FicWad

Guilt wasn't something that crossed Hurst's mind often, but as those words tumbled from him, against the man's hair, it threatened to overpower him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he dropped to his knees while cradling the brunet close to his chest.

How long he remained like that, listening intently to the other's shallow breathing, it was difficult to say. It tore at him to know what he was handing the strange Frenchman over to, but knew he had no choice. It should mean nothing, what they'd shared. he'd sent many prisoners into Carmichael's hands with out a second thought, even as they begged and pleaded for mercy. None had touched him, n one but this one. And this one he knew nothing about, as he was no longer certain of any facts he'd been told.

Only once a numbness settled over him, he managed to get to his feet. After pulling the man called Bellaguarde away from the door and laying him out on the floor, clear from it, he set in search of a phone. At lest now he possessed a means to convince his commanding officer to come get him.

"No, I didn't find him," Hurst explained with strained patience evident in his German, in response to the angered greeting he'd received. "But I found something almost as valuable."

"...What did you find?" The imposing officer said with the air of a very self-interested man trying to make it seem he wasn't already plotting a means to use what was coming.

"One of the Bellaguarde brothers. Tacconelli was interested in them, and now I have the one that didn't run off."

"What's so important about a pair of French--"

"What sort of man," Hurst interrupted tersely, "would wear an extra long tie with a filament line running through it?"

A long silence responded. When Hurst was certain the must have gone dead, a hiss came through the receiver. "Where do you have him?"

With the address delivered to his commanding officer, the blond dropped the phone back into place. He didn't have long before the snake of a man would arrive. Kneeling beside the supposed Frenchman, he wound the tie around the owner's wrists, securing them behind his back. "...I am so sorry..." he muttered, wavering far more than he would have liked.

~*~

Giving the dwelling a cursory search, Carmichael ordered the brunet be hauled out to the car, leaving two grunts behind to do a more thorough search. Hurst made certain his uniform was properly arranged and was following every order with the same begrudging silence he always had.

The three of them returned to the shared living quarters of the two officers. It was much better than most had in that area of the world, but far less than Carmichael would have liked. Hurst earned the charge to take their news prisoner to his new home, which happened to be a small, stark spare room with nothing more than a simple cot. The larger officer ordered a change of clothing, just in case any other tricks were concealed in the fancy attire.

The blond unceremoniously stripped the unconscious man and clad him in a simple undershirt and gray trousers he'd retrieved from his own closet.

Fixing the metal cuff around the man's ankle pulled at him worse than brining the gun onto his head, especially as he locked the other end of the chain to the bed.. The chain would allow him some mobility, but not to go further than the door.

Muttering another unheard apology, he did his best to settle the brunet in a comfortable position before slipping out of the room and locking the door behind him.

Hurst received the order that it was a reward to guard the prisoner's door and await his return to consciousness. In a way, it could be considered as such as he'd be the first to speak with the brunet, but it also meant delivering the news that the prisoner was ready and awake. It was the last thing Hurst wanted to do.

A metallic rattle inside the room alerted him, pulling the blond to his feet. As quietly as he could, he pulled the door open, casting a cautious glace down the hall to ensure the vile man was no where near. Only once he was inside the room, with the door safely shut, did he dare to look for the man he'd put there.

The reaction he received reminded him of a small child when a chronically abusive parent enters the room. Terror washed pure white across the Frenchman's face as he froze for a few moments before throwing himself under the cot.

Hurst knew the cringe of guilt was as plain on his face as the other's fear, as he lowered his gaze to the shined tips of his boots. Anything he could think of to say seemed pointless with how terrified the man was. Of course he's afraid. I dropped him in the worst possible place--a mouse for the snake to play with. "I just wanted to tell you," he said softly in his British intonation, "...that even if I'm forced to be involved with anything he does..." he exhaled carefully, "...I don't want to hurt you. I want to feel like.../that/ again..."

After a long pause, a quiet response came from under the cot. "Can I have some water?"

Hurst was stunned. He wasn't French. No Frenchman he'd ever met could speak such clear English, but it wasn't the same accent as the officer. "You're...you're American?" the question barely audible.

"Yeah," he whispered, "But some of my family is of French decent," returning to his previous language. The chain rattled as it was pulled further under the bed.

Hurst wanted to crawl under the cot with the prisoner and do all he could to make the horrible situation not be real. The small bundle of keys felt unbearably heavy in his pocket, the quickest means to set the American free. Fists clenched at his sides, he muttered, "I'll get you some water..."

Opening the door just enough to let himself out, he stepped hastily into the hall before he did anything rash. As he turned for the bathroom, his nose collided with a firm, uniformed chest. "Sir!" he relied as he jumped back against the door. "I--"

"Mind your tongue," he growled in German at the blond's English outburst. "Else our guest hear you."

"Yes, sir," he grumbled.

"Did I not order you to get me the very moment he was awake?"

"You did, sir." He cringed inwardly as he prepared his lie, "but you are mistaken. he is still quite asleep in there, and--"

"I heard movement. I heard voices."

