Author's Note!:

I'm hoping to make this a book of short stories, so the chapters/stories will be independent and not in any particular order. So I probably won't ever mark it complete since I think of lots of little tidbits. Hopefully now I'll actually put to use all the unfinished chunks of dialogue bouncing around in my head. I'm rating them K+ just for the swearing but it's pretty mild.

Enjoy!

-Me

P.S. I forgot to mention this in my last two stories (but since everyone knows anyways I don't think anybody cares) but I don't own any of these characters (except Loewe but you can borrow him). Or the plot. Or anything.

P.P.S Please let me know if the formatting on any of these is weird.

End Author's Note!

Wilson had never spent much time in the recreation hall, since he usually had one patient or other and rather enjoyed sitting idle in the infirmary, anyways. He knew several different types of Solitaire and had a few medical books that, even though he'd been a prisoner less than a year, were already dog-eared and faded.

But today, he was in the recreation hall. His deck of cards had been knocked into the ash bucket and ash was simply impossible to clean off of anything. While on his search for a new deck, multiple people had suggested that he come to the rec hall for once and properly socialize. Because telling a man to stick the thermometer under his tongue didn't count.

Now that he was in here, he was regretting it. Tommy Dorsey (whom he had never been very fond of) was playing on the scratchy record player, a very animated game of pool was going on in the back of the room, and several games of cards were being played, all of this under the overlying cigarette smoke and suffocating chatter.

He looked around and picked out the only available seat, which was the wooden stool in front of the piano. The piano itself was pulled away from the wall, and he recognized Loewe's boots with their mismatched laces sticking out from behind.

"Are you trying to tune that?"

"Huh?" Loewe shifted to look up, and then nodded, "Yeah. Could you play f5 for me? If you don't mind."

"Huh?" Wilson stared at the keyboard. He'd played the recorder for a year and a half in high school. That was further away than he cared to admit.

"Umm. Okay, so you see the groups of black keys, right?"

"I'm not blind."

"The 'f's are the white keys before each set of three black ones."

Right. "Which one's f5?"

"The fifth f up."

"Up?"

A sigh, "To the right."

Wilson carefully selected the key and poked down on it. The note was sharp and sour.

"Wow! That was bad. All right, thanks." There were some grunts and the twangy sound of strings being fiddled with.

"You trying to tune this thing?" Wilson frowned at the piano. It'd been off-tune before he'd been captured. He'd heard stories of people who'd tried to tune it. Joseph Mallard from 6 had been Wilson's first patient after he'd been trying to tune it and some part fell and gouged a giant hole in his arm.

"Yuh-huh. Hit that note again?"

Wilson hit it again. He wasn't sure how it sounded different, but apparently it was good because Loewe flipped out the center panel from behind and grinned at Wilson through the piano, "That's great! Thanks," And he disappeared again, "Could you hit the note just below that?"

"To the left?"

"Yeah."

Wilson played the note.

"Oh, that one's not so bad. Just a little bit of -,"

Then there was a horrible snap, and Loewe yelled, and then various discordant notes disturbed the noisy atmosphere, "Aw, shit!" He scrambled out of the tight spot, one hand pressed to his face, the other groping for a handhold.

Wilson jumped up, alarmed, "What happened?!" He knelt down by Loewe and reached for his hand, pulling back when Loewe shook his head and pressed himself back against the wall.

"Dammit," He sucked in a breath, "Stupid string snapped. Shit, that hurts," He ducked his head. Blood was oozing through his fingers.

Wilson stepped around the piano and pulled him out from the small space, "Sit down," He stuck him on the piano stool, vaguely aware that they had attracted the attention of nearly everyone in the barracks, "You gotta move your hand. Let me see."

"Even if I'm holding my eyeball in?" Loewe opened his other eye for a moment to look mournfully up at Wilson.

"Stop it, it's not that bad," Wilson gently reached for his hand and this time Lowe let him pull it away, "Ouch."

"No shit."

