rareslash | (no subject)

Right, Well. I'm new to this community, I found out about it mainly through looking for some decent Great Escape fics... I come bearing fanfiction. It's poor, but still ^^ I'm usually a Danny/Willie shipper, but my Best Friend told me to try and write this pairing. I've come to quite like the two of 'em =D

Title: Numb
Author: Kai_the_great
Ship: The Great Escape
Rating: Pg 13
Warnings: Angst, character Death (well... He was already dead but...)
Pairing: Hendley/Blythe
Notes: I don't own this... Please don't sue me. Possibly also the fact that this is quite short too =|

“Was it worth it?” Hendley notices that the taller man chooses not to directly answer this, but looks at the ground and mutters something about ‘It depending how you looked at it’ By now Hendley isn’t listening, he no longer cares about the fifty men that were shot, but about one man. The one man for whose death he feels solely responsible. Blythe. The blind man he allowed to walk straight into the Nazis whilst he just sat there. Hendley’s stomach clenches painfully, he no longer cares, not about the Nazis, nor the war, not even getting out of the camp once more. He knows he’d never make it. If the Germans didn’t get him, guilt would instead. One of the men behind him makes a sympathetic comment, Hendley chooses not to acknowledge it, instead he remains doubled over, eyes squeezed tightly shut, trying to block out the ball of grief sitting in the pit of his stomach. He feels as if he’s about to vomit, he needs to purge himself of the horror and self-hatred which has built up throughout the ride away from near escape, back to where they… (‘he’ Hendley reminds himself, angrily) had begun. The Airman manages to straighten up, his eyes are still clenched shut, he doesn’t trust himself not to break down before the Germans, he’d never want them to see him cry. At that thought, he’d never want anyone to see him cry. There may have once been one person, but he’s gone. ‘The scrounger’ will never rest his eyes upon ‘The Forger,’ never allow himself to replay the full horror of Blythe’s final moments.
On the car journey back to the camp, he’d barely noticed anything. He was numb, drowning in his private sorrows, battling the inner demons, watching through the window, eyes never moving from the spot where the German troops had left the small man, dead in the grass beside the twisted carcass of the German plane.
Without conscious thought his brain has gone into autopilot, allowing his feet to carry him back to his room, eyes avoiding the pitied glances of the other men, the sorrowful eyes that watch him and sympathize. They pretend to know how he feels, what’s going on inside him. None of them speak, they just watch him with attempted understanding eyes. Hendley laughs softly, the sound gets caught within the lump in his throat and he lets out a thick, shuddering snort, feeling slow tears trickle down his face. The American sprints the final steps, unable to control the wet tears dripping down his bloodstained face. He slams the door to the room behind him, and sinks to the floor, the last shreds of his soul evaporating into nothingness as he leans against the door, now howling like an injured wolf. The men outside the door walk past, acting as if nothing is wrong, blocking out the airman’s curses and sobs and continuing with their duties. Within the small room, The American’s soul crumbles.