Logs:A Long Way

A Long Way
cn: references to concentration camps and ongoing genocide (the Holocaust).
Dramatis Personae Max Eisenhardt, Steve	November 20th, 1944 "I'll fight until every one of those camps is shut down. I promise you."
Location <FR> Allied Field Hospital - Metz
It's a damp and somewhat unpleasant afternoon, but extra wood stoves have been brought in to the great hall that houses most of the noncritical patients. The distant sounds of bombing died down with nightfall, and supper has since come and gone, leaving a collective sense of relief and comfort. There's a low murmur of conversation now, many languages and accents blending into one soft blanket of sound. Some determined smokers are defying the medics and nurses, but they are few enough that the smoke does not feel oppressive. Games of cards, checkers, craps, and chess have broken out here and there, and a little knot of English soldiers in one corner are singing a bawdy bar tune. In one of the more quiet quadrants of the room, Steve is sitting beside one of the squeaky iron framed beds. He's in battered US Army olive drab fatigues, jacket draped over the back of his chair, from which also hangs a great round shield with a silver star in a blue circle surrounded by concentric rings of red and silver. He has a sketchbook tucked into the crook of his arm, where he's putting the finishing touches on a drawing of a young man with unruly black curls and a neat, slender mustache, bent over a partially disassembled motor, turning to look at the viewer, his smile slightly crooked but no less affectionate, his dark eyes glinting with promise and mischief. The man who has been sleeping on the bed beside him stirs and comes awake. He blinks up into the shadowy rafters before turning to squint at Steve. "You still here? I'm fine, you're a friggin' mother hen." He reaches out and clumsily snags the notebook, turning it around so he can see. "You draw a fella this much, oughta pay him for the modeling." Hands the sketch back. "Looks good, though. I'm sure he'll fly down for Christmas. Ain't no blizzard or Nazis or complete absence of an air field gonna stop Howard Stark." "I learned from the queen of mother hens, Your Majesty." Steve blushes fiercely. "If you're jealous, I can write him to come down for Hanukkah, too." His expression turns serious as he takes the sketchbook and tucks the pencil behind one ear. "You coulda died, Bucky. We shouldn't'a left you that long." He hands his friend a glass of water, as if that would compensate for the almost-dying somehow. "Next time someone's staying with you -- Gabe, maybe? Or Jacques?" "Stop trying to make Hanukkah happen," Bucky admonishes mildly, propping himself up to take a sip of water before easing himself back down. "You just wanna see him sooner and keep him longer." He looks away, his eyes distant and unreadable for a moment. "Next time I'm goin' *with* you, if we don't need a sniper nohow. I'm a better shot than you at any range. Anyways, you ain't getting rid of me so easy, pal." His grin is only a bit weak. "I'm with you to the end of the line. Now scram, I can't sleep proper with you hovering." Steve rolls his eyes. "What, a goy can't yen for some latkes? It would be nice if he could stay a while, but it'd take a whole 'nother miracle to keep us back here eight days." He sets the glass back down and narrows his eyes at his friend. "Fine, you can come. But you ain't a better shot with the *shield*." He claps one hand -- so, so carefully, despite the apparently casual gesture -- to Bucky's shoulder and pushes out of the chair. "I'll be back in the morning to mooch. Youse get better grub laid up here." For all that bluster, he adds, gently, "Sleep tight, Buck." At the edge of the hall, on the outskirts of the main knot of soldiers, a small figure lies curled under the thin blankets. He’s scratching intermittently at a brown paper wrapper with a stick of charcoal. There is some sort of drawing taking shape, slowly – the teenager can only hold the stick and his head up to the light for a minute or so before becoming exhausted. He’s awake now, tilting his head towards the sound of familiar words, familiar language, but has spent most of the last day asleep, exhausted after his long journey. The parts of him visible from over the blanket are far too thin, only the faintest layer of skin and muscle differentiating him from a skeleton, his prominent collarbone covered by the striped rags he still wears. There is a hole in the shirt over his chest, where some patch had been torn off. His hair, just starting to grow back in