Archive of Our Own

It was still sleeting when he stepped into the building, and he gave only a perfunctory shake of his coat before crossing the room, his wet boot prints combining with that from others who had entered before him.

He had only been gone for a few minutes speaking to Major Winters, but there was already a small collection of messengers who had been looking for him gathered around a broken desk sharing cigarettes and gossip. It didn’t last though, not when one of the men glanced up and saw him.

“Sir!”

The others immediately straightened, jumping to attention as if they were still waiting to be inspected by their drill sergeant. They were young, these new men they had coming in—too young, and Captain Speirs found he didn’t much care for their unfamiliar faces, still round and too clean. The sooner they were out of his sight, the better. Why they hadn’t simply delivered their messages with anyone else in the building, he didn’t know, but since it would have to cross over his desk eventually, he supposed in the long run it didn’t matter.

“Why are you standing around, soldiers?” he asked without looking at them, instead searching for his pack of cigarettes in his pocket as he crossed the room towards the stairs.

“We were looking for you, sir,” said one of the men, still standing to attention. Speirs paused long enough in fishing out a cigarette from his crumpled pack to stare at him silently. The man, if possible stood even straighter.

“So then give it to me,” the captain said brusquely. The young soldiers wanted to impress everyone around them with their professionalism, but nobody had the energy or inclination to be impressed. He leaned against the wall and listened as a few verbal messages were delivered, watched impassively as a few left bundles of papers and intelligence that would have, in his mind, better been delivered in coded radio messages.

By the time they left the cigarette had been turned to ash and he was looking for another one. Papers under his arm, he went into the other room, opening a door that led into the makeshift office they had been using as the base of his headquarters. A few holes in the wall created an unpleasant breeze in the room, but he mostly ignored it in favor of lamenting the paperwork associated with a higher rank. He did not, however, make any move to take off his coat.

It was cold inside, and outside, though nothing would ever feel as bitter as Bastogne, now left behind them. For the most part this new French town they occupied was simply wet and gloomy, the close proximity to the enemy across the river making them subject to the occasional mortar. But here they had buildings that they could take shelter instead of frozen foxholes and rubble left behind by the shelling.

The relative safety did not mean they were free of casualties, though.

“How are you feeling, sergeant?” he asked, flipping through one of the files before tossing it back down on one of the desks in the room as he felt around for a cigarette in one of his pockets. The vast amount of paperwork and logistics that needed handling was too much for a man alone, which is why he’d gladly accepted First Sergeant Lipton’s offer of help now that the war was moving a little slower and his presence wasn’t constantly needed by the men.

Sitting at a one of the desks and studiously finishing another sheaf of paperwork for Command, his hat pulled low and scarf wound high on his neck, a blanket wrapped snugly around his shoulders, Lipton took longer to react to Speirs’ presence than he should have, eyes taking a moment to focus on the new presence in the drafty room.

Straightening up from his hunched over position at the desk with a brief grimace, Lipton set down his pen and nodded shortly. “Holding my own, sir.” He said in a scratchy voice, lines of fatigue etched on his face, an unhealthy flush high in his cheeks. “Any new orders from the major?”

“Hold position,” came the reply Speirs had given for the last few days. He paused to study Lipton, but so much as he wanted to send him to the aid station—he’d offered him the first day he found he was sick to secure him a ride—he still needed the help. He turned his gaze to the folder at the top of the mound on his desk, and moved around to take the chair so he could look at it properly.

“You should sleep a few hours, sergeant,” Speirs said after a moment without looking up from the forms. “None of this needs to be sent out immediately.”

“Thanks, but I’m almost finished, sir.” Lipton’s mouth quirked upwards tiredly, a hint of humour in his eyes as he picked his pen back up, the tip wobbling faintly before he started to write. “Just a few more stacks.”

“And then a few more,” Speirs murmured to himself. But he didn’t order the man to take a rest, instead just went back to work.

For a long while they both read and wrote in silence, until Speirs was eventually forced to turn to his typewriter. He hated the thing, solely because he’d had a better—more expensive—one the first day they arrived, until one of Dike’s officers took it. He managed to fill who knew how many pages before he finally was compelled to lean back, feeling a headache coming on from staring at the small letters for so long.

He pulled out another cigarette, and lit it, staring at the wall. Eventually his dark gaze found Lipton, and he tilted his head, noticing the sluggish way the sergeant was moving and writing, and the posture he was gradually taking at the desk, as if he couldn’t hold himself up straightly.

“You finished with the stacks,” he noted aloud. “Now go to sleep, sergeant. There’s a sofa in the next room.”

“Good to know, sir.” Lipton finished writing and added the paper to the stack of finished paperwork. What Command did with all of it he couldn’t even begin to fathom, but it had been ingrained in him since he’d enlisted about its importance so it must serve some greater purpose that was well beyond the understanding of his lowly rank of sergeant.

Getting up and trying not to stoop over like an eighty-year old man with sciatica, every joint in his body aching, Lipton dragged his chair over to the other side of Speirs desk and sat down heavily, trying to force back the sudden wave of dizziness that would’ve had him falling from his chair if he hadn’t had a good grip on the edge of the table. “Just a few more stacks to go, sir.” He managed to choke out, lungs burning with every inhale, eyes avoiding Speirs penetrating gaze and roving over the yet to be finished paperwork. There was still a fair amount left to do, but Lipton was determined to stay until it was all complete.

It hadn’t gone beyond his notice that Speirs, while quick in the field in regards to strategy and tactics, was less quick to adapt to all the finicky duties that being a CO brought with it, in this case the reams of paperwork, and even sick, Lipton could see the signs of the man becoming overwhelmed.

No, not matter how sick he was, he was needed here.

He wasn’t too bad yet anyway, still time enough to get to an aid station when they finished here if need be.

“Sergeant,” Speirs said calmly after a moment of watching him, his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Lipton paused and examined the current paper under his pen with bleary eyes. “Uh, looks like okaying a supply manifest for Dog Company, sir.”

“Does it.” Speirs reached over and took the paper before Lipton could write anything on it. He looked it over disinterestedly and tucked it back where it belonged. “I don’t need to tell you useful men are far and few between, First Sergeant Lipton.” He took the pen out of Lipton’s hand, not surprised to find the man barely had a grasp on it. “But a man half dead on his feet isn’t useful.”

Lipton stared at him, brow wrinkling in confusion. “Yessir. I don’t imagine they would be. If you’re gonna sign that manifest, I’d double check it against the inventory.” He added, holding up another sheet of paper helpfully, eyes blinking away the spots in his vision. Why’d it seem like Speirs was listing off to the side?

“I don’t seem to be getting through to… Sergeant?”

A hand on his shoulder was steadying him. Speirs had risen at some point and was standing next to him. He pulled his cigarette out and stubbed it out on a crowded ashtray, and then took away the second paper Lipton had picked up and placed it back down wherever, his full attention on Lipton’s flushed face and glassy eyes. It seemed to him exhaustion was playing a part in how ill the sergeant was now, since no amount of flush could hide the dark circles under Lipton’s eyes. A tinge of guilt ran through him at the realization, since he knew why Lipton had been pushing himself.

“All right,” he said quietly to himself after a moment of studying Lipton. And then louder, “I want you to forget about supply manifests, first sergeant. Can you stand up?”

Lipton passed a badly shaking hand over his eyes and nodded slowly. “Yeah, think so.” He mumbled. Using the desk as support, he got onto his feet, his breathing labored. Unfortunately, with this new upright position, his weight seemed to be far too much for his weak legs, his knees buckling as his vision whited out and he collapsed.

Speirs made a vain attempt to catch him, but Lipton fell in the opposite direction of his hands, managing to upend a stack of papers and folders and his chair as he tumbled to the ground. Speirs cursed and kicked the fallen chair aside, kneeling down beside the first sergeant, turning his head so he could be sure he hadn’t hit his head on the way down. “Sergeant—Sergeant Lipton, can you hear me?”

Lipton’s ears were ringing, vision filled with Speirs surprisingly worried face as he leaned over him, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. He stared stupidly for a minute before he tried to speak, panic at his unexpected loss of hearing making his heart thump wildly in his chest. Stuttering out some meaningless syllables, he licked his dry lips and started to try again when sound came back to him, his head falling back down to the ground in relief. Thank god.

Weakly reaching out and clutching onto Speirs arm, Lipton swallowed painfully and tried to focus on the man’s face. “Think—think I might need a hand, sir.” He finally managed to wheeze out breathlessly.

“You think you might—” Speirs wasn’t sure if he should laugh or shake his head at the words that just came out of Lipton’s mouth. He was too concerned to do either, and instead slid an arm under Lipton’s shoulders and helped to prop him up into a sitting position against the desk, gently but firmly pinning Lipton down when he tried to stand up all the way. “I’m going to give you an order now, first sergeant, and I want you to obey it to the letter. Don’t move. Just sit here and don’t move.”

“I…can do that, sir.” Lipton slumped against the desk, a trembling hand coming to rub at his chest, a pained look on his face.

Speirs crouched beside him for a moment longer, about to take his leave to find the nearest medic until he saw the expression on the sergeant’s face. He frowned, glanced at the door, and then looked back at Lipton. The words, “will you be all right if I leave you for a moment” never crossed Speirs mind, but they did come close to what he was thinking. Dammit all, the man was looking worse by the second…

“I’m sending you to the aid station, sergeant,” Speirs finally said as he straightened up.

Lipton snagged the leg of his pants before he could take a step away, feverish face turned upward as he shook his head, tired eyes locked onto Speirs’. “No, sir. I’m needed here.” He wasn’t entirely sure why anymore, but it had seemed very important at the time so Lipton was going to stick to it. He hated aid stations anyway.

Speirs frowned more deeply, but then abruptly the expression faded to something almost approaching indifference. Anyone who could read the man’s face would know it wasn’t that; admiration was an expression that came closer.

“…All right, have it your way,” he said. He crouched back down beside him, taking hold of Lipton’s hand that was holding onto his pants, instead swinging it over his shoulder. “I’m going to help you to the couch, Lipton. Better for you than the floor. Ready? Three—two—one—”

Lipton winced, his whole body one huge ache as he was tugged upright. Even that small exertion caused his heart to stutter in his chest, one hand coming up to rub helplessly at his chest as a sudden coughing fit made him lean heavily on Speirs who patiently waited until it subsided before helping Lipton the rest of the way out of the makeshift office and along to the couch. His legs seconds away from giving out again, sitting down was a relief, and Lipton nodded his thanks to Speirs as he gingerly settled himself against the arm with a sigh.

Speirs turned and went back through to the room they had come from. A moment later he returned with a thick blanket he’d pilfered from the previous owners of the house, and he spread it over Lipton without a word. He stepped back, hands on his hips as he looked at the sorry sick sight before him.

“If the doc says you go back,” he said, “You go back. Is that clear?”

 “Yes, sir.” Lipton agreed wearily, taking a moment to appreciate the blanket stopping the drafts from finding him in his new safe haven. He already felt better than he had in the office, eyes more alert as he blinked up at Speirs. “If you give me a pen I can do some of that paperwork from right here, sir.”

“Sergeant,” Speirs leaned over him, one hand on the back of the couch, the other pointing a finger at the sergeant’s chest. “If I come back and see you holding any pens, or papers, I’m going to shoot the man that gave them to you. Understood?”

Lipton nodded reluctantly. “Yessir. But—”

“Be quiet,” Speirs interrupted flatly. He glanced around, but since nobody else was present to keep an eye on the sergeant, he’d just have to rely on Lipton following orders. He straightened up again, pulling out his crumpled pack of cigarettes as he started for the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he called over his shoulder.

Back outside, he was assaulted almost immediately by more messengers and other officers looking to speak with him, but he brushed them the majority of them with a “we’ll talk later”, fully intending to do no such thing—they could damn well find him again if it was that important—and ordered the first medic he found—Doc Eugene Roe—back with him to the CP.

“What’s the problem, sir?” Roe asked as he followed after the captain. In the distance, a howl followed by an explosion marked the beginning of another series of mortar strikes by the enemy. Roe flinched at the sound, but like Speirs was one of the few who didn’t go for cover, instead glancing up at the trail of smoke still fading in the sky. They continued as if it had never happened.

“Sergeant Lipton,” was Speirs short reply.

He said nothing else as they maneuvered past craters and the rubble of buildings, as well as the groups of men arriving in trucks. Roe looked at them as they passed. Any day now, they expected their reprieve from the line, but it still had yet to come. Had Lipton had the bad luck to be injured in one of those strikes? He adjusted the strap of his medical kit, wondering if he should have grabbed anything else before coming. Not that would have been much he could have taken, other than extra bandages.

They reached the CP before long, and Speirs opened the door and stepped inside, taking off his helmet and tossing it to the side as he went to the room where he’d left Lipton.

“—here’s a transfer request, you want me to put it in Speirs office, Lip?” Technical Sergeant George Luz was leafing through a handful of papers, pen in hand and a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth as he frowned down at the current form held in his right hand.

Elbows resting on his knees as he perched on the edge of the couch and blanket now draped across his shoulders, Lipton was currently nursing a steaming cup of coffee and looking just about as miserable as before Speirs had left.

“Yeah, just don’t mix it in with the stuff that’s already done, okay?” He said tiredly. The movement at the doorway caught his eye and he looked over to see Roe and a stormy faced Captain Speirs. Crap. “Sir, a bunch of messengers from HQ came after you left, Luz here fielded them for me.” He said quickly. “Haven’t touched a pen.” He added hoping to keep Luz out of the Captain’s wrath.

“Captain Speirs.” Luz straightened up and tossed in a salute for good measure when sharp eyes met his. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the office. “Lotta paperwork you got going in there.” He said hoping a joke might kill the sudden tension in the room.

Lipton shot him an exasperated look.

“Sir—”

“I noticed, sergeant,” Speirs interrupted, voice as calm as ever, though that dark look had yet to leave his eyes. It was unclear if he was responding to Lipton, or Luz. His next words were directed to the latter. “There’s a typewriter in the next room. Make use of it. Now.”

As he spoke, Roe, ignoring whatever it was that was going on between the men, went to Lipton’s side and set down his pack.

Luz hesitated briefly to look between Lipton and Roe and then beat it to the other room, unsure exactly what he was going to type on the typewriter but knowing he’d better do damn well do something before Speirs came to check on him.

“Hey, Doc.” Lipton greeted the medic with a faint smile that did nothing to disperse the faint lines of pain around his eyes. “I look that bad?”

“A little worse than usual, sergeant,” replied the medic with a faint trace of humor that faded about as quickly as it had come. He rummaged in his pack and came out with a thermometer. Behind him, Speirs slowly started to make his way to the office he’d sent Luz to. “Any aches or pai—?”

“Captain Speirs, sir!”

Speirs came to a halt and glanced over to see an MP waiting at the doorway they had just come from. He glanced at the office, then at Lipton and Roe.

“Other room,” he said with a nod, and the MP saluted and stepped back to wait for him.

“Aches or pains?” Roe repeated, turning back to Lipton.

Frowning as he saw Speirs deviate from his intended route to ream out Luz, Lipton tore his worried gaze away from the now closed doors and back to a waiting Roe. “Uh, yeah. Achy all over and it kinda burns when I try and breathe too deep…got a little dizzy too, couple of times.”

Roe frowned deeply. “Any nausea?”

“Haven’t really eaten anything.” Lipton admitted. “Just coffee.”

“Have you slept at all?” Roe asked, now giving him a hard look that suggested he didn’t think much of Lipton’s current diet; not that many of the soldiers had been taking care of themselves, but the sergeant should have known better. Was one Roe expected to know better.

“Can’t seem to sleep.” At Roe’s reproving expression, Lipton felt the need to say more. “Tried, before all those messengers came by, couldn’t make it stick. I was planning on coming down to the aid station once we got caught up on the paperwork, honest, Doc. Didn’t realize I’d gotten bad enough for Speirs to drag you up here.” He added apologetically. He knew he should’ve gone earlier, but there’d been things to get done first, and then he’d almost passed out—didn’t seem to be enough time lately, his perception of it skewed as his fever rose and fell.

“…How long have you been like this?” Roe asked instead of addressing how Speirs should have ordered Lipton to the aid station sooner instead of waiting until the man was half dead on his feet. And Lipton should have gone the moment he developed a fever because the numbers Roe just looked at told him the worst of it was just beginning. He started to look through his pack again.

“Day or so, I guess.” Or maybe longer, Lipton mused. He’d remembered feeling off a couple of days ago, but he’d written it off, colds came and went all the time. At least that’s what he’d thought. Now it looked like he was paying the price of looking out for everyone else instead of tending to his own health like he should’ve done. He couldn’t quite make himself feel repentant though. He’d gotten a lot done.

Roe, on the other hand, felt a little furious at both of them for playing around with the sergeant’s health when they were so close to the end it practically hurt. It was as if men thought they couldn’t die now that the Germans were across the river. He pulled out a tin, read the label, and then tossed it back in.

“There’s not much I can give you,” he finally said in serious voice. “You should be at the aid station, sergeant, not here.”

Lipton nodded. “Maybe.”

“No maybe, sergeant, definitely. I’ll inform the captain—”

“If you can’t do anything for me, what are they gonna do down at the aid station?” Lipton interrupted, brow furrowing. “Stick me in a bed so I can stare at the ceiling? If I’m going to be sick there, might as well be sick here.”

“You have a fever of a hundred and four,” Roe said irritably. He shouldn’t even have to explain this, but he’d seen his fair share of Easy Company stubbornness and knew they wouldn’t back down without some prodding. Perhaps, not even then. “What are you going to do here except get worse and still stay in bed and stare at the ceiling?”

“How’re they going to keep me from getting worse?” Lipton looked at Roe expectantly.

“They have drugs I don’t, sergeant,” Roe replied immediately. “Something to bring your fever down before it kills you. And it can.”

“Can’t you just give them to me here?” Lipton tried hopefully. “Come on, Doc, you know how it is in aid stations.” They smelled like death and disinfectant and had never failed to put Lipton on edge even when he was just passing through.

“…Yeah, I know.” Roe frowned reluctantly as he considered the sick man before him. “Maybe…one of the others has something with them that could help,” he said after a moment, referring to the other medics. “But it’s no replacement for the aid station.”

Lipton privately disagreed but nodded dutifully, relieved that he was going to able to remain where he was. “Thanks, doc.” He said gratefully.

Roe made a noise that suggested he had, in fact, done nothing, then picked up his pack. “You shouldn’t be sitting here though, sergeant. You need rest and something to eat and drink that isn’t coffee. Isn’t there a room full of beds in here somewhere?”

“There is,” came the voice of Speirs, who had returned to the room. He shut the door behind him, as if that could stop anyone from finding him. “So what’s wrong with him, doc?”

“I’d say pneumonia, sir,” Roe answered.

“What can you do for him?”

Roe glanced down at Lipton, tempted to say nothing and that Lipton should be shipped out as soon as possible to the nearest aid station.

Tensing, remembering what Speirs had told him earlier about agreeing to leave if the doc said so, Lipton looked up at him silently, waiting.

“…Some sleep and a hot meal should help, sir,” Roe finally said, deciding not to mention anything else until he found it. If Speirs noticed the pause before he’d answered, and the look Lipton had been giving him, he said nothing. “I’ll see about the food now.”

Speirs nodded his thanks as the medic passed him and then considered Lipton in silence for a moment before walking past him to the office where he’d left Luz.

“Sir—” Lipton tried, getting up onto unsteady feet and taking a few steps towards him. “Luz didn’t know about the order, he was just trying to help.”

“Well he’s about to—Christ, why the hell are you up!” Speirs turned his head in time to see Lipton swaying unsteadily, and recalling the all too recent tumble the sergeant had taken, was quickly by Lipton’s side, holding onto his arms to steady him. It disturbed him how easily he could feel the heat pouring off the other man despite the jacket and shirt. “Sergeant Luz! Get in here.”

Luz burst from the room, pen stuck behind his ear and a harried expression on his face. “What? What is it? I was using the typewrite just like you asked, Captain—” His ramblings were cut short by a glare and he coughed sheepishly. “Uh, yes, sir?”

“There’s a few beds in one of these rooms. See to it First Sergeant gets to one and make sure he doesn’t leave it until I give you any orders to the contrary.”

“Sir, I’m okay here, I don’t need—”

“—And if he somehow finds himself out of said bed,” Speirs continued as if Lipton hadn’t even spoken, “You will haul him back into it and if necessary, tie him down to keep him from escaping. Am I understood?”

“Yessir, Captain Speirs. Hogtie the sick man if he tries to breath, got it.” Luz agreed as he moved to help support Lipton, ignoring the man’s warning look. “If he sleepwalks does that count as my fault, sir, or his, for disobeying orders?”

“Luz—”

“It’d be a little of both, don’t you think?” Speirs said as he stared at Luz, but his monotone tone and complete lack of amusement in his cold eyes made both men doubt whether he was joking. “I’ll have to decide that when I come back. Carry on, sergeant.”

Thinking better of making another remark, Luz nodded and helped Lipton down the hall in the back and to a room with a three narrow beds mostly intact and useable.

“Luz, you need to watch yourself around Speirs, he’s not used to your clowning around like the rest of us.” Lipton told the other sergeant sternly as he Luz helped him sit on the bed.

“What clowning? It was a serious question.” Luz said with an unrepentant grin as he grabbed hold of Lipton’s ankles and yanked his legs up and over to the bed, Lipton flailing to regain his balance and falling back on a musty smelling pillow that started up a coughing fit.

“I’ll get your canteen.” Luz hurriedly ran back to the other room and back as quick as he could, offering the still coughing man the canteen with a guilty expression. “Sorry, Lip.”

Lipton waved him off, taking the canteen and forcing down a few sips that eased the burning in his throat. “M’fine.” He muttered.

Fussing about the man as he started to cough again, Luz dragged the blankets off of the other bed and piled them onto Lipton, a hand patting the man’s back as he hunched over his legs, canteen clutched tightly in one hand.

When the coughing finally abated, Lipton rested his head in his hand and exhaled raggedly, his whole posture showing how utterly exhausted the man was.

“You should be at the aid station.” Luz told him seriously. Lipton frowned at him. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He sighed. He wasn’t a fan of aid stations either, but when you looked closer to being dead than alive, it was time to take some type of measures against getting worse. “How bad is it, Lip?”

“…pneumonia.”

“Jesus.” Luz patted his shoulder, wincing as he felt the man shivering. “You eat anything?”

Lipton slowly shook his head.

“I’ll scrounge something up for you.” Luz started to leave only to pause at the door. “You aren’t gonna go running off are you?”

“Hadn’t planned on it.” Lipton replied, mouth quirking up at the corner as he settled back against the pillow.

“Scout’s honour?” Luz prodded with mock seriousness. “Wouldn’t want Speirs to get all twisted up about it.”

“Luz, I’m telling you, cut out the jokes around Speirs, he’s not like Winters.” Lipton warned the other man again. “Some of the shit you do could get you court-martialed.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, Lip.” Luz looked at him innocently, Lipton shaking his head in exasperation. “Be back in a few minutes.”

Walking back to the main room, his step faltered as he caught sight of Speirs looking over a clipboard that had been handed to him by an MP who was waiting patiently off to the side.

“Just gonna make Lip something to eat, sir.” Luz said easily, eyes wary as he watched for the other man’s reaction to him not being at Lipton’s bedside. “Lipton’s bunked down out back.” He added in case Speirs might’ve thought he’d just let the man wander out onto the streets.

“Doc’s already taking care of that,” Speirs said without looking up at him, flipping one of the papers to look at the one underneath it. He frowned, signed the document and gave it back to the MP.

“All right. That’s good. Lip could sure use something hot.” Luz said for lack of anything better to say. He dug his pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lit it up. “Guess I’ll go back and check on Lip. Guy looks like he could hurt himself just rolling out of bed.”

“If anyone comes tell them to leave whatever they have on my desk,” Speirs said, not addressing what Luz said at all. He went to the corner of the room, where a small pile of pilfered valuables had been heaped on the corner of a sturdy desk, shoving some stuff aside until he found what he was looking for: a rectangular tin. He picked it up and tossed it to Luz with no explanation, then retrieved his helmet from where he’d tossed it earlier, running a hand through his hair before pulling it back on as he headed back outside.

Curious, Luz pulled off the lid from the tin and was instantly hit with the smell of coffee. And not that shit that came in their rations, this was—he sniffed deeply and smiled. Good stuff. Typical Speirs keeping it all to himself. The privileges of rank, he thought as he closed the tin and looked around for the Lipton’s cup.

Setting about making fresh coffee, one for the sick man and one for poor old Luz, gotta keep my spirits up somehow, Luz returned to Lipton’s makeshift quarters to find the man sniffling pathetically.

Perching on the edge of the bed, Luz handed him one of the cups. “Here, Lip.”

Lipton shook head. “I’m good.”

“Now now, this is compliments of Captain Speirs himself, wouldn’t want to get on that guy’s bad side, right, Lip?” Luz pushed the cup into Lipton’s hands and helped him up into a sitting position.

Taking a drink of his own coffee Luz watched Lipton closely to make sure he didn’t drop his cup, the man’s hands still shaking.

“Can’t taste it.” Lipton said after a tentative sip.

“So drink it anyway. It’s hot.” Savoring his own coffee, Luz kept Lipton company until he’d managed to drink down at least a third of the cup. “Here, I’ll put it over here in case you can stomach any more later.”

Lipton nodded his thanks as Luz put the cup onto the rickety bedside table, once again stretching out on the bed and trying not to cough.

“Gotta remember to thank the captain for the coffee…” He mumbled, eyes slowly shutting.

“Don’t worry about that, Lip, just get to sleep.” Luz told him quietly. Once he was sure Lipton was out cold, he raised his coffee cup to an imaginary Captain Speirs. “Sergeant Lipton would like to thank you for the coffee, Captain Speirs. What? You say Sergeant Luz should get another cup? Knew you had a heart of gold, pal, think I’ll take you up on that, not like you can’t get more, just raid a few more houses—” Getting up and turning to the door, Luz stopped dead in his tracks as he caught sight of Speirs in the doorway. “Captain Speirs!”

Behind him Lipton shifted restlessly at the sudden yelp, Luz wincing and praying to god the man stayed asleep. Fortune was with him, the sergeant settling after a moment, Luz breathing an internal sigh of relief as he looked sheepishly at the captain.

Speirs reached up and pulled what remained of his cigarette out of the corner of his mouth, a slow exhale sending a stream of smoke towards the ceiling as he stared at Luz. After a few heartbeats he indicated the technical sergeant should join him in the doorway away from the sleeping Lipton, his unreadable expression giving no indication as to whether he had overheard the one-sided conversation.

