Work Text:
May 1972
Billy Stebbins wakes to the sound of breathing.
He lets his eyes drift open slowly. The sun has only just begun to rise, light filtering in through the gap in the curtains. Beside him, Richard Harkness sleeps soundly, cheek smushed where it rests against his arm. His right ankle is propped up on a pillow under a long-thawed bag of frozen peas. They’re still not sure if it’s broken or sprained, but it’s already improved tremendously since arriving here over a week ago.
With a yawn, he pulls off his oxygen mask and places it on the bedside table. He’s recovered enough that he doesn’t really need it anymore, but Richard insists he at least wears it at night, and Stebbins doesn’t have the heart to argue. Richard was the one who caught it when he stopped breathing two days after the walk — he understands that this makes it easier for Richard to sleep at night.
His memory of the days after the walk is still hazy, his usually sharp mind stolen by the fever that had overtaken him. He remembers stumbling through the woods, soaked to the bone in the pouring rain. He’d woken up the next day in a shed with a new shirt, a black eye, and no recollection of how he’d gotten there. Gary Barkovich, of all people, had been attempting to spoon feed him lukewarm soup.
He knows that Collie found sympathizers somewhere in New Hampshire who were willing to shelter the eight of them until they were recovered enough to make the trip over the Canadian border, but isn’t sure exactly how he’d made that connection. He’s also not sure how they ended up in northern Vermont, hidden away in a hunting cabin that belongs to a previous winner. Ray told him later that he’d stayed moving even when it was clear his mind wasn’t there. He’d collapsed just as they reached the safehouse and didn’t wake up for two days.
Richard shifts beside him. He’s been a constant, reassuring presence since they arrived, keeping him grounded when it all became too much. The cabin’s master bedroom has been converted into a makeshift sickroom for the two survivors with the most severe injuries, while the others are relegated to the pullout couch and the kids’ room. Stebbins might feel worse about it if it wasn’t so damn nice to be sleeping in a real bed. He figures Pete and Ray aren’t unhappy about sharing a twin bed anyway; at least this gives them an excuse to be so close.
He peels back the faded quilt and slides out of bed, his legs slightly unsteady on the wooden floor. He’s started to regain his strength, but knows he’s unlikely to ever fully recover. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have permanent organ damage.
He's careful to avoid the squeaky floorboards as he makes his way across the bedroom, buttoning his shirt with one trembling hand. Richard wakes anyway.
“What's going on?” He mumbles, twisting to look at Stebbins through blurry eyes.
“Nothing,” Stebbins says. “I'm hungry.”
“Do you need help?”
“It’s fine. Go back to sleep, I’ll get you new peas.”
“Can you get me a new foot while you're at it?”
His smile lingers as he slips out the door and pads down the hallway, past the bedroom that Ray, Pete, and Collie are sharing. Collie is already awake, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee.
“You look like shit,” he says, by way of greeting.
“Likewise,” Stebbins says, placing two pieces of bread into a scratched toaster. Collie decidedly does not look like shit; he’s bounced back much faster than the rest of them, or at least seems like it. Stebbins has a hard time reading him.
They settle into companionable silence as Stebbins smears jam onto his toast and pours himself a cup of coffee that smells suspiciously burnt. Barkovich is snoring softly in the living room, muffled slightly by the curtain they’ve taped over the kitchen doorway for some semblance of privacy.
“Do you eat anything other than bread and jam?” Collie asks after a moment, gesturing at Stebbins’ plate.
“Yes,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate.
The others wake slowly. Hank appears first, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he stumbles into the kitchen. Stebbins doesn't really know what to make of Hank. They'd barely spoken on the walk, but visions of Hank dying violently have haunted his dreams for weeks. They’re so vivid that when Hank had woken him once while they were on the run, Stebbins screamed so loudly that Ray had to pin him down with a hand over his mouth until he stopped crying. It took another day for Stebbins to actually process that Hank was alive, and not some kind of fever-induced hallucination.
There's also the fact that Hank is married, which is as baffling as it is tragic. They haven't spoken about it, but Stebbins thinks leaving their families behind like this must be hardest for him.
