Chapter Text
An hour. She only had to put up with him for an hour and then visiting hours would be over and he’d be out of her sight. A half-hour, probably. It was late and Mahalia was tired—if she fell asleep, she wouldn’t have to deal with him. Twenty minutes, she told herself. She’d be asleep in twenty minutes and she wouldn’t have to listen to him hem and haw for her attention in between bothering the staff about the morphine that they were purposely withholding from her. All she needed to do was keep her eyes closed and try to keep still and she’d be out in no time.
“It’s illegal, y’know!” John Egan called after the doctor as he passed on his rounds.
Mahalia sighed from her bed. “Give it a rest. They gotta keep me alive, nothin’ else.”
“Oh, yeah? What about the Eighth Amendment?”
She scoffed. “The Eighth Amendment? You think the Eighth Amendment applies—” She was greeted by his infuriating, roguish grin when she opened her eyes. If she was holding something, she would’ve thrown it at him. “You’re full of it.”
He looked proud of himself as he slouched down in his seat and shoved his hands in his pockets, his knees knocking into the side of her bed.
It was quiet in the infirmary and Mahalia tried to settle again. It was best if she fell asleep now while she had a visitor. Rest was rare when she was alone inside the cavernous room in the dark with the doctor doing his best to check on her as irregularly and disruptively as possible. She received treatment when there was someone in the chair next to her, or at least was left alone instead of being reluctantly prodded at like a mangy stray dumped at the door. She wouldn’t tell Egan that, of course. He’d probably add that she had fleas.
Which made her question his reason for stopping in. It’d been seven days since her fall as of this morning and she’d seen none of him. Alex was in everyday, so was Gale; Crank, Vera, and Benny came by when they could. But the major had made himself scarce. Gale said it was because he blamed himself for the accident, but that couldn’t be it. It was an old, busted ladder that they should’ve checked before she went up on the roof. No bad blood about that, despite the rest of their bad blood.
He seemed to be up to nothing besides staring at the floor with that boyish pout that meant he was upset about something but he didn’t know what it was. Maybe… maybe Gale was right. Now was as good of a time as ever to clear the air while she was laid up in bed with her bones in pieces and bruises along her entire backside. She couldn’t spare the energy to lie now.
“What are you here?”
His head swiveled up, surprise passing over his features ever so briefly before he composed a nonchalant shrug. “Thought you could use some company.”
Right. “It wasn’t your fault. The wood was rotten. Neither of us knew.”
He nodded but couldn’t look at her. He was hearing without understanding.
She slid her hand across the sheets until it hit his knee and she turned her head as much as she dared. Finally meeting her gaze, those big eyes turned a sorrowful shade of sapphire under the yellow lights above. He looked like a kicked puppy even with the straight edge of his sharp jaw and his furrowed brows; his ability to seem so small in such a broad frame amazed her. There was a change in his bearing in these rare, quiet moments and she was yet to find where he was hiding the switch.
Her fingers brushed over his knee and the heat of his skin through the fabric shocked her, causing her to yank her hand back. His expression darkened like that was an inevitability, but that wasn’t what she meant. She meant, “I’m serious.”
“I—I know,” he said, and he did that nodding thing again, listening but not taking it to heart.
She cursed herself and she cursed him; if only she could find the words and if only he would believe her.
He was everything she’d ever called him to his face—reckless, ineffective, childish, a pain in the ass. From the day she arrived, he had done nothing but question her and get in her way, both physically and strategically. He reeked of jealousy at her, Alex, Richard, and Robert’s inclusion into the fold of Colonel Baker’s operations, and it had taken several assurances from her fellow Red Tails that it wasn’t a matter of prejudice but of pride for her to start speaking to him. Even then, he was rude, brash, and a show boater.
She found him utterly lacking in redeeming qualities, which put her at odds with Brady and others from the 100th from time to time. That was no matter to her. She made her opinions on dangerous leadership known as soon as they arose because her lack of diligence to her men was not going to be what kept them in the stalag. There was a screaming match in the yard that ended with her swinging at him while being dragged away by Alex. He’d ducked her fist, the bastard, but she nailed him in the shin as he gloated, and they were ordered to steer clear of one another after that.
Gale had become their intercessor. The temperature in the bunk dropped whenever she and John were in there together and she knew it was a problem, but frankly, she didn’t believe that she should capitulate. He had eight inches on her; he could afford to be the bigger person.
Vera had suggested they talk and make up—Benny had suggested something a bit more obscene—but Mahalia was steadfast in her resolve. Egan got the coldest shoulder she could muster. She would not endorse such behavior from any superior, no matter how desperate she was. The Germans had taken a lot from her; they would not get her morals as well.
Then the roof started leaking, and she found something she and John both agreed on. It was simple enough: she was light enough to work on the roof without falling through and he was tall enough to pass her the panel that was going to be nailed over the leak. They would call it a truce for the ten minutes it took to make the repair. He even smiled at her as he held the ladder on her way up, which she was going to ‘accidentally’ kick him in the head for on the way back down.
There ended up being no way back down.
She’d stepped through the first wrung on the ladder as the wood crumbled under her boot and she momentarily enjoyed the feeling of flying again for the first time in months before she slammed into the ground.
He was everything she’d ever called him to his face, but as her fingertips tingled from their recent touch, she remembered how warm he was.
The mud was freezing under her as she lay looking up at the gray sky, but John’s hands were warm as they passed over her head and shoulders. His hands were warm as they steadied her neck once she found her words again and realized she couldn’t feel her left leg. His hands were warm as he lifted her onto the stretcher, telling the guards in no uncertain terms to keep their hands off her. His hand was warm in hers as they brought her into the infirmary, and she lost the feeling after that, when the impact of the fall caught up to her brain.
Nights in the infirmary were cold and when she did manage to sleep, she dreamed of warm hands directly on her skin, down her back, up her legs. She wouldn’t tell him that, of course.
But she did sneak a glance at those wide, flat palms and heavy fingers as he clasped them between his knees. She felt flush, itchy under the rough sheets of her bed.
She checked her watch. A half hour. She only had to put up with him for a half hour.