Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

13:02 ICT (Indochina Time)

Face stared at his lunch, a chorus of small-arms fire thundering in the background. It was distant—the Viet Cong weren’t even close to knocking on the camp’s back door—but it still left him frozen. What little appetite he’d had after sitting down to a completely balanced and nutritional meal of some unidentifiable substance, had fled with the first shot. No one else in the combination TOC, radio room, and mess hall seemed to pay much attention—to him or to the very real war being waged within earshot. Maybe when he’d been here longer than two weeks, he wouldn’t either.

Across the room, the radio scratched to life. “Base, this is Kilo 1. We are in heavy contact. Request fire support immediately.”*

Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Before Kilo 1 even finished giving the patrol’s position, Face was on his feet and headed for… well, he wasn’t honestly sure where. Some place where he wasn’t just sitting at a table while men he’d known for all of fourteen days were being hit by enemy fire.

“Lieutenant Peck!”

Face stopped in his tracks, scanning for the source of that voice. Tricky maneuver when he wasn’t entirely sure who it belonged to. He settled on the only man in the room looking his way—the weapons sergeant he thought. Or was he the cook?

Whoever he was, he waved his hand as soon as Face made eye contact and gave him a nod. “Head to the mortar pit. I’ll make the adjustments, you drop the rounds.”* With that the man ran out the door.

Face hurried to follow, feeling like an out-of-step shadow. He suddenly wished he knew the guy’s name.

13:36 ICT

He'd fired thirteen rounds. Face knew it had been that many because he’d counted them. He also knew he’d done it right, because otherwise the sergeant whose name he still didn’t know would’ve tossed him out of the pit and gotten an officer who could. But that was where Face’s conscious mind seemed to have drawn the line.

“Kilo 1 to Base. Request TAC air support. Still in heavy contact. Kilo 2 is down, KIA.”*

The words hummed like static in his brain. He took the next shot and stopped counting.

Within minutes the sky filled with aircraft. Murdock was with them. Face almost wished he hadn’t heard that customary take-off howl blaze across the radio. Before that moment, he’d slipped into a surreal bubble where he fired mortars at targets he couldn’t see, at the direction of a sergeant he didn’t know, while listening to gunfire that could never reach him. But Murdock’s howl had brought him careening back to reality.

Face fired another mortar, eyes on the sky. The aircraft were making strafing runs in the distance, and he watched, mouth dry and hands slick with sweat, as they developed a steady pattern. He couldn't help but wonder which one was Murdock. He tried to match the snippets of radio traffic he was hearing with the action in the sky, but failed.

Until one of them took a dive.

The Huey whined as it lost altitude, then veered into a wide arc. It turned so sharp it bared its belly, skids running almost perpendicular with the trees. That sight and sound alone sent Face’s heart into overdrive. The accompanying radio traffic made it plummet.

“Murdock, pull up!”

“Is he crazy? What does he think he's doing?”

“Pull up, Captain, that’s an order!”

Murdock obeyed, but only long enough to do a tight one-eighty spin before diving again. This time he plunged out of sight below the tree line.

Face stopped breathing. The sergeant yelled for him to hold his fire which was just as well. He couldn’t have moved right then if his life depended on it.

Murdock’s voice was the next thing he heard. The words skimmed past him, not quite registering, but the urgency in their tone—the desperation—registered all too clearly.

Then came the explosion.

Face wasn’t sure what made it different. Couldn’t have described how that sound was any louder or any more destructive than the fire that had already been raining down, but it was. It seemed to make the world stand still.

But, then, all too soon, time lurched forward again. Reality blurred. Everything happening at once, yet seemingly disconnected—like lightning following thunder. The Huey reappeared above the trees, its body shrouded in a burst of black-red smoke rising from the jungle. Then the smoke dissipated and the bird continued to lift, unharmed.

Face started breathing again. The Hueys lined up for another run, the sergeant yelled for him to resume firing, and the barrage continued. Just like nothing had happened.

It was a dim illusion. One that shimmered and faded the moment he heard Murdock's voice again—negative on any sustained damage; affirmative on continuing the next assault. He sounded rock steady. In control. Driven.

Devoid of life.

Face suddenly didn't want to know what had made that explosion so different. He didn't want to know why Murdock had been so desperate, either—what he’d seen or what he’d done that could possibly make him sound like that. All Face wanted was to not lose the only friend he had in Vietnam.

“Come back, buddy.” Face licked his lips, body set on feverish auto-pilot, and fired another round. “Please, just come back.”

13:36 ICT

It was finally over.

