Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

C'est une brute.

This is his first impression of Captain Paddy Mayne.

Though, that is not necessarily true.

His first, first impression is, well, that this man is slight. He’s slight, and unkempt – the latter of which he attributes to the harsh living conditions of the desert and the former of which amuses him to an extent. Mayne stands there, next to his commander, next to David Stirling, with his shirt unbuttoned, beard bushy and a cloth of some sort fashioned like a ghutra around his head. Awash in the sun as they are, the Captain looks almost at home amongst the grains of sand sticking to his bare legs. There truly isn’t much to him at first glance.

Now, being the learned man that he is, he knows that looks can be deceiving, that he should be above judging a man before they’ve even spoken. He sees the way that Stirling is holding himself crookedly as if at the ready. To what? To issue an order at a moment’s notice? To jump in if things are to go awry? And with an additional scan of the area, he sees that the men of the SAS are all leaned forward as if they are expecting something to happen as well. It’s… unsettling.

They haven’t been told much, the Free French. They were set to join the commandos and follow their orders, but aside from a scoff here and an eye-roll there from the brass, everyone had been oddly tight-lipped about the men actually serving in the unit. Perhaps that should have been a warning. Perhaps he should have asked more questions or badgered Bergé to tell him something other than the words poet and mad.

Stirling encourages the Captain to inspect the men and the moment Mayne bypasses Zirnheld, ignoring Bergé’s introduction, and goes for Grapes, he knows that he has underestimated what is about to happen. Bergé seems at a loss but follows after the shorter, explaining Soldier X’s origins and the nickname bestowed upon him.

“La vinasse.” The Captain repeats lowly but does not seem impressed. “Grapes. How many of your men do not remember their names?”

Bergé shoots him a worried glance over the man’s head as the shorter circles Grapes and then continues down the line.

“Most of my men speak no English at all.” Bergé admits, shadowing the SAS Captain.

“Well, actually, Paddy speaks French.” Stirling volunteers to which he receives an immediate rebuttal from the man in question.

“No, he fucking doesn’t.” The man’s voice rises, accent thick as he shapes the words. “Paddy speaks dog, and your men speak dog. So we will communicate as dogs.”

Homo homini lupus est is not necessarily an appropriate saying for this occasion but it does rise to the forefront of his mind. Here this Irishman stands, sneering up at his men as if they are any less worthy than the ones under his command, as if they are not fighting the same war. He is beginning to doubt Mayne’s willingness for collaboration. A thread of anger coils in his gut, fists clenched at his sides as Mayne reaches Essner.

And this, in and of itself, is a whole new ordeal. Bergé’s explanation of Essner’s value at roadblocks and his dedication to the cause seems to be falling on deaf ears because Mayne’s already made up his mind about their German members.

“I despise the French.” The Captain declares as if one could not read it in every line of his tightly-strung form. “But I fucking hate Germans. You are a German in a Frenchman’s uniform, nothin’ but a turncoat.”

To his credit, Essner does not seem to be cowed by the other’s words. If anything, the taller of the two appears to be fighting down a smile.

“Expect to be isolated by my contempt.” Mayne declares but before he can move on, Essner speaks.

“Yes, sir.” A brief pause and then Essner opens his mouth again. “Actually, there are two of us.”

He fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, to scold the man for immediately striking up in spite of the SAS Captain but these are his men, they are as they are and there is no helping that.

“I am Corporal Bruckner. I am German, too.” The other singles himself out before he can be called upon. There is a strange sense of pride that rises within him at his men’s bravery. To see them refuse to be pushed around by this Irish bastard is putting him at ease some.

Bergé, much like their men, is undeterred. With a light smile, he speaks. “They came as a pair.”

“That’s fuckin’ brilliant.” Mayne’s eyes move between the two. “Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Deutsch.”

That thread of anger grows, multiplying, threatening to become a ball of yarn instead. Yarn that he will have to unspool at a later date himself if he wishes to fight alongside this man, if he wishes to free his country.

Essner’s non-reaction seems to irritate the Captain because, as if he were a mere schoolyard bully, he takes Essner’s hat and kicks it away. The action receives a few laughs from the SAS men that are sitting the closest. Every muscle in his body coils as Mayne prepares to turn to him.

Someone sneezes. Ice draws down his spine because it’s Halévy.

“What the fuck is that?” More laughter.

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings./Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!

There is something hollow in Mayne’s performance, something that, like the statue of Ozymandias, once was great but is now eroded to ruin.

“I am a hand grenade, sir.” Halévy is saying, refusing to look Mayne in the eye, afraid but like the rest, standing his ground. “Pull the pin, throw me where the enemy is most numerous.”

“We have use for men like him, Paddy.” Stirling interjects again. He is relaxed in his stance now, perhaps assured that Captain Mayne will not be making any ill-advised decisions despite the antagonism.

“Fair play.” Mayne, of all things, smiles at this.

Then, his voice quiets and he turns to Bergé. “Show me to the philosopher.”

A jolt of something makes him stand up straighter in the shifting sand. It is not fear, not really. But there is a feeling of wanting to – to. Impress? Surely, that is not it. Not a man like Paddy Mayne who despises the French and speaks dog. No. It is an act of self-preservation that he remains calm in the face of one who deems himself predator.

“You’d know Augustin Jordan, my second in command, winner of the Croix de Guerre and former professor of philosophy at La Sorbonne.” Bergé does his introductions for him but he does not pay any mind to the platitudes and the useless titles that might spout from his commanding officer’s mouth. Mayne has stopped in front of him, insolent stare heavy on his face, demanding his focus. He thinks he hears Mayne inhale deeply but cannot be sure with how his blood rushes through his ears.

“Sir.” He begins, swallowing down the distrust and the anger. “I hear you’re a poet.”

He doesn’t flinch but it’s a near thing when Mayne reaches up and takes off his glasses, putting them in his pocket, blurring the world beyond the man’s head for him.

“The eyes of a familiar compound ghost…” Mayne speaks as if he is not reciting poetry, as if the verse is a means with which he communicates for he cannot be bothered to find the appropriate words for his partner. “Both intimate and unidentifiable.”

Mayne’s own eyes, shadowed as they are, are marbled. In the right light they’d be a gray-blue but with the desert around them and the sun setting, they are more jade, two gems as hard as they are precious.

“I find T. S. Eliot rather dull.” It’s true that the man is not amongst his favorites but what propels him to admit this is something other than honesty.

Mayne stares at him still. It is as if the man is trying to peer into the depths of his very soul and Augustin cannot, try as he might, know what the other is finding there. Does he see the anger? The grief? The loss?

A few lines before the one recited to his face, Eliot had written: And as I fixed upon the down-turned face/That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge/The first-met stranger in the waning dusk.

Was this Mayne’s reason for the lines he chose? The announcement of scrutiny was hardly necessary. Though, perhaps it is not about his eyes on Augustin but rather the mirror of his gaze. Compound ghost, the other had said, the insinuation of an intimate self-confrontation, Mayne is judging him against himself.

“Not a debate worth getting sand under the foreskin for, one might imagine.” Stirling’s grating voice cuts in, causing confusion to override the unease he’s feeling. What?

Mayne eyes him once more before turning away. “Parade dismissed.”

“Well, this is going to be rather fun, isn’t it?”

No, he does not think so. He believes that he and his men – perhaps Augustin in particular – are in over their heads. But, there is nothing to be done about it now. Mayne has walked across the sand and back to the other SAS soldiers, leaving them all to exchange uncertain glances.

Once Bergé is within earshot, he hisses at him in French. “He is a mercurial little man.”

“I think you will like him.” Undeterred and smiling despite how unpleasant this exchange has been, Bergé claps him on the shoulder.

There is gear to unpack, tents to set up and men to reassure and yet he cannot help the way his eyes are drawn to the Irishman as he moves through camp.

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay/Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare/The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Two towers, 30 feet high, in the middle of the desert – which they will then proceed to jump off of. Because why the fuck not? He thinks bitterly, helping Bergé lift a plank to one of the men up on the scaffold.

A shot rings out through the air, making the men around him flinch and duck as they work.

“A clown and a maniac.” He grunts as Zirnheld sways into him, making the unbearable heat even worse with his proximity.

“Are you going to do anything about it, then?” The other asks, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

Well, it can’t hurt to try.

Mayne had been explicit in his instructions. They had been delivered in a tone that brokered no compromise, a tone that expected to be listened to even though he had encouraged the opposite. Don’t stand still, barked as if he really were speaking dog. Every word uttered had only served to irritate Augustin more and now, almost an hour in, he feels as if he is going to boil over if he does not make a move.

A shot hits the metal next to Essner and another round of loud French cursing fills the air. Well, at least the SAS men are amused as they look on from the shadows, lazing around and drinking their day away. How this unit got anything done was a miracle of the highest order.

Hidden out of the Irishman’s view, he nudges Zirnheld and liberates him of his gun.

“You might be as crazy as he is.” The Lieutenant grins but Augustin pays him no mind as he tucks the piece into the waistband of his shorts. It is not a subtle move, it is, if anything, desperate.

He is angry. It is not the primal, helpless anger of losing his country, of losing his home. Nor is it the petty anger of the academic community, of a philosopher being challenged. His anger is indignant and he is all too willing to fan the flames of it if it means that his men will no longer be made a mockery of, will no longer be targeted like this.

He creeps up the side of the rocky outcropping while the shots are still ringing out. He is there, looking back at his men as they work and then he is pointing a gun where the rifle can clearly be seen glinting. He aims and shoots above the spot. He is not out to kill the Captain, only to make him stop, to make him see that he is behaving irrationally.

But the man is not there and how – ?

Before he can finish formulating the thought, a hand clamps onto his shoulder with enough force to bring him to his knees.

“Fuck!” He goes down, rolling onto his back in an effort to throw the other off but it’s useless.

Mayne yells something unintelligible as he descends upon him, heavier and stronger than he looks and Augustin can only struggle against him.

“Fuck off!” He screams back, writhing despite the knife being pressed to his throat. Briefly, he manages a hold on the other’s neck but it’s futile. He’s been disarmed, the gun out of reach and his wrist in Mayne’s grip, teeth bared into the skin of his neck as they wrestle, almost drooling with the effort.

“I don’t believe you.” Mayne gets his other wrist, pressing his arms into the scorching sand and he arches his back.

There is a dangerous moment where he is suspended between his rationale, his sound mind and critical thought, and the animal act of being pinned down by a man stronger than him, by a beast. A dangerous moment in which heat of a different kind coils in his gut.

“Don’t believe me?” Voice quieter than he would have liked it to be, he manages to grit out.

Mayne, in all his wild glory, just continues growling against the side of his face, deranged in action if not in word. “No. I expected better from you.”

Parched, sweaty and exhausted, he begins to ease his limbs, letting the other keep him down because there is no getting out of Mayne’s hold. He takes a breath and then another as warm air hits his ear, a shiver wracking down his spine.

“My commanding officer has some idea that you and I are similar.” His hand is released briefly before it is brought up again by the wrist, extending, splaying him out wholly, indecently as if Mayne is instructing a paramour. “A shared love of poetry and philosophy. I wonder…”

The knife is back. It’s against his throat and digging in, he can feel blood trickle down where it meets his skin and Mayne’s nostrils flare. The other’s dog tags swing as he moves back, patting the sand for the gun and in a futile attempt at calming the man down, Augustin grabs his the arm holding the blade. He shushes the man, the muscle under his fingers like steel, but Mayne continues undeterred.

“… if it’s something more than that.” The Irishman blows sand out of the gun, grinning. “Perhaps, we should find out.”

When the weight, the heat and the humidity leave him, he is finally able to think again. Scrambling up, he puts a few steps between him and Mayne. Not that the distance will help him if the Captain truly wishes harm upon him, but the space creates an illusion of safety.

Panic fills his limbs with lead as Mayne takes all of the bullets out of the weapon, slotting a single one back inside.

“What say you, professor? One go each?” He spins the cylinder and puts the barrel up to his temple.

No, surely not. He thinks nonsensically, this is not the same man who had barked orders at them earlier. This is not the same man who’d quoted Eliot at him as if they were his own words. No man held in such high regard by Stirling and the men of the SAS would play with his life like this.

“I say you are fucking insane.” Because what else is there to say? What else could he possibly do to stop this madman?

“Yee, who philosophize on life and death. You are now looking at the real thing!” Mayne bares his teeth at him, uneven and somehow bloodied, shouting for all the world to hear him.

“Please, just-” He gentles, holding his hand out, trying despite the odds, to calm the beast he sees in front of him.

“In this moment!”

“Stop!”  

The trigger is pulled, the sound rings hollow, a safe and empty click that means Mayne gets to see another day.

“Shit!” He bends at the knees as the reality of the situation rushes at him relentlessly, blood pounding in his head and his heart beating erratically. Mayne lowers the gun, appearing unaffected, an entirely too placid expression on his face.

And then, because Augustin’s suffering will never end, the man spins the cylinder again.

“You’re up.” Mayne holds the gun out as if gifting it to him. “I offer you a moment.”

“I have a sister. A family. I save my bullets for the enemy.” Were he any less angry, were he less afraid, he would not be getting this close to a man as mad as Mayne in fear of getting his face bitten off. But he is that and more. That same indignant anger has turned rapidly into the primal kind, disappointment, bewilderment and fear mixing within him and creating a toxic vapor inside his lungs that is choking him as he speaks.

“We are here to defeat fascism, not play your games!”

Mayne’s eyes track his while he speaks, attentive and interested despite Augustin refusing his offer. It only serves as fuel to the fire raging inside him.

“I can’t believe you just risked your life for no reason!”

“I told you the reason.”

Compound ghost.

The puzzle within his mind assembles itself, the picture now clear though it does not help with calming him down any.

“You do this purely to discover that I am not you.”

“Yep.”

“That’s it.” After all of that, a sardonic smile is all that Mayne has to offer him. The absurdity of the situation hits him, makes him stupid. He releases a faint chuckle which the other follows with a laugh of his own. Once the adrenaline wears of, deep into the night, he will be feeling this little venture of theirs very sincerely.

“And listen.” Mayne hums, persistent eyes still refusing to leave his face. “Since I have stopped firing bullets, your men have stopped working.”

Shit.

“Work! Get back to work!” He yells into the wind, hating that Mayne was right, that there was a method to his madness.

“Lesson learned about men and the motivation of men.” The other speaks casually, raising the gun into the air and firing.

The shot goes off. The shot that would have been Augustin’s to take. Abruptly, he wishes that it was his just so that he does not have to look at the smug face Mayne is making at him.

“See, Monsieur Jordan.” The other starts but before he can continue, before he can get a word out, Augustin’s fist – possessed by the free spirit of France itself, or so it seems – flies up and connects with the man’s nose.

There is a sickening crunch that he feels as well as hears as Mayne’s head snaps back. To his credit, the other man remains standing as blood drips from his nostrils and into his bushy beard.

He blinks, his fist hurting something fierce, not entirely sure why or how he had done that. All he knows is that he could not have taken another haughty word of nonsense from the other’s mouth. And then he had reacted, struck out in anger like never before. The silence between them is thick enough to cut into and slowly, without breaking the staring contest they’d found themselves in, Mayne raises both hands to the bridge of his broken nose. The sound of the cartilage being set back into place isn’t any more pleasant than the one of it breaking.

“Aye, did that make ya’ feel better?” The other taunts, slightly nasal in tone, blood now having dripped down his bare chest. The addition of bright red to the tan of his skin, the tan of his uniform and the sand around them, unsettles him more than he’d ever admit.

“Yes, actually.” In the long run, when he is of sane mind again, he will regret acting so rashly. But in the moment, he can only feel pride and vindication at having taken the man by surprise.

“Get back to work.” With a roll of his eyes, Mayne waves him off, dousing the flames of both his anger and his vindication.

All for naught.

He watches the man strut away towards the rifle once again and breathes out a sigh heavier than he’d meant to.

“And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,/And in short, I was afraid.” He mutters to himself, tucking the gun back into his shorts and putting any thoughts of murder out of his mind.

They finish the towers at the same time, Bergé’s plan to keep them unified coming to fruition. It had helped, of course, that Mayne had been distracted with him for a couple of precious minutes that the men had taken to help one another out.

Stepping next to him, Mayne eyes the scaffolding. “I grow old ... I grow old .../I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.” The Captain cites as if continuing Augustin’s own thoughts from earlier even though he knows the man couldn’t have possible heard him. He then strikes out for the nearest tower.

The men watch as he clambers up the side skillfully, the construction sound and stable.

“Just like meat, next to the bone is best, life close to death is truly fucking magnificent!” The madman shouts, boisterous and wild in his announcement.

Then he takes a deep breath, and leaps off the scaffolding, landing in the sand with a roll. Augustin has to look away, the exasperation he feels in that moment too much. This is not what Eliot was writing about in his poem, this is not something any of the greats would have written about. This is stupidity.

“Before you jump, do you have a question?” The Irishman calls as he walks to a distance from which he can observe them.

“Why are we jumping?” Bergé asks, having adjusted to all of this easier than Augustin could have predicted.

“Because why the fuck not?!” Mayne shouts, answering absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. Descartes comes to mind but he is far too worried about his men to put any effort into this line of thinking.

“Go!” Mayne calls and the first of the men jumps.

“Are you having fun yet, Jordan?” Bergé’s incorrigible smile taunts as they climb up.

“As if I am being flayed alive.” He sneers back, shoving the other lightly.

He goes first and Mayne calls out a loud and pointed pathetic as he limps away to stand with the rest of his men who’d already gone. The bruises to his ego he can handle, but he is not sure his knees will take another jump.

Bergé earns himself a pretty fucking good for his landing and most of the others are deemed either useless or deplorable.

And then it’s Halévy’s turn.

The men shout their encouragements, they try to put a tarp up but Augustin knows it’s useless. This is something that a man has to do on his own. He looks at the soldier and then at Mayne whose blood has pooled under his eye from his broken nose. Were he not already looking at the man, he would not have believed it.

When Mayne opens his mouth next, French words flow from it. They are thickly accented and slightly off-putting to hear in this particular tone, but they are French none the less.

“Think of your wife. Think of your children. They are watching you. Think about them.”

This seems to have been the correct thing to say because Halévy steels himself and jumps. The landing is not ideal but none of the men seem to care as cheers erupt around him. They rush Halévy and he turns to Mayne, a grin on his face and elation in his chest.

“He did it!”

It feels childish to celebrate something so small, so seemingly insignificant but it also feels deserved. So the men cheer and Augustin lets himself be swept along with them, not thinking about Mayne’s lone figure walking into the distance.

The men are in good spirits, having taken the fact that they have not been shot or grievously injured during their day of training as cause for celebration. He is enjoying himself with them, enjoying the distraction and Halévy’s piano playing and the men’s shouting. They had not expected to find the piano in Jalo’s slapdash mess hall but they seem to be glad for it. More than that, Augustin is glad that Halévy can finally play again since he knows that the man has not touched ivory keys since he’d left home.

But, the distraction only goes so far and no matter how hard he tries, he cannot keep himself from glancing over at Captain Mayne every few moments. Remembering, still so vividly, how the other had overpowered him wholly, how he had been at the man’s complete mercy mere hours ago.

The Captain is alone, apart from them, but curiously apart from his own men, as well. He is drinking by his lonesome, a cigarette curling smoke above his head as he lounges as if he has no care in the world. There is something wrong with the picture he makes, Augustin thinks. A predator in wait, a wild cat that is hidden in the brush, observing the unassuming gentry on their safari.

And all who heard should see them there,/And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

And yet Augustin willingly steps into the solace that Mayne has created for himself, uncaring and a little bit drunk, not understanding why the other has draped himself in such a shroud but wanting to.

Skipping a few lines, he approaches with the end of the poem instead. “For he on honey-dew hath fed,/And drunk the milk of Paradise.”

The other’s eyes flash, a smirk hidden under the bushy facial hair. “We are hollow men, should I not be taking every chance I get to imagine myself away from the twilight kingdom?”

Eliot again, possibly to spite Augustin, possibly to challenge him. He doubts the poet is actually the Captain’s favorite, it seems so… philistine for a man so mercurial.

“Between the motion/And the act.” He hums, pulling out a cigarette of his own and lighting it as he takes a seat across the other. “You don’t want to join us?”

Mayne shakes his head, tapping his fingers against the table. “I’m only staying to make sure you don’t damage any of our property. Your men are very drunk.”

He nods in admittance, they had, perhaps, overdone it tonight. The prospect of finally getting to make a change, to rejoin the fight for their homeland and their families, surviving the fiery welcoming, it has all attributed to the loosening of their inhibitions. And, well, they were mostly Frenchmen happy to be alive.

“You know, you make me curious, Captain.” He ventures, knowing full well that he might come to regret opening his mouth, that he might be walking into a bear’s den, disturbing its sleep. “Don’t you have anyone back in England?”

Mayne’s face does something odd then, a sneer half abandoned as if he’s trying to remain civil. “Nobody in England, no, I’m Irish.” The other’s distaste for the English is clear and yet he does not take offence at Augustin’s misstep which is strange, considering.

But perhaps Mayne wasn’t a rowdy drunk, perhaps he was as soft as he looks in front of Augustin now. With his sandy hair falling over one eye, his shirt well-worn and stained, the other gives off the airs of a man close to calling it a night and going to bed.

“And in Ireland I have a mother.” Mayne continues, “Why d’you ask?”       

Where did you get that? Bergé had asked earlier, thumb pressed into the cut on his neck that had already crusted over by the time his Captain had noticed.

Must have happened while we were building the tower, he had lied. He does not know why. Was it to protect Mayne and the alliance between them? Had it been to preserve his own dignity at having been outmaneuvered? Or perhaps, had it been the thought that Bergé would discourage his association with the SAS Captain had he come to know about their scuffle that kept his secret.

Mayne reaches across the table now, a finger tucked under his chin to tilt his head up. That placid look in his eyes disappears, gaze glued to the spot where his blade had sliced through skin. The attention settles heavy, heat rushing up to his cheeks as his bruised ego protests at being put on display like this. He has been thinking about retaliation since that morning, had been stewing in it and had chosen to take the fight to a battlefield where the Captain’s strength will not be a factor. This act of condescension – Mayne looking at his own triumph over him with a pleased expression – it is time to say something.

“What you did today…” He swallows as Mayne’s hand retreats, letting him continue. “I wondered if you’d do that if you loved someone.”

The cheers of his men rises in the background and Mayne’s attention leaves him as he sighs, shoulders heaving. “We British don’t have these pointless conversations.”

The sound of Essner’s French slipping into German joins the cacophony, feet stomping and hands slamming against the wood of the piano. He watches raptly as Mayne’s flinty eyes zero in on the ruckus, pupils dilated in the low light. For a moment, he swears they are luminous.

“But, in my opinion,” The man hums, sitting himself upright. “Loving somebody can make you too fond of life, which… can turn you into a coward.”

This is – a peculiar stance for a self-proclaimed poet to take.

“A coward? How so?”

The notes from the piano become discordant and Mayne’s gaze refuses to move from the French behind him. Alarm rises within Augustin and he, for the second time that day, tries to keep the Captain calm. “My friend, they’re just playing.”

Mayne squints, mouth that’s open more than it’s not forming a sneer. “Your wee loyal German sounds like a Nazi to me.”

He winces because it, unfortunately, is true. Essner is well and truly drunk and with his drunken state comes a mean streak a mile wide which seems to have targeted Halévy tonight. Mayne tips his cup back, finishing off his drink and stands.

The veins in his forearms pop, his entire frame transforming from a man on the verge of sleep to that of coiled tension, an arrow notched. He has failed to contain their fighting to the battlefield of words and now there will be trouble for all, not just him.

The other pauses briefly by his side, looking down at him long enough to mutter: “Cruelty has a human heart,/And Jealousy a human face;”

He is too slow to react, blood too laden with rum to reach for Mayne. He watches the flex of the man’s shoulders, the breadth of his back as he seem to grow in size. Hastily, Augustin puts down his drink.

Mayne struts up to his men and with one precise move, punches Essner straight in the jaw.

All hell breaks loose.

He does his level best at containing the damage, at restraining his men, at deterring Mayne but it is futile. Mayne wishes not to be held down so he fights like a caged animal, any one soldier in his path earning themselves an injury. It is only when the SAS men finally manage to get their hands on the Captain that he falters, sneering and snarling, foaming at the mouth.

As alarming as the sight is, it is also deeply, terribly sad.

“Captain Mayne.” He tries but the man just fires his gun into the air, pacing in a tight circle of barely-contained fury.

“Get out.”

“Captain Mayne.” He swallows heavily, the sweat that’s accumulated on his skin growing sticky. “Whatever is the cause of your pain, you have my deepest sympathy.”

Because that is the only conclusion to draw from this, isn’t it? This is a man who is hurting, whose grief and sorrow runs deeper than any poem can convey. And when words fail Paddy Mayne, he seems to rely on his fists to do the talking.

He steps outside to see that the injured soldiers have already been carted off to the area with the medical supplies. Captain Bergé stands there with his hands on his hips, ushering the rest back to their tents and looking generally harried.

“This could have been avoided.” Bergé hisses, running a hand through his hair.

“No, I do not think so.” There is a renewed itch under his skin, the fight having stirred the blood in him, his veins abuzz with it. He is not going to be able to get any sleep tonight that is for certain. “It is better to get it out of the way this early on.”

“Oh?” Bergé’s frown turns contemplative. “You have gathered this already?”

He scoffs, the dust in his mouth becoming unpleasant so he spits to the side. “Get some sleep, Captain, who knows what tomorrow will bring.”

Bergé nods, mouth flat and displeased but he ambles away after their men. Instead of following, Augustin walks. The moon is bright in the sky as he heads for the walls of Jalo. He climbs the rickety construction that holds the British flag and settles down with his legs over the edge of the platform.

He smokes one cigarette after the other, letting the cool breeze carry the ash away from him. Somewhere past midnight, early enough for it to be considered late, he notices a lone figure leaving the camp. Boots crunch against gravel and move through sand, the figure bare from the waist up, fists clenched as they walk.

It’s Mayne. There is no mistaking him for another. It is Mayne and he is stalking off into the desert to some unknown goal. He scrambles down the ladder and runs as fast as his feet will carry him after the Captain, a number of worst possible scenarios playing out through his head. He does not feel that this his panic is unjustified, that he has no reason to worry. So he runs after the man, intent on following.  

The other, seemingly aware of him, stops at the first hill and lets him catch up.

He is panting by the time he reaches the Captain, out of breath.

“Ô Lune qu'adoraient discrétement nos pères,” He starts, unsure if the other will understand but knowing that he has to get the verse out in the open. That it seems somehow important that Mayne knows about the moon and all that it sees.

“Du haut des pays bleus où, radieux sérail.” Taking a deep breath, he finishes and wonders at himself, wonders if this makes Mayne the moon and him a star from the shining harem that follows.

“Go back to bed, Jordan.” Mayne sniffs and then turns his head up towards said moon, lids closing as if he is basking in the light of it.

“I was not asleep in the first place.” He admits, taking the opportunity to stare at the man’s profile.

Mayne’s brow twitches and then his eyes snap open, returning his gaze abruptly. “Aye, bad for business, that.”

“Perhaps.” Shrugging, he tucks his hands into his pockets, feeling oddly vulnerable next to the other even though he is not the one halfway bared. “It can’t be helped.”

Mayne clicks his tongue and shifts his shoulders as if he’s preparing for another fight. “Don’t wait up, then, sweet pea.”

He feels the way his eyebrows arch upwards at the other’s words, stunned into remaining still as Mayne starts up a low jog into the distance. Before he knows it, he can’t make out the man’s form anymore, cannot distinguish between the sparse blots he sees on the horizon.

He returns to camp, climbs up to the platform again and, despite Mayne’s words, waits.

Just before the sun reemerges on the horizon, where the blue of it has already graced the skies, he is awakened by the Jalo dogs barking as if the mail has come. He jolts, hands scrabbling to hold tight to the splintery wood of the platform’s railing, heart in his throat.

Some of the dogs run out from the camp, eager to welcome whoever is nearing. With a shiver and a wipe of his glasses, he realizes that it is Captain Mayne returning. He watches, fascinated, as the man trudges along at a steady pace, something thrown over his shoulders. It isn’t until the other is near the entrance to the area that he realizes it’s a gazelle.

The Captain’s front is covered in blood. It drips down his chest in rivulets, soaking the waistband of his pants. It’s all over his face, too, matting the man’s beard, making his hair stick to this forehead. It reaches up to his elbows, hands soaked in it and Augustin wonders if this is what their enemy sees when Paddy Mayne is charging at them. The sight is gruesome. It is as haunting as it is fascinating.

He observes, bleary-eyed, as the man takes the gazelle he had found – or, less likely but the fact that he is reluctant to exclude it is worrying – killed with his bare hands over where the Captain’s tent is, secluded from the rest of his men. Mayne strings the carcass up as if it were a mere pig and disappears into his abode.

Augustin is tempted to pinch himself, tempted to stab his own leg to make sure he is not seeing things that cannot be true.

A short whistle catches his attention and he looks below to find Bergé grinning up at him.

“Is everything alright, my friend? What have you seen?” The Captain asks, beckoning him down.

On shaky legs, he descends from the platform, mind stuck on the image of Mayne covered in crimson. With a shake of his head, he urges his thoughts to dissipate. “What I have seen? Recently, in one of his essays, Camus wrote that one must imagine Sisyphus happy. I think this endeavor of ours will be much like that.”

With Captain Mayne out of commission for the day, ousted by his self-imposed exile, David Stirling comes back to a camp of men lazing about outside the walls of Jalo. Augustin being one of them. But as Stirling walks past him and towards where he knows Bergé is taking stock of the damage from last night, he gets up to follow.   

“Oh, dear.” Stirling enters the mess hall, hat hanging uselessly by his side as he turns in tight circles among the mess.  

“My men have refused to work under Captain Mayne’s command.” Bergé lets Stirling know promptly.

Earlier, once Augustin had gotten some food in him, Bergé had told him you should try talking to him, to which Augustin had had a hearty laugh.

I would rather take my chances shoving a live grenade down my throat, he had responded, dismissing the notion entirely. After yesterday, after what he’d seen this morning, he does not trust the man to behave in any way befitting a rational human. He had surmised that, despite their shared love of philosophy and poetry, he and the Captain had very little else in common.

Bergé had huffed and rolled his eyes, motioned to their men and tried again with will you talk to them at least?

I am no traitor. If my men want to abstain, they shall abstain. And that had been final, and this is what Bergé is relaying to Stirling right now.

“My men have decided that he’s a mad man.” Bergé continues at Stirling’s silence. He gets up, obviously incensed at the overtly easy attitude the man is displaying and Augustin steps closer just in case.

“Two of them have broken jaws, one has three broken ribs and among the broken barrels on the floor, you’d find several teeth.”

Augustin had seen the damage. He had visited the men after breakfast and concluded that, while extensive, the damage can be healed. The same cannot be said about their pride, though.

“Alright. I will speak to him.” Stirling finally caves, seemingly cowed now that he can see the full scope of the mess he’d come back to.  

 “He needs to be put in a fucking cage!” Bergé shouts and the other waves the Captain away, hurrying out of the mess hall and in the direction of Mayne’s tent.

Stirling pauses by Augustin, though, beady eyes scrutinizing as they peer up at him as if to ask why he isn’t helping any. As if it is Augustin’s job. He is neither veterinarian nor hunter to be dealing with wild things. His job descriptions over the years have varied but have never strayed that far.

