Page 63 of Walking Wounded

With the rigorous march, amidst the adrenaline surge of deployment, they hadn’t considered the possibility of being assigned to different units.

It went alphabetical, and it took forever. Will was shaking by the time Stokes got to the Ms. Without thought, his hand curled around Finn’s wrist and squeezed, hard.

“We’ll be fine. We’ll be fine either way,” Finn said, voice strong. But he curled his own fingers in Will’s sleeve and squeezed back, their arms down low so no one could see.

“Maddox,” Stokes finally called. “5thDivision, 1stBattalion, Assault section.”

“It’s fine,” Finn assured, again, as the list went through Martin, Maple, Melvin, Moretti…

“Murdoch, F,” Stokes said. “5thDivision, 1stBattalion, Assault section.”

They let out a breath together.

~*~

Present Day

“You’re quiet today,” Will observes with a grunt that could be annoyance, could be approval, could be phlegm. “Not as much of a smartass.” That’s definitely annoyance.

“Guess not.” Luke slaps his notebook shut, switches off his recorder, begins stowing everything in his messenger bag.

“Something happen?”

“No.”

This morning, Luke woke at a reasonable hour, early light filtering through the blinds. Hal was gone; he’d left on ahead, for another of those godforsaken pre-dawn runs. But he’d left a note, too:

L,

There’s bagels in the freezer, and I started coffee for you. Gone running with Matt. Call me and I’ll swing back and pick you up.

Good morning,

H

The coffee was ready, and Luke poured himself a mug, stood in Hal’s kitchen with bedhead and bleary eyes, and tried to imagine that phone call. He bundled up and walked to the Maddox place.

The interview went quickly and cleanly today, and though he doesn’t want to linger, Luke doesn’t want to go anywhere else, either. Last night sliced through some of the carefully-tied lines he’d been using to tether himself to the friend zone. He has no idea what to think or feel now.

“You in a hurry to get somewhere?” Will asks.

Luke doesn’t answer. He finishes packing and straightens, bag slung over his shoulder.

Will stares at him, a sharp scrutiny through the veil of forming cataracts.

Luke feels cagey, dangerous maybe, lit from the inside with the painful fire of last night’s fight. He knows he isn’t the sort of person who inflicts physical damage, but he can toss grenades into situations, can cast doubt in all corners. Sometimes it’s just to watch something blow up in his face. But sometimes, rarely, it gets him the answers a subtle approach never could.

“Will,” Luke says, “why are you telling me this story?”

Will blinks at him a moment, a calculating sort of blink. “You’re the reporter, you asked me to tell it.”

“Writer,” he corrects. “And no. I didn’t ask for any of this. For Hal to call my boss, and for her to send me down here, or for you to rattle off thousands of words of content I can’t use and didn’t ask for.” His breath hitches in his chest, little stutters as he fights the anger. “I came to do my job, so I can get paid, so I can make my fucking rent, but I didn’t ask to get sucked into whatever the hell’s going on around here.” And whatever the hell’s going on in Hal’s brain lately.

He sighs, and hopes the tremors in his hands don’t show. He knows, right away, that he’s out of line to talk to this man like this. But…

“Hmm,” Will hums, and coughs. “So something did happen.”

“Nothing happened!”

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