The rest of the day passed quietly as they settled back into their usual routine. Frank went to bed first, as he always did. Archibald wrapped up his work and leaned back in his chair, looking at Frank. With a sigh, he got up and ready for bed. He locked the door and, with some hesitation, climbed into his own bunk. It was cold, more so without Frank by his side, but how dare he risk it? Surely, this was safer for both of them.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Frank woke in the small hours of the morning, shivering and heart racing with half-remembered fear. He rolled over and found he was alone. Frowning, he sat up and looked for Archibald.
He was in his own bed. Frank's heart froze. Of course, after all they'd been through in the last day or so, Archibald would see it as safer to sleep apart, even with the door locked against intruders.
Scrubbing his face in his hands, Frank put his feet on the floor, back to Archibald, willing his heart to calm but unable to ignore the ache.
A few furtive nights and the hours in Paris might be all they would ever have. Frank fought back tears at the thought. It wasn’t just the physical intimacy; it was knowing that Archibald had allowed himself to be seen. It was knowing that he was loved, even if the words remained unspoken.
The other men he’d found comfort with had meant something, surely, but not like this. Nothing had ever felt this way, not even Julia at the start of their marriage. Could this love outlast everything?
Frank didn’t have the answer, but it felt right. He wanted to wake up every morning in Archibald’s arms. He turned and looked at Archibald’s sleeping form in the dim light. If the war was over tomorrow and they were sent home, he knew he was willing to abandon his family for him. That was a sobering thought and not a decision to make rashly, yet what else could he do? He loved Archibald with his whole heart. Would Archibald’s status protect them? Was there anywhere they might be safe?
Taking a few deep breaths, Frank lay down again, watching Archibald sleep, wanting to reach for him. Perhaps it was better to stay at arm’s length for a time. He’d thought he was getting too close to Wilson, but this was far worse. And Wright might not be the only person watching them.
But even as he fell back asleep, Frank couldn’t deny the truth of his heart.
The bitterly cold weather reflected Frank’s mood over the next few weeks. He understood why they needed to stay apart, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. When he wasn’t battling nightmares, he dreamed of taking Archibald in his arms. To wake with him just out of reach felt cruel.
Wright seemed to be lurking at the edges. It was impossible to tell when he might turn up at an inopportune time. Frank did his work as efficiently as he ever did, running messages, filing papers, and making sure Archibald was fed and taken care of. But the tension between them was palpable.
None of it was helped by the feeling of an impending attack. They’d been assured that the Americans would arrive by spring, but that also meant the Germans had time to get in one more push. While Frank moved through the trenches, he could see the worry and strain on the faces of the officers and soldiers. It seemed everyone shared that same sense of foreboding, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
If the world was going to explode around them, Frank would prefer it happen with Archibald by his side. He wanted to go to Archibald’s bed, take him in his arms and kiss him in the small hours. But he respected Archibald too much to push him, though if he gave the slightest sign, Frank would risk everything.
Instead, he woke up alone, Archibald often working longer hours than he ever had before. They still spoke to one another, but even the brush of their hands happened less often. With Julia, it had been like living with a stranger. This was more painful because he knew Archibald still cared for him but didn’t dare to close the gap.
Everything came to a head one cold evening. Frank came into the bunker with their dinner, shivering and chased by snowflakes. Mud and muck stuck to his boots. Archibald got up to close and lock the door as he put down the tray, then turned to help him out of his coat. Frank closed his eyes, reveling in the small touch.
He felt Archibald hesitate, then put a hand on the small of his back. “Thank you,” Archibald said quietly.
Those words could mean a lot of different things. Frank opened his eyes, really looking at Archibald. He seemed oddly frail, the stress and tension of the last few weeks weighing heavy on his frame. “I’ve missed you,” admitted Frank.
Archibald nodded, double-checking the lock. Artillery landed nearby, rattling the room and sending the lamp light dancing. Frank’s heart was in his throat as Archibald took his hand and led him to the table. “We should eat.”
Frank nodded and sat, picking up his fork. He took a breath and looked at Archibald. “I’ve missed you,” he repeated, needing Archibald to respond, needing to hear that Archibald missed him just as much. He was tired and lonely and aching, and he couldn’t be alone in these feelings.
Archibald met his gaze, then looked down at his plate. “I know,” he said, taking a bite of his dinner. He looked back up through his lashes. “I’ve been afraid.”
Frank felt tension seeping out of his shoulders. He reached across the table for Archibald's hand. “You’ve always had to be so careful. I’m sure having Wright go through our things brought all that back for you. That and whatever happened in Paris.”
“You know me better than most,” said Archibald, a hint of surprise in his voice. Another shell landed somewhere nearby. “I... I’m not as brave as you,” he said, picking up his fork again.
Frank shook his head and squeezed his hand. “Yes, you are, in your own way. I’ve always known I liked both, but I went and got married anyway. I’d imagine you had to beat away the proposals.”
A smile creased Archibald’s face. “You give me too much credit. I had opportunities, yes. But I suppose I always sort of figured I’d wait until late in life, then marry a widow with her own children. I doubt I could perform what would be expected of me with a woman.”
