Septiplier One-Shots

No Man Left Behind

*passes out boxes of tissues to everyone* Just take these, you'll need them. All thanks to author144 for this amazingly terrible chapter ;_;

Mark had not been prepared for this war. It had come so suddenly, so inefficiently, so many years ago. People had lost track of how long they'd been fighting, and at this point no one cared. He cared, though. He refused to fight, but he was one of the best medics they had on the front. Sure, he could shoot a gun and defend himself if needed, but he'd healed anyone he'd come across on either side, an injury meant suffering for someone. That wasn't something that Mark liked. He was the daring man to sneak out into No Man's Land, the barren territory between the fighting groups, in the night to heal and take back whoever was stuck out there. Sometimes it was his troops, sometimes he healed others and sent them home. It depended on who he came across.
He got another letter while at home telling him that he needed to be on the Front Lines by that evening, so he travelled all through the day and was welcomed by many soldiers once he arrived. He was well know, for he was well trained and ready to go. He never backed down from an opportunity, and was as brave as the soldiers themselves when he was was sent into the fighting grounds.
Which was exactly where he was sent when he arrived.
Taking what little medical supplies he could fit, Mark suck through the barbed wired areas and through the ground until he found a little crater from an explosion and a man on the inside who was injured. Mark got to work immediately, stitching wounds, removing bullets, wrapping cuts and areas that were bleeding too hard. The man, he learned as he worked, was from the enemy side, and was not a newer soldier, as he had wounds unders his wounds to show his years of fighting. He had longer brown hair, and when his eyes opened the next morning, they were as blue as the sky.
"Where am I?" the man looked around, his gaze landing on Mark who sat next to him, huddling to keep him warm in the night. "Who are you? You're an enemy!" he exclaimed, and Mark simply nodded. The man looked down at where his leg had been previously injured and left him unable to move, and found it bandaged and healing. He stared at Mark for several seconds. "I'm not even on your side, why did ya help me?" His Irish accent became more prominent the clearer his voice rang out, and Mark gave him a weak smile.
"War causes casualties, and families from both sides are affected roughly. I feel like one less death is one less person hurt. That's winning in my book." Mark looked the man up and down before reaching out a hand. "We're in No Man's Land and probably won't be able to move for awhile, so we might as well get acquainted, I'm Mark."
"Jack." The Irishman shook his hand carefully, looking at Mark still.
"Jack, nice name." Mark dipped his head. "If you're going to kill me, please just do it now. I understand why you would, but don't elongate my little time left alive." Jack seemed taken aback by these words, and instead stared at Mark a few moments more before responding.
"Mark, you saved my life. I owe you at least living to return to your own side." Jack scoffed, and Mark smiled at him.
"We may be stuck here, but I think we'll get along swimmingly."

~~~~

The pair had been stuck there for almost a week straight. They sat in nothing but one another's company, talking about their hometowns and what they did in their freetime. Mark learned everything about Jack, his favorite color, where he was from, how he got into the war. All the things that made Jack who he was, and all the things that Mark had begun to fall for. He couldn't help it with someone like Jack, and the Irishman couldn't quite contain himself either.
It was normal for soldiers to be stuck out in No Man's Land, but they had been out there an awfully long time. As much as they didn't want to leave one another, they knew that they could not stay either. Both sides beckoned their return, and Jack was growing restless to make sure that his leg was working properly. Mark checked on him everyday, and Jack was more than grateful every time.
"This is against the rules on so many levels, ya know." Jack stated, and Mark looked up from his work and over the brim of his glasses.
"What is?" he asked in confusion, and Jack kissed him ever so gently as a response. "Oh, yah." Mark agreed, trying to hide the crimson coloring his face. "Soon we'll have to head back to our own sides.." he faltered in despair, and Jack only held the man close.
Mark was a medic for his side, and never in his life did he think he'd fall for someone of the opposition, let alone a soldier, let alone a man at that. But whatever had happened, Mark thanked fate for dropping him into this war to help this Irishman. They could understand each other on several levels, all levels almost, and Jack was a happy spirit to be around.
But it could not last forever.
"Jack, its time to go." Mark awoke the Irishman quietly in the night. Jack's eyes opened, and the pair sat up very slowly, peering out of the crater. It was deathly silent outside, and a crystal clear night. Both lines were watching carefully most likely.
"Mark, there's no way we'll make it out of here." Jack observed, looking around. "But we can't wait either. Its starve or get shot, which do you choose?"
"Don't think like that." Mark scolded softly, grabbing his hand and holding it close. "We'll both make it out of here." Mark bravely stood up, looking around. When no one fired at him, he made tentative movements to crawl out of the crater. A loud crack echoed through the air and the dirt next to Mark's hands erupted into the air, causing the man to drop down. He was shaking, and Jack grabbed him, holding him close.
"Mark, don't make stupid decisions like that!" Jack chided, his own voice shaky from fear.
"We'll never make it." Mark said, faltering. "Oh I never gave my mother a proper goodbye, what will she think? Oh Jack, what are we going to do?" Mark asked, his voice growing quieter and quieter. Jack thought for a moment, letting the bullets that were flying overhead disappear into nothing. Mark looked at Jack as he stood, and watched with wide eyes. The Irishman looked around carefully, and then pulled Mark to his feet. He grabbed Mark's hands, pushing something into them as he kissed Mark in a rough, but also gentle manner.
"It's time to return the favor. Be safe, Mark." Jack whispered, and then Mark could only watch in pure horror as the man crawled from the hole and sprinted away. Mark's muscles moved as Jack had instructed, carrying him towards his own border as Jack sprinted the opposite way. When the bullets began firing, Mark risked turning and watched as the only other person up an about hit the ground.
By the time Mark had reached his own line of defense, he was sobbing, unable to control it or breathe. He had his hands over his mouth to stifle the noise, and he ran into the woods on his own, hunkering down behind a large tree. Jack was gone. Jack had loved him, been there for him, and risked his life so that Mark could live. No, correction, GAVE his life so that Mark could live. Shakily, Mark looked into his hands and found what Jack had left him.
It was Jack's dog tags.