Jay Gatsby (gatz) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2013-05-16 12:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed, ~john mitchell (oe) |
Who? Gatsby & Mitchell (& Watson, later.)
Where? Through the door.
When? Wednesday, after dark
What? Then came the war, old sport.
Rating? High for violence & language. (TW- War)
Status? Logged, complete
This had probably been one of the most reckless decisions Gatsby had ever made, but considering the island had deemed it necessary to provide him with a uniform, he couldn't help but feel as if it was just meant to be. Truthfully, despite what everyone said about the Island, Gatsby still had the feeling that he was already dead, so what did it even matter? But although he seemed to have settled on that as a logical decision, his gut hadn't quite caught up with his brain, and he still had that damned survival instinct.
He'd put on his uniform for the first time in three years, pleased to find that it still fitted him surprisingly well, and that simple act had given him a boost of confidence. He felt the part, now. He felt ready. So, he headed along to the Door to wait for Mitchell to show up as his brother in arms.
oooOOOooo
Mitchell felt out of place. Just like Gatsby's uniform, his still fit perfectly. But he wasn't surprised. He had always been able to wear the same clothes. His old Lee Enfield was slung over his shoulder. How on earth had their old stuff found its way into a museum? But the question was as much likely to be answered as the one about their appearance here... the power to read something here was simply crazy. But he had gotten used to the craziness a long time ago.
“Okay, let's go,” Mitchell said as he approached Gatsby. Being in this uniform, seeing the other man in the uniform was strangely familiar. He felt like the young soldier again. The young Sergeant that was worried about surviving the next day and leading his men the right way.
oooOOOooo
Gatsby was sure that he was meant to feel more afraid of what was behind the door than he really was. In a way, it was less frightening than the Island. On the island, anything could happen. At least in the war, he knew what to expect.
He smiled confidently, and gave the other man a quick salute out of habit before he opened the door. The familiar strong smells of the war zone hit him instantly, making him shudder with sudden nostalgia. He crouched down, listening intently for any sounds of danger before he started to slowly crawl forward into the darkness.
oooOOOooo
Mitchell let the other man go first. He had no intention of getting shot and the other had been a commissioned officer. There was no harm in letting them have a little front line experience as well. He wondered if the other man had any at all. The commissioned officers of the British Army had barely seen the trenches.
The smell, the silence, the air – the moment he pushed his nose into the other world it was like going back in time. The cool hit him. He robbed behind Gatsby, careful not to get his rifle all muddy. The door behind him stood in mid air. The moon was just bright enough to make out his outlines. So far they were safely hidden in the shell hole. But standing up was still a bad idea. Even during the night there were snipers on both sides.
oooOOOooo
Gatsby was happy to take the lead. He'd always been a man of action when it came to military pursuits, and this time was no different. Well, it was a little different. For a start, he had no real idea where they were going, or what they planned to do once they got there. Nothing about this was logical- most people were desperate to get home, and here they were, trying to sneak into the battlefront. In uniform. What if the door closed and they were stuck there? No- they could do this, even if he was starting to wonder if it was worth it.
Then there was the problem of which way to go. They hadn't planned this very well, he was realising rapidly. Crouching in the mud, he could feel his heart quickly picking up speed, adrenaline rushing through him. The silence was more frightening than the sound of shelling. He turned to Mitchell, pointed in the direction that he thought best, and then shrugged at him as if to ask if he had an alternative idea.
oooOOOooo
The vampire gave a shrug in return. Both sides looked equally close or rather equally far away. They had no clue which side was where. He just hoped that no patrols were out tonight. He had no intention of running into soldiers in No-Man's-Land. He had actually no intention of doing this whole bloody thing but they needed the ammunition to properly defend themselves.
Then he started crawling again, right into the direction Gatsby had pointed. The adrenaline was once again there, pushing him forward. He just wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible.
oooOOOooo
It seemed as good a place to start as any. Once they started crawling again, Gatsby's determination changed quickly to a genuine fear. It was interesting- when he'd been in the army, he had really decided that he wanted to die there, but now it was the last thing on his mind. He wanted them to be successful, he wanted to bring back the ammunition that could prevent more deaths on the island.
