“Morning,” said Frank, as he pulled on his shoes.
Blythe put down his pen and stretched, looking him over.
Frank resisted the urge to preen. “I’ll get breakfast,” he said, getting to his feet and walking over to squeeze Blythe’s shoulder.
Blythe smiled back, watching as he shouldered his rifle and headed out. Frank stifled a yawn as he walked through the cold morning air, seeing a few soldiers making concessions to the holiday by hanging up sprigs of pine or other makeshift decorations. He thought about what his own children were probably doing. Henry would be home from school, so perhaps they were decorating the tree. At least now he knew what Henry looked like these days. He wondered how tall he had grown.
The explosion of a shell threw him from his thoughts and into the trench wall. He looked up and saw it had landed somewhere in no man’s land. A reminder and a warning that just because it was Christmas didn’t mean they weren’t at war. Frank ducked his head and hurried along, quickly gathering their breakfast and tea and heading back to the bunker.
He opened the door to find Blythe pinning a candy bar wrapper folded into the shape of a star above their bed. Blythe looked shyly at Frank as he stepped down, as if uncertain of Frank’s thoughts on the matter.
“It’s lovely,” said Frank, putting down their breakfast.
Blythe relaxed. “It’s Christmas Eve, I thought a little decoration might be nice.”
“You’re not the only one,” said Frank, gesturing at the door. “I saw a few evergreen sprigs out there. Maybe I’ll see if I can get us one.”
“If you wish,” said Blythe, taking his usual seat. “But don’t put anyone out for it.”
“All right,” said Frank, reaching for his fork. The world outside had grown quiet, even the artillery coming to a halt. There was no official Christmas Truce this year, and fraternizing was strictly forbidden, but aside from the artillery, it seemed as if the world had collectively decided to pause, if only for a day or two.
Of course, the day after Christmas, they’d all be back to murdering one another.
Frank took a bite of his bread. Another decade from now, perhaps, he could be having a holiday in Berlin, like he’d told Dupoy. At least, if the war was wrapping up the way Blythe thought it might be. Surely with all this spilled blood, lasting peace would come in its wake, wouldn’t it?
“Thinking about home?” asked Blythe, stirring him from his thoughts.
Frank smiled and shook his head. “Far from it, actually.” He picked up a scrap of paper and started folding it. “Did you ever do much for Christmas?”
Blythe watched his hands. “The expected social events during the season. But Christmas day, I tended to give the staff the day off and lurked about my study. Sometimes had an invitation for Christmas dinner with someone, but I generally kept to myself.”
Frank glanced up at him and reached over to touch his hand. “Sounds lonely.”
Blythe bit his lip and met Frank’s gaze. “I was used to it.”
Frank caught the past tense and wondered. “Has there really been no one?” he asked gently.
Blythe shook his head. “I didn’t dare,” he said quietly.
Frank gently stroked Blythe’s fingers. “I understand,” he said quietly. “I didn’t either, not until I was here. I’ve always known I liked both.”
“The one you lost… in your old unit…?” asked Blythe, he glanced at Frank, then away. “Apologies, it’s none of my business.”
“Wilson,” said Frank, the name heavy on his tongue. He swallowed. “Yes, though we’d stopped before I was reassigned. We thought we were getting too close to each other. Funny enough, with you, I don’t give a damn.”
Blythe looked back at him. “What do you mean?”
Frank took a breath, thinking over the last weeks, the time spent in Blythe’s company. He met his gaze. “I mean I want to get too close to you. Dangerously close.”
Blythe took Frank’s hand in both of his, looking down at their hands. “You’re a police officer. You know the law…”
“And it’s wrong,” said Frank quietly. “A gentleman like yourself can usually get away with it if he’s discreet, but I understand why you didn’t.”
Blythe leaned closer to him. “I’ve never dared before. But here, with you, I find myself wanting to throw caution to the wind.”
Frank looked up at him, searching his eyes. He glanced at Blythe’s lips and moved closer still, wanting to taste, to savor, to give him everything that he needed…
A loud knock on the door shattered the moment. Blythe jerked back, cursing under his breath. Frank took a few deep breaths to gather himself, then went to answer the door, glancing back at Blythe to make sure he was ready. Blythe nodded.
A sergeant stepped in, looking apologetic. “I need to speak with the Major,” he said, in a tone that indicated that Frank should make himself scarce.
“Of course,” said Frank, gathering up the dishes. He quickly pulled on his coat and picked up his rifle, leaving the two of them alone. He wondered what kind of news it was. Well, if he had a right to know, Blythe would tell him.
He returned in just a few minutes, finding Blythe pacing by his desk. “There’s to be a sortie tonight,” he said quietly. “I need to pick the units.”
“Bastards,” said Frank, settling his gun in his usual place.
Blythe nodded. “I suppose they’re hoping it’ll keep people from fraternizing.” Outside the artillery started up again.
Frank glanced skyward. “Peace on earth and good will towards men has been suspended for the foreseeable future,” he muttered.
Blythe shook his head. “Basil wouldn’t have given these orders. He must still be on leave.”