from its short shave, is bone white. The whole effect of him is haunting and unfamiliar – most of the soldiers have elected to ignore him when he’s awake. Shouldering both jacket and shield, Steve meanders toward the door. He stops here and there to greet others -- *everyone* seems to know who he is, even some of the refugees. This includes the skeletal boy, who pushes himself off his pillow when he sees Captain America pass by. His eyes, so sunken in, can’t really get any wider, but he cranes up higher to see anyway. Reaches out, anyway, with a flex of some secret muscle less atrophied than the rest. At Steve’s shoulder, his shield begins to ring as he passes the boy’s bed, struck by a tiny rivet pulled suddenly free from the studs of Steve's coat with impossible force. Steve only takes another step before coming to an abrupt stop. Peers over his shoulder and flick an index finger experimentally along the shield's inner curve. It doesn't vibrate any *harder*, and perhaps he would have considered other experiments – but then he sees the boy. His eyes go slightly wide and the next breath he pulls in is sharper. He turns around more fully and comes to the child's bedside. "{Hey there.}" Steve's German is heavily accented with French, though he does not sound much like people from that region. He crouches down so the boy doesn't need to look up at him, his tone when he continues easy and friendly. "{My name is Steve. What is yours?}" He indicates the paper. "{I see you are an artist.}" The vibration fades a moment after Steve turns around, a beat after the boy catches Steve’s gaze and the offending rivet drops quietly to the floor. It’s not accompanied by any change in the child’s expression, but he does sink back down onto the pillow when the captain comes closer. “{Max,}” he says, soft and hesitant. His hand darts out to grab the scrap, pulling it close to his chest in a sharp, fearful movement. “{It’s nothing,}” Max says, crossing his left arm over it. In contrast with what he’s saying, it sure seems like this is “something” important to him. “{I know who you are. You’re the American super-man.}” For a moment Steve looks like he's inclined to argue with how Max identifies him, but then he just gives sheepish nod. "{Well, that is what they say, anyway.}" He holds up both hands, palm out -- one of them still holding his sketchbook. "{You don't have to show me. Just friendly interest, see?}" He waggles the sketchbook. "{I don't know if I would really call myself an artist, but I like to draw. It can be fun, and even...}" His brows scrunch up. "{I don't know the word in German,} soothing. {Makes me...not as upset.}" "Tresytn?" The suggestion comes in the wrong language at first, though it sounds like German. Max tries again. "{Comfort, you mean? For me it is the same.}" He's eyeing the sketchbook with some suspicion, then Steve (hair, then eyes, then uniform) with too big eyes. "{You can only look, yes? Don't touch this.}" Even with the warning Max is still hesitant when he rolls onto his side, framing the little drawing with his body and the arm that curls out around it. In the shifted position, the tattoo on his arm is fully visible. On the front of the paper, the face of a little girl with two dark braids – clearly someone specific, in the detail Max has tried to convey on each feature. The charcoal is blunt and the page is small, every line just a little smudged. Max watches Steve's reaction carefully, free arm hovering just in case of attempted theft. "{Comfort,}" Steve repeats thoughtfully. "{Thank you. I always feel a little foolish when the word sounds much like the word in English, or French.}" At Max's warning, he sets the sketchbook down at the edge of the bed and folds his hands on top of it solemnly, in clear view. "{No touching.}" His eyes flick over the tattoo, his expression doing something complicated, but only for a fraction of a second. Then he's studying the drawing. "{She is very pretty,}" he says, cautiously. Glances from the paper up to the boy's face. "{This is...your friend? Someone you are missing, yes?}" "{My friend,}" Max confirms, meeting Steve's gaze with a fierce look, as if the question were a challenge. "{From home. She looked more like this before they cut her hair.}" His gaze drops down to the paper for just a moment, before looking back up and continuing with a little more pride in his voice. "{We walked here together, from Poland. The nurses say I can see her, when I am stronger. I think they say that. French is so fast and I do not know all the words.