Instead of asking, Stirling just huffs and leaves the room fully.

Bergé takes a deep drag of his cigarette and sits back down with a sigh.

“A cage, really?” He asks the Captain, coming to stand in front of him.

“As if you have not been thinking the same.” Bergé accuses, and admittedly, he is not wrong.

The Paddy Mayne that has taken shape within the confined space of his brain is a wild thing. He is a dog, rabid, itching to bite, no leash in sight, not even a collar. And yet, hearing Bergé refer to him as such makes something within Augustin squirm, uncomfortable.

It is, after all, one thing to think something and another to voice it. Perhaps it is the contempt in Bergé’s voice, now that he’d seen the extent of Mayne’s madness, now that he has seen what the man is capable of and is no longer smiling. Their men, bloody and bruised, nursing wounds that could have been altogether avoided were they under the care of someone less irrational. Or perhaps the vitriol with which he spat them at Stirling’s retreating back.

He cannot decide what it is exactly so he chooses not to dwell on it. Bergé has every right to be angry and so does, realistically, Augustin.

But he finds that he is not. He looks back at the untouched piano sitting at the end of the room and thinks about compound ghosts and Sisyphus.

He has been observing the meal preparation for some time now.

Earlier, Stirling had come to tell them that Mayne had shot the gazelle for them, that he has come around to the notion of them all working together – as if that was the problem in the first place. As if that gazelle had been shot. Augustin had seen – well, he doesn’t know what he’d seen but whatever it was, it had not involved any guns.

For lack of better entertainment, watching Mayne and Stirling putter about the spit roasting the gazelle has provided him with something to focus on. Mayne had managed to clean up sometime between dawn and the beginning of this whole venture. Stripped down to his singlet, he shows no signs of having been in a fight last night though Augustin is certain his men had gotten a few good punches in. Instead, the man is mildly dusty from the sand abound but no worse for wear.

Bergé joins him when the Captain brings out a big pot and starts using it as a drum, drawing their attention.

Then, the Captain opens his mouth to shout. “Soldiers of the Special Air Service, dinner is ready!”

The words don’t register as French until Bergé nudges him, pulling out a cigarette. “Seems that Stirling had managed to find a leash… or at least a length of rope.”

He smiles faintly, the words still landing wrong even though they are now in jest rather than in anger.

“I am sure they had had a civilized conversation like true gentlemen.”

For a moment, for two, nobody moves. And then, Bergé gives a put-upon sigh and whistles, calling their men.

“Let’s eat!”

The mingling is easy after that. Drinks are passed around, the food is quite excellent even if it is gamey. He enjoys the atmosphere, lets himself relax and for once, trust that this endeavor will be successful.

“Perhaps he is not all animal.” Zirnheld announces, tipping his beer to the side, in the direction that the Captain has wondered off to earlier and Bergé chuckles.

“He is something, though.” Bergé toasts Zirnheld and their words propel him upwards. He stumbles only a little as he follows after the Captain outside the camp and finds the man pacing in a circle.

Lighting a cigarette, he watches. The man is muttering something to himself, reciting words that Augustin hears only when the Captain’s trajectory brings him nearer.

“Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up and down again!/” Mayne rounds, walking away a few paces then turns again.

“Seven—six—eleven—five—nine—an'—twenty mile to—day—/“ Another pass near Augustin’s spot then away until he’s done another tight turn.

“Don't—don't—don't—don't—look at what's in front of you./” Mayne’s shoulders tense, hands flexing at his side and Augustin’s feet take him forward until he is standing in the man’s path upon his next turn.

Mayne walks until they are almost chest to chest, eyes ablaze as they stare up at him. “An’ there’s no fuckin’ discharge in the war.”

“’The absurd is born of this confrontation between the human need and the unreasonable silence of the world’.” He quotes, taking a steady hand to Mayne’s face. With a press of a finger to the middle of the man’s forehead, he hums. “Your world is neither quiet nor are the silences of it unreasonable. And yet you are an absurd to me.”

“A need for what?” The shorter challenges, arms crossed over his chest now, elbows digging into Augustin’s torso.

“Motion, sustenance, clarity, blood… companionship.” Shrugging, a sardonic smile shapes his mouth. “Humans will always need and want. Some more than others.”

“Are you callin’ me insatiable, Lieutenant Jordan?” The teeth bared at him are familiar by now, the shape of them, the uneven line they make. It is difficult to believe he has met this man only yesterday. Perhaps rolling in the sand with the other had served as a bonding experience after all.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I am afraid that the absurd you create is that of a man who has forgotten how to need, who has created his own unreasonable silence.”

As if struck, Mayne reels away from him. He turns his back on Augustin and starts a new tight circle to pace in line with.

There will be no more words spoken between them tonight, this he knows. And even still, he sits down a little ways off, letting the warm sand cling to him as he watches the SAS Captain move. There are no excuses as to why he does this, just his own need and his own fear of silence.      

Further, Camus had written: ‘This world in itself is not reasonable, that is all that can be said. But what is absurd is the confrontation of this irrational and the wild longing for clarity whose call echoes in the human heart. The absurd depends on man as on the world.’

And Augustin finds himself realizing more and more that the absurd of the man and the war and the earth and the skies are all one and the same, things he cannot clarify, things that constantly change in nature, things that cannot be tied down or stopped. Much like, seemingly, Paddy Mayne.   

Chapter Text

Gradually, reluctantly, he gets to know the men of the SAS. But more importantly, he gets to know how everyone interacts with Captain Mayne.

There is something like awe in their eyes, there is a grudging respect and there is clear acceptance of the man’s actions and behaviors. There is always an SAS man ready to come to his side, his defense no matter if Mayne can take care of himself or not. They follow him, his orders and his words but they do not act like his soldiers, like his subordinates. Perhaps they even like him more than they do Stirling.

This, he knows, irks the Englishman to no end.

But, Augustin supposes, this is the result of Stirling’s own actions, of his absences and of how loftily he holds himself even in the middle of the desert.

“Alright, listen here, men.” Stirling bangs his cup against the table, calling for attention. “The GHQ has decided that since we’ve all been good little boys, we have earned ourselves some leave time in Cairo.” A round of cheers erupts around the room but the frown doesn’t leave Stirling’s face.

“Yes, yes. We are all thrilled.” The man clears his throat. “But, what this means is that our next mission will most likely be extremely dangerous. So, I urge you to eat, drink, and fuck to your hearts’ content because you may not get another chance to do so.”

“Way to bring the fuckin’ room down, David.” Mayne mutters, downing his drink. The man then stands and holds up a bottle of rum. “To eatin’, drinkin’ and fuckin’!”

The men take the Captain's cue and raise their drinks, presumably putting the thoughts of death out of their minds for the time being.

“It feels cheap, getting leave when he have not done a thing.” Bergé nudges him with a sharp jab to his side and he realizes that he has, once again, been staring at Mayne.

“You do not have to go if you do not feel it deserved.” He shrugs, stealing Bergé’s cigarette and dashing away as the man tries to reclaim it.

“Bastard!”

With a chuckle, he leaves the mess hall. He finds Cooper and Fraser sitting outside in the sand, one of the dogs – Withers – between them.

“Done with the celebration already, friends?” He asks, lowering himself next to the two.

Cooper grins at him, pointing to the distance. “We are trying to determine if he’s going to shoot himself tonight or not.”

A jolt of fear lances down his spine and his head snaps around to see Mayne pacing at the gates, a few of the other camp mutts following him and barking in tandem. He’s got a gun out, it spins in his hands and he seems to be reciting something again.

“I reckon he won’t.” Fraser shrugs, unconcerned. “Hasn’t tried to in a while.”

“Won’t work, anyway.” The other chuckles and Fraser hisses a near-silent Coop at him.

“Right.” Fraser’s jaw clenches as he tries to avoid Augustin’s eyes which is… curious. “He’d never let himself go out all boring like.”

The state of anomie, he thinks, has been turned on its head here. For whatever institutional order and social control Durkheim had been talking about no longer exist in Jalo. And not only do they not exist, but they had been replaced by chaos so far removed from them that the state they are in has circled back around to being the norm. Would Mayne’s suicide then be egoistic, altruistic, anomic, or fatalistic?

If this were a mission, if Mayne had acted in some way to help his soldiers, if he’d committed some great act of sacrifice, he would have called it altruistic. But it is not, and so it is not.

Were the state of anomie something Mayne was unused to, something he did not thrive in, he would call it anomic. But, as established, this anomie is the norm, is their day-to-day. And as such, the nature of this anomie – the state of being beyond regulation, beyond observation – it cannot be fatalistic.

Therefore, as odd as it is to consider, it is egoistic. And the idea that the reality no longer meets Mayne’s expectations, that he feels as though he does not belong even among men who blindly follow him into the jaws of death, it does not sit well with Augustin. 

Man is double, that is because social man superimposes himself upon physical man.

“Man is double,” He calls as he approaches the Captain.

“I am unfamiliar with that one.” Mayne pauses, the dogs around his feet scattering as if to give them privacy.

“It is not a poem.” His pack of cigarettes gets held out in front of him as a peace offering and the other takes one. “It is by Durkheim, Le Suicide: Étude de sociologie.”

“Sociology, is that right?” The Captain runs a hand over his beard, contemplative.

“Oui,” He lights Mayne’s cigarette for him, the flame dancing in the man’s eyes. “I was thinking on the nature of anomie and this place.”

“Thinking too much’ll kill you.” With a derisive snort, he turns his back on Augustin.

Feeling slighted, heat rushing to his cheeks, he follows the man as he walks away. “Oh, so what? I do not think, therefore I am a mustache?”

This earns him a chuckle and a finger wag from the Captain. “You and your French fuckin’ philosophers.”

“Ah, but you knew Sartre immediately.”

Something is thrumming inside his chest, excited at this back-and-forth between them. Almost proud that he’s managed to elicit such a response, that Mayne has not discarded him yet. And as if he does not know better, he keeps trailing after the Captain.

“Knew to steer clear of him, aye.” Mayne walks them outside of Jalo and a little further away until they are sitting under a lone tree. After a few silent moments in which Augustin tries not to be the first one to speak, the other pulls a book of some sort from his jacket. It feels like a test. As if Mayne is pushing to see how badly Augustin wants to interact with him, as if he already know just how curious Augustin is.

The book is a collection of poetry, the pages worn and obviously well-loved. He cannot read the title from where he is sitting but judging by the ease with which the Captain’s eyes move over the words, it’s something familiar to the man.

And like he knew he would, Augustin folds first. “Will you read me a poem?”

“And why should I do that?” Mayne’s gaze doesn’t leave the page but Augustin swears that the man is suppressing a smug smile.

Ah, so it is like that.

He shrugs, standing up and dusting himself off, affecting a blasé attitude about this dismissal. “Suit yourself, Captain. Good night.”

When Mayne speaks, the tone of his voice arrests him, stopping Augustin in his retreat.

“I made my song a coat/Covered with embroideries,” The other looks at him briefly before returning to the poem. “Out of old mythologies/From heel to throat;” Mayne’s knuckles whiten around the edge of the book and Augustin sits back down.

“But the fools caught it,/Wore it in the world’s eyes /As though they’d wrought it.” Here, the Captain pauses, the corner of his mouth twitching before he looks out into the horizon and finishes the rest of the poem by heart.

“Song, let them take it/For there’s more enterprise/In walking naked.”

That thrumming within his chest grows louder, swirling at the notion that Mayne had relented like this, that he’d allowed Augustin the honor.

“Is it better to be bared?” He asks and Mayne snorts.

“We here have little use for adornments. War, the type we participate in, is honest in its brutality.”

“And yet your actions get embroidered and claimed by others.” The poem is beautiful in its simplicity. Ten lines of honest feeling, of the poet baring his soul in a clear manner, but he does not need to tell Mayne that. It is obvious with the amount of care he’d taken to enunciate, to create a rhythm, that the man loves it.

“Yeats is much more suited to you than Eliot.” He notes after Mayne fails to provide further commentary.

“I feel this is a bit prejudiced of you, Mr. Jordan.” The words are cutting, a challenge, but Mayne is smiling now, uneven grin on display.

“Nothing worth – what was it again? Getting sand under the foreskin for?” He ducks away from the Captain’s swatting hand, chuckling when the other tries again unsuccessfully. “Perhaps we can find you something better to read in Cairo, then.”

Mayne stiffens up at the mention of leave, the good cheer from a few moments ago leaving him. A grimace replacing that ever-so-rare grin and Augustin chastises himself for being the cause of its premature departure.

“I do not take leave time.” The Captain says simply, tone brokering no argument and offering no explanation. Static, firm.

And yet Augustin wants to ask, wants to know.

“Do you consider it a coat?” He offers the other an out, a chance to use language familiar to him in order to express himself but Mayne just shakes his head.

“No, nothing so noble.”

Ever reticent, he doesn’t follow up his statement with an explanation, leaving Augustin wanting again. Hands buried in the sand, he huffs.

“So you are to be left alone here, then?” As if speaking to a wall, Augustin keeps talking. If Mayne wishes to stop him, he will have to do it with his words. Or his actions, which is more likely. “And what do you do with yourself? Bad for business, as you say.”

“Aye, I strip down and run starkers through the desert.”

The admission startles a laugh out of him and he bends at the waist, something under his ribs cramping, having him in stitches. He is certain that there is a degree of hysteria to his laughter, that he’s possibly delirious from the sun and the physical activity during the day, but it feels… good to laugh like this.

“What is it that you want, Mr. Jordan?” Mayne sniffs, peering up at him once his laughter has subsided.

Whether it be the alcohol in his blood or the relaxed slope of the Captain’s shoulders – or even the way Mayne had relented and read him a poem tonight, wanted him to stick around for long enough to hear it – he finds his lips looser than they should be.

“Well, for one, that you should call me Augustin, instead.”

The other’s eyes widen minutely before his eyebrows lower into a frown. Mayne clicks his tongue loudly, a finger wagging in front of his face. “Ah, no, no, no, Lieutenant. That is not a wish I can or will fulfil.”

“Pourquoi?” He gapes, perplexed that the other is denying such a simple request.

“Because, Monsieur Jordan.” Mayne tucks his book back into his pocket and dusts his hands off. “Because if that were to be so, then by all preconceived laws of etiquette and polite society, it would be required of me to allow you the same courtesy. Which, seeing as I am a right fucking cunt, I will not have.” With another sneer that is half mocking and half dismissive, Mayne walks away.

To say that he is left desolate would be an overstatement. Bereft, might be a better word for it were he to ascribe a name to the hollow pang that’s filled his chest cavity and replaced the easy joy of being seen and acknowledged (by Mayne). He rubs a hand across his sternum and wonders why this is where the other is making his stand.

Sartre’s La Nausée, as a work of existentialism, presents one with the experience of living in a city environment. The occurrences that the protagonist describes are those of an isolated intellectual becoming disillusioned with what is around him, with his own being and with life itself, culminating in a feeling that he calls nausea. Things, people, places begin losing their qualities – the shape, the vivacity, the humanity – leaving him with a feeling of revulsion, of loneliness. La mélancolie. At the risk of recalling Husserl’s or, Heaven forbid, Heidegger’s words, he thinks, once again, about the concept of the absurd; about the subjective thought and about how whatever is there, there is.

But more importantly, about how Paddy Mayne was in the process of this very same isolation. Does the Captain feel nausea with every morning that he wakes? If he were to keep a diary, would it be as rife with negativity or would Mayne stray from writing about it outright? Certainly, as he had seen, Mayne would not shy away from the droll reality of desert life, from the gruesome nature of war. Nor would he, much like Antoine Roquentin, hesitate in testing his own being, seeing his own blood spilled.

And so it goes, Sartre writes: ‘Nothing happens while you live. The scenery changes, people come in and go out, that's all. There are no beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, an interminable, monotonous addition.’

And in this absurd of nothingness, in this ouroboros of their existence, will Mayne succumb to the lure of egoistic suicide or will he, like Roquentin, choose to create his own meaning?

Augustin picks at the sand from underneath his nails and tries not to let these musings consume him. It has been a while since he’s had time for them, since he allowed them to surface. There is no room for philosophy in the war, at least not for the fighting soldier. And maybe it is for the best.

No, he knows it’s for the best for they have only left him maudlin, pondering on questions he has no hope of having answered. Least of all by Paddy Mayne himself.

Augustin ends up with Sadler in the car, Bergé and Zirnheld in the back along with Halévy. The ride to Cairo is long and dusty but the prospect of seeing civilization, of interacting with the common people, keeps his mind preoccupied.

“What will you do with your time in the city?” Zirnheld yells over the air rushing past them.

“Why? Are you assuming I will not be where the men are?” He calls back, adjusting the beret on top of his head. They had gotten the pale, beige ones marking them as SAS men for the time being and Augustin finds himself quite fond of the change.

“I am assuming you will be where Captain Mayne is.” Always trust Zirnheld not to pull his punches. As opposed to Bergé who’s been mindfully silent since the start of the trip, Zirnheld seems to find joy in pointing Augustin’s flaws out to him.

I thought he did not partake, Bergé had asked that morning once the men had gathered around their vehicles in order to get a move on and Augustin had whipped around so fast he had felt something in his spine crack.

He had assured me that he did not, he’d responded, a low current of confusion clouding his judgment, almost making him want to jog over to where Mayne was boarding the truck with Almonds. He had refrained, though, held back by his Captain’s scrutinizing look.

“A peculiar thing to assume, Lieutenant.” Averting his gaze, he pretends that the implication does not bother him.

In reality, he knows that he is already too invested. That he has latched onto the mystery that is Paddy Mayne with both hands and that he will not be steering clear of the man for as long as he is not forcibly pried off. He is not, however, going to admit this to anyone and least of all Zirnheld and the smarmy expression on his face.

“I will try finding a bookstore.” He declares when Zirnheld opens his mouth – presumably to inquire about his intentions with Mayne further. “The selection at Jalo is sparse.”

Zirnheld gives him a look that indicates just how little he believes Augustin but the Lieutenant lets it go for which he is grateful.

Bergé nudges him then, offering him a flask of rum which his accepts with relish. The liquor burns down his throat and settles heavy in his empty stomach, warm and present. It is a familiar feeling, a comforting one even and he lets it wash over him while he studiously does not think about the enigmatic Captain.

“The nature of things is transitory.” Mayne sniffs, rubbing a hand over his beard, when Augustin makes an inquiry about his change of heart.

“By whose word?” He hums, trying to remember if he knows what the other is referring to, which of the many wonderful things the other has memorized he’s called upon today.

“Schnell dreht sich das Rad der Gestaltungen.” Mayne grins, German falling off his lips clumsily as if he’d taken barely a minute longer than necessary to learn the quote. “Schnell wechselt das Vergängliche.”

“I thought you hated the Germans.” Augustin pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose, trying not to let it show how surprised he is by this turn of events.

“Know thy enemy.” The Captain’s grin turns sharp, dangerous. “For all his Swabian heritage, Hesse’s views on the regime are unquestionably anti-Nazi. Have you read any of his work, Lieutenant?”

“I have read Demian.” He admits, though, he was not all that impressed by the novel nor was it all that popular among his peers in Sorbonne.

Something in his tone must have given away his stance on the novel and the other hums, watching over the top of his sunglasses as their men scatter in all directions. “No, Jungian exploration would not be of much use to you, philosopher. Siddhartha might be more to your liking, obsessed with the notion of love as you are, aye.”

Indignation fights with intrigue when Mayne sniffs at the air as if just being near Augustin is boring him to death, as if he is turning his nose up at their conversation. The men have already started causing a ruckus and they have barely entered their designated bars and brothels. He pinches the bridge of his nose and Mayne huffs. They have better things to do than standing around discussing literature – though, oddly enough, this is what they seem to do most often.

“Make sure to keep your wee Germans in sight, Mr. Jordan.” The other warns and before Augustin can protest, Mayne has already stalked off.

He spits, the sand in his mouth grinding against his teeth uncomfortably. He does not keep a tally of the times Mayne has walked away from him without letting him get another word in, but if he were – if he were, then this would be another one in a long line of marks. He doesn’t dwell on it, lets it press along his skin gently before falling off him like water off of a duck’s back. There is no forcing Captain Mayne to stay if he does not want to, no matter how eager Augustin may be to try.

Ignoring the calls of his men, of the other SAS members, he strikes a course for the alleys populated by various shops and stalls. Siddhartha, he thinks, perhaps it will not be that difficult to find a copy despite how cut-off from the world Egypt seems.

Much of his afternoon passes like that; immersed in the culture of perusing the bazaar, in chatting with those who speak French, in haggling for haggling’s sake before eventually paying the full price for the food. Were it not for the various soldiers he encounters during the day, he would be hard pressed to remember there is a war going on.

He’s just entered a quaint little bookshop when he feels eyes on the back of his neck. It is an unnerving thing, becoming aware of being perceived. It is a necessary sense, developed over countless battles and a life lead always being chased by the enemy, and yet the occurrence of its activation always manages to surprise him.

The shop is a cramped space filled to the brim with tall bookcases that appear to be overflowing. Books are littered across every available surface of the shop – the tables, chairs and the stands strewn about the place, the windowsills and the counter. There is an old man behind that counter, he’s dozing, a fan overhead swirling the stale, muggy air between the rows of shelving and around him. He fans himself, the uniform sticking to the dip of his spine, the back of his knees and his chest. Oddly, he wishes that he was back at Jalo, that he had the freedom to strip down in the unbearable heat. It is strange, how quickly a man gets used to the anomie, how quickly a lack of restrictions makes one resent civilization and order. Swiping at the sweat on his nape, he enters the shop fully.

He loses time to browsing the seemingly endless stacks of books all the while ignoring the persistent eyes on his back. Whoever it is that is observing him, whoever it is that is making him feel like prey being stalked, they are not making themselves known nor have they tried approaching. Taking stock of the knife he’s taken to keeping on his person, he ignores the person and the feeling best to his ability, focus shifting on a pile of books that appears newer. Among them, he finds Mayne’s recommendation. Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha sits innocuously somewhere in the middle of the stack, a thin novella with her spine cracked and the corners already worn. He picks it up, turns the orange hardcover over and finds an inscription – a dedication – in it. The words are in a script and language he cannot read but the translation of the novella is English.

Conflicted, he stares at the book. Will he prove himself to be predictable by allowing Mayne to influence him in his purchase, in his worldview, with his recommendation? Or will he, dogged and spiteful like it is not a sin, resist what curiosity urges him to do?

Unbidden, Baudelaire’s words come to him again: The Demon is always moving about at my side;. He frowns down at the novella, frowns at himself because that is not a poem he would like to relate back to Captain Mayne.

He finds a collection of Rimbaud’s Les Illuminations within the shop as well which he brings with him to the counter, his own copy forgotten somewhere in Sorbonne, possibly destroyed. The old man startles, muttering at him in Arabic before eyeing his selection. He seems to quirk an eyebrow at Siddhartha but he nods thoughtfully at Rimbaud’s poems. Augustin pays the full price even though the man tries offering him a deal if he were to pick another book, but this would require more perusing which he has no time for. He needs to be going back to his men, finding a room for the night, some dinner perhaps.

When he leaves the shop, the eyes are no longer on him and he tucks the books on the inside of his jacket, a strange sense of embarrassment overtaking him. He will have to take great care not to let Mayne know about the copy of Siddhartha, about having given in and buying the novella. There is no logical explanation for it but something within Augustin feels almost mortified – like he is giving up ground. Which is, he can rationalize, ridiculous. The Captain and he are not locked in their own private war, they are but two men butting heads over literature in the desert. And yet. The feeling persists.

The Demon is always moving about at my side;/He floats about me like an impalpable air;/I swallow him, I feel him burn my lungs/And fill them with an eternal, sinful desire.//

He finds the SAS men before he finds his own. Though, locating the SAS soldiers is a feat easily achievable. All he had to do, after all, was follow the sound of a fight.

A chair flies from the mouth of the alleyway, civilians scrambling away as it shatters upon coming in contact with the ground. There is frantic Arabic and English being thrown about, filling the otherwise-peaceful night air and he supposes that he should do something. Withholding a sigh, he allows himself to step closer. There is a mess of men shouting and fighting in the narrow alley. They’re half piled one on top of one other, maybe a dozen of them or so. Uniforms askew, hats and berets in the dirt as they wrestle and let their fists fly.

What more, and more alarming, is that there are police officers in there with them – stupid yet brave souls that had tried to interfere with the infighting among British ranks.

A bare-chested man rears up from the dogpile, mad-eyed and sweaty and heads straight for Augustin. He makes it a few steps before an arm catches him around the neck and tugs him back into the fray.

Augustin clears his throat, prepared to start shouting but a piercing whistle interrupts him, halting most of the fighting soldiers as well. Then, a heat flares at his side and he fears for his sanity because he does not even have to look in order to confirm who it is.

“You mangy fucking cunts!” Mayne screams and their men start detangling themselves immediately, recognizing their Captain. “Out of here, right the fuck now!”

Seekings and Fraser are the first to emerge, looking cowed and deferring to the Captain despite the size of the both of them. They avoid Mayne’s eyes as they run out of the alleyway, followed by some of the others from the regiment soon after. Only Cooper stops by, giving the two of them a sloppy salute before making haste as well.

“I suggest we, too, leave this area Mr. Jordan, unless you fancy a night in one of Cairo’s finest jail cells.” Mayne waits for no reply before turning the way he came, strides confident and easy as if they are not running from the military police.

No choice but to follow, he supposes.

“No matter how private or free, the stench is not worth it.” Mayne finishes the thought once Augustin catches up with him.

Would you know this first-hand? He wants to ask but refrains, assuming Mayne would not deign to answer.

“Were you watching for long?” Their men are a far safer topic, something they have a responsibility for, something they are burdened with.

Mayne’s steps falter and he snaps around to stare at Augustin, causing him to stop in surprise. There is something electrified in his stare, something wild and alarmed and Augustin swallows. This is how the other man had looked at him while holding a knife to his throat with his teeth bared. A shiver wracks down his spine, the phantom feeling of Mayne’s compact frame pressing him into the ground, not letting him up, makes itself known, setting his blood to a low simmer.

“The men?” He clears his throat, fighting the urge to fidget under the other’s attention. It’s simply ridiculous how unsettled Mayne can make him feel just by standing there silently. “You appeared suddenly, I did not see you there when I arrived moments earlier.”

The other huffs, shoulders dropping. “No. I had heard about a fight breaking out in passing. The odds of it being my men were… high.”  

“Ah, yes. I was drawn by the noise as well. I hope none of them have been taken in.” A backwards glance provides him the views of the streets of Cairo at night, still filled with people but with none of the haste of the day-to-day bustle.

“If they have, we will have to sort it in the morning.” Mayne grumbles, taking off his beret to readjust his hair. The day’s sweat and heat have melted the pomade from it fully, leaving it limp and lank, a dark sandy color that Augustin finds himself admiring more than he should.

“Do you have an inn you could recommend me, Captain?”

The other snorts, mouth quirked at the corners. “You mean other than the Cairo jail cells?”

“Preferably.” He ducks his head, hiding the answering smile that’s emerged on his lips.

“Aye. Not far from here.”

They end up sharing the room and it is, surprisingly, by Mayne’s own design. Augustin does not protest, seeing no sense in separating them now that nighttime is upon them and there are no other such establishments around. Certainly, it is safer to stick together like this as well.

There is a shared bathroom at the end of the hall and he takes the opportunity to shower eagerly. The hour is late and the hush affords him the privacy to linger so he does. He washes days of sand and sweat from his skin, letting water sluice down his frame for far longer than he perhaps should. He is aware that Mayne has walked in to do his own bathing at some point but he keeps his gaze politely averted. He towels himself off and mourns the fact that they do not have the luxury of fresh clothing to change into. Instead, he opts to remain in his underthings, folding his dusty uniform neatly and carrying it back with him to their room.

Their room which is small enough to almost have the two beds touching. Well, not exactly, but with the amount of space Mayne always seems to occupy, it will certainly feel like it. The dusty nightstand nestled between the beds holds a singular lamp which he turns on, turning the overhead light off. He sets his glasses onto the grainy wood, blurring the world around him and gets under the thin sheet laid atop the bed.

He cannot sleep, he will not be able to sleep, not with Mayne this close to him. It is not out of fear, rather it is that very same churning feeling in his gut that will keep him awake. The noxious mixture of curiosity, vexation, of admiration and his ever-present ire with the other man. Augustin is not stupid, nor is he so unaware of himself that he has not already realized what this burgeoning feeling is. What Augustin is however, is good at ignoring the obvious.

If he has no time for deep thought and philosophizing, then there is no time for this particular brand of attraction in the war either. Which is why he has to cut this infatuation of his at the root.

Mayne comes into the room bared part from the towel around his hips which he drops before getting in bed, unconcerned with his own form or what Augustin might see or think. The lamp gets turned off, plunging them into oppressive darkness submerged in stuffy air. He holds his breath for as long as he can before exhaling slowly. Mayne shifts in his bed, sheets rustling, but neither speaks, done for the day.  

He leads me thus, far from the sight of God,/Panting and broken with fatigue, into the midst/Of the plains of Ennui, endless and deserted,//  

He wakes with the sense of someone looming over him, of eyes boring into his face but when his lids finally lift, there is nothing there. He blinks slowly, the blurry world offering him the view of the cracked ceiling with a water stain shaped like Britain. He pats the nightstand for his glasses and shoves them hastily on his face, managing to catch a glimpse of sun-kissed shoulders as Mayne shrugs into his uniform.

“The sleep of the dead.” The other mutters, turning to face him. “Fancy getting up anytime this fine morning, Monsieur Jordan?”

“And if I were to say I wanted to enjoy the mattress some more?”

“Then I would say that I have slept on rocks softer than it.” The other’s smile is wry, encouraging as it often is not.

It’s strange seeing the other so unburdened, so openly friendly. He is almost afraid to speak lest he ruin the other’s good cheer. But, his silence would be all the more suspicious so he sits up, running a hand through his hair.

“Do they offer breakfast?”

“If you can ask for it in French.” A widening of that smile, something conspiratorial in it and Augustin chuckles, nodding.

“Shame you only speak dog, then.”

The other barks out a laugh and throws his beret at him, spinning his finger in the air. “Get a move on, lad.”

He ends up chatting with the kitchen staff in French, letting them fill him in on happenings outside of the desert while Mayne eats like he hasn’t had any food in several days. There’s a certain voraciousness to it that both amuses and disgusts Augustin, especially when Mayne sucks his thumb clean.

His gaze is hastily averted as the daughter of the inn’s owner refills his glass of water.

“Thank you.” He nods and she glances at the Captain before sitting across from Augustin, bold.

“Your friend, he seems to be enjoying the food.” She notes, leaning on her hand as she watches him pick at his own breakfast. “Is it not to your liking?”

“Ah, no, no. It is just that my appetite comes and goes. Unlike my friend’s.” He has, perhaps, grown too used to the sparse rations, to the gamey taste of gazelle. The eggs he’s been served are fluffy and lightly salted, they are by all means perfect. He does not think he can stomach them.

He shoves his plate over towards Mayne and the man scrapes the egg into his own without so much as a look his way.

“A charmer.” The girl hides a smile behind her hand and he raises an eyebrow. There is high possibility that Mayne understands them. No matter what he claims about his abilities to speak the language, the man is learned and resourceful enough to pick through the context of the conversation.