Barkovich shows up next, blond hair sticking out in every direction. He and Hank are sharing the pullout couch in the living room, an arrangement that Stebbins would never have expected to work as well as it does. Apparently they're both such deep sleepers that it doesn't matter how much they move around at night.
“Who the fuck burned the coffee?” Barkovich grumbles.
“Oh, shut up,” Collie says. “You try making coffee in the dark and see how well it turns out.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Guys,” Pete says, sliding in behind Stebbins to pour himself a cup. “Can we cool it for five minutes, please?”
He takes a sip and grimaces. “This is dogshit though. I’m making another pot.”
“I’ll take the rest,” Stebbins volunteers. “Can't really taste anyway.”
“Your call.”
Ray appears just behind Pete, looking like he regrets getting out of bed. He sits down between Collie and Stebbins, then scans the group of them, searching for an easy target.
“You take your meds today, Billy?”
“Don't call me that,” Stebbins says immediately. “And fuck off. You're not my mom.”
“Go take them before you forget.”
“You're just trying to get rid of me so you can cuddle with McVries.”
“Shut the fuck up, man.”
Stebbins rolls his eyes, but stands and makes his way back to the bedroom. Richard is asleep again, now sprawled in the middle of the bed. He goes down the line of meticulously labeled bottles: antibiotics, an expectorant, an immune booster, a multivitamin, iron supplements. He skips the pain medication as usual; he's tired of feeling like his head is underwater.
The sound of pills rattling wakes Richard again. Stebbins doesn't know if it's paranoia, or if he's always been a light sleeper. He suspects it might be the latter, because Richard is usually the last to get out of bed.
He watches Stebbins swallow each pill from the mattress.
“You're staring.”
“I can't even see.”
He finishes the medication and sets down the water glass. Richard is fumbling for his glasses on the bedside table.
“Your shirt is done up wrong,” he says, without looking.
“I thought you couldn't see.”
“So what's your excuse?” He finds the glasses and puts them on. Talking like this is easy between the two of them, in a way Stebbins doesn't remember ever having before. It's similar with the others, but something about Harkness just clicks. He wonders if it's just the natural reaction to the group of them experiencing something so traumatic together, or if the walk has changed him in more ways than he can name.
Richard shifts to the edge of the bed, stretching his ankle the way he'd been shown. Stebbins hovers. He can't shake the image of Richard’s foot bending sideways, the joint buckled under his weight.
“Careful,” he says softly. “Don't push yourself too hard.”
Richard winces. “You're one to talk.”
Using the bed for leverage, he stands up on his good leg. Stebbins wordlessly loops an arm around him for support. They hobble down the hall, to where the others are clustered around the kitchen table with bowls of dry cereal. Pete stands to give Richard his seat.
Art has finally gotten up as well. He’s sitting backwards on a chair, head resting on his arms. Beside him, Hank stares wistfully at the percolator sitting on top of the stove like he can will the coffee to be ready faster.
“How's the foot?” Pete asks, nodding at Richard.
“Still attached.”
“Can you put weight on it yet?”
“I’m not supposed to,” Richard says, taking a bite of toast. “But I can if it's wrapped up. If we can just splint it or something I’ll be fine.”
Stebbins feels the others’ eyes shift to him. Richard’s injury isn't the one keeping them here; one member of their group being sick could mean all eight of them are denied entry, and Stebbins won’t be considered safe to travel until he's finished the full course of his antibiotics. He still has two days to go.
He’d tried convincing the others to make the journey without him, but Collie’s contract Scramm said they can't afford to make more than one trip.
The coffee timer chimes, and Pete moves to deal with it. Stebbins isn't sure if the others have always been this reliant on caffeine, or if they're relying on it to stave off the bone deep exhaustion the way he is.
Richard takes advantage of the moment to pull Stebbins towards him by his shirt and starts fumbling with the buttons.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Collie asks.
“Buttons are crooked. Hold still.”
Stebbins raises his hands in surrender.
“I could have done that myself, you know.”
Richard gives him a knowing look. He's seen the way that Stebbins’ hands tremble [doing the simplest things]; he must understand how difficult it would be to fix himself.
“Well now you don't have to.”