}" There's a small furrow forming between his thin eyebrows now. "{Though, maybe she is dead and they have not told me.}" This comes out more resigned than fearful. Steve blinks, then blinks again. "{You walked here. From -- Poland.}" It doesn't really sound like a question, though the slight furrow between his brows suggests he's doing some mental math. "{That is such a very long way. It is good you had each other.}" A flicker of that expression again, but then he draws a deep breath. "{I can ask the nurses how your friend is doing. I speak pretty good French, and besides, they like me.}" He looks down at his hands and turns the sketchbook over. Opens it to show Max the sketch of the young man. "{I was also drawing my -- friend. And I'm hoping to see him soon, too.}" "{It's not so bad. Not as far as America.}" Max is looking at Steve with more narrow eyes now, taking in the extra-human physique. "{You could walk there. There are camps much closer. You have so many guns here, you could – }" Max is struggling, now, to sit up all the way, to try and get his gaze level with Steve's, but falters back onto his side all too soon. He's quiet for a moment, before offering, faintly – "{Please. Her name is Magda. I want to see her.}" Max pulls the drawing back closer towards him. "{You are very good.}" There's a touch of envy in the admiration. "{Is this who is} come down for Khanike?" The English is stilted and heavily accented in Max's mouth, barely intelligible beyond the name of the holiday. "Yeah..." Steve has forgotten the relevant language for a moment, but the sentiment is clear enough. "{The generals say --}" His jaw sets, his head shakes, quick. "{-- the generals say a lot of bullshit.}" This time he nods, solemn and also quick. "{Magda. This I will ask.}" He does not seem very fazed by Max's questionable attempt at English, but *does* seem just faintly flustered when he looks back down at his own drawing. "{He -- well, he might. It's a long way, and dangerous, too. But I still hope he can make it. I -- also want to see him.}" He runs a hand through his hair, dislodging the pencil behind his ear, then catches it easily, maybe even reflexively. Look at the pencil. Looks at Max's little lump of charcoal. "{I think you will also be good, once you've had more practice. But better ah...art things? Also help. Here}" He sets the pencil in the crease of the sketchbook and offers both to the boy. "{I've got plenty of things to draw on these days, and I've only used a couple of pages in this one.}" Max tilts his head slightly, looking at the portrait with a little more curiosity. "{He is a Jew?}" His eyes flick up to Steve, then, more doubtfully, "{Or are you?}" He bites his (dry, chapped) lip, considering. "{He comes from America, maybe he can bring back to America news of us. What is happening, here. Maybe people do not know?}" He's deep in this train of thought when Steve moves the sketchbook closer, blinks at it a few times before looking up at the soldier. "{You are not serious. Where would I keep it? I have no bag, they will be stolen from me.}" The protestations are practical, but Max's eyes are full of want when he looks at the pencil, the book. "{Nor knife to sharpen the lead.}" "{I am not a Jew. Him...}" Steve shakes his head. "{He does his own thing, always. Back home -- back in America…}" His gaze dips, his voice softens. "{People know. Not everything, but. Not nothing. That's why I joined up.}" His face does something complicated, and he glances back the direction he had come. "{Well. And my best friend is a Jew. We didn't know how bad it was, either, before we came here, but now.}" He shakes his head. "{We'll fight -- I'll fight until every one of those camps is shut down. I promise you.}" He unfastens a knife sheathed at one hip, wraps its webbing strap around the notebook to make a bundle that he presses into the young man's hands. "{It's a bit much for sharpening a pencil, and I hope you never need it for anything else.}" He allows a sad smile and straightens up. "{You rest now. Get better. Maybe draw something for your friend.}" Max's hands take a moment to grip around the edges of the webbing, but after a moment his fingers press into it, hard. Are the child's hands shaking? The knife, even sheathed, seems to shudder. "{Thank you,}" he says to the bundle, and it's hard to say which gift has taken his attention. There is some doubt still flickering across his face when he looks back up at Steve. "{You will be fighting a long time, maybe. When I am better,}" and his blue eyes are intense and steady where the rest of him is weak, "{maybe, we will fight together.}"