"Language," Wilson muttered as he reached down for his medical bag - which wasn't there, "Aww -," He stopped himself. Bitter and asocial he may be, but never a hypocrite. "Come on. I'm taking you to the infirmary, I need to stitch that up," He frowned at the giant gash lashing from above Loewe's eye down across his cheek, almost across his nose.

"Uh-huh," Loewe stood up and let himself be pulled out of the infirmary.

In the infirmary, Corporal Rosen, who made up the entirety of the official Stalag 13 medical team, leapt up from his half-doze when the two entered, "Was is los?" He exclaimed, staring incredulously.

"Piano string," Wilson explained. He and Rosen had an odd sort of relationship, wherein they tolerated each other for sake of necessity and otherwise avoided each other like the plague.

Rosen paused, "Piano string?" He repeated, "Like…" He mimed playing a piano, "Klavier?"

Wilson glanced at Loewe, "Is that right?" A nod, "Yeah."

Rosen sighed, "I get water," He grabbed a bucket and strode from the barracks, muttering something Wilson didn't think would be intelligible even if he understood German.

"Alright," Wilson deposited Loewe on the cot nearest the small workstation, and then quickly pulled various items from the cupboards, "Soon as Rosen's back with the water, clean you off and stitch you up."

"I dunno it's that bad," Loewe brought a hand up to his injury.

"Don't touch it!" Wilson exclaimed, grabbing his wrist, "It's still bleeding."

"Alright, mom." Loewe frowned.

Wilson huffed and rolled his eyes. As soon as Rosen was back with the water, he gingerly cleaned the blood off of his face, "You're a terrible patient," He muttered, "Stop! Stop squinting!"

Loewe opened his mouth like he was about to protest, but at a stern look shut it again and remained stoically silent as Wilson stitched it up and put a patch of gauze on the worst part.

"It's pretty deep, be careful not to split it open," He warned, "How'd you manage to get it that bad?"

"You were there." Loewe frowned, "Ow."

"Yeah, don't be squinting. Or smiling. Or laughing or anything, really," Wilson frowned.

"Oh boy." He sighed

"Oh boy is right. It's probably going to scar, too."

Loewe looked up, "Would you back me up if I told my girlfriend it was a scar from a harrowing and dangerous battle?"

"I would. I'm not sure everyone in the rec hall will," Wilson sat down in one of the few chairs in the room. Rosen was already across the room, half dozing with his feet propped up on the stove. "You got a girlfriend?"

Loewe shrugged, "No. But I hope I'll get one, after the war. I think I'll do okay, I mean, I'm nice enough. Unless she finds out that I was dumb enough to try to tune a piano with a flathead, a wrench and a handful of bent nails."

"Hmm."

"What about you?" Loewe reached up and scratched the bandage, "You got a girl?"

"Don't touch that!" Wilson exclaimed, " - yes, my wife. Amelia," He dug into his wallet - he didn't talk to people, but he showed everyone her picture, "That's her, on the left."

"She's pretty," Loewe smiled, "Any kids?"

Wilson shook his head and tucked the picture back in his wallet, "She can't."

"I'm sorry."

He shook his head, "Naw."

Then he changed the subject, "You got a deck of cards?"

"I think so -," Loewe reached into his inside pocket, and pulled out a pocket-sized book, a dollar bill, an old chicken bone, and - a deck of cards, "Yeah, here. What happened to yours?"

"Dropped it in the ash bucket," Wilson frowned, "You know any other games besides Gin? That got old, fast."

"Sure," He shuffled the deck, "I've got a couple'a games I learned from this guy in transit camp. His name was Mack. Well, Mackenzie, actually, Pete Mackenzie, but everyone called him Mack. Even the guards. He was one of those guys, you know."

"I know."

"Yeah. But anyways, he taught anyone who came through a couple of card games, he figured Gin and Solitaire and Go Fish got boring real fast. Only thing was, he didn't know any of the actual names for the games," He was laying the cards out, trying to remember how Mack had done it on the overturned water barrel in the transit barracks. "I think he called this one Popcorn. Don't remember why. But anyways, it's like this..."