Leaving his empty cup next to Lipton’s, Luz went over to Speirs and tried to look as innocent as possible, all the while praying like hell that the man hadn’t heard what he’d been saying. Sure, everyone knew the guy was a looter, but you didn’t just go and say it. Not to a C.O. anyway. “Yes, sir?”

“How’s the first sergeant?” Speirs asked quietly.

“Sick as a fucking dog.” Luz said bluntly, relaxing a little as the conversation focused on Lipton. “Managed to drink some of your coffee, he wanted to thank you by the way.” Too late he realized that bringing up the coffee was a bad idea.

“Mm. When he wakes up…tell him he can have as much as he wants,” Speirs said, dark eyes turning from the sleeping man to Luz. He took another drag on his cigarette. “You too, sergeant. Not like I can’t get more. Right?”

Luz felt heat rise to his face. “I wouldn’t know about that, sir.” He finally said. He nodded his head towards Lipton. “I’ll tell him when he wakes up. Sure he’ll appreciate it, Captain.”

Speirs didn’t answer him, turning as he heard approaching footsteps in the next room. Roe had finally returned and behind him, more messengers. It seemed everyone in the entire battalion needed something from him, and Speirs cursed under his breath before he went to see what it was they wanted as the medic entered. Roe shut the door behind him to cut off the sounds of their conversation.

“Brought something hot for the first sergeant to eat,” the medic said in explanation for his presence to Luz, lifting up a covered pot in one hand. It was very hot, actually, and he had wrapped a piece of torn cloth around his hand to be able to carry it. He frowned, noticing the flush on Luz’s face. “There’s enough for two if you want, sergeant...”

“Thanks, Doc.” Might as well eat, he was a dead man now anyway. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and lit up another cigarette. Jesus Christ. What a way to go. “Lip just got to sleep, you want me to wake him up?”

“Better that he’s sleeping,” Roe said reluctantly. He didn’t have anything that would really help anyway; supplies were having trouble reaching them, and no other medic he spoke to had anything that could help someone with pneumonia, though they all promised to keep an eye out in case that changed. Hot soup was all he had, and as far as he knew the healing properties of said mystery soup wasn’t nearly as useful as drugs or sleep. At least sleep could give his body some time to hopefully fight off the fever. If it went any higher, Roe knew he’d have to tell Speirs to send the man to the aid station as soon as possible.

“How pissed do you think he’d be if we shipped him off to an aid station while he’s out for the count?” Luz asked Roe as he puffed smoke out towards the ceiling. He was only half-joking, Lip really did look bad. Hell, even Speirs was worried and he was pretty sure that man had ice water in his veins.

“He’d come back before they even had a chance to look at him,” said Roe simply, as if he had thought about it and dismissed it earlier. He looked around for a place to set down the pot. How many men had been wounded—in some cases, wounded badly enough to earn a ticket home—and still came back? Pneumonia wasn’t going to stop anyone.

“Here, I can take that.” Luz offered taking hold of the pot and putting it on the little bedside table that creaked a little under the weight. It’d be fine. “You hear anything about any new orders coming through from Command? Thought we’d be off the line by now.”

“No. But there’s more trucks coming in,” answered Roe. Medics weren’t exactly the first to know any upcoming changes. Luz had probably already seen and heard them, but he mentioned it anyway because it was the only thing he’d noticed for the last few days out of the ordinary.

Luz looked at him, noting the tight look around the medic’s eyes. “You know, there’s a couple extra beds here…looks like you could use as much sleep as Lip here.”

“Might be needed out there yet, sergeant,” Roe answered, thinking of the shells that sometimes hit too close. And besides, he wasn’t feeling overly anxious to spend time in the same building as Captain Speirs. The man could be off-putting sometimes. Luz seemed pretty much unaffected by it though, as he usually did by whatever was happening. Man might’ve made a good medic. “I’ll be back to check on him in a few hours. If you stay here with him, tell me if there’s any changes.”

“Oh, I’ll be here. As per Speirs orders.” Luz said as he looked into the pot of soup and gave an appreciative sniff. “Hey, if you want a cup of coffee, there’s about a cup left in the main room. Good stuff. Grab it while it’s hot.”

Roe decided not to ask what compelled Speirs to order Luz, of all people, to stay with Lipton, then gave him a nod of thanks and then took his leave of the room. He passed by Speirs filling out yet another form which he handed off to the deliverer before disappearing into his office. The medic made a note to check on him too when he came back—pneumonia wasn’t catching, but still—and then hesitated on his way out when his eye caught sight of the coffee Luz mentioned. He took it willingly, and good god, that coffee was good.

In the office, Speirs returned diligently to the ever growing amount of paperwork, and spent who knew how long before the words started to blur together and the headache became full-fledged. The good news was he’d made a dent in it, but still not enough to clear it entirely. He’d heard talk about captains having aides to help them with all of the clerical parts of leadership, but the shortage in men and replacements made that a wishful dream—maybe relief would come soon though and answer that problem…

He picked up a folder idly, then put it back down and rubbed his eyes. Then he rose abruptly, taking the file with him, and went into the back rooms to see how Lipton was doing.

The first sergeant was still fast asleep, his breathing sounding a little congested and brow still furrowed with pain, but the red flush to his face had receded leaving him looking pale. Whether or not the fever was gone for good was hard to say, but it was possible Lipton had passed the worse of it.

On the far bed, Luz was sitting against the headboard, a cigarette hanging from his mouth as he dozed, arms folded across his chest and empty mess kit cup propped up against his leg.

There weren’t exactly any chairs readily available, so Speirs eased himself down silently on the bed near Lipton’s, just observing the man as if to confirm that he was in fact doing better than last time he’d seen him.

He thought earlier the medic was going to tell him the first sergeant had to be sent back after seeing him the second time, but he was glad it still hadn’t come to that. Easy Company was having a rough time of it already without losing the first sergeant on top of it. Jesus Christ, if they lost Lipton, by illness or otherwise—Speirs could just see the catastrophe that would unfold, slowly but surely. They were already severely depleted when it came to officers, and he knew the sergeants temporarily taking their place couldn’t sustain cohesion forever without replacements and, most importantly, rest. It seemed they’d been on the front line forever doing what apparently no other company could.

No wonder Lipton had been worn down so quickly.

Again, an uncomfortable surge of guilt filled him, one very unfamiliar that he didn’t like in the slightest. The guilt wasn’t misplaced, though. The first sergeant wouldn’t have been worn down quickly if he hadn’t asked him to help, and then ignored the signs of him getting worse in favor of getting work finished…

Christ though, if he kept thinking like that he’d just start to spiral into all sorts of thoughts that distracted him from his duty.

Speirs shook his head inwardly, firmly clamping down on any more traitorous thoughts slipping out—he’d blame it on the headache—and turned his attention to the folder he’d brought with him.

The rustle of paper was enough to stir Luz out of his doze, the man startling when he caught sight of Speirs, cigarette nearly falling out of his mouth. “Sir—just here, watching Lip.” He stifled a yawn. “Haven’t taken my eyes off him for a second. Figuratively.”

“Did he eat anything?”

Luz shook his head in the negative, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and unconsciously mirroring Speirs on the opposite side of Lipton. “Roe dropped by, said it was better for him to sleep than eat and he’s the doc, so.” Luz shrugged and blew a stream of smoke towards the floor. “Sleep it is. Heard a lot of traffic going through the main room. Busy, Captain?”

Speirs turned a dark eye to him, obviously not pleased to be reminded of how suddenly invaluable the captain seemed to be. “New supplies have come in,” he said shortly. “Since the first sergeant here seems to be doing better, you can get back to work and see to it those supplies are inventoried and distributed properly. Clipboard’s on my desk, sergeant.”

Luz grinned, more than happy to go off and do something and not be worried about Lip. Or being offered a cigarette by Speirs. Well. Less worried. And supply sergeant was just enough of a hassle to do the job. “On it, Captain. Hey, he does look a little better, huh. Be back on his feet in no time.” Grabbing up his mess kit cup and snapping off a salute, he headed off.

Lipton wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, but when he woke up, his head felt more clear than it had in days. Breathing was still a pain in the ass and moving made him feel like a creaky old man, but he wasn’t going to complain, he did have pneumonia after all.

Pushing himself up onto one arm, he looked around the room, it was empty.

Jesus, Luz. You better not have done anything stupid or I swear to god—

“Sarge?” a voice came by the door, accompanied by a light knock, as if the person both wanted his attention and absolutely did not want to be there at all. A helmeted head poked into the room, an unfamiliar face underneath it that looked slightly more relieved to find out the man they were trying to speak to was awake. “Someone told me I needed another signature for the papers, sarge,” the soldier explained. “I can’t find any of the officers and I have to keep to the schedule—”

“Captain Speirs isn’t here?” Lipton questioned already pushing off the blankets and swinging his legs off the bed.

“No, sir—uh, sarge. They don’t know when he’ll be back,” said the soldier, coming fully into the room. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, sarge—”

“What’s your name, soldier?” Lipton asked kindly as he waited for a sudden feeling of lightheadedness to pass before getting stiffly to his feet.

“Thorton, sarge,” the soldier replied, looking a little more at ease, even though he was clearly uncomfortable disturbing the NCO. “Sam Thorton.”

“First Sergeant Lipton. What do you need, Thorton?”

“Well—we’re delivering supplies here, sarge,” Thorton started to explain. “There’s a manifest and a few other pieces that need some John Hancocks on them before we can consider them delivered and move on. I’m supposed to be headed back now, but there wasn’t a second person to sign them so they sent me to look for one—”

Lipton nodded. “Okay, I can give you mine if you have a pen. You say you can’t find any other officers or NCOs? There’s usually a few hanging around the supply depot, I’d try there next. There you are, Thorton.” Lipton handed the soldier back the pen he’d readily supplied, conveniently forgetting that Speirs had ordered him not to do anything paperwork related. It was just his signature though, so it didn’t really count, did it?

“Right sarge—thanks, sarge, I will.” Thorton threw him a salute and started into the other room, then hesitated and turned back. “There’s a few more trucks coming in too, sarge, and they’re going to need signatures too…”

“Better save some time and go with you then.” Lipton said after a moment’s thought. Technically speaking, he’d rested like Speirs had ordered, completely uninterrupted, and Luz was gone, so that either meant he’d run off in spite of Speirs warning, or Speirs let him go. Either way it seemed to him the earlier order was now void. That settled, Lipton led the way to the main room, gaze searching around for any sign of the Captain, and put back on his webbing. “Let’s go, Thorton.” He said grabbing his helmet and rifle.

It wasn’t too far to the supply depot, but Lipton felt the wind cutting through his jacket and shirt, the chill seeming to go straight to his bone and achy joints. Soon as he was done here, he’d go back and try and warm up again.

His plan to enter as quietly and unobtrusively as possible was spoiled a second later when Luz, holding a clipboard in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other spotted him from where he was sitting on a counter talking to Martin.

“Lip! Christ, you’re not supposed to be here!”

Lipton waved him off as Luz abandoned his cup and clipboard and hurried over, Martin following behind.

“Don’t worry about it, Luz. Thorton here was having trouble finding some NCOs to sign off on his paperwork, so I came along just in case.”

“Martin and I can finish that up.” Luz said sparing the unfortunate Thorton a dirty look as though he’d ripped Lipton out of his bed and hustled him over there at double time. “At least sit down—Martin, go grab that chair.”

Martin did as he was asked despite Lipton continuing to state that he was perfectly capable of walking over to the chair, both sergeants not paying Thorton a second glance until he was seated.

“What was so important you got the First Sergeant all the way down here?” Martin questioned coolly. “Can’t you see he’s sick?”

“Cool it, Martin, I’m not that bad.”

Lipton went ignored, the other sergeants glaring at hapless Thorton.

Gesturing impatiently, Luz snapped his fingers. “Come on, come on, hand over what needs signing, I gotta get Lip back to CP before Speirs gets back.”

“Yes—si—sergeant!” Thorton flushed red and handed over the documents in question, standing much straighter than he had been a moment ago, now quite acutely and painfully aware of how he’d messed up with not one, but three sergeants. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t know you were sick—”

“It’s fine, Thorton. What you’re doing is important and needs to get done, that takes precedence over a cold.” Lipton assured him as he slumped a little more in the chair, grateful despite himself at not having to stand anymore.

Luz snorted and exchanged a glance with Martin who shook his head. If it had been anyone else as sick as Lipton was, they’d already be warming a bed in the aid station.

Passing the finished paperwork back to Thorton, Luz turned his attention back to Lipton. “You think you can make the walk back, Lip?”

“Yeah, you stay here, Thorton said more supply trucks were coming in, they’ll need two signatures to sign off.”

Luz frowned and dug out a fresh pack of cigarettes. “Don’t even think about it, Lip. I’m gonna be in enough hot water as it is without letting you slip on some ice or some shit. Just—stick around, it probably won’t take that long to do all that stupid paperwork and I can get you back to the C.P.”

Lipton wanted to protest being coddled like this, it was completely unnecessary, but the twin looks of concern aimed his way had him sigh and nod his head in assent. “Okay.”

Martin patted him on the shoulder, seeming to know exactly what Lipton was thinking and not about to change a damn thing because there was no way Lipton was going to die under his watch because he’d been stupid enough to go out in snow with fucking pneumonia.

Thorton slipped out as they focused on the sergeant, though he could feel glares on the back of his neck as he fled. “Shit,” he whispered harshly to himself. Next time he’d know better than to wake the first sergeant. Next time…hopefully he’d never cross their paths again.

Luz and Martin impatiently waited for the rest of the supply trucks to come, hurriedly checking the inventory and signing off on the paperwork as quickly as they could without fucking something up and wasting more time. They’d hoped another NCO would drop by and leave Luz to get Lipton back, but no such luck, both sending worried glances at the first sergeant whenever they thought he wasn’t looking.

At long last they’d finished and Luz got Martin to agree to be temporary supply sergeant until he got back from the C.P., Martin watching them leave with a frown as he saw Lipton stumble before Luz caught hold of his arm and helped to steady him.

“And you thought you could make it alone.” Luz muttered as he made sure to match Lipton’s sluggish pace.

Lipton couldn’t disagree but he still managed a half-hearted ‘shut up’ aimed in Luz’s general direction.

It seemed to take forever to get back to the C.P. Lipton making a slow beeline for the couch as Luz tossed down his helmet and rifle in a corner to fetch him a blanket.

“Sergeant Lipton?” A voice asked. A soldier stepped in through the open door leading outside, face almost familiar except he was too clean and fresh-faced to be one of the paratroopers, and it took both a moment to realize it was one of the men they’d sent off to the hospital before Bastogne. Webster had returned. The man noticed the way Lipton was moving carefully, as well as the pale, drawn-out look on the sergeant’s face and frowned. “Feeling all right?”

“There you go,” Luz spread the thick blanket back over Lipton and answered Webster’s question as the man nodded tiredly in thanks. “He’s got pneumonia.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Webster started.

“What are you sorry about?” Luz said with a shrug as he looked over at the man who was starting to shiver again. He’d brought it on himself skipping out like that, if it had been any other soldier Lip’d never let them hear the end of it. He might as well return the favour. In his own way. “He’s alive, he’s got a couch, a blanket, snug as a bug.”

If Lipton’d had the energy he’d have glared at the sergeant who was looking at him with an expression that clearly wanted him to disagree so that he could keep talking and most likely slip in an ‘I told you so’ somewhere. He’d have a long wait, Lipton wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Besides, he had to save any energy he had left for when Speirs got here and wanted to know why he moved from the bed back to the couch. Something told him he wasn’t going to be happy about the answer.

Webster didn’t think Lipton was particular snug as a bug, but he wasn’t going to argue it. “Uh, sergeant Malarkey said to check with the CO if I should be in second platoon,” he continued, still looking a little unsure of himself. Lipton shifted a little bit on the couch until he was more comfortable—at least, not as uncomfortable. He gestured to the chair near the couch.

“Have a seat Webster.” Lipton said tiredly. “We’ll get you situated.”

“How long have you been sick?” Webster asked as he did as the sergeant suggested. It looked as if the man had been battling his sickness for the last week. Hell, it looked as if the sergeant belonged back at the hospital Webster had been discharged from.

“Long enough.”

Webster had barely sat down when another man entered, looking proper and sharp in a lieutenant’s uniform. His young face betrayed his equally young age, but his voice was serious. “Is this the company CP for Easy?” the man asked.

“Yes sir,” answered Lipton, starting to rise.

“As you were. Lt. Jones looking for Captain Speirs.”

“He’s on his way, sir. Why don’t you sit down?” Lipton looked over at Luz who was making himself comfortable on a small crate next to the couch a fresh cigarette just starting to smoke. “Can you get me a coffee? Would you like a coffee, sir?”

“No, thank you.” The lieutenant moved to the side, still holding himself stiffly, back ramrod straight. Webster eyed him curiously.

“All right.” Lipton couldn’t help but think about how green the lieutenant looked, still too by-the-book to relax when there weren’t even any officers present. Hard to believe some of the men from Easy used to be like that too. Felt like a lifetime ago.

Jones turned from the first sergeant back to Webster. “What platoon are you in?”

“We’re about to find that out—”

Just as he finished speaking, Speirs entered with another soldier, a strange little silver or otherwise metal clock under the captain’s arm and a frown on his face that grew when he saw Lipton. Luz wisely avoided moving in his line of sight as he handed a grateful Lipton a cup of Speirs purloined coffee—though the strange appearance of an expensive looking clock wasn’t lost on him—and Webster sat silently watching, knowing better than to intervene when an officer wore a frown.

“Captain Speirs, sir.” Lipton wearily gestured at the fresh-faced lieutenant. “This is Lieutenant Jones—”

“Listen, for christ’s sake, will you go back in the back and sack out?” Speirs demanded, totally ignoring both the newcomers as if they didn’t even exist as well as Lipton’s feeble excuse to introduce them. He shoved the clock off to the side with his rest of his collection of goods, moving back by the couch to speak to Lipton. He left him for two hours and he was already out in the main room trying to do his job again—irritation now vied with concern as far as his emotions went regarding Lipton, but irritation was fast winning. “There are beds in there with fresh sheets.”

“I will sir. Just trying to make myself useful sir.”

Speirs had some choice things to say about that, but was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Winters and Nixon. The glance he gave Lipton told him quite clearly he wasn’t going to let it drop, even though he turned away to face the major.

“Listen up,” Winters started without preamble. “Regiment wants a patrol for prisoners…”

As the three officers spoke to one another, it wasn’t lost on Webster how the first sergeant looked like he was on the verge of a coughing fit that he just barely managed to avoid giving into. He watched curiously for a moment, wondering why they’d keep a man with pneumonia on the front lines, especially someone who looked as sick as a dog like Lipton. Speirs glanced down at the first sergeant a few times too, and Webster almost imagined he saw concern in his eyes—what a thought—before his attention was drawn back to the conversation taking place around him, more specifically Jones’s sudden and bold request to Major Winters.

“Sir, I’d like to volunteer for the patrol.”

Winters stared at him for a moment, then totally ignored him as he glanced over his shoulder at Speirs who had turned back to Lipton.

“Speirs, talk to you in an hour.”

Speirs nodded to show he’d heard then turned back to Lipton as the two left. He debated on arguing about how the first sergeant should be in bed still—and why the hell did it look as if he’d just come back in from somewhere—but now his thoughts were on the upcoming patrol and organizing everything and dammit, they were low on men and morale and now this, of all things, had to come up before they had any sort of relief…what did battalion think, that they could work indefinitely without rest?

“You think a noncom could lead this?” he asked, finally deciding the mission took precedent over ordering the man back to bed.

Lipton nodded, Easy Company had the best NCOs hands down, and several of the sergeants were already handling everything as lieutenants given their recent casualties from Bastogne. These men were the best. But they’d all been on the line too long, forced to keep going long past battle fatigue. It was risky to send them out. And with the end in sight… “I can think of a few possibilities…” He said slowly, trying to think of who’d do best in the current situation. Risky, he thought again brow furrowing.

“Martin, Malarkey, Grant?”

“Honestly sir…most of the NCOs could use a rest…” He admitted.

“Captain,” interrupted Lieutenant Jones, and Speirs glanced at him as if he could care less about his existence in that moment. That did not, however, stop Jones. “Request permission to go on the patrol.”

“There’s your answer,” Lipton said to Speirs, knowing the captain wouldn’t go for it but unable to stop the words from spilling out as he looked at the lieutenant deadpan. Speirs didn’t even hesitate.

“No. You don’t have any experience.” Then, to get rid of him and solve some of his problems regarding the lack of officers, “Report to second platoon.”

Jones took the flat refusal surprisingly well. Speirs didn’t care. “…Yes sir.”

Speirs straightened up where he’d been leaning to speak to Lipton and started to move towards his office, mind going over everything that had to be done now that a mission had been thrown into the works—then turned back to face them.  “Tell…” Christ, he couldn’t even remember the names Winters had been talking to him about a moment ago. “Tell Heffron, Ramirez, and McClung they’re going,” he finally said.

“Yes sir.”

“Sir.” Lipton spoke up before Speirs could leave, nodding over at Webster who was standing by looking as out of place as the Westpointer. “This is private Webster—”

“Sir,” Webster was quickly on his feet. “I’m private Webster from first platoon. I just got back from the hospital and lieutenant Foley told me to go to second, but sergeant Malarkey said I—”

“Fine, second,” Speirs interrupted, not caring one way or another where the man went so long as he was out of the way as he tried to get things settled. “Take Lieutenant Jones.”

Lipton watched them go, briefly wondering how Webster was going to hold up against the men of Easy. They weren’t going to make it easy for him to rejoin the fold, if they ever did.

Eyeing the closed door that Speirs had disappeared into Luz wandered over to poke at the pile of goods—mostly silver or silver-plated—Speirs had been amassing. “Man sniffs out silver like a bloodhound.” He noted in admiration.

Lipton coughed and nodded with a faint smile. “Yeah, sure does. And if he sees you messing around over there—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get a cigarette, I know.”

Shaking his head, Lipton pulled the blanket a little higher on his chest.

Luz eyed him. “I can help you back to the bed.” He offered moving closer.

“No.” Lipton rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I need to get some work done first—”

“Oh, come on, Lip, you’re going to work yourself into the ground—”

“Sergeant Luz.”

Speirs had unexpectedly exited his office, apparently just disappearing long enough to retrieve a map and a folder which he had tucked under his arm—and to light himself a new cigarette, which was already half-way gone. The captain walked over to the couch, frowning down at Lipton before turning dark eyes to Luz. “They’re going to need supplies for the patrol tonight,” he said, a tired tone creeping into his voice despite himself. “Return to the supply depot and take over.”

“Yessir.” Luz gestured to Lipton as he left. “Better watch that one, sir, fucking martyr. Jesus Christ. Don’t go passing out now, Lip.”

He was gone before Lipton could think of a suitable reply, Lipton frowning at the door.

“Now, as for you…” Speirs folded his arms, frowning as he stared down at the first sergeant. It was obvious the man couldn’t be trusted to stay in one place, damn him, since he was determined to make himself useful even if it meant his own death. But he couldn’t just let him get back to work, because just by looking at him he could tell it was beginning to worsen again…

Christ, what a mess.

Lipton quietly observed the other man, noting the faint lines of stress around his eyes, and tried to figure out when the other shoe was going to drop.

“Thanks for the coffee.” He finally said when the silence dragged on a little too long. Luz seemed to have enjoyed the non-MRE coffee, shame Lipton couldn’t taste it, but it was the thought that counted and he wanted the captain to know he appreciated it. He shifted and sat more upright instead of slumped against the arm of the couch. “About your orders, sir—”

“Forget about it.” As if he hadn’t already. “Did you manage to eat anything?”

Lipton shook his head. “Not hungry.”

Speirs’s mouth twisted into a frown. Hadn’t Roe walked past him with some type of food? He had—a pot, filled with who knew what. It was probably still in the other room. “Well you’ll have to try something if you want to keep your strength,” he said, and he moved around to offer a hand to Lipton. “Come on, first sergeant, you’re going back to bed.”

“Sir, I’m still useful here.” Lipton insisted, glassy eyes determined. The added pressure of having no lieutenants to pick up the slack was wearing on both of them, but especially Speirs who’d had command thrust upon him out of the blue. It was bad luck his getting sick and all, and Lipton hated that Speirs was now worried about him just like the men, but until he was forcibly removed he was going to do all that he could. “If you’d just let me help you, even if it’s just for an hour—we both know it’s too much for one man alone.” He ended quietly.

“Oddly enough, first sergeant,” Speirs answered slowly, amusement and annoyance flickering over his tired face, “I think I’ve been through worse.” He gestured with his open hand again that Lipton take it. “Now give me your damn hand before I pick you up and take you there myself, Lipton.”

Reluctantly taking the hand up and doing his best not to topple over, Lipton looked at the other man seriously. “No disrespect, sir, but dealing with Command when it comes to itemized supply lists, manifests, and reports is a whole other kind of battlefield.”

“It comes with the rank,” Speirs answered shortly, putting an arm around Lipton’s back to keep him from falling as they made their way into the back room. The door opened, another messenger coming in, but Speirs shot him a glance that said he’d better damn well wait until they were finished, and the man shut his mouth and stood by the doorway uncertainty. “Speaking of supply lists,” he added unexpectedly, “I hope Sergeant Luz is amusing himself.”

“I have no doubt he is.” A faint smile crossed Lipton’s face. “Luz can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, sir, but he’s a good guy. Just doesn’t know when to shut that mouth of his sometimes.”

“I noticed,” Speirs answered sourly, but then fell silent on the subject of Luz as he helped Lipton into the room, and then to sit down on the middle bed. It was warmer in this room than the others—that might’ve been since people weren’t opening the door constantly and there weren’t giant cracks in the wall to let in every gust of wind that happened by—so he crouched down and started to untie Lipton’s boots.

“I can do that—” Lipton protested reaching down and almost falling onto Speirs as the blood rushed to his head. He saved himself by bracing a hand on Speirs shoulder, spots dancing behind closed lids as his stomach rolled. “Never mind. Thank you, sir.”

“Mm.” Speirs had paused to glance up at Lipton, worried he might be passing out, then turned back to what he was doing, tossing one boot aside before working on the other. “Can you manage the coat?”

Lipton nodded shortly and let go of Speirs, faintly trembling fingers fumbling at his coat for longer than it should’ve taken before he was able to carefully shrug out of it, mindful of his sensitive stomach.

Once the boots were discarded, Speirs made sure Lipton was laying down before he went to one of the other beds and yanked the blanket off of it, adding this to the one Lipton already had. Not like anyone else was around to make use of the beds anyway, they didn’t need it.

Watching him blearily, unaware of the return of the feverish flush to his cheekbones, Lipton nodded his thanks tiredly. “You should at least grab someone to help field the messengers. Command might think everything’s a priority, but trust me, sir, it’s not.”

