes his head.
"They a French regiment?"
There's that flash of white again as Chris grins, the glimmer of moonlight on his hair as he shakes his head. He chuckles softly and tilts his head back and up to Vin as Vin risks another quick glance down.
"What?" Vin asks. There's something more happening here, a meaning and an import behind Chris' words that he can't grasp. He repeats his question, but Chris says nothing.
Still smiling to himself he steps up behind Vin on the fire-step and drapes himself over Vin like a coat, cheek pressed against Vin's, chest warm against his back, so warm Vin's skin starts to spark with pinpricks of painful heat.
Chris reaches for the trench binoculars hanging around Vin's neck, one hand resting lightly on his hip, the fingers of the other brushing gently against the underside of Vin's jaw, slow and deliberate as he stares out into the darkness for a long moment. There's nothing to see. Vin knows there's nothing to see - just corpses, wire, dirt and rats - but he holds still, surrounded by Chris, enjoying the nearness and the warmth.
His mind flashes back to that night in the barn at Dammartin after the battle. The blood on his hands, his uniform, his face, JD's blood; and Chris, so careful and gentle, stripping him down, washing away every trace of gore.
He'd stayed beside Vin all night as Vin lay staring silent and dry-eyed into the dark, Chris' soft voice a counterpoint to the grunts and snores of the exhausted men around them in the hay. He had run his hands through Vin's hair over and over and whispered to him of home and sunsets, of ice-skating on the frozen river, the wild horses running in the valley and the sweet taste of ripe peaches, until Vin had shuddered once and closed his eyes and slept.
Vin wants to turn into Chris again now, to hide his face in his neck and breathe in the scent of him, wants to lay down and pull Chris over him like a living shield, but he keeps his hand on his gun and his eyes on the night.
Chris lowers the binoculars to rest against Vin's chest and splays his palm flat beneath them over Vin's heart. Vin brings his free hand up to cover it, the touch of his chilled flesh drawing a sudden jolt from Chris that tightens his grip on Vin.
"A man needs to have something to fight for," Chris whispers and his lips brush against Vin's jaw when he turns his head to speak, soft and low and so intimate Vin shivers despite the warmth of Chris at his back.
Chris' gaze is level and steady and Vin can feel his eyes on him until he has to look, has to drag his attention from the emptiness beyond the wire and look sideways at Chris. His eyes are dark and intense and the heat in that gaze keeps Vin warm long after Chris has smiled at him, brushed his thumb across Vin's cheekbone and moved away round the traverse and back down the trench, until Buck ambles along the duckboards at changeover, blinking sleep from his eyes and yawning.
When Vin shuffles back into the dugout there's a glass of whiskey on the makeshift table and Chris has warmed the blankets by the brazier. He falls asleep to the sound of Chris' voice as he reads, not of disease and death, but young men, strong and brave, marching two-by-two into the sunlight.