"He fell off the cot in his sleep," he continued smoothly. "I was speaking only to myself as I tried to get him back onto the cot. I will be certain to find you the moment he's awakened."

The narrowed gaze that fell on the junior officer gave him the feeling he were no more opaque than a glass window, but he held the plain expression. "Very well. Find me the moment he is conscious."

"Yes, sir."

Hurst stood at strict attention until he heard the heavy steps leave the stairs and moved into the deeper rooms downstairs. Only once they fell to silence did he drop his stance to duck into the bathroom. Grabbing the cup from beside the sink, he cringed at the noise the pipes made as he turned on the tap to fill it with cool water.

Making another check in the hall, he carefully returned to the make-shift prison cell, now bearing water. he was greeted with the unexpected appearance of a brunet head emerging from under the bed. Shoulders and chest followed as the man pulled himself out.

"...Westhaven..." he muttered as he settled himself to sit on the floor. "...my real name is Westhaven..."

Dropping to one knee, he offered the man the cup, not sure of the other's strength. "What ever he does, don't let him know that," he said very hushed. It unsettled him how easily the information had been
given, with out even a request for it.

"I wouldn't have. I don't want him to have it." he returned to English. Wrapping his fingers around the cup, he brushed against the other's. Lifting it to his lips, he drank all of it in one breath.

"Give him as little as possible, because I'm going to find a way for you to get out of here..." Even if I can't go with you.

The brunet made a noise as if he were about to loose the water still in his mouth. Staring over the rim of the cup, he swallowed audibly.

The blatant shock caused Hurst to lower his gaze. "I shouldn't have done it. I should have just walked away and forgotten about you. After all he'd said in the car--" he forced himself to stop, cringing at the memory of what Carmichael had gloated about on the drive back. "--I realized that I'd made a mistake. One I'll fix as soon as I can..." I'm promising golden castles as far as I can actually offer.

"I don't want to be your mistake. When I'd dreamed about someone like you for so long."

Dimitri started to think perhaps the American wasn't entirely in control of his wits, with a like such as that. But questioning sanity washed away as the brunet moved forward, taking the SS Officer's face gently in his hands. The rush brought on by the brief brush of lips carried a bitter sweet twinge. As much as he wanted to hold onto that kiss in what could be their last unsupervised encounter, he couldn't allow it to continue. He was already growing far too attached for his own good. I barely even know him! he scolded himself with lightly pressed lips. This isn't like me.

"I'll keep my secrets to myself," Westhaven said as he pulled back. "Just be waiting at the end of it all."

Hurst felt ill as he took the cup and got to his feet. Even more so as he forced himself to admit what came next. "You might want to brace yourself," he said weakly, "I have to tell him you're awake."

Looking like a man on death row, the brunet pulled himself back onto the bed with a silent nod. unable to resist the urge, Hurst leaned over the terrified form on the bed and kissed the top of his head. This is the last time I'll see him entirely whole, but at least I'll be here to pick up the pieces. "...I'm so sorry," he muttered again as he stepped back. How many more times he'd utter those words he didn't know, but he'd continue until he'd fixed what he'd done.

Casting one last glance at the ashen face and ice blue eyes, he moved to the door. this time, he took care to peek into the hall before fully opening the door.

Returning the small cup to it's place beside the bathroom sink, Hurst caught his shadowy reflection in the mirror. He didn't look much better than the one he'd left in the room, his face pale save for the darkness gather beneath his emerald eyes. How can you let it get to you so much? He scolded himself silently. He lied to you. He's an American spy that was probably trying to use you to get at Carmichael. This could all be a part of his plan. He didn't believe himself. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, he braced himself for his inevitable duty.

"Carmichael, Sir!" he barked in German, feeling more than a little foolish, as this was supposed to be his home. "The prisoner is awake!"

The dark, imposing figure appeared at the top of the stairs with hardly a sound. It unnerved the blond just how easily the officer could switch between stomping around loud enough to rival a clumsy Clydesdale, and moving quieter than a stalking tiger. "I won't be needing your assistance until much later," he hissed with a faint hint of satisfaction in his grin. Tugging down the brim of his hat, he pushed passed the blond to enter the small room.

Hurst held himself at attention again, at his post in the hall, afraid that if he tried to move he'd rush through the door rather than head downstairs. This is your fault, you should suffer through it with him. So you stay put! The tone in his thoughts resembled that of his superior more so than his own.

"I have three soldiers diligently scouring your residence," he heard the larger man's muffled German through the door. "So anything you have there will be turned up. In the interim, as we await the arrival of my superiors, it would be my pleasure to have extracted as much as possible from you before they arrive."

"I don't know what you're expecting to find," responded the flawless French. "All I wanted was a quiet night of cock-sucking just like any other French faggot and I wake up here?" A raunchy lilt took the place where most would have shown fear. "A little excessive I think."

"If that were true, you would not have chosen my Lieutenant for your disgusting hobbies. Trying to lure an SS officer into such things is a more iron clad death sentence than throwing yourself in front of a train."

A sharp gasp interrupted.

Carmichael added, "And I'm going to make you wish you'd done just that."

