a/n: because i'm a sucker for Tully&Moffitt friendship and Tully!whump. need i say more?

"Doc, get down!"

Before his mind could even comprehend the words a pair of hands shoved him hard, causing him to fall forward onto the sandy ground. In the confusion he didn't catch a glimpse of the madness, the soldier, the gun and the shots. He didn't see the bullets, fired in rapid succession, traveling through the air and hitting the man that had pushed him out of the way with such force that he flew backwards and hit his head on the jeep.

Moffitt reacted without even thinking. His hand flew to his holster, withdrew his pistol, and he aimed and fired the weapon without a second of hesitation, gaining a sort of perverse pleasure from having shot the Jerry that had hurt his friend.

Whirling around, his vision transformed into a black and white photograph with red details. He stared, unable to move, at Tully Pettigrew, his driver, his fellow soldier, his friend, sprawled on the sand with his head lolling and a red circle blossoming on his torso.

He couldn't begin to think about what that could mean. Though he was a soldier and saw death every day, he'd never thought much of it, not in terms of Tully—and Tully didn't die. Tully was always supposed to be there, alive and whole and…

Oh God, Tully.

"Tully." Suddenly Moffitt found himself on his knees next to Tully with no memory of getting there. "Tully, can you hear me? Tully!"

After a few seconds of silence, Moffitt heard a labored breath with a faint moan on the exhale and saw Tully stir, saw his eyes sluggishly open. His relief was so palpable that he could probably cut it with a knife, but then Tully's eyelids fluttered shut again.

Suddenly terrified, Moffitt shook Tully's shoulder the way one should never shake an injured person. "Tully! Tully, answer me!"

"…m'fine, Sarge." Tully's voice was groggy but at that moment it sounded sweeter to the sergeant than a choir of angels.

Suddenly furious, Moffitt pressed down the wound in Tully's side hard, which caused the younger man to release a strangled yell. "You idiot," Moffitt growled, pressing harder to stem the flow of blood that quickly caked his hands in crimson. Tully cried out at the contact, his body writhing in obvious pain. "Damn it, Tully, what were you thinking?"

"Thinking that—agh!—that you were gonna d-die if I…didn't do somethin'," Tully panted, his voice hoarse from the pain and his eyes wide open. "C-couldn't let that happen."

Moffitt's anger, instead of dissipating, flourished. "You didn't have to do that!"

"Wanted to," Tully whispered.

At those words, his anger disappeared like someone blowing out a candle. Tully and his bloody priorities, he thought somewhat fondly. "You took a bullet for me," he said quietly, still bearing down on the wound. "You saved my life."

Tully managed a shrug despite the no doubt excruciating pain he was going through. "You—you w-would've done the…same thing for me."

Not denying it, Moffitt took off his beret and balled it up before putting it in Tully's hand. "Use it to put pressure on your wound," he ordered the younger man, trying to sound like Troy. Tully did so with an audible wince. "I'm going to call Troy and Hitch." he stood, wiping his bloody hands fruitlessly on his pants, and stalked around the jeep. Once he caught a glimpse of their radio, he swore aloud.

"N-not good?" Tully called, sounding like he already knew the answer.

"They shot through the radio." This was fantastic. Now they were stranded in the desert and Tully was hurt badly and they couldn't reach Troy or Hitch or the base. This was just great. Then Moffitt quickly schooled his expression, remembering that he had to put on a brave face for the both of them. "Well…it appears we'll have to wait a little for rescue."

A little while quickly turned into hours. The overwhelming heat of the day faded into biting cold, and Moffitt had no idea how much longer the both of them could hold on. They'd already exhausted their meager water supply and his beret, hands, and shirt sleeves were now soaked in Tully's lifeblood. Pessimism bled into the sergeant's thoughts, and he began to curse himself for not seeing the bullet sooner, the Jerries for ruining their only means of communication.