“He has his moments.” With a wink that sends the woman giggling, he finishes the tea he’d been provided earlier, it’s bitter but also sweet at the same time, an interesting aroma. He wonders if he should ask what the brew is, if it’ll be worth seeking it out.    

“Perhaps if not food, can I interest you in something else then?” Her dark eyes sparkle as she bats her eyelashes at him and the tea turns sour sliding down his gullet.

“Ah.” The teacup makes a delicate clinking noise as he sets it back down empty. “It is unfortunate that we are-” Mayne’s chair scrapes across the tiles as he shoves away from the table, barely pausing to wipe his mouth before he’s out of the room. “Right. We are in somewhat of a hurry.”

“Shame.” She leans back, out of his space, a pout on her painted mouth. “If you ever find yourself back here, Augustin, you should seek me out.”

Unlikely, he doesn’t say. Not when it is uncertain if I will live to see another day. Or, more importantly, not when his proclivities lie elsewhere.

The Captain is smoking outside when he leaves the inn, sunglasses firmly in place and obscuring his marbled eyes. His mood has seemingly soured.

“You should’ve had your food.” The other grunts around his cigarette, shoulders squared.

“We can find lunch later, after checking if any of the men were detained.” To his own ears this seems like a reasonable offer, a plan for the day even, lest they waste their time in Cairo ambling around uselessly.

“Oh? We is it?” Mayne sneers, dropping his glasses down his nose to stare accusingly up at Augustin.

The heat flush from the morning sun mixes with the flush of embarrassment. Here he is again, getting ahead of himself. Is he being naïve? It must be so truly, for there is no reason that Mayne should want to continue with him now that they are no longer in danger of being captured and implicated in the fight.

“Ma jeunesse ne fut qu'un ténébreux orage,/Traversé çà et là par de brillants soleils;” He feints a grin, affecting an unbothered attitude though Mayne’s dismissal hurts more with each new occurrence.

If he were a betting man, he would say that this was due to Mayne allowing the illusion of friendship to blossom before turning cold and ruinous upon the garden, digging holes as big as graves. And yes, it would seem that Augustin is indeed naïve enough to fall for the false promise of a sunny day.

“Then, if you would point me in the direction of the likely location of our men, I will take my leave.”

Whatever his face is doing seems to amuse Mayne because the man spits, stomping the butt of his cigarette out on the ground before shaking his head.

“Cheeky cunt.” The other points a finger in his face. “You’re fuckin’ lucky you’re not one of David’s toffs.”

Perplexed and mildly alarmed, he follows the Captain as he begins leading the way.

Mayne takes them away from downtown and into an area populated by soldiers of all ranks and designations. He seems to know where they are going, as if lead by some invisible string, only pausing to look around once in a while before continuing. Augustin keeps quiet, keeps sight of Mayne even as they enter the bustling crowds of the morning market that the man blends in with.

There is a terrace spilling out into the street, rickety tables and uneven chairs holding a collection of soldiers that seem to all be nursing hangovers as the waiters dodge between them. Some of the men present are their men, French and British combined.

Mayne barely makes himself known before Seekings and Fraser are approaching him, not exactly at attention but close enough to it. Seekings squares his jaw and the Captain clicks his tongue, Fraser looking nervously between the two of them.

“Were any captured?” Mayne finally asks and Seekings shakes his head.

“None of ours. Most are about the place, others downtown.”

“At least yous have learned by now.” The exasperation tinged with fondness seems to ease Seekings’ nerves and the man’s shoulders drop.

“Does this include the free French?” From what he can see, at least half of them are still not accounted for. Which, while worrying, is not exactly something to rise panic over just yet.

Fraser sniffs and Augustin wonders if the haughty expression on the younger’s face is his constant state of being or if he has had to work for it.

“None of ours, Lieutenant.” The expression melts into something gentler, reassuring, and Augustin breathes out steadily. Alright, the world has not ended. He didn’t even realize how worried he’d been, mind too preoccupied with Mayne and his proximity to truly wonder after his men. Bad for business.

“I advise the lot of you keep it that way.” The Captain nods stiffly as Seekings tips forward a fraction, encroaching on the man’s personal space.   

Seekings’ mouth curls at the corners, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Had a good night then, Paddy?”

“Don’t you worry, Reg, my night was perfectly pleasant.”

Fraser clears his throat, nudging Seekings out of the Captain’s space. “Riley’s found us a fight later, if you’re interested?”

“A fight?” He does not appreciate feeling lost and being with these three in particular, he feels as though they are speaking a language that he cannot comprehend. And yet, for all his age and experience, he struggles to ask questions. No, fuck age and experience, his profession is to ask why and yet when it comes to Mayne, he finds himself tongue-tied and afraid. Which is, to say, afraid of driving the man away, of cracking the eggshells he is walking on more than the man himself or his retaliation.

“Oh, you’re in for a treat, Mr. Jordan.” Seekings grin is bright in the sun, distractingly so.

“Please, Augustin is fine.” The offhanded response that leaves him is something that he would not think about twice in other circumstances. However, considering his exchange with Mayne the other day, it only serves to embarrass him. By god, he feels like he is back in school, gangly and awkward, unable to string together two sentences without stuttering.

“That so?” Seekings shuffles to the side, clapping him on the shoulder. “Reg, then. And I’ll volunteer Billy as well.”

“Nobody calls me that.” Fraser complains, albeit dispassionately and Reg steers the two of them towards a table.

“Ah, he lives!” Zirnheld cheers, raising a glass in his name. “Found any books, have you?” The Lieutenant’s eyes dart towards where Mayne is sulking after them.

“I have, yes.” He knocks his knuckles against the hardcovers in his pocket and Zirnheld hums, bringing his hands up in surrender.

“No French in polite company!” Kershaw barks, flushed with drink already, laughing at some of his men trying to communicate with him in broken English and various other languages between them. As long as it is in good spirit, Augustin will not interfere.

“I will stop speaking French when the polite company arrives.” He calls back, sending the men who understand him into an uproar.

Augustin allows himself to be swept into conversation. Between Fraser and Seekings, he has to dodge exasperated gestures and flailing hands as the conversation turns heated but it is worth it because he finally feels that they are bonding as a unit. He relaxes, sips the drinks provided for him by the men, and is startlingly aware of Mayne’s gloomy presence at his back all the while.

The man does not engage but he does not rebuke the soldiers outright. Every comment of his is precisely crafted to cut and discourage and yet the men, Seekings and Kershaw in particular, persist. They ply the Captain with alcohol until the sulking ceases and Mayne joins in on a card game someone had started, isolation momentarily averted.

Riley and the reluctant Sargent Almonds greet them later that day, the taller of the two frowning heavily while the other jovially claps Fraser on his stiff back.

“Anyone we know?” Mayne sniffs, eyeing the building looming over them. It’s a thing of disrepair, with some of the windows boarded up and signs of decay on the outside.

“A friend of a friend.” Riley’s American drawl is as obnoxious as ever and yet Augustin finds that he does not mind it much.

“Fraser.” He calls, quiet enough to catch only Bill’s attention and the man turns to him, alert all at once. “What is it that we are doing here?”

The other’s mouth barely lifts at the corners. “Boxing.”

In front of the building there is a sign in Arabic, something lengthy but with clear English underneath. All are welcome. Noise spills out from under the door, men shouting and jeering, unbridled and undisturbed by the world outside.

Seekings finds his way by his side again, a hand on Augustin’s shoulder. “Paddy and I used to do this in prison before they banned the both of us for unsportsmanlike behavior.”  

“In prison?” He asks, incredulous and the other snorts, shrugging.

“Paddy’s sentiment was the same.”

The door cranes open with a loud creaking sound and all that was muffled becomes a roar. The music is drowned out by the unfiltered sound of mayhem in progress. Men shout, spit, break bottles and cheer loudly and aggressively. Is boxing not a gentleman’s sport?

“Is this a good idea?”

Kershaw appears at his other side, slinging an arm around his neck, reeking of rum and red in the face. “Sure it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”

He makes eye contact with Almonds who just shakes his head helplessly, accepting this as inevitable. Really, Augustin had thought the man as close to responsible as it gets but apparently there was no stopping the men once they have something in their sights.

Mayne’s the first to act, pushing forward towards the door and the rest fall in line easily.

He should have known. He should have turned tail and not let himself get swept up in the joyful atmosphere, in the companionship and camaraderie, in Mayne’s challenging grin.

It does not even take ten whole minutes for the men to pick a fight.

The match in the ring is already in play, the spirits are high, the cheap beer is free-flowing and someone slams into Kershaw’s side purely on accident. But whether it is perceived as such as anyone other than Augustin and maybe Sargent Almonds is quite obvious.

Mayne’s first to act. And the rest fall in line easily.

The Captain gets a fist in the man’s gut before the other can so much as apologize or make an excuse. Someone nearby sees, hears, senses the impending kerfuffle because Augustin finds himself tugged out of the way of a flying pint by Riley. Much like last time when Mayne had let his fists talk, it all devolves quickly after that.

But this time, this time he is in the midst of it and not trying to hold anyone back. Using his height as an advantage he manages to keep most men away from Seekings’ and Mayne’s blind spots, pushing his shoulders, knees and arms against the onslaught of the brawl. His blood sings, it rushes into his ears and he feels as if he’s been set on fire. It has been too long since he’d fought like this earnestly. His roll in the sand with Mayne was nothing like it – too many things on the line, too much to prove. But this is fighting for the simple joy of it even if it had started with the Captain’s short fuse.

He gets an elbow to the sternum before he can turn to the side and wheezes, grabbing the man by the back of his head and bringing him down onto his knee. The uproar is endless, there is nothing to do but fight or get washed away by the tide of violence. He fights the sea, the waves lapping at him with stinging punches.

He catches sight of Mayne and the wild way he’s tearing through his opponents, grin broad and eyes two sparks, and feels something lodge in his throat. He’s winded and it’s enough of a distraction for someone to catch his forearm with the neck of a broken beer bottle. Hissing, he tugs away, fights for space in order to check the damage in the low light. He glares at his attacker, a drunken man in an English uniform that’s missing a front tooth who is looking to have another go at him.

But, before the man can do anything more, a smaller form barrels into him from the side, sending the English soldier sprawling onto the ground. He watches, mildly stunned, as Mayne plants his fist into the man’s face, spitting words that Augustin cannot hear.

The whistle of the military police’s arrival sends everyone scattering. Everyone except Seekings who is trying to pry Mayne off the man, Mayne and Augustin himself. The three of them linger as the police rushes inside, rounding on everyone in sight. He takes a step forward, blood dripping down from his fingers and onto the floor.

“Reg.” He barks, quickly taking off his dog tags and taking out his identification. “Seekings, you must go. Get Stirling, I will handle this.”

Seekings looks torn because Mayne is still poised over the man on the ground, no longer landing blows but heaving in a way befit an animal.

“Take his tags and go.” He instructs and Reg nods, unhooking the Captains tags and accepting Augustin’s as well.

“Augustin-” The other tries but he shakes his head.

He does not know what is giving him the conviction to do this. What is driving him to cast his vote in with Mayne being reasonable at the moment, but he refuses to leave the man when he’d saved Augustin like this. Unwittingly or not.

“Go!” He barks and the man nods, shoving a police officer over and barreling through the crowd and out the back door.

He steels himself, aware that he only has a few short moments before the police descend upon them.

“Captain.” With knees that ache, he crouches down next to the man. Unseeing eyes turn to him, glazed and bloodshot. “Will you trade me a poem?”

The other doesn’t respond, the man underneath the Captain groaning in pain, nose sitting at an alarming angle.

“I will start, yes?” He clears his throat, calling to mind one of the ones he knows best in full. “Toute l’âme résumé/Quand lente nous l’expirons/Dans plusieurs ronds de fumée/Abolis en autres ronds//.”

The other’s eyes flicker over his face, tracking the motion of his mouth as he shapes the words. If he did not suspect already that something was incredibly wrong with the Captain, then this encounter would have certainly shaken him. Like this, he is left to think later and act now.

“Atteste quelque cigare/Brûlant savamment pour peu/Que la cendre se sépare/De son clair baiser de feu//.” He swallows, squaring his shoulders to shield the Captain from the view of the police. He does not continue, feeling as if he’s said enough already because the other’s frame has relaxed some, clarity returning.

Voice rough and low, Mayne speaks. “Across a world where all men grieve/And grieving strive the more,/The great days range like tides and leave/Our dead on every shore.” The other stands slowly and Augustin goes with him, hands held out to stop him from falling were he to grow faint. But Mayne does not grow faint. His now sharp gaze zeroes in on the cut along Augustin’s forearm and he hisses, teeth clenched. “Heavy the load we undergo,/And our own hands prepare,/If we have parley with the foe,/The load our sons must bear.”

Mayne has barely stopped speaking before the police finally becomes aware of them. He does not struggle as they cuff him, for which Augustin is grateful. The Captain keeps his mouth resolutely shut and his eyes averted and despite knowing that he had helped, Augustin feels as if he has overstepped again.

It seems that he is destined to this odd dance consisting of steps that he cannot follow, forever going between one step forth, two steps back and completely missing the beat. Augustin has never claimed to be much of a dancer, but this strange rhythm would stump even the most proficient of professionals.

Chapter Text

“Are you familiar with the concept of the panopticon, Captain?” He lowers himself into the dusty bench gingerly. His ribs hurt and there are bruises on his wrists from where the military police had manhandled him. His forearm has been wrapped haphazardly, red staining the bandages. “Bentham, an English philosopher, proposed a new concept and design for prisoner reformation.”

Mayne’s in the cell opposite to his, sitting with his fists clenched in his lap and his eyes closed firmly.

“He believed that if the prisons were constructed in a circular manner with a tower in the middle containing the guards, the notion of constant observation would encourage good behavior. This was, of course, based on the idea of self-regulation through the means of being perceived at all times but, in reality the-”

“Shut the fuck up!” Mayne shouts unexpectedly, jolting away from his bench, shoulders squared as he comes to a stop at the bars keeping him enclosed.

Augustin lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed by the outburst. For all that Mayne makes him curious, keeps him intrigued, he is also obviously a deeply troubled man. Augustin’s first two days at the camp had reassured him of that with no doubt left to spare. All that grief and sorrow he’d glimpsed, the loss that’s barely concealed in the way some of the others treat the Captain, it’s all buried inside and biting at the bit to resurface. And yet Mayne resists, allowing his anger to lead instead.

“While your offer was intriguing, Captain…” He starts, ignoring the barked order. “I did not think you would truly show me Cairo’s most luxurious jail cells. At least, not so soon.”

The man stares at him, nostrils flaring and eyes darting from his face to the bandages on his arm. Slowly, Mayne unclenches his fists, swaying. There is a hint of a smile hidden in his bushy facial hair and Augustin’s ego sings at having brought even this much out of the other.

Predictably, instead of using his plentiful wits to engage Augustin in conversation, Mayne opts for poetry.

“Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,/But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm;” The man steps closer, leaning his forehead between the bars and sucking in a deep breath. “Besides I can tell where I am use'd well,/Such usage in heaven will never do well.”

“This is hardly a church, Captain.”

This establishment they have found themselves in might not be a church but Mayne speaks like a priest, like he is preaching the word of God. The cadence of his voice, the parts of speech he chooses to accent. All at once Augustin realizes why and how the other always manages to keep the men’s attention. Aside from them all knowing what their Captain is capable of, his manner of speech is captivating enough to hold the audience of rowdy men such as the SAS members. And, despite separating the church and state leaving France’s general attitude towards religion rather tepid, Augustin has managed to sit in on a few sermons, his curiosity and a crisis in his younger years overpowering his parents’ ambivalence towards the existence of God.

“Is it not?” The other’s hands grip the bars as if he’s going to try and pry them apart, the metal creaking under his grip ominously.

Augustin approaches, once again drawn like a moth to a particularly volatile flame. He meets the other’s steady gaze in the low light, barely blinking in fear that he’s going to miss something. The Captain has prominent knuckles but his fingers are slim and straight, they are not working hands, there are no calluses on them – not even from holding a gun or a knife.

“I wouldn’t know.” He defers, wondering where Mayne was taking his comparison and eager to find out.

“Barely even a Catholic.” The other grunts, seemingly offended. “Here I sit, while not cold, certainly not comfortable, no drink in my hand, a man trying to tell me about things that are of little interest to me.”

He scoffs, he should not be surprised by this point. Should expect it even. Mayne’s tendency to insult, to repel – he should familiarize himself with it before it is too late, before it begins hurting. Turning away, he sits back down, unwilling to let the other affect him any more than he already has.

“By all means, Captain. Enjoy your stay in silence, then.” He pulls away from the conversation, leaves Mayne to his stewing and instead wonders if they will give him back his books once they’ve been released.

The Captain remains unmoving, eyes beady as they observe him. He looks ready to jump out of his skin. Like he cannot stomach standing there and staring at Augustin for a moment longer and yet he is forced to keep doing just that. Certainly, he did not think his company was so objectionable.

“And God like a father rejoicing to see,/His children as pleasant and happy as he:” Mayne continues as if nothing has happened, as if Augustin is still listening. He is. He is. He has no other choice but to listen, there are no others around them as far as he can discern. But even in a room full of others, he is afraid that he’d choose to listen to Mayne above the rest.

“Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel/But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.” The other’s voice softens, his preaching giving way to a gentle whisper that catches Augustin by surprise. “The binary idea of morality, the definitions of good and the evil that we cling to… I would know where you stand on this issue.”

Mayne speaks as if it pains him to ask this question, sounding reluctant. It’s new. Augustin has only ever heard him firm and commanding, angry and cold – until now, that is. Because Mayne’s hands are still gripping the bars with determination but his voice is wavering.

“Well, Aristotle believed that good and evil were relative concepts-”

“No, no, no.” The other groans, despaired, which amuses him to a degree. “Your opinion, Monsieur Jordan. Not Aristotle’s, not Kant’s nor Saint Thomas Aquinas’.”

What does he think about the notions of good and evil? In his long years of study, of teaching, he’s come across the binary in many shapes and forms. Though his classes usually dealt with other concepts, the two were inevitable, interwoven in every aspect of life. There are many definitions he can offer Mayne, many regurgitated words and sentiments that are not his own – about the origins of, the nature of, the consequences of, the imperatives to follow – but he will not. Unlike Mayne, he can articulate his thoughts without resorting to someone else’s words.

“I think that we do not have the privilege to think this way.” He surmises, pushing his glasses up his nose. “This binary is for poets and writers to pine over, for philosophers who’ve never known work to theorize about. Not us who do and act.”

Mayne’s quiet for a moment before his mouth stretches in an uneven grin, wide enough to be seen through his bushy beard and mustache. The other wags a finger in his direction before tapping it against his own temple. “That, Augustin, is the correct fuckin’ answer.”

Too stunned by the use of his first name, he stares as Mayne begins pacing the confines of his cell. He wants to move, wants to respond with something meaningful because, surely, this means that he has made progress – that he has grown in the other’s regard – but before he can even think properly, Mayne freezes mid step.

A distant sound of a door opening and scraping against rough ground makes its way to them several moments later. It’s quickly followed by another, joined by footsteps that echo the cavernous space. One final door opened and then the voices reach him as well, hurried Arabic accompanied by a grating British affliction.  

“Sir, you cannot just waltz in here and-”

“Oh, by the order of Winston Fuckin’ Churchill and General Montgomery, I believe I bloody well can!” It’s Stirling, the unmistakably pompous way in which he holds himself leaking into his speech.

The man comes to stop between their cells, eyeing first Mayne who tips his head up in challenge and then Augustin. Stirling’s mouth thins, a suppressed smile hiding behind his stern expression. Somehow, he thinks that the other is pleased to find him here.

“Release these two men immediately.” The Major demands, hands on his hips and looking as unhurried as ever.

“Sir, they were involved in a serious incident. They disrupted public safety, endangered civilians, attacked officers and refused to identify themselves. Until we have written proof of their release, we cannot let them go!” The harried jailor – more accurately a lowly guard, perhaps, seeing as he’s still trying to rationalize with Stirling – persists, sticking to the rules.

“Is that so?” The Major squints and the man nods frantically. “Alright then.”

Without wasting a moment, Stirling’s thrown a punch strong enough to send the man to the ground. The impact of it knocks the air out of the guard’s lungs and Augustin rushes up in order to see what is happening better.

“Atta boy, David!” Mayne croons, rattling the bars of his cage.

Stirling cuffs the groaning guard, rifling through his uniform for the keys until he unearths them. “I do apologize, lad.” The Major pats the man’s back before coming to unlock Mayne’s cell first. “It’s nothing personal, we just have important business to conduct, you see.”

“Sir,” He intones lightly when Stirling frees him. “It is a relief to see you.”

“Yes, well.” The Major adjusts his hat, somewhat awkward in his movements – his hand must be hurting but he’s doing his best to conceal it. “Seekings was very empathetic in regaling your tale of peril. I had no other option but to come to your rescue.”

“Would have gotten out on our own just fine.” Mayne steps over the guard, grumbling as he checks the desk at the end of the hallway for their belongings.

He rolls his eyes, ignoring the Captain. “While that may be true, I appreciate the help.”

“And I appreciate your quick thinking, Lieutenant.” Stirling motions vaguely to Mayne. “Seekings detailed your conduct at the – ah, club? And I am grateful that you kept a level head in the midst of it all.”

“Suck his cock some other time, Stirling.” Mayne stalks towards them, slapping something against Augustin’s chest that he rushes to hold, fingers dragging along the other’s skin. “Our swift exit is paramount, lest we want to deal with more of these sad cunts.”

With that the Captain turns and slams open the door, leaving the block of cells before either him or the Major can say another word. He looks at the items in his hands and finds that it is the books he’d bought, a little dusty but intact otherwise.

A heavy sigh leaves Stirling’s mouth, eyebrows drawn low and with a shrug, he motions forward. “After you, Lieutenant.”

Leaving the building, all things considered, is fairly easy. It helps that Stirling walks around as if he is the highest ranking member of the military at all times, as if he is personally responsible for everyone in his vicinity. The guards, the police officers, the clerks – nobody bats an eye at the three men leaving the prison.

Bergé’s deadpan stare is the first thing that greets him on the outside.

“This is not what I meant by bonding as a unit.” A muscle twitches in the other’s cheek, irritation fighting to become known.

“Unfortunately, fighting and bonding seems to be equivalent in the minds of these men.” He tries smiling but Bergé’s expression remains stern. Feeling like a scolded child, he boards the truck silently while Stirling and Sadler chat up front.

Seekings is there as well, holding out his tags and his papers. “Glad to see you in one piece.”

“Thank you for getting the Major so quickly, Reg.” He accepts the rest of his belonging, wincing briefly. The cut on his arm is protesting, stinging as he moves around. He needs to get it cleaned and bandaged properly lest he incur an infection.

Seekings’ eyes briefly flit over his shoulder, no doubt landing on Mayne before darting away. The other shrugs, clearing his throat. “I can follow an order when it suits me. And it was the… reasonable thing to do.”

Stirling gets off at the outskirts but the rest of them don’t return to the city, wisely opting to head straight into the desert instead. The drive passes in relative silence on his part, distracted and weary and tired. The stars blur overhead, the waxing crescent bright in the sky.

Once back in Jalo, the men continue their merriment, seemingly unbothered that their stay in Cairo was cut short. He waves away Kershaw and Cooper, ignores Bergé’s inquiring look and heads straight for the tent he shares with Zirnheld. The other Lieutenant is nowhere to be seen and Augustin lets himself relax, safe from further conversation for now.

He doesn’t remember where they put their spare bandages, doesn’t know if they have any alcohol either so, dejected and unwilling to go back out there in search of them, he sits on his cot and just – breathes. Cairo, leave, was supposed to provide some modicum of rest from the desert life, from training and Jalo at large. But instead what he got was a different version of Jalo, brought along with them for the ride. There is something to it – to Jalo being just a place, a physical space they all occupy while the heart of it is the men. The desert does not make them mad, make them act out of line, no. He is starting to suspect that they were all like this before.

Both hands buried in his hair, he tries to calm his heartbeat, tries to re-center himself. Nothing bad has happened, none of the men got seriously injured and nobody was left behind. He is back in the relative safety of their camp, finally able to just sit in silence for a moment.

There is a scuffle outside of the tent, the flap closed and providing no insight into who the two voices are. The men are too quiet for him to discern details but they seem to be arguing over something, clothes rustling and sand shifting.

Finally, the makeshift door opens and – much to Augustin’s surprise – Mayne steps inside.

The Captain is frowning heavily, eyebrows drawn low, mouth set flat. His shoulders are drawn back, though, occupying most of the already-confined space. Augustin hasn’t bothered lighting a lantern or candle so when Mayne shifts, he takes most of Augustin’s vision with him. Something glints by the other’s face momentarily before it is gone.

“Captain.” He greets, weary.

Mayne clicks his tongue, shuffling further inside, closer to Augustin. The urge to close his eyes and will the man away surfaces through everything else. This is all partially, if not mostly, Mayne’s fault and Augustin wishes he had a moment to just – to think. He is unused to not thinking, despite being in this war for way too long already, and it grates on him on days such as this one especially.

“Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux,” The words come to him easily, voice flatter than it ought to be. “Riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant très vieux,/Qui, de ses précepteurs méprisant les courbettes,/S'ennuie avec ses chiens comme avec d'autres bêtes.”

The Captain makes a low humming noise, rumbling as if it is coming from his chest. “Spleen.” The man crouches in front of him, producing a bottle of rum and a roll of bandages from somewhere. “Give it here then.”

“How does it go? In English?” He offers up his arm without protest, quietly aghast at having the other tending to him as if he is the Captain’s responsibility.

“I'm like a king of rainy lands and cold/— wealthy, but impotent: still young, but old —” Mayne’s accent fits around the translation well, a different rhythm to it than in French. It makes the words weightier, even heavier than Baudelaire had intended them to be. “Then some shite about falcons, jesters and coffins.”

Augustin snorts, eyes intently avoiding Mayne’s face. He is focused instead on the way the other carefully unwraps the dirtied bandages covering his forearm. The cloth tugs at his wound, making him hiss, blood welling anew. The skin around it is red and raw, the cut itself a jagged slash that’ll leave a nasty scar.

Mayne’s mustache twitches and his fingers dig into Augustin’s arm briefly before he reaches for the alcohol. “dull veins, for blood, green Lethe's waters ooze.”

He bites his lip, jaw clenched as the alcohol washes out the wound, red staining Mayne’s fingers, dripping down into the sand, creating a muddy puddle. The other presses a clean cloth to the cut, staunching the flow for now and Augustin’s eyes water at the sting.

“You seem to know it well.” He manages, once the pain has subsided.

“Nicked it off some toff in Cairo a few months back.” The other eyes the wound critically. Augustin does not think he needs stitches but if Mayne declares it so, there will be no helping it. Thankfully, the other just nods to himself and goes about rewrapping the wound with the fresh bandages.

“Was relieved to see it wasn’t in French.” He works slowly, methodically; as if he has done this many times in the past. There is something soothing about watching him, about how calm Mayne is at the moment despite the task at hand. It settles the jittery part inside Augustin that has not known peace since the moment he stepped foot into the desert.  

“I can lend you my edition if you’d like to cross-reference.” As tired as he is, he will not pass up an opportunity to exchange words with Mayne. And – well. This is different to spending time with the others, this requires different parts of him to stay active. Ridiculous, he thinks, foolish to boot.

“You’ll need to change the bandages at least once more.” The other ignores his offer, tying the wrapping off and sitting back on his heels.

Like this, Mayne is looking up at him, something expectant in his gaze that Augustin does not know how to answer. Instead, he takes the bottle from the ground and has a generous gulp of bad rum.

“Thank you, Captain. You did not have to bother with this.” He wants to ask why and why him. He’s hardly the first one to get hurt at camp and even if this was Mayne’s fault, that too isn’t an anomaly. The other would not answer, of that he is sure, so he spares them both the embarrassment of voicing his thoughts.

“Aye, I did not have to.” Mayne stands up, liberating the bottle from him. “And yet I did, for I am not the type of cunt to let others suffer for my misdoings.”

Noble, he bites back a wry smile; despite what the other had claimed before, there was still honor in most of his actions. Augustin lets that thought settle, the day’s events catching up with him. He lies back onto the cot, curious as to why Mayne is lingering.

“Captain,” He drawls, slow as he grows more tired now that he is horizontal. “I will not bleed out during the night.”

The words seem to snap Mayne out of whatever daze he was in because he nods, swiftly turning on his heel and walking towards the entrance.

“Then I bid you a good night,” The other pauses, obscured by the darkness. “Augustin.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol in his veins, the loss of blood, the sleep trying to drag him under, or any of the two combined, but Augustin allows himself to revel in the way the other says his name. His inhibitions lowered, he grins, unburdened finally, and responds in a way that he knows the other will hate.

“Bonne nuit, Paddy.”

He is asleep before he can see the other leave the tent.

Something shifts in the air between them after their short stint detained.

While not overly friendly, Mayne seems to have accepted Augustin as a permanent addition to his days. He is still a bastard in regards to the rest of the French paratroopers, especially the two Germans. But, at least he is not actively fighting them.

He does not call him Augustin again. Nor does Augustin allow himself to call the Captain Paddy either. But it stays in the back of his mind, the curl of Mayne’s tongue around the name, how he’d carefully chosen when to deploy it. Because Mayne knows how much it means for him to hear it. Which, in turn, annoys Augustin greatly.

His days in the desert do not blend together as much as they are measured by his interactions with Mayne. Less than a month ago, he had not known that the man existed, let alone the extent to which Augustin would come to orbit him. And even as time passes, he finds that his curiosity, his interests do not wane. Every new quirk of Mayne’s is carefully sorted into a folder within his head, left aside to be inspected when he should be sleeping. Every new poem Mayne reveals, the ones he repeats frequently, pinned to a board, mapped out in clear detail.

Bergé’s caught on and, despite the shit he gives Augustin over it, Zirnheld’s always willing to lend an ear when Augustin complains about being told to fuck off again.

The rest of the men seem to have accepted him as well, word about what he’d done for Mayne and what Mayne had done for him spreading through camp like wildfire. He had earned himself kind words from Almonds and Riley, a nod of approval from Fraser and Cooper’s unwavering smiles and company when Mayne is being particularly difficult.

“Does he even have a right side of the bed to get up on?” Cooper huffs, rotating his shoulder to alleviate the soreness.

“He sleeps in the dirt like an animal.” Fraser spits to the side, blood at the corner of his mouth.

“I am growing tired of rugby.” There is something aching in his ribs from that last tackle he’d received, Reg’s impressive shoulders barreling into him and sweeping him off his feet.

They’re taking a break from the game, the men thirsty and tired but still eager to play. In a couple of moments they will continue and he’ll end up in the sand again but for now, he slumps onto the ground and drinks his water.

Mayne is one of the few ones still standing, hands on his hips, torso glistening in the sun. He looks like he belongs in the desert, like it’s become a part of him as much as he of it. Augustin is a little envious of his ability to withstand it all.

He barely gets to drink two sips more before they’re being roused for a continuation. The scorching rays and the sand rove across his skin like miniscule blades, chafing and irritating, but that does not stop him from participating.