"What can I say, I have a thing for Jackboots," he growled.

"Oh, you do?" Came the mocking tone of someone who'd just found something fun to play with, "Then you'll rather enjoy this," he said in heavily accented French.

You stay right fucking there, Hurst scolded himself as he cringed at the pained cry that sounded behind the door.

"W-why don't you move it ar-round a little bit" his tone strained. "It's a little much holding it--nng--still like that."

"Why would I let you have all the fun?" the guttural tongue returned. "Especially when there's so much I want to know."

"But I'm so boring, why would you be interested in me? I wouldn't think you'd be interested in someone so bland."

"I wouldn't call you boring..."

Hurst forced himself to stop listening to the actual words of both prisoner and officer. But as they continued he was losing his ability to breathe smoothly or at all. he had to take special note to inhale several times.

"You're going to tell me, one way or another!" The German demanded.

Hurst swallowed hard, trying to brace for what he knew was coming. But as much as he tried, nothing could prepare him for the wet snapping noise that made his stomach lurch. The scream that followed pulled the sour taste of bile into the back of his throat. His knees threatened to topple him. No. Stay put. This is your fault.

A barely heard demand followed, then a strangled but snarky response.

Another crack. Another scream.

Hurst didn't have time to catch himself before his stomach decided it was too much. By the time he crossed the handful of paces to the toilet, the front of his jacket and pants were soiled.

Several more waves hit, each triggered by noises down the hall, before Dimitri decided he should remove himself. He'd be of a better help to their prisoner if he were in better composure of himself.

After he'd gone down stairs to change his clothes and clear the acidic taste from his tongue did he hear any sign of calming in the spare room.

"Hurst!" a bellow sounded clearly from the upper hall.

"...yes, sir?" he ventured up the stairs, now wearing a similar combination of clothes he'd given the American, suspenders hanging loose around his thighs, though. The man he found exiting the bedroom had a mixed air about him, neither satisfied nor unsatisfied.

"I've made something of a mess," he commanded, "It requires much cleaning and possibly some repair."

Hurst said nothing as he watched the imposing figure trot down the stairs. Glancing at the door with a cringe, he feared what he'd find behind it since all was quiet in the room.

Gathering some general first aid supplies from the bathroom and refilling the water cup, he cautiously ventured to the door.

Bracing himself, he pushed it open.

Westhaven hung half off the far end of the bed, the contents of his stomach splashed nearby on the floor. He curled awkwardly, his hands hidden close to his body. Wheezing, desperate breaths were the only sign the man was still living.

As calmly as he could, Hurst knelt and settled the items on the floor. "Come on," he muttered in English, resting a very cautious hand on the broken man's shoulder. "Let's get you on your back, so I can clean you up." Even with a strict focus, it was hard to keep his tone firm.

"Hurts..." came the choked English. "Y-you won't--" a gargled, bloody cough interrupted him, "--kill me...will you?" Eyes still squeezed shut, the brunet rolled onto his back, face twisting at the added discomfort movement brought.

Hurst thought he might need another trip to the toilet again, when he saw the full extent of the prisoner's state. Blood shown plain on his lips, several fingers at impossible angles. His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths. Carmichael could have done much worse, he tried to assure himself. "No, I won't kill you..." he said as he cradled the man's head in the crook of his arm. Lifting the cup from the floor, he brought it toward the bloodied lips. "Do you think you can drink? It's just water."

Taking a few more breaths, he slowly took a sip of the liquid before lifting a broken hand to shoo the cup away. "...Then tell me what we're going to do when--" his breath hitched, "--we get out. I want something to think of. I d-don't want it to be just him and me."

Setting the cup down, the blond tried to hide his grimace. Beyond the simple concept of getting out, somehow, he hadn't planned much. "We're going to find somewhere on this planet unaffected by this war. Some place where the biggest of our worries would be finding the right jacket to wear to the opera." As he spoke, he gently rested his forehead against the side of the wounded man's face. "And when all is safe, we'll go to London, to do whatever we wish." Pulling away, just enough to reach the floor, sifting through the items, trying to keep his pillowing arm still.

A slight smile crept onto the red lips, mingling with the pain. "I've never been to London." He spoke softly, sounding like he was falling unconscious again. "Is it nice?"

He turned his head so their foreheads were together. Dimitri wanted to look away so he wouldn't have to see the pain in those pale eyes. Get him out and that pain will go away.

"It's very nice..." he started as he watched the pale eyes close.

He mindlessly prattled on about all that he missed and enjoyed about his native city, even though he couldn't be heard. The memories were comforting. As he told his stories, he pulled back to bandage the man properly, pausing to gently kiss where their heads had touched.

The verbal sight-seeing trip faltered each time he straightened a finger to splint it, the noises they made caused lurches in his gut.

Once the repairs were done, he'd long run out of things to say. So he settled to say one last thing, as he took Westhaven's head in his arms again and pressed his face to the side of the other's.

"I'm so sorry..." he barely managed, his tone wavering. Dampness began to seep between them, his shoulders shuddering hard.