running up that hill

Hearing the boys words, Maddox let a light chuckle escape from between his lips that held a cigarette loosely between them. “You really want me to answer that question kid?” Maddox asked, before taking a drag from his smoke and looking out to where the other had motioned. 

“It ends when you drop down face first in the mud…. well, at least for us anyway.” Maddox continued moments later, exhaling the smoke that he had trapped in his lungs only moments before. “Just hope its quick. None of that fucking landmine shit.”

“Knowing my luck, it will by that landmine shit,” he mused, “everyone’s luck runs out sometime, yeah?” Not that his death was something he particularly cared about. He grew up in this war, he’d never fooled himself into thinking he wouldn’t die in this thing either --- but his question wasn’t about him, or even the rest of the commandos; it was supposed to be about this bigger all-encompassing thing that hung around them. But all things considered, Dogma’s answer was as good as any other answer he could possibly hear. It definitely wasn’t wrong.

“Just when we’re sure we can’t go on anymore, then it’ll all stop.” Lucas replied, lifting his own cigarette to his mouth. “We just don’t know how far we’re gonna be pushed before that comes around. At least, that’s what all the Great War vets from back home used to say. I always thought they were being cryptic old sods, but maybe there was truth in what they were saying after all.” The pilot shrugged, blowing smoke out towards the horizon in one long sigh. “I don’t think you can make calls about that kind of stuff. At least not from where we stand in the firing line.” 

“Somehow, that wasn’t the answer I was expecting from you.” Then again, his life was nothing if not full of surprises. Pleasant or otherwise, it was what it was. “It’s not as if it has any impact on anything,” he shrugged, “it is simply a guess.” He took a deep drag, fingers silently but rhythmically tapping against his thigh, “are you saying you never think about it?”

“When the guy up top says so.” Eva replied, brushing herhands together to work some of the dirt off them. She was taking a break fromthe tarmac– -the mechanics were working on her Hellcat and it did her no goodto sit on the sidelines and watch them take her down piece by piece. She was better use out here helping carry the ammo out anyway. Pausing for a beat,she jutted her chin out at the fellow Commando. “You talkin’ about the war orsettling into the new base?”

Pursed lips, she offered him a cocked brow with wordscarrying on a lilt casually amused. “Answer doesn’t change– -s’pose only theguys does.”

“The war,” he chuckled, “Settling into base is a personal experience, t’sais? Some never settle.” At this point he was so used to moving, he wasn’t sure of he even remembered what it meant to settle --- to feel at home. He took a quick drag, smoke unfurling before he shifted in place to look at her. “I don’t think I’d want to place that decision in the guys up top. One of them is a psychopath, another, one was too reluctant to lend a hand, and then there’s Churchill.”

“Only thing I’d be willing to guess about is how long it’ll take me to smoke this cigarette.” There’s a shrug given that’s not quite disinterested but she’d never been on for speculation when life always had a way of proving assumptions wrong. “Too many things that could change to be able to call anything else.”

Her answer was incredibly pragmatic, which was undoubtedly something he appreciated --- but that didn’t mean they could hope, right? Last year he was hoping by Pesach, but April came and went with no signs of this coming to an end. Now? Yom Kippur was days ago, and still nothing, and his guess was a lot less optimistic. “Ouais,” he shrugged, “you’re right about that.” He flicked the ash off the end, palm of his hand momentarily rubbing at his eye. “I’m still going to take a guess --- I say... two years maybe?” Tristan couldn’t possibly imagine this carrying on into ‘46. “But around ten minutes to smoke that cigarette.”

“The glamorous life of a spy, aye.” He laughed, though he did not miss the sadness that emanated from his best friend is waves. No one became this way for no reason, and yet Lucas felt it was not his place to ask what it was that caused the shadows under Tristan’s eyes and the feeling around him that there was a weight on his shoulders that Lucas could hardly imagine. “I don’t envy you, mate. Then again, it doesn’t really matter does it? Since I could never do what you do, smartypants.”

“Like the opposite of all guts no glory,” he mused, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he understood that expression --- or at least, if he’d interpreted it the way it was meant to. Either way, no one’s job was fun all the time, and unfortunately, a month of excitement was usually preceded by at least a month of ennui. Tristan’s brows furrowed for a moment, a small smile tugging at his features. “I disagree --- enfin, the reasons why you could not do what I do have nothing to do with intelligence. On paper, I’m sure we are equally matched, but you are much more em --- quel es le mot? Open? I suppose, you are very much who you are, you are honest with yourself, and shaping yourself into the mold of others would stifle you, rather than encourage you to thrive.”

“Not at all.” Marco replied, realising the irony of maintaining such a dislike during wartime. “I am a medic and not a soldier for a reason.” He added with a sheepish smile. From the moment the conscription letter with his name on it had arrived, Marco knew that if he was asked to kill another person, he would crack. Not fond of confrontation was putting it lightly, really. “We all have our strengths, mine just happens to be putting people back together rather than taking them apart.” 

“I think that’s very admirable.” Truthfully, he’d spent so much of his life (all of it) forced to confront something, and while he didn’t like it, he tended not to shy away from it either. Though, he faced most things in life with some degree of indifference, not due to apathy, but because finding a concrete answer took time and energy that he didn’t have. “It takes much more effort to put someone back together than it does to take them apart.”

Crina let a hint of a smile tilt her lips upward. She was used to the cold, as Tristan pointed out, but every year it still caught her off guard. “Everything is always being worse somewhere. But I am feeling the cold now,” she pointed out, pouting only half in play. 