They go on for a few rounds, the score tied. The ball gets kicked off and the nonsensical rules of the game dictate that they pile on top of each other. It makes the grit and the heat worse but they do it anyway. Then Mayne breaks away with the ball, shouldering a man aside before Zirnheld latches on to him and they both go down into the sand. He watches, grinning, as the ball gets picked up by Halévy who sets off as soon as it’s in his hands. With urgency, he rallies the men to keep the opposition away from the runner.

He pushes Seekings back, keeps him distracted as Halévy approaches the final yard.

From the back, he hears a familiar voice shouting. “I’m gonna shoot the wee ball bag!”

But before anything can happen, Halévy’s flopped over the line and the points are theirs. They cheer, the flag of the free French gets draped across his shoulders, shielding him from the sun momentarily. Inexplicably, the hours they’ve spent out here, sweaty and exhausted, suddenly feel insignificant – it all feels worth it.  

He catches sight of a truck and then Stirling is there, a man at his side, eyeing them critically. Neither of the two looks impressed.

“Nice ‘tache, Errol.” Seekings snorts, swaggering up to the Major.

“Is this Agincourt or Orleans?” Stirling does not look particularly surprised by the state of them either, inquiring about the score instead.

“It’s Orléans, Sir.” He grins, cheering with the rest of his men anew.

“And I’m afraid the game is over.” To his credit, Stirling does look regretful to break up their fun. “I have new instructions from Prime Minister Winston Churchill. Go to the mess hall and take off all your clothes.”

Seekings, a mocking tinge to his smile, steps out in front of them with his hands behind his head. “’Ere you are, boys. Winston wants to see your winkies!”

The men laugh again, both teams forgetting the competition easily in light of this new request from their Major.

“Orléans, huh?” Bergé appears to his right as they start slowly moving to the mess. “Would that make you our Jeanne d’Arc?”

“Why would it be me?” He complains with a groan, “If anything, it’s Halévy with his last minute save.”

“No, no.” Bergé claps him on the shoulder, palm slapping against his sticky skin loudly. “You are always the one to lead the charge.”

“I suppose this makes you King Charles the 7th then, Captain?” He pushes the other away lightly, chuckling when Bergé pulls a face.

“If I must.” The Captain concedes, nudging him forward as they pile into the mess hall. “I would call Halévy our Jean Bureau.”

“Declaring a decisive victory, are we?” He splits off, coming to Halévy’s side, pressing a kiss to the top of the man’s head, proud of the way their soldiers had worked together today.

Halévy looks a little startled but he is grinning, accepting he kiss from him and a beer from Zirnheld with a hum. There is still jeering and good cheer as they all take their shorts off, nobody concerned about the nudity, all too accustomed to cramped living quarters and communal showers.

Stirling and the man are up front, pinning a map to the wall. Next to them are Bergé and, of course, Mayne. He looks away, back to safer ground, at Stirling who’s clearing his throat.

“Firstly, I have asked you all to stand naked because this gentleman is a doctor, Doctor Gamal.” The Major motions briefly to the gentleman before continuing. “He is a man I’ve known for a very long time and whom I trust implicitly, even when he’s high out of his head on his own laughing gas.”

A chuckle resonates around the room and Stirling shakes the doctor. “He is very discreet. Go on.”

The doctor holds in his hands a bunch of ribbons and as he starts making the rounds, Stirling keeps speaking.

“I’ve brought him here from Cairo to make sure you men are all fit and ready for what lies ahead.”

Sadler is the first to receive his red ribbon, bestowed upon him so that it lies around his neck.

“First task I’ve given him is to inspect you all for desert sores and open ulcers which many of you have and conceal as I once did.”

The doctor looks down at Riley, brows furrowed before moving on to the next man. Seekings, much like Riley, does not receive a ribbon. The men say something in regards to Kershaw that Augustin cannot parse through due to the laughter but he’s too busy wondering about the two – three now, Fraser – that did not receive a ribbon to try anyway. Even he himself has a couple of sores, scrapes turned into bigger wounds by the grit, the cut on his arm healing slower than it should be.

“We are about to embark on a mission from which I would estimate one third of us will not return.” Stirling’s voice breaks through the good cheer like a bullet through a Jerry skull. The mood turns somber, the earlier victory forgotten, the easy days they’ve had since their leave time suddenly coming to reap their dues.

“In 48 hours, two convoys are taking supplies to Malta.” The Major, leans back against a table with a huff. “Hitler will throw every plane he has at them. Our job is to destroy as many of those planes on the ground as we can before those convoys set sail.”

Zirnheld behind him and Almonds up front are spared as well, their sparse scrapes deemed a non-emergency.      

Augustin sees how unease rolls through the men, how they shift in their spots, how they look at one another with doubt in their eyes. And it only gets worse when Stirling reveals the rest of the plan.

“We are going to simultaneously attack six airbases along the Mediterranean coast. From Benina, in the west, to Heraklion, in the east.”

Mayne must make some noise, or it is perhaps that Stirling knows him so well because the Major motions to the Captain. “Yes, Paddy?”

“What business do we have in Crete?”

The Captain is correct, of course. So far, from what Augustin knows, they have not stepped foot off the continent, away from the desert. This new development appears to have stumped them all.

“Our sphere of operation has expanded.” Stirling avoids the other’s eyes, opting to stare at the ground instead as if he knows that the Captain will not be pleased with this news.

“And how the fuck do we get to Crete?”

“In a submarine.”

“And how the fuck are we gonna get a submarine?”

The men watch their back and forth with baited breaths, Augustin among them. Questions in the SAS have been encouraged from the very beginning but Mayne’s attitude is verging on insubordination.

“I’ve already got a fucking submarine.” Stirling’s blasé answer breaks the tension, a smile tugging at the corner of Mayne’s mouth and the men laugh, the brief lapse forgotten. Augustin feels something in his chest unwind for a few seconds before it migrates to his gut.

Stirling lists the rest of the gear he’s acquired, the extra jeeps and the guns and the excitement rises among the men anew. They are like little boys at Christmas, eager to open their presents, eager to put them to use. The part about a third of them not making it back forgotten for now.

Mayne does not receive a ribbon, the expanse of flawless skin on display for all to see.

“And the good wishes of the King via the Commander in Chief of the British forces North Africa.” Stirling finishes on a lighter note than he’d started his speech, leaving Augustin troubled and cautiously optimistic. At least they are not going in with what little they have, at least they will be well prepared.

“But firstly, whose cock did you suck in Cairo, Sir?” Reg’s tone is jovial but bewildered, amazed almost.

“Right,” Stirling speaks over the laughter. “Those of you with ribbons go with Doctor Gamal, he will remove the infected flesh with a toothbrush.”

The imagery causes the men to groan, dismayed at what awaits them.

“When you are brushed, bandaged up, and pumped full of pain killers, amphetamines and sulfur, we will begin our glorious expansion.”

That, see, that Augustin does not like the sound of. He is beginning to think that delusions of grandeur are one of Stirling’s specialties; that the man is aiming too high. Well, he supposes that one can aim high when one is backed by the entirety of their country, when one’s country is still free. Stirling is gambling with lives now, throwing them into battle for something that is of little value to those ranked below him.

“Dismissed.” Stirling waves them away and the men start shuffling, putting their clothes back on, ready to follow after the doctor as instructed and ready to greet the convoy of new supplies heading their way.

Augustin does not linger, no matter how much he wants to.

The doctor chooses some of the men to follow them and the rest head outside the crumbling walls of Jalo, the promised trucks already on the horizon. He goes through the motion of inspection, assigns someone to do inventory alongside Fraser and then it’s his turn at the makeshift infirmary.

The experience is – unpleasant. But his sores are far from the worst and at least they are in easily accessible spots. The cut on his forearm gives the doctor pause though and the man raises an eyebrow at him.

He shrugs. “The dangers of being acquainted with men such as these.”

That causes Gamal to chuckle, accepting his answer easily. “Well, at least it looks like it was dealt with in a timely manner. No signs of infection which is a miracle in these conditions. Good on you, Lieutenant.”

He does not say that he’s had help, does not say that Mayne has made sure to badger him about it and that when he was too busy, he’s had Fraser do it in his stead. He is half convinced Mayne has set to the task just because he knows it annoys Augustin to be corralled like an unruly child.

The doctor releases him with little fanfare, a reminder to keep the sores clean and dry and to be careful with the scabbed-over cut.

Bergé whistles for him once he’s out, waving a hand and calling him over to the mess hall. He braces himself, puts thoughts of wounds and poetry out of his mind and walks over.

“Six targets.” Mayne is saying, his fingers twisting at his beard.

Across the table are Stirling and his own Captain, Zirnheld to the side. The map that denotes their designated missions now lies on the table between them. It is all circled in red, clear as day, and yet Mayne seems unhappy with it already.

“Who’s going where?”

He comes to stand next to the Captain, ignoring how this configuration makes him feel as if he should be overly cautious.

“Well, Paddy, you will take Berka satellite airfield number one.” Stirling points to Mayne as if there is someone other than the Captain asking before offering the same courtesy to the map. Always one for the dramatics, Augustin has noticed.

“While Zirnheld, you will take Berka satellite airfield number two so that you can compete with one another for most number of planes destroyed.” Zirnheld’s eyebrows shoot up but he stays silent.

“Captain Bergé, you will board the submarine Triton and travel to the Gulf of Malia off the coast of Crete. You will be met by Captain Alexander Norton. Together you will attack the airstrip at Heraklion.” Stirling points again, this time with his pipe. He must enjoy the theatre of it, Augustin thinks, the orchestration of a show. ‘All the world’s a stage’ and all that.

He takes out his pack of cigarettes, offering one to Mayne only for it to be declined. He shrugs and looks at the map, lighting his own. “Who will take Derna and Martuba? They’re 190 kilometers behind German lines.”

To say it is a premonition would be a lie but, being a learned man, he can say that he has made an educated guess instead. 

Stirling throws something at him and he reacts fast enough to catch the object before it can hit the table. Keys to a truck, presumably an appropriated one.

“You will take Derna and Martuba.”

Next to him, he feels Mayne bristle.

“Intelligence have provided us with a stolen German truck.” Stirling confirms his suspicions and Bergé nods along.

“Yes, and I have offered the services of Bruckner and Essner.”

“Essner?” Mayne tilts his head innocently, playing at being curious rather than spiteful.

“Yes, Essner.” Bergé’s voice lowers, tone warning.

“What is it, Paddy?” Stirling, on the other hand, is beginning to sound exasperated.

The moment Mayne opens his mouth to speak further, Augustin begins rolling his eyes. This again. He had thought them beyond Mayne’s paranoia but apparently not.

“If it were me crossing frontlines into German territory with Sergeant Essner, I would keep a Colt .45 revolver in very close proximity to the back of his head at all times.” The ridiculous man goes as far as miming said gun being pointed at his own temple and Augustin counts back from ten in order to keep his temper in check.

“I know my men.” It is directed mostly at Bergé who needs no reassurance but Mayne finds a way to butt in.

The French bursts out of the Captain next to him clumsily. “Personne connaît pas personne.”

Augustin jolts, surprised but not enough to let the inaccuracy slide. “Personne ne connaît personne.”

Mayne’s retort is immediate and childish, a mocking grimace on his face. “Personne ne connaît personne!”

Despite it all, he’s impressed with the effort. Especially considering Mayne went out of his way to recall the phrase. “Pas mal, Paddy.”

Within his periphery, he sees the Captain’s eye twitch and is privately pleased by it.  

“I mean, look at my friend here.” The other continues, a new target manifesting in the shape of Major Stirling. “Before he left for Cairo, he was like a pirate. Now there’s a different look about him.”

Stirling, never one to shy away from danger, meets Mayne’s challenge dead on, dark gaze steely.

“Too many pats on the head from generals has made you dizzy, boy.” Hands in his pockets, Mayne sways and Augustin is, once again, taken by how expressive his mockery is. How he is like a dog with a bone, unwilling to let go even after it’s been chewed up. “Counting airstrips like a rich man counting coins.”

Stirling shakes his head, redirecting. “You have great difficulty with approval, don’t you, Paddy? You’d just rather play the renegade.”

The way Stirling matches the Captain is interesting to observe. It speaks to their years of friendship and camaraderie that Stirling can poke the bear and not get mauled. Another thing for Augustin to envy for he would not dare. Nor would he know where to start. Uneasily, he watches the proceedings.

“I see a new ambition.” Mayne says, voicing Augustin’s own thoughts from earlier. It is reassuring to know that he was not the only one worried, to know Mayne is seeing what he is as well.

“There is no time to be unambitious. Convoys are setting sail for Malta.”

Mayne shushes the Major, pointing to the general area outside the mess. “You don’t know who might be listening to you.”

Anger that he’d let go of in the past few minutes surges through him again, easily overpowering his urge to stay out of the argument. “I know my fucking--”

“Colt .45 at all times!” Mayne shouts, choosing to make an enemy out of everyone in the room for the night.

His hand clenches around the keys to the truck, the edge of them pressing into his palm painfully. “Fuck you!”

“David, I assume you’ll be taking the remaining airstrip.” Bergé cuts in with a warning glance at him, sending him again to his school days. He hates feeling like this, hates that Mayne can get a rise out of him so easily when he’s not even the sole focus of the other’s antagonism.      

 “Benina.” Stirling confirms.

“Aye, right, Benina.” Mayne drawls, long and obnoxious. He is no better than Stirling, putting on a show with his soliloquy. “The biggest airstrip of them all. More kills in bloody Benina, more bangs and fuel at Benina. Given himself the best as per fucking usual.”

The thing about Mayne being as bad as Stirling is that, in actuality, they are both as bad as each other.

Stirling bares his teeth, voice getting louder. “Yes, that’s right, Paddy, and I’m bringing back the blackboard!”

Bergé pauses at that, mild irritation turning into a stern look instead. “Now, you should know I’ll be taking no part in counting dead bodies.”

“Nobody’s asking you to, you white flagged waggon shite of buckets!” The Captain sneers. The only person in the room safe from his bullets tonight is seemingly Zirnheld who’s kept his mouth wisely shut.

“Paddy!” Stirling barks as if silencing a mutt, calling him to heel, and holds Bergé back. The Major rounds the table and Augustin opts to get out of range lest he catch a stray fist if they are to start flying.

“Tonight, we are soldiers with one goal, we fight as one or we fail, including the two Germans, Paddy. You will make no further comments towards the loyalty of our free French and that is a fucking order.” Stirling’s gotten into Mayne’s face by this point, imposing the few centimeters of height separating them upon the shorter man. But, by the looks of it, the difference does not matter much to Mayne who is always the biggest personality in the room.

“I remember when this regiment used to be unknown and unobserved.” The Captain’s tone has lowered but it is no less theatrical, rumbling instead of bellowing. “Christ, we used to be some crack back then.”

“We’re not a regiment.” Stirling reminds, patting the shorter on the chest. “Not yet.”

“Ah.” Mayne picks up a bottle off the table, pointing it in Stirling’s direction. “Now I get it. We will be reckless in pursuit of your own lofty ambition.”

He refuses to flinch when the shouting begins anew. He should be used to this but the years between these two men mean much more than whatever passes for propriety in this company.

“Yes, that’s right, Paddy. Exactly right!” Stirling yells, face contorting with every word. “The prize has been offered, the game is on, and we will win if we do this my way.”

Mayne’s mouth splits in a grin as if he cannot believe what he is hearing despite being the one to provoke it. He then uses his teeth to pop open the bottle, not bothering to spit the cork out before he speaks.

“When the rest of you fuck up, I’m answerable to myself.”

It is hard to think of this man as a poet. It is hard to think of him as anything other than a savage but then Augustin remembers the verse flowing from his mouth accented, the gentle way he treats his books, the attentive way he’d wrapped Augustin’s wound and is conflicted to his very core. Is it all an act? And if so then what is so heinous and vile that it needs to be covered in such a boorish façade?

“When this is over, if I never hear the name Paddy Mayne again, it will be too soon.” Zirnheld sniffs, running a hand over the lower half of his face as Stirling leaves without a word.

Their Captain looks as if he is developing a migraine so they do not linger. Both him and Zirnheld leave the other to his peace, heading for their shared tent.

“I don’t know how you can stand talking to him.” Zirnheld speaks again when Augustin offers no comment.

Nothing he says will be any less incriminating than keeping his silence so he just shrugs.

“He is not always like this. It depends on the day.”

The other snorts, dismissive. “And what else? The phases of the moon?”

“Waxing tonight, by the looks of it.” Deciding that he would rather avoid talking about the Captain with Zirnheld, he finds the poetry collection he’d picked up in Cairo and leaves the tent. The other doesn’t ask where he is going and he provides no clue.

He walks outside of the walls of Jalo, heading for the lone tree he knows is there. While not necessarily their spot, he has found Mayne under it often enough to call it a meeting place perhaps. He sits onto the still-warm sand and cracks the collection book open.

Les Illuminations. He had never quite developed a taste for Rimbaud. Thought him too young, too foolish, the style too unstructured to be counted as a poem and as he begins reading, he finds that his sentiment remains much the same. The moon in the desert is big an luminous and even when it is not full, it provides enough light for him to make out the words.

After a while, he grows bored of going through them one by one and starts skipping. It is not often that he has no patience for writing, no matter how disjointed, but the day’s events have left him unsettled. The mission even more so. His mind has no room for maudlin musings on floods and childhoods shown in fragments.  

Mayne slinks to his side as if coming from the shadow of the night itself. He makes no mention of Augustin usurping his preferred spot by the tree and instead lies down in the sand next to him.

“What’s tonight’s damage then?” Mayne asks after a while of Augustin just staring at him.

Perhaps he should not be so perplexed. This is, after all, par for the course when Mayne is concerned. Acting like he hasn’t spent the entire past half hour hissing and spitting at those around him, antagonizing Augustin just because he could.

“Rimbaud.” He sighs, leafing through the collected poems again and settling on a random one.

Mayne makes a face before nodding. “In English?”

“French.” He smiles as the other scoffs – Augustin is getting increasingly surer of the fact that Mayne speaks a good deal of the language. “I can translate if that suits you better?”

“You can try.” It’s as good of a go ahead as he’ll get from the Captain so he clears his throat.

“Enough seen. The vision was encountered under all skies.” He pauses to estimate Mayne’s investment in the words before continuing. “Enough had. Sounds of cities, evening, and in the light, and always./Enough known. The decisions of life. – O Sounds and Visions!/Departure into new affection and noise.”

“He traveled a lot, didn’t he?” Mayne asks once he is done.

“Yes. All over Europe and as far as Africa.” Augustin huffs, tapping at the book. “I must admit I was never fond of his style.”

“Aye, not romantic enough for you, is it?” The Captain sits up, taking the poetry from him and begins leafing through the pages.

“Despite his torrid, failed relationship being described in great detail… no.” He lets the other look his fill and lights a cigarette. “Do you think it will help with your poetry, all of this traveling we’re doing?”

Mayne’s response is to read from the book instead. “C'est le repos éclairé, ni fièvre ni langueur, sur le lit ou sur le pré./C'est l'ami ni ardent ni faible. L'ami./C'est l'aimée ni tourmentante ni tourmentée. L'aimée./L'air et le monde point cherchés. La vie.”

It’s accented, the rhythm an odd staccato but it has warmth coiling in Augustin’s stomach none the less. He hides a smile in the crook of his elbow, leaned up against his knees as he finishes the verse he’d read earlier. “- Etait-ce donc ceci ?/- Et le rêve fraîchit.//”

He leans over, shoulder to shoulder with the other as he indicates to a line and translates. “The lamps and the rugs of the vigil make the noise of waves in the night, along the hull and around the steerage.”

“Poncy.” The Captain scoffs and Augustin takes the book back.

“And I suppose your Eliot spared us his words, hm?” He defends, refusing to let Mayne reach the poetry. He holds it away, the cover digging into his palms, arms long enough to keep it just out of reach.

“You don’t even like the fucker!”

“It is a matter of national pride.” He grins sharply as the other laughs, finally giving up and taking Augustin’s cigarette instead. “Do you dream of home and peace like our friend Arthur, Paddy?”

“Most nights I don’t dream at all.” The other grimaces, the smoke curling around him. “And when I do, I am haunted by ghosts.”

“But they are gone by dawn?” He is aware that his cautious optimism is in vain. There is no other man in this regiment as haunted as Paddy Mayne, he knows this, every one of them knows this.

“I did not think you so naïve, Lieutenant.”

“No, I am not.” He sighs, pocketing the book and getting up. “Ghosts or not, we should not linger before a big mission like this. Get some sleep, Captain.”

He thinks about how he wishes he would have lingered, but he realizes that on some level he is afraid. He does not want it to be proven that he can’t talk to Mayne for longer than half an hour without starting an argument. He does not want it proven that Mayne cannot stand his presence for longer than a half hour. He is jittery within his skin, the nerves of finally being deployed making themselves known.

He cannot afford a distraction and no matter how much he wants to turn around and keep Mayne company until they both fall asleep under the stars, he continues marching steadily forward.

Zirnheld is snoring softly in their tent, the sound familiar. He kicks off his boots and makes himself comfortable in his own cot.

That night, he dreams of the sound that Sorbonne makes when it is teeming with life. The creaking floors of the dormitories, the scraping of chalk against the blackboards, pens scrawling on paper. He wakes up to a grim reality and thinks about how inescapable Mayne’s own ghosts must feel if these are Augustin’s.

Chapter Text

Despite his words to Mayne last night, Augustin ends up sleeping poorly. The dreams that had plagued him only one of the things keeping him up. Another prominent one was Zirnheld, tossing and turning in his creaky cot, unable to settle, sloughing through his own private battlefields. And as much as he had wanted to complain come morning, the look on the Lieutenant’s face was enough to keep Augustin silent on the topic. He can’t imagine he looks much better.

Biting back a yawn, he watches at a distance as Essner and Bruckner fumble their way through last minute repairs on their purloined truck.

“Rough night?” Seekings comes up to him, a hand briefly resting on his shoulder before the man is moving on, not waiting for a reply.

His eyebrows shoot up at the other’s behavior but he doesn’t get to ruminate on it as the other is followed by Fraser, hand resting on the same spot, emitting heat. But, unlike the former, Fraser remains by his side.

“Any parting words?”

“Afraid you will not hear me speak upon return?” The grim smile that graces the other’s mouth is just that, grim and pessimistic, stretching the already-flat shape of them further.

“Would you believe me if I said they would be a comfort?”

“And yet you never have much patience for Mayne’s poems.” Even as he is pointing this out, his mind is already roving through the treasure trove of poetry within itself.

“It’s the tone of it, isn’t it?” Fraser hums, shaking him a little. “He’s always preachy about it, rough accent and all.”

“Ah, you’d prefer a French man talk to you of romance instead, then.” Augustin grins as the other’s cheeks grow ruddy.

“Well, I-”

He doesn’t let the other splutter further, sparing the younger the embarrassment. “Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,/ Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends./J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne./Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps./”

Fraser scratches at his stubble, contemplative. “What’s it mean?”

“I will tell you when we get back.” Promising such things is unwise, so he does not. Instead, he pats the other’s chest and sends him off to find his designated part of the regiment.

Bruckner and Essner seem to have fixed whatever was wrong with the vehicle but appear to be arguing over something else now. He cannot hear what their spat is about but the show of discord does not bode well.

“And when I get there, I will put on your grave/A bunch of green holly and blooming heather.” Mayne’s clear voice recites behind him, making him startle.

“Is it just Baudelaire that you object to, Captain?”

“A poem about grief.” The other tutts, lips pursed. “An omen or a premonition, Mr. Jordan?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “Perhaps I am in a melancholic mood this morning.”

“I can’t imagine why.” The man’s tone is flat but his eyes are amused, a twitch to his mustache that has Augustin suppressing a laugh of his own.

There is nothing to be amused about this morning and yet here they stand, Captain and Lieutenant, sharing a joke that – if not overtly funny – is at the least helping settle Augustin’s nerves about the mission.

“Just another day’s work, is that the expression?” He offers and before Mayne can respond, their attention is drawn to the stolen truck finally starting up.

Whatever mirth Mayne’s eyes had held evaporates on the spot. Instead, a sneer overtakes his placid expression and his hand makes its way to the gun at his belt. They watch, silent, as Augustin’s men clamber into the back of the truck, ready to play the captives.

“Aye, best remember what I said.”

He rolls his eyes with enough force that he is in fear of becoming dizzy. The lack of sleep, the sweat already beading at his hairline, Mayne’s doubts, it is all too much for him at the moment and he stalks away without further comment.

Bergé stops him at the back of the truck, catching him by the elbow.

“Do not doubt when you know better, Augustin.” The Captain stares at him for a moment, waiting for something, trying to read him, Augustin cannot discern the reason behind this intense stare.

“I know my men. As do you, Captain.” He dislodges the other gently and boards the truck, taking a seat by the door.

He glances at them and is glad that they seem to be in high spirits. However, despite that, they have a role to play.

“Remember, we’re prisoners of war. You need to look defeated.” The words sit uneasy with him but they have little choice in the matter now. The plans have been written, orders doled out and all that is left is to follow through.

The convoy rolls out at a steady pace and Augustin wills his leg to remain still, pushing past the nerves and the hysterics that still linger in his mind. He is calm. He is going to be calm. Even while his mind is a whirlwind, he will remain focused.

The sun sets on them eventually, the full moon replacing it, the skies clear and starry. It’s a beautiful night. It would be even better if he was back home, relaxing with a book or grading essays. Instead, he is heading into an enemy camp under the guise of being a prisoner, two German soldier driving the truck. Two German soldiers that Paddy Mayne mistrusts greatly.  

He knows his men. He knows them, has fought with them, bled with them and for them, as have they for him. And yet.

And yet Mayne’s doubt seems to have taken root somewhere deep within Augustin. The seed that the other had planted in his chest has grown roots, has tangled itself with the bones of his ribcage and is constricting his heart. His palms sweat as he tries to push Mayne’s voice out of his head.

It’s useless, he knows. It’s too late to purge the roots, too late to let go of Mayne now. He looks at his watch, fiddles with the strap of it for lack of better things to do. They should be arriving sometime within the hour. Except the truck is slowing down now.

He freezes, his men around him following suit. Sweat drips down the side of his face and his spine grows rigid. They cannot hear anything other than muffled voices but that alone is enough to signal that they have been stopped. It must be some sort of checkpoint. Stirling had warned him of the possibility but it does not lessen the pressure of actually having been halted.     

Finally, Essner speaks. The Italian is accented but clear, the only words Augustin can make out being prisoners and bastards.      

An Italian soldier lifts the tarp to peer into the back of the truck, shining a light on their faces. The man appears to be young, a lit smoke stuck to his bottom lip as his eyes rove over them. To their credit, the men do an admirable job of cowering under the harsh inspection but he needs to make sure the investigation remains superficial.

“Hey, brother.” He mumbles in the Solider’s own tongue. “Do you have a cigarette for me?”

The man looks doubtful, if a little surprised that he speaks the language. “You want a cigarette?” The soldier shifts, sneering and then proceeds to spit his lit smoke at Augustin, disgust clear in his tone as he curses them out.   

“The pride of the Free French Army.” He hears Essner say and unease coils in his gut. The tone, the joviality of it, coupled with doubt that Mayne has sown has him rethinking the entire mission.

They are let through without further inquiry but Augustin can no longer sit still.

He turns to Halévy and clears his throat. “Start prepping the fuses.”

“Now?” The man looks doubtful, eyes downcast and unsure.

“We’ll be at Derna airstrip in half an hour. Prime the one hour fuses.”

They make quick work of the bombs, careful as they can be in a moving vehicle and he has to put his glasses back on in order to make sure he won’t screw anything up. It’s finicky work but they get it done together as a unit, men he trusts, men that follow his orders. I know my men.  

The truck breaks down on them and Augustin’s heart sinks to his soles.

“This can’t be Derna. Why have we stopped?” Halévy hushes, shiny with perspiration in the dark.

Before he can respond, Essner opens the flap, eyes wide and frantic. “The engine is misfiring. I need to fix it.”

Colt .45. Mayne’s words ring out through his head, echoing and loud, unavoidable. Inevitable.

“It’s not long until the bombs go off.” He reminds the man, a threat disguised as a warning, the insidious part of him that is all Mayne and has taken over his subconscious fully, coming to surface.

Essner appears taken aback, nodding frantically before backing off.

“Give me a minute. There’s a repair shop here, I just need a spark plug.” The other does not specify where here is or how long they will have to stay there and Augustin does not ask.

Half of his mind is already made up about what is going to happen. The half of him still holding out hope is steadily being drowned out the longer Essner lingers wasting time.

“Go!” He hisses and sees the man fighting the urge to salute as he follows the order.

But Augustin cannot sit still. Perhaps Zirnheld was right and he has been spending too much time with Mayne. Perhaps none of this would have bothered him had the other not filled his head with malicious words.

“Essner is a good man.” He mutters to himself before looking over at Halévy, the target of the German’s jokes more often than not. “Essner is a good man, huh?”

Halévy nods, smiling thinly. “I’ve known him for two years.” A pause before the other lifts his head again, eyebrows downturned. “He only calls me Jew when he is drunk.”

The men chuckle but all that Augustin can think about is Mayne’s piano, Mayne’s ghosts and Mayne’s goddamned words. He clenches his hands together as if in prayer and makes his decision.

“Cut me free.” Nobody moves for a second, not until he urges again. “Come on, cut me free. Hurry up.”

Halevy’s the one to act then, the only one with bindings loose enough to navigate the truck freely. Once freed of the ropes, he surveys the men and weighs his options. If he is wrong, explaining this to the supervisors in Derna will be difficult. But, if he is right then it will be safer for the men not to be bound.

“Cut everyone free. And be ready.”

He jumps out of the truck silently, accepting the rifle when it is passed to him.

The area they’ve stopped at is poorly lit and the men are relaxed from what he can see. Nobody is paying the truck any mind which is good for them. He shuffles around the side of it, trying to spot Essner. He holds his breath until the man is close enough to talk to.

“What are you doing?” Essner hushes, alarmed and he fights back a grin as the other shows him the part he’d been out searching for.

“You got it.”

“Yes, I-”

He looks over, looks to the side and into the truck purely to try and make sure their other German is faring with this well, only to stop in his tracks. Only to spot empty space where a man should be.

“Where is Bruckner?!”

Colt .45. He thinks of Mayne. You were wrong. Fear laces down his frame and into his fingertips. His hands tingle where they’re holding the rifle.

This is it, then.

Anger surges up from within. Anger at the Germans, at himself, at the war, at Paddy fucking Mayne. There’s no use asking about the other German when the reason for his sudden disappearance is obvious.

A floodlight illuminates the area, shining directly onto him and Essner as the shouting begins. The first thing he sees is Bruckner, a rifle pointing at them, and wishes he had that Colt .45 on hand.

Essner doesn’t get half of a sentence out before the other begins shooting. The soldier falls dead in front of him, just like that, a life snuffed out, regardless of his origin, filled with bullets like any other enemy of the Reich. He slowly drops the rifle before offering his empty hands because there is nothing else left to do.

“It’s over.” Bruckner’s expression is smug as he speaks. “Move. Get back to your men.”

Augustin finds that he does not want to know why. The why of it matters not when looking at the picture at large. He muses on the nature of doing versus thinking as he is herded towards the back of the truck, as Bruckner talks haughtily about warning every airfield in the Mediterranean.

Essner might have thought about it, once or twice. Might have called Halévy a Jew when he was into his cups, might have joked a little too roughly, but in the end, he had done nothing. And Bruckner, always quiet, always watchful, the dutiful turncoat, had barely hesitated. So, no matter how traitorous Essner’s thoughts might have or have not been, it does not matter in the end.

