“I will always worry,” murmured Archibald.
“I know. And I’m grateful.” Martin squeezed his hand and let it go. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s safer for you to stay here.”
Archibald bristled. “I’m not entirely incompetent at the art of war,” he said, turning away. It felt like a lie in his mouth. What did he know about real fighting?
“Not saying you are,” Martin placated. “But I worry about you, too.”
Archibald sighed. “I know.” He glanced at Martin and sat back at his work. “We watch out and worry for each other.”
Martin gave him a small smile. “Always. I got interrupted before I could get us food, so I’ll get that and we can talk about these trenches. I just wanted to check in with you.”
“Thank you,” said Archibald.
Martin walked over to him, picked up Archibald’s hand, and kissed the back of it. “I’ll always come back to you,” he promised, then turned and headed out.
Later that night, Archibald finished his work while Martin slept. He knew he should go to bed, that staying awake wouldn’t keep his own bad dreams at bay, and that he needed the rest. But he still saw sickly yellow tendrils in his dreams, and he knew that tonight, he’d be worried for Martin’s safety as well.
Martin whimpered in his sleep. Archibald looked over and saw him tangled in his blankets, clearly suffering from his own nightmares. His own dreams were bad enough; he couldn’t imagine the things Martin must see in his darkest dreams.
Getting to his feet, Archibald locked the door, glad that they’d been able to get one added that afternoon in the name of security and classified material.
He quickly prepared for bed, then gently untangled Martin from his blanket. With only a tiny bit of hesitation, Archibald got into the bunk with him.
Martin murmured something in his sleep, then cuddled closer to Archibald. Archibald held him in his arms and breathed in his hair. Tears stung his eyes as he imagined what it might be like to share a bed with Martin every night, somewhere safe, somewhere like his own home. Fantasy, of course. Impossible. And yet he ached for it. It was far too late to hold back.
Archibald rubbed his eyes. He’d been deluding himself that this relationship was potential or theoretical. He had already fallen hard and nothing could change that.
So be it. He’d make the most of the time they had and pray that he’d have the strength to carry on when it was over. He kissed the top of Martin’s head and closed his eyes, knowing he was in love and that he was loved in return.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning, Frank woke and stretched, finding Blythe already at his desk, like usual. Different location, but it seemed that the habits remained the same. He smiled softly and got up, pulling on his boots and going to fetch them breakfast. He thought he remembered Blythe lying with him during the night, but it wasn’t clear whether it had really happened or whether it was just wishful thinking. Blythe likely wouldn’t talk about it, anyway.
After breakfast, he started his typical duties, running messages and keeping his eyes open. The French commanders here seemed more resigned to their fates, accepting Blythe’s orders and requests with little complaint. All the soldiers here seemed thinner, more worn. The artillery landed closer and with more accuracy; testing skirmishes came more often.
But if the trenches were colder and harder, then the little bunker was warmer and more secure. They got settled in, picking up more or less where they’d left off, though neither of them seemed quite ready to take the next step. Promises in a winter greenhouse were one thing, following through with the sound of artillery echoing around them was another.
But Blythe was watching, and the second night, Frank did wake up when Blythe joined him in bed. Blythe fell asleep quickly, and Frank reached out to brush his fingers through his hair. Why couldn’t he stay with Blythe when all this was over? Didn’t he deserve that? Didn’t he deserve more than a cold bed for the rest of his life? Certainly, Blythe deserved love and comfort. He ached to kiss him, to take him into his arms and show him just how much he was loved. But the earth shook with yet another bombardment, and instead, Frank simply held him close until he fell asleep again.
One sunny afternoon, Frank was on his way back from French lines when he found his way blocked by Wright. Frank sighed and met his cold gaze. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“You mean ‘can I help you, Lieutenant Colonel’,” he growled.
Frank shifted his rifle on his shoulder. “Sir, if you’ll excuse me, I do need to get this delivered.”
Wright glowered, then suddenly shoved Frank into the nearest bunker. The handful of soldiers inside quickly scattered, leaving them alone. Frank could hardly blame them, given what little he’d seen of Wright so far. But Wright was not the first asshole he’d had to deal with, in war or peace.
“What is Major Blythe up to?” asked Wright. “What is he doing?”
“His own work,” said Frank, crossing his arms. “It’s classified, sir.”
“I’m in charge here,” growled Wright.
“So you keep reminding us.”
Wright crowded him against one of the bunks. “You will treat me with respect, Corporal.”
Frank barely resisted rolling his eyes. “I am doing my job, and at this moment, you’re preventing me from completing my task.”
“And what task would that be?”
“At the moment, I’m simply going to the bunker. Now, please, sir, we’re not interfering with your work. I am certain the Major would appreciate it if you didn’t interfere with his.”
Wright glowered at him but finally took a step back. “I’m watching you both,” he said.
“Of course,” said Frank, giving him the most sarcastic salute he could muster before walking back into the trench.
Frank shook his head as he started walking again. Officer or not, Wright clearly had no idea what they were doing, and it was making him batty. Which was fine by Frank. Let him stew in his ignorance.
