Work Text:
August 1981
He and Owain sat side by side against the hut. “So, Mr Ratty,” Owain says. “You’re old enough to get out of here, get a job. D’you have one already?”
“I’ve just done my A Levels. I’ll get my results soon. I want to go to university.”
“I left at sixteen. Did my O Levels and some CSEs. Where do you want to go to university?”
“Aberdeen. I want to do medicine.”
Owain chuckled. “Away from here?”
“Away from here. Over to the mainland, I want to be.” He froze, realising what he’d said, but Owain didn’t seem to notice. “I don’t know if I’ll get it. I have to get three Bs.”
“You’ll get it.”Fergus said nothing and Owain elbowed him. “Fergus.” He looked up. “You’re smart, smarter than me. You’ll get it. Away from here.” Owain grinned, suddenly close. There were a lot of freckles on his nose. “Away from here, Doctor McCann.”
June 1986
Fergus comes down the corridor slowly. It had been two days after his last exam and he had been left to wander around the campus with nothing much to do except pack. And wait on his application letter to train at the Aberdeen Royal Infirmary or the Royal Edinburgh Hospital. And run. And wait. He has a meeting this evening, but nothing else to do.
“I don’t know where he is right now,” says Bethan, “but I don’t think he would mind if you waited outside his dorm. Or in it even, if you say that you’re friends.”
“We were once, about five years ago. We lost contact.”
The voice sounds kind of familiar and Fergus slows. Owain is dead. He is. He stops just before the bend in the corridor and keeps on listening.
“Are you Welsh?” Bethan asks brightly.
“Ie,” says the man, the man who sounds like Owain. He then says a whole jabbering sentence or sentences even that Fergus doesn’t understand, but it sounds a bit like Gaelic, that they had to learn in primary school.
Bethan laughs and says something back. “Casnewydd,” she says and keeps on going.
Fergus, because he can’t eavesdrop forever, turns the corner.
And sees Owain.
Owain is a bit taller, a bit stockier, with a tan and a small scar by his right ear. Most of all though, he’s alive.
“There’s more than one Owain in the Welsh infantry,” Owain says mildly, like he’s afraid Fergus’ going to explode or something. He is sitting on Fergus’ desk chair, elbows on his knees. “It’s a very common name, like John or Bill. My name is Owain Jenkins. The second Owain Jenkins. They called me Owain II. I don’t know how many Jenkins there were in my unit. More than me and the other Jenkins, definitely.”
Fergus huffs out a breath and doesn’t say anything. Owain goes on.
“I went to find you, after I found out about your uncle. I went and there was no one there, except two girls, your sister...Cath and Theresa?”
“Yeah.”
“They said you’d gone. You were studying medicine in Aberdeen now. They were very nice your sisters, gave me tea. Then your mam and your da came back. They said that you’d gone. They gave me an address, I just never had the balls to write. I couldn’t visit. Then, we got shipped out.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Germany for a bit, then Cyprus. I trained up as an MP, got stationed in Scotland. The Redford barracks near Edinburgh. This is my first leave. I thought I might come looking for you, see how you were shaping up.”
He looks at Fergus expectantly with blue eyes. This Owain, who has been places, is different to the man, the boy, he knew. Then again, he suspects that he is not quite the same person he was either, five years ago. He has so many questions, but the first out of his mouth is: “What’s an MP?”
“A military policeman. We chase criminals who are in the army. I was training to be one when you met me.”
He puts his head in his hands.
“Fergus?” There’s a light touch at his elbow – Christ, how does he move so fast? – “Did I upset you? Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” his voice breaks a little. “No, I’m fine.”
Owain doesn’t notice, or at least pretends he doesn’t notice when Fergus sits up and scrubs his eyes.
“Edinburgh’s a long way from here.”
“Eh?” Owain looks relieved at Fergus' lack of anger. “I don’t mind. I’ve got leave and nothing to do. I thought if I couldn’t find you I’d at least see Aberdeen.”
“We don’t have any slag heaps here.”
“I know, it’s amazing.” His mouth quirks and Fergus smiles back. It feels natural, falling back into this banter, whatever this friendship was, after five years. It feels more genuine a friendship than most of those he’s made in Aberdeen. Then again, he hasn’t told any of his Scottish friends that his brother once went on hunger strike. None of his friends here know that Uncle Tally was a Provo bomb maker. Was once.
“How long are you here for?”
“As long as you’ve got. Are you a doctor yet, then?”
“I’ve just finished my exams. I’m waiting on my results.”
“You are a doctor.”
“Not yet.”
“Yes you are.”
“Alright,” Fergus concedes defeat and stands up. He might have something to do with his day now. “How much have you seen of Aberdeen? I can give you a tour. Also, I want to know what Germany was like, and Cyprus.”
“Alright, Doctor McCann,” Owain says and follows him out the door.
They eat toasted cheese and ham sandwiches at a small cafe. After they both push their plates back, Mrs Mulhaire comes by with a plate of chips, on the house. She’s a second generation Irish immigrant who seems to think that it’s her life mission to feed Fergus up.
Owain tells stories of drunken soldiers who are idiots (but do funny things) and the glorious Greek islands and wholesome German food.
“Here,” he pushes the chip basket towards Owain. “Are you just spending your leave here? What about your family, down in the Valleys?”
His face twists. “Me mam’s dead and so’s my da. Both my sisters married miners who want nothing to do with me and my brother wants nothing to do with me either.”
Fergus sits there. “Do you want to talk about it?” Being a doctor isn’t just about physical things, it’s about mental health as well. A bit.
“Nah,” Owain rocks his chair on his back two legs. His mouth twists in a grin. “How’s your brother?”
“We don’t talk very often now.”
Owain nods: “Want to talk about it?”
