The Violin – Medic/Scout Inspired by a picture of Scout playing the violin by Ryukus. He hadn’t heard it played in years. Not since before the War, the other war, when he’d still had someone to play it for him. He felt old recalling that last long-ago night in the garden, on a blanket under a blooming apple tree where no one would see, letting the soft tones speak to him as they shared a smile across the bow. They had opened their letters there, black-eagle-embossed, official, two identical draft summons from the same printing press. One still remained, tugged into the case, a single flower carefully smoothed between two folds of the paper. Nothing more now than a memory and the faded scent of summer. He should have sold it, back when it would have saved him starving. He should have burned the letter with its damned hooked cross. But it was all he had left to remind him, and so in all these years he hadn’t… He knew the timbre of the instrument still, the gentle quiver of its notes, even after all this time. The first sound was ephemeral, the merest whisper of music, a ghostly voice calling to him through the quiet of the night. He left his bed where sleep never came easy, followed where it led him. It grew stronger, surer, unseen fingers finding their proper places on the strings as memories came flooding back. His lover’s violin sang for him, no first-time banshee’s scream but sweetly like a serenade, and his heart soared and sang with it. How could he have forgotten this? He walked like in a dream, didn’t see where his bare feet carried him, didn’t feel the cold tiles of the infirmary floor, lost in the swelling crescendo. It lifted him, swept him away, soothed the pain remembrance brought. It wasn’t perfect but so heartfelt, so achingly beautiful it brought tears to his eyes. And then it came to an end, the last note fading into the velvet darkness, and in the silence after there was a sharply indrawn breath. He looked up, through the blur of wet lashes, and Scout was right in front of him. Violin in hand. Frozen in terror. On his desk, the violin case, open, the letter with the flower unfolded. He thought it would have withered, shrivelled up as it dried, hadn’t dared touch it for fear of turning it to dust. But it was still whole, its unblemished petals pearlescent in the faint moonlight from outside, still blooming just like last he saw it, three decades past. A lover’s gift, untouched by time. “Oh shit,†Scout breathed, and his voice was shaking. His hands too, holding out the violin like an offering for Medic to take. “Doc, I’m real sorry, I swear I didn’t mean to, I just saw it lyin’ there and I wanted to see if I could still do it and I’m real fuckin’ sorry—“ The piece he’d played had been unfamiliar. An improvisation, perhaps, a pouring of his soul into the instrument. Medic hadn’t heard anything like it in years, not since the night in the garden, and even then there hadn’t been the same sense of wistful longing. It spoke of love lost… or unrequited. “I didn’t know you played.†His words were very clearly not what Scout had been expecting. Possibly he’d prepared himself for a slap, or a bonesaw, the way he looked like he couldn’t believe it didn’t come. Medic felt a soft smile tug at the corners of his lips. How strange. It had been a long time since he’d felt anything like it. “My ma made me take lessons, but I forgot most of it,†Scout said, still clutching the instrument awkwardly and looking at his feet. “Didn’t want to play for y—anyone if I sucked, that’s why I—and then I saw—“ He paused, blinking hard. “I’m sorry. I guess you fuckin’ hate me now, huh? I shoulda figured you’d have someone writin’ to you.†He swallowed. “I won’t tell nobody if that’s what you’re thinkin’.†Ah. Medic wrapped his hands around Scout’s, steadying their trembling grasp. How unlike the brash cocky runner to see past the letterhead of a lost Reich to what truly mattered, understanding the significance of that single white flower—and playing the violin like it had broken his heart. “Scout,†he said gently, waiting until the young man looked up. “How old do you think that letter is?†In the dark Scout’s eyes were the deepest blue, and suddenly so full of hope his heart clenched to see it. “You play wonderfully,†he continued. It was true, but even so he could see Scout blush. From the compliment, he wondered, or from how his thumbs were brushing over bandaged knuckles, caressing the fingers that cradled the slender neck of the instrument? He realised he wanted to find out, wanted to discover what else made Scout flush with embarrassed delight. His life had been without music long enough. “Would you again? Please?†Scout lifted the violin slowly, like he didn’t want to lose the touch of hands on his. For a moment their eyes met again, and lingered, and the young man smiled at him across the violin bow.