“Get out of the truck.” He instructs the men, tired beyond belief. “We’ve been betrayed.”

You were wrong, he thinks again, directed at Mayne. He wishes he would live long enough to say it to the man’s face. Wishes he could gloat for what else was there to do?

The men obey and are rounded up, only Halévy remaining.

It happens slowly, the situation escalating bit by bit. And yet it also happens too quickly for him to do anything other than get out of dodge. He knows what the man is going to do before he even gets the gun in his hands.

His men, the Germans and the truck all go up in flames and all he does is run.

All thoughts of gloating leave his mind as he rolls under the truck, shocked and shaking with it. He watches the remaining Germans scramble to check the wreckage for survivors through teary eyes, hands trembling. They’re gone. Every man in that truck exploded to bits, scattered across the sand.

Grief surges in his chest, the breath leaving him as it is pushed out of his lungs. He can’t think, can’t keep his muffled sobs quiet enough. He needs to move, needs to go. Get back to the SAS, back to the regiment, to – to Mayne. Mayne who he owes a punch in the face, who he owes an apology to. The Captain will welcome him with a poem, will regard him with those changeable eyes and call him Monsieur Jordan or, if he’s lucky, Augustin.

He has lost men before; he has. But never like this. Never to a betrayal such as this one. The consequences of Bruckner’s actions seem too severe in his mind. They could have lived, perhaps. Prisoners of war but they could have waited out the end of the war alive. Yet, desperation fuels the sanest of men to do things unimaginable. He does not blame Halévy, truly. In that moment, it must have seemed like the only option.

He blames the Germans, Bruckner, the war, and – and himself. For not seeing this as a possibility even when Mayne had. Mayne with his uncanny fucking ability to see the worst in people and create misery where there is none.

Guilt over surviving will come later, he knows. But for now, he needs to steal a truck.

It is the crack of dawn by the time he navigates his way to the rendezvous point. He surmises that he would have been there sooner but, it’s just that - the desert sands are all identical during the night and barely different in the light of day so it had taken him a while.

A couple of cars are already parked around the skeleton of what once was – was a base? A town? A village? He cannot say. His vision blurs as he spots a lone figure waiting out front, apart from the rest, rugged but no less alive than the last time he’d seen him.

He stops the truck several paces away still and then – then he just stays. He feels as heavy a mountain and moving him would be a task of Sisyphean efforts. Therefore he does not deign to move a muscle, staring as Mayne begins his approach and when the man leaves his view, his eyes remain there, unseeing. There is a buzzing in his head, in his limbs. He cannot open his mouth beyond what is necessary for him to draw ragged breaths.

Once at the door, Mayne opens it. He can imagine that the man is glaring at him, that he is maybe even bewildered by the state he’s found Augustin in, but he can do nothing as the Captain takes in the new truck and the lack of men in it.

“I find that Kipling’s words fit best.” The man hums. “’Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?’/None this tide,/Nor any tide,/Except he did not shame his kind–/Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.//” Mayne reaches inside the truck, startling Augustin as warm hands grasp his arm and haul him outside.

“Then hold your head up all the more,/This tide,/And every tide;/Because he was the son you bore,/And gave to that wind blowing and that tide.”

He sways in the other’s hold, blinking the fuzziness away as the Captain checks him over.

“Now, you may not have borne any sons, but they were your men and you were still proud of them.” The other takes his hands and dusts them off, then takes Augustin’s glasses and cleans those as well before returning them to his face.

“You were wrong.” The words slip out in French, making Mayne pause in his odd and intent surveying of him. “It was Bruckner.”

“Ah.” The man’s hands move to his biceps, holding him steady. “All of them?”

“Yes.” Tears rush to his eyes and he slams his lids closed, unable to face Mayne, unable to face the reality of what has happened when it is still so new. This feeling will fade within the day, he is sure of it, but for right now, he feels scraped out and frayed.

“I will not offer you condolences, for this is the nature of war.” Mayne’s smooth palm cups his cheek briefly, gently, before his hold turns firm and he is squeezing Augustin’s face.

Once again, he startles, eyes opening reflexively to glare at the other.

“Zirnheld is in the shade. Let him know.”

With that, Mayne releases him, lingering only to make sure Augustin will not keel over before walking away to rejoin his men.

Augustin follows, his steps slow, reluctant.

“I’m sorry, lad.” Kershaw’s grimace matches his own, he’s sure. He nods and accepts the shoulder squeeze from Almonds and the silent acknowledgment from Sadler.

Zirnheld greets him with a smile that falls the moment he realizes that Augustin is by himself. And much like with Mayne, he cannot say anything to the other Lieutenant, cannot make the declaration and instead lets the shorter pull him into a firm embrace.

“Will you tell me?” Zirnheld hushes into the side of his head and he sucks in a sharp breath.

He finds the strength somewhere deep within himself and he does because André deserves it. He lets the other steer them away from Mayne and the SAS men, lead him over to what’s left of the Free French and Augustin tells them all. This time, the tears do not come. He speaks solemnly and decisively, trying to remain strong, but grief tears a valley through his chest regardless. Once he is done, once he has drained himself anew, he walks away to be alone.            

He does not remain so for long.

In an upset of their usual ways, Mayne seems to be the one to seek him out. The man offers him his canteen and Augustin accepts it. The water is a balm to his throat, it coats his parched insides so swiftly that he fears drowning.

“Beware of false prophets, is it?” He asks once he has drank his fill.

“Aye, ravening wolves in sheep’s clothing.” The other confirms, sitting down into the dust next to him.

“How did you know?” The low-simmering anger is back and directed at Mayne this time. At his sown doubt, at his unbearable attitude.

The other shrugs, tapping the tip of his nose. “I can sniff them out.”

He snorts, amused despite everything. Trust Mayne and his ridiculous nature to distract Augustin from his own misery. He wants to look Mayne in the eye and tell him he’s full of shit but the blue is concealed behind sunglasses, dark lenses not revealing anything. So instead, he stares out at the horizon that never seems to change.

“It must be a useful skill to have.”

This earns him a familiar sneer. “Until the entire room is filled with the stench of nervous sweat and ammonia.”

“Is that what betrayal smells like, then?” He leans back on his hands, staring at the other’s nape, at the specks of dried blood there.

“Don’t worry yer pretty little head over it, Augustin. You couldn’t ‘ave known.” Mayne takes a handful of sand and lets it scatter in the wind.

The words are cutting; digging straight into the core of him as if the Captain knows him inside out. It is an uncomfortable feeling, being seen like this. Especially by someone as volatile as Mayne, someone as bad at controlling what leaves his mouth as the Captain. He should have kept to himself, to his men and not let Mayne worm his way into his head.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. None of this is Mayne’s fault so he should not be angry with the man. All the other has done is warn Augustin of possibilities that he had refused to even consider. And the man had been right, too. Perhaps that is what hurts the most. No, he is man enough to admit that it is what stings so fiercely. His ego bruised, man’s hubris. 

“I have nothing, I owe a great deal, and the rest I leave to the poor. Ah.”    

The other turns to stare at him again, the heavy gaze almost a physical weight even if Augustin cannot see it.

“I will not coddle you like a babe.” Mayne says, despite his earlier actions and his somewhat kind words. “But I do sincerely hope you are not planning on leaving anything to anybody this soon.”      

They sit in silence for a moment and Augustin lets the sentiment wash over him. No, he is not leaving. And while he may truly owe, he is not ready to pay his debt yet.

“What of Berka?” He asks after a while. Kershaw and Sadler seemed fine earlier and only Almonds bore marks of a scuffle so he assumes the mission was a success.

Mayne’s mouth opens around a scoff. “Our friend Zirnheld was a wee bit premature.”

He perks up at that, confused and curious.

“We had to… improvise.” The way Mayne enunciates it makes no sense. He says it as if the word is concealing some terrible truth. It only serves to make Augustin itch with the need to know.

“But you managed?”

The other smirks, nodding. “Don’t you know by now that I always do?”

“Fuck off.” He shoves at the other’s shoulder. Mayne lets himself sway with it and Augustin, in a fit of insanity and sleep-deprivation, brings his thumb up to the man’s nape.

Mayne goes statue-still as Augustin rubs the flaking bits of blood off of him. “Missed a spot there, Paddy.”

No sooner than he’d gotten most of the blood cleaned away, barely conscious of his own audacity, does the Captain jolt upwards. Mayne spares him only a glance before he’s walking away and back to the front of the ruins.

Augustin’s hand hovers mid-air as heat rushes up into his cheeks. Certainly, he must have lost the last of his sane mind last night.

The sound of vehicles approaching pulls him from the spiral of embarrassment and guilt that’s threatening to pull him in and he uses the distraction to escape it.

Stirling’s squadron arrives in good cheer, Kershaw and the Captain greeting them up front.

Despite what seems to be a success, Stirling looks troubled – nearly ill at the sight of them. And it does not get better when Mayne speaks.

“Oy, any score? Anything for your famous blackboard?” The taunt is issued with less jeering than Augustin would have expected but Stirling’s frown only deepens.

“15 Stukas, 18 Messerschmitts. How about you?” Hands on his hips, Stirling looks almost fragile. Augustin recognizes the stance, the barely-controlled urge to crouch down and hide away from everything. He recognizes the feeling intimately.

Mayne clicks his tongue, loud. “There were some… unforeseen circumstances. Cleared the base.”

The men around Stirling and Mayne shift uneasily, eyes darting between the two, lingering until Stirling waves a hand in the air.

“Ah.” The Major’s lips purse, walking towards the well. “Who’s back?”

Mayne looks over his shoulder, at Augustin, at the rest of them. “You, me. Zirnheld and Jordan.”

He doesn’t like what’s to come next and he wishes Mayne would just ignore him but he had put himself in their midst to avoid his own troubles. So, reluctant or not, he is part of the conversation now. Mayne continues to look behind dark lenses but this time he is convinced it is only at him. His earlier transgression creeps up at him, his escape unsuccessful. He doesn’t like this, being unable to see Mayne’s eyes clearly. Like this, the man is an impenetrable fortress, giving nothing away and it is putting Augustin on the back foot.

Finally, Mayne turns back to Stirling. “You did well. Why is there no jollity?”

  “Jollity?” Stirling scoffs, using his hand to drink from the bucket and wash up briefly. “Because… we caught them off-guard. Shot at them rather like what you did at Tamet.”

Whatever embarrassment had clung to him eases immediately, replaced by unease as he watches Stirling admit to his sins and the sins of his men.

“Armed or unarmed they are the enemy.” The Major rationalizes but even he does not sound convinced. “Yes?” Ha adds after a moment, showing his hand.

The dynamic has changed, Augustin realizes. Here Stirling stands, unsure of his footing, seeking validation from Mayne of all people. Mayne who, as it appears, knows naught of the Geneva Convention. However, even Mayne looks unsettled at Stirling’s admission.

When the Captain’s silence stretches for too long, Stirling grows visibly irate.

“I asked you a question, Captain Mayne.”         

He must be doubting himself, doubting everything he’s known. What say you of good and evil? Mayne had asked and while he’s still of the mind that they do not have the luxury, he is not so certain himself anymore.

“Yes, sir.” Mayne concurs, shockingly polite. “Armed or unarmed… they are the enemy.”

It is this show of cordiality that looks to have upset the Major further. Despite how similar, even Augustin can see and has come to know, that the two of them are vastly different. It is in the way they hold themselves, how they count their sins, how they bury them or carry them. And this – the blatant execution of soldiers unarmed – is not something Stirling can seem to either carry or bury, leaving him suspended and looking for answers he will not find.

“I was wrong about Essner.” The Captain informs as Stirling is walking away, making the man pause. “The traitor was Bruckner.”

The Major turns back around with a scoff.

“Whole unit wiped out except for…” Mayne motions to him.

Stirling’s eyes briefly flit to his before he looks away, the guilt gnawing on easy to spot. Augustin gets the sense that he is trapped in a room with these two despite the other soldiers scattered around them still. It’s almost as if they’re sucking all of the air out of the desert, forming a storm that will cause irreparable damage to them all.

“Death sits easy on your shoulders comrade.” And there is the first drop of rain. “Turns out, we drink from the same well after all.” Theatrical as always, Mayne fills his canteen from the bucket and walks away, leaving everyone in the area silent.

Stirling’s face goes through a complicated set of emotions before he finally settles on that familiar anger laced with spite that Augustin can now easily recognize.

“Lieutenant-”

“Do not bother, Sir.” He will not hear any of it, no platitudes, no pity nor condolences. It is as Mayne had said, this is the nature of war.

He walks back to where he was before, mind heavy with what he’s learned. From the start, these men have been operating outside of any restrictions. He had known this, had been aware, but he had not thought further on it, on what it all meant and entailed. But now he knows when it is too late to say anything because saying anything would make him – what? Possibly a hypocrite, definitely a coward.

Fraser comes to find him where he’s seated himself in the shade, sliding down the wall until their shoulders are brushing together.

“You owe me a translation.” The other says after a bit, turning to look at him.

He looks a little ridiculous – dusty, dirt smeared across his forehead, ridiculous mustache and beard on his face but it makes Augustin smile that he’d remembered. That Fraser’s here for this and not to try and comfort him.    

“Tomorrow, at first dawn, when the country starts to whiten,/I will set out. You see, I know you’re waiting for me./I will go by forest, I will go by mountain,/Away from you I can no longer remain.” He keeps his words measured even as his chest squeezes. Mayne had been right, this was a poor choice for a poem to send everyone off to.

“And the rest of it?” Fraser’s eyes are closed, appearing immersed. He’s warm against Augustin but despite the heat of the desert, he does not mind.

“I will walk with eyes fixed onto my thoughts,/Without seeing outside, nor hearing any noise,/Alone, unknown, my back bent, my hands crossed,/Forlorn, and the day for me will be night.” In his periphery, he spots Cooper ambling his way towards them. He waits until Cooper has seated himself on his other side.

“I will watch neither the gold of the falling evening,/Nor the sails in the distance descending on Harfleur,/And when I get there, I will-” He clears his throat, the lump there persistent. “I will put on your grave/A bunch of green holly and blooming heather.”

“Grief.” Cooper hums, oddly solemn for someone of his sunny disposition.

“Yes.” With a heavy heart and a heavier conscience, he buries it all inside. Chooses the distraction, the mission of the greater good. No luxuries allowed, no privileges reaped. There is only war and there is only survival. Go. Kill. Return. Go again. As rebellious and freeing the regiment’s motto may have seemed before, he now realizes that it is anything but. The words are the shackles that bind these men together, that chain them to a future of suffering and immorality and Augustin has just been added to the queue.

“Hugo,” He huffs, the invisible iron cuffs weighing his hands down. “He wrote it about visiting his daughter’s grave. It has always been one of my favorites but I have not known it as intimately as I do in this moment.”

They don’t speak on it further but neither Cooper nor Fraser leave his side until it is time to go.

They return to base. Bergé does not appear at the rendezvous. Stirling goes to Cairo and Jalo is thrown into limbo.

That night, he cannot sleep. He tosses and turns and Zirnheld sits in his cot, both of them stuck in their own heads, re-living what has happened and what they have seen. They are now a handful, those with Bergé missing in action until they hear from GHQ and those that were with him – gone. He gives up around three, pats Zirnheld on the shoulder on his way out.

He walks the perimeter of Jalo twice, feet sinking into the shifting sands, one of the dogs at his heel. He cannot go on like this, he knows. He needs rest, he needs to be able to focus and perform to his highest capacity but how is he to do that when sleep evades him? His gut churns every time he so much as thinks about closing his eyes and the shame of it all weighs on him like a pressure increasing.

So he continues to walk and upon his fourth turn, he notices a presence stalking after him that is different to that of the dog that’s kept him company. He is not worried. It is quite the opposite of that. He is comforted because there is only one other that would join him out here now that Bergé has disappeared from his life.

He slows down, testing to see if his shadow will catch up or follow his lead. The distance between them grows smaller but Mayne must not be in a talking mood because he keeps them apart. So Augustin walks and even the dog grows tired eventually, scuttling back to where it’s bed is while he and Mayne continue persistently.

He rounds a corner and impulsively stops, turning back to walk the other way. Lost in thought or simply careless, Mayne nearly runs into him.

The man grunts, halting his momentum mere centimeters from Augustin’s form. The silence of the night is broken only by their breathing and the pulse drumming in his ears. Why are you here, he wants to ask. Again, he does not.

“You asked me, a while back, about my thoughts on good and evil… but you hadn’t made your own stance on the issue known.”

Mayne peers up at him, gaze luminous even in the dark. It is never truly black in the desert, the stars too close, the moon too big, but even with this all – he does not think Mayne’s eyes should be this shiny.

“Are you waiting for me to declare myself evil?” The man’s mouth pulls back, teeth bared, taking his question as a slight.

“No.” With a shake of his head, he takes a step back. “I am simply asking. Not everything is a trap for you to fall into, Paddy.”

Mayne’s expression falls then, something other than arrogance and spite taking over, something contemplative. “They are arbitrary terms.”

He waits the silence out and Mayne huffs.

“We ascribe them easily to one action or another. Aye, we see fit to base it on our own judgment too. A privilege, you’d said.” The man hums, eyes once again drawn to somewhere above Augustin’s collar. “Because what does morality know of the moment when you are staring down the barrel? What do philosophers know of a knife pressed to your throat?” The other reaches up as if drawn there, thumb resting on the faint scar he is responsible for.

There is no inconceivable way that the other doesn’t feel his rabbiting pulse.

They are far too close together still, Mayne’s voice rumbling and accent thick. Even weeks later, Mayne’s weight on top of him is still fresh in his mind. This, he thinks, this and the blood he’d lost that day were what marked him, what chained him to Paddy’s orbit. Shackles, words – feelings – Augustin keeps finding new cages for himself. He’d called Mayne the tailor of his own sorrow but he’s beginning to think they are the same in this regard.

A desperate fool, he is, unable to voice the truth of the matter even within the confines of his own head.

“Good and evil pale in comparison to survival.” Paddy retreats, taking his hand with him. “The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow…/We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.”

Mayne leaves him be after that. Leaves him to stew in the tingling of his skin and in his flush and his rapid heartbeats. Torn between continuing his marching and returning to his cot, he instead sits there on the spot and greets the sun.

Sometime in the early afternoon, Stirling returns.

His turmoil from after the mission seemingly forgotten, the man claps his hands and fetches a crate to stand on.

“So, gentlemen, news of the real world beyond our jolly little circus.”

The men gather around him slowly and he follows, Zirnheld close behind him and Seekings on his other side. They had all been – well. Not relaxing, not entirely, but the camp had been silent, almost peaceful. But, it was now time to see what they had wrought.

“We are fewer than we were, but… those men we lost gave their lives in a winning cause.” Stirling’s words are almost optimistic but there is a grit to his tone that removes all the polish from it.

Augustin feels wretched. Gave their lives in a winning cause? No. Not his men. His men had died in vain, denied a chance to fight, stabbed in the back by one they dined with, slept beside and trusted in. There is no honor in that. His hand winds around the bottle in his grip tighter.

“Out of the 17 ships that set sail for Malta, four ships made it through to the letter.”

Zirnheld huffs next to him and the wave of relief that passes between the men of the crowd gathered is palatable.

“Four heavily laden supply ships with food, medicine, weapons and ammunition.”

Despite the heaviness of his own heart, he is glad to hear this.

“Malta is saved.” Stirling declares and a cheer erupts from the soldiers. Again, Augustin is surprised to find some of his burdens eased despite what has happened.

In another grand gesture, Stirling continues. “Africa is saved from fascism because of you.”

Saved might be pushing it, he thinks idly. Is Africa truly saved when its people are still suffering? Though, he supposed saved in this instance does not equate free. From one boot under another.

“Because the planes you destroyed are the planes that would’ve sunk the four ships that made it.”

Zirnheld puts a hand on his shoulder and he sways. For all that the Lieutenant is silent, he is observant. And aside from Bergé, he is the one that knows Augustin best. Well. Perhaps now in competition with Paddy Mayne himself.

“But, in the words of Winston Churchill: this is not the beginning of the end, this is the end… of the beginning." Stirling falters momentarily but pushes through whatever is slowing him down.

“While we were saving Malta, our American cousins finally finished their extended round of golf and decided to join in and give us a bit of a hand.”

“Well about fucking time.” Kershaw’s voice rings through the area and the men jeer, sharing the sentiment.  

They are to head west while the Americans gather east. The plan is to pinch the Italians and Germans in the middle but as simple as it sounds, Augustin has – as of recently – ran out of optimism.

“It would be foolhardy to think that any of our forces can make it all the way through enemy lines to link up with the Americans, but we are fools. Famous fools.”

Famous when their deeds and crimes alike are kept from the world, when a spy and a general had to conspire to get the Free French involved. Zirnheld takes a swig from his own bottle by his side and Augustin keeps his breathing steady.

“So that is exactly what I am going to try to do.” The major announces with aplomb. “I shall enter the lion’s den in search of a potential supply line through Gabes Gap to link up our two armies.”

The men turn from jovial to confused. To anyone unfamiliar with the area it would seem like Stirling is offering to do something noble and heroic, but by the way Sadler has gone rigid in front of him and the way Seekings is shifting uneasily, he knows this is not so.

“The rest of you continue your fantastic work making axis aeroplanes go pop and bang in the middle of the night.”

It’s almost as if he’s saying goodbye. And some of the men appear to be thinking the same. The nerves churn in his gut, making his palms sweat. What has happened for Stirling to be acting this way?

“While I was in Cairo, I got a note from GHQ.” The man unfolds a piece of paper from his pocket. “The special air service known as L Detachment is now officially,” A dramatic pause more befitting the man’s usual demeanor. “A British Army regiment.”

The men erupt into another round of cheers, but Augustin is brought back to the other night, to Mayne’s words. It’s always Mayne, in the end, who knows, who is the loudest and who believes in his words the most.

We will be reckless in pursuit of your own lofty ambition.

And they had been, reckless and unprepared, rushed out in a flurry with their ill-begotten weapons and unearned confidence. All so that Stirling could crown himself king of the paupers. In that moment, he cannot help but resent the man.

“We did it, gentlemen.”

“Congratulations, Sir.” Seekings’ tone is firm, displeased, and it seems to rankle the man some as he gets off his crate.

“Hurrah for the new Colonel, lads.” Kershaw, oblivious to whatever’s passing between Stirling and Seekings, and somehow yet, Fraser, calls for another round of cheers and drinking.

As the Major – now Colonel, he supposes – walks away, Reg turns to him and motions to the few French remaining.

“To fallen comrades.” The other nods and Augustin’s eyes sting.

“To fallen comrades.” He repeats in their tongue, pouring out his beer into the sand. The men around him follow, paying their respects and before they can begin congratulating him as they are Zirnheld – he turns.

Among the men gathered, Mayne had been absent. But he sees him now, leaving his hammock, a bottle and two cups in hand as he follows Stirling outside the walls of Jalo. A safe distance from the others.

“Something’s happened.” He says and Fraser next to him hums, unsurprised.

Whatever the two talk about leaves the both of them grim-faced upon return.

Sleep evades him again. He had avoided drinking with the rest, avoided most of everyone the entire day and now that he is alone, he wishes not to be. But there is no remedying that so instead, he opts to address the other issue grating on him.

The dogs outside are howling, making him wonder if anyone else is troubled by this seeing as they have been at it for a good half hour.

He takes his insomnia outside, puzzled as to why their canine companions are so agitated.

Fraser is in the midst of them, trying to calm them down but the pack remains wild, stanchly determined to wake every single soul in the camp.

“What’s wrong?” He asks but the other just grimaces, shaking his head. The yapping grows louder, the howling more pained and even Withers has joined – Fraser’s silent companion now one with his kind. He joins the efforts but is ignored much like Bill is, the dogs running circles around them unrestrained and then –

A gunshot rings out through the air.

On instinct, he ducks down and is surprised when Fraser only steps in front of him unconcerned for his own safety. The other’s eyes are trained on the distant sands, staring out into the desert. Then, the dogs fall silent. As if they were never there in the first place, the dogs disperse, leaving behind Withers who is once again silent and obedient.

“Who-” He swallows heavily, eyes jumping to Mayne’s tent. Out of all the men, the biggest risk is always going to be Mayne – an image that the man himself had helped form in Augustin’s head.

“You should rest, Augustin.” Fraser’s voice is gentle but firm – as worried as he is warning him of something.

“If only it were that simple, my friend.”

But he obeys the unsaid command. He returns to his tent, settling onto his cot and counts back from a hundred until he falls asleep.

Cooper and Sadler make it back, Colonel David Stirling is captured at Gabes Gap.

Augustin watches Seekings delivers the news to the silent Captain.

Overall command of SAS regiment, all units to pass to Major Robert Blair Paddy Mayne.

“The mad bastards have put you in charge of fucking everything.” Seekings’ frown only deepens as Mayne beings to laugh.

As he is wont to do, Mayne walks off into the desert. Still chuckling, he walks past Sadler who is looking increasingly harried by the whole ordeal.

Seekings and Riley exchange bewildered stares, accompanied by a shrug from Pat and Fraser sticks to his side as if he is worried that Augustin will try to follow after Mayne. Bill tenses right before Mayne starts shooting the air, predictable in his strange ways enough that Augustin is not concerned about this show of force.

“This is bad for us?” He questions and Fraser shrugs.

“Maybe.” The other runs a hand over his face, scratching at his chin. “Only time will tell.”

Augustin is afraid, then, that they are running out of such commodities.

Chapter Text

Stirling’s capture marks a new era for the SAS regiment. An era of relative peace and quiet, an era of – of going absolutely stir-crazy in the desert.

The first few days nobody is sure how to act. Augustin observes as the others walk around almost directionless, waiting for the next order. But no new orders come and so they roam around Jalo, listless, drinking themselves stupid – or in the case of the newly appointed Major, disappearing into the desert aimlessly every once in a while.

“Where does he go?” He asks Fraser on one such occasion, curious beyond belief but unable to ask the man himself.

Fraser shrugs, hand scratching at Withers’ scruff. “Nowhere. Wherever his – legs take him. He likes to wander.”

Fraser’s lying to him. Shoulders hunched and eyes averted to the safety of his dog, Fraser is lying. And if he is not, then he isn’t telling him the whole truth. The knowledge of it settles heavy in his gut because this is something that’s occurred more than once. Far too often does he think that Mayne, in addition to Fraser and sometimes even Seekings, are keeping something from him. The men of the SAS are a tight unit, this is true, and Augustin, being an outsider, has no hope of being on the same level of trust as the rest of them but. But he thinks that he has proven himself as trustworthy at least to a certain degree by now. And yet things are still kept from him, answers and topics of conversation avoided.

Mayne appears on the horizon and Fraser relaxes next to him, knowing Augustin well enough to conclude he will not pursue this conversation when Major Mayne is nearby.

“Toujours pour la première fois/C’est à peine si je te connais de vue/Tu rentres à telle heure de la nuit dans une maison oblique à ma fenêtre/Maison tout imaginaire.” He mutters, letting it go for now.

He had thought, perhaps again naively, that he has gotten somewhere with Mayne. That they are at least friends at this point, a step above just comrades. But he remains rebuked at every turn, every gesture accept with either scorn or denied outright. And it would – it would all be well and good were it not for Mayne himself, the confusing bastard that he is. Because every time Augustin makes peace with it, with how Mayne refuses his company and his words, Mayne is the one to come seeking him out. 

And this should no longer surprise him. It has been this way from the very start almost. It has been obvious to him from that first day in Cairo. But Augustin, as Mayne has called him out on it, is a romantic at heart. That is, of course, not to say that he-

Eventually, whatever is wrong with Mayne becomes less important.

The war efforts of the British and the Americans liberate Africa from the Germans and the Italians, pushing them out in an effort that takes more men than they were willing to spare. They do all of this and more without the help of the SAS and so the SAS stays, and waits, and begins infighting over the stupidest things because there is naught else to do. The nature of the war changes, it moves to Europe and so the SAS gets – forgotten.

The news of their transfer comes unexpectedly, a man on the back of a jeep dropping the notice off into Cooper’s willing hands before leaving.

“What’s this?” He asks and Zirnheld shrugs, offering him a hand up as Mayne intercepts Johnny.

The Major scans through the letter, a heavy frown on his face that transforms into a mighty sneer the further he reads.

“Gather ‘round you lousy cunts!” The man calls, voice bellowing, making the men scramble to attention.

“It appears as though, with the war in Africa over, we have been given special privileges.” The tone of his voice is deadpan, sarcastic. Whatever is on that piece of paper, is not the mission they were waiting for.

“GHQ has decided that we have had enough time roasting under the desert sun and that we deserve to see water. Or perhaps they think us filthy, in need of a bath.” The joke falls mostly flat, the men confused, and Augustin thinks it wasn’t truly meant as one anyway.

“We are being moved.” Mayne bares his teeth, “We are to abandon our little piece of purgatory out here and drive all the way to the port of Suez.”

“Why?” Fraser grunts, shushing some of the men as they grow impatient.

“They took-” The Major pauses, taking a deep breath. “The human dress is forged iron,/The human form a fiery forge,/The human face a furnace sealed,/The human heart its hungry gorge.”

With a sigh, he steps closer. “Paddy.” While he might appreciate the sentiment, the invocation of the one of the first poems he’d heard from Mayne, the men do not share in their tastes. They will not know the meaning, Mayne cannot hide behind Blake’s words now.

“War in Africa is over.” Mayne repeats, crumpling the paper in his hands. “The deployment we have been waiting for will not come. Not soon anyway. So we will do as they say, and be prepared for when they need us again.”

The loaded silence after the Major’s speech lingers and the man clicks his tongue when the soldiers fail to react.

“Fuckin’ – dismissed!”

He hears Seekings mutter a burdened Christ as he walks past Augustin and Zirnheld shoots him a pointed glance when he refuses to leave with the rest of the men.

“The fuck are you still here for?” The other grumbles, turning around but not walking away from him this time. So he comes to stand next to Mayne, giving him a moment’s reprieve before saying anything.

“You are not happy with this.”

Mayne snorts, shaking his head. “What gave you that idea, Lieutenant?”

“Paddy-”

“Aye, aye.” The man snaps, glaring up at him. “Paddy fuckin’ Mayne, that’s who I fucking am. And who are you, Jordan? And why are you still here? You should cut yer losses, leave now and do summat fuckin’ useful somewhere else.”

The words sting and they are meant to, making him falter and rethink what he was going to say. There is obviously no getting through to the man with gentle words so he will have to shake whatever’s bothering him loose. He’s not attempted it before, Mayne proving too dogged and elusive to catch out, but he is willing to try. He doubts that, at this point, he can do anything more to further the man’s annoyance with him.

“Respectfully, Major, I think you should get off your high horse.” He bites back, using his height to force the other to stare up at him.

“Excuse me?” The other’s expression turns bewildered.

“No matter what you think, this isn’t some personal slight against you. This is not another leash or another cage they are trying to force you into.” Braver than he probably should be, he taps the middle of the other’s chest with his finger. “You are possibly the last thing on their minds. The war has moved, we have known this for days, no? And what are we to do out here when there is no Germans to shoot at? Are we to tear each other apart instead?”

The Major’s eyes widen a fraction before returning to their customary accusing squint. “That is not the fuckin’ problem-”

“Then tell me what is!” He throws his hands into the air, exasperated with the other’s reticence. “What is so important in that cursed fucking desert that you cannot part from it?!”

