Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

July 20^th, 1943

He’s with us in this, Will hears the words of his commanding officer in his head, you have to treat him like he’s one of our boys.

Will finds it hard to concentrate as dozens of brown eyes on tan faces, covered with brown hair turn to look at him as he enters the tent. Sicily is full of olive skinned, beautiful people. The shades may vary, but for the most part, the people are tanned and beautiful. They echo their fields that have been ruined by the fascists. Their darks eyes are hungry and scared.

They must think I’m a Hun, Will realizes. A strange blond haired, blue eyed man coming into their country and disrupting their peace. Talking in a strange language and wearing strange clothes. Most of these people have never heard German, let along English. There were enough similarities between the two languages. Enough similarities in the blood and gore that was being spilt.

Everyone shot a gun the same way. Everyone bled and died the same way. How were the two any different?

We’re the good guys, that’s what they say. Will knows the speech. Knows the morale boosters and the USO shows by heart.

Lt. Colonel Jason Grace walks two steps in front of Will. He’s young to already be such a high ranking officer, but Grace had been in the army even before the bombing of Pearl Harbor. He’s a man made to be in the army. Clean cut. Ruthless when he had to be. A good shot and even better in close combat.

Most of the time, Will isn’t impressed by the soldiers he sees in the camps. Sure, they’re fighting for their county. Will wouldn’t be over here, halfway around the world, stitching up men if he didn’t believe in America. But most of the time, soldiers forgot they were fighting not just an idea of Nazism and Fascism, but people. They were shooting down people with families and homes. People with children and wives and parents who would miss them. They were fighting people that might not necessarily agree with Hitler and Mussolini but people who would die for their country. People in the same position as them.

Will didn’t like fighting. Violence in general. That’s why he had become a doctor. To heal and make the sick better.

Lt. Col. Grace is different though. He humanizes the people they are fighting. Maybe not Hitler, but he realizes that the common German foot soldier is just as much of an expendable peace in the Grand Scheme of Things as they, fighting for the Star Spangled Banner, are. Will doesn’t mind Grace too much. He’s proud to call him his commanding officer.

They make it to the back of the tent. In the corner is a body on a cot, pale and sweating. A man in civvies, torn and stained. No. A boy. He can’t be more than 18 or 19.

There are two female figures waiting beside him. One looks older, like the boy’s mother. She looks haggard, but proud at the same time. She looks Grace in the eye when they get close. The other woman is not as old, maybe the boy’s sister, approximately 21 to 24. She is by the boy’s bedside, holding his hand and stroking his hair.

“This is Maria di Angelo and her children. Bianca di Angelo—,” here he gestures faintly to the younger woman, “And that’s her son, Nico.”

The boy stirs and immediately Bianca is on her haunches to soothe the boy with soft words in Italian. Or Sicilian. Will hasn’t learned the difference yet.

“Nico was, ah, is a resistance fighter from a group that was starting up in Rome. The Fascists were ordered to kill him and his followers so they fled here on a boat. From what I gathered, he has an injury that he suffered right before they left Italy and came here and it’s festered ever since. I’ve got orders from up top. We’re to help anyone that helps it look like Italy is breaking away from the Axis. So we start here. Fix him up, if you can.”

With that, Grace turns on his heal with precision Will wishes he had and stalks back down the row of cots. This tent is full with everyone that came from Rome, about 40 people or more. Will is impressed that this young man, practically a child, was able to get all of these people to safer grounds.

“Do either of you speak any English?” Will asks hopefully. He’s met with blank stares from both Maria and her daughter.

“Nico,” Bianca says, squeezing her brother’s hand, “English.”

Right. The only one who knows English is the one incapacitated.

“Vous-parlez français, peut être?” Will asks. He knows some French from school. It was required in the boys’ school he’d been shipped off to in Louisiana. Even if the dialects were different, they’d have a language in common.   

“Un peu,” Maria says, nodding. Continuing in French she asks, “Are you a doctor?”

“Yes. I am going to try to help him.” Will says, speaking clumsily as he tries to put the right words together. Bianca looks lost, but with a few words from her mother she quiets down. She edges away from the cot just enough to let Will get close and examine the boy.

It’s his arms that are hurt. Infected, in fact. Lucky for the boy, it’s not as bad as it could be. Infection has only just started to set in, but not to the point of needing amputation. There are almost identical gashes on the upper part of both arms. It is obvious the two women had done the best they could to help him, but the boy really needed a doctor all along.

Will doesn’t know the French for “Infection” but he tells Maria that he has to clean the wounds with alcohol.

From the pocket of his military issued shirt, he produces a pad of paper and a pencil. He writes down what he needs: alcohol, penicillin, and clean bandages. Tearing the paper out of the book, he asks Maria to ask her daughter to give this to one of the soldiers stationed at the door of the tent. He would fetch what Will needs to help Nico.

A few more words from her mother and Bianca races down the aisle like a shot.

“He will be alright?” Maria asks. She’s just loud enough to hear over the din of the room, with people talking in Italian and Sicilian.

“With time.” Will says, because he doesn’t know how to say, “Hopefully.”

The fever in the boy’s skin must be sweated out. He’s hot and cold-clammy at the same time. His body is on the verge of completely shutting down in order to try and heal itself.

“How did he get hurt?” The doctor turns his head to look at his mother, who is giving him a calculating look. She pauses for a moment, thinking, Will guesses, if she should tell him or not. She looks at him for so long, Will considers apologizing for asking such a thing when she finally says:

“They put their dogs on him.” Maria says. She has a steel look in her eye as if daring Will to ask more. Will doesn’t. If he’s learned anything from this war, people who oppose dictatorships are often sentenced to die.

They wait together for ages in silence. It is only 20 minutes, give or take, but the di Angelo matriarch has not turned her gaze away from Will.

A baby cries at the front of the room. They’re quickly hushed. People cough and groan and complain loudly in a language Will is deaf to.

His patient coughs several times. Will puts a new, damp cloth on the boy’s forehead. He almost goes to fetch a cup of water for his patient, but he deems it best if he does not leave the bedside for the time being. Maria would probably misinterpret his meaning.

Within the next few minutes, Bianca returns with a soldier, luckily one Will recognizes.

He salutes Major Jackson, Grace’s second in command. Percy, as he prefers to be called, grins.
“At ease, captain,” Percy says with authority.

Will is glad that it was Percy that found Bianca. Percy has a sweetheart who is a WAC back home. Anna-something, if Will’s memory didn’t fail him. The major is loyal and respectful of women and wouldn’t sink as low to touch Bianca in a way another soldier might.

“This young dame said you needed all this,” Percy says. He’s from Manhattan, and talks like it. Says he could be a regular Captain America if he was from a different borough. When he got to talking about heroics, Grace usually shut him up.

He pushes a box of medical supplies into Will’s hands. There isn’t much but it’s no doubt all their unit can spare to use on non-GIs. It’s enough to get Nico into stable condition.

“Thank you,” Will says.

“Someone will be around to check on you, doc. Bring you dinner or something. ‘M not sure what the top dogs are telling Grace to do, but they’re yanking him by his leash for sure.” Percy says. He nods to Maria and then to Bianca before turning away with a two finger salute. Will likes Percy alright, too.

He goes to work on his patient. The first thing he needs to do is clean the wounds with the alcohol. Anymore festering and the skin would become gangrene.

“Nico!” Bianca shouts when Will applies the alcohol. Her brother is hissing and arching his back as he tries to squirm away from Will in his delusions.

“Please!” Will tries to keep her from hitting him or knocking him away from the bed, “I need to help. Heal him.”

“Bianca,” Maria says, “Che sta cercando di aiutarlo!”

“Ma Mamma—,”

A stern look from Maria shuts Bianca up. Will feels a twinge of sympathy for her; she’s only worried about her brother. Will would be too if it was Kay or Austin that was hurt.

Bianca takes a seat at her mother’s feet, a look of contempt on her face. Will tries to ignore it and go back to cleaning his patient’s wounds.

Once that’s over with, the boy calms down and stops struggling. Will stitches some of the deeper cuts that need them and wraps them in clean bandages.