Speirs didn’t answer him. He knew by the sounds of voices in the other room that more people had come in search of him. God, he was supposed to go meet Winters again, too. The captain scrubbed a hand through his hair, and then started looking around in search of the food Roe had brought with him earlier. “How long has it been since you’ve had something to eat?” he asked, thinking less about who he should get to help himself and more who should he get to watch Lipton to make sure he actually took care of himself.

“Don’t know.” The murmur of restless people didn’t escape Lipton, a frown wrinkling his brow. “Sir, are you sure you don’t want me in there? I could—”

“Could what?” Speirs didn’t want answer and didn’t wait for one. He found the pot and lifted the lid to glance inside, then shut it before turning to look at Lipton, frowning at the red flush on the man’s face. “You’re going to stay here and not move this time, sergeant. I’ll block the door if I have to. Now do I need to say it a third time or do you understand?”

Sinking back against his pillow in defeat, Lipton shook his head. “No, sir, I understand.”

Speirs watched him for a moment longer just to be sure the man wasn’t going to try standing up, then cursed in his head when there was a knock on the door.

“Sir?” A soldier pushed the door open a little, peeking inside. “I have a message to…”

Speirs turned to stare at him, a clear warning to go back into the other room. The soldier closed his mouth, and disappeared. The captain turned back to Lipton, and patted him on the leg. “I’ll be back later.”

“I’ll be fine, sir.” Lipton assured him. He coughed painfully. “Get somebody to help you, sir. Even if you have to drag someone off the street from another company.”

Now there was an idea. Speirs started out—stopped, grabbed another pillow off one of the other beds and then went back to Lipton, slipping an arm under his shoulder to lift him up so he could prop him up a little and hopefully take some of that pressure off him when he had a coughing fit.

“Better?”

“Yessir. Thanks.” Lipton felt more tired than he had just an hour earlier, his body apparently deciding that since Speirs had completely cut him off from his work, it no longer needed to keep up appearances. Christ, it was so cold…and when had he closed his eyes? Wrenching them open, he caught Speirs concerned look and attempted a smile. “M’fine. Really, sir. No need to worry about me. You’re the one that’s going to be going up against Command’s paper machine.” He tried to joke.

Speirs didn’t buy it for a second. He squeezed Lipton’s shoulder and finally turned and left.

Dealing with the new bout of messengers was surprisingly easy—perhaps now that Lipton was resting and he didn’t have to worry about him on top of everything else was helping—and he was soon out of the building and looking for the major.

The talk with Winters—and the two interruptions that he didn’t care for at all—led onto a brief talk with the Major about the condition of the first sergeant. All the captain could tell him was that the medic suggested more rest and food; he didn’t have to say that Lipton refused to be sent back to an aid station, and Winters had simply nodded his head and left him to handle it.

He returned to the CP after speaking to a few of the sergeants from the other platoons, making sure everything was getting done and the men were taking advantage of the showers and new food rations—and then got busy finishing with everything that had been piling up while he had been out. He’d followed Lipton’s suggestion and grabbed two men to serve as aides, one finishing all the work needed on the typewriter, wondering why he hadn’t done it sooner—and before long it was running relatively smoothly. He suspected the reason everything was hitting them now was because they had been on the move constantly on the frontline, and now that they were situated in one place things were catching up, because a few of the reports he received were months old.

In a few more hours he’d go see the onset of the patrol, but now that things were slowing down—the headache had grown worse and he’d run completely out of cigarettes, but that was the cost of getting work done—he pulled up another file, then glanced at his watch, cursing under his breath when he saw how much time had passed. One of the corporals he’d grabbed looked up at him, but he paid him no attention and instead rose from his chair and started to the next room to check on Lipton, feeling guilty that he’d let so much time pass and hadn’t even realized it.

He didn’t even have to take a step inside the room to instantly see that Lipton’s condition had changed. And not for the better.

Drenched in sweat, face still flushed with fever as he shook with violent chills, Lipton’s breathing had deteriorated into a pained rattle, his chest heaving with the effort the action was taking on him, face tight with pain.

“Shit…!” Speirs crossed the room in a few short strides, almost tripping on the blankets that Lipton had thrown off at some point. He picked them up and dropped them at the foot of Lipton’s bed, more concerned with the way the man looked and breathing than to be concerned about his blankets. “Sergeant—” He tried to shake his shoulder, and then shook harder when there was no reaction before letting him go. Christ…he could feel him burning up under his hand—just like earlier, only this time he doubted the man would look better with some more sleep. He swore again, and then straightened up.

Something had to be done, and even though Roe hadn’t been able to help earlier—maybe something came in with all those trucks that could do something. He pulled the blankets back over Lipton, tucking them in a little so the man couldn’t shake them off in his fevered state, and then quickly went to the next room and to his office.

“You. Get a medic,” he ordered the soldier using the typewriter. “Tell them it’s the first sergeant.”

“Yes sir.”

He went back to the room with Lipton. He didn’t exactly have unlimited knowledge regarding pneumonia or how to handle it—in fact, Speirs had none—but he took the last pillow off the other bed and propped Lipton up a little more to see if that could help his breathing. There didn’t seem to be much of a difference, but he felt better doing that than just standing there staring.

There had to be something to do for the fever though—even as he thought it, his eye fell to the empty bowl and pitcher near the head of one of the beds. He went over and peered inside of the pitcher, feeling some water at the bottom of it. After making short work of a sheet—he didn’t have the time to find anything else and didn’t care besides—placed one of the damned pieces of cloth over Lipton’s forehead.

Lipton started at what felt like ice pressed against his brow, head twisting in an attempt to get away from the burning sensation, eyes trying and failing to open as he tried to free a hand to investigate the cause of the terrible feeling. He whimpered as the movement caused his whole body to ache, the icy touch forgotten as he clutched at the sheets helplessly, his lungs were on fire—

“H-hurts.” He mumbled almost incoherently, eyes still squeezed shut and face twisted in a grimace, reflexive tears coming to his eyes as the single word set off a coughing fit that left him feeling like he’d just been run over by a damn tank. Fuck. It hurt.

Speirs swore again and dropped the cloth into the empty bowl before helplessly sitting by as he let Lipton finish the coughing fit. He held onto his shoulders to keep him struggling to get up though, trying to talk to him even though he still couldn’t tell if the man was even conscious. “Easy, Lipton, it’s me—the doc’s coming and he’ll be here soon—”

Some of his confusion dissipating at the sound of a thankfully familiar voice, Lipton listed towards him, eyes finally able to crack open revealing fever-bright eyes. “S-sir…’s too hot. Too—w-why?” He implored Speirs in sudden frustration. “I don’t—” He blinked the wetness back from his eyes as he had another bout of coughing, his lungs feeling like they’d been cut up from the inside. Unconsciously he sagged more towards Speirs, relying on the man to hold him up as his shoulders shook in an effort to get his breathing back under control.

Speirs didn’t know what else to say besides “easy, the doc’s coming”—a familiar mantra from the battlefield when a man was holding onto what was left of a leg or arm—so he kept repeating that in the same calm voice while holding onto Lipton, one hand moving to rub the man on the back as he struggled to breathe.

Energy spent, Lipton gave up the fight against his fatigue and passed out, head lolling back as he went limp.

“First Sergeant? Lipton?” A thrill of apprehension ran through Speirs when the man suddenly seemed to stop moving in his hands, the worst thoughts running through his head—but as he lowered the man back against the pillows, he was relieved to find the man was still breathing. He hadn’t lost him. But he was going to if something wasn’t done soon. But what? Again Speirs found himself swearing, this time aloud as he looked at Lipton’s flushed face. He tugged some of the blanket back over him, then pulled it down, because the man was burning hot even if he was shivering, and it made sense that he had to cool down—but the water hadn’t been the right move—had it?

He stood back up and paced the room, then stopped and turned back to face the bed. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes, and tried to think of what to do. Wounds were easier to deal with. Death, too. And both infinitely more so when they took place on the battlefield. But some sickness, when they were supposed to be in the relative safety of the town? If Lipton died…

“Sir?” Roe appeared suddenly, along with the sergeant who had been sent to retrieve a medic. The moment his eyes caught sight of Lipton he didn’t wait for any sort of answer, instead shoving past him to go to the unconscious man’s side.

“It should’ve never gotten this bad,” the medic muttered as he checked Lipton’s vitals, and even though he hadn’t directed the comment to Speirs, the captain felt that old feeling of guilt from earlier rising back up. He shoved it back down and went to Lipton’s other side.

“How is he?”

“I don’t know yet,” the medic snapped. “We finally have the drugs but—” He opened his pack and tore open a small box. Just moments ago he’d been lined up with some of the other medics who could finally replenish the packs that had been verging on empty ever since they arrived. He hadn’t anticipated on using it all so soon… “It might’ve been too late. We’ll find out.”

Speirs watched grim-faced as Roe gave Lipton an injection, then started to set up an IV line with practiced ease and proficiency. The medic then stood up and grabbed the wet cloth the captain had abandoned a few moments earlier, frowning as he touched it. “It’s not cold enough,” he said to himself. “His fever’s too high… You—” He turned to look over his shoulder at the sergeant who had been watching by the doorway. “Go out there and bring in some ice or snow.”

“In what?” asked the soldier, a shiver going up his spine when Speirs turned his dark gaze onto him and he realized the stupidity of his question. “I mean ri—right away.” Both men turned back to Lipton as he left the room.

“Won’t it…” Speirs didn’t know what to say. “Ice I mean—when he’s shivering—”

Roe didn’t know what was stranger: the captain fumbling over his words, or an actual look of unconcealed concern on Speirs’s face. None of the men would believe him if he told them. He wasn’t sure if even he believed he was seeing what he was seeing.

“It’ll be fine so long as we don’t shock him,” Roe finally said, remembering to answer. He was already unbuttoning Lipton’s sleeve so he could roll it up better. The cough didn’t sound good though, and cooling him down wouldn’t really help with the congestion. Unless…

“What?” Speirs asked, and Roe glanced up, unaware he’d spoken aloud.

“A mustard plaster.” And oddly enough, he already knew where to get it. He stood up. “I’ll bring it back. Start cooling him down—he might try to take it off but don’t let him. The fever has to come down.”

He left without another word, and Speirs moved around to where he had been sitting, and then reluctantly picked up the dampened cloth, wary of having a repeat of what happened last time. But there wasn’t anything else to do, so he squeezed out the excess water, and then put it onto Lipton’s arm—a test to see if he would react the same as he did earlier.

Lipton flinched at the contact, brow scrunching up in pain as he feebly tried to push Speirs away though he didn’t wake up.

“Easy,” Speirs said quietly to him, taking hold of the sergeant’s wrists to keep him from struggling, only letting go long enough to put another cloth on Lipton’s other free arm, not quite brave enough—or rather, working his way up—to putting one on his hot forehead. The medic said it would be fine if they didn’t shock him, and he had a feeling if he tried that again, it just might just do that. He took hold of his arms again to keep Lipton from knocking the damp cloth off when the man kept struggling even in his unconscious state, and Speirs found himself speaking aloud to him as if that might help sooth him back into lying still. “Just try to hold still, first sergeant, it’ll help if you let it…just hold still…”

More unconscious than awake, Lipton’s face twisted into a frown at the sound of the voice, arms weakly attempting to get free of the hands pinning him in place—then his eyelids opened into slits and for a brief moment, feverish eyes caught on Speirs face, a glimmer of recognition passing through them before they once more were squeezed shut in pain, his movements stilling as he stopped fighting the other man, body seeming to shake even more violently than before.

Speirs slowly released him, at a loss of what to do for the shaking since it seemed as if the cooling down was just making it worse, but the doc said they had to cool him down, so he picked up another strip of the torn sheet and dumped it into the water. “You’ll be okay, first sergeant,” he said quietly, carefully brushing the edge of the damp cloth against Lipton’s temple before easing it down as carefully and slowly as possible.

Behind him, the sergeant brought in a gold-plated display bowl filled with slushy ice and snow; Speirs glanced up briefly, dimly recognized it as one of the pieces he’d looted and left in the other room, but paid it no mind and instead turned instantly back to Lipton without a word. “Here, sir,” the sergeant said, trying to put it down by the other bowl on the nightstand, which was beginning to get overcrowded, before leaving it on the top of one of the nearby beds. When Speirs said nothing to him and continued to murmur encouraging words to the unconscious Lipton, the sergeant took it as an order to leave, and slipped back out just as Roe returned with a small bowl in hand.

Speirs didn’t know where he got it, but the smell quickly revealed the medic had been successful in finding his mustard plaster. He sat down on the other side of Lipton. “Unbutton his shirt,” he ordered, and Speirs did as he ordered. Once it was out of the way, Roe reached into the bowl with a few fingers and pulled out a square-ish piece of cloth covered with the mustard mixture on one side. He unfolded it and then carefully started to lay it over the first sergeant’s chest, making sure it was placed properly before putting a second cloth over it.

“It’ll have to be removed in fifteen minutes,” the medic said, more to himself than to Speirs. “Any longer and it might burn him.”

The mustard plaster seemed to help, but Speirs couldn’t tell for sure, and the serious look remained unchanged on Roe’s face, giving him no clues. After fifteen minutes, the medic carefully removed all of the plaster and took over wetting the cloths on Lipton’s arms and head with snow and water. They were drying out surprisingly fast, but the heat still didn’t seem to dissipate no matter how much ice and snow they used. The good news was the temperature wasn’t climbing any higher, but that was about all they had to be glad about.

He wanted to suggest that they get a truck and send Lipton to the nearest aid station, but given the first sergeant’s condition he wasn’t entirely sure that would be wise. If he recovered a bit more, perhaps he’d mention it, but until then…all they could do was monitor his situation and hope for the best. Hope, something that didn’t come easy to any man who had been on the battlefield for a long period of time.

Speirs was compelled to return to his duties, so Roe remained alone by Lipton’s side. He was so focused on helping his patient and so did not pay attention to the coming and going in the outer room, nor the occasional falling of mortars in other parts of the town, but he did hear when Speirs returned. The captain silently took over the wetting and replacing of the cloth for a short time while Roe went out and replenished the ice they were using, remained for only a short while longer before disappearing back into the other room.

The medic didn’t know how many hours he passed sitting by Lipton’s side—or how many men started filtering in once the news spread that Lipton had gotten worse. Captain Speirs soon put a stop to those visits, citing the cold draft they brought with them every time they opened the door, but that didn’t stop the captain himself from coming in occasionally to see if there had been any change.

“The fever might last through the night, sir,” Roe said the next time Speirs came into the room. The captain didn’t answer; evidentially he didn’t care about how long it would be because he finally finished what he had been doing in the office, and sat down on one of the other beds with no sign that he was going to leave soon. In the distance, they could hear explosions starting across the river.

The patrol; Roe wondered how it was going and who was on it. He’d missed hearing most of the gossip being in the room with Lipton, and few of the men spoke about it when they passed through. He just hoped it went well—just like he hoped Lipton started to show some change, show some improvement—

“You should try to get some sleep.”

Roe looked over at Speirs. The captain had turned his dark-eyed gaze from the first sergeant to him, and inclined his head to the other bed in the room.

“You’ve been with him for most of the day now. I can take over.”

“Thank you, sir, but I’m not tired.” He was, but not to the point he wanted sleep. He never did find it easy to nap when a man was under his care, and this was no exception. Speirs evidentially could tell he wasn’t telling the truth though, judging by the look in his eyes, but he said nothing of it and just looked back to Lipton when the man shifted a little in his fever.

“I can get us something to eat if you want, sir,” Roe offered in the silence that fell between them. He hoped the captain would agree, because the exhaustion and stress were really starting to show, but Speirs shook his head. So neither of them were taking very good care of themselves, Roe thought, finding it amusing in an ironic way. Lipton’s neglecting of his own health had obviously rubbed off on both of them.

After a while, he stood up, taking the cloth once more off of Lipton to wet in the bowl of ice water. His fingers were beginning to feel numb from how many times he’d pushed them into the cold water…

“…Why does he seem different?”

Roe lifted his head at Speirs’s question, abandoning the cloth he’d been squeezing out over the icy water to quickly sit back down at Lipton’s side, at first looking for the worst before he realized what had caught the captain’s attention: the red flush was receding from Lipton’s face.

It left a faint pink, almost pale coloring in its wake, and Roe instantly reached for the thermometer to confirm what he suspected, noticing as he did so that the shaking had stopped, and a profuse sweat covered the man’s body.

Speirs stood up without realizing it, watching as the medic sat back, holding the thermometer carefully, examining it once and then a second time. He looked from him to Lipton, then back again.

“What is it?” he asked, apprehensive at the medic’s silence. But as the captain came closer, Roe finally looked up at him, smiling.

“It’s the fever. It finally broke.”

Speirs felt something ease in his chest, and he almost managed to smile back. Roe started to remove the wet cloths, dumping all back into the ornate bowl.

“The blankets should be changed, stop him from getting a chill,” the medic said, noticing how soaked the sheets had become during Lipton’s fever. He used the edge of one to wipe off as much of the sweat as he could from the man’s bare skin. “Are there any extra sheets?”

There were, and Speirs retrieved them immediately. It was a little bit of a process, but they managed to change them without disturbing the man, and Roe dumped the old ones in a heap at the foot of the bed as Speirs tucked a few new blankets around Lipton’s shoulders.

“Letting him sleep is about all we can do now, sir,” Roe said as he straightened up. “He’ll be exhausted after fighting through that fever. Probably won’t wake up until morning.”

“What if he wakes up before then?”

“Give him water, if he asks for any,” the medic said, checking the IV as he answered. “His cough won’t go away immediately, but if necessary we can do the plaster again. Soon as he can keep some type of food down I’ll take this off, sir.”

“Mm.”

Roe rubbed his eyes, feeling some of the sleepiness he’d pushed away coming over him now that the worst of it was over. It did not go unnoticed.

“I’ll stay by him, doc,” Speirs said, patting his shoulder. “Go ahead and get some sleep.”

There didn’t seem like much point in arguing now. Roe simply nodded his head and picked up his pack, swinging it over his shoulder. “Yes sir.” The, “you should do the same” went unsaid, but the look the medic gave Speirs told him exactly what Roe was thinking. One last glance at Lipton, and then the medic took his leave.

Speirs sagged back down onto the bed where he’d been sitting, feeling much the same as Roe. Now that the worry Lipton might not make it through the night was gone, exhaustion easily slid into its place. But he knew the patrol was going to be back soon and he’d expect word immediately on the success or failure of it, and then Winters was going to want an update, and then in a few hours past that it would be daybreak and time to start the whole process over again, and really that didn’t leave much time for sleep…

Lipton stirred, unknowingly breaking Speirs from his internal musings, and blinked wearily up at the ceiling for a long moment, mind hazy on the last few hours. The last thing he remembered was Speirs leaving, then his fever must’ve risen because the heat was suddenly sweltering…Speirs had come back at some point though, he’d heard his voice, along with Roe’s at some point…god, he was tired.

Trying to swallow, throat feeling like someone’d taken sandpaper to it, Lipton was rudely reminded why he’d woken up in the first place. Water, he had to have some water—

“First Sergeant?” Speirs sat beside him, having moved from the other bed. He didn’t know if the man was fully conscious or not, and didn’t know if it was a good idea to try to encourage him to wake up, but decided to try anyway. “Lipton, can you hear me?”

Surprised to see the other man, Lipton just looked at him dumbly for a moment. “…you…” He coughed dryly, lungs and throat feeling raw, reflexive tears coming to his eyes as he sluggishly freed a hand from his blankets and rubbed at his chest in a hope to make the pain leave sooner rather than later. It didn’t work. Wincing as he swallowed Lipton looked up at Speirs once more, his earlier surprise turning into confusion. “You stayed? Musta been bad.” He said hoarsely.

“From what I understand you’ve been through worse, first sergeant,” Speirs said, deciding not to mention how terrible the man’s fever had gotten. He turned away briefly to search for some water that was drinkable. His eye caught sight of a canteen the medic had left behind and he reached over and pulled it off the nightstand. “Are you thirsty?”

Lipton nodded, eyes tracking the canteen with all the eagerness he could muster in his current state. He tried to push himself up into a sitting position but found his arms unwilling to even take a little weight, his muscles trembling with effort before giving up, his head flopping back down against his pillow. Lipton took a moment to curse every illness known to man and the weakness that was the aftermath of recovering from such illnesses and then looked at Speirs apologetically. “Think I might need a hand, sir.”

Speirs obligingly shifted position to help him sit up a little further, then held the canteen for him while he drank his fill, wishing he had more since the thing already felt half empty.

Lipton greedily drained what was left, the liquid a blessed balm on his throat. “Thanks.”

“No thanks necessary.” Speirs made a note to get more water as soon as possible as he eased Lipton back down, making sure to tuck his blanket back into place. He discarded the canteen. “Anything else I can do for you, sergeant?”

“No, sir, but…am I out of the woods, sir? Only I thought I felt better before and then I got worse.” Lipton asked wary of the answer. He wasn’t sure if he could handle another round of this illness— felt like someone could knock him out with a damn feather now. But Roe wasn’t here, which was a good sign, maybe. Unless someone else had needed him more urgently. He didn’t feel as badly as before his fever knocked him off his feet, though…that was good, right?

“Maybe if—” Speirs cut himself off abruptly, deciding now wasn’t the time to lecture the first sergeant about the importance of taking care of himself when he was sick. Especially since he still felt a degree of culpability knowing he’d been the one to keep Lipton working when he knew the man hadn’t been feeling well. That was…that was something to talk about another day. He squeezed Lipton’s shoulder. “Yes, first sergeant. You’re out of the woods. It’ll be awhile before you’re back on your feet but you’ll be okay.”

Relieved, a faint smile twisting his lips, Lipton nodded. “Glad to hear it, sir. What time is it? That patrol already back yet?”

“No.” But they would be soon, Speirs thought. “Now forget about it and go back to sleep. You need all the rest you can get.”

“Yessir. And thank you, sir.”

Thank you? Speirs frowned. Thank you for what? Making Lipton work when he was ill and then forgetting about him and leaving him alone in the back room without having anyone check in on him? For almost killing him? Or maybe he hadn’t realized Roe had been the one looking after him all those hours. He started to open his mouth to correct him, then closed it again when he realized it would all be easier to talk about when Lipton wasn’t wiped out from the fever.

Instead of answering, he simply patted Lipton’s shoulder and stood up, automatically patting his pocket for cigarettes he didn’t have before he remembered. He started to turn away, mind going from Lipton to the patrol and the rest of the duties he had to fulfill as captain before his eye fell on the canteen he’d abandoned. No need to be more neglectful than he’d already been. He bent over and picked it up, and then started to leave.

“Sir? Once the patrol gets back, if you could send someone to tell me how it went, I’d appreciate it.”

Speirs glanced back at Lipton, then nodded his head. “I’ll be sure to, first sergeant.”

Lipton nodded, eyes already closing as he fell back into an exhausted sleep.

Unlike before when he fell asleep, a pain-filled haze that alternated between sweltering heat and ice cold, this time was far more recuperative, Lipton waking to being able to breath far easier than before though his throat was dry again.

Bracing himself, mindful of how his muscles had barely responded to him last time, Lipton determinedly pushed himself up into a sitting position, a few dry coughs escaping him, and cast his eyes around for a canteen. The unexpected occupant seated on the bed beside his caught his eyes first, Lipton meeting Speirs eyes with a smile. “Captain. Your office already filled again?” He joked lightly, nodding his head towards the various piles of paperwork spread out over the bed covers.

“No.” Speirs tossed the file he had been holding down and swung his legs off the bed to stand. “Just tired of the scenery.” Without waiting for the request—Lipton’s rough voice gave him away—he picked up one of the canteens he’d brought hours earlier, unscrewed the lid and offered it silently.

“Thanks, sir.” Lipton took the canteen gratefully and took a few drinks before turning his attention back to Speirs, gaze solemn.

“Jackson was killed,” Speirs said, answering the unspoken question. He sat back down on the edge of his bed, expression impassive as he watched Lipton’s reaction. “The mission was a success. So there’s going to be another tonight.”

“Jackson. Christ.” Lipton rubbed a hand over his mouth. In the heat of the war, losing only one man in a patrol was considered good. To the higher ups, not the guys who knew him. Now though, with the war nearing its end… “Christ.”

Speirs turned his gaze back to his papers, idly adjusting them for a moment as he let Lipton digest the information. Accepting death didn’t exactly come easy to all the men who had been there since the beginning—himself not included—but nobody wanted to see a comrade die this close to the end of the war. They couldn’t quite dare to believe they’d make it out alive—not yet—but they were beginning to see a future on the horizon.

He let Lipton digest the news for a moment, then spoke up again. “The doc stopped by a short while ago, brought something for you to eat. Do you feel up to it?”

Grief for Jackson softly pushed back, to be looked at again at some unknown future date when the war ended and he had the luxury to process the loss along with all the others they’d lost on the way, Lipton slowly shook his head. “No, not hungry.” He mumbled, feeling tired all over again. It wasn’t the kind that would be cured by a good night’s rest, however, his mind far too awake now as he settled himself against the headboard and stared off at the wall opposite, canteen held loosely by his side.

Speirs frowned, then decided not being hungry wasn’t the same as not being able to eat and stood up, taking the canteen from Lipton to replace it with a tin cup. “Try that.”

Lipton withheld a sigh and looked at the broth with a faint frown before he dutifully raised it to his lips and took a sip. After having nothing but coffee and water for what felt like the past two days, the faint flavor from the lukewarm broth seemed like the most delicious thing Lipton’s taste buds had ever experienced, his body vetoing his distaste of any type of food and almost guzzling the contents down. “Remind me to thank, Roe.” He said having the good grace to look sheepish. “Thank you, sir.”

“Mm.” Speirs wondered if he perhaps should have stopped Lipton from drinking so quickly, but he seemed fine, so he gestured to the coffeepot Roe had commandeered for the broth he’d put together. “Did you want more?”

Lipton hesitated, eyes longing, and then shook his head. “Better not chance it.” He said regretfully. The last thing he needed was a stomach upset.

“Later then.” Speirs took his cup and put it on the nightstand next to the coffeepot for later. “…Anything else you need? It’s been awhile since…” He shrugged.

Lipton stared at him a moment, not understanding for a moment, his mind still not working at a hundred percent. “Ah.” He looked away embarrassed. “I, uh, think I can walk on my own, sir.”

“All right. Besides that, then?”

“Uh, where is the can, sir?” Lipton asked, bladder making itself known now that attention had been brought to it. Briefly he wished that someone else was here instead of an officer. It was war, you did what you had to when you had to, but given the current circumstances, in a relatively safe building where death wasn’t immediately at hand, it felt more awkward than anything.