Nightfall came along with the engulfing silence and Face slumped in the mortar pit. His hands were shaking. His whole arms were shaking—muscles tight and quivering from the tense hours of repetitive use.

“Lieutenant?”

Face blinked. “Yes, sir?”

A beat, then, “It's just me, Lieutenant. Are you all right, sir?”

“What?” Face frowned as he tried to process what was being asked of him. He finally recognized the shadow standing in front of him as the sergeant. “Ah, yeah,” he said, casting around for something—anything—to explain why he was still sitting here like an idiot and had called an NCO ‘sir’. “I’m fine, Sergeant. I just, uh… I need a jeep.” Face looked up, shocked at his own sudden clarity of thought. “I need a jeep,” he repeated. “I’ve gotta get to the airfield.”

With that, he was out of the pit and racing toward the motor pool.

17:26 ICT

Heat wafted off of the aircraft lining the strip, adding to the already intense humidity. Nightfall wasn't an immediate cure for the sweltering daytime temperatures anymore than sudden inactivity could cool engines hot from battle. Some of the Hueys’ blades were still spinning lazily, like giant ineffectual fans, as they wound down.

Face almost choked at the familiarity of it all. He'd only been here two weeks, but coming to find Murdock after he’d finished making his runs had already become a habit. He knew these sights, these sounds. Knew the smells—fuel and a kind of burnt smell that mingled with the ever present jungle rot. All of it just like it had always been.

The familiarity made Face's stomach churn. He wanted it to be different. Needed it to not be the same because he was no longer the same.

Maybe the war was still an incomplete concept to him in comparison to some, but it had become a lot more real over the past few hours. He wasn't stupid. He'd known Murdock flew into hot zones sometimes. But the pilot was always so full of life, the idea of him ever dying had seemed preposterous. A notion his brain had simply refused to grasp.

Until today.

Ramming the jeep into park, Face was out of his seat before the squeal of the tires had faded. There were pilots, gunners, and any number of crewmen clustered around, tending to their aircraft or each other or both. Face sprinted down the strip, asking anyone who’d listen if they’d seen Captain Murdock. A pair of mechanics finally pointed him toward a building on the opposite end of the field, and he took off.

They called after him, suggesting he check the backside of the building, not the inside. Face didn’t even know what the building was.

Slowing to a jog, then a walk, he made his way around the side of the building. There he stopped, biting his lip. He’d been so intent on finding Murdock, he hadn’t paused to wonder if Murdock would actually want to be found. The man had pulled away from his crew and apparently gone behind this building on the edge of nowhere. Didn’t sound like someone who was craving company. Especially not the company of someone who didn’t have a clue what he’d just been through.

Face took a step back, stopped, rubbed at his neck. He should leave. Murdock clearly wanted to be alone; he wouldn’t have taken off like he had otherwise. It made sense. It was logical.

Then he heard the first sob.

The broken sound should have driven him away. Face wasn't any good when it came to emotions; never had been. Whatever Murdock needed right now, it wasn't him. But… he couldn't just walk away. Chewing at his lip again, he turned the corner.

Murdock was sitting on the ground. Back against the building; knees drawn up to his chest; head pillowed face down on his arms. His upper body shuddered in time with every aching cry.

The sight hurt. So much so Face wanted nothing more than to retreat and just disappear. But, once again, he couldn't. Even though standing there witnessing such an unguarded moment seemed like a betrayal, walking away would've been worse.

Being abandoned was always worse.

Face swallowed. Up until today, he would've sworn there were only two people who had ever really mattered to him. One of them was Father Magill. The other was the girl he'd thought would be his wife. Somewhere along the way, though, the girl had realized he wasn't worth keeping. That had been the night he'd decided to never let anything or anyone matter to him again. He hadn't planned on Murdock bounding into his life. He hadn't been prepared for it and, in a lot of ways, he still wasn't.

But, he was even less prepared to lose him.

Swallowing again, Face joined Murdock on the ground. He didn't try to say anything, because he had no idea what to say. He didn't put an arm around him, because, pathetic as it sounded, he had no idea how to do that either. But he stayed.

The fact his friend continued to sob proved that it wasn't enough—he wasn't enough. The thought tore at wounds that were already far too deep. But he still didn't leave. For once, he just pressed closer.

And, then, for the first time since he'd landed in Vietnam, he prayed.