It’s a little harder to find a vein.

It doesn’t help that the boy is dehydrated. It takes a couple of tries but Will finds a vein and hooks up the drip.

“Now we wait and pray. I will be back in two hours to check on him” Will tells Maria in French. She looks at him for a moment and bows her head. “Grazie, dottore.”

Will doesn’t need to know their native tongue to know what that means.

He packs up his things back into the box. It’s just about supper time, and he has worked himself to a place where he feels as though he doesn’t care what the night’s rations are. He walks back up the aisle of beds, feeling a pang in his heart that he can’t do more to help these people, and then a feeling of anger that the government that he is serving under isn’t doing more. Refugees, that’s what they are. They escaped Italy to be safe in Sicily and all they got was the watchful eyes of the American and British forces.

Sergeant Travis Stoll bumps into him as Will exits the tent. “I was just about to come and nab you.”

“Well, seems I’ve done your job for you,” Will says. He doesn’t mean to snap at Travis, but he isn’t in a good mood.

“Now, now,” he says, “What’s all this about? Something that our lord and savior Jason Grace put you up to? Or is this just one of your anarchic moods that our beloved Lieutenant Colonel doesn’t like?”

Will shifts the box he’s carry to one arm so he can use the other to punch Travis in the shoulder, “Shut up. It’s a patient I’ve been given. For political reasons.”

“Ooooh,” Travis says, “I get it. Gotta seem like we’re all buddy-buddy with the Italian resistance. I met one of the girls from the movement today, had plenty of moxie.”

“She’s probably Catholic. It would never work out.”

Travis whistles low, “If we ever had kids, what a poor bastard he would be. Temple on Saturday and Mass on Sunday.”

They’ve reached the mess tent by now. The smell of overcooked rations manages to get Will’s stomach to growl. At the noise, Travis laughs.

“Hey now, keep it quiet, Solace. The Germans will hear all the way from Berlin.”   

He hits Travis again on the way through the door.

After going through the line and getting something that is supposed to be chicken and something that looks vaguely like corn, Will and Travis find their usual spots at their usual table. At one end sit Percy and Grace, who seem to be arguing over the Yankees. A man named Underwood sits next to Percy. They’ve known each other the longest, and got shipped around together, way back in London. At the other end, Cecil Hawthorn sits across from Travis’ younger brother, Connor. No one is quite sure how the two brothers ended up in the same unit together, but it’s no question they work better as a team.

Will hates to think what happens if only one of them makes it through this war.

He takes a seat between Underwood and Connor. Travis settles next to Cecil.

Once he’s spotted, Grace immediately gets his attention.

“Will Nico di Angelo make it through?” There’s a scar on his lip that quivers when Grace purses his lips like that.

“If his fever goes down within the next several hours then yes, he should be alright. He might not have the full use of his arms for a while though.”

“That’s fine,” Grace says, “We don’t need him to shoot a gun anytime soon.”

That leaves a cold feeling in the pit of Will’s stomach. He forces himself to take a bit of dinner which is slimy and congealing. He eats it all though, just like he’s learned to do. Better to be ready to die with a full stomach than with an empty one.

He lets the others around him doing the talking, only speaking when spoken to. At one point, Percy asks him, “You’re a reasonable man, doc. Who would win in a fight: Anton Christoforidis or Fritzie Zivic?”

Will shrugs, “I don’t follow much boxing, sorry.”

Percy sighs, “Ah, what do they do in the South anyways? Sit around and watch grass grow? Talk about how swell the Jim Crow laws are?”

“Watch it, Yank.” Will growls, “You know I’m not like that.”

“Jesus, Solace. It was a joke. Something bothering you tonight?” Percy asks. The eyes of everyone at the table are on him. He feels cornered. He wants out.

Abruptly, he stands up, “Yes, actually.” He lets his accent slip into his words more than usual, “I think I’m goin’ to turn in early.”

“G’night, Will.” Connor calls.

Will answers by slamming the mess door behind him.

.

He doesn’t go back to his bunk. Instead, he walks to the tent where the refugees are.

Nothing has changed much in the 45 minutes he’s been gone. Dinner has been passed around, but that’s about it. From what Will gathers, their dinner consists of stale bread, dried meat and whatever crops the combined American and British forces could come up with on the island. Food isn’t exactly scarce for them, but it ain’t no Garden of Eden either.

Maria and Bianca are still huddled around Nico when Will gets there. Someone got a cup of water for Nico di Angelo, which would help stave off dehydration. The boy had enough problems as it is.

Though the fever had not completely broken, it felt much lower than it had been. He tells Maria this and her eyes soften, a weight gone from her mind. There is a much better chance now that Nico will pull through relatively unscathed, he tells her. It’s good his vitals are improving and his body is responding to the medicine in a good way.

He watches Maria relay on this information to Bianca. She has a similar reaction to her mother’s, but stronger. She looks at Will with admiration and clasps one of his hands in thanks.

“Grazie, grazie.” She says, over and over, “Dio vi benedica!”

She races off, shouting to the others what Will can only assume is the good news that Nico will live. Young and old alike rejoice in this. Will sees smiles from the tan faces and the hugs and tears of joy that spread throughout the group.

“You are a holy man,” Maria says in French.

“No, ma’am.” Will says, “I am just trying to do a good thing.”

“My family owes you many thanks.” She says. Will shakes his head, “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

Though there’s little doubt in Will’s mind now that the boy won’t pull through, he sets up for the night to keep watch over his patient. Something about the way Grace talked about him made Will worry. It made Will want to be there in the morning should troops come walking through the door.

He sets a stool up against one of the poles keeping the tent up. That way he could lean against it, should he nod off.

And he did nod off. Sometime after midnight, after he had taken the IV out of Nico’s hand and checked his bandages. The boy’s temperature was back to normal and so was his pulse. Mind at ease, Will had let his mind drift and dream.

He wakes to the sound of the morning bugle. It takes him a second to remember that he isn’t in his bunk, but actually the tent of his patient. The refugees are just starting to stir in the early morning. Breakfast will soon be brought to them.

Will rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He'd had an unusually peaceful sleep, not plagued by nightmares of the bomb raids in London when he shipped out, or the small battle, by relative standards, which let them take Sicily.

His main goals for the morning are taking a piss and checking on his patient, though not necessarily in that order. When he turns his head to check on the boy, his heart jumps into his throat.

Nico di Angelo is sitting up in bed, the deep olive color of his skin having returned in the night. He looks tired and his hair is mussed and ratty. He needs a haircut and a shave. He looks exactly like a prisoner of war might.

Nico di Angelo looks at him with intelligent brown eyes, so dark they look kohl black. In his hands is what appears to be the family Bible. He’s reading a Psalm, Will notices.

For several seconds, the two just stare at one another. Will notices that Maria and Bianca sleep soundly in the cot next to Nico’s. They don’t make a sound. They don’t make introductions.

The young man nods, as if approving, “Ah, yes. You’re the doctor they gave me so I wouldn’t die before questioning.”

Chapter Text

Will wants to ask questions, but before he can, the entire tent seems to be rejoicing at the news of Nico’s speedy return to health. Maria and Bianca wake to crowd him, yet try to keep the others at bay. Dozens of people, young and old, in sickness and in health, stagger over to their leader as they touch and praise him.

One older man, Will places him at about sixty or so, uses a crutch to propel himself over to Nico’s side. The man gets bumped and tripped by the masses, but suddenly, Nico holds both hands and the group immediately quiets down.

Will wishes he understood Italian as Nico beckons the man forward with kind words, patting the cot to tell him it’s alright to sit.

The sea of people parts at this command. The man hobbles forward.

As Nico would later tell him, the conversation goes something like this:

“Teacher,” the man says in a similar dialect to Nico’s, “We are all so happy to see you are awake and well.”

Nico smiles and leans forward to take the man’s hand in his own, “And I am even happier to see you all in a similar state. How is your leg, my friend?”

“It is healing slowly, but I am so old, it is a miracle it is healing at all!”