Speirs gestured at the bed—rather, underneath it. “Actual room was blown out before we got here. Bedpan’s all we have.” He turned back to the bed he had been sitting on, picking up one of the clipboards he had been looking at. He cleared his throat. “The doc said he’d drop by to remove the IV in a few hours. If you need anything just ask.”

He strode out of the room.

Standing up turned out to be more of a challenge then Lipton thought, and he almost had an unfortunate accident with the IV line while taking a piss—fortunately, it was avoided and the bed pan was shoved back under the bed.

Using some water from the canteen to wash up as best he could, Lipton returned to the bed on wobbly legs and practically fell back in.

He tried to get back to sleep, knowing it was the only way to get his strength back, but wound up glancing over at the paperwork on the other bed, a contemplative look on his face.

Forcing himself to look away and close his eyes, Lipton lasted another ten minutes before he got up and went over to the other bed, settling down with blankets over his shoulders and a pen dug out of his pants pocket, eyes focusing down on the typed words and glad for the distraction, however tedious it was.

It was quiet, for about the next thirty minutes, and then—

“Goddammit, sergeant!” Speirs’s annoyed voice matched the dark look on his face. The captain had stopped in the doorway, a cigarette halfway to his lips before he saw what was taking place in the room where he’d left Lipton.

Startled, pen tip breaking through paper, Lipton looked over at Speirs warily. “Hello to you, too, sir.”

“Don’t give me that. You’re working.” The captain dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out on the floor, then crossed the room and took the pen from Lipton’s hand, eyeing it suspiciously. “Where’d you get this? Who gave it to you?”

“No one, sir. It’s mine.” Lipton looked at him unhappily. “All due respect, sir, you said yourself that I was on the mend. If I can do something useful instead of staring at that damn water stain on the ceiling, I’d like to be able to do it.”

“First sergeant, if I have to tell you one more time that you are being useful to everyone by damn well sleeping and doing nothing at all, then I might have to shoot one of us,” Speirs said flatly, pocketing the contraband pen. “Now leave the paperwork to me. You’ll have more than enough of your own when you make lieutenant.”

Lipton wisely decided not to mention that he’d probably have less than he was doing now once they weren’t in a lieutenant shortage, knowing there was no point in aggravating his commanding officer any further. “This stack is finished.” He pointed at the stack in question and then made his way back to his bed, sitting on the edge and absently rubbing at his chest as a cough threatened to come on. Maybe he should try eating again. Or walk around for a bit until he felt like falling on his face, maybe that would tire him out enough to get back to sleep.

A magazine unexpectedly thumped into his chest.

Speirs pointedly did not look at him as he sat down in the space Lipton had vacated, resuming his work in silence.

Lipton stared at the magazine. “…This is American.” It was out of date like things usually were by the time they got shipped over, but it had been a good long while since Lipton had seen anything from home. “How’d you get your hands on this?” He asked already flipping it open and marveling at seeing pictures of familiar looking places. He’d never been to the Grand Canyon, of course, but he’d seen heard about it. And it was in the United States, which made it even more precious at the moment.

“I found it,” was all the answer he received, Speirs still examining the old report in his hand with a concentration he usually reserved for literally anything other than outdated information.

Smiling in response to Speirs answer and settling himself down more comfortably, Lipton slowly flipped through the pages of the magazine, taking in the small piece of home almost reverently.

He was on his second perusal of the magazine when it started to become harder to keep his eyes open—eyelids finally slipping shut while rereading an article about Betty Grable, magazine falling from his loose grip and hitting the floor with a papery thump.

After a moment, a hand reached down and retrieved the magazine, and Speirs looked at the cover for a moment before he placed it on the nightstand next to Lipton’s bed. When he woke up again he might like something to read. Which is why he went to the other room, and retrieved the other magazine he’d “collected” and stashed by his looted goods, and added that to the one by the nightstand.

Woken from his doze by the movement, Lipton blinked tiredly over at him. “You find a lot of things.” He mumbled still half-asleep, hand reaching out to pat Speirs arm and missing entirely. “Thanks.”

Speirs smiled but said nothing but took Lipton’s dangling arm and tucked it back by his side before sitting back down on his own bed to resume looking over the papers.

Lipton woke a few more times during the day, once when Roe came to remove the IV and to check to make sure he was still recovering—“If you do something foolish like going outside again when you’re sick I’m going to tell them to send you back, sergeant—and this time I mean it—”—and thrice more when some of the other men came to see him “Jesus, Lip, you have a better collection than Webster” to make sure the rumors of his impending death were just that—rumors . Each time he woke was shorter than the first, a sure sign that his body was trying to catch up on all of the sleep it had missed, but that didn’t stop the majority of visitors from trying to initiate some conversation just to make sure “you didn’t have brain damage or somethin’ from that fever”.

Where they had learned that or heard it, the first sergeant had no idea.

Come the next morning, after the “patrol”, Lipton woke to find Roe and Speirs talking at the doorway, the medic just shrugging to whatever was being asked before he turned and saw he was awake.

“How are you feeling today, sergeant?” he asked, walking over.

“Like I’ve been in this room too long, doc. What’s the word?” Lipton asked hoping this would be the day both Roe and Speirs stopped treating him like he was about to collapse at any moment. Which had only happened once, they didn’t need to keep bringing it up. He could walk just find now, the only thing holding over from his pneumonia was a dry cough and faint ache in his chest that showed no signs of leaving just yet.

“Like I told the captain, that depends. How do you feel besides a little stir-crazy?” Roe asked, tilting his head as he observed him.

“Ready to get back to work.”

Roe looked over at Speirs, who was lighting himself a cigarette. The captain had been listening to their short conversation while watching the first sergeant, and evidently was good with what he saw because he gave a nod of approval to the medic before turning and going into the other room. Roe turned back to Lipton with a faint smile. “There you have it. So long as you take it easy,” he cautioned. “You aren’t all the way better yet, sergeant.”

“Thanks, doc.” Lipton tugged on his boots and started to lace them up. “Better keep an eye on Speirs, though. Don’t think he’s been getting any sleep while he was keeping an eye on me.”

“I don’t think so either, sergeant, but I’ve already told him,” said Roe. He hesitated to mention to Lipton that the captain seemed to feel responsible for the first sergeant’s ill health—which was ridiculous, because Lipton had neglected his health all by himself—and ultimately decided to say nothing of it. Almost nothing. “If you get the chance you should tell him yourself, sergeant. I think he listens to you more than anyone else here.”

Lipton looked up at him dubiously as he finished tying his boots. “I doubt that. But I’ll give it a shot. The last thing we need is for our C.O. to be out for the count.” Standing up and putting back on his webbing, Lipton paused in picking up his rifle and helmet and looked over at the medic who hadn’t left yet. “Something else, doc?”

“Just one thing. I don’t know if it’s worth mentioning,” the medic admitted. “I still don’t know for sure if you had pneumonia. It doesn’t seem to be catching. And the captain could just be tired, but—I don’t know, first sergeant. Maybe I’m wrong…” He doubted he was, but there was a first time for everything.

“Wrong about what?” Lipton asked, brow furrowing.

“I think he might be getting sick too.”

“You try to check him over?” Lipton questioned as he tried to think if he had seen any signs in the past few days. Speirs had seemed quiet and focused on paperwork, he wasn’t normally chatty so nothing seemed out of order…but now that he thought about it, it had looked as though it had been taking him longer to complete his work than it should’ve. Of course, Lipton had no idea what he was working on so couldn’t accurately judge how long it should take, but still. Maybe he’d been slowing down for another reason besides boredom with the never ending paperwork.

“I offered,” said Roe, with an expression that clearly told the first sergeant how that offer had been received.

Lipton sighed and nodded. “I’ll talk to him about it.”

“Right.” Roe started to turn to the door and then stopped again. “Remember to take it easy,” he said, unable to stress it enough that they don’t lose their first sergeant again to bad health. “You’ve been in bed for a while so you might get light headed if you push it.”

Electing not to tell the medic that he’d made sure to walk around whenever he’d been left alone, Lipton nodded with a smile. “Sure thing, doc.”

Taking his canteen from the end table and stowing it back in his webbing, Lipton took up his rifle and helmet and went out after the medic, making his way to the main room and stopping one of the ever present messengers milling about. “You see Captain Speirs?”

“He’s in there, first sergeant,” said one of the messengers gesturing to the office, standing up straighter when he saw who he was speaking to. He had already dropped off his message, but was waiting in the relatively warm building before going back with the reply the captain had given him. “He uh—said he didn’t want to be disturbed, sarge.”

Lipton nodded his acknowledgement and then went over to the door, giving a cursory knock before opening it and stepping inside, door closing behind him.

“Sir.” He saluted, feeling extra formal on his first day allowed out of bed for more than five minutes at a time, sharp gaze looking over the other man who did look a bit run down—was his face a little paler than usual?

Speirs glanced up at him, giving him a short nod before turning back to the paper he was signing. “At ease, first sergeant. Did you need something?” He put the folder aside and picked up the next to examine. The majority of the paperwork that had been there a few days ago was greatly reduced, leaving just a small stack left that could probably be finished within the hour, if not sooner.

“Yes, sir.” Lipton moved to stand in front of his desk. “There’s an issue I have to discuss with you, whenever you have a moment.”

Speirs frowned, and put down what he was holding to look up at the sergeant properly, a little worried that the talk had something to do with Lipton’s health. Had he made a mistake a moment ago agreeing for him to resume his duties?

Closer, it was very easy to tell Lipton had been sick; there was a look about his face now that suggested he had recently been bedridden. And he was too thin, too; all the men had thinned out a little during their time in the frozen woods, but just from the illness and fever alone he’d probably lost ten pounds. But he was standing on his own two feet just fine, no unsteadiness like before, and Roe seemed to think he was fine to get up and resume his duties, just like the sergeant himself. No, he decided, it couldn’t be his health he wanted to talk about, but then what? He’d barely been up ten minutes, maybe less, so what did he…

“I have a moment right now,” Speirs said, realizing his attention had been drifting. He resisted the urge to reach up and rub his temple, where a headache was making itself known. “What is it, first sergeant?”

“Doc Roe informed me of a sick man in the Company, sir. He refuses to get himself checked out and I’m worried it might prove dangerous both to him and to the Company if he continues ignoring his health.” Lipton was very aware of how closely the story fit with his own situation a few days ago, but that was different. He wasn’t sure how exactly, at the moment, when it sounded like the guy in question was just being plain stupid, but it was. That, he was quite clear on. “He won’t take orders from me or Roe, but if you gave the order, sir, he’d have to obey.”

Speirs frowned at him, wondering if Roe had just been filling the first sergeant in on this stupid trooper in the first few minutes that the man had been on his feet. And he thought he had been pushing Lipton too much when he was ill…and why hadn’t Roe mentioned it to him earlier if it worried him? “There’s a Lieutenant Jones in the ranks now, Lipton. He needs the experience.” In other words, take it to him and have him settle it. Speirs had had his fill of sick soldiers with Lipton.

“I would, sir, but the lieutenant isn’t available and this is a time sensitive matter.” Lipton was no lightweight when it came to thinking on his feet, being ill had at least left him that. Small mercies.

“Court-martial him,” Speirs said simply. They didn’t have time to waste on soldiers who wouldn’t follow orders. He had learned that a long time ago.

Lipton nodded like he expected this. “Okay, sir. Could I ask a question before I set the proceedings in order?”

The frown on the captain’s face had grown, and now he reconsidered letting Lipton resume his duties. He’d always taken Lipton to be incredibly professional and experienced, but if one soldier was holding him up, maybe he’d have to rethink that. Whoever that trooper was sounded like they were behaving stupidly, but perhaps they just didn’t want to be sent back to the aid station. Speirs narrowed his eyes. Like some other people he could name.

“What?”

“When a captain is court-martialed and there is only one lieutenant left in the Company, does that lieutenant take over command as senior officer and sign off on the court-martial in question?”

Speirs stared at him, for a long moment, trying to comprehend what the hell the first sergeant was talking about. “…Are you trying to…” He had to pause, to make sure he’d heard everything Lipton just said correctly. “Hell, you think there’s something wrong with me, first sergeant?”

“You can’t afford to get taken down by a cold, sir, or pneumonia. Or weren’t you the very man telling me that exact same thing not three days ago?” He added pointedly. Again, he wasn’t going to make parallels about how the captain was acting like he had been, because Speirs was a captain who should know better.

“In case it slipped your attention I’m not sick,” Speirs said flatly. The surprise wore away quickly and he felt more annoyed than anything else that Lipton, of all people, was in there telling him to take care of himself.

“Then you shouldn’t have any problem having Roe look you over.” Lipton countered. “I’ll go get him.”

He was barely to the door when his lungs decided they’d behaved well enough and several of those painful dry coughs escaped his throat, Lipton fumbling for his canteen before getting it loose and taking a few sips.

“Maybe you should look after yourself first before accusing people of not taking care of themselves” was what Speirs wanted to say when Lipton was forced to stop because of his lingering cough, but instead what slipped out was, “If you aren’t the stubbornest first sergeant I’ve ever come across, Lip…”

“Thank you, sir.” Lipton croaked, a surprised but pleased smile pulling at his mouth at the use of his nickname by the usually taciturn captain. “I’ll be right back.”

Hurrying out of the room, Lipton left the C.P. in search of Roe, gladly greeting the familiar faces that had visited him in his room often enough over the past three days, back-slapping decidedly more gentle than usual and gazes still running over him with the faintest hint of worry as if they weren’t quite sure he should be up and about yet. He took their mother-henning with his usual good grace and kept on his path to find Roe who he heard had stopped by the supply depot.

Upon entering, Lipton was immediately set upon by a grinning Luz who slipped him two Hershey’s bars.

“I can’t—”

“Shh! What no one knows won’t kill them right?”

“You been doing a lot of this?” Lipton questioned with a raised brow.

“Doing a lot of what?” Luz asked innocently, taking the bars and shoving them into one of Lipton’s pockets, ignoring his protests. “Roe said you were back on your feet, I was going to come see you off from your sickbed, but after Speirs had me thrown out, I decided to just wait until you came to me, and here you are. Looking like you spent the last three days in a fucking coma, but standing. Jesus, Lip, you are one lucky son of a bitch, you know that?”

“Didn’t think hardly being able to breathe was that lucky, George.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

Lipton had to concede to that. “You seen Roe?”

“Yeah, he’s over there.” Luz gestured lazily towards the rest of the building. “What’re you looking for him for? Having a relapse or something?”

Lipton shook his head. “No, Speirs looks like he might be coming down with something, hoping Roe can get to it before it gets too bad.”

“Speirs? Didn’t think the guy could get sick. Aren’t germs too afraid to show their faces around him?”

“Not these ones.” Lipton said, smiling a bit at the joke. “Now you know where Roe is besides a general direction? Or do I need to clear this house room by room?”

“Nah, I’ll help you out. Can’t have the captain out with the sniffles. Then we’d be left under Lieutenant Jones’ command.” Luz left before Lipton could reprove them to the slight to their one lieutenant, though he realized it probably wouldn’t do any good considering who he was talking to. Just as well he’d heard from Martin that the lieutenant wouldn’t be staying with them long, he couldn’t see the men ever giving him respect beyond what his rank afforded him. He was just too inexperienced.

Luz returned a moment later with Roe, Lipton breaking away from his internal musings as he nodded at the medic. “Doc, you ready to look over the captain?”

“If he’s going to play the same game as you were, Lip, he can just order Roe away.” Luz feel necessary to point out.

Lipton frowned at him.

“You think he’ll let me now?” Roe asked, but he had his medical pack, just in case. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Good luck!” Luz called after them. “You’re going to need it!”

Lipton had feeling he might just be right on that account.

Returning to the main house, trying not to show how the walk was tiring him far more than it should, Lipton led the way back into the C.P. and into Speirs office.

“Sir, Doc Roe here for you.”

Speirs’s face was expressionless as he stood up behind his desk, stubbing out a cigarette as he did so. He didn’t refuse them, but that odd stare he could get sometimes was almost off-putting enough for Roe to stay where he was by the doorway. A glance at the first sergeant, as if to confirm that he was in fact allowed to approach the captain, and then he went forward.

Unfazed by the look, Lipton waited until he was sure Speirs wasn’t going to order Roe away and then started to leave. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, sir. Or you, Roe.” He added.

Neither man answered.

After about twenty minutes inside—the occasional murmur could be heard behind the doors, but nothing else—and Roe exited, shutting the door behind himself. He glanced over his shoulder and then turned to Lipton, who had been true to his word, waiting just outside. “He’s sick, sergeant,” he confirmed quietly. “Not as bad as you were. Maybe not the same thing.” He wished they were off the line and next to an aid station already. But alas, no. “I gave him something for it, it should help.”

“Hopefully you caught it in time, doc. Anything I can do?”

Roe considered the question, and looked back at the closed door. “Do you think you could convince him to sleep?” he asked doubtfully.

“I can try.” Lipton said just as dubiously. “You couldn’t have slipped him a sedative or something?” He only half joked as he went to the door.

“If I wanted a million-dollar wound I wouldn’t choose him to give it to me, sergeant,” Roe replied with a slight shake of his head as he started to leave rather than see the outcome of his suggestion. “Good luck.”

“Yeah.” Lipton took a moment to brace himself and then entered the office, unsure of how he’d be received after getting the other man seen to. “Sir?”

Speirs looked up at him. He was sitting against his desk, holding a pack of cigarettes in one hand, as if he had been contemplating them before Lipton entered. It was impossible to tell what mood he was in, given the neutral expression on his face. “What is it, sergeant?” he asked.

“Roe told me how you were doing.”

“Did he.”

“Yes, sir.”

Speirs continued to look at him without saying anything, refusing to be the one to carry on the conversation.

Lipton looked back at him, expression serious. “You need sleep, sir.”

“I have been sleeping,” Speirs said. Which wasn’t a complete lie, because he’d caught a few hours here and there over the last few days. It was probably more than he’d caught out on the field, certainly. “Thank you for the suggestion, first sergeant. Is that all?”

“I mean real sleep, sir, not whatever you were getting while you were looking after me.” Lipton said bluntly. “Paperwork looks practically done, and I’m well enough to deal with messengers from Command. Plenty of beds back there.”

“I know,” Speirs said. He shifted the cigarette pack to his other hand, and then back again. “I was sleeping in one of them this morning and last night. Not looking after you, sergeant. That just happens to be where the beds are.”

Ignoring the obvious lie, Lipton continued to press him. “Sir, if you became sick because of me—”

“I didn’t,” Speirs said shortly. “And it’s not your fault. You wouldn’t have been that ill if I hadn…” He cut himself off, seeming almost annoyed for having said that much. This time he couldn’t stop the hand from reaching up and rubbing his eyes.

Lipton looked at him in surprise. “You think my getting sick was your fault? Sir, I had the option to go to an aid station numerous times and didn’t take it. The fault is my own.” And Lipton couldn’t say he’d willingly go the aid station even now. But Speirs didn’t need to know that. “I don’t want to see you in the same position.” He added, a worried wrinkle to his brow.

“…It’s my duty to look after the men in my command, first sergeant. And I…” The captain hesitated, but then pushed on determined to just get it out in the open now that he’d started. He’d blame it on the slowly creeping tiredness that started in his bones finally reaching his brain. “I could have ordered you to go, and you would have obeyed. And don’t bother denying that, because it really is that simple. But I didn’t do it because I wanted the help.” His gaze turned from Lipton to the pack of cigarettes. “And then when you got worse—all I did was help you to the back room. To a bed. Nothing else, that’s all I did. You could have died from that fever. Almost did. The doc told me. And that’s what you would have died for. Finally nearing the end of all of this, and that’s what would have killed you. Christ, first sergeant, I almost killed you just so I could finish signing a few papers a few hours earlier.”

Lipton could only stare completely dumbfounded for a long, silent moment.

“Sir, no disrespect intended, but that’s a load of crap. Much as I appreciate the fact that you’re willing to take all of the blame that rightfully belongs on my shoulders, I can’t, and won’t, let you do that.” Lipton looked at him kindly, touched by his concern but not about to let the man be eaten up with guilt he had no business having in the first place. “All that damn paperwork had to get done, and it did. You could’ve ordered me away, but honestly, sir, we saw how well that went. I can’t just sit by and twiddle my thumbs when I could be helping, sir. As to almost killing me—I think you’re a little mixed up on that account. If it hadn’t been for you and Roe, I’d be dead right now. You saved my life, took care of me, and I won’t forget it. Neither will the men.”

Speirs looked up at him, contemplating what the first sergeant said, but there was this look in his eyes that told Lipton he doubted what he said was true, even if conviction poured from the man’s words. He straightened up. “You know better than me a man’s no saint for helping who he put into trouble. I should have done better by you, first sergeant. I didn’t. So whether you think you deserve my apology or not, I’m giving them. And that’s all there is to it. So don’t concern yourself with my health now.” Because I don’t deserve your concern. More than that, I don’t need it. I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse. I’ll probably be through worse… He rubbed at his eyes again, feeling another throb from the ache just behind his skull.

“If you aren’t the most stubborn captain I’ve ever met.” Lipton had hoped to get through to the other man that he needn’t blame himself, but it seemed he’d just reinforced what Speirs had already thought. Time enough to convince him later, once the man wasn’t squinting against the light and looking like his head was about to roll off. He sighed. “You have a headache.”

“I see this is why they made you first sergeant, first sergeant,” Speirs said, relaxing slightly now that the topic had shifted. He determinedly lowered his hand and kept it down. “Now did you need anything else?”

“Yes. You to stop being a martyr and get some sleep.”

“Sometimes I think you forget you’re talking to an officer, Lipton.”

Deflating, Lipton straightened up. “Yes, sir.” Resigned to being ordered away, or being written up, Speirs obviously unwilling to accept his help, Lipton waited to be dismissed.

“…I need to talk to Winters in four hours. Wake me up before then.”

Lipton looked at him in relief. “Thank you, sir. Will do.”

Speirs glanced back at the papers still on his desk for a second, as if feeling guilty for leaving them behind, then started out of the room, pausing as he passed by Lipton only to pat him briefly on the arm before he disappeared in the direction of the beds.

Hoping that Roe’s intervention would save the captain a lot of grief further along and that a good few hours rest would take care of his headache, Lipton made a beeline for the desk—both to sit down and rest his almost wobbling legs and to finish up the small amount of paperwork left.

He’d just picked up a pen when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

A vaguely familiar head popped through—one of the more frequent runners from Command.

“I have some papers for Captain Speirs?”

“He’s unavailable, let me see them—and leave the door open.”

Getting to work, Lipton made sure that when Speirs returned he’d have close to nothing to do and thus be forced to rest even more. As the hours slowly crawled by, however, he couldn’t help and be worried that the captain was simply lying in a bed staring at the ceiling and not sleeping at all. Maybe he should have gotten Roe back over here to give him something for his headache…

When there was a lull around two hours after Speirs had gone off, Lipton found himself making his way to the bedroom that had been his home for the last three days and carefully easing the door open to peek inside.

The captain was in bed—or more correctly, was sitting on his bed, hands loose in his lap, head resting back against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankle. If he had been asleep, it hadn’t been for that long or he simply didn’t show any signs of it; upon hearing the faint sound of the door opening he had opened his eyes and lifted his head, straightening up. The dark smudges of exhaustion on his face looked much the same, but there was a new glassiness to his dark eyes that hadn’t been there before. He swung a leg off the bed, starting to rise. “Has the Major arrived?” he asked hoarsely.

Lipton frowned worriedly and came fully into the room, no point in trying to be as unobtrusive as possible now. “It hasn’t been four hours, sir. You haven’t slept. Still got that headache? I can get Roe—”

“What? No. I don’t need the doc.” Speirs stood up, looked around blearily before picking up his jacket that he’d discarded on the end of the bed. “What time is it?”

“You still have plenty of time until your meeting with the Major, sir.” Lipton assured him, worry ratcheting up a notch at the scratchy sound to the other man’s tone and the fresh lines of exhaustion creasing his still far too pale face. “Just stay here, sir, I’ll send someone for the doc, he can give you something.” Hopefully. “Be right back, sir.”

He didn’t feel entirely comfortable leaving the sick man alone, but it was necessary, at least for a few moments. Fortunately, a soldier was just coming into the C.P. and saved him the extra time to find himself a runner. “You, go find me the nearest medic and bring them back here.”

The soldier hesitated, a packet of papers in hand.

Lipton looked at him sharply.

The packet lowered and the soldier hurriedly saluted and ran off.

Returning back to Speirs, who had surprisingly stayed in the room, Lipton eyed him carefully. “Sir, you aren’t looking so good.”

Speirs, sitting on the edge of his bed again, jacket still open and not buttoned, looked up at the first sergeant. That neutral expression he usually wore was back, but the downward twist of his lip told Lipton he was not pleased to find himself on the other end of the sickness stick. “I know, first sergeant,” he finally answered. He looked down at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. “How many hours did you say?”

“I didn’t. Two hours, sir.”

“Okay.” The captain considered the answer, and then repeated himself, quieter this time. “Okay…”

“You want a cup of coffee, sir?” Lipton asked for lack of anything better to suggest. “Some chow?”

Speirs was about to say he had no appetite, but paused. Because he’d seen how that went with Lipton, and he was determined not to follow him down the same path, because an officer really should know better and he had to stay on top of it. He had to talk to the major soon. He had to…

He blinked a few times, drawing himself back to where he was, and the question Lipton just asked him. He looked up at him. “Yeah. Sure. Some chow. And there’s more coffee in the other room.” He didn’t need to say where, because it was all in the same heap waiting to be shipped off when he got a chance.

Lipton frowned in concern but nodded and went off to the other room, finding the coffee and brewing it while he ordered another waiting messenger off to find some suitable food for a sick man.

Impatiently waiting an interminable amount of time, he finally poured a cup of the steaming coffee and headed back to Speirs, proffering the man the cup with an apologetic look. “Food’ll be here soon, sir.”

Speirs took the cup with a nod of thanks. He’d barely taken a sip when the man Lipton sent out earlier returned with a medic. The dark-haired medic was vaguely familiar—not someone from their company, but they had seen him once or twice before.

“Sir, sergeant, name’s Rogers,” he said by means of introduction as he entered, glancing first at Speirs then at Lipton. He’d heard rumors the first sergeant had been the one to take ill, but something was off about the captain now. Hopefully nothing catching. He didn’t take off his pack, but had a hand ready to remove it. “What is it?”

Lipton looked at Speirs expectantly, for the moment ignoring the messenger lurking just inside the hallway with his damn papers.

