Chapter Text
Collins woke up slowly most mornings after the firing squad. It would begin with his nightmares— for it seemed like he only ever had those anymore— slowly fading in and out, then the sound of someone’s voice, staticy like a radio broadcast being broken up. It was usually Farrier, leaning over Collins’ bed and making sure he hadn’t died in his sleep, or to wake him up when it became obvious that he was having a nightmare.
That day, it wasn’t Farrier that woke him up.
He knew it wasn’t Farrier. Farrier was always gentle, always spoke in a low voice. It always seemed like his main goal was to help Collins. The voice that woke him up that morning was sharp in all the wrong ways, and it was obvious that they didn’t know how to proceed. He opened his eyes quickly, moving away even quicker. His eyes were flooded by bright light, and he winced and closed his eyes against the sudden pound against the inside of his skull. Collins dug his fingernails into his palms and pushed himself up into a sitting position.
After a moment, he opened his eyes again and stared in the direction of the voices. They were becoming louder and more insistent, adding to the pounding behind his eyes. Williams and Larsson stood near his bed, but it was obvious that it was Williams that had woken him up. For the first time since the incident (as Collins had been preferring to call it), he seemed more alive than dead. Collins still felt guilty over it, but he couldn’t judge the man when he too was stuck in his emotions. It must be something important, though, if Williams was obviously excited again.
“It’s snowing!” Larsson’s voice was full of obvious joy as he leaned against the windowsill, the gold dirt beneath his fingernails ending up on the windowsill. Collins slowly scooted to the edge of the bed, swallowing thickly against his sore throat. Even from his spot on the side of the bed, he could see the snow piling on the windowsill. It was more than they had gotten the entire time he had been there, and he was already thinking about how men would be using the fire as an actual heat source rather than a hiding place. He swallowed, standing up and looking out the window. Snow was piling up, and he could already see men running through the snow. Some moved quickly from barracks building to barracks building, and others stopped and threw handfuls at each other, dissolving in piles of laughter that could be heard from all the way inside.
Collins swallowed, reminded of the last time it had snowed. He turned as if by instinct, searching for Farrier in the nearly empty barracks. He swallowed and looked back towards the man’s empty bunk before turning to Larsson.
“Where’s Farrier?” He asked, glancing again towards the empty, perfectly made bed beside his. Larsson and Williams looked between each other, and Collins did not miss the way Williams slowly stepped back and to the side, effectively trapping Collins in. His heart pounds in his ears, and he attempts to remain cool despite feeling more trapped than ever before. His hands clasped into fists. Larsson spoke first, his voice cool and collected. “He had to handle something, he said to watch out for you until he got back, Collins.”
“What could he possibly have to handle in a hell like this?” Collins asked, his voice tight. He had a faint idea, and he was more than terrified that he was right.
The other side of camp.
“You didn’t tell me he was alive.” Farrier’s voice was harsh, and Hartwin flinched slightly. His stance was wide, holding his ground against the angry Englishman. It was something he had mentally prepared himself for many times— trying to think of how Farrier would act when Hartwin fucked up. Hartwin knew he should’ve told Farrier about Collins’ survival, but there were a million things happening, and he was trying to fix it all and hold together an entire plot that could crumble with a slightly too-strong breeze. He could barely make time to visit Collins, and then they had ordered him to take part in the firing squad. Maybe they suspected something, maybe they didn’t, but it was only by some miracle that Hartwin had gotten Müller to switch with him at the last second.
Farrier had been the one to call the meeting. He had called, and Hartwin had answered.
Farrier’s eyes were filled with anger, and Hartwin recognized it. There was something in him, some small and hidden part, that broke just a bit at the sight. The realization that Collins would always mean more to Farrier than he would. It’s the type of thing that breaks even the best of men. He swallowed and tilted his chin up. “You would’ve endangered both him and me if I told you, Tom. Be quiet, we’re still outside.”
