The hot spring sun beat down on them, and Blair tilted his head up, like a daisy. With a sigh of contentment he pulled off his shirt in a single, graceful movement and laid back into the soft grass. A little shyly, awkwardly, Jim followed suit, shoving his own shirt under the back of his neck as a crude pillow. Sneaking a glance over at the other man, he burst out laughing.

Blair looked down at his too-big pants, hiked high to his breastbone and bound there with a rope. "What?" he sat up and stared at the sniggering Leftenant. He had the feeling he should have taken offence at this grand man laughing at the only set of clothes he had, but decided he liked the sound of that full-bodied laughter too much. "Don't laugh, this is the height of Parisian Fashion!" Scrambling to his feet, he walked a short way down the hill, waggling his ass exaggeratedly as Jim's sniggers turned to howls.

With a graceful turn, the Maquisard minced back and stopped halfway, legs braced, one hand playing with his rope belt. "You like zis, yes?" he drawled in a perfect imitation of the English parody of his native accent. "Maybee I show you more, American?" Tugging on his belt, he loosened it a little and threw his head back, hands on hips as he wiggled back to where Jim was helplessly clutching his stomach, tears pouring down his face.

He was a step away when the belt dropped, and his trousers fell around his ankles, baring his ass to the French countryside and his private parts to a wide-eyed Ellison.

"Merde!" With a strangled curse he tripped and fell as the pants caught his feet, landing flat on top of Jim. There was a confused jumble of arms and legs, then he sprang off, hurriedly snatching at his clothes and letting loose with a stream of invective that would have scorched the ears off any sailor.

Jim hurriedly turned his eyes away, then sniggered, then rolled back and burst out laughing again at the sight of the frantic little figure, fighting with his humungous pants and swearing himself blue.

Blair hurriedly tightened the rope around his waist then stared.  Jim was laughing.  That stone facade cracked and crumbled, stretching wide in a smile as he threw his head back and howled in laughter, pummeling at the ground.

He liked that sound. It was a rich, full-bodied laugh, and Jim was the kind of man who laughed all over, not something confined to a mirthless smile and a tight titter, but something that swept his entire body up in its joyful song and tossed him around, drawing everyone else in.  He could forgo his own pride if it brought a long-lost smile to that too-old face, he decided.

Grasping two huge handfuls of his pants,, the Maquisard moved over to sit beside Jim with an exaggerated waddle, plopping himself down and fussing with his clothing in a motion worthy of the finest street artist, grinning as another full laugh roiled through the air.  He’d always fancied himself a bit of a performer…

Later, they reclined on the grass and opened the basket, astonished by what Serena and Megan had managed to scavenge. Some cheese, fruit, even a little bread. Some traded from local farms, some taken from ambushed supply trucks destined for fat Wehrmacht generals. There was even a bottle of wine, a rarity to be treasured, and each man resolved to make it up to the two women. Sprawled on the soft grass, lounging like lords, they pretended there was no war, no death, just the two of them, the only people in a perfect world as they ate, almost playful, tossing scraps at each other and grinning like loons,  trying to ignore the necessary guns that were a constant reminder of the fragility of their dream.

Jim was laughing heartily at the smaller man, who was lounging indolently under the tree and delicately dangling breadcrusts in his mouth like the finest grapes when a sound caught his ears. The laughter died as he turned his head, ignoring the puzzled inquiry from the other man, finally identifying the source. Soldiers. And they sure as shit weren't the resistance.

"Jim?" Blair reached out to touch his shoulder, only to draw back as the Leftenant sat bolt upright. Brushing the plate off his stomach, the meal falling ruined to the ground, Jim reached for his gun, ears cocked, straining for another sound.

"Jim?" Blair reached out again, snatching his hand back as if burned when Jim jerked it off, shushing him with a vicious hiss.  The face that turned to him was gentle though, and his fears faded for a moment. Then returned at the single word that slipped from the other man’s lips.

"Germans."

Blair didn't hear anything, but immediately sat up, food falling unnoticed as he snatched up his gun, clutching it ready like a lifeline in his right hand. "Where?"

"East." Jim cocked his hearing, finding it less of a stretch, the low muted voices and soft treads closer to their position now. "A patrol, sounds like."