Speirs glanced at the medic, promptly decided he didn’t much care for the round-faced young man—something about him suggested he hadn’t much experience, and Speirs disliked putting his health into the hands of anyone he considered inexperienced—but he wouldn’t make things difficult like someone else had a few days prior…

Then his eye fell to the messenger waiting at the door, and he almost disregarded his own advice and started to get up to go over to him, because it was his work and Lipton had just barely gotten out of bed and he shouldn’t be doing all the work with no one to help him—but then reason won out, and instead he just took another slow drink of coffee, taking his sweet time to finally answer Lipton’s look or the medic’s question.

“Headache,” he said tersely to Rogers, and then he turned his dark-eyed gaze to Lipton as the medic swung off his pack and started to look through it for something useful. “You can get back to work, Lipton. Just don’t push yourself. I’ll be fine.”

“I had a runner go for Sergeant Malarkey, sir. You can go and wait for him in the main room.” He directed at the hovering messenger.

“Okay, first sergeant.” The soldier paused. “Something up with the captain, sarge?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, soldier, go on, get going.” Lipton said not unkindly as he closed the door in his face. Turning back to Speirs and Rogers, he waited silently, gaze watchful

There wasn’t much for Rogers to do; Speirs had decided he didn’t like him, and was short and brief in answering all of the medic’s questions. All that Rogers could really determine was that Speirs had a headache, and, the captain let slip after enough questions carefully worded by Rogers, the ache wasn’t just confined to his head, it seemed to be coming from his whole body. He didn’t need to guess why the man looked tired after that; how sleep could be achieved when the body felt like it was throbbing in time with the headache, he had no idea.

Unfortunately, despite learning all of this, there really wasn’t much for Rogers to do but give the captain a stronger dose of what he had been given earlier by Roe. After that…

“You need sleep to give your body time to fight off whatever that virus is, sir,” Rogers said as he put away what he’d pulled out of his pack. The stare he received made him realize the captain was well aware of that fact but had not been able to follow it. He cleared his throat, feeling his fade redden, and looked away. “What I uh…mean is, if you want, sir…I do have sedati—”

“No,” Speirs interrupted flatly. “You’re dismissed, sergeant.”

“Thanks for coming over here, doc.” Lipton clapped the man on the shoulder as he steered him out of the room and into the hall. “Want to grab a cup of coffee before you go? Non-regulation.”

“Non-reg? Sure!” Rogers smiled, then it faded a bit as he glanced over his shoulder at the room they left behind before turning back to Lipton. “He should have had the sedative, sarge. Not like it’ll keep him down for a whole day. Just a few hours.”

“Why don’t you just give it to me, doc, I’ll see if I can get him to take it later.” Lipton suggested as they entered the main room that was already starting to fill up again.

“Sure.” Rogers paused to reach a hand into his bag. After a moment he produced a white packet. “Judging by his weight and height…whole thing should do the trick.” He handed it over, and took the moment to examine Lipton since he was standing next to him. “You should take it easy too, sarge. You aren’t looking that great—overexertion, maybe?”

“…yeah, maybe.” Lipton conceded as he pocketed the packet and poured a cup of coffee for the medic and for himself, glad the men milling about had known better than to sneak a cup or two. He normally wouldn’t begrudge them such a small thing, but this was non-regulation coffee and he’d actually be able to taste it this time. Hopefully. “Don’t worry about it, doc, I’m going to get off my feet as soon as Sergeant Malarkey gets here to take over.”

“Right. Just don’t wait too long, sarge.”

Lipton nodded and took his coveted cup of coffee back to Speirs room, not like the man would be sleeping anyway. He knocked on the door anyway before he entered, settling himself down on the bed that had been his sickbed all too recently. “That stuff the doc give you kicking in yet, sir?”

Speirs, who had returned to sitting with his back against the headboard, shook his head silently. He hadn’t finished the cup Lipton had poured him earlier, and was holding it in his hands, swirling it idly now and then. “No. Not yet.”

Taking a drink, savoring the faintest flavor that got past his still recovering taste buds, hands warmed by the metal of the tin cup, Lipton fell into a peaceful silence, legs glad not to be holding his weight up anymore.

“I thought you’d have to be pulled away from the office with a pry-bar,” Speirs spoke without looking at him, his eyes still closed as he swirled his cup mindlessly.

“Not much to do there, and with Malarkey coming…” Lipton shrugged and took another drink. “Thought I’d follow doc’s orders for once and rest for a little while. Good coffee, by the way, sir, thanks. Couldn’t taste it before.”

“Mm.” Speirs had always appreciated a good cup of coffee, which is why the first thing he looked for in any new house they crossed—besides anything made of silver or gold—was coffee. Ground, whole, didn’t matter, so long as it was high quality and in his possession. But right now he couldn’t bring himself to finish the cup he had in his hand, and it was some of the best coffee he’d liberated in quite a while. At least Lipton was enjoying it…

Wait, what else had Lipton said a moment ago? Malarkey? Speirs frowned and turned his head, opening his eyes.

“Why is Sergeant Malarkey coming here?” he asked, starting to move as if to stand up.

Lipton’s brow creased. “To take over the paperwork.” He replied slowly. “Sir, are you—”

He was interrupted by a knock on the door, Lipton setting down his cup and moving to the door before the captain could get up all the way.

Opening the door, Lipton saw the messengers he’d sent out for food had returned, collectively they were holding a steaming mess kit cup, a cut loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, and a coffeepot.

“About time, good work.” He said letting them enter to put the food down on the little table that seemed to resist gravity.

Giving the captain wary but curious looks, the soldiers scuttled away as soon as the food was on the table and out of their hands, Lipton thanking them as he closed the door.

Returning to his cup of coffee and his perch on the edge of the bed, Lipton nodded towards the food. “Food’s up.”

Speirs didn’t even bother to look at it. He put away the cup he’d been holding, and stood up fully, starting to button his coat back up. “You should eat then. Get back your strength.”

“You should at least try to sleep again, sir. You still have almost an hour and a half before your meeting with Major Winters. I’ll go, make sure Malarkey’s situated.” Lipton got up and moved to the door, cup still in hand.

“I don’t—” Whatever Speirs had been about to say went unsaid—instead, there was the harsh sound of metal scraping across a wooden floor and a thudding sound; when Lipton turned he saw the captain cursing and straightening up as he held onto the edge of the bed.

Quickly moving to his side, Lipton put a stabilizing hand on Speirs upper arm, concern on his face. “Come on, Captain, sit down.”

“I don’t need to sit down,” Speirs said irritably, but he didn’t brush off Lipton’s hand. “I stood up too fast, first sergeant, that’s all. I’m okay—”

“You’re shaking.” Lipton’s grip tightened a little, not wanting to let the captain face plant if he could help it. “Sir, if you don’t take care of yourself, this cold is only going to get worse. Believe me, I know.”

“That advice sounds almost familiar, Lipton. Like I’ve heard it somewhere before,” Speirs said, frowning. He made no immediate move to sit back down, but they couldn’t very well stand there forever, so he finally gave in and let Lipton help him to sit back down. “I stood up too fast,” he repeated obstinately. Which seemed to be true, because he felt okay now that he was sitting again. “That’s all.”

Skeptical, Lipton just acknowledged the statement with a short ‘yes, sir’ before wondering just what he could say to get the other man to rest. He knew he wouldn’t take the sedative, not with that meeting with Winters coming up, but maybe he’d compromise. Not likely given the man’s personality, but worth a shot.

“Sir, Rogers gave me a sedative for you. The whole package is supposed to knock you out for a few hours, but I figure a little might just let you catch a few z’s and still make that meeting the Major. You need the sleep, sir.” He added for good measure, though Speirs expression left him little hope that he would go along with the suggestion. Talk about hard-headed. He was going to have to think of something else…

“Not everything in the CP can be handled by a sergeant, Lipton,” Speirs said, tone decidedly neutral even though inwardly he was cursing his own bad luck. Not for being sick—that happened on occasion and couldn’t be avoided, like being wounded—but for having fallen sick right after Lipton started to recover. Because despite how he felt about his own position—thoroughly pissed off—he could tell the first sergeant wasn’t full of unlimited energy. Just sitting there drinking coffee had probably been good for him but now that look had started to come back over his face like he was running on empty. Christ! It did have to happen like this, didn’t it? He felt guilty for neglecting Lipton’s health and now trying to prevent the sergeant from worrying about him was making both of them unwell.

He could feel the headache, held somewhat at bay by the drugs the medic had given him, beginning to come back in full force.

“…You said Malarkey was taking over?” Why not Lieutenant Jones? Actually, the fresh-faced officer was better off where he was. Lipton had made the correct choice in choosing someone experienced from the ranks, but still. It was a captain’s position they were trying to cover for, and with a shortage of lieutenants, staff, aides—hell, he couldn’t wait until they were off the line…

“Just until I get my second wind, sir, then I’ll go help him. Experience will be good for him.” Lipton said easily as he dared to be cautiously optimistic about his chances of getting Speirs to stay put for the time being. “Anything that needs your approval can wait until after you get back from meeting with the Major, unless it’s of top priority.” Which it wouldn’t be. Command’s pencil pushers could wait a few hours to file their paperwork.

“Hmm. You said it was…” Speirs rubbed his eyes. Some the stiff tension started to ease out of his posture. “You said it was an hour and a half. Probably less now. Right?”

“Yessir.” Lipton agreed, hopeful. Maybe the sedative wouldn’t be necessary—Speirs actually looked like he might be able to get some sleep on his own. “I’ll come wake you up when it’s time.”

“…Wait.” Speirs looked up at Lipton, meeting his serious gaze with his own. “You let Malarkey handle what comes. And like you said you—you leave whatever you can’t sign off on until I can handle it. Just accept whatever intelligence reports, don’t—” He realized Lipton probably knew the whole list by now, considering how he’d been helping him, and almost smiled at the realization he was trying to tell him again. “Just take it easy. If I get up and then you start to get sick again—well. I won’t like that, first sergeant. Understand?”

“Can’t say I’d be a fan of that either, sir.” Lipton agreed, some amusement creeping onto his serious face. “I’ll be back in an hour—try and rest, sir.”

Speirs gave him a nod to show he would indeed try, and after Lipton left, he lay down. Still on top of the blankets, with his boots and jacket still on, but somehow it was more comfortable than when he tried earlier. The tiredness, perhaps, the extra medicine maybe—either way, knowing that for the next hour things wouldn’t get out of hand with the two sergeants to look after everything (what he wouldn’t do to finally have all their replacements), he was somehow able to fall asleep.

Going into the main room, relieved that Speirs was finally taking care of himself, Lipton grinned tiredly over at Malarkey who was starting to be overwhelmed by messengers. “Hey, Malark, how’re things, boy?”

“Just endless enjoyment, Lip,” the sergeant replied deadpan. He was taking whatever was thrust at him that needed a signature, signing haphazardly and shoving it back at the person who extended the documents to him. The next one pushed at him he took and glanced at before setting aside with a quiet sigh.

“Listen up,” he said, not loudly, but tiredly and authoritatively enough that made everyone quiet down and listen. “If you have something that needs a captain or officer to look at it, set it down right here in this pile. If you need someone to sign off on the supplies, take it down to the street to the next building. Everyone clear on that? Okay.” He took another message, speaking to Lipton while scanning it.

“How have you been, anyway? Someone told me you were knocking on death’s door last night.” He looked up at the first sergeant, tilting his head. “Or was that today?”

“Pneumonia. Took me off my feet for a bit, but I’m doing just fine now.” Lipton intercepted the next clipboard thrust at Malarkey’s face and handed the sergeant his unfinished cup of coffee instead. “Drink up, Malarkey, this is the real stuff.” He said absently, scrawling his signature where needed and passing the clipboard back to the messenger only to get handed another one. Biting back a yawn, one hand absently rubbing at his chest as it signaled a probable cough in the next few minutes, Lipton didn’t hear what Malarkey said, eyes blinking owlishly over at the other sergeant. “What was that?”

“I said this coffee tastes like it did in England,” his fellow sergeant answered. He gazed at his empty cup sadly, then put it aside on one of the desks. Someone in the CP really had taste. He heard tell from Luz it was Captain Speirs, but the man didn’t strike him as the type to share expensive coffee.

“What is half of this anyway?” he asked suddenly, not really caring at showing his ignorance when it came to these things. A few of the messengers in the room looked at him in surprise, but he gave them a dead-eyed look that told them he didn’t give a damn what they thought. They wisely kept silent and he looked at Lipton. “Reports, intelligence, supplies, movements—we get half of this on the radio, why do we need it in paper, too?”

“They like a good read over in HQ.” Lipton replied, mouth twisting upwards. He handed another finished form off and started perusing another, stopping to cough and drink a little water before continuing in a raspier tone. “People back home want to make sure we aren’t just over here taking in the sights; show we aren’t wasting the taxpayer’s money or something. Nothing’s true unless it’s written down. Twice, sometimes even three times. Gotta keep us honest somehow.”

“Somehow,” Malarkey echoed. He flipped a page, and then another, confused as to how Germans could possibly be where they said they were, before he read the date and realized it was another late comer to the Company. Now that they’d stopped for a few days, everything was catching up. He hated it, but the intelligence still had to be recorded as received, even if it was pointless. But he’d already come to realize there were a lot of pointless things in the war, paperwork being the least of it. “There’s showers, you know. Hot.”

“Yeah, Martin said something about that when he dropped by yesterday.” Lipton said as he frowned at a document before dropping it over into the pile for Speirs to look over. “Hey, you guys heard Malarkey, anything that needs a captain goes over here.”

“You’re not a permanent fixture here, Lip. Not yet. Take fifteen minutes. Live a little.” Malarkey put his folder to the side in the pile he’d allotted to papers-that-need-to-be-typed-out-again. “Take sixteen.”

Lipton hesitated. An honest to god hot shower…

“I can handle it, you know. I’ll send for a medic if my writing hand cramps up,” Malarkey continued, eyes now on Lipton rather than the papers in his hand, a trace of his old humor slipping into his voice. “I’ll even teach myself to write with the left if it comes down to it.”

“I don’t—” Lipton broke off to cough again, hand rubbing at his chest. Steam was good for a cough. Relenting he smiled over at Malarkey. “Yeah, I’d like to see that. Maybe it’d be better than your right.” He joked. “Okay. I’ll be back in fifteen. And don’t let anyone disturb Speirs, he’s in the back.”

“Right. Wait, he is?” Malarkey frowned to himself, only now wondering why the captain wasn’t the one there. He hadn’t really been listening when they told him to go to the CP, except that they needed someone to take over temporarily. He though it had been for Lipton, until he saw him. Maybe whatever Lipton had was catching—then again, nobody was feeling particularly good these days. Eventually it had to catch up… “Yeah. Nobody’ll bother him. Now go, before the lines get too long.”

“Right—don’t go working too hard, boy.” With a nod of his head, Lipton collected his webbing, helmet, and rifle, and slowly headed out of the C.P. and towards the showers.

Pulling his collar up against the sharp wind, Lipton vaguely greeted a few of the men and trudged along, the promise of a hot shower his guiding force against the fatigue he could feel settling in his bones.

The lines for the showers weren’t too bad, Lipton depositing himself at the back of the shortest one and jamming his cold hands into his pockets, letting the chatter of the men wash over him as he waited.

The line slowly moved along, Lipton shuffling along with it, body on autopilot as his mind went over what else needed to be done that day, how Malarkey was holding up, if Speirs had actually managed to get some sleep, what needed to be done in the event that Speirs didn’t bounce back as quickly as the man thought he would…

He coughed, the wind not doing his still tender lungs any good, and moved forward another space in the line.

“—arge? Sergeant?”

Lipton blinked and looked around at the soldier behind him. “What?”

The soldier looked at him with a creased brow. “It’s your turn, sarge—are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks.”

Lipton headed inside and spent the next little while standing under a hot spray, the luxury of anything other than ice water keeping him under for an extra minute before he finally toweled himself off and got dressed. Yawning as he tugged on his boots and did up the laces, he had to admit he was tired. More tired than he should’ve been after doing not much of anything—the walk from the C.P. had been longer than he’d thought.

Coughing as he put back on his webbing and helmet, rifle slung over his shoulder, Lipton sat on the bench for a little longer.

Passing a hand over his face, Lipton got to his feet and headed back out onto the streets—the cold seeming even colder after the warmth of the showers.

Heading back for the C.P., shoulders hunched against the wind and nose already starting to run, Lipton was just thinking how he was glad that at least it wasn’t raining when a fine shower of sleet started coming down.

Great.

Pulling his collar higher, Lipton continued on his way.

Getting back to C.P. was a relief, the sleet coming down harder, Lipton immediately gravitating towards the coffeepot.

It was empty.

He sighed and turned to Malarkey. “How’s it going?”

“It could be worse,” the sergeant answered. He had taken over using the typewriter, and apparently was handy with it because he’d already made a nice pile of papers that now just needed signatures before being passed on. He looked up at Lipton as he pushed it away, eyes narrowing when he saw the first sergeant’s face. “Never mind, it is.” He stood up, and offered Lipton the cup of semi-warm coffee he’d been slowly nursing. “You were supposed to take a shower back there, not on the street.”

“Wish you’d told the sky that, boy.” Lipton accepted the cup and took a grateful drink, hands trembling slightly. He sat down on the edge of his desk and took another sip, weary eyes falling onto the work Malarkey had gotten done. “You’re getting more use out of that typewriter than me, Malark. Keys always seemed to stick.” He said, eyes moving over to the machine in question. He coughed and rubbed at his chest.

Goddamn pneumonia.

He coughed again.

“Maybe it didn’t like your touch, sarge,” Malarkey responded deadpan, eyes narrowing as he listened to Lipton’s cough. “Usually I don’t bother to point out the obvious, Lip, but you’re sick again.” Christ, was it my fault? He frowned at the thought.

Lipton shook his head. “Cough seems to be hanging on. I’m okay. Just need a minute.” He took another drink of coffee.

“You need more than a minute. A few hours maybe. A day.” That wasn’t likely to happen, but he thought he’d mention it anyway. A day’s rest was sometimes all a man needed to get back on his feet. Malarkey glanced down at the papers—the stacks were slowly growing, but the captain and first sergeant had most of it handled before he ever arrived, and now most of what remained just needed signatures from the captain before it could be sent safely on its way. “Go lie back down, sarge, before Roe finds out I’ve gotten you killed.”

“I’ll sit on the couch for a bit, just need my second wind.” He’d been talking about his second wind for a while now though and the stupid thing still hadn’t shown up. Lipton drained what was left in his cup and rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Any of this stuff priority?”

“One or two things, and even they can wait until the end of the day. Some of this stuff isn’t even for our company.”

“Yeah, I saw some of that.” Lipton got to his feet, one hand braced on the table for the barest of moments as his legs threatened to give out on him. Hoping to cover for remaining stationary for no apparent reason, he glanced at his watch. Around twenty minutes left until he had to wake up Speirs.

His attempt at camouflage did not work, and Malarkey was frowning heavily at him now. He moved casually around the desk just in case he was needed to catch someone hurtling themselves at the floor. The last thing he wanted was to lose another familiar face, this time to stubbornness. “Well now forget about it. You said you didn’t want to lay down. So go sit on the couch like you said you were going to.”

“Yeah, I’m going.” Lipton headed to the door, pausing and turning around as he reached the doorway. “Do me a favour?”

“Sure. What?”

“If—” He raised a finger. “If I fall asleep, wake me up in about fifteen minutes.”

“No longer?”

Lipton shook his head. “Gotta get Speirs up before his meeting.” And he wanted to check up on the man, make sure he was actually taking care of himself. He hadn’t looked so good when he’d left him earlier. Hopefully the sleep would help.

Malarkey furrowed his brow at Lipton’s reply. “Wait—why don’t I just wake you both up when he needs to get up?” Asking the question went against his new rule of not questioning the weird orders he received from his superiors, but he asked it all the same. He didn’t even want to wake up Speirs, but why wake up one person to wake up another?

“You want to wake up Speirs?” Lipton asked raising his eyebrows.

“Well…” No, he did not. And since he knew his face gave him away, all he did was shrug. “That’s what privates and corporals are for, Lip.”

“Just wake me up.” Lipton said, amused. “Don’t have too much fun now, boy.” He added over his shoulder as he disappeared into the other room.

Malarkey looked back at the papers. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

Smiling, Lipton went and sat down on the couch, tiredly removing his webbing and setting it by his rifle and helmet before settling himself down, eyes almost immediately closing.

He was fast asleep by the time Luz came into the C.P., which was surprisingly quiet, messengers skirting around the couch with all due caution to get into the office where there was a faint murmur of voices.

Stopping briefly by the couch to make sure Lip hadn’t just laid down and died or something, Luz continued on to the office and grinned over at a dour looking Malarkey.

“That Irish luck must be coming through, Malarkey. You got Lip to take it easy. How’d you do it? Spike his coffee?”

Malarkey looked up, taking another clipboard from one of the messengers before realizing he’d already signed and dated it, and shoved it back before taking another. “No, hit him over the head, like I’ll do to you if you woke him up.”

“Nah, he’s still out like a light. How’s officer life?” Luz asked innocently as he watched a few more messengers stream into the room.

“It’s really cozy,” Malarkey answered sourly, gesturing to the room. He’d had three of the messengers stuff the holes and cracks in the wall with whatever they could find, but somehow the chilly breeze refused to go away. Water was beginning to seep in too, against one of the far walls, and a few blankets and old curtains had been pulled down to stop the flow from reaching the desks. “A real paradise, Luz. And not to sound unpleased about having you visit, but tell me what it is you need.”

“Came to check on Lip, make sure he wasn’t working himself to the bone.” Luz looked around. “No Speirs? Heard about him being sick. Think he caught what Lip had?”

Malarkey made a disparaging noise as he haphazardly signed a document. “I don’t know that the captain can get sick. Never seen him wounded, either. Besides, if it was spreading Roe would’ve said something.” He took a proffered clipboard and frowned at it, unable to figure out what was even needed by him.

Luz reached over and scanned the document before handing it back to the messenger. “Command must be getting bored if they’re sending us their own paperwork, private. Run on back to HQ and bring us back the right form next time, okay?” He patted the soldier good-naturedly on the back and sent him on his way, grinning over at Malarkey as he dug out his pack of cigarettes. “I gotta do everything around here.”

“You want the job, take it.” Malarkey replied easily. “You know what more of this stuff is than I do.” He sighed as he took a look at the newest paper pushed at him, then set it aside in the pile of things he didn’t know what to do with.

“No thanks, I’m the supply sergeant, remember?” Luz sat down at Lipton’s desk and took another drag on his cigarette as he poked around the papers and opened the drawers. “I’m a busy man, shouldn’t even be here.” Finding nothing of interest, he kicked his boots up on the table and leaned back in his chair.

“You’re right,” Malarkey said, frowning at him, and then a sly look came into his eye that he was quick to make vanish back under his mask of indifference that he’d worn since coming to the riverside town. “I’m swamped here, Luz. But I promised Lip I’d do something for him—mind doing me a favour?”

“If it was just for you, I’d say no—but since it’s Lip, sure, why not? Give it to me.”

“Promise you’ll do it first,” the sergeant said, pretending to be invested in whatever it was he’d been handed, though it was just another outdated report. Jesus, how many of those did they have? Didn’t they know it’d been awhile since they’d been in Bastogne? “I know you like to delegate, Luz, but the first sergeant was pretty adamant this get done properly.”

“Delegation is key to being in any position of authority.” Luz said with mock severity, waggling a finger towards the other sergeant. “You should take notes, Malarkey, you’ll have this officer shit down in no time.”

“I’ll pull out my diary tonight to jot it all down,” Malarkey said sarcastically. “Now promise, Luz. Just this once. Lip’ll hold you to it.”

“What? And he didn’t hold you to it, Malarkey?” Luz pointed out. “Now who’s delegating. Atta boy.”

Malarkey sighed, thinking he should have known better than to think Luz would fall for any old trick. He was too tired to outplay him today, anyway, and even in his off days George Luz was known to be tricky to handle. “I’m just a quick learner,” he said. “And anyway, he asked me as a favor but for you I’ll make it an order. Go the other room and wake up the captain.”

Luz immediately sat up, boots thumping back onto the floor. “Wake the captain?” He repeated incredulously. “What the hell does he need waking up for? No—you’re putting me on. Come on, what did Lip really want?”

“That is what he wanted,” Malarkey said, fixing him with a stern look that he was copying from Winters, though it was a bit ruined by his failure to hide a smile at finally having one over on Luz. It felt good to finally smile, and mean it. “Since you’ve just taught me a valuable lesson in delegating, that’s what I’m doing—now go do your part.”

Luz scowled at him and stood up. “Fine, I’ll go and wake the captain up. But when you run out of Lucky Strikes and come running over to the supply depot, don’t forget who’s in charge.”

Malarkey’s smile didn’t fade in the slightest. “I’ll try not to forget, sarge.”

Grumbling, Luz went out into the main room, stopped long enough to tug a blanket over a still sleeping Lipton, and continued on to the back rooms where the Captain was sacked out.

Deciding on a firm knock on the door, hoping the captain would rouse by himself, Luz waited.

And…waited.

He knocked again.

Still nothing.

Frowning, a little worry starting to crease his brow, Luz opened the door and stepped inside, eyes falling on the captain knocked out over the covers of the closest bed to the door. Christ, he didn’t even take his boots off, Luz thought as he took in the man’s sickly pallor.

“Sorry about this, Captain.” Luz muttered reaching out and shaking the man’s shoulder carefully, mindful to stay out of reach of any possible retaliation. “Sir?” He said loudly. “Your scheduled wake-up call is here by order of your favourite first sergeant. Sir?” He shook the man’s shoulder with a little more force. “Hey, Cap!”

At first there was no reaction but a grunt and unintelligible reply—and then the captain sat up abruptly, almost knocking heads with the man leaning over him. He reached up, rubbing his eyes. “What is it, Lipt…” He started in drowsy voice, then trailed off, gazing unfocusedly at Luz as it slowly registered that Lipton wasn’t the one he was talking to. “What is it, sergeant?” he asked again, this time more alert, though not completely.

“I was told you wanted to be woken up, sir.” Luz took a couple steps away from the bed but continued to eye the other man warily. “Should I get a medic? You’re looking worse than Lip. That is not a good thing by the way.”

“No,” said Speirs shortly, and then after a pause as he stared at Luz, “Where is the first sergeant?”

“Sleeping. Best thing for a cold so I’m told, sir.” Luz eyed the other man. “Can I ask why I was supposed to wake you up? Hope it’s important.”

“…” Speirs gazed at him for a moment longer, then stood up. “It’s important.” He wasn’t unsteady like before, but it did feel as though something was off. He ignored it as he started towards the door to the other room. “What time is it, sergeant?”

