Daylight pushed those thoughts away to the hidden corners. He saw Wright a few times, was always aware that he and Blythe were being observed. They were careful during the day and never spoke of their nights. But that didn’t mean Frank wasn’t intensely aware of the man by his side.
Four days after Christmas, Frank was on his way back to the bunker when he heard a shout. He hit the ground automatically as gunfire erupted far too close for comfort.
Before he could even bring up his rifle, he heard a cry of “Grenade!” Again, without thought, he rolled to the side, ducked behind some sandbags, and covered his head. It went off close enough to ring his ears, but he brought his rifle to his shoulder before his head had even cleared.
A German uniform dropped into the trench and Frank fired, seeing the man spin and fall. Around him, men grouped together to face the incoming threat, taking cover where they could, firing at any soldiers they saw that were not their own.
Two other soldiers joined him, leaving the injured and dead in the open. Frank barely spared them a thought; the medics would take care of them when they could.
Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice barking out orders. He turned his head, surprised to find Blythe quickly taking charge of the scattered men and forming them up to meet the enemy. He worked as efficiently with live men as he did with his papers, Webley in his hand, urging them forward, seemingly heedless of his own safety.
A bullet struck next to Frank, making him curse and duck his head.
The soldiers Blythe commanded moved forward like a proper unit, providing cover fire for Frank and the others to scramble back to safety. Once he was behind the line, Frank turned to fire only to find the Germans already falling back. Blythe gave one more order, and the firing ceased almost as quickly as it had begun
“Good,” muttered Blythe. He gave a few more quiet orders to reinforce this section and then stepped back as the medics hurried forward. He holstered his sidearm and looked at Frank, worry in his eyes. “Corporal,” he said formally, eyes landing on his arm.
Frank looked down and found his jacket torn by a bullet. He probed the fabric. “Just a scratch, sir.”
“Let’s get that tended to,” said Blythe, gesturing Frank back towards their bunker.
Frank winced as he shouldered his rifle again. They walked in tense silence, perhaps a bit closer together than was strictly proper. Snow drifted from the sky, muffling their steps. Frank’s arm began to throb, telling him it was a bit more than a scratch.
Blythe got the door and gestured Frank inside, then closed it behind them while Frank leaned his rifle against the wall. Frank unbuttoned his coat and started to remove it, only for Blythe to step over and carefully take it from his shoulder, then ease it down his arms.
Frank sunk onto the nearest chair, unbuttoning his shirt as Blythe went to his locker and came up with a small med kit.
“Not so bad,” said Frank, laying his shirt across his lap and looking at the wound. Not deep, but bleeding slowly. His skin goose-pimpled in the cold air.
Blythe drew up the other chair and gently held his arm. He was stiff, as if not quite trusting himself to speak. Frank watched as he cleaned the wound and bandaged it. Blythe glanced up at his face, then leaned forward to place a tiny kiss on his work.
Frank reached over to touch his cheek. “Thank you.”
Blythe sighed and sat back, taking Frank’s hand and kissing the back of it before putting it down. “You were late, and then I heard the fighting….”
“Just a spot of bad luck,” said Frank, carefully pulling his shirt back on. “Never expected to see you out there.”
“You were in danger. I had to come.” Blythe closed the med kit, not quite looking at Frank as he moved to put it away.
Frank stood and came to him, putting a hand on Blythe’s back. “You’ve never fired your weapon before, have you?” he asked gently.
Blythe leaned into his touch as if he were the one that needed comfort. Perhaps he did. “Not since training, no.” He turned and faced Frank, reaching to button his shirt for him. “But I would throw myself into any danger if it meant saving you.”
Frank covered his hands with his own. “I know.” He looked up into Blythe’s face, only to jump back as the door opened.
Wright glared at Blythe. Frank resisted the urge to step between them and worked on his buttons instead. “Yes, Lieutenant Colonel?” asked Blythe.
“What just happened out there?” asked Wright.
“There was an incident, I happened to be in the area, there were no other officers present, and I took charge.” Blythe crossed his arms and cooly met his gaze.
“I thought you had your own special assignment,” said Wright sarcastically.
“I do. And I have no intention of overstepping any bounds. As I said, there were no officers present. That part of the trench was in danger of being overrun.”
Wright narrowed his eyes and turned his attention to Frank. “You.”
Frank tucked in his shirt and looked up at him. “Sir?”
“You just happened to be there?”
“I was on my way back from delivering a message for the major. I can assure you, sir, I had no intentions of finding myself in a firefight.”
Blythe moved slightly in front of Frank. “The Corporal was injured, and should probably rest,” he said.
Wright looked between them. “Yes, I can see how concerned you are for the Corporal,” he grumbled, turning on his heel and walking away.
Frank looked skyward as the door closed. “Arsehole.”
“Yes,” agreed Blythe. “Now really, sit down and rest. I’ll see to dinner.”
Frank shook his head and sat down. “Yes, sir,” he said without venom.
Blythe reached out and ran his fingers through Frank’s hair before remembering himself. He straightened his uniform and reached for his coat. “Won’t be long.”