It was dark and cold, his breath misting the air as he moved, and their chosen destination felt further away than it had even looked. Rats scurried by, but Gatsby didn't give them a second thought. He had no idea what they were going to say when they got there- if they got there- but he had always been rather good at creating a character for himself.
oooOOOooo
For a second panic flooded Mitchell, a single gunshot was heard followed by hushed voices. Hushed, German voices. “Pohl, du hast aber heute Abend wieder einen zittrigen Finger!” A low chuckle followed. Shit! Had they seen them? Where were they? Were they crawling to the wrong side? Had they just run into an enemy patrol? A patrol wouldn't shoot. They would just jump up and try to get the fuck away. At least, the ones with any decent survival sense did.
Mitchell grabbed Gatsby's body in a manner to stop him from crawling any further. He needed a calm surrounding to listen properly. Heart beats, that was what he was aiming for.
oooOOOooo
Gatsby hadn't needed Mitchell to tell him to stop, but he did appreciate the gesture, even if there were partly self-serving motivations behind it. Gatsby didn't know a great deal about languages, but he knew German when he heard it, even if he couldn't make out a damn word of it. And he knew that could only spell trouble. They weren't prepared for this. If Mitchell wanted heartbeats, he would definitely hear Gatsby's pounding away in his chest. He was holding his breath, afraid of making a sound or movement and attracting the enemies attention. How many were they? It would probably be foolish to shoot them, but as a soldier, it wasn't easy to get out of that mindset, even when it didn't suit the circumstances.
oooOOOooo
Mitchell wished it would stop. The loud pounding next to him, made him deaf to everything else. But so far he wasn't quite ready to kill his only ally in the middle of No-Man's-Land. The only thing he knew for sure was that they were in deep shit. He gave a shrug into the other man's direction, trying to start a silent communication. He pointed backwards shortly, suggestion to go back and get the fuck away from the Germans.
oooOOOooo
Gatsby nodded silently, and slowly began to back away. Before they had turned themselves around, the situation grew quickly worse. Gatsby could see the familiar yellow-green cloud drifting in around them, and very quickly the scent of Chlorine hit him. He gave Mitchell a wide-eyed look of panic, and held his breath even though it would only buy him a matter of seconds. They really weren't prepared for this.
His eyes were burning already, tears streaming down his face. The only way they were going to survive was if they stood up above the level of the gas, but of course that would leave them exposed to be shot at. He knew that moving made the effects of the gas worsen, but to stay in their current position was suicide. He couldn't hold his breath much longer. He grabbed onto Mitchell's sleeve, and pointed up, then over to the other side, signalling that they had to go.
oooOOOooo
Even though he had seen the different effects of gas, Mitchell himself had never been gassed. Panic gripped his heart as everything around him started to smell like a very intense swimming pool. Shit! His eyes went to Gatsby whose signal made an awful lot of sense to him. Whatever made them get away from here was a damn good plan.
Coughing, the vampire got to his feet and ran in a halfway ducked position. The chlorine let his eyes burn and slowly invaded his lung. Shots began to fire. The way too familiar drum rolls started to pick up and form an orchestra. Shit! His boots stamped through the mud, one tumbled step after the other.
oooOOOooo
Gatsby couldn't hold his breath any longer. If he was going to run, he would need to breathe and try not to let his legs give way beneath him, not matter how weakened he became. He gasped and choked, the gas burning at his throat and chest, his mouth dry and painful. And he couldn't stop coughing and wheezing.
Still, he managed to get to his feet and keep pace with Mitchell, the adrenaline taking over despite the pain. He tried not to panic as the shots fired out, but it was difficult not to. Gatsby had already seen the end of the war, and now it felt so foolish that he would have gone back. He stumbled, his knees shaking with fear and the disabling effects of the gas. They were never going to find the door now, it was too dangerous to try it, their only hope was to rush for their own side and hope that they could explain it somehow.
oooOOOooo
Mitchell's inside felt as if they were on fire. He couldn't stop coughing and he needed to go on stumbling. Suddenly, something blunt hit him in the left shoulder. The familiar smell of blood hit his nostrils immediately and he stumbled to the ground. Fuck! He would have said it out aloud but the choking made it impossible. Cheers, Desmond! So much for surviving this trip!