“Er, almost 1300, sir.” Luz told him as he followed him out into the hallway.

Speirs heard, but didn’t reply. He stopped a few feet into the other room, frowning to himself when he saw Lipton sleeping on the couch. Of course he managed to sleep here better than he did in his own bed. “Sergeant,” the captain said quietly to Luz, “when it’s closer to 1320, wake up the first sergeant. Tell him the Major’s coming to see him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Speirs glanced towards the closed door to the office, hearing Sergeant Malarkey’s muffled voice and that of someone else—probably a messenger. Now that he was up, he could resume his duties and let the sergeant return to the platoon—but at the same time…he didn’t desire to face any more people shoving clipboards at him, and what was another half hour? Without saying anything else, he turned and headed outside, pausing only to pick up his helmet before he disappeared.

Luz frowned then shrugged. If he had been Lip, he might’ve warned the captain to stay inside where it was relatively warm instead of going out onto the cold streets, but he wasn’t. The guy wanted to get himself all sick and shit, that was up to him.

Moving to the coffeepot and finding it empty, Luz’s eyes fell to where Speirs pile of goods, including the silver tin with the coffee grounds, was.

Speirs’ll probably want Lipton to have something good and hot before he had to meet with the major…

And if there happened to be one extra cup, well, who was going to know?

By the time he’d finished making the exact two cups worth, it was time to wake up the first sergeant, Luz nudging him on the shoulder with one of the tin cups.

“Hey, Lip, rise and shine. Fresh coffee.”

Lipton stirred and blinked up at him blearily. “Coffee?”

“Fresh.” Luz repeated waiting patiently for Lipton to sit up a little more before handing him the cup and sitting down by his blanket covered legs. “Speirs wanted me to tell you that the major’s coming over here to meet with you.”

“Me?” Confused, it took a moment for him to parse everything Luz had told him, ears catching on the mention of Speirs. He glanced at his watch. “Shit. I told Malarkey to wake me up.”

“Don’t know anything about that, he just asked me to wake the Captain. Looked like you needed the sleep anyway. Now drink up, you’re going to let it go cold, and once it’s cold you might as well be drinking regulation dirt.”

Still annoyed, Lipton pushed the cup back at Luz. “Get up.” He tugged impatiently at his arm.

“Christ—” Luz barely missed getting hot coffee splattered all over him as he hurriedly stood. “Okay, I’m getting up, I’m getting up, what’s the rush? You still got time.”

Untangling his legs from the blanket he didn’t remember getting, Lipton got to unsteady feet and ignored the blood suddenly pounding in his ears. The last thing he needed was Winters worrying about him on top of everyone else, the man had more important things to think about. At the very least he had to look less like he was about to have a goddamn relapse.

“Okay there, Lip?” Luz asked, eyeing him.

Lipton sighed. He wasn’t off to a great start. Thought the sleep was supposed to help? “Yeah. Fine. Here, give me that coffee.”

“Sure.”

About ten minutes later, Lipton with a pile of stolen paperwork on the couch and Luz watching him with exasperation, the doors opened, but instead of Speirs or the major, Webster entered, followed by Skinny. The former stopped near the doorway to brush some snow and sleet off his coat, glancing down to see nobody else had bothered before him, while the latter headed immediately for Luz.

“Hey, sarge, ‘been looking for you,” said Skinny. He was carrying a clipboard with him, which he paused to shake sleet off of before proffering it to the other man. “Nobody down at the supply depot. Something going on?”

“Looked like the Major was heading this way too, along with the other officers,” Webster added as he joined them, more to Lipton than to Luz, though he looked at both of the sergeants looking for some clue as to what was happening.

Luz shrugged, cigarette hanging from his mouth as he looked over the clipboard.

“All the officers?” Lipton frowned in thought.

“Looked like,” Webster confirmed.

“Lieutenant Welsh was with them, too,” Skinny said, looking from Luz to the first sergeant. “I didn’t think he’d be back this soon after getting hit.”

Lipton’s brow furrowed.

“Lieutenant Welsh? Huh. Here, Skinny, signed and initialed and whatever the hell it needed done.” Luz handed off the clipboard back to the other man and looked over at Lipton with a mock serious expression. “The hell you do, Lip?”

Before he had a chance to answer, the door to the outside opened again, and this time the major, followed by Nixon, Welsh, Speirs and Jones, filed in. Webster hadn’t seen that many officers gathered together in a long time, and was already racking his brain trying to figure out what was happening. Normally he didn’t pay any attention to the affairs of anyone over the rank of lieutenant—Jones being a recent exception—but now he was watching them with open curiosity.

“At ease,” Major Winters said as the men started to straighten upon seeing him. He nodded at Lipton as he approached, looking him over with a critical eye as Speirs moved behind him to dismiss Malarkey from the office so they could conduct their business in there. “How are you feeling, Lipton?”

Even with his clipboard already signed, Skinny simply moved a little to the side next to Luz and pretended to be looking it over instead of blatantly eavesdropping as Webster was doing. 

“Can’t complain, sir.” Lipton said with a faint smile that dimmed as he took in the other men behind the Major. “Captain Speirs said you wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes. In here.” Winters gestured over to the office that Malarkey and two messengers were vacating per Speirs’s order. The messengers left immediately, saluting the officers as they did so, but Malarkey lingered after them, nodding hello to the major as he passed and then sharing a look with Luz whom he stopped to talk to on his way out.

“Something bad?” he asked quietly, pausing by them to look over his shoulder as they went into the next room. The look on his face suggested he expected the worst—not that anything could happen to Lipton, he was much too good a soldier to have anything happen to him like a court-martial or anything—but orders could be coming down again, maybe another patrol—his heart sank at the thought of more missions being conducted so soon.

“Nah. You gonna stick around and watch?” Luz asked absently as he moved to better see past the open door into the office where the officers were forming a rough line, excluding Jones who was standing awkwardly by the door. Ah. “Must be his battlefield commission.”

“Oh.” Malarkey relaxed a little at that. “No, just tell me about it later. Maybe I can find a few bottles and we’ll celebrate properly.” He patted Luz on the shoulder and headed back out. Skinny at first made as if to follow him, and then stopped, drawn back into watching along with Luz and Webster.

“First Sergeant Lipton,” started Winters, his serious voice carrying out of the office. Lipton straightened.

“Sir.”

“Your honorable discharge as an enlisted man—”

“I’ve never seen someone get their commission before,” Skinny whispered to Webster loudly as Winters handed some papers to Lipton. “I thought there’d be more ceremony it.”

“More ceremony? Like what?” Webster asked, and then immediately shushed him when he started to answer so he could hear better. Skinny gave him a frown but then also turned back to watch.

“—Battlefield commission as Second Lieutenant—”

“Look what we have here, boys,” Luz murmured.

“—Congratulations, Carwood,” Winters finished. He smiled at Lipton—now Second Lieutenant Carwood Lipton—and then shook his hand, the pride on his face clear even into the other room where the three were watching.

His battlefield commission. The honor being given to him was something Lipton had never expected to receive, something warm growing in his chest as he straightened up just that much taller, mouth curving into a smile despite his efforts to remain solemn. “Thank you, sir.”

“Lip, congratulations,” Nixon was the next to shake the new lieutenant’s hand.

“Thanks,” Lipton was still smiling, accepting Jones’s handshake, Speirs’s silent nod of congratulations, and then Welsh’s extended hand. “Thank you. Welcome back, sir—”

“That’s Harry to you,” Welsh said with a grin, patting him on the shoulder. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Harry.” It felt odd to address the officer by his first name, but Lipton supposed he’d have to get used to that sort of thing. What with him being an officer now too.

It didn’t go unnoticed by the captain that despite happy smile on Lipton’s face, the exhausted look in his eyes had remained throughout the impromptu ceremony, and the moment the round of “congratulations” and “thanks” was completed, Speirs stepped in silently to direct Lipton to the nearest chair, a hand on his shoulder—just in case.

“I’m fine, sir.” Lipton said with an easy smile that didn’t seem like it’d leave his face any time soon. His battlefield commission. His smile widened even more when he thought about writing home about it. He wished he could see their faces when they read it.

“Sure you are. You’ll be even better sitting—lieutenant,” Speirs replied, relaxing a little once he finally had Lipton sitting down in the chair by the desk. He gave his shoulder another pat, and then he smiled. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.” Lipton’s good mood was broken by a few coughs that he tried to keep as quiet as possible so as not to disturb the other officers in the room chatting to each other, but then he was grinning once more, albeit tiredly than before.

Speirs frowned, but he didn’t really have it in him to chide Lipton for being up and about while ill, considering he’d been the one to have Luz wake him up. And the man was still basking in his new commission…so instead he glanced at the other men, then lowered his voice so only Lipton could hear him. “Lieutenant Welsh is going to ask if you want to celebrate with a few drinks. But if you don’t feel up to it right now…”

Lipton’s smile faded a bit as he thought about what a ‘few drinks’ meant for Welsh—Harry—and if Captain Nixon joined them…the last thing he wanted was to be hung over.

On the other hand, a day like this didn’t happen often, and in this war you had to grab hold of days like this for as long as you could. His smile brightened again. “A drink or two couldn’t hurt. Not every day you get a battlefield commission, sir. Thanks for the heads up.”

Speirs nodded, wondering if Lipton was making the right decision, but not about to argue with him about it. The man could make up his own mind, ill or well, and if he wanted to celebrate—why not? He looked up feeling someone’s gaze on him. Winters caught his eye and gave a slight nod to the side, a gesture that he join him. The captain patted Lipton once more on the shoulder and left him as Welsh and Nixon took his place next to the former first sergeant, Jones trailing behind them—Welsh wasted no time in making his offer to celebrate properly with a bottle or two.

“Sir?” Speirs joined Winters by the window.

“How have you been feeling, Speirs?”

Speirs stared at Winters in surprise, not expecting the question at all, nor the shrewd look that accompanied it, as if he’d known about everything going on in the CP before his arrival. It took him a beat too long to answer. “I’m fine, sir.”

Winters gazed at him as if he didn’t quite believe it, then glanced over his shoulder at the four men behind them before turning his blue-eyed gaze back to Speirs. “Good. Because we’re moving off the line. Effective immediately.”

Moving off the line? It was a relief and a cause for concern all at once. Now they’d have to organize the movement, get the trucks moving again, pack up some of the supplies that’d just come, leave it ready for the next company taking their place by the river—

A hand clasped his shoulder, and Speirs refocused on Winters standing in front of him. The major nodded towards the four men now breaking open a bottle that Welsh seemed to have magically had on his person. “Make sure they don’t take it too far, Speirs. I don’t want anyone falling off a truck on the way to…”

“Come on, Carwood, where do you keep the cups in this place? Not that we really need them, but it does seem to add more ceremony to everything.” Harry said brightly as he took a swig from the bottle.

“Just pass the bottle to the lieutenant here before you finish the whole thing off on your own.” Nixon clapped Lipton on the shoulder with a friendly smile as Harry handed over the bottle after another drink. “Congratulations, second lieutenant. Drink up.” He knocked his flask against the bottle.

“Yes, sir.” Lipton said with a smile of his own, tipping the bottle and taking a drink of whatever it was that Welsh had found. It burned going down his throat but left him with a pleasantly warm feeling as he proffered the bottle to Jones. “Have a drink?” He asked, just barely managing to keep from calling the now fellow lieutenant sir.

Jones looked surprised at the offer—he still wasn’t entirely sure about his place when it came to his fellow officers—but he gladly took the bottle. “Thank you, Lipton.” He took a drink, then inclined his head approvingly then took another before offering it back.

Harry intercepted it and raised it in the air solemnly. “To the lieutenant!” He took another drink, Nixon rolling his eyes and drinking from his flask, Lipton grinning.

They’d already passed the bottle around quite a few times before Speirs finally joined them silently after his talk with the major concluded, taking the bottle without question when Harry—the one who seemed to be getting his hands on it the most—offered it to him. He paused before taking a drink to look around at their alcohol-flushed faces and grins. They hadn’t wasted any time in celebrating—and now he had another cause for them to drink to—

“We’re moving off the line,” he announced without preamble, and then took a drink.

Harry snatched the bottle back. “Thank god for that!” He drank deeply and then pushed the bottle at Lipton. “Feels like we’ve been the only damn Company on the line since the beginning of the war.”

Lipton drank to that, Nixon following suit, and then passed the now very light bottle over to Jones. “Sir, we should start getting ready to move, I can—”

“No, lieutenant. Take what time you need to get ready. I’ll inform the sergeants.” Speirs caught the bottle after Jones took another drink—the younger man was trying to moderate how much he was drinking, without much success, because there was barely a half-inch left in said bottle. So much for Winter’s request that he keep them from drinking.

As Speirs took a swig, Winters joined their circle, and the captain almost offered it to him before he remembered the major didn’t drink. Winters caught the aborted movement and smiled—Speirs just took another to make up for the rounds he’d missed. Judging by the major’s face, he’d expected the bottle to already be empty, despite his warning.

“I don’t want to break this up prematurely but if you plan on riding back with me, Nix, you’ll have to excuse yourself,” Winters said to his friend, deciding he’d better break it up before another bottle was introduced.

“Yeah, okay, Dick.” Nixon stood, patted Lipton once more on the shoulder, gave him a silent toast, and then headed out of the office with Winters, flask returning to his jacket.

“Suppose I’d better get going too. Bottle’s empty anyway. Congratulations again, second lieutenant.” Harry grinned at him. “I’ll save a couple bottles for once we get settled down someplace, we can celebrate your promotion properly.”

“Thank you, sir—Harry. But there’s no need—”

“No trouble at all—we can each have a few bottle apiece and I might even steal one of Lewis’ precious bottles of Vat 69.” Giving him a wink, Harry shook his hand and left.

Jones took his cue from the others’ departure and straightened up from where he’d been leaning against the desk, pausing on his way out to give Lipton one last handshake. “Again, congratulations, Lipton.”

“Thank you, Jones.” Lipton got up onto slightly unsteady legs and looked over at Speirs, still smiling and still with an alcohol induced flush to his cheeks. Normally not a heavy drinker, Lipton was just on the side of being pleasantly drunk, all his earlier fatigue forgotten as he thought about his battlefield commission and being taken off the line. “Sir, have the men been informed?”

“No. I’ll pass the word to the sergeants and then we can…” Speirs paused, eyeing Lipton speculatively. He wasn’t well enough to resume his duties entirely, but it wasn’t every day a man was given his battlefield commission… “You tell them instead, lieutenant. I’ll settle everything here.”

Softhearted. That was the only word for it, because it wasn’t a smart move to offer a recently ill and probably still ill man the opportunity to walk around in the bad weather, but Speirs made the offer all the same while semi-hoping Lipton didn’t take it.

Lipton beamed at him. “Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”

Dammit. The captain nodded and started to turn to the papers on his desk, glad that he could pack them up for the time being instead of addressing them. “And lieutenant—make sure to tell them we’re moving as soon as possible,” Speirs added, hoping to curtail too heavy of congratulations in the form of more drinks. There would be time enough for that once they left this place.

“Will do, sir.” Lipton stumbled on his way out of the room but quickly righted himself and gave Speirs a sheepish look before continuing on his way, glad of the opportunity to give the men good news for once.

The next few hours were spent organizing everything for their departure from the town. It seemed as if the ruined town didn’t want them to go though, because the weather worsened considerably in those hours, sleet turning into snow flurries that obscured vision and chilled men to the bone. The company taking their place was already filtering in too, making the roads in and out congested, and the men who had been loaded back into trucks they recently vacated wondered if they had been preemptive in leaving the relative warmth and safety of the buildings to sit out on the road where they stood a higher chance of being struck by a stray mortar.

But they finally started moving—and before long, the sound of those stray mortars faded into the background. Movement wasn’t entirely smooth; the road was pitted from the battle that had taken place before then, and the occasional truck had to be dug free. Nobody fell off a truck from having drunk too much, but after enough time on the road, Speirs felt as though he might’ve fallen off one if it hadn’t been for the door he was sitting next to. Jeeps were well and good in fair weather, but due to the weather he’d opted to ride in the cabin of one of the trucks, and had insisted the new Lieutenant Lipton do the same to prevent his cough from worsening.

The truck went over another bump and Speirs shut his eyes briefly against the throb in his skull. It had been stupid to think so, but some small part of him had hoped that once they were finally moving away from the town and off the line…well…hoped that the steady ache in his bones and skull would go away.

It had not.

He tried to take advantage of the trip to their new position to sleep, but every other minute he couldn’t stop from shifting in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. By the time the trucks stopped, he was stiff all over and felt about as miserable as the rainy weather they had moved into. An impassive expression bordering on sullen had come over his face, and soldiers were quick to move out of his way as he entered the building he’d named their new CP and supply station.

Here, at least, it was free of rain.

Coming in a few steps behind him, coughing hard enough to force him to brace a hand against the nearest wall, Lipton partly regretted letting Malarkey talk him into having another celebration for his commission with the rest of the sergeants, several bottles being passed around for the better part of three hours before Speirs found him and ordered to sit in one of the cabs of the trucks. Only partly, though. A guy didn’t get a battlefield commission every day and he was touched by his friends’ insistence to celebrate with him.

After the long and jarring ride though, cold seeping in through his now damp jacket, the pleasant feeling from the alcohol waned and he found himself with a slightly pounding head and an upgraded cough, chest starting to ache a bit as he struggled to get his breath back.

Briefly wishing he had more booze to stop feeling as shitty as he did now but knowing it’d just be worse in the long run, Lipton wiped reflexive tears from his eyes and took a few swallows of water from his canteen, noting with dread the return of the faint tremble to his hands.

Crap.

“Where do you want these, sir?” one of the soldiers asked who had entered the room building with them. More were coming in behind him too, carrying some of the boxes with files, reports, supplies.

“Supplies over there,” Speirs ordered, gesturing to the far wall, and then he nodded towards the open door leading into what had once been a dining room. Half of the windows had been boarded up in there, and sadly it looked as if someone had already been through looking for something of value, but it would do for an office. “Everything else in there.”

“Yes sir.”

Speirs leaned against a small table set underneath a broken mirror and took off his helmet, running a hand down his face and through his hair. Ordinarily he’d take a closer look around the building he chose as CP, but since Winters had suggested it to him, he didn’t bother—that, and he didn’t feel much like moving from where he was now leaning. Perhaps he should ask one of the medics if…

He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of coughing. He turned his gaze from the many boxes being moved into the building to Lipton. The man looked even worse than before—how in the world did he manage it? One moment he looked like he was on the road to recovery, and now—that damned pallor was back, and the trembling—Christ, they just never caught a break.

“There’s a bedroom upstairs,” he said, voice rough from disuse. “Use it.”

“M’fine. Just a cough.” Lipton croaked back instantly, hands suddenly busy putting away his canteen. He frowned a bit as he took in the Captain’s weary face and slumped shoulders, noting the lines of pain around his eyes that signified a headache. Possibly the same one from earlier, he never did find out if he’d gotten any sleep… “Looks like you could use a break, sir, let me take over—”

“It’s a bit soon to be trying for the rank of captain, lieutenant,” Speirs interrupted, but there was no heat in his words. Eventually their replacements would catch up with them, but until then, it did make sense for Lipton, the man in the company with the most experience, to offer to take over, just like he had in their last CP. And maybe if they hadn’t almost lost him to a fever a few days ago, Speirs would have agreed this time. He sighed. “Christ, Lipton, we’ve had this whole discussion before—”

Confused, it took Lipton a moment to figure out what exactly the captain was talking about. “But that was when I was sick.” He felt necessary to point out. “It’s just a cough, I can still perform my duties—”

“When you were sick,” Speirs repeated. He didn’t even know if Lipton was joking or was just that blind to his own health that he couldn’t tell it was getting worse. He rubbed his eyes again, and shivered when the doors open and closed as men came and went as they deposited more and more boxes. They should have left some of it for the company taking their place back by the river. “You still are sick. And you’re only going to get worse the longer you put off taking care of yourself.”

Lipton may not have been at his best at the moment, but that didn’t mean he needed to be restricted to quarters again. It also meant that he saw the captain shivering which meant that he was getting more sick. He frowned and walked over to the other man, eyes looking him over closely for any other signs of illness. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Speirs inwardly sighed now, tempted to say “denied”. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d cut off a soldier coming to complain. He hadn’t felt bad about it then, either. But this time he just gestured to the men milling in and out that they leave them, and then gave a short nod, waiting to hear whatever argument it was Lipton had planned.

“You look like shit, sir.”

The captain’s mouth twisted into a frown, but otherwise there no change in the impassive expression he now wore. He hadn’t been looking at Lipton at first, instead staring off at the cracked wall across from him, but now he turned dark eyes to meet the lieutenant’s and waited in silence for him to continue.

Lipton stared back at him. That’d really been all he had to say. He didn’t think he’d have any luck getting him to agree to have a medic look at him again, though to be honest, there wasn’t much they could do except tell him to get some sleep. Advice that he doubted very much would go over well with the captain currently trying to bore holes through his head.

“I see. Anything else?” Speirs finally prompted.

“Is anything else likely to get you to look after yourself?” Lipton asked honestly, blaming the leftover alcohol running through his veins for such a direct question to his commanding officer. Well, too late to take it back now. Unsure of how Speirs would react, Lipton tensely waited to be ordered away.

Speirs’s eyes narrowed. He straightened up.

It would be an understatement to say the captain didn’t feel like being talked to like that from a subordinate—especially when said subordinate had been stubbornly refusing all efforts to help him when he’d first fallen ill. And was still ill. And yet, despite his very high levels of annoyance—and no small degree of anger—at Lipton, the logical side of him knew the man wouldn’t be so forthright unless he believed he was in the right and had to say something. Just like before, he thought wryly, thinking of all the events that had transpired in their last CP. Stubbornness was something Carwood Lipton had in spades. But this time round, Speirs wasn’t in the mood to find the quality admirable.

“Lieutenant, I think we’ve finished our conversation here.”

“…yessir. Sorry, sir.” Lipton briefly hesitated before walking over to the doorway. Speirs hadn’t ordered him to get some rest, which meant that it was business as usual. Starting with making sure the men were settling in and ending in what was sure to be piles of paperwork. Hopefully, the captain would get better without any further intervention, but if he didn’t, and still refused to look after himself, Lipton was going to have to do something. He just didn’t know what. The man wasn’t foolhardy enough to get laid up like Lipton had, but all the same. He’d keep an eye on him.

He almost bumped straight into Luz who was coming in with a group of men toting crates and other supplies.

“Whoa, hey, Lip, going someplace?” Luz asked cheerfully, eyes narrowing a bit as he took in the other man’s grim look. He pulled them over to the side as the men crowded into the room. “Pick a room and start piling the stuff up, come on, hurry it up, or do you want to be in the goddamn rain all day?”

“Doing my rounds—” Lipton was interrupted by a cough, Luz steadying him by his elbow as he wheezed. He waved him off. “I’m all right.”

“Christ, Lip, any more ‘all right’ and you’d be six feet under. Knock off for the day, I can get Malarkey’s lazy ass up here and he—”

“I’m fine.” Lipton cut in with a frown. “You got some work to do, go do it. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Lip—” But the other man was gone, Luz helpless to stop him. Well that was fucking great. He’d walk around in the rain, catch pneumonia again, and then die. Great.

Knocking out his last cigarette, of this pack anyway, Luz lit up and glared at the doorway still filled with rain soaked men tramping back and forth.

“Sergeant Luz.”

Straightening up at the sound of the C.O.’s voice, Luz turned around to see the man watching him with an inscrutable look from the other side of the room where he was leaning back against a table.

“Sir.” He walked over, one of the guys shoving a clipboard in his hand as he passed. Paperwork. Suppressing a sigh, he tucked his still dripping helmet under his arm and fished about in his pocket for a pen or pencil. He eyed the captain curiously. He was still off. That damn ride from hell couldn’t have done the guy any good. Or this fucking rain, he thought wiping a few stray rivulets from his face. “Shouldn’t take long for all the supplies to be situated.”

“Good. We won’t be here long so there’s no need to unpack them fully,” said Speirs, thinking briefly of the train ride that would soon take them even further from the front. Pity they still had to wait a few days for said train to arrive. He patted his pockets with one hand, as if trying to find a cigarette, then stopped, eyeing Luz’s, but said nothing of it. “Have one of the medics check on Lieutenant Lipton,” he added.

“…wasn’t Lip just here?” Luz asked after a brief moment, confused. “Is he worse or something?” The ‘why the hell is he walking around in the rain then?’ went unsaid but was clearly telegraphed if the hardening of the captain’s expression was anything to go by.

“Make sure it’s done soon,” the captain replied completely ignoring the questions. There were two soldiers lingering in the office waiting to be told where to put all the papers they’d brought in from the truck, and he rose stiffly and went to them without a backward glance at Luz.

“Yeah, sure.” Luz said under his breath as he put back on his helmet. That’d be easy. Lip was just going to go with it. Of course he was. He frowned and stopped at the doorway. First things first. “Anyone here got a pen?”

Getting the paperwork done took a few minutes, the supplies nice and dry in their new home, and then Luz went off onto the streets looking for Roe and leaving some of his guys to watch over the supplies that would disappear if any of the guys saw the things being left unguarded. Oh yeah, he knew their type. Fucking vultures, he thought without any malice, rain dripping down his helmet and getting into his eyes.

Thinking he spotted Roe ahead, he called out for him, quickening his pace to catch up with him.

The man stopped at the shout and turned back, revealing himself as the medic in question. Roe started walking again once Luz reached him, evidently on his way to the broken down building they had claimed as their temporary barracks. “Is there something I can help you with, sergeant?” he asked, automatically scanning Luz up and down. Some problem with the feet, the medic guessed. It usually was the feet.

“Nah, not me, doc. The Captain wants me to ‘have one of the medics check on Lieutenant Lipton’.” Luz did his best impression of the Captain, making a face afterwards. “Can you believe him? I saw Lip in the C.P. just before I got in there, he could’ve ordered Lip to stay there instead of walking out in the rain.” Luz moodily kicked a rock out into the street. “You’d think he wanted the guy to get sick again.”

“That wasn’t my impression,” Roe answered slowly with a frown, thinking of the captain hanging around the man’s bedside when he didn’t have to, especially during Lipton’s fever. But then again, Lipton got sick the first time because he’d been helping the captain with the paperwork, and then worsened because he’d been up and about before he should have been…but he still sure that wasn’t so much because Speirs ordered him to, and more because he wanted to. Either way, right now it didn’t matter.

“The first s—lieutenant,” he corrected, “do you know where he is?”

“Sure don’t, but I don’t have anything better to do, I’ll help you find him. Said he was going to do his rounds, probably checking in with all the sergeants still.” Luz supplied. He grinned suddenly. “You’re going to have a time with our new lieutenant. He was already in a mood when he left the C.P.—hey, that reminds me. Just how sick is the captain?”