Frank watched him go, closing his eyes and thinking about every stolen touch. He was falling for Blythe, he knew that, in his heart of hearts. He and Julia hadn’t been in love for years, since well before he’d ever set foot on that ship to France.
Blythe would kill for him, die for him. Frank shivered with the enormity of that thought. In the small hours of the morning, he could let himself imagine a life with this man by his side, somewhere safe, somewhere far from here. But surely, it was impossible.
He opened his eyes again and rubbed them, wincing at the movement. They were both alive, and though they’d been lucky so far, life was fleeting in this place. Best to enjoy whatever they had as long as they could.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Archibald returned quickly with their supper. He gave Martin something for the pain and sat down in his usual place. Martin was quiet, his face unreadable, and Archibald didn’t dare interrupt his thoughts.
He encouraged Martin to go to bed early, and it was a testament to the man’s state of mind that he didn’t argue. Archibald worried his lip in his teeth and tried to work, aware of Martin lying on his back, wounded arm across his chest. Today could have been so much worse.
Leaning back in his chair, Archibald rubbed his temples. They were in the middle of a war. Bullets were one hazard. Men like Wright were another. Some were still out for personal glory, despite how much blood had already been poured into the ground.
Quietly, Archibald unholstered his gun and looked at it. He was fairly certain he hadn’t actually shot anyone, but it was hard to tell in the chaos of the moment. Martin had been in danger; he’d done his best to protect him.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair and then quietly cleaned the weapon. His fingers trembled slightly as he worked, but he ignored it.
Martin whimpered in his sleep. Archibald looked at him, then set down the gun and lowered the lamp. He quickly got out of his boots and slipped into bed, cradling Martin.
Sighing, Martin settled, arm thrown across Archibald’s chest. “I killed men today,” he said softly in the darkness.
“Yo
u’re a soldier,” said Archibald.
Martin was quiet long enough Archibald thought he’d fallen back asleep. “It’s not fair,” Martin murmured, though if he was talking about the battle or Wright, or their relationship, Archibald wasn’t sure.
“It never is,” he answered, tucking the blankets tighter around them. “Go to sleep.”
Martin nodded and Archibald started to drift off, hearing the echo of gunfire in his head.
The next few days were quiet. Archibald kept busy with his work and plans. Really, they needed the Americans to get here, shore them up with troops that hadn’t been slogging through the mud for four years. One morning, he got a note from Basil, letting him know that he was back to work and hoping he’d had as good a holiday as he could. Archibald sent Martin off with a message, leaving the bunker quiet.
Archibald contemplated the letter from Basil and took out a fresh sheet of paper. Perhaps he and Martin could return back to the rear. Surely they could do this work elsewhere. Somewhere away from Wright’s prying eyes and further from the nightmares that plagued Martin’s sleep.
He started to write, addressing it and getting down a few sentences before he stopped and looked at it. No. It would be cowardice. Basil would probably do it if he asked, but what about all the men who had no such option? How would Martin take it? He would know, surely, that it had been Archibald’s request.
Archibald sighed and crumpled up the paper, tossing it into the small stove for good measure. He was many things, but the idea of Martin thinking him a coward froze his heart.
Instead, by the time Martin returned, he was up to his elbows in usual work. He accepted the message, then smiled up at Martin. “Can you get our supper?”
“Going to run me ragged,” teased Martin, adjusting his coat.
Archibald’s eyes landed on the bullet tear in the fabric. Martin’s arm was healing nicely, but the coat wouldn’t heal itself. “You should get that mended,” he said.
“I’ll take care of it later,” said Martin, picking up his rifle and heading out again.
After they ate, Martin sat in the bunk and quietly sewed a patch onto his coat. Archibald sorted his papers, getting in a last bit of work, barely noticing an intense artillery barrage starting overhead. He glanced over at Martin as he got ready to sleep. “It’s New Year’s Eve, should we drink to the new year?”
“It’s not midnight yet,” said Martin, stifling a yawn.
“True. You should sleep, I’m going to get a bit more work done.”
“You always do,” said Martin with affection. He got up and squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“I’ll try,” said Archibald, patting his hand.
Martin yawned again and got settled into bed. Archibald pulled over another stack of papers and started going through them, casting occasional glances at the still figure.
Finally, he glanced at his watch and saw it was nearing midnight. He got up to make sure the door was locked, then quickly got ready to sleep and lowered the lamp.
Archibald slid in as he always did, not wanting to wake up Martin. He settled and reached out to touch his shoulder.
To his surprise, Martin rolled over to face him.
Archibald froze as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. The room shook with a nearby shell, but the only thing that mattered was Martin.
Martin closed the gulf between them, cupping Archibald’s face and letting his thumb stroke his cheekbone. “I sleep better with you here,” he said quietly.
Archibald swallowed hard, Martin’s hand hot on his skin. “I’m glad.”
Martin shifted closer. “Is it midnight?”
“Not quite,” said Archibald, glancing at his lips.
“Close enough,” said Martin quietly. “There’s a tradition I want to indulge in.” He leaned forward and kissed him gently.
Archibald’s eyes slipped closed. He sighed into the kiss, hand coming up to rest on Martin’s side. It felt like coming home, the first and last person he would ever kiss.
