Work Text:
It happened so fast.
In all the novels he had read, everything happened so slowly. The author would dedicate pages upon pages, with lengthy sentences and big words, to describing the event. How it happened, how it felt, what everyone was thinking. The pages would rise to a perfect emotional crescendo and descend safely, leaving Alex sad, but fulfilled. Even in the movies, as violins swelled and everything moved in slow motion, it was perfect and tender.
But.
In real life.
Alex had blood in his mouth and dust in his eyes. Hoarse yells and high pitched whines screamed in his ears. His gun was slick in his hands. John was behind him, reloading his gun. Alex turned to talk to him, and found him on the ground.
A dark stain was blossoming on his side. He looked at Alex in shock, mouth open. He couldn't seem to form words.
Alex didn't think.
He didn't talk.
He crouched down, hooked his arms under John's shoulders, and dragged him away from the firefight. John struggled against him, his screams blending with the sound of the machine gun firing above them.
He placed John behind an overturned jeep, one hand on John's side, the other reaching for his radio.
"Man down! We need a medic behind the command building!" He screamed.
No response.
He tried again.
Nothing.
He looked up.
They had taken out the receiver on top of the tower. Nobody was hearing his transmissions.
Alex swallowed thickly and knelt down next to John.
His eyes were half closed, head falling back against the jeep.
"Help's coming, John," He lied. "You're okay, you're fine. Just hang in there-"
John gave him a small smile. He was mouthing words Alex couldn't understand.
The stain had spread nearly across John's entire side.
He slowly brought a bloodied hand up to Alex's face, and clumsily pat his cheek.
And then he was gone.
His half-closed eyes stared blankly at Alex, his hand dropped to his side.
And Alex was kneeling next to a dead husk of a man who used to John Laurens.
There was no bittersweet epithet about how Laurens died how he lived, "honoring his country" (or some other bullshit like that). There was no dramatic swell of violins in the background.
There was just a loud whistle as a grenade was lobbed over Alex's head and landed yards away.