“No, my name is Farrier.” He snapped, his hands squeezing into fists at his sides. Hartwin didn’t flinch that time, only watching with a steely gaze as Farrier spoke. “Did you even help him, Hartwin? Or did you stand by and let them almost kill him, to the point where he wakes up screaming or sobbing most nights? Did you know that, Hartwin, do you even care? You said you’d protect him. He has more bruises and injuries than I’ve ever seen on a man in this camp, all from your superiors.”
Hartwin swallowed his anger. He may not support the actions of the men he worked with, but they were still his fellow countrymen, and that united them if nothing else. “Watch yourself, Farrier. And yes, I did help him. Who do you think kept him from bleeding out that first night, and kept him awake through his concussion? He was out for most of the torture they put him through and most of the times I cleaned him up, so he probably can’t tell you, but I did something. I did what I could with what time and materials I could steal. I did everything I could.”
There was a moment, where Hartwin was certain he saw Farrier’s eyes flicker, and then they had returned to anger. The cold anger that Hartwin hated, the cold anger that he never expected to receive from Farrier of all people— Farrier, the man who had helped him in so many scenarios, who had opened his eyes to the ways of the world. He never expected to be betrayed in such a fucking horrific way, from one of the few people he felt he could truly trust. He stepped forward, making sure they were close. His anger was just a beating in his ears and white knuckles, and that was too much and not enough. “So don’t you ever say that I didn’t do enough for that Scottish bastard. Remember, Farrier, that we are not on the same side here. I could put a bullet through your head and I’d be celebrated for it.”
Farrier stared at him, and Hartwin stared back, and maybe that was when the decision was made. It was a simple decision, one that would alter the course of it all. Farrier clenched his jaw and Hartwin stared coldly at him. There was still a rifle in his hands. He still had the upper hand, and Farrier still wanted to live. The older man turned, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Very well, then, Hartwin.”
“Remember, Farrier,” Hartwin’s voice trembled. Snow was forming a wreath in his hair, and both men’s shoulders were dusted with it. He blinked, lowering his voice again and leaning in. “I always keep my word.”
Farrier swallowed, his eyes studying Hartwin’s face. There was a flicker of recognition in him, and he nodded firmly. He would not let himself hope for something that was likely just his imagination. Farrier turned and walked away, back towards the barracks. He was suddenly yearning for Collins. He wanted to lay in the younger man’s arm, he wanted to just sit and watch the snow. It was on days like those he craved the familiarity of home— although, to be completely honest, he was unsure if it would carry the familiarity he wanted. Was it possible for the camps to be more familiar than his own home?
No. Farrier may not have his home, but he would never accept a prisoner of war camp as a new home. Collins would be his home, and he would be his, and that would be everything and nothing. Fuck, he can’t wait to see Collins.
Back at the barracks, Collins had ended up sitting just outside the doorway during sentry duty. He smoked and watched the men outside until Farrier returned. The older man had his head bowed and his shoulders hunched in the snow, and he did not see Collins until he was almost on top of him. When he did spot the younger man, though, he smiled and stopped beside him. “If it isn’t sleeping beauty.”
“Piss off,” Collins laughed, and it was an actual laugh. Farrier seemed happy at that, and the crow’s feet around his eyes deepened with his smile. The two men watched others make their way through the snow for a long time until Farrier spoke again. “How are the nightmares?”
The Scottish pilot’s smile fell to a frown, and he shrugged. A bird sang in one of the dead trees above them. “Same as usual. Donnae really know how I am meant to handle this here.”
Farrier nodded, lighting up a cigarette and watching the camp. The sun shone down from between the clouds and reflected off of the snow. When the older man spoke, it was quiet with the need to keep his memories soft. “When I was younger, my mother would never let us go beyond the gate. She’d tell me how dangerous it was, how I could never know who I would run into out there.”