Martin slowly broke the kiss and pulled back.
Archibald opened his eyes to find him studying his face. “Happy New Year,” he said quietly.
Martin leaned his forehead against Archibald’s. “Happy New Year.”
Archibald closed his eyes, reveling in the touch, heart aching with need. “I… I don’t want to pretend anymore. In the morning, I mean. When we are alone.”
“Then we won’t,” said Martin, kissing him again, gathering him in his arms.
The kisses were chaste. Unhurried. The finest wine couldn’t have compared with Martin’s chapped lips. Aside from the location, it was everything Archibald had imagined it could be.
It was Archibald that finally sighed and shifted to rest his head on Martin’s chest. “We should try to sleep.”
“I suppose so. We’ve got to deal with 1918 in the morning,” murmured Martin, toying with his hair. “I’m here, as long as you wish.”
“Then I hope you’re prepared to stay forever,” said Archibald, closing his eyes and settling. It was an impossible request, but in this moment, it did not matter.
Martin kissed the top of his head and settled in to sleep, keeping his silence.
In the small hours, a shell shook the bunker, startling them both awake.
“Go back to sleep,” Martin murmured.
Archibald reached out to cup his cheek and draw him into a gentle kiss. “May I ask a question?” he asked, hearing the hesitation in his own voice.
Martin smiled and covered his hand with his own, turning his head to kiss his palm. “Anything.”
“When we’re alone, like this, may I use your Christian name?”
“Please do,” he said.
“Frank,” said Archibald, as if trying it out on his tongue.
“Archibald,” he answered, settling him against this chest and tucking the covers around them.
Archibald sighed. Likely this couldn’t last, not outside the war, but he’d cling to it as long as he could. He fell asleep imagining a world where he could hold Frank in the sunlight, a world where they could openly love.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Frank woke in Archibald's arms. He lay very still for a few long moments, hardly daring to believe this was truly happening. They had kissed. Archibald wanted him to use his first name when they were alone. Archibald held him gently, a circle of safety in a terrible world.
Slowly, Frank raised his head. He looked down at Archibald, still seemingly asleep, his features soft and his hair askew. It was a testament to his comfort that he hadn't stirred with Frank's movements.
Smiling softly, Frank leaned down to kiss him awake. Archibald shifted, then his eyes flew open in surprise. “Frank?” he asked, as if uncertain if he was dreaming or awake.
“Yeah, it’s me,” said Frank, smoothing back his hair. “Good morning and Happy New Year.”
“Good morning,” said Archibald, leaning into his touch. “We made it to 1918.”
“We did,” said Frank, leaning in for one more kiss before reluctantly pulling back.
Archibald watched him pull on his boots, their regular morning routine feeling like uncertain ground after the events of the night before. “I’ll get breakfast,” said Frank unnecessarily. He rose to his feet and pulled on boots, then his coat, eyes catching on the fresh patch, reminding him of the dangers all around them.
“Be safe,” said Archibald, perhaps noticing his gaze.
“I’ll do my best,” said Frank, giving Archibald a smile and reaching for his rifle.
Frank took a breath as he stepped outside. The air was crisp and cold, with skies that threatened snow later. People grumbled as they moved through the trench and artillery pounded somewhere in the distance. All as it ever was, at least outside the safety of their bunker.
Still, Frank couldn't help but feel a little lighter on his feet, secure that his feelings were returned. This might not last, but, for now, he refused to even entertain
those thoughts. No need to darken a rare moment of happiness for a storm cloud of what-ifs.
By the time he returned, Archibald was at his desk as always, freshly shaved and ready for the day, though Frank could see he was only shuffling papers, not doing any actual work. He put down their food and tea on his table and Archibald shifted to sit across from him. It felt cozy and domestic, in a way that London hadn’t been for a very long time. Frank pushed those thoughts aside, too. They were roses blooming in winter, shielded by fragile glass perhaps, but safe together. He threaded his fingers through Archibald’s and gave him a smile. Archibald moved his foot so they were touching under the table. This was home.
“Eat,” said Archibald, pointing with his fork. They ate in comfortable silence, the world outside feeling very far away indeed.
Of course, such a moment was only temporary. Archibald finished eating and took his tea back to his desk, actually starting on his work. Frank tidied up from breakfast and took a message for Archibald.
They soon enough settled into their new normal, everything nearly the same and yet dramatically different. There was still a war to fight and work to do, but there were smiles and gentle touches and the sound of his name on Archibald’s lips.
At night, Frank still went to bed first, still drifted in and out of sleep, not truly getting rest until Archibald joined him. Sometimes, in those small hours, they would talk a little. Generally not about anything of consequence, but Archibald would tell him of his life before the war and Frank would tell Archibald about his younger days, mostly avoiding anything to do with his marriage.
Frank couldn’t help but think that he was so lucky to have Archibald this way. The man was clearly brilliant, and damn good at his work. But he also had been lonely in a way that made Frank’s heart ache.
At least they had here and now. Frank could take Archibald in his arms and kiss away his worries and fears, if only for a few hours in the darkness. They might have been getting a little less sleep, but what they did get was far more restful.
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