Chapter Text

05:27 ICT

Murdock didn't have to open his eyes to know that the warm presence beside him was Face. He wasn't exactly sure when or how it had happened. One moment, he’d sensed he was being watched, but been too far gone to care. The next there’d been a shoulder pressed to his and a hip bone jutting softly against his thigh. There’d been no words, no comforting pats, or supportive hugs; just a warm, unmoving presence. That's when he'd known it was Face.

It was almost dawn now. His tears had run out hours ago, but his heart still ached. So did his throat, his eyes, his nose. And still that warm presence was at his side.

Neither of them had slept, Murdock was sure of it. Though how Face had managed to stay awake when they hadn't exchanged so much as a smile or a grunt the entire night, Murdock didn't know. As for himself, well, it was hard to sleep when your mind was still fighting a battle.

It had been a long time since a flight had affected him like that. He had become a master of leaving the war on the battlefield. When the mission was over, it was over; good or bad, right or wrong. He left it all behind when he got out of the cockpit. He had to or he'd go insane—or more insane, anyway. Most people seemed to think he was already dangling over the edge and not entirely because of the war, either. For all Murdock knew, they were right. Insane or not, though, he didn't usually let things like death and blood and broken bodies follow him home.

But this time… this time he hadn't been able to get away from them.

The stupidest part was the mission had been routine. So routine Murdock had almost been bored. It’d hurt to hear them call out the KIA, but for better or for worse, Murdock had barely known Lieutenant Peters. He barely knew the rest of Peters’ unit, too, come to think of it. But, unlike Peters, their survival had become personal. The moment they’d called for air support and Murdock had taken flight, they'd become his—his to protect; his to bring home safely. But he hadn't been worried. Personal or not, it had still been a milk run. With the fire power he and the rest of the Hueys had brought to the fight, it had just been a matter of time. They’d had the VC outnumbered and out-gunned. The VC had known it, too. That's why they’d done it. It had to be.

They hadn't cared that she was innocent.

FIFTEEN HOURS EARLIER…

Murdock lined his bird up for another run, the rhythm of Janice Choplin’s latest hit stirring his blood. He smacked his gum in time with the beat and found himself wishing he could listen to the song again. It'd been rolling through his head for three days now, but it kept fading out during the second verse. Or rather his memory did. An untimely mortar barrage had made him miss that part the first time around and he still hadn’t been able to—

Murdock swallowed, mouth suddenly bone dry as he stared down at the clearing.

The child had come out of nowhere; too young and too dirty for him to even try to guess whether it was a boy or a girl. The basket strapped to their back meant it didn't matter.

And just like that, Janice stopped singing.

The child ran straight for the ambushed Americans and Murdock sent his bird into a dive. His first pass slowed the child down, but it didn't stop them. So, he went back.

His gunner—a tenderhearted eighteen year old who'd never even been out of the Appalachians before getting drafted—was frozen. Too shocked or too sick to fire. Murdock tried to encourage him to just aim wide. All they needed to do was drive the child back into the jungle. They didn't have to—

Clenching his jaw, Murdock forced his mind to go blank. And then he did what had to be done.

Skids mere feet above the ground, he planted his bird between the child and the cluster of wounded Americans. The child looked straight at him from a distance—maybe it was a dozen yards; maybe it was fifty. Either way, that’s when he realized it was a girl. Her face was streaked in tears and flushed bright red.

The moment seemed to last forever. Just him and the child caught in no man's land.

Why the VC hadn't taken their chance and blown him out of the sky, Murdock didn't know. Maybe one of the other Hueys had pinned them down with a strafing run. Or maybe they'd simply thought he would be caught in the explosion when it came. Or maybe, like everything else in this filthy, horrific war, there had been no reason. None at all.

He remembered yelling something over the radio; trying to get the American soldiers to run for it. Get out! Get out now! He didn't know if they had run or not. Didn't even know if they could. But the child had.

She'd turned on her heel and run back exactly the way she'd come. Within moments, the jungle had swallowed her whole. The VC had scattered in her wake, screaming.

Murdock had felt strangely disconnected after that. His bird had shuddered beneath him, careening off to the side, and he hadn't fought her. Just rode out the spin and sent her into a climb. And then the war had carried on.

But no matter where Murdock had looked after that, all he had been able to see was that little girl.

05:33 ICT

Murdock had no idea how long he'd cried for her. The grief had seemed unending; a well so deep he could've drowned in it. He hadn't tried to fight it, either. Hadn't even cared if it took him under or not—until Face had settled beside him.

It hadn't been an immediate cure. The sobs had continued for what felt like hours. But, the warm presence of his friend had held him like an anchor; pressing closer with every hour that passed, shielding him from prying eyes. More than once, he'd heard Face snap at soldiers drawn in by the noise. The Lieutenant had sent every one of them away—and ordered every one of them not to tell. And, even though Murdock had given him no reason to stay, Face had remained.