“He’s sick?” The last time Roe saw the captain was in the office when Lipton asked him to come check on him. Speirs had been flat out exhausted, perhaps showing the first signs of becoming ill, but Roe thought the medicine he gave him would be enough to suffice. At least, the medic thought darkly to himself, it would have been, if Speirs followed his advice to get some rest. Which, he now guessed, he had not done. “Cough? Trembling? Any sign of a fever?” he asked, completely forgetting who it was he was speaking to.

“Yeah, Roe, I checked Speirs temperature while he was ordering me to get the hell out and find you.” Luz retorted sarcastically as he avoided a particularly large puddle. His socks were already soaked through. “What? I look like Mother Theresa to you? Christ.”

“Then how do you know he’s sick?” Roe persisted, even though an embarrassed flush crept over his face. He could hear the story being circulated already.

“Heard it on the grapevine, plus, just wait till you see the guy, he’s all—” Luz waved his hand around as he tried to describe the other man. “Anyway, you’ll see. Don’t know what those two have against sleep.”

“So then se—lieutenant Lipton hasn’t been sleeping either?” Roe scowled at nothing in particular at that tidbit of news. He’d heard the sergeants celebrating Lipton’s commission and thought the man had recovered fully. He should have known better. The man probably thought he couldn’t relapse and have another fever—but he could, and probably would if he didn’t take care of himself.

“You kidding? You know how Lip is, always trying to take care of everybody else before himself. You ask me, when he was real bad, that fever of his got all the way to his brain.”

Roe almost agreed with that sentiment. “The sooner we find him the better,” he muttered, speeding up when he saw the door to the makeshift barrack ahead. He knew two of the sergeants were inside, and perhaps Lipton was with them.

“Can say that again, Doc.”

Inside, ignoring the men picking out spots to sack out, Sergeant Martin was talking with Sergeant Malarkey, both men glancing over as the two men entered.

“Wondered what happened to you, George.” Martin called over to him. “For a supply sergeant you sure don’t seem to ever be with the supplies.”

“How would you know? You even know where the C.P. is, Johnny?” Luz returned easily.

“Do you know where lieutenant Lipton is?” Roe asked, interrupting whatever Martin’s reply was. Malarkey paused in the act of drinking from his canteen to glance between the medic and Luz.

“Why?” the sergeant asked.

“Why not?” Luz debated lighting a fresh cigarette. Wouldn’t be much point when he was going to be back out in the rain soon. “Captain’s orders. He’s got to be looked at by Roe.”

Martin frowned. “What? Lip’s sick again?”

Roe shrugged, since he hadn’t seen the new lieutenant and couldn’t say for sure.

“His cough,” Malarkey said knowingly, taking another drink. He shared a look with Luz and Martin. “It sounded worse earlier when we were getting ready to move. He said he was going to have it looked at.” He looked at Roe, as if to confirm Lipton had gone to him, but judging by the medic’s face that had not been the case.

“I told him he should’ve taken one of those bottles with him.” Luz shook his head.

“You kidding? Didn’t even think he’d put away as much as he did.” Martin’s frown deepened a worried furrow between his brows. “Haven’t seen him around here, doc. You need any help tracking him down?”

“No. I’ll just keep looking.” Roe shifted his medical pack over his shoulder—he didn’t know why he was still carrying it around when they were off the line. Apparently for situations like these. He turned away from the sergeants and started back out, but stopped when Malarkey caught his shoulder.

“You don’t think he passed out somewhere, right?” the sergeant asked. He’d heard it got pretty bad a few days ago when Lipton had his fever.

“I don’t think so, sarge,” Roe replied, but again, some doubt must have shown through his voice because Malarkey’s face became grim.

“You don’t think so?” Martin demanded. “So he might be?”

“Would you two cut it out? If Speirs thought Lipton was that bad off, he’d never have let him go walking around by his own.” Luz pointed out.

Martin had to concede the point there, Speirs had been as protective as the rest of them when Lip had gotten sick. “Okay. So maybe he didn’t know how bad it was—”

“How bad what was?”

All their heads instantly jerked towards the familiar voice, a dripping Lipton looking back at them inquiringly.

“The hell you been, Lip? Taking a bath?”

“No, George.” Lipton said patiently. “Just taking a swim for the hell of it.”

“You should sit down before you fall on your ass.” Martin told him bluntly, eyes scanning him closely.

“You’re soaked through, Lip,” Malarkey added, pulling up a chair for the lieutenant to sit down. “Jesus, don’t you know we have rain ponchos now?”

“How’s your cough, sir?” Roe asked, already reaching into his pack.

Lipton resisted the hands trying to tug him down into the chair, a frown on his face. “What’s gotten into you guys? I was cleared to get back on duty, you know that.”

“That was before you decided to play out in the rain.”

Glaring at Luz who looked unrepentantly back at him, Lipton took in the group of worried faces and frowned even deeper. “I told you, I’m—”

“Fine, yeah we know—that’s why you look like you need your own personal Florence Nightingale.” Martin interrupted.

“He’s going to have to settle for Roe.”

Roe glared at him and then turned to Lipton. “The captain ordered me to, sir.”

Lipton’s annoyed frown faded into a look of confusion. “Speirs ordered you? When?”

“A little after you left the C.P., Lip.” Luz readily answered.

Lipton took a moment to cough before resuming a frown, this one more halfhearted than the other as his lungs ached and his throat felt raw. That was just plain sneaky. And underhanded. He couldn’t even order him to his face—instead sending out men to goddamn search for him like some wayward child.

“Give me the order exactly, Luz.”

“Huh? Why? You going to disobey a direct order—”

“Now.” Lipton snapped, his usually pool of patience rapidly running dry.

“Okay, okay. He said, and I quote ‘Have one of the medics check on Lieutenant Lipton,’” Luz paused for the barest of seconds, mind whirring at top speeds, “‘then bring him back to the C.P. and have him sack out upstairs.’” Luz had no idea what was upstairs at the C.P., but there was probably a nice piece of dry floor with Lip’s name on it at the very least.

Lipton’s jaw tightened but he didn’t say anything else, instead opting to sit down in the chair Malarkey had brought over and submitting to Roe’s examination.

Luz exchanged a glance with the others. They hadn’t seen Lip pissed off too many times, but now was definitely one of those times and it wasn’t going to end well for whoever he was pissed at. Luz wondered if he should feel at least a little bad, knowing it was his addition to the real order that had gotten Lip so riled up, but then decided that if Speirs had shown them anything, it was that he could look after himself. On the battlefield that is. His health was another story. Something both he and Lip had in common.

Roe conducted his examination thoroughly, although Lipton was tightlipped to any of his questions. As if the medic needed any verbal answers though; the physical signs were all there, and he didn’t push it, just glanced at him and let him know he wasn’t buying it.

At the end of it, he confirmed what he already expected: the lieutenant was doing worse, and his cough was beginning to make Roe worried that the infection might have spread to both lungs instead of one, despite what the lieutenant said about it not bothering him. A cough was never just a cough—not as far as Lipton was concerned, anyway. He gave Lipton another shot of what he had on him—about all he could do—and then, “You’ll have to check into an aid station once we’re off the train, sir,” he said firmly. “Until then the only thing that’ll help is rest.”

“How about going in and out in the rain?” Malarkey inquired. He’d brought over a cup of weak coffee—a pale comparison to what they’d had from Speirs’s stash—and offered it to Lipton.

Roe shook his head. “Should be kept to a minimum.”

“I have no intention of disobeying Captain Speirs’ orders.” Lipton said evenly as he thanked Malarkey and started to drink, the liquid soothing his throat.

Luz held back a wince. Shit.

“Sir…” Roe didn’t know what to say because he knew Lipton wouldn’t agree to stay there, so he shut his mouth and frowned heavily. Speaking of the captain, he still had to examine him, too.

Malarkey frowned, sharing a glance with Martin as they noticed their new lieutenant was shivering now. Shivering, goddammit. And what did he expect, walking around soaked like that when it was freezing? Not as cold as Bastogne, but it didn’t have to be when a man was sick like Lipton. The frown on the sergeant’s face grew darker as memories of the frozen trees came back to him, but he brushed them aside firmly.

“You’ll need something dry to change into,” he said to Lipton. “Where’d you leave your pack?”

Lipton stood and handed Malarkey back his cup, hand quickly dropping back to his side as though they hadn’t all already seen him trembling like a leaf. “You boys make sure everyone’s situated, no telling how long we’ll be here.”

Alarmed at the thought of Lipton being fucking stubborn enough to drown outside, Martin put a restraining hand on his arm, gaze intent. “Lip, sit back down, let Malark go get your pack and one of those damn ponchos—you keep on acting like this, you’ll be shipped back home. In a fucking box. You understand me?”

“C.P. is ten minutes away. I’ll change there.”

“Lip—”

“I know you guys are trying to help, I appreciate it, but don’t make me pull rank on you.” Lipton really wish they’d stop looking at him at that, like he was about to fall over. He wasn’t nearly as bad as they thought. It wasn’t like he wanted to go back out in the rain, but he had no choice and it simply made more sense to not get dry and warm only to get wet again, poncho or no poncho. It did make sense, right? Only his head was really starting to pound from all the alcohol earlier and now he wasn’t so sure.

Martin frowned but remained silent.

“I guess you really are an officer now,” Malarkey muttered, his sentiments much the same as Martin’s, and Luz’s and Roe’s, by the looks on their faces. He stood aside to allow Lipton to exit. “Take care of yourself. Sir.”

Lipton gave him an exasperated look as he passed, but didn’t try and say anything to mollify the angry man. He’d find him later and smooth things out when the man had some time to cool down.

Hanging back a few steps from Lipton and Roe, Luz winked at the other sergeants. “Don’t worry, boys, I’ve got a plan that’ll have Lip back to his old self in no time.”

“That, I’d have to see.” Martin retorted unimpressed.

“No faith, Johnny? That really hurts you know.”

“So cry me a river.”

Malarkey just shook his head and turned away.

Returning to the C.P., Lipton suddenly found himself curious as to why Roe had come along with him. Luz was setting up supplies, so that made sense. But Roe…

“Got some business in the C.P., doc?” He asked opening the door and getting out of the steadily pouring rain with no small amount of relief.

“Sergeant Luz told me the captain didn’t look well,” Roe said bluntly. And he wanted to be sure this time that Lipton actually damn well rested instead of sleeping for a half hour before jumping back into the thick of it.

“He doesn’t.” Lipton agreed, surprised that Luz would have brought that up. “The last medic that looked at him, Rogers, gave me a sedative to try and talk the Captain into using—didn’t go over well. He can’t keep going without sleep.”

Luz started to laugh at the absurdity of that last comment but managed to change it into a cough instead. “Sorry, dry throat.”

Collecting his gear that he’d left in a corner of the room, Lipton gave him an odd look, Luz doing his best to look innocent.

Lipton frowned.

Whoops, too far, Luz was just about to excuse himself when Lipton had another of his coughing fits, the sergeant instantly going to his side and hovering uselessly beside him. “Here, have some water.” He said proffering his canteen.

Lipton took a drink and then handed it back, eyes watering from the force of his cough as he sagged a bit against the wall. “Thanks.” He murmured.

“Any time.” Luz said, voice careless though his eyes were concerned. “You good?”

Lipton nodded and ran a hand over his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

“…Do you still have the sedative, lieutenant?” Roe had joined them instead of going for the office where he was sure to find the captain.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Here it is.” Lipton handed over the crumpled packet tiredly. “He won’t take it.”

“We’ll see.” Roe had some idea working in the back of his head. Perhaps not a very good one, but an idea all the same. He slipped the packet into his pocket. “…Make sure you stay warm and dry, sir,” he said, eyeing the puddle of water still growing underneath Lipton.

Lipton nodded and then hesitated. He was still angry at Speirs having sent a medic after him and doubting his capability in performing rudimentary duties, but he also wanted to be sure that the man was taking care of himself. He couldn’t convince the man alone, but maybe with a medic on his side, it would make the difference. “If you wait until I change, I can see if I can help you at all.”

“Yes, sir, I think that might be better.” Roe watched Lipton take his leave of them to change and dry off, and then instantly turned to Luz when he was gone. “The captain’s not going to take it. And the lieutenant’s not going to rest easy, either.”

“So tell me something I don’t know.” Luz put his helmet under his arm and used his damp forearm to wipe his face. “One’s a hardass that doesn’t get sick, the other is—well, Lip. Who when he’s sick loses all sense of reason.”

“…But if they rested,” Roe said slowly, “Even for a few hours, they could avoid getting worse. They may even get better.” He put his hand back into his pocket, crumpling the paper packet audibly as he looked at Luz.

“Are you…doc, are you serious?” Luz glanced around and lowered his voice so that only Roe could hear, expression incredulous. “You want to give them both a mickey?”

“I don’t have anything but water to put it in, and they’d notice that,” Roe said grimly, a clear confirmation to Luz’s question. He looked over his shoulder to be sure nobody was sneaking up on them. “Half a packet each should be enough to see to it they fall asleep.” He reached into a pocket—and pulled out another packet of the sedative. “One each should keep them down.”

Luz was impressed and said so. “I’m impressed, doc. What about coffee? Speirs might not drink it though, once you’ve had the real stuff, going back is just a disappointment. What about some booze?”

“…How would you get them both to drink it?” As far as Roe knew, officers preferred to either drink by themselves or with other officers. Accepting offers from the enlisted to share a drink happened on occasion, but usually special occasions. He had no idea if Speirs had ever heard of that type of occasion, considering the rumours that spread about the man regarding his NCOs drinking habits.

“Easy. Once they both refuse the sedative, you tell them that a drink might help them relax enough to get to sleep on their own. They won’t believe you, but they might just humour you.” Luz grinned. He was sure it was a court martial offense to drug a superior officer, but if they had taken care of themselves instead of being fucking out of their heads, it never would have come to such extremes. Talk about a crazy war. “Or it could backfire and you’re left with two mickey’d up drinks. I’ll go find something—here, you give me the packets, I’ll get the stuff ready when I have it. You can tell them you sent me off to find some booze if they ask—for medicinal purposes. “

Roe smiled despite himself. Luz hadn’t even bat an eye while laying out his plot, leading the medic to suspect he’d already thought out something similar before the medic ever spoke to him. “Right, sergeant.” He handed him the two packets. “Good luck.”

“Same to you, you’re the one that’ll have to stall if I don’t get back in time.”

Leaving the medic with that cheery thought, Luz put his helmet back on and left the C.P., a sheet of rain trying to get inside before the door closed.

Roe frowned as he thought of stalling tactics and their likelihood of succeeding against either Speirs or Lipton. An ill Speirs and Lipton.

…Hmm.

A few minutes later, Lipton trudged back down stairs, dry and almost warm. He’d found a room with all its walls surprisingly intact and two beds—his kit, helmet, and rifle left on one of them, and his wet clothes strung out over the metal bed posts to hopefully dry.

Never had Lipton been more glad that the railing to the stairs was sturdy and in one piece, his legs persisting in feeling more like jelly than muscle and bone.

Fortunately, he made it to Roe without falling down once, the achievement lackluster considering it was something he should’ve been able to do anyway.

“Ready?” He asked, noting the absence of Luz briefly before dismissing it out of hand.

Roe nodded and adjusted his pack that he doubted he even need to open. Not as far as the captain or Lipton were concerned. “Yes sir.”

Leading the way to the office door, Lipton rapped his knuckles on the door and waited until he heard a muffled ‘enter’ before opening the door and going inside.

Speirs was at his desk engrossed in a file and didn’t even look up when they entered.

Closing the door behind them, Lipton walked in front of the desk and cleared his throat, careful not to set off another bout of coughing. “Sir, Doc Roe would like to examine you.”

Speirs didn’t look well, Roe thought as the captain slowly put down the file to look up at them. Much like Lipton, he seemed to have this permanent air of exhaustion about him; the dark circles beneath his glazed eyes had darkened further, or perhaps only appeared so because of the paleness of his face. And he seemed…thinner. He was already a slim man, but evidentially a few meals had been misplaced or never eaten the last few days. It didn’t go unnoticed by Roe that the man still had his coat on, but was shivering slightly. If he were to suddenly cough, Roe would half be expecting it.

“Is that so, Lieutenant Lipton?” The captain’s voice was rough, tired and quiet and not sounding much like his usual self. Speirs’s dark-eyed gaze went first to Roe, then to Lipton, the eyes narrowing slightly. He was trying to repay him for asking Luz to send a medic after him, wasn’t he? Again, that flare of anger lit up in his eyes.

“Yes, sir, it is,” Roe said before Lipton could say anything. At once the eyes turned to him. “You don’t seem entirely well, sir.”

“That’s because I’m not,” Speirs answered bluntly. He put down his pen. “I’ve already had two of those shots. You said that was all you had for it. So what exactly do you plan on doing this time?” A glance at Lipton, as if to add, “either of you?”

“He’s here to help you, sir.” Lipton said smoothly, or as smoothly as he could with his throat feeling as raw as it did. He was trying to ignore the anger being aimed his way, knew the captain was still pissed at him for speaking out of turn. Again. And he hoped that since Speirs was admitting to being sick, he might just go along with taking the sedative as well. There was a chance anyway. Not a very high one, but a chance all the same.

“Lieutenant Lipton told me—”

“I don’t need help,” Speirs interrupted the medic, but he was staring at Lipton again. “You did. What are you doing for your cough?”

“Doc gave me a shot.” By sheer force of will, Lipton managed to swallow down a cough and did his best to look completely unaffected, his chest throbbing dully. Goddamn pneumonia. “Sir, since you’ve gotten worse, Roe might be able to determine if you have pneumonia like I did. If so, I’m sure there are steps to be taken to ensure you recover faster.”

“There is—” Roe started, but once again, he was cut off.

“No. I don’t need anything. Did either of you need anything el—?”

“Sir,” Roe was determined to get his piece in, even though the stare Speirs was now giving him made the medic increasingly glad that Lipton was with him. They couldn’t be kicked out until Luz came back… He just had to keep repeating that to himself. “There’s no more medicine I can give either of you. But there is one thing that can help, and that’s sleep. Even if it’s just for a few hours, it could lessen any symptoms and prevent it from getting worse.” He glanced at Lipton. “It could help you too, sar—lieutenant.”

Lipton couldn’t find it in him to be surprised at the medic’s attempt to get him to rest as well as Speirs. The way everyone had been acting towards him since he’d been sick, he’d have been more surprised if he hadn’t. But now he’d been forced into the position to either agree with Roe, thus hopefully forcing Speirs to agree that rest was the best thing for both of them, or deny it, in which case he knew the captain would immediately jump on the chance to point out that if rest wasn’t going to help Lipton, it certainly wasn’t going to help him.

Goddamnit, Roe, he thought as he forced a nod. “I think you’re right, doc. Nothing like sleep for a cold, right, Captain?”

“…” Speirs now suspected the two had worked out this conversation between them before coming into the office. Why else would Lipton, the man who stubbornly refused all efforts to keep him in one place to rest, now agree to catch a few hours of sleep? He wasn’t buying it. And not a man who normally felt contrary, he now felt like flatly refusing their attempts to help. And it wasn’t the pounding headache or irritation he felt towards the former sergeant, he told himself. Because he’d made the right choices earlier and had the medics look at him, took the shots, even caught some sleep—and what did it get him in the end? Nothing. In fact, he was worse off than before!

He reached up a hand and shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

…But a leader couldn’t afford to feel sorry for themselves or bemoan their condition. He lifted his gaze again, and took a good look at Lipton, seeing the rainy weather had done him no favours, just as he suspected. The new lieutenant was obviously worn out and rundown, probably not running on spite like Speirs, but on some sense of duty or responsibility. There was a reason they’d recommended him for a commission. But Christ, didn’t the man ever give up trying to take care of others when he was running himself into the ground?

Great, now he had him feeling guilty all over again just for asking for help a few days ago and if he said no, sleep could be put off, Lipton would take it as a sign he could also brush off resting when he obviously needed it, who did he think he was fooling trying to hide that cough when they could all—dammit. He played right into their hands.

“Nothing like sleep,” he finally said, not realizing Roe let out a quiet breath when he finally broke the silence between them. “If you’ve finished with your duties, lieutenant, then I suggest you follow the doc’s advice. I’ll just finish with this and—”

“Sir, no disrespect, but your health is more important than a month old report.” Lipton broke in as tactfully as he could. Which wasn’t all that tactful, but the hell with it, if Speirs had trusted that he could perform his duties instead of sending people after him then both of them wouldn’t be here right now. And if Lipton was going to be forced to lie down somewhere and stare at the ceiling, Speirs was going to have to do the same thing as well. A good leader shows by example, isn’t that how it went? He knew he was maybe being a little petty, just a bit, which wasn’t like him usually, but he usually wasn’t dealing with a hangover and the remnants of pneumonia.

“…Maybe.” Speirs didn’t disagree, but he looked like he was about to, so Roe interrupted before he could.

“It might be hard to sleep with a cough, or with a headache, sirs,” he said, looking from Speirs to Lipton. Now was his chance to put an end to their playing “I’m not really that sick” once in for all… “I have something that could help.”

“…Which is what, Roe?” Speirs asked when the medic said no more. Roe shifted a little, opening his mouth as he tried to think of something, then shut it. “Well?”

Lipton, thinking that Roe was going to try and mention the sedative again, gave the medic an encouraging look. Only not too encouraging, because if he thought he was going to be able to pull the same trick again and get Lipton to agree to take one for the sake of the captain, he was going to have to think again. Lipton had no intention of being forcibly knocked out, he was on the mend, unlike Speirs who actually needed it.

“There’s a sedative,” Roe started, but seeing the glint in Speirs’s eye change, he hesitated. It had been easier to suggest in theory than in person when he came face to face with the captain. “…But it can be too strong,” he continued, deciding there was nothing else for it but to go up to the hilt to get what he wanted. After all, it was for their own good. “If either of you were worse I’d suggest it, but since neither of you have a fever, permanent cough—” He did not look at Lipton, but he did come to mind, “—or full body ache—” Speirs’s expression didn’t change, but the captain felt almost as if the doc had seen right through his poker face all the same, “—there’s no need—”

“Then what exactly is it that want us to take, doc?” Speirs asked brusquely, not in the mood to hear what else what else they had no need of.

“Alcohol, sir,” Roe said bluntly. “A drink.”

“…A drink,” repeated the captain. Roe nodded.

“As a sleep aid, sir. Medicinal.”

Lipton stared hard at the medic, a furrow growing between his brows. “And you think this will help?” He questioned, doing his best to keep his skepticism to himself for the time being.

“Yes,” Roe lied through his teeth.

Now Speirs looked at Lipton, because his mind just went blank. Alcohol to cure pneumonia? Well, perhaps not pneumonia, but as a sleep aid? Who in the world did the medic think he was kidding? He was kidding, wasn’t he?

Wasn’t he?

Speirs wasn’t a medic, didn’t even get close to the field of medicine. Maybe—he didn’t know. It was absurd, and he looked to the lieutenant as if to confirm it wasn’t just him thinking so.

“I suppose…if you think it best, doc.” Lipton wasn’t convinced that some alcohol would help either of them, but it was obvious that Roe was grasping at straws in trying to treat the captain. And he did have to admit that while not about to help him to sleep in any way, a drink would do wonders for his alcohol induced headache pounding at the inside of his skull. He knew Lieutenant Welsh—Harry—swore by it. Captain Nixon probably would as well if he ever put the bottle down long enough to get one. They couldn’t both be wrong.

“I’ll go get it immediately, sir,” said Roe, relief flooding through him when Speirs raised no objection. He nodded respectfully to both of them and went back out into the other room, sighing the moment he was out of sight. Now, to find Luz...

“…Did you believe any of that, lieutenant?” Speirs asked when he heard the door shut.

“Doc Roe is a very capable medic, sir.” Lipton said diplomatically. “If that’s all, sir…?”

“…No. I want to talk to you, Lipton.” Speirs pushed away the folder he had been distracted by before their arrival. “About earlier.”

Lipton stiffened and nodded. He’d known this was coming ever since he spoke out of line. “Yessir. I’d like to apologize, I overstepped and it won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t, lieutenant,” Speirs said with a short nod. “...But that’s not all I wanted to discuss.” He stood up stiffly, leaning with both hands on the edge of the desk. “I trust your judgement, lieutenant. You wouldn’t have been first sergeant or had my added recommendation for lieutenant if I thought otherwise. But when it comes to looking after yourself...” He paused. “You leave much to be desired.”

Lipton couldn’t find it in him to point out Speirs wasn’t in a very good position to judge how other people looked after themselves when he was still attempting to work while clearly more than just a little under the weather. Especially after he’d just said he trusted him. And added his own recommendation for his battlefield commission.

But…if Speirs had, in fact, trusted him this whole time and had known that he could perform all the duties required of him, then…he was really just as bad as the sergeants and the rest of the men of Easy.

All his previous anger and annoyance at being stopped at every turn as he tried to do his job, supposedly by an officer who doubted he was up to the task, immediately was traded out for a mix of exasperation and fondness for the newest addition to the Company, excluding the brief Lieutenant Jones, Lipton suppressing a smile and nodding solemnly in acknowledgement of the statement though he didn’t agree. “I know my limits, sir. That being said, I do appreciate you looking out for me, sir. Hope you don’t mind if I return the favour.”

“I look out for all of my men, lieutenant,” Speirs replied solemnly, just to let Lipton know the officer didn’t play favorites as far as anyone was concerned. But then, quieter, he continued. “…But it’s hard to find people who’ll tell you if you start to stray.” He sighed. “Christ, Lip, we haven’t been together that long and I think you’ve already reminded me more than any other soldier I’ve served with that an officer leads by example.”

He’d known that simple fact since he first put on a uniform, but had always attributed it to behavior on the battlefield and in war, not so much during the lull between the battles, or in times such as these. In this case, Speirs’d led by example, but in the wrong way—he had overworked himself, and then Lipton, who had been helping him, did the same. Speirs knew all the other sergeants in the company who had stepped up to take the place of absent junior officers were feeling the strain as well, but nobody wanted to back down. The job had to be finished before they could walk away from it, despite what anyone else told them.

Hell, overworking themselves to the point of breaking appeared to be something every man in Easy did, not just the officers, and Speirs knew why: the soldiers had to be tougher and stronger and totally incapable of falling to pieces because the man next to him relied on him. Maybe in times like these though, periods where they should be resting and recuperating, they held on too tight to the mask of resiliency just for the sake of it.

“…So I’ll try to be a better example.”

