#audebert

It shouldn’t have happened. They had sheltered in Horstmayer’s trench just to prevent this from happening. But artillery can be wildly unpredictable.

Gordon groans against the freely bleeding laceration down his back. Audebert knows the Scotsman’s embarrassed by it. After all, not every errant artillery shockwave knocks the man from his feet, snagging the layers of his uniform and skin on a sharp, jagged trench support. Audebert remembers how his own bones nearly shook apart on the explosion just before Gordon’s pained cry echoed in the trench.

The Scotsman is now slung between Horstmayer and Audebert’s arms, hissing through clenched teeth. “A right doaty numpty, I am. Shite!”

Audebert isn’t sure that Gordon's fully speaking English anymore, but he understands the last word. He glances over at Horstmayer. “You have bandages, yes?”

“Yes,” Horstmayer confirms, taking his share of the Scotsman’s weight. “There’s a crate stored in my dugout to protect from the ice.”

“You don’t need-” Gordon breaks off with a pained groan. “I can tend to it back in my own trench.”

“Don’t be daft,” Horstmayer spits, tightening his hold on Gordon as if the shorter man might make a run for it. “You’re bleeding pretty heavily.”

“Superficial wounds always bleed the worst,” Gordon counters. “It’s as true in dogs and sheep as it is in people.”

Audebert’s seen far too much blood in the last six months of war, but he knows there’s some truth to the Scotsman’s words. “Perhaps you’re not wrong, but you couldn’t possibly bandage your own back. You will need help.”

That seems to take Gordon aback as he falls silent between them. On slow, measured steps, they continue towards Horstmayer’s dugout. There’s no official medic between their three regiments, but as the three ranking officers, they’re the best suited to tend to each other. Or so, Audebert tells himself. But despite the blood running down Gordon’s back, he can’t deny the thrill of anticipation that licks down his spine at the thought of having a private moment alone with Gordon and Horstmayer.

Hazy sunlight yields to the darkened interior of Horstmayer’s dugout, and Audebert adjusts his hold on Gordon, accepting more of his weight while Horstmayer lights a lantern. A warm, golden glow grows on the earthen walls, and Audebert watches the light warm Gordon’s skin. The Scotsman’s skin is flecked with dirt and grime, but Audebert still wants to lean in and nuzzle the soft skin beneath Gordon’s jaw. How would Gordon sound groaning from pleasure instead of pain?

“Alright,” Horstmayer’s voice snaps Audebert from his thoughts, and Gordon hisses sharply as Horstmayer continues to speak. “We’ll have to get your coat and uniform off to see how bad it is.”

Gordon swears low under his breath, and Audebert holds him a little closer. “It’s alright,” he reassures the shorter man. “We’ll help you.”

“That is not what worries me.” Gordon shakes his head, biting his lip. “Do either of ye know what you’re doing? Or have done this before?”

Heat flares unbidden in Audebert’s blood as his mind interprets those questions in an entirely different, inappropriate way. Perhaps… well, if not someday, at some point later he can indulge that scenario privately - but for now, he shakes his head, summoning his response. “I’ve… bandaged a few minor wounds, but they’ve been small.”

Horstmayer starts working Gordon’s greatcoat down his right arm that hangs at his side. “A few here and there - will you work the coat down his arm, please?” He nods at Audebert, and Audebert shifts to slide the heavy, olive-green wool down Gordon’s arm.

“Then, you know the process?” Gordon continues to press, words tight with a groan as Horstmayer carefully guides the coat down his injured back. “Debriding, cleaning, then bandaging?”

Horstmayer comes around Gordon’s font, meeting Audebert’s gaze with a look of confused uncertainty. Audebert gives a short shake of his head. “No… at least, I don’t.” He looks at Gordon, spying an errant bead of sweat roll down the man’s temple. “But it sounds like you do. Perhaps… you can talk us through it?”

“Oh, magairlean…,” Gordon shakes his head. “Infection is the single biggest threat any of us face when wounded - especially in these hellholes. So, if ye two listen to me… then, there’s a good chance I might actually survive this.”

Horstmayer nods, meeting Gordon’s gaze head on. “Then, let’s make sure that you survive this. Just tell us what to do - I can even get you a mirror to watch, but first….” The German officer pauses, his eyes drifting down Gordon’s front before darting back up. “I… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but your jacket, shirt -.”

“Yes, I understand,” Gordon sighs on a rush, and Audebert thinks a pink blush stains his cheeks. “Just do it - I won’t mistake your meaning.”

Horstmayer nods, stepping closer and undoing the brass buttons of Gordon’s jacket. The open ends of the heavy wool hang free, and Audebert feels his throat go dry as Horstmayer skims his hands up the lapels to work the fabric off Gordon’s shoulders.

“Ye’ll have to undo my webbing first - right shoulder epaulet.” Gordon’s words come on heavy breaths as he nods weakly at his right shoulder.

Again, Horstmayer nods, but the corners of his mouth tighten with a self-conscious edge. “Apologies. Your uniform is… unfamiliar.”

Audebert watches Horstmayer’s nimble fingers pop the brass button of Gordon's epaulet, and the Scotsman dips his head to let Horstmayer pull the leather strap and webbing bag free. Audebert gives a small shake of his head. “How do you sleep with that so permanently affixed to your uniform?”

“Simple,” Gordon answers, meeting Audebert’s gaze with those sky blue eyes reflecting firelight. “I sleep on my back.”