The crowd breaks into laughter at what the man says. Will feels pushed out, but makes no move to push back in. There is no doubt in his mind that it’s all Nico can do right now to comfort his people. And they seem to be comforted. The air around the group is more joyous than it was when Will was here the day before. Even the tired and the sick seem in better spirits.

“You are only as old as your spirit, my friend, and so you are very young indeed. All of you are,” here Nico catches the attention of the whole group, “And you should all be proud you have made it this far. We will not let the stars and stripes withhold our freedom now!”

The crowd cheers, smiling and laughing. They seem to congratulate one another, and on that note, disperse. A few stragglers, the old man included, come up to Will and whisper fervent, foreign blessings and praises to him. He wishes their praises wouldn’t fall on deaf ears to the language. They all speak so beautifully.

Maria and Bianca are still crowding Nico, but after another firm word, back away. Will is now being called forward.

“Doctor,” Nico says, his accent rolling over the word beautifully, “I’m afraid I did not have the opportunity to catch your name. I’m sure you already know mine.”

“Captain Will Solace of the U.S. Army.” Will says. He can’t help but add, “Your humility knows no bounds.”

Nico chuckles and offers a wry sort of smile, “If that is what they call infamy now, then surely I am the most humble man known to all the Fascists in Italy.”

He breaks off into a dizzy pitch forward. Will rushes forward and catches him before he can topple off of his cot. Maria and Bianca look on, worry plain on their faces. They do not try to interfere though, as Nico holds up a hand to stop them before they can.

“Do you think this will happen often, Captain?” Nico says. Will doesn’t answer right away, choosing instead to get the revolutionary a drink from a nearby canteen.

“Despite your, dare I say it, miraculous recovery—,”

“I am full of miracles, Captain.”

“—your body is still trying to fight the infection off. The penicillin you were given did most of the heavy lifting, thank the good Lord, but you need to take it slow. No leading revolutions or uprisings anytime soon.”

Will lets go of Nico, who settles back into the pillow, “And how long are we talking? I’m sure every soldier here is waiting for me to make my big escape. I can hardly disappoint.”

“You owe me at least three days.” Will says, voice firm.

Nico tilts his head to the side, “I think I could manage three days.”

Will opens his mouth to say more, ask a question maybe about how a kid (he is a kid—19 years old and already leading his people to safer ground, their Promised Land) like him gets into such a place of power, but he’s interrupted. The door to the tent slams open and in marches a few familiar faces.

Will recognizes Grace right away, who is walking half a step behind Octavian Simmons, a Major in the British army. He’s the British officer Will’s unit has the most contact with. Will’s theory on this is that Simmons is the officer the Brits can spare—Will knows he certainly wouldn’t have a problem loosing Simmons. And yeah, he knows that’s kind of harsh, but Simmons, as the Brits say, is a real prat. Will isn’t quite sure how Grace puts up with him.

A step behind Grace is Percy and Captain Frank Zhang, stationed with a small Canadian unit staying the Brits. Will likes Zhang. He’s a swell guy, and one of the only men in camp who knows any manners at all. However they raise them in the Great White North, they’re doing something right.

“Ah,” Nico says when he spots them coming, “the cavalry has come for me at last.”

He has a surprisingly good grasp on English idioms and Will continues to wonder where exactly he learned the language. He has a slight accent when he talks, but Will can’t decide if that’s from the Italian or the dialect of English he picked up. Will tucks the question away in his mind, adding it to the growing list.

There is a small girl, maybe five years old, in the aisle where the officers walk. Simmons shoves her out of the way with his boot. Will looks over to Nico, his expression hasn’t changed but his jaw has clenched a bit. He does not cry out.

It’s a test, Will thinks. A test Nico di Angelo intends to pass.

Will salutes when the party comes close enough. He doesn’t want to salute Simmons, but he doesn’t have a choice. Simmons still outranks him.

“At ease, Captain,” Grace says.

Nico sits up and gives a mocking salute. Octavian sneers.

“It would be in your best interest to be polite to the people that decide what to do with you.” He says. He’s a real smarmy bastard, Will thinks.

“I’m sure. However, it would be in your best interest to try and refrain from hurting any more of my people. Italians can keep grudges for centuries.”

Nico has a perfectly reasonable expression on his face, but his tone suggests he’s toying with Octavian. Will hopes he is, because Simmons darn well deserves it. Will doesn’t think he’s ever hated a person so much. Except maybe Hitler.

But he’s never met Hitler, so Octavian Simmons seems like the Devil himself.  

Simmons opens his mouth to retort, but Grace swoops in before he can say something fat-headed.

“Mr. di Angelo, we have a few questions for you. Just answer them and we’ll leave you enough alone. Do you think you can do that for us?”

“I will do my absolute best…I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, Lieutenant Colonel?”

Grace seems surprised by this question, but composes himself in an instant. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Jason Grace. This is my second in command, Major Perseus Jackson. This is Major Octavian Simmons with the British forces, and Captain Frank Zhang, with the Canadians. Does this answer your question, Mr. di Angelo?”

Nico nods, pleased, “Yes, thank you, Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Now if we could get started; Captain Solace, you’re dismi—,”

“Oh, please, let him stay. My doctor says I am still sick and will require medical attention for the next three days. I may need him around for a while.”

Grace deliberates on this. He turns to Percy and they whisper between each other for a few moments. Simmons doesn’t look happy with this proposition, but Zhang seems indifferent. Will is a little surprised himself, but it makes sense why Nico asked him all those questions. He needed something to go on, but why would he ask Will to stick around?

“Very well. Captain, take a seat, you can stay.” Grace says after a few minutes.

Nico turns to his sister and mother, who are still crowded by their cot. They look at the officers with skeptical expressions on their faces. Bianca looks scared. She holds her mother’s hand tightly.

“Mamma, Bianca--.”

“Nico—,” Bianca says, looking worried.

“Per favore, andate.”  Nico says, and without another word, Bianca and Maria step around the officers and leave to go tend to the others.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Grace says. He pulls a small stool over and sits. His bulk looks ridiculous, being forcefully contained as such, but he still manages to command the room, er, tent.

Percy will do the interrogating, Will knows. Grace can command a room, but Percy is a people person. Grace already has a pencil and pad of paper out to write down everything Nico says for future reference.

“So, Mr. di Angelo,” Percy says in a cordial tone of voice, “Could we ask your full name, the names of your immediate family members, and your date of birth?”

“Of course, Major.” Nico says, “My full name is Nicola di Angelo. My mother’s name is Maria Angelina di Angelo and my sister is Bianca Francesca Maria di Angelo. I was born January 28^th, 1924. My sister was born in 1922.”

Grace scribbles down everything he says. Zhang does too. No doubt the Canadians are worried that the Americans won’t share.

“You’re 19 years old?” Simmons asks, like he doesn’t believe Nico.

“The last time I checked.” Nico says, a simpering smile on his face.

“What about your father, Mr. di Angelo? I didn’t hear you mention him.” Percy continues before Nico and Simmons can continue their verbal sparring.

The smile melts off of Nico’s face. It’s suddenly obvious to everyone that Nico’s father is sore spot for him. Will realizes they’re going to use that against Nico in the future and feels the need to warn the young revolutionary, but doesn’t have a way to.

“My father’s name is Hades Notoriano. He’s an American, like you Major, Lieutenant Colonel. He came back to Italy to find his heritage. He met my mother and stuck around long enough to have me and my sister. He and Mama never married. I haven’t had contact with him since I was eleven years old. Is that enough information?”

Nico sends a glare towards Percy that makes the hair on the back of Will’s neck stand up and a shiver run down his spine. Percy, too, looks a little uncomfortable and shifts under Nico’s gaze.

“Yes, Mr. di Angelo,” Percy clears his throat, “that’s sufficient. Could you tell us a little about how you came to your position?”

“You mean how I became a revolutionary and, according to the Fascists, a wanted war criminal?” Nico laughs, dark and cold, “Of course you do.