Frank cocked his head at him, realizing Blythe was talking about General Whitestone.
Blythe cleared his throat, catching his confusion. “General Whitestone and I attended school together. He left to attend to a family situation, and I suppose he must have stayed for the holiday.”
“Can hardly blame him for it,” said Frank, stepping over to his desk and picking up a list of available units.
Just then, the door opened with a slam, reminding Frank that he’d forgotten to lock it. It was Wright, of course, looking even more furious than usual. He stalked over to Blythe. “What are these orders for a sortie tonight?”
“Not my orders,” said Blythe mildly, back stiff. “I was as surprised by them as you.”
“Don’t you bullshit me,” growled Wright. “You posh bastards never think about the lives you’re spending.”
“I can assure you that I am well aware of every life that is spent at my orders,” said Blythe quietly. “This came from higher up than me, and I don’t like it any more than you do.”
Wright leaned on his desk. “If anyone dies tonight, you’re responsible.”
Frank stepped over to the pair. “Sir, I understand you’re upset…”
“And you,” Wright glared him. “Shirking your duty, hiding in here…”
“Corporal Martin is doing his job, as are we all, Lieutenant Colonel,” said Blythe.
Wright took a breath and stepped back. “I’m watching you. Both of you,” he growled, turning on his heel and walking out, leaving the place quiet in his wake.
Frank walked over and locked the door behind him, letting out a breath.
Blythe picked up the star Frank had folded. It was wrinkled from Wright leaning on it. “I really don’t blame him for being upset,” he said.
“Me, either. I suppose it’s the one thing we could all agree on,” said Frank, scrubbing a hand through his hair and sitting down at his desk.
“No one is all one thing,” said Blythe, moving to pin the star next to his own. “Most people find me cold and aloof.”
Frank, leaned back in his chair. “I know you act like that to protect yourself, but you’re still human.”
Blythe nodded, not quite looking at Frank. “And you help me remember that.”
Frank walked to Blythe, hugging him gently. “You are human, and you are brave.”
Blythe sighed and closed his eyes. “Thank you. For everything. But we need to get to work to prepare for tonight, give these soldiers a chance.”
Frank let go and nodded, “Of course,” he said, going back to his desk.
Blythe stood where he was for another moment, clearly composing himself. Perhaps Wright’s words had struck harder than Frank had realized. But after a few more deep breaths, Blythe went back to his desk and picked up a piece of paper, rubbing his temples as he got to work.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Late that night, Archibald sat at his desk, looking at his pocket watch. The sortie should be starting about now. He closed the watch and rested his head in his hands, giving futile prayers that no lives would be lost, not today.
Martin stepped up behind him and squeezed his shoulder. “It’s not your fault. I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”
Archibald reached back and squeezed his hand. “You should rest.”
“I’ll go when you do,” said Martin. “You’re not alone.”
Archibald nodded. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
Martin stood there a moment longer, then stepped away, going to his footlocker and sorting through it.
Archibald scrubbed his face in his hands and reached for a piece of paper. If he couldn’t sleep, then there was always work.
Martin stepped back over and placed a small wrapped object in front of Archibald. “I know it’s not quite Christmas morning, but here.”
“I didn’t get you anything,” murmured Archibald, picking it up and weighing it in his hands. “Thank you,” he said as he carefully pulled off the wrapping to find, of all things, an orange. It seemed bright in the dim lamplight.
“I know it’s not much but they had some the other day on the French lines, and I thought you might like it.”
“It’s wonderful,” said Archibald. “And I insist you share it.” He carefully peeled the orange and split it in half. Martin took his part and leaned back in his chair.
Archibald took a wedge and popped it in his mouth, closing his eyes and savoring the sweetness bursting across his tongue. It reminded him of better days, of summer and warmth. A time when he was far less exhausted by the world, even if he was lonelier.
He opened his eyes again and found Martin watching him, chewing a section slowly.
Archibald smiled at him, but that smile slipped as he remembered why they were awake at this hour.
Martin glanced at the door. “They won’t deliver any reports until morning. You should sleep.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Archibald, getting to his feet and eating another section of orange. The taste turned more bitter with his thoughts. What right did he have to enjoy a gift like this when men were likely dying out in the cold?
Martin stepped behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m here,” he repeated quietly.
Oh, so much promise and threat in those words, so many lines that shouldn’t be crossed. “I know,” said Archibald, stepping away from his touch, “and I’m grateful.”
Martin turned away to dim the light. Archibald quickly got ready and slipped into bed, listening as Martin made certain the door was locked and finished his own preparations.
Archibald rolled onto his side. He could still taste the orange on his tongue, sweet as temptation. Martin slipped in next to him, putting an arm around Archibald, sharing his warmth.
Archibald listened as Martin’s breathing slowed. Outside the bunker, the world was hushed, even the artillery gone silent. He should try to sleep, but his mind was too restless.
Quiet as he could, Archibald slipped out of bed, tucking the covers around Martin. He pulled on his boots and slipped on his coat, easing back the lock and stepping outside into the cold.