The rest of the day is spent sprawled around the living room trying anything and everything to stave off cabin fever. Collie and Art find an old board game with most of the pieces missing and spend the afternoon making up their own rules. They manage to recruit Richard, Hank, and Barkovich, who keeps adding game pieces to the board when they aren't looking.
Ray and Pete start out sharing the couch with Stebbins but keep disappearing for progressively longer periods of time. Stebbins would probably be more annoyed about it if he didn't appreciate the extra leg room.
Scramm turns up at some point to check on them and to drop off a single bottle of beer, which Hank claims immediately. He ends up facedown on the couch for the next few hours, occasionally waking to mutter something incomprehensible at Stebbins’ leg.
That night, Stebbins wakes with the taste of blood in his mouth.
He turns to the side and retches, wrenching the oxygen mask off his face. His chest clenches, heart beating rabbit-quick against his ribcage. He tries to suck in a breath and finds that he can't.
His vision blurs. Somewhere, a soldier is yelling a warning. He can't make it whose number it is. He can't remember how many warnings he has now. He’s falling behind, he just needs to catch up, just a few more hours –
“Billy!”
Richard is kneeling above him. He’s somehow pulled Stebbins back into bed, and is cupping his face with both hands. Stebbins tries to focus on the contact, head still swimming from the lack of oxygen.
“H-hey. You're okay. Just breathe.”
He comes back to himself slowly. His chest is tight, but not so tight that he can't force himself to breathe. There is blood in his mouth, but it's his own, mixed in with the fluid he's still coughing out of his lungs.
Richard looks like he might start crying. One of his hands drops to Stebbins’ shoulder.
“Are you alright?”
Stebbins tries to speak and instead makes a noise that would be embarrassing in any other circumstance. He realizes distantly that he's crying.
“Okay. Okay, that's fine. Uh, do you want me to get someone? I think Scramm–”
Stebbins is already shaking his head. He clears his throat and tries again.
“I'm fine.”
“Stebbins.”
“I don't need anyone else.”
Richard wipes a tear from his cheek, then seems to realize how intimate of a gesture that is and sits back slightly.
“What happened?”
“I think…” He swallows. Tries to think back to the moment of waking. “I choked. Thought I was walking again.”
It feels horribly raw to admit, but he tries to shove that feeling down. He's supposed to be practical, unshakable; he can logic this out even if it feels like scraping at his insides with a sharpened spoon.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Absolutely not.”
He wipes the tears from his eyes. Harkness lays down again, curled on his side to watch him. Stebbins glances down to confirm he at least still has his ankle elevated.
The room is silent for a while. Stebbins counts the beams on the ceiling and tries to will himself to relax. Richard’s breathing evens out. He thinks he's fallen asleep, until he says,
“Have you thought about what you want to do? Once we’re over the border?”
“Not really.”
“What were you planning to do if you won?”
Stebbins sighs. He stays facing the ceiling, but can see Richard looking at him from the corner of his eye.
“I didn't expect to survive for long after. Most winners don't. I guess I thought once the Major knew, he might… take care of my mom somehow. Once I was gone.”
Richard’s expression has shifted to something dangerously akin to pity.
“You spent all that time preparing even though you expected to die?”
Stebbins puts an arm over his eyes.
“Don't… I know it's stupid. You don't have to remind me.”
“I didn't say that.”
They fall silent again. The clock ticks steadily on the wall.
“I think I’m still gonna write a book.”
Stebbins turns towards him, dull panic finding its way back to his chest. Richard interrupts before he can say anything.
“Not about the walk, Jesus. Like fiction or something.”
“Oh. That’s good.”
A longer stretch of silence this time. Stebbins can make out Richard’s chest rising and falling in the dark, consistent but not quite the low, even breath of sleep. He thinks about his life back home, about his mom, about the farm he’d worked on since he was old enough to lift a hoe. He’s spent so long working towards one goal that he's never really considered the future, let alone what he might want.
“Maybe I’ll get a cow,” he says finally.
Richard turns to look at him.
“What the fuck would you do with a cow?”
“I don't know. I used to work with cows. They were nice.”
Richard considers this. “Maybe you should start with a cat. That’s probably easier.”
He thinks of the tiny cat perched on the mailboxes a few miles into the walk, and allows himself to picture a future where he isn’t marching towards death.
“Yeah. That would be good.”