To pass the hours, they talked about both of their families, of life back home, of anything other than their predicament. They discussed their favorite foods, their favorite books. Halfway through a debate about the Roman Empire, Tully fell silent, and Moffitt nearly had a heart attack because he'd thought Tully had died then and there, but he'd just been considering his rebuttal.

"I'm sorry for all this," Moffitt said for at least the hundredth time that night. Sorry didn't even begin to describe what his feelings were—remorse clouded his vision and he swiped his eyes before Tully could see him. If Tully had stayed strong all this time then so could he.

"S'okay, Sarge." Tully was silent for a moment, then he mumbled, "Y'know, I sh-should c-confess..."

Moffitt's heart thudded to a halt again at the simple words. "What're you talking about?" Good God, was he delirious?

A corner of Tully's mouth lifted, and for a second, Moffitt could pretend that everything was alright, but the semblance of comfort quickly faded, leaving behind the reality that Tully had saved his life, was currently bleeding out from a gunshot wound to the side, and Troy and Hitch were nowhere to be found.

"M'probably not g-going to make it," Tully whispered, but to Moffitt's amazement he was able to detect a tiny vein of humor in the words. "So…n-now would be…a good t-time for con—confession."

"That's not funny, Tully," Moffitt admonished, displeased with Tully for his lack of faith—and then he realized just what a hypocrite he was being, because he didn't exactly have loads of belief in their situation himself. "There's no need for it. We'll be out of here soon, I promise."

"Okay," Tully agreed politely, immediately jerking away to release a few more horrid coughs into the silent air. Moffitt closed his eyes, clasping his hands together and swallowing repeatedly to keep the gut-wrenching nausea that crowded his stomach at bay.

Tully was dying. Tully was dying and it was all his fault.

"Should p-probably c-confess," Tully wheedled, somehow making his statement an offer, like he was doing Moffitt a favor by offering closure before he…

He's not going to die. I may as well humor him. "All right, go ahead if it'll make you feel better," Moffitt conceded, trying to inject a tone of levity into their conversation. "Although I don't know what you could possibly have to confess."

"...t-true." Tully coughed and tried to smile, although it came out as more of a grimace. "...n-not easy...to think of th-things when I'm a—a p-perfect person."

Moffitt actually released a laugh at that statement—but that was Tully's gift, wasn't it? To make people laugh when they felt like they were going to cry, to make everyone feel at ease in an uneasy situation. "I've got time," he replied casually, and then he felt horrible for saying so because it was very possible that Tully didn't.

Tully didn't take offense. "M'guilty for…for loads, Sarge," he whispered hoarsely, all humor gone from his voice. Moffitt couldn't remember the last time he heard his friend be so serious. "I've...I've killed so many people, a-and I know they were b-bad 'cause…'cause they were Jerries. But…but lately…I've been wonderin'…how many of 'em had wives or sweethearts or kids..." He released a horrible cough that jerked him forward. Speckles of blood dotted his lips when he returned to a normal position, and Moffitt quickly looked away. "...and how I t-took their husbands or…or sons or brothers or dads a-away from them. I killed 'em in cold blood, w-without even thinking about it."

Despite himself, he was slightly stunned by the weight of Tully's admission. He'd never thought about it like that—he'd always considered it war, to kill or be killed. But now—now he'd probably never pull the trigger the same way again. How long had Tully been thinking like that? Had these thoughts just began now, since Tully was coming to grips with his mortality, or long ago? How come he'd never asked before?

"Well, it's better than being cold and unfeeling like me," he answered after a few moments.

Tully, instead of bitterly refusing his admittance, seemed to carefully consider Moffitt's words. "S'okay," he finally murmured, very softly. "I know wh-what you don't say."

The desert was silent again save for a slight clicking noise, and Moffitt suddenly realized that Tully was violently shivering, so much that his teeth were actually chattering. He's probably going into shock. Without another word on the subject, he wrapped his arms tightly around the younger man and hauled him close, as if he could transfer his body heat to Tully by pure force. As if he could keep Tully alive by willing it to be so.