To his surprise, he turned a corner and found Blythe walking towards him. “You were delayed,” he said, looking Frank over as if making certain he was uninjured.
“I was. I’ll tell you about it when we get inside,” said Frank, not trusting that Wright wouldn’t have ears around them.
Blythe nodded and they walked quickly back to the safety of the little bunker. Frank handed Blythe the return message, put down his rifle, and warmed up his hands by the stove. “Wright stopped me on the way back.”
“Of course he did,” Blythe scrubbed his face in his hands. “Same sort of request?”
“He wanted to know what you were doing, yeah. I told him that was your business, and he needed to keep out of it, more or less.”
Blythe shook his head and took a seat. “Men like that are highly irritating. King of their little fiefdom and ready to attack at the slightest hint of someone challenging them.”
“Oh, I know,” said Frank, coming over and sitting at his table. “Don’t worry, I can handle him. You keep focusing on what you’re doing. I know it’s important.”
“So is your safety,” muttered Blythe, making some notes.
Frank laughed bitterly. “It’s a war zone, Major. Some things can’t be helped. But don’t worry. I can deal with Wright.”
“I’m certain you can. But if you need me to do anything, do let me know.” Blythe looked over, catching Frank’s gaze.
Frank reached over and squeezed his hand. “It’ll be fine.” He gave Blythe a small smile. “I’ll sort these papers, then go get us supper, all right?”
“Good,” said Blythe, squeezing back and then turning his attention to his notes. Frank took comfort in the familiar sound of Blythe’s scratching pen. No, Wright would find it hard to intimidate either of them.
Things seemed to settle down after that. The holidays were rapidly approaching, not that there were many signs of it, aside from the colder weather. Frank found himself watching Blythe, but reticent to take the a
ctions he wished. After all, Wright was no doubt watching them, and he wouldn’t hesitate to jump at the first sign of impropriety.
Most officers Frank had served under turned a blind eye to anything that might be happening amongst their enlisted men. There were official brothels, of course, but Frank was far from the only man to find his comfort with another soldier in the small hours of the morning. As long as their jobs were done, then nobody seemed to particularly care.
Even here, with threats all around them, Frank knew that Blythe was usually finding his way into his bed at night. He slept better with Blythe by his side, and he knew that was true for Blythe as well. They held one another in the darkness, both of them pretending it meant nothing and both knowing it was a lie. If all they could have were these quiet moments, then perhaps that might be enough, no matter how much Frank might long for more.
Frank wondered how a bed in France with shells all around them could feel safer and more comfortable than his own in London. The difference, of course, was Blythe. Sometimes in the darkness, when Blythe was asleep, Frank would brush Blythe’s hair back and watch his face, letting himself imagine a life far from here, one where he could wake up in the man’s bed and love him freely. Or as freely as anyone with their inclinations could.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As it drew closer to Christmas, Archibald couldn’t help his awareness of Martin. He ached to make good on the promises they’d whispered at the farmhouse, but how could they with Wright lingering so close at hand? Still, he wasn’t going to let Wright get the last word and slipped into Martin’s bed at night, quieting the other man’s nightmares and running soothing fingers through his hair.
Two days before Christmas, they received packages from home, one for himself and one for Martin. He sat at his desk and opened his, finding a letter from Murphy and some sweets, along with a brief note from his mother. Everything seemed to be running just as it should at home. He picked up a sweet to offer it to Martin, only to see the look on his face.
Archibald stood and went to him at once. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Martin took a ragged breath. “My son wrote me,” he said, setting the letter on the table. “And he sent a picture. They… they don’t often write me. My children.”
Archibald’s heart ached. He could only imagine what Martin was feeling.
Martin swallowed hard and offered him the picture of his son. Henry stood tall and proud in his school uniform, just beginning to grow into an image of his father. “I’ve asked Julia for pictures of them, but she’s never sent any. I guess Henry must have found out I wanted one.”
“Then I’m glad he wrote you,” said Archibald, drawing a chair close to Martin. “Is he well?”
“Sounds like it. Doing fine in school, he’s not saying much, but he did say he missed me and hoped I was safe.” Martin rubbed his eyes.
Archibald squeezed his shoulder. “You are. It sounds like perhaps you should write him directly if he sent it from school.”
“I will,” said Martin. He gave Archibald a watery smile. “He’s always been close to me.”
Martin turned and put his hand over Archibald’s. He studied his face for a long moment. “I wish that things were different,” he said softly, leaning closer.
Before Archibald could close the gap between them, there was a loud knock on the locked door. Archibald barely resisted the urge to throw the nearest object at it. Instead, he took a breath and fixed his uniform, Martin doing the same and getting to his feet. Thank goodness they’d taken to keeping the door locked.
Of course, it was Wright who pushed his way in as soon as Martin pulled the bolt back.
He glared at the two of them. Archibald was almost getting bored with that expression on his face. “Can I help you, Lieutenant Colonel Wright?” he asked. Martin picked up the letter and photo and carried them over to his footlocker. Archibald felt a wave of protectiveness at the way Wright’s eyes tracked Martin’s movements.
“Corporal Martin isn’t carrying his weight around here,” said Wright.