“There isn’t much to talk about, really.” He looks up. It’s getting dark. “Where are you staying, Mr Bow Wow?”
Owain grins. “Nowhere. I didn’t know if you’d want to talk to me. I thought I would bunk down in a cheap hotel. Can you recommend any?”
“No. There’s room at mine. Where’s your bag?”
“Back when I knew you, you were never such a mother hen.”
“Yeah, well maybe that’s because I know now that I’m—”. He stops.
“You’re what?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” If the police are bigoted, imagine what soldiers must be like. Then, imagine what a soldier and a policeman combined together must be like. “I’m going to go steal Bethan’s roll-mat. My one isn’t enough on its own.”
Bethan is downstairs, reading The Handmaiden’s Tale. He explains the problem and she grins at him, showing teeth. “Why not share the bed?” she says. “He’s cute, yeah.”
“It’s not like that. He’s just a friend.”
“I don’t mind. I told you, me brother Tomas is just like you. Be quiet though.”
“He’s a policemen, Beth. Policemen beat up people like me.” He is thinking of Sean, who ended up with two cracked ribs.
“But he’s nice,” Beth says. “He likes you. Are you going to the meeting tonight?” Beth doesn’t go because she is not like Fergus, but she knows about them.
“No, I thought I’d stay in. Can I have the roll mat, please?”
“In a minute,” she says, dog-earing the page.
When he comes back up, Owain is reading one of his first year med textbooks. “You know all this?” Owain says, waving the book.
“Yeah,” he shuts the door.
“Okay,” Owain says. “Scapula.”
“Shoulder blade.” (Owain’s shoulder blades sharp out of his shirt.)
“Clavicle.”
“Collarbones.” (The hollow of his throat, the delicate knobs of bone.)
“Zygoma.”
“Cheekbone.” (Owain’s freckles.)
“I give up.” Owain throws the book down. “You know it all, Doctor McCann.”
Fergus doesn’t correct him this time.
That night he dreams of Joe gaunt and pale, laughing and when he laughes, Fergus sees a skull. Uncle Tally, smiling. Fergus sees a skull. Practical class at med school – the long pink intestines. Tick tick tick. The loud explosions. The empty mountains. Owain, playing the trumpet. The list of names in the newspaper. The beginning and the ending (of all sorrow). A hole in the ground. Joe climbs out and he—
Fergus wakes up stiff with sweat in bed. He hasn’t dreamt like this in ages. Maybe it’s Owain coming back, maybe it’s stress about his marks. He wants to get up and run it off, but he can’t move without disturbing Owain, who’s lying on the floor. Wait. Is he?
“You had a nightmare.” Owain leans over.
Fergus says nothing.
“I know what people are like if they’re having one. I’m a soldier. I have them.”
“I don’t know why I’m having them.”
“Seeing Ireland? Your brother? Family? Uncle?”
“Yeah.”
“Budge over.”
Fergus ends up lifting the covers and moving over a little. Owain settles beside them, tucks them both back in. “Why are you doing this?” He asks.
“I was in the Falkland’s. I was in Cyprus, I was in Germany.” Owain never mentioned the Falkland’s before.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“You’re my friend.” There is something fierce in Owain’s voice.
“Thank you,” he says instead of arguing.
When he wakes up, he is warm. This is the first time he had been in bed with someone in over a year. His last boyfriend was Phil, a third year geologist. Last he heard, Phil was married and his wife was expecting.
But Owain is cuddling up behind him, his back to Owain’s front and Owain’s arms around his waist. He would try to think nothing of it, maybe soldiers have to share close quarters all the time and Owain is just used to this, but he can feel the hardness pushing against his thigh. He doesn’t say or do anything, just lies there.
As he is drifting off, Owain pushes closer a bit, nose brushing the nape of Fergus’ neck. He mutters something, a bit like “Cariad,” and stills again.
Fergus, not quite awake, goes back to sleep.
When he wakes up, the sun is shining through the window (he is sure he closed the curtains last night) and Owain is gone.
He isn’t actually. Owain is sitting on the edge of Fergus’ bed, reading The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales.
“You’re awake,” Owain says. His face lifts, eyes bright in the sun. “This is a funny book you have here. Interesting, mind.”
Fergus sits up, stretches. “Someone in my practical class suggested it. I like it. D’you want to go get breakfast or eat cheap cornflakes here?”
“Eh?” Owain’s face is a bit glazed over.
“Breakfast, Owain. Do you want it?”
Owain blinks. “Yeah.”
They don’t talk about last night, about the nightmares.
He corners Bethan in the tiny kitchen while Owain sits at the living room table, eating (cheap) cornflakes. “Can I ask you about a Welsh word?” He tries to whisper; Owain doesn’t seem to notice.
“Fire away.”
“Uh...cariad.” He says it a bit louder than intended.
Bethan’s mouth quirks. “It means love, dear, like an endearment.”
Fergus looks over at Owain. His shoulders are hunched up, tense and he seems to be eating faster too.
“Thanks,” he says and goes to sit back down, opposite Owain. Owain doesn’t look at him. He kicks Owain under the table a bit, because he thinks he understands him, this now. “What do you want to see today, lieutenant?”
“You still want to tour me around?”
“As long as you want. How long do you want to stay?”
“I have a lot of leave saved up. I don’t have anywhere else to go. As long as you want me.”
“I’ll have you.” It feels like a declaration.
Owain smiles, wide and sweet and Fergus, caught up in it all, leans forward, kisses the edge of Owain’s mouth. Owain kisses him back until they knock over the milk.
Two weeks later, without thinking, he opens the top envelope and his future falls out. The Royal Edinburgh Hospital. He shows it to Owain. His future, on the paper and his other future too, smiling at him in the morning sun.