“These are the people of Rome who the Fascists want dead, mostly prostitutes and the homeless and other undesireables, as well as homosexuals and people who simply don’t agree Mussolini. I decided one day that I no longer wanted to be part of a country that let soldiers kill anyone they didn’t think deserved the right to live. So, I began preaching in basements of houses and behind mausoleums of cemeteries.

“At first, only a few people came each time, but word spreads quickly. The only reason I had such a following was because my words did not reach the ears of the soldiers and politicians in Rome.”

“And, if I may interrupt, what did you tell these people that came to you?” Percy asks. The group of officers are enraptured with the story Nico tells, just as much as Will is. Even Octavian keeps his mouth shut.

“Much of what I have already told you, Major. That they have the right to live in a safe world where their peers do not try to kill them for being different. The people of the land are the sheep, and the leaders are the shepherds. What happens when an animal is mistreated? It runs away and finds a new master. I happen to be the new master they have chosen.”

“All of these analogies aside, Mr. di Angelo, what we want to know is why they have chosen you.” Percy says.

Nico shrugs, “I have delivered on all of my previous promises. I promised them I would get them out of Rome and into new fields, and here we are. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”

“I think we will be the judge of that,” Simmons says in a sharp tone.

“You misunderstand, Major,” Nico says, “It is not in my best interest to keep talking to you. Yes, the United States of America has been kind to us so far, but only because it is in their best interest. It makes them look good. How much longer will that be? I cannot be sure, so I have to keep the best interest of my people in mind when I talk to you. They depend on me just as much as you depend on your presidents and prime ministers to make the right decisions. I would like to keep their trust. If you have any further questions, I’m sure you can come to your own conclusions.”

Simmons is cut off from saying anything by Grace, who gets to his feet in a sudden manner (it looks as though no one wants Simmons to say anything that would get the Allied Forces on Nico’s bad side), “I’m sure we can, Mr. di Angelo. Thank you for all the questions you’ve already answered.”

Grace turns around and gestures for Percy to follow him. Percy does, after a second of giving Nico a strange look. Zhang follows without another word. Simmons gives both Nico and Will a sneer and marches off after the other officers.

Nico, when Will looks at him, has a pleased sort of expression on his face like he’s the cat that got the cream. “I think that went rather well. I won’t get you in trouble for that, will I?”

Will shakes his head, touched by Nico’s concern for him, even though they barely know each other, “Nah. Why did you ask me to stay around, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Nico says, “I thought that if they thought I was ill enough to need a doctor, they would be more considerate with the questions they asked. I don’t know if that succeeded or not, but it didn’t hurt.”

They’re left staring at the door the officers disappeared through at the other end of the tent in silence.

“I should get going,” Will says, collecting himself, “I need to check on some other patients.”

That’s a lie, but he doesn’t know how he could otherwise excuse himself.

Nico turns to look at him, his head tilted. His eyes are so dark, Will notices again, and his lashes are so long. Like a girl’s. The young man brushes a strand of long, dark hair behind his ear with the sweep of a few fingers.

“I’ll be back after lunch, though,” Will finds himself saying, as a way to amend something, but what he doesn’t know, “to check your vitals and make sure your fever hasn’t returned.”

At this point in Nico’s recovery, there isn’t a reason the fever would return. Will doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore. He really just needs to leave. And get some food in him. And take that piss.

“Very well, Captain Solace. It was nice meeting you.”

“And you!” Will says, “I’ll see you soon.”

“So I will.” Nico says, before reaching over the side of the bed to retrieve his Bible. He turns all of his attention to the book, so Will feels dismissed.

He exits the tent and heads to the latrine.

.

He makes the tail end of breakfast. Travis is sitting at their regular table, drinking shit army coffee and reading a report.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Travis greets. Will rolls his eyes at the nickname and digs into his powdered eggs.

“Have you heard the big news yet?” Travis asks. Will shakes his head, “No, I’ve been with a patient all night.”

“Uh-huh, sure, a patient.”

“Jesus Christ, Travis. Not like that.”

Travis rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything else on the subject, “The Allies bombed Rome last night. A couple of planes from the other American division with us and a couple of British planes.”

Will almost chokes on his stale toast. A cold feeling settles in the put of his stomach. “Rome?”

“Yeah, Will, why do you think we had to take this postage stamp of a place anyways? It was to get to Rome.”

Will swallows and gives what he hopes is a convincing smile, “Oh. Good.”

He wonders if Nico knows yet, and then realizes that Nico has only been awake for a couple of hours and Will was with him that entire time. The cold lump in his stomach grows.   

“S’good news though,” Travis continues, though Will is sure he doesn’t want to hear the rest of the sentence, “Damn krauts still have most of this island. If all goes to plan, we take Palermo in the next two days. I think we pack up tonight.”

Will finishes his breakfast and downs his coffee, “Guess I better go gather up my things then.”

He picks up his tray and heads for the exit. He can hear Travis singing that old song from the First World War behind him, “Pack up your troubles in your old Kit-bag and Smile, Smile, Smile…,”

.

He runs into Grace on the way to his bunk. He can just start to see the beginnings of everyone starting to pack up and move out, off to fight the next battle. Their unit is probably just the reinforcements. In fact, Will is pretty sure he’ll be with the last few groups to leave camp and head to Palermo. He’ll be with all of the wounded, and probably the Italian fugitives.

Nico. He’d probably be with Nico.

Will goes to salute his commanding officer, but before he can, Grace says, “None of that for a minute, Captain. I need to talk to you for a moment not just as your commanding officer but as your friend.”

He hopes his confusion doesn’t show on his face, but it’s hard not to look at least a bit surprised. Sure, he sometimes talks to Grace about baseball or their respective hometowns (Grace is from Hollywood, Will hails from just outside of Austin) and the like but he wouldn’t go as far as to call them…friends.

“Nico di Angelo is a character, isn’t he?” Grace says in a conversational tone. Will isn’t fooled for a second, though. He had figured this was coming.

“I guess,” Will says, “Is everything alright, sir?”

“Fine, fine,” Grace says, “but I know you know I have a lot of duties to attend to, with this move to Palermo and all. And we both know you’ll probably be staying with the wounded and the fugitives, so I was going to ask if you wouldn’t mind…keeping an eye on things for me.”

“You want me to spy on Nico for you.” Will looks him straight in the eye. At this, Grace’s shoulders slump a little and he sighs, “Yeah, I know. It sounds awful. This is why it isn’t a direct order and more of a favor. From one friend to another.”

“I thought we were supposed to be friendly to the Italians. Make a show of helping the rebels.”

Grace looks a little pained, “We only have to be friendly if they’re being friendly right back, and can you honestly say what di Angelo did back there was completely friendly?”

“He’s trying to protect his people, can you blame him?” Will says in a quiet voice.

“No,” Grace says. He sounds defeated which gives Will a feeling of accomplishment. “But I still have orders from up top, and I don’t want to be that asshole who makes you do this because I outrank you. I want you to do this for all the boys we’ll save with this information.”

It’s Will’s turn to grit his teeth and sigh, “Alright, sir.”

Grace perks up at this, “Glad to hear it, Captain. Whenever anything of interest comes up, just flag me down, ok?”

He does wait for Will’s affirmation, just squeezes Will’s shoulder and walks away.

.

He manages to busy himself for the rest of the morning, and get through lunch without feeling like he’s going to puke every time someone mentions the bombings or Palermo. The conversation around the lunch table makes things somewhat bearable.

Percy tells some awful joke, and Grace is the only one who finds him funny. That’s usually how it works. Sometimes, Will feels like Percy Jackson and Jason Grace are two sides of the same coin. Percy is out going, adventurous and brash like all city kids are, and then there’s Grace with his rules and regiment, but both men have morals stronger than steel. They’re loyalty to their cause, and more interestingly, to one another, has no fault.

They work so well together it’s endearing. Grace actually looks and sounds like a real human being when he’s around Percy, not just the emotionless brick wall the army has made him into.

Whatever Percy sees in Grace, Will’s glad he sees it. Will knows Percy sees whatever it is often enough to make an excuse to sneak out of Grace’s tent at o’dark thirty plenty of nights, whistling The Star-Spangled Banner as he limps to his own tent.