Archibald blinked and stood. “Excuse me?” Martin was pretending to ignore them, but obviously listening.
“Corporal Martin should be standing watch like the rest of my soldiers.”
Archibald mentally counted to five. “He’s not your soldier. He and I are on special assignment. Corporal Martin reports only to me.”
“We do need all the help we can get out there. He shouldn’t be shirking his duty.”
Archibald opened his mouth only for Martin to stalk over to Wright, nearly getting in his face. “I have never shirked my duty.” His voice was cold fury. “I’ve been out here for years in these trenches and been damn lucky to survive as long as I have. Major Blythe is doing important work, and it’s my honor to be assisting him. I am not part of your unit. You will not find me on your rosters. I don’t answer to you.”
Wright’s eyes widened, but before he could respond, Archibald quickly came around his desk and put himself between the pair. “As I’ve said, our orders come from elsewhere. We are in the middle of our work,” he said placatingly. “If you’ll excuse us.”
Wright took a step back and looked at both of them carefully, calculating in a way that made Archibald’s blood run cold, even if his face gave nothing away.
“Fine,” he said, reaching over for a sweet on the desk.
Archibald moved them out of his reach. “You did not ask, and I did not offer. Not everything is yours, Lieutenant Colonel. I suggest if your curiosity is so great, that you write to the general. If it serves his purpose, he might enlighten you.”
Wright looked at them a moment longer, then turned on his heel and walked out.
Martin stepped over to his bed and sunk to a seat, head in his hands. Archibald bolted the door again and went to him, putting an arm around Martin, feeling him shake with emotion. Between the letter from his son and this…
Archibald tucked him against his side, rubbing his arm, uncertain what, if anything, he could say. How could a man like Wright understand all that Martin had been through? All that he’d sacrificed, all that he’d lost. Martin was extraordinary, and yet, there were many soldiers with similar stories. Wright had no idea what he had under his command.
Martin took a few deep breaths and extricated himself from the safety of Archibald’s embrace. He dashed at his eyes and took another breath. “Do you have any work for me?” he asked, voice still rough.
“I’m sure I’ve got a message you can carry,” said Archibald, getting to his feet and going to his desk. He shuffled his papers for a moment, then wrote a note for Martin to carry.
“I’ll take care of it,” said Martin quietly, pulling on his coat and picking up his rifle. Archibald dearly hoped Wright wasn’t lurking somewhere too nearby. “Thank you,” he said, glancing at Archibald’s face, then looking quickly away, letting himself out and stepping into the chill.
Archibald looked at the closed door, standing in place for longer than perhaps he should have.
Making up his mind, Archibald sat back down at his desk and pulled out a clean piece of paper. He nibbled on his pen, then began composing a letter to Basil, choosing his words carefully as he expressed the problems they were having with Wright. The man might be utterly wrong, but he believed he was doing the right thing. And if the letter was intercepted, then the last thing he needed to do was give Wright more fuel for the fire. Collins was due to come by in the next day or so. He’d send it off with him so that he could be certain Basil would get it.
He opened up his watch when he finished. The last time he’d come by, Collins had delivered an envelope containing the picture taken at the farmhouse. Archibald had cut it small enough to fit into his watch. In the photograph, Martin was looking at the map, but Archibald was looking at Martin. It felt intimate, a quiet moment between the two of them. It was dangerous and foolhardy to even have the photograph, let alone carry it, but it was priceless.
Glancing at the time, Archibald said
a silent prayer for Martin’s safety, then picked up his pen again.
Martin returned safely a short time later. Archibald gave him a sweet, and they settled back into their usual tasks, taking quiet comfort in each other's presence. Neither of them brought up Wright’s interruption or what might have happened if there hadn’t been a knock.
As usual, Martin went to bed first, and Archibald stayed up, doing some last work in the lamplight.
Martin murmured in his sleep, and Archibald put his pen down, unsurprised by how quickly Martin’s nightmares had descended. He lowered the lamp, made certain the door was locked, then got himself ready for bed.
Artillery thudded nearby, shaking the bunker and startling Martin awake with a gasp. Archibald silently slipped into bed with him and gathered him in his arms.
Sighing, Martin tucked himself against Archibald’s chest, quickly falling back to sleep despite the noise. Archibald kissed the top of his head and closed his eyes. He prayed silently. For Martin, for himself, and for all those around them. Even Wright deserved a line or two. He might be greedy for recognition and power, but that didn’t make him less of a human being, though Archibald did hope he’d stay away from them, instead of being a thorn in the garden of their slowly growing relationship.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Christmas Eve began the same as every other day. Frank smiled softly as he felt Blythe get out of bed. He snuggled a little deeper under the blanket as he listened to Blythe get dressed and go to his desk. Blythe almost certainly knew he was awake, but Frank also knew he wouldn’t begrudge him a few more minutes of rest.
But the rumble of his stomach eventually drove Frank out from under the covers. Blythe pretended to ignore him as he put together some morning reports. It was easier to pretend that they didn’t spend their nights together. After all, whatever this was, it was far more dangerous in daylight.
Timepiece Page 12