“You’ve had a lonely life,” said Frank.
Archibald shrugged. “It’s all I’ve ever known. You’ve shown me so many things I never thought were possible. Or at least, not possible for someone like me.”
Frank pushed his plate aside and leaned over to kiss him gently. “I wish our time together never had to end. I want to grow old with you.”
Archibald cupped his cheek. “I feel the same way,” he said softly. “Maybe when the war ends…” He stopped talking and raised his head at a nearby shout.
Frank glanced at the door, then back at Archibald. Outside, the bombardment had stopped.
Someone banged on their door, then quickly moved on. Instantly, Frank and Archibald scrambled to their feet, pulling on their coats. Frank went to the door and unbolted it as Archibald shoved his more important papers in the trunk and locked it.
Frank peered into the dusk. A few soldiers ran past, shouting alarm. There was the sound of gunfire, close and getting closer.
“Come on. If we’re going to get overrun, we don’t want to be trapped here,” said Frank, heart in his throat as he grabbed his rifle.
Nodding, Archibald picked up his pistol and dimmed the lamp. Frank turned away from the door and closed the gap between them. He kissed Archibald hard, full of weeks of passion he’d been unable to show.
Archibald fisted the front of his jacket and kissed him with just as much need until a passing voice outside the open door startled them apart.
Frank gave him a tiny smile, then led the way out and down the trench, gunfire drawing closer still.
Only a few feet away, a soldier slipped in the snow and fell, staining the ground red. Frank shoved Archibald in front of him. “Go!” he whispered harshly.
Soldiers raced towards the rear of the trenches, panic infecting the ranks as more men fell.
Frank heard a German voice barking orders. On instinct, he shoved Archibald down. Fire tore through his side as he fell, wind knocked out of him as he hit the gr
ound. Grunting and rolling onto his back, he saw Archibald on his knees, coldly shooting an enemy at point-blank range.
Archibald turned back to Frank as the soldier crumpled. “Come on,” he murmured, holstering his Webley and putting his hands under Frank’s armpits.
Things were already going hazy on the edges. Frank smiled up at Archibald. “I love you,” he whispered.
Archibald’s face softened for just a moment. He shook his head. “Tell me later,” he said, dragging Frank behind some makeshift cover.
Frank watched him take a breath to steel himself before looking at the wound. The worry and fear on Archibald's face told him as much as the encroaching darkness.
“You’re not dying on me,” muttered Archibald, though if he said it for Frank’s benefit or his own, it was hard to tell.
Frank closed his eyes against the pain. His last conscious thought was of Archibald, heart aching with love.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Archibald looked up as Frank went limp, spotting a medic through his watering eyes. He shouted for the man’s attention, then leaned down to Frank’s ear. “I love you. You are not going to die.”
The medic rushed over and crouched down to get to work. Archibald squeezed Frank’s hand and stood. Men were still scattered and falling back. The body of the German who had shot Frank lay a few feet away, empty eyes staring at the sky. More Germans could be seen further down the trench.
Cold rage bubbled up in Archibald. He bent down and picked up Frank’s rifle. shouting orders to gather behind a wall of sandbags.
The passing soldiers looked uncertain, then began to obey, perhaps because of his tone, or maybe because it sounded better than getting shot in the back. Archibald joined them, getting them organized and returning fire.
Another medic joined the first and they got Frank onto a stretcher, using the cover fire to get him to safety. Archibald watched them disappear around a corner, then ordered his men forward, driving back the Germans. He fired Frank’s gun until it was empty, then shouldered it and pulled his pistol.
Other soldiers fell in with them as they moved, the unit growing in strength as they pushed back across the blood-slicked snow and mud. Finally, they reached the front lines again and the Germans broke, scrambling up and back out across no man’s land.
“Don’t chase them,” ordered Archibald. “See to the wounded!” The men obeyed with some grumbling, their blood up, but they saw the wisdom in his orders.
Wright appeared just as everything had calmed down. He started barking his own orders. A few of the soldiers looked confused and glanced back at Archibald.
“Continue what you’re doing,” said Archibald, turning and walking up to Wright. “Everything is under control, Lieutenant Colonel.”
Wright took a step closer to him. “This isn’t your job. And where's that so-called aide of yours? Shirking his dut…”
Archibald swung without thinking, sending Wright sprawling.
Shaking his head, Wright stood unsteadily and wiped his mouth, glaring at Archibald.
Archibald turned his back on him, moving to a knot of men that were reinforcing the barbed wire. “Thank you,” one of them muttered quietly, glancing back at Wright.
“Welcome,” said Archibald, patting his shoulder and moving on to another group. Wright stared at him for a few long moments, then finally walked away.
Archibald checked on a few more soldiers, made sure the wounded were being cared for, then headed back to the bunker. He pushed open the door and found it just as they’d left it, plates on the table and chairs pushed back, the lamp turned low.
Archibald closed the door behind him and set Frank’s rifle in its usual place. Silently, he made his way over to his chair and sat. He started to tremble and put his head in his hands. Frank would be okay. He had to be okay. He rubbed his eyes, willing himself not to cry. There was still work to do and reports to be written, even if it felt wrong to be sitting here in the bunker, with Frank’s rifle against the wall but without the man himself.