Crina had not been sleeping well lately, and apparently it was catching up with her.

“If you can even call this cold,” he teased. Chilly, maybe --- but cold? Though, her argument was valid. Anything was always better or worse for someone somewhere else --- like that scientific law, like how every action had an equal and opposite reaction. “If you’re so cold why don’t you get some coffee?”

Levi felt someone jump on him and his heart nearly jumped out of his chest. His entire body tensed up, his hands quickly curling into fists, and it was only when he heard his cousin’s familiar voice that his muscles began to relax. His heart was still racing, but the panic was turned to relief. “Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas avec toi?” Levi demanded. “I’m sure the Irish know not to sneak up on people in the middle of a war.” He said bitterly.

Tristan chuckled, arms draping around the other’s shoulders. “Calme-toi. I’m sure your face was priceless, it’s too bad I could not see it.” Although, most likely not intentional, his cousin failed to keep his initial reactions well hidden. Of course, he eventually regained composure, gave off the appearance that he was nothing if not unassuming, but those few fleeting seconds? Incroyable. “This was not about what the Irish know, but what they say, quel con. What are you doing?”

“Bloody hell–” he began in complaint “–shut your mouths, will you? I am not in the business of attracting attention.” Only avoiding medics, for the time being. His knife carved through a half-consumed apple. A bead of juice cascaded his knuckles, and he lifted a slice to his mouth by the blade. “They’d be quieter without their tongues…” Deimos grumbled, true to his name.

Tristan looked up from his book, the voice to his right grabbing his attention. “They’d probably bleed out.” While not as visibly irked as the other male, the noise was grating; heavily impacting his ability to concentrate (he’d read the same sentence five times). “Hot knife,” he mused, “that’s the trick.”

She gave a nod in acknowledgement to his question. It said a lot if the calm was chaotic before the storm. Made anyone wonder if there even was a calm to begin with. In war there really wasn’t much of a time for calm, there was always planning and preparing through it all. Tending to the wounded, saving their lives– and that was just the medics’ and nurses’ side of things. A small dent in all the chaos. Doc tried not to think too much into it, and actually appreciated the subject change Tristan made. Doc had all the faith in the world for the medics she worked with. And she knew she was very skilled at what she did, determined to do everything in her power to keep each of the Commandos and other soldiers alive.

“Wasn’t too difficult to put up with you,” she joked with a small chuckle. “We’re here to make sure everyone in the Commandos and the other soldiers make it through another day. That you guys can fight another day. It’s what we do.”

“I didn’t make you suffer like I did Levi,” he laughed, his poor cousin having stitch him up for times successively, only to find he’d done something else incredibly careless. Despite his standing, he was young, gifted with the mindset that he was damn near invincible; and some days it felt more like he was playing spy rather than actually making any kind of difference, but he put in the work anyway. Little things piled up, didn’t they? That was the whole point. That was how the system worked. “But I appreciate it, nonetheless, I know your job is not easy.” It was arguably the most difficult --- to hold the lives of others in your hands, to know someone was going to die and do nothing to stop it. Medicine, in general, seemed to be a thankless job, especially during war --- there was no time. “Next time, I’ll be sure to be less of a pain in the ass.” Because, while he hated receiving medical attention, he did very much like the medical staff, and his petulance shouldn’t be their problem. “Since I cannot find Levi,” and he lacked the energy to look, “have you eaten yet?”

“Indeed, I should hope their defining strategy is not to do the precise opposite of conosci il tuo nemico.“ He laughed, substituting for the unknown English instead of grappling with the unknown phrase. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. In all honesty though, I think it’s safe to say that I would be running with my tail between my legs, as they say, at the mere sight of him before I could utter any profanities on behalf of France.”

“You would hope,” he chuckled, “I supposed that is why they’re so willing to collaborate with England.” From his understanding, Americans were nothing if not proud --- the sort to say, ‘if you want something done right you do it yourself,’ rather than to say, ‘one hand washes the other’; however, hubris and war were a dangerous combination, and having the foresight to know you would need help --- well, that had to count for something, didn’t it? “Not fond of confrontation, yeah?”

“You’re my hero, Tris. Truely.” In many ways, Lucas couldn’t live without Tristan. He was perhaps the person in camp he trusted most, and he loved to spend his down time in the young Frenchman’s company - it was so easy to at least somewhat forget the war that way, in the presence of the best friend he’d ever had in his life. “Expect a stream of irritated officers and disgruntled pilots coming your way very soon to be proved wrong.” 

Tristan chuckled, a slight shrug to his shoulders. That was funny. Really, he was no one’s hero, he did very small things that piled on ---- created a domino effect. What’s the hero of a hero of a hero? Forgotten, right? That would be the most logical answer, at least. Expertly, he balanced his cigarette between his lips, a deep stretch causing loud cracks to emerge from his joints. He wasn’t built to last until old age. “I’ll welcome any distraction from paperwork or debriefing.”

Levi felt bad that he was bored. Surely, in his line of work, being bored was a good thing, no? Still, he felt like he was going to explode if someone didn’t walk into his tent soon.

Tristan made his way to the medic tent --- thankfully not for another set of stitches, but out of curiosity. It was rare he didn’t see his cousin at least once at some point during the day, and as far as he knew there hadn’t been an abundance of injuries --- so where was he? Stealthy limbs snuck in the tent, a satisfied smirk crossing his features at the realization it was essentially empty. Effortlessly, he jumped onto the older male’s back, neck craning in attempts to see what paperwork the other was working on. “Quoi de neuf, enfoiré? The Irish say all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”