| Title: In The End Author: Jo Pairing: Eversmann/Schmid Rating: PG13 Summary: "Not your fault, man." Disclaimer: Absolute, 100% fiction. I made up the whole thing. Notes: Written for the BHD Ficathon; for prairiedaun, who requested a missing scene.
Eversmann. Ten to one odds he's here for the same reason I am. Jamie. "…talking to Blackburn the other day, and he was asking why're we leaving, man, what changed. And I said nothing. Nothing's changed." I'd have won that bet. Wonder if he realizes how much his voice carries. Hell, I wonder if he cares right now. Probably not. I wouldn't. Can't hear everything he's saying now, just words here and there, but I clearly hear his promise to visit Jamie's folks when we're stateside again. That's when the little voice inside me -- maybe it's my conscience, maybe it's wishful thinking, I don't know. That's when it tells me it's time to go, give the man some privacy. I turn to do just that and knock over a stack of brooms. Just my luck. The clatter as the brooms hit the concrete is deafening in the sudden silence, and I freeze. From where I stand (wishing the ground would just go ahead and open up), I see Ev's head snap up, see his entire spine, from his shoulders to his hips, stiffen. Slowly -- so slowly, in fact, that I'm not even sure it's happening until it's over -- he relaxes. His shoulders curl forward in a slump that's so unlike him that I almost step into the hanger. Almost. He rubs a hand over his face, and I turn again to go. His voice halts me in mid-step. "May as well come in, Doc." "How --" No, nevermind. I'm not sure I want to know how he knew. Combat changes a man in more ways than one. "Didn't want to disturb you." "Nah, it's alright," he says as he stands. "Just, you know, talking." He waves a hand over the coffin in a sort of 'see, you understand, right?' gesture, and looks at me. Now that I can finally see his face, it hits me that he looks like hell. Dark circles under eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, grief, a touch of guilt, combined with scrapes, bruises, stitches, bandage strips to hold together wounds too small to be stitched -- it's like looking into a mirror, almost. Especially the grief. Not his fault, though. Mine. I was the trained medic. I should have -- "Shouldn't beat yourself up, man." The soft words stop my train of thought and make me blink. "What? I --" "Not your fault," he says, watching me. "Did everything you could." The weight of those dark eyes is uncomfortable, and I have to look away. "I was the --" "You were the medic," he says, still watching. "And it was my chalk. It wasn't your fault, Kurt. Wasn't Blackburn's fault, either." My head whips around, and I stare at him. Blackburn? What the hell? "Who said it's the kid's fault?" "You know how it is. If the kid hadn't fell…." He shrugs, tries to smile. It's more of a grimace than anything else, and his eyes never change. They're too old for his face. They didn't look like that before Jamie. Suddenly, I wonder if that's how mine look. "That's bullshit, and you know it, Ev." More heat in my voice than I intended, but it's too late now. "Rotten accident, him falling. Could've happened to any of us." He nods, but I can tell it's still eating at him. Watching Blackburn fall, trying to hold us all together after, Jamie dying like that -- it's enough to make a man wonder where he fucked up. "Not your fault, either," I tell him in the softest voice I can manage. That stops him. For a long moment, he does nothing, says nothing. "My head knows that," he finally replies. This time, he manages that smile, even if it is small and self-deprecating. Two fingers tap his chest. "Here, though…." "I know, man." Just like a fucking mirror. "I know." Another long stretch of silence, then his fingertips slide along the top of the pine box between us. "Should come with me." "To…?" "Visit his folks." Jesus. "I don't know…." Hell of a trip to make. Not sure if I'm up for it. Not sure if I'll ever be up for it. "Might do you some good." He looks at me again, squinting a little as he ducks his head. "At least think about it." Think about it. Sure. I nod and rest one hand on the box. He might be right; it might be just what I need. Who knows? Looking up, I meet his eyes. He's too young to have such old eyes. We all are. We had come to this place, convinced we were going to change the world. We'd been convinced of a lot of things then. We'd all been so damn young. In the end, not a single one of our ideals or dreams had made a bit of difference. This place had taken boys who'd thought they were men and turned them into men who now wished they were still boys. Combat does that to you. The Mog does that to you.
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