Chapter Text
Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee. Exodus 20:12
“I had a thought,” Don drawls. Boyd can only shake his head, amused, despite himself.
“Yeah? Before or after you took a knock to the head.”
“Before, thank you.”
Boyd gives a considering hum. He lifts the edge of his handkerchief from Don's forehead and lets out a careful breath. The bleeding has finally slowed enough for him to get a good look at the wound, and it isn't as bad as he'd feared, thank the Lord - only an inch or so long and relatively shallow, just above his eyebrow. A stitch or two and he'll be as good as new.
Lucky for the both of them, Boyd is a dab hand with a needle.
“Kin you hold this?” he asks. “You're gon’ need a few stitches.”
Don obliges, reaching up and holding the handkerchief in place. Boyd murmurs a thank you. He digs back into his pack for his sewing kit, prompting Don to continue as he does. If he can keep Don distracted, he's more likely to sit still and let Boyd tend to his wound.
“An’ what was it? Your thought,” he asks, cracking open an iodine swab and painting the wound and surrounding area carefully. If it hurts, Don doesn't give him any indication. He certainly doesn't lose the crooked little smile on his face, a smile which Boyd knows very well means he's up to no good.
“Well. Thanks to you boys, the whole damn platoon is calling me Wardaddy, these days,” he says, in that same drawl. Boyd snorts. This is true enough, although Boyd had nothing to do with it. “What do you figure that makes you, Bible?”
A wave of heat washes over Boyd, which he very studiously ignores. He busies himself instead with preparing a needle and thread. He tries three times in vain to thread the needle, before he remembers to put on his glasses.
“I'm sure I don’ know what you mean,” he says, stubbornly.
“I'm sure you do.”
“I had to venture a guess, I'd say that makes me, Red, Gordo ‘n Grady your boys, ridiculous as that is. Bein’ as we're all grown men.”
“You think so, do you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Patching us up, mending our clothes, hollering for us to wash our hands and say grace - that sound like one of my boys to you?” Boyd is silent, speechless, so Don just keeps on going. “Praying for our eternal souls, singing hymns, reading us words of wisdom from that book of yours - “
Boyd finally cuts him off, his ears hot. “You got somethin’ you wanna say, why don't you just go ahead and say it - else I'm stitching you up.”
By now, he really ought to know better than to throw down a gauntlet in front of Don. Don just says it outright, his voice deep, husky, like he has no sense of shame. Like he has no idea the way it hits Boyd, a well aimed high-explosive shell, rocking him to his foundations.
“You make a real fine momma, Boyd Swan.”
Boyd's face burns a fiery red. He doesn't move and he doesn't respond, not even to deny it. Not for a long moment.
He has to swallow hard before he can speak, his heart in his throat. “You call me that in front of the boys and I'll make you regret it, Don Collier.”
Something in Don seems to go soft, hearing Boyd as good as admit it. His smile gentles, though his eyes are still gleaming. “None of them can hear us. Though they see you blushing as red as a cherry, they're gonna wonder what we're talking about.”
“I ain't blushing,” Boyd lies. He raises the needle in warning. “Now shut your mouth an’ hold still.”
Don chuckles, clearly not buying a word of it. But he quiets down and sits still for Boyd anyway, no more than a hiss of pain as he carefully stitches up the wound. Boyd tries to keep his attention focused on what he is doing, but he can feel Don's eyes on him as he works. He ought to be glad for the silence, but instead he only wonders what he's thinking, what he sees, in Boyd's face.
When Don finally speaks again his voice is deeper, quieter. “Can't hardly believe I got so lucky - sweet thing like you, by my side.”
Boyd is sure he is as red as a cherry, now. He ties off the last stitch and cuts the thread close, thankful his hands at least are still steady, if not his heart.
“I ain't sweet, neither.”
Don's mouth curls in a smile. “Sure you ain't.”
Boyd lets out a huff of breath. “This the thanks I get for takin’ care of you ungrateful heathens? You teasin’ me? Try'n'a get a rise outta me?”
“I ain't teasing. I mean it. Every word. I am damn lucky, and I know it.” He gives Boyd a nudge with his knee. “I'm gonna teach you to take a compliment if it's the last thing I do.”
“Most men don't find talk like that complimentary,” he points out. Don is undeterred.
“I'm not talking to most men. I'm talking to you. After all these years, I think I know what you like.”
“Yeah? What do I like.”