He’d been holding himself back for weeks. What if he’d wasted those last chances to be with Frank? Swallowing hard, Archibald got to his feet and went to his trunk. Rummaging through it, he pulled out a wristwatch he’d bought in Paris. It had never seemed like the right moment to give it to Frank, and now it might be too late.
Archibald shoved the watch into his pocket. It was probably too soon to know anything, but at least he could go to the field hospital and check on Frank. He reached into his trunk and picked up his flask, taking a long swig to calm his nerves. When he closed his eyes, he could see Frank bleeding out in front of him, and he quickly opened them again.
Right, standing here wasn’t going to accomplish anything. He put the flask in his other pocket and picked up some ammunition before closing the trunk. He reloaded the Webley and put it back on his hip.
He smoothed his uniform the best he could, straightened his coat, then strode out of the bunker. He was a soldier, Archibald reminded himself, and if it hadn’t been true before, it certainly was now.
Archibald retraced the steps he and Frank had taken when they’d carried the wounded from the artillery strike. Soldiers glanced at him as he strode purposely past. He heard a few whispers in his wake, but there was no time to wonder what they were saying. It had grown dark, and hooded lamps cast weird shadows on the muddy ground, lending to the unearthly air.
He reached the field hospital at last, finding it busy, as he expected. Nobody noticed him when he stepped in, but he managed to catch the arm of an orderly that was passing by. “Excuse me, I’m looking for a Corporal Martin. Frank Martin.”
The man looked up at his face. “I’ll see if I can find anything,” he said, stepping away from Archibald. “Wait here.”
The orderly disappeared behind a curtain. Archibald looked around. The space was crowded with casualties. Most of the less injured sat patiently waiting, staring into the distance. A few were silently crying. One had his arms around his knees, rocking back and forth as he sat on the ground.
Archibald moved to one side, not wanting to get in the way as men moved in and out of the space. He looked down at his own hands, wondering how he’d escaped any injury.
It seemed only a few minutes before the orderly returned. “Corporal Martin is in surgery,” he said. “It will be some time before he can have visitors.”
“Thank you,” said Archibald. “I’ll return later.”
The orderly nodded and turned his attention back to the waiting wounded. Fingering the watch in his pocket, Archibald walked out into the cold evening air. He should leave them to get their work done. But he didn’t particularly want to go back to the bunker, either.
Archibald rubbed his temples and pulled out the flask from his other pocket, taking a sip. If Frank was in surgery, that meant that he had to have good chances for survival. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have bothered.
“Major Blythe?” an unfamiliar voice called to him.
“Yes?” he asked, pocketing the flask and turning to the private shifting foot to foot, as if he were uncomfortable.
“I was told you were probably here, sir. You need to come with me.” He said the words as if he were tasting something rotten.
Archibald could easily guess this had to do with the punch he’d thrown earlier. Well, even if he had to spend the rest of the war in irons, it was worth it. He squared his shoulders and gave the private a small smile. “It’s fine,” he said. “Lead on.”
The private led the way to the car. He got behind the wheel, and Archibald sat in the back. He watched the dark countryside go past, wondering about the future and trying not to think of the past. The one regret he had was the way he’d been avoiding Frank's bed for the last few weeks. He should have gone to him anyway. After all, the door had been locked. But he’d let his fear hold him back.
His thoughts were interrupted when they pulled up to an unfamiliar house. The private anxiously got the door, then led Archibald inside and into a
dining room.
Half a dozen high-ranking officers sat around the table, the remains of their supper close at hand. Basil was among them, looking sympathetic. At least this wasn’t a true court-martial, or else the setting would have been much more formal.
“Sit,” said General Bennet, gesturing at an empty seat.
Archibald obeyed, folding his hands in front of him and sitting up straight. He carefully schooled his features and waited for them to speak.
General Bennet watched him closely. “We received a report from Lieutenant Colonel Wright not long ago. Did you punch him?”
Archibald knew honesty was best, and besides, there was no denying it. “Yes.”
There were a few murmurs around the table. “Why?”
Archibald took a breath and looked Bennet in the eyes. “I highly doubt he told you, but there has been animosity between us for some time. He doesn’t like that neither I, nor my aide, report to him. A few weeks ago, I took command of some men when there was a breach of our lines. There were no other officers present, and taking command seemed the most prudent course of action. Similarly, today, with our lines overrun and men retreating, I was able to rally our troops. Once the Germans were in retreat, Wright appeared.”
“Which is when you struck him,” said another officer.
“Yes,” agreed Archibald.
“Were there words exchanged?” asked someone else.
Archibald hesitated just a moment, then continued with the truth. “He reiterated that leading the troops was not my job. And then he disparaged my aide, who was badly injured and is currently in surgery.”
There were a few nods around the table. Honor was important to all of them, and that included their staff.
“Is there anything else you'd like to tell us about your relationship with Lieutenant Colonel Wright?” asked General Bennet.
Archibald glanced down at his hands, then back up at him. “Did you receive any report of a disturbance in my quarters while I was in Paris?”
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