The chlorine stink was stronger on the ground. He had no idea where he was and how far Tommy was still away but he needed to keep going. He struggled to his feet, his whole body on alarm.
oooOOOooo
Mitchell fell, and Gatsby knew instantly that he had been hit, before he had seen the wound. He could hardly see through the cloud and his own tears, and he couldn't concentrate on anything much other than the burning pain in his lungs. He was suffocating- they had to keep moving.
He slowed, sticking by the 'no man left behind' motto, and grabbed onto Mitchell's good arm, helping him to his feet again. He wanted to say something to him, but he couldn't speak. The shots were still echoing out all around them, and he was afraid that the other side would start to retaliate, leaving them caught in the middle. He pulled at Mitchell's sleeve, half-stumbling toward the other side, his knees occasionally coming into contact with the mud as his muscles weakened from the gas. But they pressed on.
oooOOOooo
Someone picked him up. Someone helped him – Gatsby helped him. Mitchell got to his feet again. The wound in his arm didn't matter. He could still walk and that was all he needed to do at the moment. He halfway clung to Gatsby for the first few step then managed to stumble on on his own. Everything in his body hurt. He chocked even though he didn't need to breath and it still felt like suffocating.
oooOOOooo
Gatsby had almost lost faith that they were ever going to make it to the other side alive when suddenly it was upon them. “Don't-” he'd wanted to tell them not to shoot, but the second word was obscured by a fit of painful coughing. Instead, he lifted his hands above his head as best as he could, and hoped they would recognise the uniforms even in the dark.
He struggled in, to be met instantly at gunpoint. That was expected- what wasn't expected was the man holding the gun. It was Dr Watson. A smile spread across Watson's face and he lowered his weapon again, before the look turned to one of real concern. “Hey- what the hell are you guys doing here? Shit- come on, you need to cough that stuff up,” he told him, not worrying so much about Mitchell just now, since he knew how difficult it was to kill him.
oooOOOooo
Mitchell nearly rolled himself to the trench ground. Safety! The gunshots stopped the moment they vanished in the trenches. The familiar walkways were a comforting side. He let his back hit the wall of wooden poles as he crouched down on the ground. He was still coughing like a mad man, his lungs were still burning and his head swam but he was alive.
The attention shifted away from the two man and right to his shoulder. “Oh, fuck!” It was a downright mess. He had seen gunshots before. Normal ones and those caused from flat-nosed bullets. The wasn't the worst he had seen but it was the first time he had seen it on his own body. His shoulder was torn apart as if someone had punched a hole into it. Blood was soaking his clothes.
“John?” he asked, demanding the attention of the army doctor. He didn't even realise that Watson was firmly out of place. All that mattered was that he was losing blood and that was bad.
oooOOOooo
Gatsby knew well enough what he had to do, and as disgusting as it was he really didn’t give a damn at that moment. John passed him a tin container, and he instantly stuck his fingers down his throat, desperate to get the burning liquid out of him again. He dropped to the ground, coughing and retching, his head spinning and aching so much he felt as though his skull was being crushed.
John knew that Gatsby would be okay- bronchitis was very treatable back on the island, so as long as he emptied his lungs and stomach now, he would make a recovery. But he hadn’t expected the situation with Mitchell. He was a vampire, wasn’t he meant to be practically immortal? Even though John knew a lot more about the supernatural now, he still wasn’t the most adept at treating them. And the bullet wound- well, that was far too familiar. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him- this was no time to be hindered by flashbacks, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of absolute horror.
Mitchell needed him. He moved to his side, his eyes growing wide in horror at the state of his shoulder. “Shit, shit- you need to get your shirt off,” he told him, before he turned to find some supplies. Nothing was hygienic down here. They were going to have to stop the bleeding and try to make their way back- but with Gatsby lying on the floor coughing his lungs up, and Mitchell probably about to pass out, John wasn’t sure how they would manage it.
oooOOOooo
Mitchell could barely hear what John said. His head had started to swim and he felt like dying all over again. He had already died of blood loss once, no need to repeat it again. He blinked against the starting haze and the tears that still stood in his eyes. Take your shirt off was what the doctor said so take off your shirt it was. Mitchell started to struggle with it. One by one the buttons of his uniform were opened.
oooOOOooo
John turned back to Mitchell and helped him with the shirt. God, he really hoped no one tried to come in and help them now- how the hell would he even begin to explain Mitchell’s condition, the lack of a heartbeat, to tell them not to give him surgery- especially surgery in 1917. He bundled up some gauze, and pressed it hard against the wound to stop the bleeding temporarily.