Will’s the last person to judge, though. If the smiles the two share, and the brushing of hands and being glued to the other’s hip makes this war bearable for them, then let them have it. Let something make this experience in hell a little better for them.

When Will gets up to leave the table, he doesn’t make eye-contact with Grace. He dumps his tray and strides out of the tent. He tries to clear his head on the walk from the mess tent to the one Nico’s in. If he’s going to do this, he has to have his nerves in check. Nico di Angelo seems like the kind of person to see right through a person.

The people in the tent have gathered in clusters, eating the food that was brought to them and talking. Some play a game of cards with a ratty deck, and others read from family Bibles. When he passes some groups, people wave to him and wish him well in their native tongue.

He’s surprised when he sees Nico. From the time Will saw him that morning to now, Nico shaved and washed up a bit. His hair is pulled back from his face and tied in a leather strip. Someone gave him a clean American uniform to wear and standard issue boots. All he’s missing are dog tags and a haircut and he could one of them. A soldier.

He is a soldier, Will thinks after the fact, just not one of ours.

“Afternoon, Captain.” Nico says when he approaches.

“Afternoon.” Will says, “You’ve been busy I see.” He gestures to the uniform with a weak wave of his hand before sitting down on the stool by Nico’s bed.

“Hardly,” Nico laughs, “My mother will barely let me out of her sight. I had to say grace sitting on this damned cot.”

That makes Will smiles. “Wrist, please. I need to check your pulse.”

In a few minutes, Will checks all of Nico’s vitals. All healthy. Like God himself performed a miracle overnight and Nico di Angelo survived to fight another day. Truth be told, God was probably smiling down on Nico right now, proud of all the things he’d accomplished.

“Have you heard the news of Rome?” Nico says. It startles Will, how easily Nico approaches the subject, but then again, a lot of things about Nico surprise Will.

“Yeah. Who—?”

“The corporal who gave me this uniform opened his mouth a bit too wide and let it slip. I have a feeling I wasn’t supposed to hear that.” Nico says.

“Have you told them, then?” Will asks. Nico follows his gaze to the masses; his followers carry out their business like normal.

Quietly, Nico says, “Do you think they’d be so peaceful if I had told them? A leader has to carry a burden for his people, and sometimes that burden is knowing too much.”

The wisdom of Nico’s words sinks in, and Will goes back to the conversation he’d had with Grace earlier. Grace is doing what he has to to keep his men safe, Will thinks, but so is Nico.

And I’m stuck in the damn middle.

“What do you think of it, the bombing?” Nico asks after a minute.

“I’m not sure I could give you an answer,” Will says, “I don’t know much about war and people keep telling me I’m too peaceful to have ended up in one.”

Nico gives him a strange look. Then, a smile breaks out over his features. It’s small, an upwards curve of his lips. He gives Will a thoughtful nod, “A good answer. I believe I can trust you, Captain, to help me keep my people safe.”

The blood in Will’s veins goes cold and for a moment he can swear his heart has stopped beating. The last thing in the world he wants to do is betray this man’s trust. If there’s anyone who deserves it, it’s Nico, not Grace.

He puts on a smile, the big grin he had before the war. It feels rotten on his face.

“I feel honored to earn your trust,” Will says. He feels sick to his stomach, “And the trust of your people, along with it.”

He can feel the bile rising in his throat.

“And please, call me Will.”

Chapter Text

July 21^st, 1943 (22:32)

Will offers a hand out to Nico and helps him up onto the back of the truck. There’s a soft drizzle falling now, in the dark cover of the night, and though Will told Nico that he needed to keep his bandages clean and dry, Nico insisted on helping load the trucks. Now, their task is finished and Will settles himself and Nico on the back of the last truck.

There are six trucks in all that carry the wounded and the fugitives. Like Will guessed earlier, they’re the last to ship out from the base on the way to Palermo. Grace and Percy left an hour earlier, hoping to reach the rest of the Allies by morning. Will can’t help but think this weather is downright dreadful for fighting; he hopes it doesn’t persist.

It’s dreadful for anything; but then again, Will is biased. In Texas, the only rains that come are the heavy storms with the hard droplets and warm wind. This is just cold and miserable, even though it’s July.

Nico, however, doesn’t seem to mind. He’s wearing Will’s coat, because even if the revolutionary feels well enough to help, it’ll be over Will’s dead body that the young man gets a cold under his watch.

It startles Will when Nico grabs the framework that holds up the covering over the truck bed and turns himself to lean halfway out of the truck. His face is tilted up, a serene smile on his face. The hood of the coat falls back and his dark hair flits around his face as the wind and rain pick it up. He holds his head back for a few seconds before nimbly swinging himself back under the covering and back next to Will.

His face is damp now—droplets of water balance Nico’s eyelashes. His smile only widens when he sees Will’s expression.

Laughing, Nico brushes a damp lock of hair behind his ear, “Forgive my behavior, Will, but I haven’t felt the rain in a while. It reminds me of England.”

“England?” Will asks before he can help himself. If Nico spent time in England, that would explain the great quality of his English, and the slight accent that doesn’t sound Italian, nor English, just very…posh.

Nico nods. He places his hands in his lap, before he turns his head to look at the other occupants of the truck. His mother and sister are on this one, already dozing against one another. Other refugees crowd the small space, including the man with the crutch Will recognizes from earlier. Everyone slumbers on through the rain, except the two of them, of course.

“My father sent me to England to get my education. He wanted me to go to America, originally, but Mamma didn’t want me off the continent. She thought even England was a stretch.” Nico says.

“That’s the last time you saw him?” Will asks. He immediately regrets it, because it was a sore spot earlier, but Nico just slumps a bit in the too-large coat and nods.

“Yeah, he dropped me off at the train station and told me to write.” Nico laughs bitterly, “Never did write me back.

“It wasn’t all bad, though. The education was a fine one. And during the summer months I stayed with a friend in Paris. Her father was in business with mine; hell, they still might be. They were American. The Dare family, have you heard of them?”

Will thinks a minute. “Yeah, I think so. Big business family; owns a lot of property in New York.”

Nico nods, “I was friends with their daughter, Rachel. I sometimes miss her company. She was great company—she was an artist, you know the type? She was always taking me on adventures in Paris. Have you ever been to Paris?”

Will shakes his head. “No. The farthest I went before here was London.”

“Ah, London is a wonderful city as well. Old, like Paris, but greyer. I prefer Paris, myself.”

“I’ve been to Paris, Texas. I doubt that’s anything similar though,” Will says. Nico snorts and laughs, sounding like the young man he is for a few seconds. When Bianca shifts in her sleep, Nico manages to quiet himself into stifled chuckles.

“No, I doubt it.” He trails into a sigh, “I loved England though, for all of its awful weather, unfortunate food and dour inhabitants.”

“Why did you leave then? How’d you end up in Rome?” Will asks. He’s generally curious about Nico; a man so influential in certain circles is bound to have an interesting backstory. Even so, the promise he made to Grace grates on him in the back of his mind. Will wants to know more about Nico and be his friend. For now, he can dub himself a double agent, but he’ll have to choose a side eventually.

He pushes that thought to the side when Nico frowns and scrubs a hand over his face, “I was, for lack of a better term, deported. When Italy pledged it’s allegiance to Germany, I was seen as a possible threat. I was barely 16 and had never been to Rome or Berlin in my life, but I was a threat. As I look back on it, I don’t blame the British government. I would’ve done the same thing, I’m sure.

“When I got back home to Venice, I hadn’t seen my family in over five years. I hadn’t been home in five years, and the first thing we did was pack up and sell the house. We moved to Rome, where my uncle lived with his wife. He flies planes now, for the Italian Air Force. We don’t know if he’s dead or…” He trails off, but Will knows the rest. There are plenty of similar stories like that back in the States. He remembers Leo, his next door neighbor back home, whose father had been drafted and MIA for months while his mother worked in the plants building war machines. It had been eight months before Leo’s father was found and returned, albeit missing a leg and two fingers on his left hand.