It didn't change what had happened; nothing could do that. But, it did offer unshakeable proof that there was still good in the world. That no matter how consuming the darkness seemed, light persisted. It was a truth as unstoppable as the sunrise.

With a wisp of a smile, Murdock watched the first blush of morning touch the sky. It did so softly; gentle colors seeping through the shadows. He watched it for a long time. Then he turned his head toward Face. There were dark smudges under his friend's eyes—evidence of his sleepless night—and the sight briefly had Murdock wondering what his own face must look like. Given how swollen and puffy it felt, he probably didn’t want to know.

Wrinkling his nose at the thought, Murdock went back to studying Face. It was obvious the kid hadn’t realized he was being watched yet. The distant look in his eyes and unguarded expression on his face were proof enough of that. Wherever his friend was, it was a long way from here. Which was as good an explanation as any for how a stick bug had managed to perch in his hair unnoticed. It was such an innocent, silly sight, Murdock laughed on the spot. His voice sounded like ground glass, but when Face’s eyes darted to his, he smiled. “Hey.”

Drawing in a quick breath, his friend smiled, too. “Hey.”

Face’s voice sounded almost as rough as his own, but there was relief in it, too. Within moments, though, the relief began to fade; lost between one blink and the next in a rush of uncertainty.

Murdock wished he could blame the loss on Face finally noticing the stowaway in his hair, but he couldn’t. He knew the signs all too well: the suddenly restless gaze, the hand rubbing at his neck; the shifting of his body so they weren't touching anymore. Because, now that Murdock was present in mind and not just in body, Face didn't know if his presence was wanted.

The sight made Murdock ache in an entirely different way. But, unlike some of the bad things in the world, this was one hurt he had the power to fix.

Tipping his upper body to the side, he nudged Face’s shoulder. “Thanks for staying with me, muchacho. I'm sorry I wasn't very good company.”

A flicker of surprise passed through the anxious eyes. Then, the taut shoulders came down. “S'okay. I'm sorry I couldn't make it better.”

Shifting back, Murdock gave his friend a quizzical look. “Who said you didn't make it better?”

Face blinked, then flushed at Murdock's unwavering stare and ducked his head.

The move unsettled the stick bug. With deliberate care, it began moving first one leg, then the other—and the other and the other—as it sought more secure ground.

Shaking his head, Murdock felt himself smiling as he offered the little traveler his fingers. “Is this the guy you've been listening, too?” he asked. “Because if it is, I can tell you from personal experience that stick bugs are far from reliable.”

Face's expression went wide at the sight of the animated twig now on Murdock's palm, and the pilot laughed. He laughed even more when the kid frantically began raking his hair.

“Easy, Faceman, you're not infested.”

Face made an inarticulate noise and pawed his hair a few more times, before finally settling. He shot the creature a wary glance, then asked, “How long has he been up there?”

“Not much tellin’. I'd ask him, but, like I said, stick bugs are notoriously unreliable sources.”

Face huffed. “They are, huh?”

“Oh, yes. It stems from their poor self-image.” Murdock flashed Face a grin and bobbed his eyebrows. “Get it?”

Flopping back against the wall, Face groaned. “That's awful.”

“Awful, but true.” Still grinning, Murdock lowered his hand to the ground so his rider could disembark. “See, cute as these little guys are to us, they don't think so. They look in a stream and all they see staring back at them is just another stick; nothing special. Nothing they think anybody else would want.” Eyes never leaving the walking stick, he patiently waited for each leg to shift from his palm to the jungle floor. Then, voice quiet, he said, “That kind of self-image, it taints things for ‘em, you know? How they feel about themselves, how they see others. How they think others feel about them.”

Dusting off his hand, Murdock leaned back against the wall. His body slumped a little as exhaustion slowly spread through his limbs. When his head dropped onto Face's shoulder, he sighed. “That's why you should never listen to a stick bug.”

“… Okay,” Face murmured.

Murdock smiled, eyelids drooping heavily. “You're a good friend, Face. I'm glad you're here.”

Their corner of the world went quiet after that. Even the sounds of the awakening jungle seemed blurred and far away. Murdock's eyes drifted shut, carrying him close to the edge of sleep. And it was there, caught between the realm of dreams and wakefulness, that he heard Face whisper, “I'm glad you're here, too.”

“Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.”

Romans 12:21 (KJV)