“Mitchell- what do you need? Can you heal from this?” he asked, in a bit of a panic. This was not a normal injury.
oooOOOooo
“Stop the fucking bleeding, doc,” Mitchell murmured. It lacked the urgency he felt. The wound was nothing to be worried about. It would heal. But blood was not something he could produce on his own. The more he lost the dizzier he felt. And if he didn’t drink, the dizziness would never go away again. He blinked against the blur that was his mind but it didn’t help. He was slowly losing his consciousness.
oooOOOooo
“Sarcasm even now, fucking brilliant, Mitchell,” he mumbled at him, but he continued to work even as he bickered back. He was about to wrap more bandages tightly on top of the gauze, when suddenly they were joined by more troops. Fuck, this was not going to be easy to explain away.
“What are you doing? Can you hear what is going on out there? We’re being shot at-” the British Sergeant’s gaze fell first to Gatsby and then to Mitchell. “Where did the American come from? For God’s sake, leave this one, we have bigger problems right now,” he told John with some authority. John had taken a simple uniform from the Museum, and didn’t have the authority of a Captain anymore- he could hardly disobey, but then he could hardly leave Mitchell behind either.
“Sir, I have to stop the bleeding, Sir. He has been hit, and the American has suffered gassing,” he explained, desperately.
“I can see that, and I said- leave them. I mean now!”
oooOOOooo
The words penetrated Mitchell’s mind like a sword. He ripped his eyes open once again and glared at the blurriness that wanted to let him die. He knew the procedure, he knew the drill. He had done it as well himself - left good people behind because they couldn’t be helped anymore, because after all they were just casualties.
“I’m not getting fucking left behind,” the vampire growled. He didn’t want to fucking die. He too much to live for. He had survived this war once already and he would survive it again. Desmond had told them so and for once he was adamant to believe that whatever Desmond experienced it was not some kind of weird psychosis.
oooOOOooo
“This is a war, Private. It should be an honour to die for your country,” the Sergeant told him, pompously. John could feel his anger rising, his cheeks flushing with the stress of the situation. In the silence that followed, Gatsby could be heard coughing- he was in too much pain to really understand what was happening with everyone else in the trench. He wanted to speak up, but he didn’t really have a voice at that moment. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want any of them to die. This had been so stupid- why had he listened to that crazy man?
Despite the Sergeant’s orders, John kept wrapping the wound. “Look, I’ll do it on my own, I’ll be responsible for them, you don’t have to take anything to do with it. You can get back to your men-” John was saying as he worked. “Such disrepect!” he was interrupted, and John bit into his lip to stop himself from saying anything further. “Ten minutes- ten minutes is all I need here, please-”
oooOOOooo
“Honour, my arse,” Mitchell mumbled under his breath. It wasn’t a smart thing to do and the young soldier that he had been once would have never even dared to contradict a superior. “It’s not even my fucking country.” He leaned back against the cool wall again and breathed heavily. He wasn’t going to last so much longer. The drowsiness was slowly getting too much.
oooOOOooo
John looked about as shocked as the Sergeant did, and just to make him shut up, he pressed his knuckles into the wound in a sort of twisting motion. Cruel, but necessary.
“Sergeant- if I may-” Gatsby choked out, distracted the man’s attention, even though he seemed to be about to explode into a fit of rage. “It has been- a difficult journey- to reach- you- to assist, you see- except we were misdirected-” he stopped short, coughing up more vile froth. How much could possible be in his system? This was unbearable.
“You were misdirected?” the sergeant questioned him, his full attention now on Gatsby. He knew what he was doing, John realised suddenly. He was spinning a tale to buy him some time. “Fucking-stop-talking,” John hissed near Mitchell’s ear, before he continued working rapidly to seal off the wound.
oooOOOooo
Mitchell shut up, just because John asked him to. He totally relied on the other man now. Without a doctor he would never make it out of here alive. His head wouldn’t stop spinning and slowly took the anger away. He could hear the men talking in the background but he couldn’t make out the words any longer. His eyes fluttered shut as drowsiness took his consciousness away.
oooOOOooo