( he squeezes her hands, an' then releases her an' sits back into his own space. not to be away from her, specifically, just. he needs a moment.
aveline was the last person he told about reggie. an' that'd been. utilitarian. strictly business. she wanted to know how it was he happened to possess information that only a dead soe agent should'a known. she'd asked the right questions an' boxed him in an' anyway, he ain't one to lie. so he'd told her, an' her first thought was for how she could use him to win the war, an' he'd consented to it because the sooner it's over, the less likely it is that his baby brother is gonna be able to sign up an' come over to europe an' die in the fuckin' mud like so many other boys.
but reggie.
reggie died on a wednesday. in vichy france, beneath a sun so hot he'd joked first about dyin' of thirst before schäfer shot him. he'd spent eleven days bein' tortured before that, an' then left for dead in a field. an' gene ain't had a minute, not one goddamn minute in this war to grieve him. how could he? he weren't supposed to even know he was dead. there's a hot pressure in the back of his throat an' behind his eyes and he has to breathe through the worst of it before he goes an' breaks down.
all because she asks, when she doesn't have to. somethin' comes down inside him, some dam or stopgap, and when he draws a breath it's half a shudder besides. )
That, ah. ( lord, his voice is rough. he clears his throat an' tries again. ) Reggie Holiday. My best friend.
no subject
aveline was the last person he told about reggie. an' that'd been. utilitarian. strictly business. she wanted to know how it was he happened to possess information that only a dead soe agent should'a known. she'd asked the right questions an' boxed him in an' anyway, he ain't one to lie. so he'd told her, an' her first thought was for how she could use him to win the war, an' he'd consented to it because the sooner it's over, the less likely it is that his baby brother is gonna be able to sign up an' come over to europe an' die in the fuckin' mud like so many other boys.
but reggie.
reggie died on a wednesday. in vichy france, beneath a sun so hot he'd joked first about dyin' of thirst before schäfer shot him. he'd spent eleven days bein' tortured before that, an' then left for dead in a field. an' gene ain't had a minute, not one goddamn minute in this war to grieve him. how could he? he weren't supposed to even know he was dead. there's a hot pressure in the back of his throat an' behind his eyes and he has to breathe through the worst of it before he goes an' breaks down.
all because she asks, when she doesn't have to. somethin' comes down inside him, some dam or stopgap, and when he draws a breath it's half a shudder besides. )
That, ah. ( lord, his voice is rough. he clears his throat an' tries again. ) Reggie Holiday. My best friend.