Nico shakes his head, as if he’s getting rid of the sad memories that cloud it. “My story is just one of many. Many of my people had it worse than I did.”

Will wants to reach out to him, hold his hand maybe. At the very least pat him on the shoulder. He doesn’t though, because he can’t get close. If he gives Nico more of a chance to trust him, it’ll just be harder to rip himself away.

“What about you, Doctor?” Nico asks. “Tell me about your home.”

So Will does. Will tells him about the B&B his mom owns, one of the few places that survived during the Depression. He tells Nico about the summers in California with his friends Lou, and Katie and Butch. Will even mentions his dad, his real dad, who left sometime when Will was little.

“I don’t have much memory of him,” Will says, quietly. It must be hard to hear over the roar of the engines of all the trucks, but he can’t bring himself to speak any louder. “But I remember, he had this really nice 1932 Mercedes. I remember the car better than I remember him. My mom says I look a lot like him. I dunno if that’s great news or something.”

“Well, we have one thing in common,” Nico says, “Aloof father figures.” He pauses and looks at Will, really looks at him. He tilts his head to the side and the intensity of his gaze causes Will trying his darndest to fight down a blush.

“For what it’s worth, if you do look like your father, he must’ve been very handsome.”

Will blushes dark this time and can’t help it. Maybe it’s his exhaustion and the cold and damp getting to his head but Nico’s words sound a lot flirtatious. Maybe Italians are just more forward with innocent compliments than Americans are. For now, that’s what Will will tell himself.

They ride in silence for a few miles, the hum of the engines and the patter of the rain the only sound in the dark night. It must be nearing midnight now, Will thinks. It’s almost the end of the first day Will prescribed to Nico.

“Did you always want to be a doctor?” Nico asks after some stretch of silence. Someone in the truck behind them releases a long snore, only to snort and shift before quieting down again. It’s odd, Will thinks, how they’re alone and not alone all at the same time. It feels like Will’s world has narrowed itself down to Nico di Angelo and the land the man is a part of. Will, for the first time during this war, feels at peace. Serene.

“Christ, no.” Will says, “When I was little I wanted to be a cowboy.”

At first, Nico looks surprised, but then he realizes Will is joking and his expression morphs into a playful little smile.

“I guess I always did,” Will says, “I like helping people, like healing people. My unit’s been telling me from the start I’m too awfully peaceful to be a part of the war, and I’m starting to agree with them more and more.”

After a pause, Will asks, “Did you always want to be a revolutionary?”

That gets a soft laugh out of Nico. It’s more of a hearty shake of his shoulders than noise but Will finds it endearing. His stomach does a weird sort of flippy thing and Will tries to swallow down his jitters. Nico is undoubtedly handsome, even a bit feminine in his features, so Will finds excuses. He stuffs his feelings down into his gut and promises to keep them there.

“No. God, no. I wanted to be lawyer actually. I doubt the world needs more of those, though.”

Nico would make an awfully fine lawyer, Will thinks. He’s charming, confident and Will has seen Nico play people right into his hands. He tells him this, and Nico blushes high on his cheekbones. It makes Will feel a little better, after all the flushing Nico caused him.

“That’s very kind,” Nico says, “But instead of a conniving, professional liar, I’ve become a conniving, amateur liar with awful benefits.”

His self-deprecating humor is funny, but it also worries Will. Though it may seem like that to Nico, Will can tell that his people think of their leader as a savoir. The adoration that is in their eyes when they look at Nico is plain. Though Nico shouldn’t be self-righteous, he needs to at least know the worth of his actions.

“You mean the world to your people,” Will says quietly.

“I know,” Nico says, “They mean the world to me. But I’m only one man.”

In the dark, Will can’t see the warning signs that Nico is about to cry, Nico hides it too well. He can, however, hear them; the little intake of breath that signals Nico is trying to keep his voice steady and tears out of his eyes.

Will doesn’t have a handkerchief to offer, so he offers what he can: his comfort. He opens up an arm to Nico, who takes it and tucks himself into Will’s side. There aren’t any words between them as Will tries to make them both comfortable. He pulls the end of the truck up and shifts them to lean against the bars that hold up the truck bed covering.

This young man, while very grown up and responsible, is still a boy. He should be allowed to cry when he needs to, so Will lets him have that luxury.

When Nico’s eyes run dry, he falls asleep. He curls up in the fetal positon, his head resting on Will’s lap. Nico’s long fingers lace tightly in Will’s own, a product of Nico’s own doing.

He notices, after a few minutes of rubbing soft circles on the back of Nico’s hand, that the Italian’s hand is not calloused in a way caused by pointing and shooting a gun, but from years of writing. It makes Will’s heart ache.

There’s nothing more for him to do but sleep, so uneasily, he leans his head back and closes his eyes.

July 22^nd, 1943 (18:37)

They spend the majority of the day apart. Will had busied him helping the nurses and other doctors set up the medical tents and tend to patients.

After the trucks had reached Palermo, tension was visibly running high. Will had been separated from Nico within minutes as the trucks were unloaded and officers directed the injured and rebels where they were supposed to go. Nico had been pulled along by his mother and sister at the order of a tired looking corpsman.

Grace had found him quickly enough, asking for what he had learned during his time with the young revolutionary. Will felt the need to vomit as soon as information started coming out of his mouth. He tried to gloss over some things, like Nico’s father and the uncle that Nico had in the Italian military. Instead, he mentioned Nico’s home in Venice and the education that he’d had in England and the love for Parisian art that he developed with his close American friend.

Grace hadn’t seemed all that impressed by Will’s espionage.

“As good as this information is Will, and believe me I’m glad that he’s talking to you at all, I—we—need something we can use. Something to know that di Angelo is really in this with us. The army won’t let me continue giving supplies to di Angelo’s people if we won’t be able to count on them for support. It’s all just—,”

“Politics and propaganda.” Will stated, “I know. And I’ll handle it. But don’t blame me if N-di Angelo doesn’t feel comfortable talking to me.”

Grace sighed. “I know, Captain, all I want is your best.” He’d left and left Will standing there, feeling sick and dirty. 

Now, though, Will sees Nico through the throngs of people as soldiers start setting up for battle. Grace gathered everyone together five minutes ago and now looks like he has some words of encouragement for his men.

“This is the battle that determines our worth,” Grace starts, “Our worth to our allies and to the world. We must win this, not for America, though the people back home should always be in our hearts and minds, and not for ourselves, but for the people that we are saving because enemy blood is shed tonight. Nico di Angelo, will you please step forward!”

Will’s heart stops in his chest for a few beats. His eyes find Nico’s in a second, and Nico is looking just as confused as Will feels. Grace is heavily armed, like all the soldiers are, but he wouldn’t go as far as to execute Nico in front of everyone—

Would he?

Nico goes to stand next to Grace, looking confident and relaxed enough, though the set of his jaw is hard and his eyes are flinty.

“This is who I want you all to keep in mind tonight as you go out there and fight. Now, I know he may not be as pretty as some of your sweethearts back home,” there’s scattered laughter here, “but this young man has done arguably more for his people than I have done for mine. He got them out of a less than desirable situation and to safety, with people that are willing to help them. Don’t let his sacrifices be for nothing. You need to go out there and make sure that the blood that was spilled was for a righteous cause!”

There’s approving whistles and applause scattered throughout the crowd. Grace claps Nico hardily on the back, making Nico pitch forward a bit with the force of it. Now that the crowd is riled up, Nico slips away from Grace. Moments later, he shows up at Will’s side.

“That was unpleasant,” Nico says. There’s a few wispy pieces of hair escaping from the tie it’s in; the strands flit around his face in the slight breeze and it’s more distracting to Will than it should be.

“No kidding. I thought…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Even so, Nico nods. “No, I understand, and I am also thankful that it didn’t happen that way.”

They are both silent as the crowd of soldiers starts to disperse and go their separate ways to their posts.

“Where will you be?” Will asks, breaking their moment of silence.

“Where ever I am needed,” Nico says, eyes looking off somewhere in the middle distance, “So neither here nor there, I suppose.”

