If these walls could talk, they’d probably ask for a strong drink. In a place that exists to patch up bodies, the Officers’ Club is where we come to patch up our souls. It’s quiet tonight. The kind of quiet that means we made it. Just barely.

The three of us are huddled around this beat-up wooden table, illuminated by the low glow of the hanging lamps. B.J. is across from me, hands clasped around a metal mug, still in his fatigues. I can see the fatigue etched around his eyes, matching the lines on my own face. We haven’t had a quiet moment like this in days. And then there’s Charles, looking too sharp for his own good in his dress uniform. Typical Winchester.

I can’t help it. My naturally inquisitive nature—or maybe just exhaustion—pokes through. I lean in, holding up my shot glass, looking from B.J. to Charles. “So, Charles, how do you manage to look like you just stepped off a recruitment poster while the rest of us are fading into the wallpaper?” I ask.

B.J. smiles faintly into his mug. He doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s thinking the same thing. Winchester barely looks up, taking a measured sip. He lets out a small, tired huff. “Appearances must be maintained, Pierce. Even in this… ‘establishment.'” His voice sounds weary.

I see B.J. shift in his seat. He catches my eye, a silent conversation passing between us. The banter feels hollow today. We’re all just tired. B.J. takes another long sip. “Maintaining is about all we’re doing right now,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. The silence stretches, suddenly heavy.

The quiet isn’t peaceful anymore. It feels charged. Like something is about to break, but I can’t quite tell what.

B.J. finally puts his cup down, the clink echoing too loudly. He stares into the mug, not looking at either of us. “Did you see that last group from the 101st?” he says, his voice raspy. “Kids. They all look like kids.” He doesn’t need to finish the thought.

Winchester places his own glass down with practiced precision. For a fleeting moment, the mask of sarcastic indifference slips. I see the same weariness in his eyes that I feel in my own. The same ghosts we all try to outrun. He adjusts the lapels of his uniform, but it feels less like preening and more like an armored defense.

I lean in further, the glass forgotten in my hand. “It doesn’t get easier, does it, Charles?” I ask, my voice softer now. “The neat lines on your uniform don’t stop the mud, and your sharp wit doesn’t stop…” I trail off, looking at B.J.

“Doesn’t stop the bleeding,” B.J. finishes for me. His gaze is still distant. He takes a deep breath, and I watch him visibly push back whatever is clawing at him. “Another round,” he announces, his voice steadier, trying to shift the weight.

Winchester gives a stiff nod. The sarcasm returns, but it feels warmer somehow. “Only for the sake of morale, gentlemen. And the fact that this particular batch seems marginally acceptable.” He even musters a ghost of a smile.

I look at them both. This odd trio, brought together by geography and grief. There’s a profound comfort in sitting at this table. In this moment, with the light reflecting off our glasses, it’s enough. We are here. We are together. The chaos of the war still waits outside, but in this small, quiet circle, we have found our own brand of sanctuary.

Some nights, the best medicine is just being understood without saying a word.