“Sir, I’ve known a lot of officers, good and bad, and you’ve been one of the best I’ve had the honour of serving with.” Lipton told him sincerely, gaze serious. He wasn’t likely to forget Dike’s fumbling at Foy that had almost cost them all their lives, only Major Winters’ quick orders to bring in Speirs saving them from being wiped out by one man’s indecision in the face of battle. Speirs had shown then that he had what it took to be a C.O., and a damn good one. He knew the rumours about the man, what man in Easy didn’t, but actions always spoke louder than words and Speirs had shown he was a man worth following. Not that the man didn’t have his faults, he was human, contrary to popular belief and the pool Luz had started. “Though I gotta say, sir, you do tend to take everything on your own shoulders, and I’m not just talking about your duties as captain. Think we might have that in common.” He added with a sheepish look.

“Not a particularly desirable quality we share then, lieutenant,” Speirs said with a wry smile.

“I’d say it depends on the situation, sir.” Lipton answered, eyes crinkling and mouth quirking upwards. “And on who you ask.”

Speirs let out a small huff of amusement. “Guess we’ll have to stop asking.”

“Yessir.” Lipton paused, face turning serious. “Sir, I know you feel that my getting sick was somehow your fault—”

“I’m responsible for every man in this company, lieutenant,” the captain interrupted, all traces of amiability instantly fading from his face. “I knew you were ill but had you helping me anyway and you worsened because of it. Christ, we’ve already been over this—”

“Yes, sir, we have.” In a sense, though it had been more like Speirs maintaining that his getting sick was all his fault and disregarding everything Lipton told him that proved otherwise. And now, what with everything that had happened, Lipton felt it was the right time to bring it up again, if only that now he was starting to be suspicious as to why Speirs was suddenly working without stop. He could be wrong, of course, but from what he’d seen of the man he felt he had a pretty fair idea of how the man’s mind worked. “And I’m sorry if I’m out of line again, sir, there is no disrespect intended, but I feel this is an issue that needs to be properly addressed.” Lipton’s tone softened though his expression remained determined. “You don’t need to go looking for penance, sir.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, lieutenant,” said Speirs aloofly, but something had closed off in his expression.

“Don’t you, sir?”

“No, I don’t.”

Lipton gave him a shrewd look.

“I’m just doing my duty and fulfilling my responsibilities, lieutenant,” Speirs snapped without meaning to when the silence between them grew too long. His gaze involuntarily dropped from Lipton’s back to the desk, and then to the paperwork he still had to finish. Had to; not—not compelled to finish. He wasn’t “looking for penance”. It was his job. His responsibility. “…That’s all I’m doing.”

“But you’re sick, sir.”

“So?”

“Unless something new came in, sir, those reports and papers are all non-priority.” Command hadn’t caught up to their new position yet, thank god.

Now Speirs looked back up, giving him a look that clearly told Lipton he knew what he was trying to say but wasn’t going to give the lieutenant the satisfaction of an answer.

“Captain, you—” Lipton broke off with an exasperated huff—talk about being mule-headed—and started again in a more mild tone. “If I was doing what you were, you’d have already ordered me to get some rest, stolen my pen, and set Roe on me.”

“Well that’s the difference, isn’t it, lieutenant,” Speirs said slowly, remembering the pen in question was still in one of his pockets. “You have to follow my orders.” The, “I don’t have to follow yours” went unsaid, but they both heard it all the same. “And anyway,” the captain straightened up, fighting the urge to sit back down even though his stiff body wasn’t forgiving him for standing, “It didn’t seem to make any difference, because you went right back to it the moment my back was turned and now here you are. Still sick.”

“I obeyed your orders, sir.” Which was broadly true. “And I had Malarkey taking care of the non-priority paperwork.”

“Hmm. So you did.” Most of what was sitting on Speirs’s desk right now was that neatly-typed non-priority paperwork, just waiting for his signature. Technically, Lipton was right in surmising it could all be put off for some other time. Could be. Wasn’t going to be. “But you’re still sick. And all that’s telling me is that sleep doesn’t seem to be as great of an aid as either of us made it out to be.”

“Neither of us has really given it a chance though, have we, sir.” It was more statement of fact than a question, Lipton still trying to figure out how to get the other man to admit that he was just working to somehow punish himself for Lipton’s pneumonia. Which was crazy, but the man wasn’t thinking clearly, obviously. Hell, he could barely keep himself upright! Had he looked that bad when he was sick? Lipton wondered. He hadn’t thought so at the time, but if he had, Speirs had been right to be concerned. And so had everyone else, he supposed with a great deal of reluctance because he would still swear that up until the fever had taken him under, he had been doing okay. “Sir, you don’t have to do this.”

“There’s a lot of things I don’t have to do,” replied the captain impassively. “This isn’t one of them.”

“I’m not talking about the paperwork.”

“Then what?” Speirs demanded.

Lipton’s eyes narrowed. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Again, that old temptation to just flatly refuse…but Speirs had had enough of all of it by now and just gave a terse nod.

“This, all the overworking that you’d stop any other man from doing, is your self-appointed penance. You’re denying yourself the time you need to get well just so that you can keep beating yourself up over something that’s not your fault.” The straightforward approach was apparently the only way to get Speirs to listen and Lipton was determined to get his point across this time. “Sir, I’m pretty sure we’ve established how single-minded I can be, I was well aware of my condition and kept going anyway because taking on as much as I can handle at all times is how I work. That fever was going to happen whether or not I was signing a supply manifest at the time, maybe it came a little sooner, I don’t know, but it’s over now and I’m doing just fine. Maybe a little sleep deprived.” He admitted at the look on the other man’s face. “But so are you, sir. Only difference is that you’re doing it to punish yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything to punish myself,” Speirs started coolly, but he wasn’t able to keep the same even tone as he went on. “If you recall I made my apologies to you last time you gave me the speech, lieutenant. I said I’d do better by you and the men and that’s all I’m doing, starting with finishing—” He gestured to the papers on the table. “—Finishing what I start. I don’t need—and I’m not—trying to make up for anything—or—or whatever it is you think I’m doing—”

“It’s not like the paperwork won’t be there if you take a few hours, sir.” Lipton cut in quietly. “You working yourself into exhaustion isn’t proving anything to the men other than that you—” He caught himself before he finished the sentence. Permission to speak freely only went so far and he was pretty sure calling the CO and idiot would get him fast tracked through a court martial. “Are very devoted to filling out forms.” He finished as smoothly as he could considering he could feel a cough building in his lungs.

Speirs narrowed his eyes at Lipton, having a pretty good idea of what he had been about to say before he switched it. Then in the middle of trying to think of a way to refute what hadn’t been said, he found—he found…that he couldn’t really argue with the lieutenant’s assessment, however much he wanted to. Annoyance faded, replaced with some feeling less familiar that he couldn’t quite name.

Lipton was right. Speirs seemed to recall hearing that NCOs were always right—apparently even when they put on Lieutenant bars—but it still came as an unwelcome surprise. He hadn’t wanted to hear it earlier, when he still felt bad about making Lipton worse, and so ignored it—but the man persisted. Damn him, of course he did. And now the lieutenant was making him feel guilty for trying to make up for what he’d done earlier that, apparently according to Lipton, wasn’t even anything that needed making up for.

He eased himself back down into his chair, and rubbed his eyes. “…Hate’s not a strong enough word for how I feel about paperwork, lieutenant,” he said, finally allowing some of the tiredness he felt to seep into his voice. “And for god’s sake, I know that shot didn’t do anything, will you just cough already instead of choking yourself to death?”

Lipton’s lungs didn’t need any urging, dry hacking coughs strong enough to leave him feeling weak racking his entire frame and leaving him breathless and sagging back against a nearby wall. “Shot must’ve done something.” He wheezed fumbling out his canteen and taking a few gulps. “Not in a bed anymore.” He suddenly smiled. “So you hate paperwork, sir?”

“Worst part of being an officer, lieutenant,” Speirs said with a nod. He gestured to the chair on the other side of the table when he saw Lipton leaning against the wall. “You’ll be good at it though.”

“Paperwork? I think I already am, sir.” Lipton tiredly moved over to the chair and sat down heavily. “Lots of experience in that field.”

“Be prepared for more,” said the captain with a serious look. “Junior officers get their fair share. And be careful of being too good at it.”

It took Lipton a moment to figure out what Speirs was talking about, but when he did he nodded and hid a smile. “Understood, sir.”

Luz had had a time of it. Due to being taken off the line it seemed that every single fucking soldier had drunk all the booze they could get their grimy little hands on. Which meant that he’d been running back and forth for absolutely fucking nothing and had been driven to try and find Lieutenant Welsh’s stash—he’d didn’t even contemplate Captain Nixon’s collection because being murdered wasn’t the way he wanted to go out. Fortunately enough for him, in his search for Welsh’s booze, he came across a bottle of schnapps and a strudel, courtesy of a grateful old woman. He could’ve kissed her if she was around fifty years younger, as it was he gave her a hug, reminded of his own granny back home, and set off at top speeds for the C.P. and a probably panicking Roe.

So he was going to be a little late—at least it wasn’t raining.

Bursting into the C.P. and narrowly avoiding missing a stray soldier on his way out, Luz spotted Roe pacing back and forth and hurried over with a grin, his liquid treasure held up triumphantly. “Got it, doc. They still in there?” He added more quietly, chin jerking towards the door to Speirs office.

“Where the hell have you been?” Roe asked instead of immediately answering. He wiped away the perspiration on his forehead with the back of an arm. He kept thinking any moment they were going to come out and see him standing there empty handed and then demand to know what he was doing, but he couldn’t leave because he had no idea if Luz was on his way back or not. “Yes, they’re still in there,” he added at the look the sergeant gave him. “But they didn’t look happy when I left them almost an hour ago—” A rare exaggeration on his part, but the occasion seemed to warrant it.

Luz rolled his eyes and handed over the bottle. “So hurry up then.” He held up the strudel. “If they try to back out then try and bribe them with this.” And if it fails—I guess I’ll just have to eat you myself, he thought eyeing the dessert greedily.

Roe glared at him, eying the bottle suspiciously as if he doubted he had properly mixed it, but then lowered it. “You stay here in case I need it,” he ordered, and then without waiting a moment longer, went to the door, knocked it briefly and then stepped inside, interrupting whatever they had been discussing. Something about leadership and being an officer—he didn’t care and immediately blurt out, “I have the alcohol, sirs.” He wasn’t prone to getting embarrassed, but he felt a flush creeping up his neck. “The—uh. Medicinal one.”

“I can see that, doc.” Lipton said kindly, taking Roe’s sudden nerves as a result of Speirs intent gaze.

Roe gave a short nod and then stepped forward, and put the bottle down on the table. And realized he had no glasses, but his problem was solved by the silent captain, who leaned over and reached to a small shelf behind him and pulled out some thick glasses that had once belonged to the owners of the house they now occupied. He set them down, and Roe opened the lid of the bottle, and poured them each a drink. A good, hefty sized drink.

Speirs stared at him, glanced briefly at Lipton, then turned his gaze back to Roe, who looked as if drinking down that much alcohol for medicinal purposes were totally normal.

“All of that?” he asked.

“All of it,” Roe said firmly.

Lipton blinked at the almost filled to the brim glasses. “You sure this is just for medicinal purposes, doc?” He questioned dubiously as he picked up one of the glasses. Sure, he’d thought a drink might help with his headache, but he hadn’t planned on this much.

Speirs edged his glass closer to himself, trying to keep it from spilling.

“What else would it be for?” Roe asked nervously, feeling the sweat gathering under his collar when the captain paused in the middle of lifting his glass to look at him suspiciously. “You shouldn’t be drinking it on an empty stomach, though, sir. I have something for that. Sergeant Luz!”

“Yo.” Luz poked his head through the doorway, eyes flicking to the officers trying to read their faces and then to Roe. “You tell them?”

“Tell us what?” Lipton asked warily.

“What are you up to?” Speirs asked, looking from Roe to Luz. The medic was used to high-stress situations. Just not like these and not off the battlefield. He looked to Luz for help.

Coming into the room fully, Luz presented the plate of strudel with a grin. “The special that comes with your complimentary drink.” He answered evading Speirs question as he walked over and set the plate down on the corner of the table.

“Where’d you even find that?” Lipton asked in surprise, his appetite starting to stir at the sight of the flaky pastry.

“How do you think? Dropped down like manna from the goddamn heavens.” Luz said easily as he nudged the plate closer to Lip.

“Just make sure no matter what you eat you finish the whole glass, sir,” Roe said when the lieutenant’s attention went from the glass in hand to the pastry.

Speirs frowned warily, not liking the way the medic or sergeant seemed to be working hand in hand. Drink a full glass of schnapps and eat half a strudel? He didn’t think much of Roe’s medical advice or Luz’s offering, but he caught the way Lipton was eying the food hungrily, and decided if it helped the lieutenant, he wasn’t going to bring up anything about it.

…This time.

“I guess we’d better listen to the doc, lieutenant,” he said to Lipton, lifting his glass and taking a drink, not noticing the worried look Roe was giving him—a worried look that faded when Speirs lowered the glass, a brief look of appreciation crossing over his face.

“Yes, sir.” Lipton took a drink and then took a piece of the strudel that Luz had helpfully cut in half. When the hell did I last eat? He thought vaguely as he practically inhaled his portion of the pastry.

The strudel disappeared faster than the drink—Speirs ate more slowly than Lipton, but he drank more, and Roe couldn’t help but hover nearby, watching their glasses closely until Luz nudged him warningly and he held back.

“Thanks for all this.” Lipton said to Luz and Roe with a smile. “I don’t know about its ‘medicinal properties’ but I think I’ll take this type of medicine any time.”

“Don’t get too used to it, Lip.” Luz warned. “Can’t have our new second lieutenant getting fat and lazy his first day on the job.”

Belly full of strudel, Lipton grinned and shook his head. “Can’t have that.” He agreed before yawning widely, a pleasantly warm feeling from the schnapps making him feel like he could fall asleep right then and there.

Right away, Roe realized a flaw in his plan. “Maybe you should lie down now, sir,” he suggested quickly to Lipton. “Is there a room here? A bed?”

“Upstairs,” Speirs supplied in a slur. He had an elbow on the table and his head cupped in his hand, the glass before him already empty. A strange tingling sensation ran up his spine and down his limbs and he found it hard to keep his eyes open. This was why he didn’t drink that often…how did Nixon and Welsh hold all of it? “He has a bed upstairs.”

“You too, sir?”

“Mm.”

Yawning again, Lipton got up to his feet, swaying a little and steadying himself with a hand on the desk. “There’s two beds—” He yawned again, eyes slowly blinking.

Luz exchanged a worried glance with Roe. Christ, that sedative powder worked fast. “Uh, why don’t I help you, Lip? You said it’s upstairs?”

“Nah, I got it.” Lipton remained standing where he was.

“Lip?”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, you sure got it all right. Come on, Lip.” Luz pulled one of Lipton’s unresisting arms over his shoulder and started for the door. “Better help the captain, doc.” He said as he passed by the medic, Lipton sagging heavily against him and making him stumble. “And quick.” He muttered awkwardly maneuvering the two of them through the doorway.

Inwardly panicking, because the sedatives were working much faster than he anticipated, Roe nodded and went around the desk to help Speirs, his heartbeat quickening when the captain made as if to reach for the bottle—but then realized he was only pushing it and his empty glass next to Lipton’s abandoned glass. Heart attack averted, for the moment—but then captain paused, half-open eyes looking at the bottle, as if considering it—

“Here, sir,” Roe offered to distract him. “I’ll help you upstairs.”

“Upstairs,” Speirs repeated with a nod, and then slowly started to stand. He swayed unsteadily and Roe had to grab onto him to keep him from falling to the side, but the captain swatted his hand away, frowning.

“I can do it, doc,” he mumbled, eyes almost shutting before he forced them open.

“Yes sir,” Roe kept hold of him anyway, and when Speirs didn’t push him away again, started to direct him after Luz and Lipton.

Luz was practically holding Lipton up by the time they reached the upstairs landing, the lieutenant’s eyes already closed, and when they got the bedroom, Lipton was completely out of it, Luz struggling to get him onto the nearest bed.

“Jesus, Lip.” He grumbled as he got the man’s boots off and wrestled the blankets out from underneath him. “Weigh a little more why don’t you.” He got the blankets situated and then stood back with his hands on his hips and the feeling of a job well done. Then he remembered Roe.

Going back into the hallway, Luz looked for the medic.

Roe was still halfway up the stairs and straining to keep a limp Speirs from toppling back down the stairs, one arm around his shoulders, the other clutching onto Speirs’s wrist. He looked as if he was supporting the man’s full dead weight, if the perspiration on his face was anything to go by. “A little help,” he panted, trying to shift his hold so he could somehow—get him over his shoulder, or something, to make it easier. Dragging a man across a field or in the woods? Easy. Try to carry a man who suddenly passed out on the steps? Impossible!

Luz quickly went to Speirs other side and helped to take some of his weight. “You should’ve told me that stuff worked so goddamn fast—we could’ve gotten them up here before letting them have the schnapps and strudel.” He complained as they made it up the last few steps, Luz glad that the main room of the C.P. was empty of any curious observers. The last thing he needed was for people to start to question why the captain and lieutenant passed out at the same time. The words ‘court martial’ floated past his inner eye.

“It wasn’t supposed to kick in for another hour,” Roe grunted as they half dragged Speirs into the room and towards the bed. “It must’ve been—the alcohol.”

“What? You mean they’re lightweights?” Luz helped dump Speirs onto the bed, looking at Roe doubtfully. “I know Lip’s not much of a drinker, but come on, doc, one glass? You should’ve seen him putting it away earlier.” Mostly because of Martin always topping off his cup, true, but the guy had just gotten his battlefield commission—they had to celebrate properly, didn’t they?

“I mean the sedative shouldn’t have been mixed with alcohol,” Roe snapped. He took one of the arms hanging off the side of the bed and tucked it back against his side, and then brushed his forehead off with the back of his arm again. He looked from Speirs to Lipton, then back to Luz. “They could be like this for hours.”

In the middle of lighting a cigarette, Luz froze and frowned at the medic. “Hours? But they’ll be up before the train, right?”

“I don’t know when the train is supposed to come!”

“Well, me neither!” Luz ran a hand through his hair. “Christ. Jesus Christ, if they’re not up—” He sighed and rubbed his face. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time…

“It can’t be that soon,” Roe reasoned even though he didn’t have a clue. He was a medic, not an officer. “If it was very soon they wouldn’t have unloaded the trucks.” Unless he didn’t want it to get ruined by the rain. “Is there…” He paused, trying to find a way to word his question so it wouldn’t sound bad, but then continued when he realized there wasn’t any other way, “Does he have a map or order or—train schedule in his papers downstairs?”

Luz lit his cigarette and shook his head. “You think I’m going through his papers, you’ve got another think coming, Roe. I’m in deep enough as it is.” Smoke curled out from his nose as he frowned thoughtfully. “You’re right though, we wouldn’t have bothered getting the supplies out if we were just going to leave in a few hours.” He brightened, shoulders relaxing from their tense line. Jesus, maybe I need some shut-eye, he thought with an inward shake of his head. “We should be in the clear. Any questions get asked, then we blame it on their colds.”

“Pneumonia,” Roe corrected quietly, the tightness in his chest and posture easing when he saw Luz didn’t look as concerned anymore. His fellow accomplice, a voice whispered in the back of his head, but he pushed it back firmly and then squashed it ruthlessly. He did what he had to do. Otherwise, Lipton and Speirs would be playing the whole “I’m not as sick as I look to literally everyone ever” game the whole time they were off the line, and that would wear everyone down when they were supposed to be resting. So—really, in a way, he did this for the whole company. He squared his shoulders and took in a breath, and then after looking both of them over once more to make sure they were resting peacefully, turned and started for the door. In the morning, they’d probably feel a million times better. Probably. “Anyone asks, it was the pneumonia.”

“And the schnapps and the strudel.” Luz added as he followed after the medic, closing the bedroom door behind them. Thank god for little old ladies.

They were almost halfway down the stairs before Roe suddenly stopped.

“The schnapps,” he repeated. He looked at Luz. “Half of that bottle’s still there, with the sedative!”

Luz stared back at him. “So? What are the chances someone went in there and took it? Off of Speirs' desk?” He looked down the stairs uneasily. No one would do that—would they? Fuck, they better not have.

Roe rushed down the rest of the steps, then immediately slowed when he saw some soldiers near the door leading out, chatting quietly to each other. Act natural, he told himself, giving them a nod when they glanced in their direction. He walked calmly to the office door, already thinking of how he’d dispose of the evidence. Sneak it under his jacket and pour it all outside behind one of the walls. Nobody would know. He could throw the empty bottle somewhere and they’d never, ever—

“Is it still there?” Luz whispered urgently as he came up beside him, a nonchalant look on his face as he eyed the newcomers to the C.P. warily. “Roe?”

“Hello, boys. Is Captain Speirs around?” a familiar voice boomed from within the office. Colonel Sink poured himself another drink.

Fuck.

“Uh—no, sir. Well, I mean, yes, sir.” Luz struggled to answer coherently, his eyes fixed on the colonel as dread started to pool in his gut. “He’s upstairs—resting. Doc’s orders.” How do I stop him? If he falls unconscious, will he suspect anything? Maybe the guy was just tired. Or—old.

“Hmm.” The colonel frowned, and took a contemplative drink from his glass. Roe had to fight the urge to run forward and knock the glass from his hand. He almost failed, and took a few steps into the room before he managed to stop himself. What would he be court-martialed under, he wondered? “Thought I’d give him my congratulations in person for the patrol. The first one.” He frowned again, and then finished his glass and put it back down empty. “Well, tell him I’ll see him in a few days. Make sure to enjoy yourselves in town, boys.” He nodded at them, and then started on his way out, returning their salutes as he passed.

The moment the colonel was gone, Luz snatched up the doctored schnapps and passed it to Roe. “Go dump it down a gutter or something—Christ.” He ran a nervous hand across his jaw. “If he collapses outside, he has no way to pin it on us, does he? No one can trace it back to us…it’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.” He repeated mostly to himself, worried eyes going to the door almost as though he could see the colonel fall flat on his face. He winced.

Roe looked down at the bottle in his hands, almost not wanting to handle it. What if someone outside spotted him? What if someone saw him and came over and asked him, and then later they started asking questions when the colonel passed out shortly after the lieutenant and the captain—

He looked around the room, eye falling on one of the windows that hadn’t been boarded up. He strode across the room and opened the window in question, poking his head out. Nobody. The window looked out in an alley. And speaking of gutters—he opened the bottle and let it all pour out, peering all around the whole time. Then he threw the bottle, as far as he could, and then shut the window after hearing it smash. It all took less than a minute.

“That wasn’t me,” he said the moment he turned around. “Anyone asks and I’ll deny everything. The captain and lieutenant are sick, and the colonel’s—he’s—tired from traveling back and forth to the different companies.”

“Better work at your acting, doc.” Luz felt better now that they’d disposed of the evidence, but he kept expecting people to rush into the C.P. to talk about how Colonel Sink passed out in the street. “Remember, don’t answer any questions you haven’t been asked. And you’ve never heard of schnapps or sedatives.”

“I don’t even know what schnapps is,” Roe said with a nod, which was true, because besides it being alcoholic, he had no idea what it was. He was almost beginning to feel like he could step away with clean hands when there was a knock on the open door and a man stuck his head in. His uniform revealed him to be the colonel’s aide.

“Could one of you hand me that bottle of schnapps?” he asked. “The colonel would like to finish it on his way back to the rear.”

“Ah. The…schnapps. Er—“

Luz was no coward but in that moment, he just wanted to pitch himself out the window and run. Why the hell did he ever think fucking drugging their superior officers was such a good goddamn plan? Because they were idiots who weren’t taking care of themselves. Yeah, sure, try using that in court, he thought sourly as he vowed never to do Lip a favour again.

Fortunately, before he could put his plan in action, his nervously darting gaze caught sight of the glasses left abandoned on the desk.

And where there where glasses…

Hope thawing out his frozen brain, Luz quickly walked over to where Speirs had pulled the glasses from, a small shelf tucked behind the desk, and prayed for all that he was worth that it would have what they needed to not be court martialed and shot.

The top part of the shelf was empty except for some dust and Luz felt his flicker of hope start to fade, and then, there, on the lowest shelf and hidden behind a few empty bottles, was a half filled bottle of what looked like wine. Which didn’t look like schnapps at all, but Luz couldn’t care less. Booze was booze.

Grabbing the neck of the bottle with relief, he straightened up and schooled his face into something more casual before he turned and presented the bottle to the aid. “Here you go.”

The aide took it with a nod and started to turn, then stopped and swirled the bottle a little, raising an eyebrow at the colour he could see through the glass. “This is schnapps?” he asked doubtfully.

“Maybe the colonel just thought it was schnapps, sir,” Roe cut in helpfully, feeling the sweat gathering under his collar and along his back again. “Easy mistake.”

The aide looked at the red wine in the bottle pointedly, then at Roe, and then at Luz. His eyes narrowed and he lowered the bottle. “Oh, I see…”

“What is that, sir?” Luz asked doing his best confused look.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it, sergeant?”

Roe felt his heart beating so fast it felt like it was audible to everyone else in the room. “No,” he blurt out, unable to take it. “What’s obvious, sir?”

The aide just shook his head. “Everyone knows where Easy Company has been. Go ahead and celebrate.” He swirled the bottle in hand a little. “The colonel will be all right this time, so long as he has something to drink. Just don’t try to pull it a second time if he drops by. Gentlemen.”

Luz watched the lieutenant go, a slow smile spreading over his face. “Christ. Of all the luck—we’re in the clear, doc.” Luz’s smile dimmed. “Just in case, let’s get out of here, huh? I don’t think we should be around if Sink doesn’t like wine.”

“You’re right,” Roe agreed quickly, relief flooding him almost as quickly as dread had a moment before. As he and Luz left the room—the scene of their crime—he couldn’t help one last question. “…You did make sure to get rid of those packets though, right, sergeant? Nobody saw you with them?”

“Are you kidding? I burned them. Leave no fucking trace—that’s the motto in any crime, remember that, doc.” Luz headed for the door, cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Christ, what am I saying? Forget it, Roe. This is the last time we partner up on any shit like this. As far as anyone else knows, we say our prayers and read the good book backwards and forwards. Christ, good thing Sink has a goddamn iron stomach. That was a goddamn lucky break. Shit. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Roe didn’t need any further urging. They moment they were outside in the cold rain, he felt something ease in his chest. Now they were free of it—nobody would be the wiser, Speirs and Lipton would get the rest they needed—the colonel too, unintentionally—and they could just carry on like they’d never had any part in it…

And so they left, leaving no trace they’d ever been there.