“You could always lend a hand in medical. Seems to me like we’re always short staffed.” Will says. He doesn’t want to let Nico out of his sight. Something is going to go wrong if Nico is left alone. The Army is going to find something to pin on Nico if they can help it, just as a way to get rid of him.

“I don’t doubt it, Will, though I don’t think your men would like one of the enemy helping out in the infirmary.”

“You’re hardly the enemy.” Will tries to reason.

“Am I? To them I am. Just because I have decided I like them better than I like Mussolini doesn’t make me one of them in their eyes.” Nico sighs and brushes a lock of hair out of his face.

“Be careful to night, won’t you, Will? I hope to see you after this is all over.” Nico reaches out and places a cool hand on his face. The coolness of Nico’s hand against the warmth of Will’s face makes the doctor’s skin tingle. Nico takes his hand back after a moment. He squeezes Will’s shoulder with a soft smile on his face before he turns around and disappears into the throngs of people going to and fro.

Will sighs and tries to steel his nerves. He turns the other way and heads to the medical tent.

 July 24^th, 1943 (10:48)

Will hasn’t slept in 36 hours. He’s running on adrenaline, shit army coffee and pure will power. There’s rumors going around that the Italian forces are expected to be pulling out soon, but they’ve already lost so many lives in this war and so much blood has been shed, does the date really make a difference?

He’s been called to Grace’s office. The only reason the Lieutenant Colonel is there and not out fighting is that his arm is in a sling and he can’t hold a gun with only one arm working.

Grace, sitting behind his flimsy desk, has a report in his bad hand and a flask in his good one. They’ve all been a little out of it since Connor…since Connor became another casualty of war.

Will couldn’t save everyone. Connor was just another grim reminder of that.

Honestly, Will doesn’t know how much longer Travis is going to last without his brother.

Even if their moral is down, Grace looks put together. He’s clean-shaven and his uniform is straight and as clean as anything can be these days. Despite the initial appearance of collectiveness, Grace still looks haggard, and for a few moments Will actually feels sort of bad for him.

“Do you have anything for me?” Grace asks. There is no time any more for formalities.

Will swallows, “He-he doesn’t know if he can trust u—,”

“Lieutenant Colonel!” A crisp British accent echoes around the tent as Major Octavian Simmons enters, dragging Nico di Angelo behind him. Frank Zhang, the gentle giant, brings up the rear. He has a gun in hand and a blank expression on his face.

“You’ll never guess what I just found.” Simmons says with a look of absolute glee on his face. “Mr. di Angelo right here was found talking to a group of Italian soldiers and by the sound of it, saying less than pleasant things about the Allies.”

Nico’s head hangs, his hair free of its tie and hiding his face from the room’s occupants.

“Is this true, Mr. di Angelo?” Grace asks.

Nico looks up. His eye has a bruise blossoming around it and his lip is split. “You must not know how politics works. I was trying to get them to surrender.”

“Yes, but it’s your word against mine,” Simmons says. “And who do you think the higher-ups are going to believe? A scrappy little boy who thinks he’s some sort of revolutionary or a respected member of the Royal British Army?”

Simmons yanks on one of Nico’s arms and Nico immediately whimpers in pain.

“Please!” Will shouts before he can help himself, “You’re hurting him, his stitches aren’t healed yet.”

“And why should I care about this Italian dog,” Simmons growls. Will pushes Simmons out of the way and steadies Nico in his arms. “Shh,” Will coos, “It’s alright, Nico.”

“See!” Simmons says, “It’s gotten to the Captain, too.”

“Simmons, shut up,” Grace says. “We’re going to talk about this like adults.”

Will blocks the rest of the conversation out, trying to soothe Nico who is still gritting his teeth in pain. The two of them sink to the floor of the tent, Nico resting his head in the crook of Will’s neck and shoulder.

“What did you get yourself into, Nico?” Will whispers.

“Trouble,” Nico mumbles.

“We’re not going to execute him, Major. Certainly not without at least talking to my commanding officers.” Grace’s voice cuts in. At the sound of the word execute, Nico stiffens in Will’s arms. Will’s blood runs cold.

There’s a sigh, “Very well, Lieutenant Colonel. We’ll at the very least have to lock him up. I can—,”

“We’ll lock him up,” Grace agrees, “But we’re doing it in the American camp. Simmons, you’re dismissed. Zhang, a word please.”

And so when two corpsman come to take Nico away, Will steels himself and makes a promise not to cry. Nico left him with parting words, not to worry about him. Will doesn’t think he’ll be able to do that.

“I don’t want you talking to him anymore,” Grace says, coming up behind him, “I can’t trust you around him. Try and remember what you signed up for Captain, and where your loyalties lie.”

Will knows where his loyalties lie, and it’s not under the command of the Lieutenant Colonel Jason Grace.

Chapter Text

July 25^th, 1943 (00:21)

The fact that Grace is naïve enough to think that Will will do as he’s told because Grace is his commanding officer is funny as hell, Will thinks.

Will isn’t just going to give up on Nico, not when he’s spent so much time learning about the man and the amazing feats he’s accomplished. Nico doesn’t deserve whatever the army is going to do to him. It’s up to Will to make sure Nico gets out of this war alive.

He knows what the soldiers in his squadron say about him when they think he isn’t looking. They say he’s too weak to be in this war; that a man who says he can’t find it in himself to hurt someone, even if it’s for his country, shouldn’t be here. He’s too soft, too weak of will, too much of a pansy. Will’s heard it all, and as he straps on his boots in the middle of the night, he thinks about the pocket knife his mother saw him off with.

It’s sitting in the bottom of his duffle, still in its sheath. Will’s moral code had prevented him previously from using it for anything, but the more he thinks about it, the idea of taking it with him becomes an increasingly better one.

He rifles through his bag, his fingers closing around the cool enamel of the knife casing. He breathes out slowly through his mouth before slipping the knife into one of the pockets of his jacket. There’s not much noise in the tent, except for the soft snores of the men around him. Will tries to pick the path to the door that will cause the least amount of noise, but Travis, who isn’t sleeping much these days, rolls over and squints through the dark at him.

“Where ya goin’?” Travis asks, voice thick with sleep and the kind of mucus that settles in your throat when you cry yourself to sleep.

“Latrine,” Will whispers. Travis nods, rolls over again, and settles back down.

Will steels his nerves, takes another deep breath, and heads out the door.

He’s memorized the changing of the guard schedule. If he’s timed it right, he should be able to sneak around to the back of the mess tent, where Grace set up Nico’s impromptu prison.

There’s very little light in camp at almost 00:30; they can’t risk any extra light, whether it be a fire or a lamp. The only light Will has is the last sliver of moon that’s in the sky. It’s slow going to the mess tent, and Will doesn’t have a whole lot of extra time.

The camp is quiet; it’s the kind of quiet that reminds Will of calm Texas nights back home where he’d sit on the front porch with his Ma and drink lemonade. It’s hard to believe that home is half-way around the world.

The next set of guards ready to stand watch are talking with the last set, so none of the soldiers in the front of the tent pay any attention to the slight rustling sound as Will sneaks around the trashcans to the back of the tent. It’s a tight squeeze between the bushes and the frame of the tent, but Will’s lost enough weight in this war that he can manage.

He finds Nico easily enough. The man is sitting on the floor of the tent, on a small pallet he was given. There’s a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and he’s humming softly. Will can’t place the tune, but it sounds like something you’d sing in a church—a hymn. His head is resting against the frame of the tent, and in his hands he’s holding his family Bible.

“Nico,” Will whispers as loudly as he dares, “Nico di Angelo.”

Nico turns his head and looks around before finally locating the source of the voice. In the dim light, Will can see Nico break out into a smile. Will takes a few steps closer to Nico and crouches on the ground. There’s on a few millimeters of netting between them, but it may as well be a steel wall.

“Will,” Nico sounds elated, “I did not think I would see you again.” His palm is pressed against the side of the tent. Will, in a decision he thinks he won’t ever regret, presses his palm against Nico’s. Even with the netting in the way, he can feel the warmth coming from Nico’s skin. Nico is so alive, and yet he may not be for much longer if the U.S. Army has anything to do with it.