Collins nodded. He leaned just a tad closer to hear everything easier. “I watched that fence a lot. I still remember how it looked, how it felt beneath my hands. I think I remember that more than my actual home, aye? And one day, sometime in a winter just like this, I managed to get out and over the fence.”
“Where did you go?” Collins asked, and it was a question with many layers. Layers about the story of the fence and the resentment towards Farrier’s mother, of course, but also questions about that morning. Farrier seemed to realize, but only pursed his lips and answered the more obvious of the two questions. “I walked and I walked, if only to feel the wind carrying me along, right? It feels difference, the wind, when you’re free. Its as if a thousand options have suddenly made themselves aware, and you can choose any which one of them. As I was walking along the road, towards who knows what. I remember seeing three planes, old ones that were flown during the Great War. They were flying along towards London, and I was stuck on the ground wondering how anything that marvelous could be so free.”
“And then it ended, as all good things do, I suppose. It ended and my mother found me and I never went outside that fence again until I was sixteen. Seven years makes you forget a lot of things, but I never really forgot the way the planes flew, or the way the wind made me feel like a free man.” Farrier took a deep inhale of his cigarette and shivered in the cold. Collins watched and felt a small smile pull at his lips, not enough that it would draw Farrier out of his thoughts, but enough that he himself noticed. Farrier continued after a moment, his eyes closing. “Maybe that was when I decided I wanted to be a pilot.”
“Aye, sounds like it,” Collins cleared his throat and gently reached out, touching Farrier’s sleeve. The movement made Farrier smile, and he turned to Collins with a renewed vigor in his eyes. “The moral of that story is that we are not going to give up until we escape that fence. Over, or under, and do whatever it takes to get home.”
There was only a moment more between them before they were interrupted. Carmine appeared suddenly in front of them, his collar popped up in an attempt to shield his face from the sharp wind. Farrier gave Collins one last smile before standing up and following Carmine at his beckoning, mumbling three quick words as he left. As they left, Collins heard Carmine mumble ‘how is he?’ and his stomach sank. It was only when he heard Farrier’s response of ‘good for someone in his position’ that he felt somewhat better.
He sat for a bit longer before he was interrupted again. Footsteps appeared beside him and he lifted his head to see Nielsen. The man avoided his gaze, skipping down the steps and beginning to walk away. He paused before he was too far away, turning and staring at Collins. Collins quickly averted his eyes, taking a deep inhale of his cigarette.
“You alright?” Collins looked back up and stared at Nielsen. The man had his hands shoved in his pockets, and his eyes were devoid of emotion. He watched Collins carefully, though, and he was almost certain there was a flicker of empathy in the man’s eyes. Collins shrugged, then nodded, then spoke. “Suppose so. And yourself?”
“Why did you do it?” Nielsen asked, ignoring his companion’s question, and Collins instinctively crossed his arms in front of himself. The situation reminded him of when he and Al had argued, and he did not want that to happen again. He didn’t even want to talk to Nielsen, but the two had drifted apart since their arrival in the camp, and Collins missed him. He glanced over towards Farrier and Carmine, and turned back with pursed lips. “I couldn’t let more men die when I could do something about it. You didn’t try to stop me.”
“I was still reeling from Bernard’s death.” The name sent a stab of pain through Collins’ chest, and he clenched his jaw and turned away. There was an insurmountable guilt in his chest, and he frowned as he blinked away tears that seemed to come all too easy. “I figured.”
There was an obvious anger in Nielsen’s eyes at Collins’ words, and he bit back an apology. He shook his head and turned away, swallowing and biting his tongue until he felt blood. The conversation was obviously not going the way either man wanted it to, but both continued speaking in low tones. It would have happened at one point or another, in all honesty, and Collins knew that. He just wished it didn’t have to.
“You don’t have to be a hero, Collins,” Nielsen’s words were chosen carefully, his eyes flickering over his old friend’s face. “You don’t need to do any of this.”
“Who will I be if I don’t try?” An honest question, in his opinion. One he didn’t want an answer to.
