Page 69 of Walking Wounded

“Damn.” Luke can’t identify the twist of sentiment in his gut. He thinks it might be sympathy. “You never really escape high school bullshit, do you?”

“No.” Then Hal’s expression brightens. “Hey, you wanna come with us tomorrow? See Matt in action? Might be good background for the…” He falters.

“Book?” Luke supplies. “You can say book. That was your plan all along.”

Hal blushes. “I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

“Asshole,” Luke says again, grinning this time.

~*~

They take turns showering and shaving, moving around each other in the bathroom with the ease of brothers, in a way they haven’t in so long. That’s the reason, Luke thinks, their friendship didn’t dissolve after The Incident: they were brothers, too, and no fight, no blood, no kiss could destroy something like that. And he decides that, though it will kill him to watch Hal eventually fall in love with the woman who will become his wife, he doesn’t know if he has the strength to stay away anymore.

When Hal hands him a travel mug of fresh coffee and smiles at him like he’s important, special, Luke is helpless to do anything but smile back.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

~*~

“How’s the head, kid?” Will asks.

Crisp daylight pours in through the library windows, catching like diamonds in the assorted crystal bottles on the drink stand, teasing swirls of dust motes from between the books on the shelves.

“Kinda sucks,” Luke admits. “But not the worst I ever had.”

“Hal get you home all right?”

Luke hides a smirk in his coffee. “You were worried about that, huh?”

Will grumbles something he can’t hear.

“Oh, I won’t be by in the morning. It’ll probably have to be afternoon, like today. I’m going to shadow Matt.”

“Good.”

“You don’t have anything to say about that?”

“Just said it, didn’t I?”

Luke smiles. “Alright, old timer. What are we covering today?”

~*~

February 1951

Will would always marvel at man’s ability to adjust under extreme circumstances. The way talk of home could take you back there, and make the day more bearable.

They ended their second day of marching in squad tents, gathered around a lantern and imagining it put out a heat they could feel. They were talking about the things they’d left behind.

“My Sarah,” Private First Class Murray said, “wants at least five kids.”

Murkowski whistled. “Shit, son.”

Murray was all red hair and freckles, a smattering of pimples along his jaw. He looked fifteen, but was apparently eighteen, nothing but elbows and knees. Will figured there was real strength under that exterior, though, or he’d have been in the Army instead of the Marines. “I can’t wait to get home to her.”

“Listen to you,” Caldwell said, laughing not unkindly.

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