Despite himself, an amused smile tugs at the corners of Audebert’s mouth. Yes, of course. He should have been able to figure that out - he’s all too familiar with the accouterments of field uniforms and webbing, after all.

Horstmayer’s hands resume their work of divesting Gordon of his jacket, and Audebert lends a hand. The brown-green fabric is deceptively thick and coarse as they coax Gordon’s arm back and his jacket falls free. A pang shoots through Audebert’s heart to see the blood-stained gash through the back of the jacket. He doesn’t know if it’s possible for Gordon to requisition a new uniform, and his heart breaks to think of Gordon enduring the harsh winter with such a tattered uniform.

Without his outer layers, the sturdy lines of Gordon’s torso are on full display. Flickering lantern light plays over the swath of shirt fabric, catching in the intriguing pewter tie of the leather lanyard that rests around Gordon’s shirt collar. Before Audebert can stop himself, he reaches over with his free hand and runs his fingers down the soft leather cord. “What does this signify?”

Gordon glances down, studying Audebert’s fingers for a long moment. Arousal stirs unbidden in Audebert’s veins as he wonders what Gordon’s thinking. Would he welcome Audebert’s fingers on his bare skin, tracing down his flank to his navel and even further? A stab of guilty shame pierces through him to remember that Gordon is wounded and surely in a lot of pain. This is hardly the place for such salacious thoughts.

When Gordon lifts his gaze, something dark and unknown lingers in those bright blue pools. “It’s a lanyard for regimental rank identification. Since the insignia on our cuffs and epaulets are hidden during the winter months.”

Horstmayer exhales a sharp breath, seemingly unimpressed as he lifts the lanyard free of Gordon’s collar. “Your army should consider rank identification on your greatcoats.”

Audebert turns his gaze towards the pips on the epaulets of Horstmayer’s greatcoat. “Perhaps someday both of your armies will learn to do without greatcoats and issue heavier under-layers.”

Horstmayer’s honey-chocolate eyes find his in the low light. “His uniform is already enough of a hindrance. I don’t want to imagine the process to remove yours should you be comparatively injured.”

Audebert’s mouth goes dry as sparks ignite in his blood. The idea of Horstmayer removing his uniform shouldn’t be so appealing, especially in the context of injury. Merde, he’s been alone for too long to be so desperate - and, yet… his blood has never boiled like this until he met Gordon and Horstmayer.

Gordon shifts his stance, still half braced against Audebert while Horstmayer’s fingers work at his tie. The air goes thick as the knot falls away, and he works the fabric free from Gordon’s collar with a silky whisper. Gordon tilts his head back, allowing Horstmayer better access to undo the top button of his shirt, and a visceral stab of want shoots through Audebert. He wants to be the one undoing each button of Gordon’s stiff shirt, to pepper kisses over the exposed hollow of Gordon’s throat until the wool of his undershirt is exposed. Gordon lets out another pained moan as the earthen-green fabric peels down his torso. Audebert’s stomach gives a lurch to see the sopping, sticky fabric as it drops to the pile of Gordon’s abandoned clothing.

The buttons of Gordon’s wool undershirt fall away one by one, and surely, Audebert’s heart will give out. In the lantern’s soft glow, the pale skin beneath reveals a scattering of auburn hair, and Audebert wants to feel the texture beneath his fingertips. Would Gordon arch into the touch? Would he cry out? If Audebert used his mouth, would Gordon run his fingers through his hair and pull him closer?

“Last one,” Horstmayer’s voice is low and thick, and a delicious flush dances high on his cheeks. “Unless you’re wearing something else under there.”

Gordon offers a weak shake of his head as he draws a deep breath. “Be careful - if the wound has started to clot, the fabric closest to my skin will likely be part of it. Don’t rip it away too fast, lest you’ll make the bleeding worse.”

Audebert offers a reassuring nod, closing the small gap to brush his nose to Gordon’s cheek in a gesture of comfort. “We’ll go slow - thank you for telling us.” He pulls back, glancing over Gordon’s shoulder to meets Horstmayer’s gaze. The younger man looks less than certain, clearly lacking the same medical base as Gordon.

Horstmayer wets his top lip, making a decision. “Go on,” he coxes, working his fingers under the fabric’s edge at Gordon’s shoulders and sliding it down, “keep telling us what else not to do - clearly you know a lot about wound treatment.”

Warmth blooms in Audebert’s chest as Gordon’s skin is bared in the light. The strength of his arms, the robustness of his chest, the soft swell of his tummy. Audebert’s so tall and lean by comparison, he wishes he were smaller to curl up against Gordon’s side and feel the man’s strong build surround him. That and Gordon's lovely Scottish brogue that currently fills the air.

“-farmers cover their sheepdogs’ wounds with towels, and hours pass before they’re brought to the clinic. When that happens, the blood clots adhere to the towel fibers - and it’s a painful process. Best to sedate the poor creature before one of those debridement procedures.” Gordon shakes his head as a deep flush spreads from his cheeks and neck down his chest. His chest heaves with deep breaths, and Audebert wishes he could do something for the man’s pain.

With a glance over the Scotsman’s shoulder, Audebert watches Horstmayer study the wound on Gordon’s back. He catches the German’s gaze, speaking softly. “How bad is it?”

Horstmayer sighs with an uncertain shake of his head. “It’s not too long - perhaps 6 or 7 centimetres long. And it certainly doesn’t look deep. I think you probably have your uniform to thank for that.”