The Ghost of Him |WWII Frerard AU|

-44-

"And then--" Brendon wheezes, his face flushing a deep shade of red as tears spill from his eyes and a wild grin stretches from ear to ear.  "And then this fucking kid turned to me and said in the most deadpan tone, 'You wouldn't believe me if I told you how much shit I have built up in my pants right now!'"

Everyone at the table absolutely erupts into chaotic laughter.  Brendon throws his head back and lets out the most psychotic wheeze I've ever heard, his face twisted up in pained laughter.  Pete bangs his fists on the table, rattling the silverware and knocking a fork onto the floor.  Water shoots out of Ray's nose like a missile, and of course, that only makes us laugh even harder.

We're a table full of deranged lunatics.

The sound of boisterous conversation rings in my ears, dozens upon dozens of soldiers just like us enjoying their break back in the safety of England.  It's been a few days since we were pulled off the front line, and believe me when I say I've never been more grateful for the simple things in life.

For example, a shower.

My parents would've skinned me alive if I used as much hot water at home as I did here in the camp.  I lost track of how long I spent underneath that scalding stream of clean water, but I don't even care.  It was so relieving, so refreshing, and I've never felt more pristine in my life.  Weeks worth of sweat, grime, and blood, all washed away, just like that.  I felt like a new man when I walked away from there, ready to tackle anything that got thrown at me.

Along with rejuvenating my entire soul and body, we've also been eating like regular people, and my stomach is living its best life.  Three meals a day, all relatively fresh and hot.  We're still in a camp, so it's not the greatest quality, but who are we to complain?  We're eating like kings compared to when we were on the front line.  I'll gladly take this food over canned beans or cold soup.

Now, all of Delta Company is sitting in the bustling commons, which is full of other companies resting up after a long few weeks of fighting.  We're all clean and refreshed, hair styled and clothes washed.  We're all gorged with real food.  We're all in high spirits, completely and utterly brimming with vitality, because we have nothing to worry about right now.  We're back in England for the time being, and we're safe; I haven't been this joyful for as long as I can remember.

As our wild laughter slowly begins to die down, and as Ray cleans up the water he shot from his nose, the attention turns to Dallon as he clears his throat and wipes a tear from his eye.  "Oh, man, I love the new privates who have no idea what they're doing,"  he remarks with a sigh, amusement shining in his gaze.  "Yesterday, I overheard one of them say, 'Who needs laxatives when you're at war?'  It was the funniest thing I've ever heard."

"Remember when we were that unprepared and scared shitless?"  Pete adds, a delighted grin lighting up his face.  "Ah, good times.  Good times."

"What the hell is your definition of good times, man?"  Spencer asks.  The humored disbelief in his tone almost makes me erupt into another fit of laughter.  "Those times were horrible!  I almost had a heart attack out there!"

"Well, it's a good thing Ryan followed us everywhere, then.  Right, Ryan?"

All eyes turn to Ryan as the medic freezes in his spot, alarmed confusion glinting in his gaze.  "Uhh,"  he stutters, not quite sure who to look at.  "I mean, I'm not really trained to handle cardiovascular issues yet, but--"

"I'm just teasing, kid."  His cheerful grin stretching even wider, Pete gives Ryan a playful punch in the shoulder.  "You're doing great.  We're lucky to have you."