Work Text:
The day Skip Muck showed up on his doorstep, was the day Don Malarkey thought he was finally going insane.
It had been four years since his friend's death. Four years since he had been hit by a German shell in Bastogne together with Alex Penkala and left Malarkey alone to mourn their deaths.
He had gone through the rest of the war without them, surrounded by the other Bastogne survivors, passed through both Belgium and Germany until they had reached their final stop in Austria, which was where he had for the first time since England felt a sense of security. Especially as the war had been announced as over, and they had all been sent back home. He had had drinks over his dead friends there, remembered them and read about their burials in Luxembourg, and thought it all over as soon as he had returned at home.
He was married now. He had his own home. Things were finally back to normal.
Or so he thought.
Because it was not normal to have a dead friend showing up at your front porch, four years after that he had been hit by a shell.
Shock had gone through him as he had spotted the other man standing on his porch, looking just like he had the first day he had seen him at Camp Toccoa, with a wide grin on his lips and that mischievous glint in his eyes. It would have been like staring at a scene from that day, had he only been in in the same clothes as that day. Because he wasn't, and Don realised as his eyes travelled over his friend's clothing, that it was clothes he had never before seen him wear.
It wasn't until Skip spoke, voice interrupting his confused thoughts, that he released his tight grip on the door and properly met his gaze, the shock surely evident in everything from his posture to his pale face.
“Hey, what's with the long face, Don? Aren't you happy to see me?” He was acting as if nothing had happened.
It took him a moment to respond, his brown creasing into a frown as he cleared his throat, trying to muster up the ability to speak without only making incoherent sounds.
“I... um... Skip... you...” He clearly failed.
“I what, Don? What's wrong with you? Don't you remember me, huh? Did the past four years muddle your brain?” The wide grin was still there, but there was also a sudden spark of insecurity flashing through Skip's eyes, almost as if he had realised something he hadn't previously remembered.
“Of course I remember you. But...” A deep breath was dragged through his nose. “Skip, you died. In Bastogne. You died, four years ago, and you... you aren't supposed to be here.” His voice faltered as he heard laughter spill from his friend's lips and watched as he threw his head back, a hand raising to sweep the golden brown hair from his face.
“You can't be serious, Don. I'm here. I'm right here. How could I be here if I was dead? Is this some kind of stupid joke you're running?” The grin was back now, confident and certain that Don was joking, that he was just messing around. He could remember him messing around, so that must be what he was doing.
But the serious – almost sad – expression in the redhead's eyes soon made the grin falter, insecurity once more hitting home as he realised that there was no joke. That what Don had said was true, and that he wasn't supposed to be there.
So why was he there?
Eyes shifted to Don's, a confused look now on his face as he tried to understand, tried to find a reason as to why he was there. Because he felt alive, he felt powerful – even more powerful than he ever had before – and he was there, not wherever he had been when he had died.
The flash of light, the hand reaching out to pull him away, the momentary pain and then his soul leaving his body as another stepped in to take it...
The memory flashed before his eyes, the sensation of giving consent to another to take the body that had once been his and then being expelled to be taken to the heavens where he was supposed to forever rest.
But he wasn't in heaven. He was on Earth. He was in his own body. He was at Don Malarkey's door, four years after he had died.
“You chose this, Skip. You took me here. This is the last thing you will be allowed to do. Say goodbye. End this.”
The words echoed through his mind, the brief memory and him regaining power over the being now using his body having taken him there. He had remembered Don's talk of Oregon, of his home in Astoria, of what he was planning to do after the war. And his memories had brought him there, in a moment of regained control.
While the turmoil in his head started to die down, he realised Don was still standing there, staring at him, that look of sadness and pain still in his eyes as a hand clutched the door handle like a crutch. There was the smell of fresh coffee in the air, the faraway hum of a radio and the voices of neighbours preparing themselves for the day ahead. The world was waking up, and Skip could feel himself slipping.
“I came to... say goodbye.” The words came slowly, carefully, as a hand reached out as if to shake Don's, a now hesitant smile slipping across his lips. “And to say that I'm sorry for leaving you.”
There was a moment of silence, Don's eyes slipping from the outstretched hand to Skip's face and back again, before he stepped forward to embrace his friend, his arms wrapping tightly around his torso. He had never done that before, Skip could remember that, but he knew why, knew the pain his friend had gone through since his death, and so he let it happen, his own arms wrapping around the older man.
“Goodbye, Skip.” The whisper in his ear was low, riddled with held back tears as a hand patted his back before the arms around him loosened up. “Thank you. For everything. I know I said it, back there, but I wanted to say it again.” Tears gleamed in Don's eyes as he stepped back, his hand once more tightly gripping the door handle for support, but this time there was also a smile on his lips. However small, it was there.
“You're welcome, Done. And thank you for being my friend. Don't think I would have made it as far as I did without you.” His control started to slip even as he spoke, the feeling of the other person taking over and pushing him out, preparing him for his departure back to the heavens. Back to the land of the dead. “Goodbye.”
The smile on his lips was the last thing that was actually his, before there was a change, a shadow flashing across his features and the colour of his eyes shifting, turning slightly more golden in the light of the rising sun. It was so small, so insignificant that Don would have missed it, had he not been looking right at the body that had once been his best friend and known him as well as he did.
“Goodbye, Skip...” His voice faltered, eyes falling as he realised that the one standing before him was someone he no longer knew. It looked like Skip, in every way, but still it was not him. It was clear from just looking at him, and Don didn't even need to hear him speak to know. “You take care of him, you hear me?” His voice was stronger than he would have thought it, as his posture straightened and his hand raised to clutch the side of the door.
There was a nod from the man, the smile falling and his eyes turning a little darker with the seriousness.
“I will. Skip Muck died in Bastogne, but Gabriel lived. And I will take care of this body. It will be my promise to you, Don Malarkey.” There was a snap of his fingers, and the sound as if from wings, and for a moment Don could swear the man had wings, spanning from his back and raising towards the sky, and then both they and he was gone, leaving the redhead to stare at an empty porch.
It was hours later that his wife found him, slouched in his chair in his study, staring at the wall, Skip's rosary in hand as he murmured eight words to himself, not stopping until her hand came to rest on his shoulder and brought him back to the present.
“Skip Muck died in Bastogne, but Gabriel lived.”