Nielsen rolled his eyes, turning away. “You’ll be a survivor, Collins.”
Later that day, the soldiers came for Collins. His chest tightened with the sight, and he unconsciously reached for Farrier’s sleeve. The older man clenched his jaw and made eye contact with Collins, but couldn’t stop them from taking his companion. Collins stood, ignoring the gazes that were all on him. The two soldiers each took one of his arms, guiding him out of the barracks and down the path towards the interrogation buildings.
Collins lifted his head and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to catch whatever sun he could as it appeared between clouds. His guards shifted directions, and Collins followed after slipping in the mud that seemed to coat the entire camp. The clouds were dark and spoke of an upcoming storm, but maybe he was just insane and wanted some excuse for more rain or snow. It would remind him even more of home, in a twisted way.
He opened his eyes, and they weren’t going to the building. He swallowed and looked around, at the small area behind the barracks they had stopped in. One of the guards disappeared, humming softly as he positioned his gun back over his shoulder. Collins kept his hands behind his back, no matter how much it hurt to do so. His entire body still ached from the week in the cooler, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if they were actually going to kill him right them.
They didn’t.
Collins watched as a figure stepped out from behind one of the buildings, his eyes immediately catching sight of the red scarf that seemed to always adorn the figure. The guard on his other side said something in German, and Hartwin replied before his other guard left. And then it was just Collins and Hartwin, standing apart and watching each other uneasily.
Finally, Collins was too curious to stay silent. “Why did you help me?”
“I was asked to.” Hartwin moved closer, his rifle resting on his back. He was smoking, and Collins could smell the smoke of it all the way from his side of the area. It made him crave a cigarette— something he didn’t have due to chain smoking all of the ones Farrier gave him. The scarf was tied around Hartwin’s neck instead of his arm. Like a hand, slowly choking him to death. “And besides, you did the right thing, stealing the medicine to rescue those men.”
“What is this?” He was rightfully suspicious. He still expected to be shot, after all. Hartwin chuckled, shaking his head. He was friendly, but in the way a dog wanting food was. Ready to take it from you at a moment’s notice, friendly for the effect. Collins didn’t trust him in any scenario. “I’ve never heard of kraut soldiers kidnapping POWs and killing them behind buildings.”
“Because that’s not what will happen.” Hartwin promised, and still Collins did not trust him. He slowly let his hands fall back to his sides, though, and hesitantly watched everything happen. His eyes were dark and looked around the area quickly, as if he could determine where his death might come from. Collins listened carefully as Hartwin said, “You deserve an explanation, and, because I doubt Farrier would give you an honest one, I am here.”
“Explanation of what?”
Hartwin hesitated, his eyes darting towards the buildings. He was just as wary as Collins was, although for completely different reasons. “You remember I helped you in the cooler, yes?”
Collins nodded. Hartwin sighed. “I might’ve explained some of it then, but I don’t truly remember. In my honest opinion, I think that what the Nazis are doing—” he lowered his voice, forcing Collins to walk closer, “—is horrible and disgusting. You are just men, the same as I am.”
“Then why do you work for them?” Collins felt his accusatory tone was deserving. He frowned and tilted his head. “Seems like you’re adding to their disgusting behaviors, as you put it.”
“I had no choice,” Hartwin snapped. Collins clenched his jaw and held back the words he had heard far too many times. You always have a choice. Canfield had said them to him so many times they could’ve been engraved into his skull for all he cared. Hartwin didn’t stop. “The best way I could rebel, could actually do something to defy them, was to work from the inside out. I was posted here, went up the ranks until we got here. Farrier was the first one I nursed back to health, also in the cooler. I helped him from then on, because I thought it would do something. I thought I was helping, that I was a part of something bigger.”
“And were you?” Collins slowly hid his anger, tucking it so far back that it would never be a problem. Hartwin stared at the ground for a moment, defeat plaguing his features before he replied. “No. I thought wrong, it seems.”