The other’s face grows expressionless and Augustin knows that he has said the wrong thing.

“Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,/Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,/Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,/And towards our distant rest began to trudge.” The deadpan delivery does the poem no justice, it is said as fact, as a recollection of his own rather that of the original poet.

He blinks, cowed and ready to reel his boldness in if it would only make Mayne stop staring at him with those dead eyes.

“Dulcet et decorum est, pro patria mori.” The other near-hisses the words at him, finally stomping away, leaving Augustin to metaphorically grasp at air.

“Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. It is so easy to misstep when you cannot hear the music, it is so easy to tumble when you cannot see the pitfalls. And Mayne simply refuses to let him hear or see, leaving him stumbling blind in the dark.

Is it worth it? Zirnheld had asked him once when they’d both gotten drunk and Augustin had become loose-lipped and angry with yet another dismissal from Mayne.

He had said yes then, had admitted to the rush of matching Mayne word for word, poem for poem. Of meeting on equal grounds with someone so unpredictable and tightly coiled. Zirnheld had, of course, called him an idiot seeking danger and Augustin had not denied the accusation.

But right now, as he stands in the aftermath of another fumbled attempt, he is not so sure.

He clears his throat and begins the shameful walk back to his tent. It’s for the best, he tries telling himself as he has many times before. But much like all those times, it does not work and being rebuked still hurts more than it should.

“Don’t take it personally.” Fraser grimaces as if he’s heard the whole thing. He might have, they were not exactly quiet about their spat so Augustin would not be surprised.

“I am sure you know that’s a feat of great difficulty.” He accepts the proffered drink.

“He does have a talent for it.” Bill confirms with a thin smile. “He’ll come around.”

With a doubtful scoff, he waves the other off. “I am not entirely sure I want him to.”

“I think he’s, ah, confused?” Fraser wavers, looking around as to confirm Mayne is nowhere near. “About why you’re – trying.”

“Trying to what?”

And though the other had come to him first, had breached the topic of his own volition, Fraser looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than talking to Augustin at the moment. It is, regrettably, amusing and somewhat of a balm to his aching chest.

“To talk to him, trying to be his friend. Especially since he’s a massive shit to most people, you included.” The younger motions in the general direction of the camp. “Stirling was the only one that could stomach him for long. Well, Stirling and-”

Abruptly, Fraser’s mouth slams shut, eyes growing wide and Augustin’s mind zeroes in on the unfinished sentence.

“Stirling and who?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Fraser tries but he’s not letting this one go, this is too important.

“Bill.” He warns and the other just shakes his head frantically, lips pressed firmly together and turning white from the pressure.

“No, that’s not something you’re getting from me.” The man declares decisively, features set in a determined expression. “Just… leave it be. For all our sakes.”

Fraser shuffles away, looking cowed and Augustin’s frustration mounts. The revelation, the acknowledgement that there had been another soul that Mayne had been close to, helps Augustin complete parts of the picture in his mind. The piano, the desert, the omission of a name. Mayne’s grief. Incomplete as it is, the picture finally makes sense.

He pours out the rest of the beer he’d been given and picks up a book. They will hardly begin moving this late in the day so he might as well occupy himself with something else.

It does not help distract him from the Mayne issue but with the novel in hand, he can at least pretend.

The SAS gets moved to the eight army forward station: Port of Suez, they are renamed the Special Raiding Squadron and ordered to train.

And so they do.

Mayne develops a tight training schedule for them immediately upon surveying the lands. They do drills in boats, they climb unsteady rock faces and trudge through bodies of water in full military gear. It is as if the Major is making up for the days they’d spent motionless, waiting for orders. The training is, in short, brutal but efficient. 

After so much time spent in the desert, it is strange to see water in such abundance, strange to see grass as sparse as it is. It almost seems unreal and it makes Augustin miss the days when he’d be able to find a park and the shade of a tree to spend his afternoon in. He misses home, he misses his job. He was never meant to be a soldier and yet here he is, aching all over and still wet from their earlier bout of wrestling in shallow waters.

Mayne is hovering above him, casting a shadow onto his back, not helping with Augustin’s dampness problem. He refuses to turn.

It has been exactly fifteen days since they had left Jalo, seventeen since Augustin had decided that he should take better care of his own sanity by cutting back on his contact with the Major. In this time, he has remained professional, a model Lieutenant, but he has made no efforts in befriending the man further, taking care never to be alone with him. He had begun talking with Zirnheld, Fraser and even Seekings more often, exchanging stories about home, about where they’d been and what they’d seen. Even if Fraser and Reg do not share his love for poetry and philosophy, those two things are not the entirety of his interests.

This change in attitude has then, naturally, lead to Mayne hovering.

Like a prickly cat or a neglected dog, Mayne has taken to being in Augustin’s general vicinity while never directly interacting with him. Like a scorned pet, the Major does not seem to know what he wants. Or how to ask for it.

A man who has forgotten how to need, he’d told Mayne once, at the very beginning. Perhaps this goes for wanting as well. He supposes that these are the consequences of being denied things for so often and so long – though, maybe Augustin is now ascribing his own attributed to the Major instead of seeing the situation for what it is. Bergé would call it wishful thinking, he’s sure.

Mayne clears his throat. “You appear to have been injured, Lieutenant.”

He winces, reaching over his shoulder to pat the general are where he’d felt a sharp sting earlier. His hand comes away red at the fingertips. The tussling had been rougher than usual, the ground he’d been slammed against rocky.

“I’ll visit medical later.”

“You should go now.” The man insists and Augustin rolls his eyes. Perhaps it is petulant of him to be this contrary on purpose, maybe he is being childish, but he is no more so than Mayne with his bouts of anger and his tantrums.

“The training is not over for the day, I will get it seen to before dinner.” He insists, looking briefly at the Major. He doesn’t let himself linger, turning back to look at how Fraser is tossing Cooper around in the water effortlessly while the younger of the two seems to be fighting for his life.

“Lieutenant-”

“Leave it be, Paddy. It’s just a scrape.” Reg’s voice cuts the Major off. The other comes to crouch next to him, holding out his canteen. Augustin takes it gratefully with a hum, breathing steady as he drinks.

Something akin to a groan rumbles from Mayne’s chest, startling him and causing Seekings to jolt up. The sound is mean, rough and it’s almost as if it reverberates. Ahead of them, Fraser has also stopped, staring in their direction as Cooper gathers his bearings.

But, instead of saying anything further, Mayne turns on his heel and walks away. The tension leaves with the Major, Fraser continues trying to drown Cooper and Reg sits down next to him, putting out heat rivaling the midday sun.

After the training for the day is over and after they’d had their dinner, he collapses into his cot. Most of the men had stayed in the mess hall, drinking and singing but some are in the tent, already asleep. Augustin plans on being one of them as well but as soon as he closes his eyes, a warm palm to the middle of his bare back startles him so badly he almost rolls off the cot.

The hand presses on him, keeping him down and on the bed as if it is the easiest thing to do and he relaxes.

“Bad for business.” Mayne grumbles, voice low in the quiet night. “You could catch an infection and then what?”

“Then I die.” He snorts, hissing as Mayne presses a gauze doused in alcohol to the scrapes along his shoulder blade.

“Recklessness in pursuit of nothing will not be tolerated.” The man cleans the wound gently, taking care to wipe away the excess blood.

Augustin looks at his own forearm, at the thin raised scar there, and remembers how Mayne had done this for him once already. He’d been too tired to properly appreciate it at the time and now, it only puzzles him. It is not as if Augustin will succumb to a little scrape so he does not know why it’s so pressing a matter for the Major to be looking into.

It was different, when Mayne was Captain, it was easier and made more sense for Augustin to seek his company. But now the man has so many more pressing matters to attend to, more responsibilities to oversee and – he knows Mayne hates it. He has to. He’d barely tolerated Stirling’s command on a good day and now he’s forced to answer to GHQ themselves. He muses on this as Mayne lathers the cuts in some cream that stings as much as the alcohol had.

“I would like to rest, Major.” With an undignified whine, he forces his eyes closed. The day has exhausted him and Mayne’s baffling presence is not helping the matter.

“I am afraid that there will be no rest for us. Not until this war is over.” The man’s hand leaves him and he feels both better and worse for it.

Unbidden, Voltaire’s Candide comes to him: ‘You're a bitter man,’ said Candide. ‘That's because I've lived,’ said Martin.

“Work keeps at bay three great evils: boredom, vice, and need.” He quotes easily. “Is this why you always insist on never letting anything rest, on always doing?”

The man scoffs, some great frown probably on his face that Augustin does not turn to observe. “I have no time for boredom, I have no habits I consider vices and I want or need for nothing."

“We have talked about this already.” He smirks into the crook of his elbow. “Or do you forget easily, Major?”

“Aye, I remember you and your philosophizing and social critique of me and mine.”

“It was merely an observation, Paddy, calm.” He turns to his side and away from the other, determined to end this conversation even though the man seems to be intent on sitting by his bedside.

“You-” The other’s voice rises for a moment before he seems to catch himself. The sound of the other shuffling behind him uneasily reaches Augustin’s ears. “Rest well, Lieutenant.”

Something akin to disappointment washes over him, a reflex developed and not yet overcome in the short time since he’d met the man. Whatever the Major had been about to say is lost to the wind, unspoken and put down before it could even form properly. He wonders how many times Paddy had stopped himself from speaking to him, from shaping words when he so easily can with everyone else. He wonders why.

Secret griefs are more cruel than public calamities, Voltaire had written in Candide and Augustin cannot help but agree. Mayne has many secret griefs and they seem to be so cruel that the man cannot shake off the burden they put on him. And this – this Augustin cannot help. This is not a process that friendship can speed along, not something he can influence by word alone. He has… made his peace with this. Or at least he thought that he had.

This oppressive feeling in his chest, so in contrition to how warm talking with Mayne usually left him, speaks to another reality. One where, unfortunately, he is infatuated. Eventually, he does fall asleep. And when he dreams of changeable eyes and sun-bathed skin, he does his best not to think about it in the morning.

They get new recruits. None of them are prepared for what awaits and none of them know what the SAS men had gone through in the desert. The tension between the two groups is palpable.

Though relatively new himself, Augustin had done his share to earn his place with the men – as have Zirnheld and the others. But these recent recruits are pushing their boundaries quite suddenly.

Currently, Corporal McDiarmid had managed to irritate Seekings by merely breathing next to him and they appear to be wrestling quite viciously, interrupting training. The rest are gathered around, cheering and placing bets it seems.

“What did he even say?” He huffs, not willing to put himself between the two brawny men in order to stop them.

“Something about Reg’s mother, I think.” Fraser swipes a hand over his face, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the display.

“That will do it, yes.” Turning around, he tries to spot the Major but if he were present, he most likely wouldn’t have let the two go at it for as long as this. “Have you seen Major Mayne?”

“Major Mayne, is it?” Fraser’s frown eases, replaced by a sly smirk that Augustin dislikes on principle as rare as it is.

“Silence.” He hisses, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Paddy, he’d said last night, drunk and melancholic with all that has happened and has not happened. He’d found Fraser on top of one of the cliffs they usually train by and had held the other soldier hostage until he’d grown too tired to speak. It was bound to happen at one point so he is somewhat grateful that it was Fraser instead of Zirnheld listening to him complain this time around. Somehow, Fraser’s deadpan and stoic silence was easier to bear than André’s pointed stares. Though, Fraser seems to have no love for the Major himself which confuses Augustin to a point – as much as it also makes sense.

This regiment is one contradiction after another.

“You’re ridiculous.” Fraser nudges him with his shoulder.

One moment gone and the next right in front of them, Mayne appears, descending upon the two men like a fury. Gripping them by the backs of their necks, he forces the two apart, holding them back with impressive strength as they try to resume their fight. He’s saying something, the grimace on his face fierce but the scene is too far away for Augustin to hear anything. The two larger men falter, cowering, and split apart, each breathing heavily, still obviously incensed.

He must release some sort of impressed noise from within his chest because Fraser scoffs, shaking his head in Augustin’s periphery.

“Useless posturing.”

The tension doesn’t lessen but the men get back to training and so Augustin gets back to training as well.

The divide persists through dinner and the next several days, no one doing anything to try and unify the men which sits poorly with him but – this is a mess of Mayne’s own creation and therefore he is not one to interfere.

Hand over the bottom half of his face, he watches the men bicker, shouting obscenities at one another rather than working together on the training exercise designed to promote just that. Across the area, the Major is standing much the same, at a loss. Though, Augustin wonders if the man cares at all as long as the goal gets achieved.

“This is worse than when we joined.” Zirnheld notes, sunglasses pushed into his hair in order to see better.

“When we joined, we had something to do. These men are aimless with no end in sight.” He sighs, exasperated. There will be no end to this until they receive further orders and, by the looks of things, that won’t be any time soon.

Later, when the sun’s set and Augustin is again unable to sleep, wandering the station area, he comes across Mayne.

He contemplates turning around and leaving but the Major’s voice stops him before he can take another step in any direction.

“Are we now such strangers, Monsieur Jordan, that you should turn away at the mere sight of me?”

Embarrassment wars with self-preservation within him. If he stays, he will inevitably fall to his own naiveté and be disappointed again, but if he leaves, then there is a possibility of never again being on friendly terms with Mayne.

He sits down next to the Major, overlooking the port of Suez. Foisted upon his own sword.

“It did not look like you wanted to be disturbed.”

“We thought we ranked above the chance of ill./Others might fall, not we, for we were wise-/Merchants in freedom. So, of our free-will/We let our servants drug our strength with lies.” The man’s voice rings out through the empty space around them and across the water. “Much like the loyal people of Ulster, we have been lulled into a false sense of security.”

“You do not seem very secure.”

“Aye, this is because I know better for I am an Ulsterman that came after.” Mayne looks over at him, a surprisingly placid expression on his face.

Augustin must admit that he does not know much about the struggle of Irishmen. Most of his schooling had been focused on his home country, on philosophy and literature. And what he knew of world history was now mostly forgotten, remembered only in bits and pieces.

“There will be trouble?” The ominous warning in Mayne’s words is obvious and much like with other things of this nature, the man tends to be right.

“Most certainly.” The other confirms, “It is the nature of it that remains undetermined.”

“And are we prepared?” The moon is bright in the sky, its reflection wavering in the water ahead. Augustin wonders how ill-advised it would be to slide down the bank and into it.

“Prepared or not, we will do what needs to be done.” Mayne’s response is typical if labored, the hunch to his shoulders a despondent one.

Like Augustin himself is pulling all of his teeth out, Mayne continues. “When we last spoke, before our relocation, it appears that I – ah.”

Oh? What’s this? He perks up, eyes widening when he realizes that the other is trying to actually talk to him about the lack of – of each other in each other’s company.

“It appears that you offended me?” He offers when Mayne’s words fail him.

“Yes.” Succinct as always.

“No.” The denial is easy because it is true. “No, you did not offend me, Major.”

How does he explain it? How does he elaborate without showing his hand? He cannot tell Mayne that he’d retreated in order to save his own feelings, in order to preserve what little peace can be found in the middle of war. Cannot admit to the feelings being anything other than friendship, in the first place. That the rush of being acknowledged by man makes him feel juvenile, that the joy he finds in their exchanges is enough to fuel him through the droll boredom of their repetitive days. Nor can he admit to wanting to be closer, wishing for the man to talk to him about things of a more private nature, of his life and the ones he’s lost. The position he’s found himself in is precarious.

The other turns to him, brows furrowed. “Then – what?”

There is no telling the truth further so he lies instead.

“Socializing with a Lieutenant does not befit a man of your station, Major.” His smile is weak, the dishonestly fairly obvious – especially to someone as perceptive as Mayne.

The man tutts loudly, fists clenched in his lap. “Were I to care about propriety, were this regiment to care about propriety, we would have gotten nothing done.”

“Do not tell me you have missed our talks.” He pivots, drawing attention away from the actual lie and into territory that focuses on anything other than him.

“And if I have?” Mayne challenges, no regret to be seen in the firm stare he’s affixed Augustin with. “Who else am I to talk to? Fraser would rather avoid me, Jim lasts three seconds before trying to psychoanalyze me and Reg cannot string two intelligent sentences together, the barmy fucker.”

“This less than generous depiction of our comrades might be the reason why.” He points out and Mayne waves a careless hand through the air as if swatting at mosquitoes.

“The point stands.”

Traitorously, his brain does the opposite of the heart beating in his chest and latches onto the part where he is, apparently, Mayne’s only option and not the one he’d necessarily choose. Despite this seemingly being the case, the man has admitted to missing their exchanges which lights that unfortunate fire within him. He doesn’t know what to do with this, how to respond. Once again, whatever he says, he will doom himself with.

He takes a page out of Mayne’s book and recites instead.

“Et qui sait si les fleurs nouvelles que je rêve/Trouveront dans ce sol lavé comme une grève/Le mystique aliment qui ferait leur vigueur?//” It is not the first time he’s reminded of the poem and originally, he’d thought his heart the ruined garden ravaged by storm. It stands, then, that the rest of it rings true as well. That his biggest enemy is time and the lack of it, that he will be his own downfall. While not necessarily in the habit of self-loathing, he can appreciate what Baudelaire was conveying.

“— Ô douleur! ô douleur! Le Temps mange la vie,/Et l'obscur Ennemi qui nous ronge le Coeur/Du sang que nous perdons croît et se fortifie!//” He finishes with a sigh, letting himself lean back far enough until he is flat with the ground.

Mayne’s mouth quirks under his mustache. “That sounded almost optimistic.”

“Will you ever tell me how much French you actually know?” Volleying words against the other is easy – far easier than answering the man honestly and he supposes that this is why Mayne always does it as well. There is too much vulnerability in what they are asking of each other and while Augustin might have been willing to allow for it at one point, he is no longer sure.

“Perhaps if you continue citing poetry in your tongue at me and I continue to listen, you will eventually be able to discern the truth.”

And isn’t that the crux of the problem? Augustin will always be left to and unearth what is true on his own, given only crumbs to follow.

He closes his eyes before heaving himself up off the ground. He barely makes it a step before warm fingers wrap around his bare forearm, pressing into the scar there. Sucking in a startled breath, he pauses, turning to look at Mayne. At the man who has his mouth parted, eyes glistening and look of remorse on his face.

“I do not understand you.” Mayne tells him flat out, perhaps the first truly honest thing he’d said. “Stirling thought us similar, cut from the same cloth, but the reality of it is far different.”

“To understand me, Paddy, you have to talk to me.” The emphasis on talk doesn’t go over the other’s head.

“I am – trying.”

“Are you?” He pulls away slowly, shuffling and putting some distance between them. “You talk and expect to be listened to but you only speak the words of others. As you do not understand me, I do not understand you. And perhaps that is where this friendship should remain.” As much as it pains him, laying it out in the open is much healthier than beating himself up over things left unsaid.

“I was not built for idle chatter.” The man persists and Augustin rolls his eyes.

“You are not a weapon to have been assembled nor are you a tank built in a factory.” With some amount of exasperation and a great deal of exhaustion, he fits his palm on the other’s chest, over his heart. “No matter what they had made you think, while you have this, you have your humanity.”

Somewhat embarrassed but feeling like he’d said the right thing for once, he walks away. Does not allow himself to hover and wait for Mayne’s reply. There will be time for that, he hopes, for the man to come to him without the attitude of a stray cat. But until then, he is now cautiously optimistic.

All human wisdom is contained in these two words – ‘Wait’ and ‘Hope’.

The forward station has other perks aside from the abundance of water. They no longer have to make their own food, privileged enough to have access to catering. Their tents are bigger, resembling barracks rather than slapdash shelters, the booze is better and easily available and – the mail. Letters come to them easier now that they are near civilization again.

He’d gotten one from some distant cousin of his, deployed with the English forces on account of living in Brighton. Through some less than legitimate channels he’d managed to contact Augustin’s sister so he is pleased to read that she’s made it out of occupied France safely but is saddened that she cannot write him directly. The letter is heavily censored, or course, but it is enough. He is not the only one with mail, naturally.

Cooper seems to be beaming at his own letter and Reg has sequestered himself somewhere, evading the younger’s prying eyes, reading his in private. Fraser’s customary flat expression is in place and the rest of the men have either already read theirs or are prolonging the wait by the looks of it. Morale is, overall, high for a change and nobody seems to mind the break from training.

Fraser jolts up where he’d been sitting, appearing alarmed all of a sudden. Augustin observes as his head swivels, frantically looking around for something. When he does not find what he’d been searching for, he heads in the direction of the commanding officers’ barracks, practically rushing. From across the area, Reg is heading the same way and Augustin spies Riley intercepting Jock before he can do so as well.

His gut clenches, the fear that whatever Fraser had read in his letter has something to do with Paddy. That he’d gotten news from England, that something terrible has happened. He stands, frozen for a few moments before both Fraser and Seekings emerge from around the corner, looking cowed, Reg sporting a split lip and Bill clutching at his own wrist, rotating his hand.

He – he doesn’t dare. Knowing Mayne’s temper and seeing what are, most likely, signs of a scuffle between the Major and the other two who’d rushed to his side, he is sure to earn himself something similar if he were to try and talk to the man now.

So he waits.

Lunch passes with no signs of Mayne and so does dinner. Only when his patience runs out does Augustin venture to seek the man out. He procures some bread and cheese from catering, privileged enough to be one of the few that they actually like, and heads for the shore. Mayne will most likely be there alone, will probably still not want to see him, but he has to try.

Mayne’s sitting where Augustin had stumbled upon him the other night. He’s clad in his singlet and has one hand wrapped around a bottle, the other buried in his hair. The picture he makes is as sad as it is threatening.

“This is not a good time, Jordan.”

“I thought you agreed to talk to me?” He sits down next to the Major again, closer than he should perhaps but it is a necessity.

Prying the bottle from the man’s hand, he replaces it instead with the bread roll, holding out the cheese after. “You did not eat today.”

When Mayne turns to face him, Augustin almost drops the food and drink he’s holding with how badly he startles.

“Ah,” The sharp intake of breath he takes in is entirely too loud in the night, too incriminating.

Mayne is – Mayne is bare-faced, clean shaven for the first time since Augustin has known him. He is suddenly aware of just how handsome the man really is, forced to acknowledge that his infatuation with the Major is not purely intellectual but quite physical as well. The eyes that peer up at him are red-rimmed even in the dark and his mouth is pouted as if he’s stopping himself from cursing Augustin out. And Augustin cannot stop staring, eyes greedily taking in every detail, every line and freckle. He looks younger, looks less the madman and more the poet.

“No, I did not have much of an appetite.” The man confirms but takes the offerings regardless.

“Something’s happened.” It’s an observation, it’s a fact and Mayne nods.

“I received word from home.” The other inhales deeply, holding the air in his lungs for a few moments before releasing it slowly. “I received word that my da’ has passed away.”

“Paddy.” His hand shoots out, fingers encircling the other’s wrist and Mayne looks down at the point of contact. Neither moves, neither says a thing and Augustin’s heart jumps to his throat. This is not what he'd expected the news to be.

“Je vous adresse mes sincères condoléances.”

The man nods, using the back of his other hand to wipe under his eye for a moment. “I am going into Cairo, I will be asking for compassionate leave to attend his funeral.”

The new look makes sense then; he can hardly show up in front of GHQ looking like he did in the desert.  

With a hum, he releases the man, wishing that he could say something, anything, to make it better but he cannot because there is no helping it. This is something that Paddy has to go through and Augustin can only sit and listen if he is willing to talk or leave him be if he so wishes.   

And since the Major does not tell him to go, he sits by Mayne’s side as the man eats in silence; sits with him as Hati chases the Moon across the sky and Sköll replaces him, chasing the Sun.

Major Mayne leaves in the morning and does not return for three days.

The first day, he is not worried. It makes sense that it would take time, that Mayne would seek an audience in person and had then probably been directed to go through channels other than just showing up.

By dinnertime day two, both him and Fraser are somewhat jittery, unable to rest in one single spot for too long, taking turns observing the horizon. Zirnheld tries to ply him with drink, tries to distract him by reiterating the latest gossip he’d come across but it is useless.

By day three, he has begun chewing around the nail bed on his thumb, startled to find the iron tang of blood filling his mouth once he breaks skin fully.

It is sometime after lunchtime that Mayne finally shows up.

Augustin had sent the men off to train, leaving them with Fraser and Zirnheld only, cautiously staying behind in case anything has truly happened. But, instead of sitting around uselessly, he has decided that helping with the cooking is a much better use of his time – and, the tent is positioned in a way that allows him to see any incoming vehicles immediately without making it look as if he is actually waiting for anyone.

Mayne is heading his way already once Augustin finally spots him. The weight off his shoulders drops and the tight hold he’d had on the plate of soup relaxes. He steps outside to meet the Major but before he can even speak, Mayne’s eyes dart from his face down to the plate in his hands and the man stops. The other stares at Augustin who’s also, in reaction, halted his movement.

He watches, perplexed, as Mayne turns on his heel and begins walking away instead.

“Shit-” He drops the plate back onto one of the tables, wiping his hands on his shirt as he hurries after the Major.

“Paddy! Wait-”

He manages a grip on the man’s arm but is quickly shrugged off, the other turning to sneer up at him.

“You are the second man that has tried to handle me today.” Voice rougher than gravel and a visible redness around his right eye, Mayne practically barks the warning at him.

“What?” He falters, easing back.

“I would suggest you not test my patience while I still have any left.”

“You – they denied you leave.” There is no other reason why the man would be here, acting like this. The conclusion is logical and yet Mayne looks somewhat startled. “I am sorry, Paddy.”

The other closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, running a hand over his dusty face. “Yes. Yes they denied me. And then I acted in accordance to this decision and then they carted me off to Ghadzi.”

“But… you were let go?”

Mayne’s nose wrinkles, distaste clear in his expression. “When the men are back for dinner, inform them that there will be a briefing tomorrow at midday.”

“Do we finally know the nature of our trouble?” He is not hopeful, no, he would much rather they stay here and be bore than go out again just to die but – but he is glad that change is coming.

Mayne’s mouth ticks up at the corner – and it is incredible seeing it now, unobstructed, as it transforms into a roguish grin. “Aye, that we do.”

When Augustin is alone later, he will fear for how ominous the sound of those words is, but for now, he can only look his fill as Mayne walks away from him, shoulders set and fists clenched at this side.

Certainly, they have finally gotten their orders.

Chapter Text

The morning is deceptively calm. Deceptive because Augustin can sense the tension in the air. The men are jittery, a veritable ant farm as they try and keep themselves busy until the midday meeting they are required to attend.

“Do you know what this is about?” He asks Fraser who Paddy had cornered after dinner last night, taken aside for a conversation that Augustin was not privy to and the younger nods.

“I do.” Withers barks by the other’s feet as if sensing their combined unease. “Nothing good.”

“I gathered that much.” With a sigh, he rubs at his forehead. “We should get going, I suppose.”

They make their way towards the tent together, ducking inside to see Mayne missing. Withers runs ahead of them and jumps up to sit in the first row, a sight that’s become common for the men of the SRS and Augustin takes a closer look at the new map the Major had put up, peeking under the cloth covering. It is definitely Italy, as he’d suspected, but the nature of their deployment remains a mystery to him still.

“Withers, you’re going to have to get used to not being with me.” Fraser huffs, kneeling down until he’s eye-level with the dog.

“Is he coming with?” He asks, coming to pet the dog himself. The scrappy little mutt has coarse hair and is as sandy as they come but is enjoying the attention, wagging his tail.

“No.” The other shakes his head, looking remorseful. “I found a family that will take him in when we go. I’ll have to get him there by the end of the day since we are shipping out tomorrow.”

A jolt of fear lances through Augustin’s body. He knew the day was coming but he had not expected it to be so soon. They should have briefed last night when Mayne came back and not waste the time between then and today. But, seeing as the Major had been somewhat reluctant to speak with him and that he’d only talked to Fraser and Seekings after dinner, he supposes the man’s short temper couldn’t have handled the rest of their lot.

“Destination unknown. Lots of boats, possibly a suicide mission.” Fraser huffs and the dog whines as if he understands what’s being said.   

The unease grows within Augustin, his palms starting to sweat. Wherever they are heading, if Fraser is calling it a lost cause already, then there is little hope for the rest of them. The dog whines again, licking Fraser’s face and Augustin looks away, lets the younger have a moment with his dig. His eyes catch sight of the sign at the other side of the tent and then, upon dropping below it, Mayne stalking their way. The first makes him hold back a chuckle, the second urging him to intercept the man and start asking questions. Thankfully, he manages the first and holds off on the second.

“If it’s easier, I can shoot him for you.” Mayne offers as if he truly thinks it a mercy but Fraser seems unbothered.

“Or I could shoot you.” The taller offers right back and this time, Augustin does let out an amused huff.

Mayne’s eyebrow ticks up but he is quickly distracted by the sign. In big, bold letters it reads FUCK OFF SAS AND GOOD RIDDANCE. The three of them remain silent before Paddy slaps half the leaflets he’s holding into Fraser’s hands and begins putting the rest on chairs.

“There’ll be dogs in Sicily.” The Major says, offhanded almost.

Fraser looks back at the covered map. “Sicily?”

Mayne’s mouth forms a sneer. “You see, this is why I am unsuited for command. I cannot keep a secret.”

The younger scoffs, tracking the Major warily. “I wouldn’t say that, Sir.” Withers barks from his seat and Fraser shushes him.

“If you want me to speak with him, I can.” Mayne’s joke, as they tend to do, falls flat and Fraser only rolls his eyes.

I speak dog, it was one of the first things Augustin had heard Mayne say but it seems that this had been a jest even before the introduction of the French into the regiment. Seeing as Fraser hardly seems surprised by the offer, or impressed by it.

“I have already explained everything to him.” The taller pauses. “Problem is that he thinks that he is in charge of us.”

Augustin’s mouth stretches into a smile. The scene before him is so startlingly normal. Here the two of them are, officers in the army fighting a war, talking about a dog as if he were a person, something a loving pet owner might do to show affection. It’s endearing and he is surprised that Mayne’s indulging it. It has been a while since Augustin had seen the Major relax.

“Ah, pretty soon you’ll wish it was him in charge and not me.” Mayne hums.

“I already do.”

The comment gets ignored and Augustin knows full well that the camaraderie between the two is somewhat complicated, if not strained. Mayne had said it himself, Fraser is not fond of him and yet Augustin can still see that the younger cares for the Major in his own way, that he will listen when he has to and that he even respects him grudgingly. This is probably why Mayne lets him get away with a lot of things.

“Are we on time or early?” He asks, noticing that there is a suspicious lack of SRS in the vicinity of the tent, worried that his message had not been received or that he had been ignored.

“We’re on time.” Fraser confirms, checking his wristwatch.

“So where the fuck is everybody?” The Major demands, hands on his hips as he peers outside.

“You know, I think the new intake might actually be worse than us.” Fraser ambles back around, patting Withers again before giving him what remains of the leaflets. “I’ll go round them up.”

“No fuckin’ respect.” With a shake of his head, Mayne comes to stand next to the dog, scratching at his scruff.

“I think that might be your fault, Paddy.” He ventures, watching idly as deft fingers outline the spots of color on the dog’s coat.

“Aye, didn’t train them proper. Raised them rough, is that it?” The man’s grin is sharp, challenging.