"J-just felt like a hug, Doc?" Tully's quip nearly sent Moffitt into hysterics, but he held himself back, knowing that laughter wasn't the response Tully had been seeking.

So he grunted, shifting them both to a more comfortable position against the jeep while trying to think of something to say. Comfort wasn't his strong suit—he'd figured that out long ago and attributed it to his unspeakable Englishness. Quips weren't right either, and he sensed that the time for stories had passed.

The silence was comfortable, and neither of them moved to fill it.

He wasn't really a religious man, but he wasn't an atheist either because he knew that some things were beyond the help of science. Despite his lack of faith, he (and Troy, come to think of it) had a God complex a mile wide, and in order to think he could control the world around him, a belief that something controlled the bigger picture was mandatory.

To him, the idea of God made sense. Religion never had, though, but he was getting desperate because he was in the middle of a warzone and Tully was dying and Troy and Hitch weren't there and the only thing left to do was pray.

Moffitt casted his thoughts to the heavens so they would be translated into prayer. Please, he begged whoever was listening. Please help us.

The night dragged on. Neither of them spoke. Moffitt's eyelids drooped but he kept pinching himself, unable to bear the thought of Tully dying while he was asleep. He could just see Troy's disappointment and Hitch's anger if they found out that he'd been dreaming while Tully had died choking on his own blood.

He'd have thought nightmares would've kept him awake, but to no avail. The umpteenth time he nearly dozed off, he cursed out loud and heard Tully chuckle beside him. "S'okay, Doc." His voice was slurred like a drunk's but Moffitt didn't care—as long as he was alive Tully could sound like whatever he wanted. "Sleep."

"M'not tired." Moffitt felt as though he'd reverted to his childhood years, when he'd spent all day playing and didn't want to go to bed even though he was exhausted belief. "M'not going to sleep."

"I'll b'here when you wake up, Doc," and once more Tully managed to make a simple statement sound like an offer. "…prom—promise."

Although Moffitt wasn't entirely reassured, he didn't protest as darkness gently dragged him under.

"Moffitt? Moffitt, you have to let him go."

The voice drifted across his hearing and Moffitt felt like it was coming from a great distance. The sergeant moaned as the horror of the night came back to him alarmingly quickly, and he tightened his grip on Tully's still form. Like a mother bear protecting her cubs, Moffitt wasn't about to let anyone, Allies or Jerries, get near his friend. "No."

"Moffitt…" The only rational thread in his mind quietly identified the voice as Troy's. "Moffitt, you have to let go of Tully's body."

Tully's body.

A sob nearly tore from his throat because now he knew for sure that Tully was dead. He was dead and gone, but Moffitt didn't want anyone else to take the body away. "Get away from us!"

All traces of softness vanished from Troy's voice like someone blowing out a candle. "Moffitt, let go, NOW!"

"NO!"

Somewhat disoriented, Moffitt fumbled for a pistol that wasn't in its usual place at his side (because it was lying next to the corpse of the soldier that had killed Tully). He eventually settled for lashing out at anyone who tried to get near him. His fist connected with someone's face, and the person he hit fell backwards with a strangled yell.

An unexpected pain exploded against the back of his skull, and then he sank willingly back into the darkness.

The first thing Moffitt became aware of was the headache. It felt almost as though a cacophony of sledgehammers were banging on the inside of his skull to the tune of the national anthem, and he gritted his teeth together trying to avoid thinking about it.

The second thing Moffitt realized was that he was no longer in the desert. The familiar scent of antiseptic filled his nostrils, and the soft pillows under his head most certainly meant that he was the infirmary. He no longer felt as though he'd bathed in blood.

Tully's blood.

Tully.

He opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows. Troy was sitting next to him, looking wide awake and not at all impressed. "I hope you're happy," he said, a trace of humor in his words amidst the irritation. "I had to practically give you a concussion so you would stop fighting." The corners of his lips twitched upwards. "That was some punch you gave Hitch, though. Nearly broke his nose."