The night was still. Archibald leaned against the wall of the bunker and tilted his head skyward. Wispy clouds passed slowly in front of brilliant stars. Somewhere, he could hear men talking in hushed voices, probably on watch.
Archibald prayed as he watched the stars. He never used to pray much, but here, it felt right. First, he prayed for the men who had gone out that night, then for the rest of them, all the soldiers spending another Christmas away from home. Then, closing his eyes, he prayed for himself and for Martin. Prayed for some miracle that would allow them to keep this… whatever it was… despite the war and inevitable peace.
Rubbing his eyes, Archibald took a breath and went back inside, locking the door behind him. Martin shifted, half sitting up in the darkness. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Archibald assured him. “Go back to sleep.”
Martin nodded and lay down again. By the time Archibald slipped beneath the covers again, he was already fast asleep.
Archibald got settled and Martin rolled over, tucking his head against his shoulder. Archibald’s heart ached and another part of him stirred, but this was not the time or place for that. He gently brushed Martin’s hair back and tucked the covers around them. He didn’t know he’d ever get used to sleeping alone again.
Closing his eyes again, Archibald found a Christmas hymn rolling through his head. Words of peace that seemed so far removed from the here and now. He sighed, hoping that these moments, these touches, would be enough. Even if they never had more than these stolen nights, at least it was a memory he could cling to.
Archibald slept fitfully, giving up sometime towards morning. He could hear other people moving outside the bunker. Carefully, he got out of bed and reached for his boots.
“Morning already?” yawned Martin, stretching.
“More or less,” said Archibald, not quite looking at him.
Martin rolled to his feet and reached for his own boots. “I’ll get breakfast,” he said. Archibald watched him tie his boots then reach for his coat and his rifle. The comfortable rhythm of their usual mornings, with only the pair of stars above their bed signifying the holiday.
Archibald sighed and went to his desk, shuffling his papers and not looking at any of them as he waited for the report on last night’s raid.
Martin quickly returned, and they ate in comfortable silence. Halfway through breakfast, there was a knock on the door. Archibald went to answer it, accepting the report and closing the door again before looking at it, shoulders dropping.
“How is it?” asked Martin, getting to his feet and coming to his side.
Archibald looked up at him. “No deaths. Three injuries, one of which is major, but he’s expected to survive.”
Martin let out a breath. “Suppose that’s our Christmas miracle, then.”
“Certainly seems like it.” Archibald ran a hand through his hair.
Martin smiled at him, something warm that chased away the fear around Archibald’s heart. “Come on, finish breakfast, then you can work.” He took the paper from Archibald’s hand and lay it face down on his desk.
Archibald couldn’t help but smile back and follow him to the table. He sat down and picked up his fork, relaxing in the comfortable quiet.
The day passed easily enough. Archibald found himself glad that Wright didn’t try to darken their door. The work never truly ceased, but he allowed himself to relax and take his time. Nothing earth-shattering would happen if everything didn’t get done today.
Towards evening, Archibald glanced over to see Martin writing a letter. To his family, apparently, going by the pictures he’d set next to him on his desk. It made something twist in his heart. A reminder that, no matter what fantasies he might carry in his head, Martin was long since taken by someone else.
Archibald grabbed a blank sheet of paper and his own pen, scribbling out a quick letter to his mother that said nothing of import but gave the expected holiday greetings. He finished before Martin did and set it aside.
Taking a breath, he went over to his footlocker and took out a bottle of liquor and two glasses. Collins had delivered it the last time he’d come by. Martin
looked up at him as he poured them each a glass. “It is Christmas,” he said.
Martin folded up the letter and stuffed the pictures back in his pocket before taking the drink. “Thank you. To Christmas miracles?” he asked.
Archibald nodded and sat. “Christmas miracles,” he repeated, clinking their glasses. He took a long sip of his drink, grateful for the burn.
“This is good,” said Martin, regarding the cup.
“You should see my wine cellar,” said Archibald, sitting back in his chair.
Martin cocked his head and looked up at him from under his eyelashes. “Maybe one day,” he said quietly.
Archibald’s heart skipped a beat. He reached out and covered Martin’s hand with his own. “It would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
Martin looked away. “Not bloody likely, but yeah.” He pulled his hand away and wrapped it around his glass.
Archibald wondered if he’d said something wrong. Martin looked at the folded letter on his desk and sipped his drink. Archibald sighed. No, Martin was quite right. Not bloody likely indeed.
But still, it was Christmas, and even in a place like this, a man could hope and dream.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Over the next few days, life went back to its usual pace. The stars vanished from above their bunk, artillery and skirmishes resumed. Frank ran messages as Blythe planned another major attack.
Blythe continued to come to his bed at night, though generally, he was gone by morning. Sometimes, in the small hours, Frank watched him sleep, trying to memorize the way he looked with his features relaxed. Frank would hold his hand in the darkness and ache for the man next to him. Of course, he couldn’t keep him. Of course, he had to return home eventually, turn his back on all of this, and pick up the pieces with his family. But in those small hours, he allowed himself a flicker of hope and a whisper of prayer that somehow, someway, he could keep the man for himself. Surely he’d done enough to earn some small measure of happiness?
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