“You cannot leash a dog that has been free all its life. It might do something drastic.” All these months and he is still not a fan of the dog metaphor, of the cages and leads that get thrown around by the other men. However, he cannot deny that it is a convenient one to use.

“Sometimes…” Mayne draws it out, taking in a deep breath and then releasing it. “Sometimes the leash and the cage are for the dog’s own good.”

Augustin opens his mouth, surprised by the concession, surprised that Mayne would admit to seeing it this way when the sound of their men approaching draws his attention.

“You’re late.” He informs Zirnheld who just waves back at the others.

“Seekings and McDiarmid almost got into it again.” The other defends and Augustin nods knowingly.

“And you were so busy pulling them apart?”

“I was busy placing bets!”

He swats at the man, urging him to finally take a seat as the men settle. Mayne’s watching all of them, smirking like he can understand Augustin and Zirnheld’s French perfectly fine which, at this point, he is sure that Mayne can.

“Ah, behold.” The Major mutters, “The sharp tip of the arrow of invasion.”

That same unease returns and he takes a seat next to Fraser who’s cradling Withers in his lap, next to one of the new intakes – Tonkin – who’d fashioned himself important enough to sit up front. He and Zirnheld exchange looks, an eyebrow arched, before the Lieutenant goes to sit next to Kershaw and Riley.

The men are in high spirits, rowdy and obviously what they had been doing when Fraser had found them has followed them into the tent. A paper airplane flies across the aisle.

“Right, yous. Come here to me.” Mayne calls but is ignored – the dogs not taught to heel.

“Lads!” Kershaw warns, for once sounding serious, and the men take it as the warning that it is.

 “For two months now, I’ve been marching you ‘round and ‘round Lake Throw-Up, and up and down Mount Shite The Bucket.” Mayne’s preaching tone returns but it is oddly casual considering the topic. “And for two months yous have been cursing me and putting me in your crosshairs, just aching to squeeze the trigger.”

While the tone is casual, the way some of the men shift in their seats uneasily is anything but. Guilty, he thinks. Yes, he himself is no stranger to cursing out Paddy Mayne and pointing a gun his way, but he was never – it is not the same. Augustin frowns at himself and next to him, Withers nudges his snout under Augustin’s palm.

“Well, in ten minutes from now yous are gonna hate me good and proper.” The certainty with which the man speaks only drives dread into his veins, the latent fear making itself known.

“You die in the desert, you get eaten by birds.” Mayne uncovers the map, reveling their destination. “You die at sea and you get eaten by sardines, and your granny finds your fingernail in a tin she bought at the Co-op.”

The men laugh and Kershaw looks up from the paper in his hands. “Yeah, well, sardines live in the ocean by Sardinia, Paddy. This looks a lot like a map of Sicily to me, lad.”

Next to him, Riley hums, cigarette between his fingers as he indicates. “It looks like – like a pig’s head.”

The Major nods, approaching the map and pressing his finger to the tip of the ‘snout’. “That is exactly right. Capo Murro Di Porco. Cape of the pig’s snout.”

Italy. Italy where the war is tangible. Italy where the enemy outnumbers them, where the enemy is expecting them, where the enemy has terrain to take cover behind, where the Fascists have spies and supply lines. This is nothing like their time in the desert; they truly have grown complacent. Suicide mission was right.

“They’re sending us to get chewed up by a great big Italian pig.”

“Looks like it’s Sicily for the holidays, then.” Tonkin turns to him and Fraser, an obnoxious smirk on his face to accompany his posh accent. Both he and the Lieutenant next to him stare in silence. For his part, Augustin is confused and it seems like Paddy is in agreement.

“Who gave you permission to speak?” Mayne’s shoulders draw back, his face scrunched as if he is trying very hard to modulate his tone.

The men ooh, taunting and Tonkin tutts, obviously slighted at the jab. Augustin can’t help the little huff of amusement that leaves him.

“New intake, listen fucking here.” The Major starts, eyes blazing. “Any man recruited after December 1942, keep your fuckin’ mouths shut! Unless you are addressed directly by a man with sand under his foreskin from previous exchanges with hostile forces.”

Ah there it is again, that comment made so long ago by Stirling and-

“Actually, I haven’t got a foreskin, Sir.”

Augustin is unsure if the Lieutenant is stupid or if he has a wish for his face to get beaten in. Disbelieving, he turns to Fraser who’s been tight-lipped next to him the entire time. The younger shakes his head and Augustin swallows heavily. The new intake will not know – they will not realizes until they see Mayne at work, he fears, what provoking the man means.

Some of the men laugh and Tonkin looks quite proud of himself but Mayne just steps forth, takes his pipe from his hands and throws it to the side, out of the tent. The others whoop and cheer at Tonkin’s loss.

“Now you don’t have a pipe.” Mayne informs the man before pointing at him accusingly. “I told you not to smoke that Camel shite around me.”

Always adding to the chaos, Jock coos and croons at Tonkin in front of him in a truly baffling display that Augustin fights not to smile at.

“I swear to God this eejit is out his head on something.” Mayne taps his own temple, looking around for confirmation.

“Permission to eat a biscuit?” McDiarmid lifts up his food and Augustin can almost see Paddy actively giving up on this current lost cause.

“Whoever is giving him whatever it is he’s taking, fucking stop.”

Accent thick and mouth full of his biscuit, McDiarmid continues. “All this talk of fucking pigs and sardines, it’s making me hungry.”

“Mad fucker.” Mayne concludes efficiently. 

Predictably, Seekings speaks next – always rising to whatever bait it is that Jock’s setting out.

“Why don’t you send him back to whichever fucking Scotch swamp you got him from? Eh?”

“It’s almost as if it was a bad idea, taking in new recruits.” He mumbles as the situation devolves into more insults and jeering being thrown around, both Jock and Reg standing up to have a repeat of their fight.

“Our numbers are low as is.” Fraser sighs, hugging Withers closer to himself. “But you are right. Too many… big personalities.”

Mayne retreats to his table, taking a seat. Augustin watches him pick up a gun and shoot the air as the men begin shouting. He’s stopped flinching at such displays a while ago but they still remind him of their time in the desert. It is strange to say that he misses the routine of it.

“One minute from now a Lieutenant Colonel is going to walk into this tent and brief you about tomorrow.” The Major continues coolly. “Which might well be your last day on Earth. The nature of our role in this war has changed and I have agreed to that change.”

The men sit with this for a bit before Mayne continues.

“That sign up there, Fuck off SAS, could have been written by General Montgomery himself.”

“It was actually catering.” Fraser pipes up and Augustin snorts, nodding in agreement when Mayne looks at the two of them.

“Aye, well, the sentiment from on high is the same.” The other’s fingers drum against the table. “In Roman times, they would send in wild dogs to attack the enemy line before they sent in any human soldiers. But these days it would be considered cruel to use dogs. So they are going to use us.”

Dogs, and not just any, wild dogs. Augustin sighs inwardly at the use of the metaphor again. He wishes – well. From a philosophical standpoint, he wishes Mayne would look at them as more than constructs, as humans with their own being instead of cogs in the war machine. But he supposes that they all deal with being seen as lesser in different ways.

“I said we would be okay with that, since the task we have been given is the liberation of Europe from the Nazis.” Mayne sighs again, shoulders lifting. “The man in the shiny wee boots will give you the details. I will give you the words of William Blake: Had I three lives, I’d die in such a cause/ And rise, with ghosts, over the well-fought field. /Prepare, prepare/…Prepare to meet our fathers in the sky.”

Mayne looks over them all, all the good cheer evaporated as the gravity of their mission settles on their shoulders. Augustin cranes his neck, a bone in his spine resettling, stiff with the tension of the moment.

“Listen, boys.” The Major’s tone gentles. “The inexorable, unstoppable approach to the new way of war.”

No sooner than he is done, a man steps into the tent, he salutes and Mayne scoffs, looking away.

“Sit up! Come to attention!”

Nobody moves, untrained and unused to being in the presence of anybody who actually gives a shit about military pageantry. Withers starts barking as the tall man with all the epaulets strides in, an air of importance about him.

“Always trust the judgment of a dog.” Fraser speaks as if he can’t help himself and Augustin feels a pang of sympathy for the Lieutenant Colonel.

The man pauses, looking over his shoulder. “What did you say?”

Tone as deadpan as ever, Fraser motions to Withers. “Nothing. It was my dog. He’s saying hello to you.” The remark earns the younger a few laughs, none of which come from the Lieutenant Colonel but Mayne seems to be fighting a smile of his own.

“Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant Colonel William Stirling. The less famous brother to the brother we made famous.”

Wither continues barking, adding growling to the mix and the elder Stirling seems to grow more agitated.

“At least please have the dog removed, Paddy.”

Paddy, as if this man has the privilege of using the name. As if he is anything to Major Mayne other than a superior officer leading him to slaughter. Irrational anger coils in the bottom of his gut, hands flexing where they rest on his thighs.

“Do you want all the dogs in here removed, Sir? Because there are 35 of us.”

The collective litter of them wait with their breaths held as the two stare at each other and yet Augustin can only twitch at Mayne calling this man Sir.  

Stirling seems to know that he won’t get anywhere by being stubborn so he nods at Fraser. “Well, just – quieten him down him down then, yes?”

Fraser shushes the dog in his lap, pressing a kiss to his furry head as Stirling points to the sign at the other side of the tent.

“What the hell is that?”

It’s an inane observation, something that could only bother someone unused to the way things operate away from England, away from cushy office spaces. It further annoys Augustin that Mayne chooses to elaborate instead of shrugging the inquiry off.

“The catering staff who have been dealing with our reasonable demands for drink and our varying opinions on how you cook a goat left it there for us by way of a fond farewell.”

The man paces in front of them, seemingly out of his depth and Augustin cannot help but think good.

“The feeling is mutual.” Cooper, with his raised hand, grins. “I left a Lewes bomb in their oven. When it warms up, they’ll be blown to hell.”

Stirling’s frown only deepens, concerned eyes darting from Johnny to Mayne. “That was a joke, yes?”

Mayne looks pleased with their display, encouraging almost. A small act of rebellion.

“Johnny doesn’t make jokes. But he does blow things up.”

“Right. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Bill Stirling and-”

“A fucking rat!” Cooper stands up, pointing to the side, interrupting the man.

“Mind yourself, Bob.” Kershaw follows as if called to attention, gun already being drawn.

Augustin watches, chuckling as the Colonel’s face falls, the realization of who he’s dealing with finally settling in his mind as Kershaw shoots the rat. The state of anomie might not have been enough to drive the new intake away but Stirling eldest looks to be two infringements on his precious military pageantry away from calling it quits already.

“Should I find this as funny as I do?” He asks Fraser and the other’s mouth quirks, shoulders shaking with a chuckle of his own.

Mayne, predictably, does nothing as Dave parades the rat around and the others cheer him on, the man’s attitude blasé and relaxed. These are the wild dogs you paid for, he seems to be saying, they are as they always are.

Stirling clears his throat. “Good shot.”

Unfortunately, as Stirlings are wont to do apparently, the Lieutenant Colonel adjusts quickly. “My name is Bill Stirling and I’m the new liaison between this unit and the GHQ.” Hands behind his back, Stirling paces again.

“First of all, let me just say, I am not my brother.”

That much is obvious, Augustin holds his tongue. The elder Stirling doesn’t seem like a man who’s seen battle, who’d gotten his hands dirty, who shot at unarmed men in the desert simply on the basis that they are the enemy. Nor does he seem like a man that ever would.

“And I am not your commanding officer.”

McDiarmid raises his hand, Fraser next to him shifts to shoot a glare over his shoulder.

“No, put your hand down.” Mayne’s voice cuts through and Jock looks unsure suddenly, cowed.

Encouraging, or trying to seem like it, Stirling interjects. “No, no, no. Let him speak.”

Despite his fire starter-like disposition, Jock is oddly eager to follow the Major’s orders. He takes a moment longer to confirm with Mayne that he is allowed to before doing so.

“I like your boots, Bill.”

Out of all the things that could have left the man’s mouth, he supposes this is one of the less offensive ones. Augustin pinches the bridge of his nose and he sees Mayne run a hand over his face. But that is not the end of it.

“These fuckers here, these Englishmen, are strangers to polishing brushes. But I am guessing you are Scottish, huh? By your boots… aye?”

Left speechless, Stirling only releases a curious little mm before continuing with his speech as Mayne hides his smile behind his hand. Augustin lets his grin grow; this has been quite the show, after all.

An assault on the south-eastern tip, a casualty rate estimated at 50%, another Stirling with lofty ambitions and unrealistic expectations. Maybe he is like David after all. They are to clear the way for the main force, carry out the initial assault on the coastal defenses. Go, kill – get rid of machine gun nests, mine fields, armed soldiers – and do not return. Augustin assumes that from tomorrow and until they are stopped they will only be pushing onwards instead.

Bill Stirling and his shiny boots depart, sparing only a brief glance to him and Fraser waiting to speak with Paddy. He looks, for a moment, as if he will stick around and try and mingle with the men but Mayne’s glare seems to warn him off the idea. Only when Stirling is out of the tent does Augustin let himself relax.

“So it is worse than you said.” Fraser puts Withers down, the dog immediately booking it for the dead rat.

“Aye. It appears so.” The Major scratches at his chin, eyes darting between them before settling on Augustin. “Walk with me, Jordan.”

He jolts at the unexpected request, seeking Fraser with his gaze, hoping for help but receiving only an indifferent shrug in turn.

They do not speak as they walk, as Mayne leads them to the bank of the port where he can often be found during the night. The man sits with a heavy huff and Augustin follows suit, palms sweating and the hair at the back of his neck sticking to his skin.

“The nature of our trouble is also much worse than I’d assumed.” The man unbuttons his shirt further slowly, forearms straining with the task even though Augustin knows it shouldn’t be so monumental.

“No, you could not have predicted this.” He looks away, has to, lest his gaze linger on the smooth line of the other’s collar bones. As if the sweltering heat around him was not enough.

The other turns to him then, clear gaze boring into the side of his face. Mayne is steeling himself for something and Augustin probably won’t like whatever it is. But he will not help this time, Mayne will have to get the words out all on his own. He turns to look right back, not giving the other an inch. The man really does seem so different, nearly clean-shaven and civilized. As if he were a person and not the wild dog he claims to be.

“There is-” Mayne clears his throat. “There is still time to reconsider. I will give Zirnheld the same offer but I wanted to confer with you first. Augustin.” The name is almost an afterthought, almost like Mayne is softening the blow.

“As the last remaining men of the Free French still within the SAS, you and Lieutenant Zirnheld are under no obligation to accompany us on our suicide mission tomorrow. You can stay behind, send word via Bill Stirling and have GHQ relocate you somewhere closer to home.” The Major finishes and the meal he’d had earlier curdles sour in Augustin’s stomach.

“Ah.”

“I cannot guarantee that it will be safer, but the odds would not be as grim.” Mayne continues as if that is the part that’s bothering Augustin, that has him going mute.

“À la nue accablante tu/Basse de basalte et de laves/À même les échos esclaves/Par une trompe sans vertu.” His mouth flat, the inflection not right for the poem at all, and still he recites the words that he knows will most likely be lost on Mayne. “I did not suffer months of this – of training, of the desert, of the loss, of – of you, to be discarded so easily!”

“I am not-!” Mayne’s teeth click together, squinting at him now. “Of me?”

Augustin closes his eyes, tilting his head towards the sky and the blazing sun. This is where they always fail, the communication between them strained and layered. Never truly honest, never revealing all. He has entrapped himself again, he cannot admit anything further without risking it all.

“I apologize that you have been forced to suffer the indignity of my company for so long, then, Monsieur Jordan.” The other’s tone is rough, low and obviously offended.

Augustin is hardly impulsive, he’s not one to rush anything without good reason, he likes having a plan. But he does need to fix this before it he loses Mayne’s regard forever. His hand darts out, fingers wrapping around the other’s forearm, halting him where it looks like the man was about to stand. The muscle under his hand shifts and strains, a sneer appearing on Mayne’s face.

“Paddy.” He gentles, trying his best not to seem like he’s backtracking because he is. “You have to admit that you are not the easiest man to get along with.”

The other’s fists clench, seemingly unsure if he wants to shrug Augustin off or remain where he is. After a moment of inaction, he takes the liberty of continuing, ignoring the feeling of the other’s pulse beating rapidly under his fingers.

“There were times where you worried me, where you dismissed me. Even the first time we met, you threatened both our lives. You have to admit that this is not how friendships are usually conducted.”

Paddy’s eyes are glued to his face again, staring as if he’s trying to glare him into submission. He should know by now that Augustin will not back down this easily.

“And even if I have suffered, I have done so of my own volition. Both André and I could have left at any point, could have asked to be reassigned.”

“Why didn’t you?” The man grinds out through grit teeth.

“I do not know about Zirnheld, but for me – there is nothing else. I die here, I die in France. There is no difference. But at least here… at least with the SAS, my death will matter. And I will be surrounded by people I know care enough to offer my family sincere condolences.” His hold on the other eases, fingers dragging along the rough material of the man’s shirt as he draws his hand away.

“A persistent bastard, is what you are.” Paddy grumbles, shoulders drooping. “I take it you are not abandoning ship now?”

“No.” He confirms, letting himself relax. “No, I will go with you to Italy. I will liberate Europe with you. And eventually, I will see France again.”

It feels dangerous thinking in these terms, feeling this level of optimism. But he cannot help it. With Mayne by his side, it all feels incredibly possible – odds be damned.

“The arrows of Almighty God are drawn.” Mayne declares, another line borrowed from Blake.

He doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he enjoys the quiet moment between them, knowing it might be the last one he’ll get in a while.

He leaves behind most of what he’s acquired during their stay at the Port of Suez. The novels he’s traded cigarettes and other books for, the few shiny bits of sea glass he’d found glittering in the sun, the fancy bottle of wine he’d won in a poker game, it all gets shoved into a box and left under the cot he’d been occupying. The only things he takes with him are Rimbaud’s Les Illuminations, and Siddhartha which he’s re-read a couple of times by now. The sentimentality of this choice is not lost on him so the two books are hidden away into a free nook of his bag, away from prying eyes.

The air outside is cool, the moon full and washing them all in its pale glow. The men shuffle along silently, not a joke to be heard, nary an elevated breath. They are all aware that this is different than in the desert, that they will not be met with men drunk and at ease but with the first line of Fascist and Nazi defense. Even Withers, who’s been sticking suspiciously close to Fraser despite their goodbye yesterday, is keeping quiet.

They board the Ulster Monarch on 9^th of July, 1943. The men settle in quickly, slowly relaxing now that they are rushing towards the inevitable but Augustin cannot seem to unclench his jaw. His teeth grind together and his biceps strain where his arms are crossed. Most of the men are writing letters home, though some are checking equipment and getting some more rest. Cooper is playing cards with a couple of them and Fraser is busy with Withers.

“Sardines already in a can.” Zirnheld grumbles. It’s true, the men are tightly-packed in the ship’s innards, shoulder to shoulder in some cases with only pockets of fresh air to be found.

“Not fond of seafaring, my friend?” The other is looking a little green around the gills and Augustin wonders how this has not come up yet. He supposes there was no reason for the topic, seeing as they’d been either land-locked or travelled by plane. Still, it is odd seeing the other being visibly ill.

“This whole place reeks. If I had anything to expel, I would throw up.” André swipes a hand over his face, rubbing at the sweat on his forehead.

“You should go up, get some air.” With a light shove, he sends the Lieutenant on his way, hoping that being away from the stench will help.

Nervous sweat and ammonia, Mayne had called it the smell of betrayal but he thinks rather that it is fear. In this case, fear of what awaits them instead of nerves of having done something wrong. The oppressive atmosphere grows more noticeable the longer they’re on the ship. Their trip seems endless almost, the passage of time slowed to a crawl as they await their turn at the gallows.

…proud minions, though ye rouge each bleaching skull,/all smell of death! o scented skeletons//,… In every clime and under every sun,/Death laughs at ye, mad mortals, as ye run;/And oft perfumes herself with myrrh, like ye;/And mingles with your madness, irony!

An alarm clock rings, the shrill sound startling him out of his musings on how intimately Baudelaire truly thought of death, how interwoven it is in all of his poems. Looking around, he spots Tonkin reach below the bench he’d been resting on, turning the clock off. His eyes track the younger Lieutenant as he heads for the room where Mayne had disappeared to earlier.

Their encounter doesn’t seem to last long and Tonkin leaves the room appearing even more nervous and dejected than before. With a sigh, he does the ill-advised. Tonkin eyes him as they pass each other in the narrow space and he pats the man on the back. Whatever the Major had said had to have given the Lieutenant something to think about because he barely spares a nod of acknowledgement for Augustin.

Mayne might be good at what he does, may be good with his poems and at commanding the men but he will rarely know how to talk to them man to man.

The Major is sitting when he steps through the door, apparently unsurprised at Augustin’s appearance.

“Have you come to chastise me for not giving my men a rallying speech before I send them off to their deaths, too?” The other slicks his hair back with both hands, a gesture that Augustin has always perceived as one of agitation.

“Is that what Tonkin did?”

Mayne scoffs, shaking his head. “The new intake is not ready. They might never be. Paltry words are of no use to them.”

“Perhaps.” He leans against the gun crates behind him, observing the other. “But perhaps they would like to hear them regardless. They follow you for a reason, Paddy, you know they cling to your words even if they do not always understand them… or like them.”

The man twitches at the reminder, sucking air in through gritted teeth. “Do you think they’d appreciate a poem?”

“No.” He snorts, amused despite the situation. Mayne remains incorrigible. “No, but I would, if you are offering.”

“Aye, for you, professor? Any time.” The sharp grin glints in the dark as Mayne’s mouth stretches. And soon, the droning of the ship is drowned out by the man’s voice. “And the stately ships go on/To their haven under the hill;/But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,/And the sound of a voice that is still!//.”

Mayne gets up, cracking his neck audibly and comes to stand too close to Augustin, right in front of him. The way that he’s leaned against the crates puts him at eye-level with the Major, something that always makes him feel unbalanced. The other stares at him, searching his face for something and Augustin lets him. He ignores the sweat gathering in the dip of his spine and listens as Mayne continues with the poem.

“Break, break, break/At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!/But the tender grace of a day that is dead/Will never come back to me//.”

“Nostalgic.” He hums, turning the words over in his head. “Another poem about grief as we face the enemy. I thought we agreed that verse such as this was a bad omen.”

“And yet I find that only an elegy is appropriate as we hurl towards the crags ourselves.” The Major steps back and away, turning instead to rejoin their men, seemingly ready to give that speech.

“Now, lads, listen up.” He begins, drawing everyone’s attention as always. “I have some rather shite news for you.”

Well, Augustin supposes this is better than a poem that the men will ignore.

“One hour ago, 19:15 hours, three squadrons of gliders took off from Tunisia and are now in the skies above our heads.”

Augustin’s stomach sinks to the bottom of the sea below them, the worst possible thoughts entering his head as Mayne’s eyes dart around the room. Whatever was waiting for them out there before an hour ago has changed drastically.   

“They are carrying soldiers who will land in the interior of the island, cut off communications and supply lines after we have reached the cliffs, and be ready to halt the inevitable Italian retreat.” The man lets out a low tsk and begins to pace among them, showing his hand – sowing fear with such unusual behavior.

“However, since American-made gliders are quite similar to paper aeroplanes, some of them have fallen short and crashed into the Mediterranean.”

Next to him, Seekings hisses lowly, turning away as if sensing what Mayne is aiming for. Much like Augustin, he seems to realize that there is nothing good on the horizon for them, that even Mayne is shaken by this.

“This will not be a good outcome for those men onboard.” Mayne purses his lips, unable to keep his displeasure hidden. “As a result of this, as we make our way at speed toward the snout of the Sicilian pig… you will encounter soldiers, British soldiers, adrift at sea with very little chance of rescue.”

This is not the speech Augustin thought Mayne would give. Elegy is right, they might as well begin writing home to these men’s families already.

“And you will do nothing to help them.” The Major shifts where he’s standing, shoulders tense. “I repeat, you will do nothing to help those British soldiers who will pass within a few feet of you. Instead, you will leave them to drown. That is an order.”

Progressively, over the course of this new influx of information, the men have grown more solemn and desolate. They sit with their heads hanging low, hands clenched and Augustin, similarly, feels weak at the knees. His and Mayne’s conversation about good and evil re-enters his thought process, pushing out anything else trying to stick to the inside of his brain. In that moment, Augustin has not known a bigger privilege than choosing to align oneself with either concepts. Because the mere thought of putting a label on this particular order has him shivering with self-loathing.

“And in the new order of things… orders will be fucking obeyed.”

This, in particular, seems to shock the SAS. The men exchange glances, a hushed word here and there but Mayne’s tone is grave, attitude more serious than it has ever been.

“Outstretched hands, cries for help, cries in the name of God, will not slow your landing craft down, because if you do, our mission will be delayed and it will fail. You will not jeopardize the success of the liberation of Europe with acts of mercy.”

It is either them or the rest of Europe, it is either them who knew what was waiting for them or the civilians who they have fought so hard for. Augustin swallows heavily, his fingers tingling and his limbs heavy.

“Any man who disobeys this order will face court-martial and my own wrath. Is that clear?”

Whatever wisdom Bill Stirling had imparted upon the Major, whatever Mayne had been threatened with – or even if it is his own outlook on the situation – it seems to have shaken the man to his core. Augustin is taken aback just by how unexpected this all is.

It is as Paddy had said, like the Ulster men, they had been lead into feeling safe with inactivity, allowed to conduct themselves as they pleased because they had only themselves to blame if anything went awry. But this is different; there is so much more weight to what they are to do here than there ever was to their excursions into the desert. Par for, perhaps, their last one and God knows how heavily Augustin still feels that weight.

“I said: is that fucking clear?”

A resonant ‘yes, Sir’ echoes the bowels of the ship, Augustin’s voice not one of them. He can’t seem to make his lips part, can’t seem to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth or swallow the saliva that’s gathered at the back of his throat.

“These are the last moments of your lives when you won’t have images of drowning men stuck inside your head. Make the most of these moments.” Mayne’s words are a promise, of that he is sure.

And he can’t help but think that at least it will no longer be Halévy’s face as he pulls the trigger, at least it will no longer be his men exploded over the sands.

“Yous have an hour.”

Mayne leaves and Riley takes command, urging the men to gather their things and get ready. An hour, sixty minutes, an eternity, it is all the same because they are all stuck here in this hellish version of their lives that they will only escape once they are dead.

He’s shaking, he realizes. Tremors wrack his frame and his frayed nerves have his nails biting into the meat of his palms with how hard his fists are clenched.

“Augustin,” Fraser mutters, appearing in front of him. “Here, hold him while I get ready.”

The other deposits the flea-ridden, scrappy and scruffy Withers into his arms and Augustin holds onto the dog like his life depends on it. The mutt sniffles quietly, pressing his wet snout underneath Augustin’s jaw and he eases his hold, afraid that he’ll crush the poor thing. Despite the people moving around them, Withers’ heartbeat remains fast but steady, a remarkable feat in this situation. Though, he supposes, the dog will not know anything of the drowning men they’re leaving behind and the gunfire that they’re walking into.  

After some time, Bill comes back for the dog, patting Augustin’s shoulder. “You should get ready, Lieutenant.”

“Right, of course.”

It’s rote by now, putting everything away and then putting it on. Checking his guns, his ammunition, covering the basics and before he knows it, they are being ordered on-deck. Zirnheld is there with his full kit as well and Augustin must have missed him coming back down, lost to his own misery as he was. He looks no better than earlier, if anything, he’s sweating even more.

“Trust the Americans and the British to burden us further.” André hisses, checking him over, smacking his cheek a few times.

He shakes his head, breathing in and out at a measured pace. This is not the time for thinking, this is not the time for emotions. He needs to lock everything away until further notice, needs to forget whatever shred of humanity is left in him and become as marbled as Michelangelo’s David himself. Silent, cold, unfeeling.

Two lines per boat, him and Zirnheld get separated. He stumbles as someone pushes past him, for the first time in a while feeling as willowy as his frame would indicate. Mayne is off to the side of one boat, eyeing the men, nostrils flared and he has the inane urge to go to him, to put his hands on the man’s face and say goodbye. It’s useless and Mayne wouldn’t hear it either so he doesn’t; just waits until it is his turn to board.

The screams and calls for help start almost immediately. Or maybe it seems like no time has passed at all since they left the Ulster Monarch and when he hears the first sound of a fist being slammed against the hull of the landing craft. The Major is sitting up front, stone-faced, eyes glinting in the moonlight. His mind has to be muddled because when Mayne turns just right, he swears that glint turns into a full glow. He takes off his glasses, rubbing at his face. He’s truly losing it now.

Kershaw is the first to break, face anguished as he pleads his case. “Paddy, there’s lads dying out there. Please.”

Mayne remains stoic but Augustin hears Jock singing to himself a seat behind him, and when he looks back, the man has fingers in his ears and his eyes firmly shut. This is Inferno, he thinks; All those who perish in the wrath of God/Here meet together out of every land;/And ready are they to pass o’er the river,/Because celestial Justice spurs them on. Across the river Acheron as those who cannot pay Charon for safe passage drown in its waters.

With no small amount of lunacy he thinks about the circles of Anger and Violence. From running barefoot upon the burning sands under a rain of fire, he has been drawn upwards and in with the sullen. Fixed in the mire they say, ‘We sullen were/In the sweet air, which by the sun is gladdened,//Bearing within ourselves the sluggish reek;/Now we are sullen in this sable mire.’/This hymn do they keep gurgling in their throats,/For with unbroken words they cannot say it.

“Paddy, we’ve got room.” Kershaw looks as if he is going to disobey the order, as if he is one more plea away from doing something drastic.

“No mercy.” Mayne reiterates, leaving no room for discussion.

The wails of the damned continue and so does the boat, a steady movement onwards.

Seekings is the one that jolts upwards at the continued banging against the hull, surprising Augustin. Mayne watches, weary, but doesn’t try to stop the man.

“Cut him loose.” The Major orders when it looks like Reg won’t be sitting back down.

“When I give the orders don’t-” Before the words even leave the other’s mouth, Mayne is already next to him, a hand gripping the man’s wrist with such force Augustin swears he hears bones creaking.

“Cut him loose or I shoot him.”

The two men are sharing air, Mayne not shying away from getting into the other’s space. Their helmet brims knock together and Seekings bares his teeth in turn, anger obvious. Augustin holds his breath because out of all of them, Reg is possibly the least likely to butt heads with Mayne. The man hanging off the side of the boat continues screaming as the two stare at one another, a silent conversation passing between them.

Ahead of him, Fraser tilts his head back and bares his throat, eyes closed. If he didn’t know differently, he’d think that the other was praying. He wants to reach out, to reassure him but Augustin is frozen to his spot by McDiarmid’s grip on the back of his jacket.

Seekings refuses to budge and so does Mayne. Instead, it is Kershaw who leans around the two, knife in hand.

The man slips away into the night, becoming sullen, sinking to the bottom of the sea.   

“They were fucking drowning, Paddy.” Seekings hisses, winded as Mayne remains motionless.

“That’s on you, that, Paddy.” Kershaw’s voice wobbles, hands shaking where they’re putting the knife away.

No, this is on all of them – on all their immortal souls and on the shoulders of GHQ, men who will never feel what has transpired here today, who will move chess pieces across boards and shake hands with each other, satisfied at a job well done.

