Chapter Text
The elation of success cut short.
A series of loud, rapid, collisions out of nowhere.
Sudden blinding light.
Heat. And the crackle of flames.
Searing pain.
Blackness.
Anthony came back to awareness slowly.
First there was the awful taste in his mouth, like iron, dry and cottony.
Then there was the feel of fabric under his hands; it was soft but oddly stiff, like it had been starched. He suddenly realised he was lying down on the starchy fabric. It must be a hospital bed.
Ohhhh. That did make sense, didn’t it.
He tried to open his eyes but they weren’t quite cooperating with him.
Oh well then. He tried listening instead.
He couldn’t really hear anything, but unlike his eyes it didn’t seem like he couldn’t hear. It was just that there was nothing to hear. It was quiet, no beeping or buzzing. No electronics at all.
That was odd, wasn’t it? If he was in a hospital bed shouldn’t there be a machine monitoring his vitals? Or maybe it was a new model, quieter than the normal ones or something.
He laid there for a while, drifting in and out. He was gradually getting more concerned about the fact he couldn’t open his eyes, but his emotions were comfortingly far away from him, a haze of what he believed were most likely painkillers keeping the dread away.
Eventually it occurred to him to try and feel what was stopping his eyes from opening. He tried to pull a hand up to his face to see if he could feel what was wrong.
But it wouldn’t move.
He tugged again, more urgently, then tried his other hand. There was nothing wrong with his arms, he could feel the flex and clench of the muscles in his hands and the way they pulled away from the mattress. But there was something wrapped up around his wrists; restraints of some kind. He’d been tied to the bed.
Now that was enough to pierce through the drug induced stupor.
He made a small noise, a call out into the world beyond the blackness he was cocooned within. It hurt. He hadn’t realised how rough and dry his throat was. And it wasn’t a loud noise, just a cracking wheeze. He tried again.
“…elp.” He croaked.
Nothing happened.
An overwhelming feeling of helplessness flowed through him. He was tied down. Alone. He didn’t know where he was. No one could hear him. And he couldn’t see.
His breaths started to come shorter and faster. He blinked, moisture pooling around his closed eyelids. He couldn’t help but whimper, short gasps interspersed with attempts to speak.
Time meant little to him in the spiral he was trapped in. He wasn’t paying attention to the sound of distant footsteps slowly getting closer, the tread of even measured strides breaking for a moment as they came within earshot, before resuming in a hastier fashion.
Anthony did hear the sound of an old wooden door creaking open, interrupting him from his thoughts. He looked up in the direction of the noise, unseeingly.
“Help.” He cried, almost at a normal level. He felt the air shift in the room as a figure swept to his side and took his hand. He squeezed it immediately, taking note of its size and roughness.
“Shhh. There, there. There’s no need for that now old chap.” A low, deep, voice crooned. The mattress sank on one side as the man sat down.
“I c- can’t see.” Anthony couldn’t help but sob, pushing himself forward towards whoever this man was. His forehead collided with a solid feeling shoulder, and he let out another whimper and flinch as pain radiated out from the side of his head. The man let out a sympathetic noise and Anthony felt his other hand rubbing Anthony’s shoulder comfortingly.
“Oh dear now, not the best idea that I’m afraid. You’ve taken quite the knock there when you were shot down. But it’s not as bad as all that. It’s only the one eye, old man, they just wrapped them both up for the moment. It’ll be alright in the end, don’t you worry.”
Anthony gasped sharply, pain and fear racing through him. Was he actually blind? He could feel himself starting to shake.
“Oh no. No, no, no, no.” The man backtracked rapidly. “I didn’t mean to – it’s really alright, I promise. I mean, look here, you’re not even German!” He ended in an oddly upbeat tone.
This statement was so strange it made Anthony pause his panicking in sheer confusion, looking up to where he thought the man’s face was.
“…What?”
“Yes! Well, we thought you were a bomber pilot you see, so we were a little unsure what to do in the aftermath. I wasn’t really thinking when I pulled you out of the plane, I just sort of, well, acted, and then the Major said -well never mind that now. Anyway, you’re clearly not a Jerry, so we don’t need to worry about all of that do we? Oh! So that means…” He trailed off, but Anthony could feel those large, warm fingers manipulating the restraints around him wrists, loosening them and slipping them off.