Don's answer is prompt and sure. “You like me.”
Boyd smiles. He does like Don, most days. Loves him, always. “Against my better judgment, yes sir.”
“You like our boys. Like taking care of us. I think you like it best when we don't even notice.”
Boyd hums agreement. “Someone's takin’ good care o’ you, you don't hafta notice.”
“I'd like to take that good of care of you.”
Surprised, Boyd stops tidying up and looks Don straight in the eyes. They are sitting close enough - Don on the lip of the commander's hatch and Boyd on the turret - that Boyd can see flecks of green and brown in his bright blue eyes, the glint of silver in his stubble. Boyd looks away, his heart thumping in his chest. He is really very handsome, and more importantly - familiar, trusted, loved.
“You do, Don,” Boyd assures him. “You take real good care of us. Why you think the boys started callin’ you that?”
“The boys, sure. Not you.”
“And I ain't gonna, so don't you go gettin’ any ideas, now.”
Don’s smile is slow, sly. “C'mon, now - ”
“I said no.”
“You're the only one I want calling me daddy,” he coaxes him.
“Well you can't always get what you want, Don Collier.” He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth - he sounds exactly like his mother. Don's answering chuckle makes his face burn.
“Yes ma'am,” he says, fondly. Boyd swats at him.
“Behave.”
Don must figure he's given Boyd enough grief, because he quiets down and behaves himself as Body bandages him up. Once he's got the bandage in place Boyd picks up his discarded handkerchief and wets it down with his canteen until the water runs clear. He wrings out the excess water and folds it up into a square, then offers it to Don.
“Go on and clean yourself up,” he tells him. “You've got blood down to your collar.”
“Thank you kindly.” Don gives his face and throat a cursory wipe, glances up at Boyd.
“How's that?” he asks.
Boyd sighs, and resigns himself to more teasing. “You missed a spot. A few spots. Go on, give it here.”
Don gives it over, his eyes dancing with amusement. Boyd takes the handkerchief and refolds it so the outside is clean, leans in and mops up the blood that Don missed - behind his ear, in the corner of his nose, streaked in the stubble at his jaw. The edge of Don's mouth curls in a little smile, but he keeps his teasing to himself.
“There. All done.”
“Yeah?” Don reaches out and takes the back of Boyd's neck in a warm, firm grip, tugging him just a little bit closer. He gives him a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, Boyd.”
Boyd shakes his head. “Don't mention it. You can go on with the rest of the boys, I'll be along once I clean this up.”
Don's mouth curls, flashing a dimple. “There's just one more thing - ”
Boyd's eyes narrow. He has a sneaking suspicion he knows what this is about. Sternly, he says, “If you ask me to kiss it better I will shoot you right here right now, I swear - “
Don tips his head back and laughs, loud and open-mouthed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Boyd can't help his smile, his own answering laugh, feeling warm all the way through. As far as Boyd is concerned, Don can tease him as much as he wants, if it gets him to laugh like that.
Their laughter is interrupted by Grady, standing next to the Fury and squinting up at them in the late afternoon sun. “We finally gettin’ us a new CO, Boyd?” he hollers. Don snorts, a smile still lingering around his mouth.
“Not yet you ain’t!”
“Not ever, God willing,” Boyd chides them.
Don waits patiently for Boyd while he packs up his sewing kit and then the first aid kit, still spread out across the Fury's turret. Grady is not so patient.
“Well c'mon then, s’time for some chow!”
“We're coming, Grady, hold your damn horses,” Don complains.
Boyd loops his pack over his shoulder and slides down the Fury's turret, Don following close behind him. He throws an arm across Boyd's shoulders as they make their way to the rest of the boys, camped out around a gas stove. The boys left a spot for them, two stools sitting next to each other. Red must have done something with their rations, because the smell is almost appetizing.
“Smells good, thank you,” Boyd says, as he sits down. Red ladles up a bowl and hands it to him.
“Best I could do. How's he lookin’?”
“Not bad, only took a few stitches. Prolly have a mighty good headache, though.”
“I'm fine,” Don insists. “Boyd patched me up good as new.”
Red hands Don a bowl. “Good. Grady was worried about you.”
“Aw hell, I was not!”
Boyd hides his smile behind his bowl as the boys get to bickering, Don a warm, steady presence at his shoulder. Their boys, he thinks, trying it on for size.
Yeah. That fits just about right.