Blair took his arm, tugging him to the shelter of one of many rocks dotting the hillside. "Hide," he whispered. "If they're a scout, they're looking for us, the Maquis. Maybe they won't-"

A shot rang out, sending slivers of rocks flying from their barricade. "Or maybe they will." Jim clenched the grip of his Sten a little more firmly in his hand, then rolled out to one side, keeping low to the ground, spraying a quick burst at the targets he saw approaching. Targets, that's all they were. Not men, not the freckle-faced blond and dark-haired teenager types that were too goddamned young to die. They had weapons, and they were using them. That made them targets. Nothing more, nothing less. Not if you wanted to keep your sanity.

Or your life.

Jim watched the bullets bounce harmlessly off a nest of boulders in front of them. They were too high up on the hill, and the angle was too steep. For all the good they were doing, the two men may as well have been throwing cream pies and insults.

Blair nudged his shoulder and pointed at a little knot of boulders set in a point about twenty feet in front of them.

"Down there," he whispered, the sound somehow carrying easily of the noise of battle. "We can get a shot from down there."

Ellison shook his head. Twenty feet of unprotected ground - rough ground at that. It would slow them down and they would be dead before they even made it halfway. "I don't think -"

But the kid wasn't listening to him, he was taking his opening, darting between the boulders dotting the hill, zig-zagging from one to the other, finally slamming into the point of a grouping of three. "SANDBURG!!" Jim watched helplessly as the impossibly small figure stood rock steady in the face of the shells pulverising his safe haven, calmly and coolly taking aim and firing, again and again, full lips moving soundlessly in a prayer for forgiveness as man after man fell in front of his onslaught.

Bellowing his rage as a returned shot came too close, Jim stood, lobbing grenade after grenade overarm, watching them roll like obscene eggs down the sparse vegetation. He was a perfect target, proud, tall, uncaring, invincible. He would live. He had to live.

Because death would not hold Sandburg. And the prospect of Ellison drifting through eternity alone was fucking UNACCEPTABLE.

Snatching up his gun, he ran down the hill, long legs eating up the distance as he sprayed a covering fire until he fell on his knees beside Sandburg in the tiny knot of rock that seemed barely large enough to hold one. Between the grenades and the deadly hail from the twin Stens the patrol retreated, more than half their number dead.

Jim reloaded his weapon and raised it at the retreating men, but Blair knocked it aside. "Leave them," he whispered. "They're going, gone. Nothing to fight for. Please."

Jim looked from the last figures to his friend and nodded, swinging his gun to the ground as he ran desperate hands over the trembling figure. "Are you ok?" he demanded. "Hurt?" Blair shook his head, shivering as reaction set in. "Dammit Sandburg, if you ever do anything like that again!" Jim cut himself off and hauled the smaller man into his arms, bringing him close for a desperately fearful embrace.

Blair made a mewling, needy noise in his throat, leaning close into the offered comfort of his body, then drawing away, jerking, eyes looking down, then closing, face twisting in agony as reality intruded. "I killed them..."

Blair staggered away, throwing up, over and over, every inch of that marvellous, scavenged, interrupted picnic expelling itself, leaving him retching and convulsing under dry heaves for so long that Jim started to be afraid. Hesitantly he came up behind the wretched figure, one hand reaching out to rub steadying circles on the strong back while he murmured reassurances. "It's ok," he soothed softly in French, finally coming closer to wrap his arms around the shaking figure. "It's ok, it's all right, shh, shh. "

Blair leaned back into the embrace, hands coming up desperately to cling to the strong arms encircling him as he sobbed. "IT'S NOT ALL RIGHT!!" He screamed the words into the sky, and the Leftenant flinched. "I killed them.." Blair whispered softly with an agonised glance to the bodies on the grass. "Jim, I, oh god, oh god, little boys, they were only little boys, they could have been men, but oh god, I killed them, I killed them..."

"Blair..." Ellison tried desperately to get through to the smaller man, his large hands wrapping around the smaller ones, trying to rub warmth into suddenly chilled flesh. But Sandburg was almost catatonic, words of penance falling rapidly from his lips as wide blue eyes stared off into the distance. Panicked now, Jim lifted a hand to slap the smaller man, but his arm dropped down, far short of its goal. He could never raise his hand to mar the other man, even in a situation like this. Slinging his Sten over his shoulder, Jim picked up Blair, cradling him to his chest, holding him close, all senses on alert, expanding outward and outward, searching, hunting for any sign of the enemy as he headed for the safety of the Reseau.