But that’s why Will’s here, to make sure that Nico di Angelo can live out the rest of his days.

“I couldn’t stay away. This shouldn’t have happened to you.” Will says, “It’s all my fault and—,”

He stops when his voice breaks. He didn’t think he was going to cry, but now that he sees Nico, he can’t help it.

“Shh, caro, it’s alright. I’m alright, thanks to you. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you. You gave me three days more.” Nico says. It’s funny, Will thinks, because he came here to comfort Nico.

“Did you come to break me out, caro?” Nico says, laughing softly like being held captive is just a funny joke. There’s a soft smile on his face, and the moonlight catches in his eyes.

(Will doesn’t want to call it love, he doesn’t. But it has to be love if he can’t imagine living in a world without Nico di Angelo in it.)

He thinks to the pocket knife in his jacket. Maybe, that was the original plan, but now he just wants to keep Nico safe.

“What does caro mean?” Will asks instead, butchering the pronunciation he’s sure. At the question, Nico colors a little, but doesn’t drop his hand that’s still pressed against Will’s.

“It means ‘darling’. Because you are dear to me, Will.” Nico says, quieter than before. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the netting of the tent. Against Will’s hand, Nico’s fingers scrabble for purchase as though they’re trying to close around Will’s.

Will does the only thing he can and offer his comfort. He leans his forehead against Nico’s and let’s himself breathe the same air as the revolutionary.

“You’re dear to me, too, Nico,” Will says.

(This has to be love. This has to be.)

He loses track of how long they stay like that, five minutes or maybe ten, pressed as close as they can, given the circumstances. Finally, Nico breaks the silence.

“Thank you for your efforts in trying to free me, but…it is almost one, yes? I have that taken care of.”

As if on cue, there’s a slight grunting noise from the front part of the tent. Will can’t see anything that far ahead, but Nico is smiling like the Cheshire cat.

“One thing that you Americans seem to do is underestimate women. Never underestimate a woman with a goal.” Nico says. He pulls away from Will’s touch and gives him a softer smile.

“Meet me out front, caro. I’ll be right there.” Nico says. He stoops to gather his things before striding to the door of the mess tent.

Will hesitates maybe three seconds before sprinting around to the front of the tent. The scene there is nothing of what Will expected; Bianca is standing over two unconscious guards (thankfully just unconscious, Will can see them breathing) with a rock in one hand. She’s dressed in a stolen U.S. Army uniform and her hair is twisted tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck.

At the sight of Will she lunges, and Will immediately braces for impact. He’s already recoiled by the time Bianca has a hold on his jacket collar.

“Smettila, Bianca,” Nico’s voice splits the tension, and at the sound of it, both Will and Bianca freeze. Bianca drops the rock in her hand dangerously close to Will’s feet before turning on a dime to face her brother. They hug one another tightly. In their embrace, Nico smooths over Bianca’s dark hair and kisses her temple.

They talk quietly between themselves for a minute or two. Will can’t help but look away. He doesn’t want to get between them, considering they’re talking privately. The beautiful language they talk in still falls deaf on Will’s ears, but Will does catch one word: caro.

Finally, Nico pulls away from Bianca. She looks disgruntled about something, but keeps quiet as Nico approaches Will. Nico looks a little bit breathtaking in this light; the waning moonlight catches his dark hair and makes it look silver. He’s so caught up in the image of Nico that when the Italian reaches to clasp their hands, Will’s fingers fumble.

They revert back to their position from earlier; Nico leans his forehead against Will’s, and his freehand comes to cup Will’s jaw. Nico’s thumb makes a swipe at the corner of Will’s mouth and Will parts his lips enough to let a breath of air escape.

“You have given me a wonderful three days, Will.” Nico says. “I can’t ever thank you enough for saving my life.”

“Don’t…It’s just my job, Nico.” Will takes a deep breath to keep from crying, “You-You have to go off and save your people now.”

Will feels Nico’s laugh more than he hears it. It rumbles in Nico’s chest and makes Nico’s bow-shaped lips break out into a smile. “No. You do. Go be a hero, and save the world. You don’t need me for that.”

“If. If you’re ever in Austin. Texas, I mean. If, if you ever there, look me up, won’t you?” Will says.

Nico pulls away from their embrace enough to nod. “Of course, Will. I look forward to it.” It’s a silly little lie, Will thinks. There isn’t any possibly way for them to see one another again, and so this really is good bye. He doesn’t want this moment to end.

“I have to go now, Will. But have faith we will see each other again. This has proved it to me.”

“Take care of your stitches.” Will stays stupidly.

There’s a quirk at the corner of Nico’s mouth. Nico leans in just a bit and presses a warm kiss to Will’s forehead. It warms him from the inside-out, and he finds his eyes closing in complete contentment.

“We will see one another again,” Nico says, “Don’t lose faith.”

With a final squeeze of his hand, the Italian man leaves Will standing there. Will watches Nico and his sister leave in the opposite direction. He’s sure they’ll be far away by dawn, and in his heart he hopes they’ll be far enough away to be rid of this international mess.

He wipes at the moisture collecting in his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. With one final, shuddering breath he trudges back to his tent. He won’t be sleeping for the next several hours, he’s sure.

1949

Will’s been ignoring the date on the calendar well enough for the last six years, he doesn’t know why this year has to feel any different.

He’s antsy. The brownstone that he bought after the war is hot, even with all the windows open. It’s the kind of hot that gets into your skin and you can’t get rid of no matter how high you turn the fans up and how much you strip down. It’s usual Texas weather, but Will feels that he never acclimated again after the war.

He gets out of his recliner, throwing the day’s paper on the floor beside the chair. The radio is doing the static-thing again, and Will’s not enough of a handy man to fix it. He thinks about calling Leo, that man can fix anything, but the idea of human companionship right now is enough to make Will’s stomach turn.

He sighs, going to the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. He downs it in one go before leaning against the counter and groaning. His skull hits the wood cabinets with a dull thud. He hates this day. He wants it to be over. Going upstairs and going to bed sounds appetizing, but it’s even hotter up there and Will doesn’t think he can stand the close feeling of sheets on his skin.

There’s a quiet knock on the door. So quiet that Will almost thinks he’s imagined it in his heat-addled brain. But there it is again.

Will doesn’t want company, but talking to the neighbors is better than having them think he’s some sort of recluse.

He undoes the deadbolt and cracks open the door.

He has to be hallucinating.

Cautiously, Will opens the door a little wider and for a moment, forgets to breathe.

Nico di Angelo, the Italian revolutionary, is standing on his front stoop.

“Nico.” Will says.

“Buongiorno, Will. What did I tell you, hm? I knew we’d see one another again.”

Will gets out of the doorway and lets Nico inside. Nico takes a few steps inside before looking around the small living room.

When Will is done closing and locking the door, he draws the curtains for good measure. Then, after a deep breath, he allows himself to really look at Nico.

Nico’s grown maybe an inch in the last six years. He’s got to be what, 25 by now? Christ, Will just turned 30.

He’s broadened a bit, too, and gained some weight and muscle back. His hair is shorn short, but it’s still as dark as it ever was. There’s a new scar that Will can see, cutting over the edge of his jaw and creeping up towards his cheek. The ones that Will remembers, the ones on Nico’s arms, are peeking out from the sleeves of his t-shirt. They’ve healed over quite nicely in the last six years.

Nico only has one bag, and it drops the floor with a heavy thud.

“Nico.” Will says again.

“Will,” Nico says dryly. He extends his hand, offering to Will. Without hesitation, Will twines his fingers with Nico, who takes it as leverage to pull Will closer. He’s just as warm as Will remembers.

“I missed you,” Will says in one breath. They lean in, pressing their foreheads together in a comforting, familiar gesture.

I love you.

A soft smile breaks out on those bow shaped lips. Nico’s eyes close and Will finds himself staring as those lashes that are still just as long.

“I missed you, too, caro.”

I love you, too, darling.

And this time, Will makes the promise to never let go.