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(the boy is empty. the boy is nothing. the boy is not what he thought he was.)
Lars does not fight with the others in the squad anymore. He is still unsociable, still standoffish and rude. But he doesn’t brawl anymore, doesn’t jump at the slightest chance to fight with the people who should be his compatriots.
If anything he is even more withdrawn than before.
You don’t know why. You don’t even know why you care. He’s alive. Surely that is what matters. You managed to save him. You saved him.
In a way, it’s like you’ve taken responsibility for him. You’ve irrevocably bound him to you and you to him, just as your old captain did when he saved you. At least in this case that responsibility wasn’t forged in blood.
(the man is full. the man is overflowing. the man cannot contain the depths of his protectiveness.)
You can feel the Captain’s eyes on you. You’d thought it was just a natural sort of watchfulness, after you’d disobeyed orders. Most likely he was just keep an eye on you, in case you did it again. You resented the suspicion, even as you understood it.
After all, you have no reason to ever disobey again.
You had no reason to disobey in the first place, you just didn’t know it.
You wonder, sometimes, why you’re still fighting.
Thinking about the Captain keeps your mind off that thought. See, he watches you all the time. Not just when it would make sense, like when you’re going on watch, or preparing to head out. You’d understand if he was just making sure you weren’t going to run off again.
But he watches you in the mess hall, he watches you during inventory, hell, you even catch him watching you in the showers.
You’re not the only one who’s noticed.
You overhear some of the others. They’re laughing and joking, drinking by the fire. Relaxed and carefree, in a way you’ve never been.
“You seen the way the Captain looks at little Lars lately?” one of them says. You bristle automatically at the nickname.
“Can’t say I blame ‘im,” someone else chuckles. “That Lars, he’s pretty enough to be a girl.” There are laughs all around at that.
“Wouldn’t risk it meself,” the first man says. “Little bugger’d probably bite it off.” He says it weirdly fondly, almost proudly .
You shrink away from the firelight, away from the conversation you’ve overheard.
The next time you feel the Captain’s eyes on you, you glare at him until he turns away.
(the boy is angry. the boy is grieving. the boy is lost.)
Something has happened. You don’t know what. But Lars looks at you venomously, steps away whenever you stand near him and all but snarls whenever you try to speak to him. You come up behind him once, reaching out to tap his shoulder, and he slaps your hand away before you can touch him. It leaves you so wrong footed you forget what you even wanted him for.
It’s… awkward. For you, at any rate. The men seem to find it amusing, if the way they snigger is any indication. You don’t bother to ask them why. There are things people simply won’t tell their superior officer. You understand. You do. But even so….
You meet him coming off a watch shift. He’s tired, you know. He’s been taking double shifts lately, barely sleeping, and it shows. His sword is dull, his uniform wrinkled. There are lines of tension drawn all across Lars’ face, and they only get deeper when he sees you.
Lars takes a step away from you and stumbles on the uneven ground. He trips. He falls.
(the man is not what he is. the man is not who he was. the man is a living lie.)
Captain Griff’s arms wrap around you before you can hit the ground. You still turn your ankle, and hot shame burns up your spine. Stupid, you tell yourself. So stupid.
He’s so solicitous. It makes you nauseous. He braces you against his side, speaking empty platitudes, and you can feel his eyes rake over your body. He’s not a large man, but then, neither are you. And right now he’s well rested, uninjured and fit, while you’re… not.
The Captain is not guiding you to the field medics.
It’s useless to dig your heels in. The ground has been churned into slick mud by the footsteps of a thousand men. You’d only hurt yourself worse.
You consider, briefly, calling for help.
But that too makes the gorge rise in your throat. How could you ask for help? How could you bear the shame of?
How would you bear it if help never came?
So you gaze at the ground, and you limp alongside your Captain, and toward whatever fate he’s leading you to.
(the boy is what you make of him)
Lars seems surprised when you settle him on his bed. No, more than surprised. Almost distraught. And just as quickly it changes to anger, fury blazing in his eyes, and he kicks you square in the shoulder.
“Bastard,” he says, and a mess of words fall from his lips, terrible things, thoughts and phrases you’d never heard aloud and never would have expected from Lars of all people. “Touch me again,” he says, panting from the force of his tirade, “and I’ll gut you like a fish,” and you don’t doubt it for a moment.
You stay where you are, half crouched in the dirt. It’s impossible, the things he’s thought of you. You don’t- you’d never -
But you know as well as any that there are many that would .
“Lars,” you say, and anything else you could say just sounds hollow even in your head. He’s glaring at you still, teeth bared. Much like you, he seems at a loss for anything else to say.
You swallow. “Lars,” you start again, “if I’ve offended you I sincerely apologise. I didn’t realise- I didn’t know….” You swallow again. “I will leave if you want me to, but, before- your ankle. It needs to be examined.”
“It’s fine,” Lars snaps, though the way he’s holding his knee up to his chest suggests otherwise.
You offer to send a medic, overworked though they are, but Lars visibly pales at that. It takes you a moment to follow the train of his thought - you leaving his tent, immediately sending a medic to see to him. It paints an unpleasant picture.
“Fine,” Lars says, mulishly.
You have to ease his boot off of his already swollen ankle. He shouldn’t have kicked you with this leg, but you don’t say it. He’s tense enough as it is. Luckily there’s not much wrong with his ankle. Nothing a day or two of rest won’t sort out. He bristles when you tell him he’s off duty. He’s tense while you wrap his ankle, but relaxes by degrees.
By the time you stand up, ready to leave, Lars is… well, not relaxed. But his usual self, at least.
“Captain?” he asks, as you pause in the doorway.
(the man is what was made of him.)
“Because I care about you,” he says.