Anthony pulled away, feeling his hands and arms. He paused when he made contact with the edge of what felt like a bandage, poking out from the edge of a shirt cuff. He slowly made his way up his arm, feeling the added bulk wrapped around his arm beneath soft cotton. His fingers made contact with it again where the shirt ended in a collar, before another bandage began, wrapping around the side of his face, head, and eyes.
“…Is it my entire left side?” He asked, swallowing heavily and being reminded how much his throat hurt as well and how unpleasant his mouth tasted.
“It’s not as bad as all that, really.” The man said in a more subdued voice. He felt a hand smooth down the back of his head once. It felt nice. But then it jerked away, and moved back to rubbing his shoulder.
“Something exploded in your cockpit and you were showered in shrapnel. But that bodysuit you were wearing absorbed most of the damage to your arm and torso, and it didn’t hit your neck, luckily enough. You have some burns but they’re mostly superficial according to the doctor. You’ll have some scarring - can’t be helped - and they couldn’t check your hearing while you were unconscious of course. But you’ve been responding to me well enough, and there doesn’t seem to be any brain trauma.”
“…And my eye?” Anthony asked, quietly.
“…Too soon to tell.” The man responded, just as quietly. “They wrapped both up so that the movement from the healthy one wouldn’t… wouldn’t do more damage.”
Anthony took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out shakily though his mouth. They sat together quietly for a few moments. Anthony felt the man’s thumb rub circles in the top of his hand.
“Is there anything I can do for you right now?” The man asked him.
“…Some water would be nice, please.”
“Of course.” He felt the man’s presence slip away from him. He immediately missed it. He felt adrift, sat up in this strange bed, in a strange room, in the dark. He didn’t even know when-
He jerked up, staring into nothing as yet another round of shock went through him.
Oh God.
Jerry.
Bomber pilot.
“This is the bloody Second World War isn’t it?” he blurted out in a hoarse voice.
“Um… well, yes, I suppose you could call it that. I haven’t really thought about what we were calling this war. Usually something people worry about once it’s finished, normally, isn’t it?” Across the room Anthony heard the sound of glass, and water being poured.
“And I got shot down by the RAF because they thought I was a German bomber. Well that’s…”
He trailed off, unable to articulate how utterly fucked he was.
“…I assume my – plane… I assume it’s completely destroyed?”
“More or less yes, I’m afraid. You crashed into the woods - almost added a nasty fall to your list of injuries, you were hanging there, and the fire was growing... but luckily I got there fast enough. I released the catch on your restraints, caught you on the way down, and managed to carry you away before it, um, well I suppose exploded is the correct word. I was worried the entire forest was going to burn down but the men organised themselves into a bucket chain from the lake, while I was, er, occupied with you.”
He heard the steps cross the room and felt the chill of a glass pressed into his hands.
Anthony sighed heavily in resignation. “I see. Well, thank you anyway, for saving my life.” Anthony murmured.
He raised the glass to his mouth and sipped slowly, letting the liquid swirl around his mouth and throat. Next to him the man sputtered, making odd dismissive noises. “Think nothing of it.” He clapped him on the shoulder gently, sitting down next to him on the bed again.
They sat quietly together again, the pain those drugs had been keeping at bay lapping back slowly into his awareness. The other man wasn’t touching Anthony anymore but he could feel the warmth of his body and the weight of him on the bed close to him. He imagined the man was watching him. After a moment another thing occurred to Anthony.
“Are you a soldier?”
“Yes. I’m the C.O of the regiment here. Button House. Hertfordshire. In case you didn’t know.” Well, at least he was still in the same country. Small mercies. Anthony shuddered and pushed the thought of being trapped in Nazi Germany forcefully out of his mind.
“What’s your name?”
“Captain Bond. James Bond.” Anthony chuckled softly.
“What? What is it?” Captain Bond said, sounding confused. Anthony smiled, shaking his head.
“Nothing, sorry. It’s just the main character of this book I read had that name.”
“Oh, I see. And what’s um, what’s your name?”
“Anthony.”
“It’s. Um. It’s nice to meet you. Anthony.”
“Likewise, James. Sorry,” he added immediately, “that’s probably not appropriate, is it, I should be calling you Captain.”
“No, no. It’s um. It’s perfectly alright.”
“Alright. James.” Anthony took the opportunity to lean into James’ solid form. James didn’t pull away.
So he was blind and in pain and suspected of being an enemy agent in the 1940s with his only transportation completely blown up.
But it wasn’t all bad.