A bit of guilt rose in his chest, but not enough to overwhelm the sorrow once everything clicked and he remembered exactly what had happened in the desert for the last day and a half.

"Hitch is with Tully now," Troy was saying. "You can go see him if you like. Apologize."

It would take a thousand years to apologize for his actions. Tully was dead because of him, dead and gone, not even twenty-five yet. Moffitt would never be free of the guilt. You promised you'd still be here when I woke up, Tully, you bloody promised me, goddamnit. He fought to stay calm in front of his friend, willing his eyes to remain dry. At least for now. He'd have time to grieve later like Troy obviously had. "You've got Tully buried, then?" he asked, trying to not sound depressed.

A crease formed between Troy's eyebrows. "Buried? What the hell do you mean, buried?"

Moffitt's brows furrowed. Was Troy really going to make him say it? Was his admittance supposed to be a sort of therapy? "He's dead, Troy," he forced out. "You have to bury him at some point. Unless you're sending his…his body back to his parents—"

"Moffitt," and now Troy was looking at him like he'd expressed a sudden desire to switch sides and join the Nazis, "what're you talking about? Tully's not dead."

Something delicate inside Moffitt fell off a high edge and shattered. "...what?"

Troy sighed heavily, and Moffitt realized he wasn't going to be pleased by his friend's next words – but if Tully was alive, that was something, wasn't it? He could get past anything if Tully was still alive. "He's still recovering," the American sergeant said slowly. "Won't be able to ride with us for a while, but he'll recover."

"Take me to him." It wasn't a request, it was an order. He threw off his bedsheets and wobbled to his feet. Once his vision stopped doing intense gymnastics routines, he urged Troy on with an impatient look and fervent gesture.

Troy, without a word about Moffitt's possible concussion, led him across the hall to another room.

Tully was there, propped up into a sitting position by a mountain of pillows, and he was laughing at something that Hitch (with a bruised face, Moffitt noticed guiltily) had said. He looked washed out (which was to be expected), his normally unruly hair lay flat, but his eyes had their youthful spark back.

Moffitt swallowed, because not that long ago, he had thought that he'd never see that spark again. He knew it had been close. Far closer than he wanted to think about.

No. No. He couldn't think about it.

Tully looked up and a toothy, genuine grin spread across his face. "Hey, Sarge, Doc. Nice of you to join us."

"What, I'm not good enough company?" Hitch inquired, mock-offended. Tully laughed and punched him playfully on the shoulder.

"How's it going, Tully?" Troy asked, pulling up a chair. Moffitt remained standing, too shocked to move.

"It's going, Sarge," was Tully's somewhat downtrodden response. He gestured aimlessly at himself. "Stuck here for a while, but the doctors say I'll be fine." His eyes flickered to Moffitt, and the sergeant felt as though he'd been electrocuted. "What about you, Doc? You alright?"

Moffitt couldn't speak for a moment, still unable to believe that his friend was alive. "I thought you were dead," he managed to say, his voice slightly raspy, as though he'd had to purge the words from the depths of his soul.

Tully's eyes widened and he pushed himself up higher. "You thought I was dead?" he repeated, shocked. "Why would you think that?"

"It was perfectly logical reasoning," Moffitt replied, his voice shaking in spite of his best efforts to compose himself, "considering that you took a bullet for me and nearly died in my arms! I mean really, why the hell did you do that? Did you honestly think that it would have been better for you to die rather than me?"

"I didn't die!"

"But you almost did," Moffitt argued. "You almost died, and I would've gone to my grave knowing that it had been my fault."

"It was my decision!" Tully looked mad enough to start breathing fire. "Don't you get that I saved your life because I wanted to? Even if I had died it wouldn't have been your fault. It was my own damn decision."

Moffitt stared down at the man that had taken a bullet to protect him. The angry speech he'd planned disappeared into the back of his mind, and his jaw worked noiselessly for a moment. "Thank you." His voice was significantly quieter as he ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Just please, Tully, don't…don't scare me like that again."

The speech could wait until later.