He quickly continued before Collins could interrupt. “But I can still help you, Collins. I’ll give you time for your response, of course, but please think it through. If I help you, you have a better chance of escaping. Every operation needs a man on the inside, ja?”
Collins watched, his reply on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed thickly and turned, looking around at the wintery landscape. Snow crunched under his boots, and Collins took a deep breath of cold winter air.
The rest of the secret meeting went surprisingly well.
Collins returned to the barracks silently, finding Farrier as soon as he could. It was evening, and he would need to take a shower, but he would do that after everyone left for the night. He swallowed and sat in silence, understanding why Farrier had been so uneasy about the topic. He thought about the soldier with the red scarf— Hartwin, he reminded himself— and how much he played into everything.
“Where did ye get this?” Collins asked, incredulous as Williams laid out the bottles of alcohol on the table. It wasn’t a wide variety, and there were only three (barely enough for their own barracks), but it was alcohol and that was what he needed to get himself out of the slump he had been stuck in.
Williams grinned, and for a moment it was as if the old man was back, “They left it right outside one of their rooms, just waiting for someone to steal it. Why, they looked so lonely, I couldn’t help but take them.”
Most of the men erupted into laughter and cheers, and Collins watched Farrier as the older man watched everything in shock. He hadn’t been a drinker since the war started; while other men used it to cope, he focused only on his work. Alcohol, while distracting, would only dull his senses. He would not let any man die on his watch. Collins, meanwhile, was in such a state from the firing squad that he thought alcohol was the only thing that could help him. Not something he would ever say in any other scenario, or really any other time.
Farrier and Carmine had left soon after the alcohol was opened, saying they needed to focus on working. Collins had watched Farrier leave, feeling like a kicked puppy and angered over his hopes that they would drink together. Instead, he ended up waiting and watching until he was certain nobody would take a third bottle, then swooping in to take it for himself. His hand trembled as he opened it, and he was nearly certain that he would drop the bottle.
And so Collins descended into a few hours of drinking and watching the snow fall.
By one or two in the morning, most of the men had gone to bed. Williams and Jenkins laughed about something, loud and obnoxious in their drunkenness. The snow had started to fall again outside, and some of the men worried that it would ended up collapsing the tunnel.
Collins sat on the edge of his bunk, thinking about everything that had happened that day and in the days leading up to it. Was there really any cause for celebration? Men were dead and escape was no closer. He drank from the bottle, staring out the window at the snow and the blurry outline of the fence at the edge of the camp. He would have a horrible hangover, he knew that for a fact. There would be a hangover and it would be so very painful. The young man only stopped drinking, though, when Farrier sat down across from him and took the bottle.
“This is for celebrating,” Farrier remarked, studying the little liquid left in the bottle. He didn’t seem to be judging, in Collins’ opinion. He was also teetering on the edge of exhaustion and passing out, though, so his opinion was likely ass. “Have you drank all of this? Christ, Jack, I hope you can hold your liquor.”
He didn’t reply, instead reaching back out for the bottle. Farrier shook his head, taking a swig from it himself. His eyes squeezed shut in disgust, but he didn’t hand the bottle back. “I’m not gonna let you drink yourself to death, even if you feel like shit. Remember?” He leaned close, catching Collins’ gaze. “We get out of here together, Jack, or we don’t get out at all. I’m not leaving you again.”
“Promise?” Promises were stupid. Collins felt stupid making them. He still asked, though, and Farrier still replied “yes,” with a smile. Collins nodded, giving the older man a hint of the smile as he was coerced into going to bed. Eventually he agreed, and laid down in order to try to sleep off the alcohol. He had always tried to stay away from the stuff, but that night must have gotten to him. He must have realized the depth of his situation, and he must have realized how truly fucked they were.
He didn’t really care, though, since he had Farrier.
Besides, they were almost free.