Twenty yards to range of enemy guns, Jock finally releases him. The gunshots start immediately and Mayne turns to look at him, a complicated expression on his face and – Augustin wishes he had the time and freedom to parse through it, to take in every detail of the other’s painted face.

“The ships destroy us above/And ensnare us beneath./We arise, we lie down, and we move/In the belly of Death.”

From then on there is chaos. There is gunfire, mines exploding, men dying. There is dust and smoke in the air and he can only stop and shoot, take cover and shoot.

Kill Italians. Kill Italians!

Augustin does not think. He spares no energy to forming sentences, to remembering verse, and instead goes. He screams when the men scream, he kills and he gets shot at. Any man close enough for hand-to-hand combat gets stabbed. He loses them all in the midst of battle. Every man looks the same with fear and anger written on his features. He does not know where André is, nor can he see anyone other than McDiarmid who’s making a target of himself rather spectacularly.

Someone calls left flank and Augustin moves as the gunfire from the pillbox lessens. He doesn’t know who’s providing cover fire but he is grateful because he makes it to the next dugout safe, heaving breaths loud even over all the noise. Then, as if lead by the Furies themselves, he sees Mayne streak across the battlefield. Augustin watches, horrified, as the Major dives through one of the pillbox windows. The gunfire from inside stops shortly after and he scrambles over the top of the dugout to check, he plasters himself to the outside of it. It is too dark in there to see anything but a slick, squelching noise causes immediate bile to rise up from his stomach. He fears the worst. He fears that Mayne has gone and gotten himself killed.

“Paddy!” He hisses, dragging himself inside the pillbox through the window as well. He lands with a crouch, eyes trying valiantly to adjust to the pitch black inside it. Something is shuffling at the other end of the area, a low growling noise as if they’d had a dog in here.

“Paddy?” His heart beats in every centimeter of his body, his pulse rabbiting at a rapid pace and all he can smell is the iron stench of blood and the acrid gunpowder. He shuffles forward, something in the back of his brain urging him towards the noise. There is a buzzing in his head but he needs to move. Staying half-crouched, he drags his feet along the sandy ground, kicking aside shells and guns and – and dead soldiers. Sweat drips down the side of his face and a man whimpers from somewhere in the dark, a pained noise followed by a sickening crunch of bone breaking.

With a flinch, he pats his pockets, searching for the zippo. Every hair on his body is raised, brushing up against his uniform, there is dust in his lungs and in his eyes, making breathing and seeing difficult. His knees are close to knocking together but he needs to –

He flicks on the lighter.

Tapetum lucidum, he remembers it being called. A reflective layer in the eyes of many animals that reflects light that has passed through the retina back into the eye, giving them that shine. Orange, in this case, as he comes face to face with Paddy Mayne’s bloodied visage.

“You shouldn’t have followed me in, Augustin.” The other’s voice is lower than he’s ever heard it, a resonant growl that echoes the small space of the pillbox.

All thoughts flee his head as he stares at the man in the dim light provided by the zippo. Slowly, fearfully, he looks down and around them. The men who’d been in the box seem to have been mauled, torn to pieces as if by a wild animal and Augustin seems to be standing in the midst of someone’s spilled guts. Nausea hits him hard, mouth filling with saliva and Mayne bares sharp teeth.

“Rejoin the others.” The order is curt, followed by the man flipping lighter closed, plunging them into darkness once again.

Before he can blink, he finds himself tossed out of the pillbox through the door on the side. He hits the dirt hard, scrambling from the building as what he’d just seen finally burrows into his consciousness.

What the fuck. What the fuck!? He drags himself up, scraping his palms raw against gravel in his haste to get away. Mayne, face bloodied, clothes drenched. Men, decimated, torn up like old rags. The eyes that shine, the mouth that stretches too far up as if it is a maw instead.

No, this – what? His brain refuses to make sense of it, leaving him stumbling for the rest of their men as the rest of the Italians surrender.

Fraser is the one to intercept him, stopping him by his shoulders and looking at him with a frown.

“Are you hurt?”

“What? No. I-”

He twitches out of the other’s hold as he hears Mayne bellowing orders for the Italians from afar.

“Lay down on the ground!” The man seems to be making his way towards him and Bill - and Augustin realizes that he’s shaking again, that there are shivers wracking his frame that he cannot control.

“Augustin – what?” Fraser tries for the second time but he cannot look away from Mayne.

The man is still covered in blood and dirt but his face is now clean and he seems to be glaring right at him as he approaches. The image of what he’d seen before superimposes itself over Mayne’s current appearance – a little disheveled but no worse for wear.

“Gun!” Someone screams but Augustin is stuck in his own head, not quick enough to react. One of the surrendering Italians seems to have changed his mind.

Time slows to a crawl again and he turns, watches listlessly as the gun gets pointed his way. Fraser tugs on his arm but he’s unable to move. The soldier is shouting something in his native language and even in the low light of the full moon, he can see the trigger being squeezed.

Fraser’s tug isn’t enough, Augustin too tall for it to do anything else than sway him. Mayne’s own shove, however, sends him sprawling. And on his way down, he feels a warm spray hit his face. He blinks rapidly, someone’s screaming and it might be him. The bullet exits Mayne’s forehead and clips him in the ear before disappearing. The buzzing turns into a high-pitched whining noise as Paddy’s body quickens his descent.

The Italian soldier gets tackled by McDiarmid, he is aware of that much. He watches the scene because he cannot look down and he cannot see what’s on top of him, whose life essence is seeping into his clothing, whose dead weight is pressing him into the dirt.

A distant howl rips through the air, scaring the nearby birds into the sky. Up above, above the birds and the smoke, the green flare soars high before curving back down.

Le loup criait sous les feuilles/En crachant les belles plumes/De son repas de volailles:/Comme lui je me consume.

Chapter Text

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay/Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare/The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Something warm is dripping on to his face. It is thick and viscous, it splatters across his jaw, his cheek, and starts sliding towards his hairline. He’s lying down, he realizes. There is a dull throb in the back of his head and when he reaches up to touch the liquid, it’s transparent. The only thing he can see is his fingers, the – the saliva stretching between the knobs of his joints visible above all else. He can’t see further than that, can’t focus on anything but what’s right in front of him.

A gust of damp air hits his face next and every one of his muscles locks tight. The air continues washing over him in rhythmic pants, the sound of it slowly fading in until it becomes far too loud, far too close. His eyes snap up and he sees teeth and luminous eyes, a scream trapped in his throat and he-

He wakes up with a start, jolting upwards and slamming his chin against something hard.

“Fuck!” He hisses, grabbing at his jaw as pain radiates through his bones.

“Shit, hold him down!” Someone rushes out and hands grapple at his shoulders, halting his movements.

“Augustin, can you hear me?” Fraser’s face appears in front of his, coming into the foreground, concern writ clearly over his distinct features.

“Yes, I- yeah.” He traces the smudged paint over the other’s cheekbones with his eyes, the clean trails that sweat had made down his dusty temples. It is an inane thing to study, to be so captivated by, but he – if he thinks about anything else, he is afraid that he might lose what’s left of his sanity.

Paddy, he-

“Good, here. Um.” The other holds out a wet rag and Augustin looks at it, uncomprehending.

It’s started to lighten, dawn breaking the horizon, casting them all in pale light. What does he need a rag for?

“Fraser.” Seekings grunts from somewhere. “Just – do it for him, yeah?”

Bill’s gaze darts up, jaw working as he nods. The Lieutenant scoots closer to him, raising the rag up and pausing. They stare at one another in silence, Fraser waiting for something. Permission, maybe? Augustin can’t imagine for what. He nods regardless and Bill moves, gently swiping the cool cloth over his face.

Once he’s deemed the deed done, Fraser retreats and Augustin catches sight of what’s in his hold. No longer clean, the rag is red in fact.

He’s got Mayne’s brains spattered over him.

Abruptly, he turns to the side and heaves. There’s nothing in his stomach to vomit so only bitter acid and water leave him in a violent convulse of his body. His chest expands rapidly, trying to take in air but he can only gasp as it refuses to stay in. He heaves again, drool escaping his mouth in long, messy strands and his eyes sting with the effort, snot running from his nose.

“Shh, it’s alright.” Fraser’s come to crouch half behind him, patting his shoulder rather awkwardly.

“Alright?!” He screeches, voice garbled and confused before devolving into a rapid fire of French. “What do you mean ‘alright’? Paddy Mayne was just shot in front of me, I have his blood on my hands, on my clothes, in – in my fucking pores! What do you mean ‘alright’?!”

“You’re shit at this.” Fraser gets shoved to the side, Riley replacing him. “Lieutenant, I’m going to need you to listen to me real attentive-like. Can you do that?”

The American drawl washes over him, foreign enough to be something that he can latch on to. He nods more firmly than before. Riley passes him another rag and a canteen and he goes through the motions of washing his mouth out while the other talks.

“Now, I know that it’ll be hard to explain all this with just words so I’m going to lead you over to Major Mayne and let you see for yourself.”

He shudders at that. Lead him over to-? But – there’s no fucking way Mayne’s survived that. He saw it. It was a clean shot to the back of the man’s head. Augustin had felt the man go limp in his arms, he’s had – he’s had the evidence of the act on him. What on earth is Riley saying?

“Trust me, Lieutenant. And besides, I think it’ll be best if Paddy explains it instead.” The other smirks, helping Augustin to his feet. Well, it’s more like Augustin gets hoisted up in a feat of seemingly inhuman strength. He lands on shaky legs, his knees wobbly. Riley quietly ushers him over to where they’d laid Mayne down onto the ground some meters away.

The nausea returns quick but he suppresses it. His mind him is persistently showing those last few final moments over and over again. He could have acted – he should have. If he’d been faster, if he hadn’t been so shaken up about – luminous eyes and sharp teeth.

His tongue feels thick in his mouth as Riley instructs him to keep vigil over Mayne’s dead body. He can’t look. Can’t face the pallor of the man’s skin nor the stillness of his chest. If he does not look then it is not real. A poisonous numbness has started spreading through his limbs, the acute sense of loss opening a gaping hole inside his ribcage that seems to be intent on swallowing all his organs.

In the distance, Seekings, Cooper and Fraser seem to have gathered what new intake there is into a small audience around Jock. They look to be explaining something that the new intake isn’t happy about. Oddly enough, none of the original SAS men seem all that bothered by what’s going on. They are, instead, enjoying the break, having breakfast or having a drink of whatever swill the Italians had lying around.

Jock and Seekings get into another row and Augustin has to look away as he catches sight of something – something unnatural. Those same sharp teeth, that same deep growl reverberating through the area. In his hurry to avert his gaze, to deny this absurdist reality, he condemns himself to the view of Mayne.

The exit wound is a mess of tissue and blood and brain matter. It’s gruesome and Augustin feels the sorrow and revolt in equal measure. Mayne is gone. He’s gone no matter what cryptic bullshit Riley had been spouting earlier. The evidence is right there, lying at Augustin’s feet. But now that he’s looked, he can’t seem to avert his eyes anymore. He catalogues it all, takes stock of the gore, of the injuries, of – the bullet had clipped him in the ear.

The memory of it brings back the pain. Suddenly aware of the heat radiating through the cartilage, he touches the spot with his fingertips. There’s a bit of flesh missing, like a chipped rim of an overused and well-loved teacup. It’s still bleeding sluggishly but it’s nothing to concern himself about.

Not when – when Mayne’s dead. He’s dead and the tentative friendship they’ve began developing is dead with him. Augustin aches all over for the things that could have been, the crushing weight of it all sits on his chest, making it hard to breathe again. He never got to read or recite Paddy any of the romantic poems he really likes. He never got to ask the man about Ireland, about his time at college and he never will. All of the mundane conversations they’ve never had suddenly seems so important to him. He wants to – he wanted to know all of it and he was so afraid to ask, so afraid of chasing Mayne away if he came across too interested.

It’s all in vain now. Because Mayne is gone. Paddy is gone and Augustin is left alone again; left to pick up the pieces of his own broken heart, of the insufferable reality he’s living in where a man that was today his friend can tomorrow no longer be-

A disgustingly visceral sound startles him from the chasm of despair he’d been slowly letting himself walk towards. His eyes find the source easily. It’s the gunshot wound. The sound repeats and Augustin’s mind is filled with an image of sinking his hands into minced meat, into making sausages with his grandfather as a young boy and how repulsed he’d been with the feeling of raw pork between his fingers. He gags, stomach cramping but his eyes don’t stray away from what he’s witnessing.

The wound is - it’s growing smaller. What was a mess of tissue and brain matter retreating back inside Mayne’s shattered skull. After a few minutes of stunned silence on Augustin’s part, there is nothing left there but the crusted blood flaking at the grooves on Mayne’s forehead.

He leans in, afraid to blink lest this all proves to be some grief-induced hallucination. His hand reaches out on its own, a finger tracing the place where the wound once was before dragging down the ridge of Mayne’s proud nose.

The short scream he lets out when strong digits wrap around his wrist is instinctual, it’s loud enough to draw attention but nobody rushes to his defense.

Instead, Mayne’s eyes flicker open, mercurial as always, the intense mix of colors in them stormy. His face immediately settles into a confused frown, losing all traces of his previous lax state.

“You’re not Eoin.”

Eoin?

“Paddy.” He whispers, the shock in his system urging him closer. Urging him to examine with his own hands again. So he does. He tugs out of the other’s hold and grips the man’s face. He traps the other between his palms and tilts the man’s head so that he can see better.

As he lives and breathes, so does Paddy Mayne.               

The tears that well in his eyes seem to jog the other out of whatever post-resurrectio stupor he’d been in.

“Augustin.” The low rumble of the man’s voice is soothing, the accent rough, a balm to Augustin’s aching heart. He sobs and Mayne gathers him close, lets Augustin huddle against him like a child. The man is warm, he’s warm and alive and Augustin’s surely lost his damn mind because – how is this possible?

“Calm now, come on.” Mayne hushes and he feels one of the man’s hands cradling the back of his head while the other rubs soothing circles along his back. It’s so unlike their usual status quo that it makes Augustin choke back a laugh amidst his crying. The gesture is ridiculously tender and the sheer fact that Augustin has broken down into tears over the man speaks more than the rest should see. But he cannot and does not care in that moment. All that matters is that Paddy is alive again.

“April is the cruellest month, breeding/Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing/Memory and desire, stirring/Dull roots with spring rain.” The Major rambles, quiet and measured, nothing like the one about fishes on the boat. It’s meant to comfort and yet it draws that laugh out of Augustin regardless.

“Don’t tell me this is Eliot again. At a time like this.”

“Oh? Would you prefer your beloved Baudelaire instead?” The offer, while lightly mocking in tone, appears genuine. And he expects, considering the previous, that Mayne will recite a half-remembered line in English he’d read a while ago, that he is only humoring Augustin.

The other clears his throat, the hand on his back stalling. “Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle/Sur l'esprit gémissant en proie aux longs ennuis,/Et que de l'horizon embrassant tout le cercle/II nous verse un jour noir plus triste que les nuits;”

It takes a while for the words to connect, for him to realize that he’s hearing French. His eyes well up anew, the sound of the heavily accented verse washing over him; the upset of the whole ordeal he’d just gone through momentarily forgotten.

“Is this a true moment of honesty?” He speaks into the damp material of Mayne’s uniform jacket, muffled.

“I think you are owed it, all this considered.” The other responds, stilted but perfectly understandable.

“You are a bastard, Paddy Mayne.” Forcing himself out of the man’s hold takes more effort than he’d anticipated, it’s almost a herculean task, but he does it anyway. The outside world rushes in and he becomes aware that some of the men are staring at them. Whether they are worried about the nature of their embrace or if they are horrified by the fact that Mayne is again amongst the living, he cannot say.

Hastily, he wipes at his eyes, knocking his glasses askew. He doesn’t know where to start so he starts by avoiding Mayne’s searching gaze. The embarrassment from his fit of – albeit understandable – hysteria is sending heat through his body and into his face. He must look a mess with his face wet and his uniform bloodied. He needs to get cleaned up and perhaps, after a decent rest, he will be ready to accept whatever explanation Paddy has for him.

“Augustin.” Mayne tries to stop him as he stands up but he shakes his head.

“We will talk once I have had a good night’s sleep.” With a huff and a sweep of his hand over the area. “And perhaps somewhere more suitable.”

“Aye, you are right.” The man’s face is grim as he rises from the dust, cracking his neck as if he’d woken up stiff rather than died.

The chill down his spine and the tingling in his fingers threaten to return so he quickly turns on his heel, walking away while he still can. He ignores Fraser’s outstretched hand as he passes by him and Riley’s offer of water. He hopes they understand, hopes that they do not take it to heart.

The need to be alone overwhelms him and this time he allows it to dictate his actions. There will be time for explanations later but for now, he needs to parse through all of this on his own.

And without drums or music, long hearses/Pass by slowly in my soul; Hope, vanquished,/Weeps, and atrocious, despotic Anguish/On my bowed skull plants her black flag.

Unfortunately for Augustin, he does not get much time to rest. The rest of the allied forces have taken their unlikely victory in stride and moved in. Infantry, armored vehicles and tanks, engineers and medical officers all swarm the coast, their pace hurried but orderly. They are to continue onwards ahead of the rest, being granted a few jeeps of their own to ease the way.

Before Mayne can even open his mouth, Augustin is ushered to one of the cars away from the Major, Fraser glued to his side. In the car, Zirnheld is waiting for him anxiously, eyes darting between him and the younger man.

Up ahead, Mayne starts shouting.

“The British are to land near Cassibile and Fontane Bianche, just south of Syracuse, in the next hour or so. We are to rejoin the effort and help take the city.” The man’s voice echoes and the men grumble and complain but nobody addresses the Major directly. “Though little resistance is expected, keep your heads about yous.”

“And on we go.” With a sigh, he jumps in the back with André.

“Tell me I have not lost my mind.” The other urges quietly and Augustin snorts.

“I would not lie to you like that.”

“But this is madness!” With one hand on the side of the car and other on Augustin’s knee, Zirnheld earns himself a raised eyebrow from Fraser.

He shakes his head, waving the worry away and Fraser gets in the passenger seat while Riley takes the wheel.

“I don’t know what this is. And as soon as I do, I will let you know.” The reassurance does little to settle the other’s nerves, his knee jumping up and down as the SAS – though, he supposes now truly the SRS – starts moving towards their next destination.  

The drive to Syracuse is relatively short. Being a smaller regiment allows them to move unobstructed and relatively safe, quick to react, quick to avoid any set trap. So he closes his eyes and tries to rest, tries not to think too hard about what happened and what he’d seen. The logical conclusion is, of course, shared hallucination or delusion. Perhaps like the dancing plague, they have all suffered some form of mass hysteria. What is logical, however, is not always what is happening. Monsters, he thinks, in all shapes and sizes.

By the time they arrive to Syracuse, most of the Italian resistance has either fled or are ready to surrender. They make quick work of rounding up the soldiers as the rest of the army catches up. Mayne slinks away to talk to the Lieutenant Colonel and Augustin oversees the Italian soldiers being shuffled along the streets.

Eventually, after they’ve secured Isola di Ortigia, they get to have a seat and take a breath.

Mayne’s piercing whistle slices through the air where the SRS men have congregated, scattered along Piazza del Duomo. Next to him, Fraser winces, plugging his ear for a moment before shaking his head as if he’s trying to get rid of water.

“In their infinite wisdom, our benevolent superiors have decided that we are to be the ones to start the attack on Augusta Harbour. It is 40 kilometers by the lovely little coastal corridor we’ve traversed so far but, unfortunately, this means little to us.” The Major leans against one of the buildings casting shade on the area. “It is heavily fortified by land and heavily defended by sea, leaving us no other choice but to be the ones making the weak spots that out friends can then exploit.”

“I am sensing a pattern about to emerge.” Fraser grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up.

“The nature of war has changed.” He mocks lightly and the other scoffs, bumping their shoulders together.

Mayne’s eyes dart in their direction accusingly but the man makes no mention of their interaction as he continues.

“The British destroyer Exmoor and the Greek destroyer Kanaris1 will be waiting for our signal. What more, half of you will go with the 5^th infantry and do the same by land. Zirnheld, Riley, you will bring the new intake with you, show them how it’s done.” Paddy grunts, patting around his pockets until Seekings finally provides him with a map. With a pen, Mayne scribbles something on the map and then hands it off to Riley who raises an eyebrow before nodding.

“The rest of us will mount an amphibious attack, taking care of the bunkers, the gun emplacements and the observation posts.” On his second go, Mayne manages to locate his own map. “Fraser, Jordan, here.”

Heaving himself up takes more effort than he’s willing to admit to but he and Fraser shuffle closer all the same. The Major points to the side of the harbour, a little inlet barely enough to stand on.

“Explosives here, here and here.” Three vital points get circled with the pen and Cooper makes an inquisitive noise from somewhere nearby. “Yes, yes, you little rat. We’re getting you your toys.”

A couple of chuckles go through the crowd but everyone seems too tired to react properly. Augustin can already feel a headache trying to overtake the functioning of his brain but he ignores it for now.

“Seekings and I, well.” Mayne smirks, eyes darting over to Reg before pointing to a spot in the water just in front of the harbour’s main pier. “We’re in for a bit of subterfuge.”

“Christ.” Seekings rolls his eyes but seemingly doesn’t have it in him to argue with the man.

“Plan accordingly. Be prepared. Rest for now, we leave in an hour.” Mayne turns to him then, the challenge clear in his gaze. “We need to secure boats.”

The ‘you’re coming with me’ remains unsaid but it is clear from the man’s tone so Augustin nods, accepting his fate.

They don’t speak until they are well away from the rest of their men. Their steps echo the streets. He observes the buildings around them as they pass for the lack of better things to do since Paddy refuses to break the tense silence. This part of Syracuse is an interesting blend of styles. While the castle on the coast is a clear example of medieval architecture with its barren walls and arched windows, the rest of the Isola di Ortigia’s core is mostly baroque with touches of its Greek past seen in ruins such as the Temple of Apollo. They cross Ponte Umbertino and Augustin admires the clear water of the marina. It’s not a long walk and after fifteen minutes or so, they come to a halt before they reach the area with the boats.

Mayne drops down onto the warm stone, legs hanging over the edge and above the water. The sun beats down on them relentlessly and somehow, it feels hotter than in the desert. He sits down a well, determined to wait Mayne out.

“I’m being promoted.” The man grunts, hand raised in the air and fist clenched. “The leash is tightening around my throat and they relish in tugging at it.”

“Lieutenant Colonel Paddy Mayne.” He hums; the revelation not surprising but an odd choice of topic considering.

“Following my promotion, Second Lieutenant Bill Fraser and Lieutenant August Jordan are to be granted the rank of Captain.”

This, however, he did not expect.

“Since you have decided to stay and have proven yourself someone the men listen to…” The man trails off with a shrug.

“Did you put in a recommendation, Paddy?”

It is strange that Mayne has singled out those two things as important. That Mayne chose his decision to stay and fight over his skills as a leader and a strategist, and that the men listen to him is deemed more important than what he can offer in combat. The man’s priorities, while skewed, are – flattering. The other’s looking at him over the rim of his sunglasses and Augustin wonders if the man can hear that his heartbeat has sped up. He probably can.

“Aye.” The other confirms, “For you and Fraser both, though he will hate it.”

“And you think I will not?”

Mayne clears his throat. “The men respect you, even the new intake. I think it would be… beneficial for us all if they could turn to you when they mistrust me.”

Ah. So Mayne means for him and Fraser to tamper whatever fire he will inevitably ignite. It’s definitely a smart thing to offer to the men, to delegate some of their ire onto Augustin and Bill. It is also cowardly to some extent but he supposes he can see the reasoning behind it. Out of them all, Fraser and he are possibly the sanest ones there, the calmest.

“I will not be a shield for you.” He warns, hands gripping the material of his pants. He will not stand between the men and Mayne if the Major – Colonel now, he supposes – does wrong by them.

“Nor am I asking you to be.” The other sneers. “You have your own judgment to make the calls, your own free will.”

“You know, Kant believed that free will existed in a space of its own.” A grin splits his face when Mayne groans, exasperated. The moment of startling normality eases some of the tension from his shoulders. “He thought it a problem of pragmatic faith and could never truly prove whether it existed or not.”

“And you believe otherwise?”

“I am partial to Bergson’s definition.” He elaborates, the concepts coming to him easily even after all this time out of the lecture hall. “He argued that free will must be allowed to unfold in an autonomous and unpredictable fashion which opposed Kant’s rigid view. The nature of chaos being such that it negates the possibility of determinism.”

“No, I never did like thinking about all that destiny shite.” Mayne huffs, nodding.

“He also had an interesting theory called élan vital which speaks on the creativity of evolution.” Despite being uncertain about this being the right moment he decides to broach the topic of what happened. “He claims that life doesn’t just reproduce itself, it invents new forms, like the development of consciousness and intelligence.”

“No.” The other takes his sunglasses off, running a hand over his face and through his hair. The sandy strands loosen and fall forward, messy and unrestrained in a way that appeals to Augustin, in a way that makes the Colonel look roguishly attractive.

“No?” He brings a knee up, leaning against it as he watches the other’s profile.

“Not yet.” The man amends, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders. “After Augusta.”

“Is this a promise?” The instinct to plead is strong but he pushes it down some, instead offering his little finger out, the gesture familiar to him but seemingly not to the other man. Paddy eyes it with a confused frown, one eyebrow raised.

“It is a traditional gesture, yubikiri, my sister and I – ah. When we were children, we lived across a family that came to Paris from Japan. Language barriers are never an issue for kids but when they began learning French, they taught us about this first.” He reaches out and takes Mayne’s hand, folding his fingers until only the pinky with the signet ring remains out. The man’s skin is dry but soft, warm. He does not think about it as he links his own pinky around Paddy’s and sways their hands lightly. “It is to show that you are committed to something, that you will uphold your promise or… lose the finger.”

“Morbid.” The other is grinning, though. And as with every other time, rare as it is, that it has happened, Augustin is left speechless – and a fair bit breathless.

“A lot of children’s nursery rhymes and games are, if you think about it.” He looks out over the marina, distracting himself from the sight of Mayne’s bare face. After months of the man looking like he dwelled in the desert, Augustin just can’t seem to get used to this new appearance. Or how it makes his heart beat faster every time he stares for a bit too long. This is all entirely unfortunate.

“So if I break my promise after Augusta, you will break my finger?” The Colonel asks, tone jovial, and Augustin chuckles.

“No. But I will be disappointed.” He doesn’t expect the words to have much sway over Mayne but the man’s grin falters, a determined look overtaking his features.

“Aye, I better not break it then.” The other gets up, glasses firmly back on his nose, obscuring his eyes again. “Let’s see what these Italian cunts have to offer in way of sea-fare.”  

They manage to secure several skiffs for his and Fraser’s squads and something called a gajeta for Paddy and Seekings, the locals appearing more than happy to offer their services to the men who liberated them. Whether this is the truth or not, Augustin cares less about. All that matters is that they are now ready for the next part of the invasion and that this, in turn, means he is closer to knowing – something, anything, really, about Mayne and who or what he is.

Fraser is staring at him. He’s been staring at him ever since they got into the boats. Augustin lets him, doesn’t have the time or will to try and pry it out of the younger. Fraser will come out with it eventually.

The sea is relatively calm, the men around them jovial as they move along the coast. Augusta is barely visible in the distance still. Earlier, before they’d parted ways, Tonkin had pointed it out that he shares a name with the city as if it were new information. The blasé attitude and genuine smile had been trampled over by Jock who had mercilessly made fun of the younger Lieutenant, causing him to slink off to do his own preparations with Riley and Zirnheld in silence.

Whatever has happened last night didn’t seem to have upset the new intake much. But, he supposes they could always be very good at covering it all up. And, he thinks with his chest spasming painfully, none of them had had Paddy Mayne’s blood on them. He tries not to separate himself from the men too much but it is inevitable, especially when it concerns the Colonel. They may respect the man, may listen to him and follow his orders, but none of them are – are what? Augustin wants to slap himself. Heat that he cannot ascribe to the midday sun they are baking in rushes to his cheeks and he feels the silly urge to clear his throat.

“Has he told you, then?” Fraser interrupts his silent and anguished moment of embarrassment.

“No, he has not told me much of value.” With a sigh, he slumps where he’s sat.

The whirring of the engine is loud but with how close Bill is to him, he doesn’t have to strain to hear the younger. Which means, then, that he hears the growl rumble from the other’s throat very clearly. He startles and Fraser does too, as if he’s managed to surprise himself as well. Wide eyes meet his own and his mouth pops open.

“Oh.”

Somehow, in all that has happened, the thought that Mayne might not be the only one hadn’t crossed his mind. It made sense that Fraser and Riley were calm when Mayne got shot, that the men of the original SAS weren’t surprised by the sight. But he hadn’t taken into consideration that there were more of whatever the fuck Mayne is amongst their ranks. It seems rather obvious, now that he is looking at it from a different perspective, that some of the men of the SAS were not what they appeared.

“Apologies.” Fraser rushes out, scooting away from him some. “He should have – it shouldn’t have gotten to this point and it is infuriating that he’s let it!” The anger deepens the other’s tone, makes him sound older and even more serious. He does not think Fraser truly dislikes Mayne, just that the Colonel frustrates him with his dogged nature and volatile words. Which, he supposes, is as good of a reason to dislike someone as any.

“It is a secret, yes, but from the very beginning, the deal was that any who join the SAS, who are willing to fight and die by our side, will know.” The younger runs a hand through his short hair, frustrated. “What happened yesterday was unavoidable and this was the one rule that was in place so that we could avoid it hindering the mission or scaring the men.”

“I don’t suppose Mayne ever planned on taking in new recruits.” He doesn’t know why he’s defending the man. Well, he knows, but the reason behind it is not intellectual enough for him to admit to it. It is always easy to lie to oneself.

“No, nor did he plan for most of them living long enough to see anything unusual.”

“If it makes you feel better, he promised that he would explain after Augusta.”

Fraser shuffles back closer to him, bumping their knees together. He wonders if this need for contact, if the ease with which Fraser and Seekings sometimes touch can be attributed to what they are. And if so, then why does Mayne always look pained to be standing close to anybody he is not actively trying to threaten? And, perhaps more importantly, has Augustin overstepped?

There is no time for him to reexamine his every interaction with Mayne, to put everything into this new context. Mayne was right to put this off until after Augusta, they cannot afford distractions.

Foot on the hearth, hand on brow,/I dream of returning, silently,/Beyond a past misted now,/To the ruined Castle of Memory.

Chapter Text

Cooper’s fascination with explosive has been a point of concern for Augustin since he’d joined the SAS. Eventually, he’d gotten used to it but in the beginning, it was jarring to watch someone so young be so proficient at making things blow up. The kid’s sunny disposition was in stark contrast to their surroundings most of the time and today it was no different.

Johnny hums as he places the first set of explosives, carefully unspooling the wire and handing it off to Augustin to hold while he fiddles with the next set. He has clever fingers that work quickly, the grin on his face excited rather than the mortified grimace of a dead man walking. Augustin wishes that he could hold such ease within him as well but he is, unfortunately, weighed down by their situation immensely.

He was never meant to be an SAS man. Fraser had told him once of the process; of how Stirling had handpicked the men from the volunteers. That the motto had been the crazier the better, and other arbitrary measures with which Stirling had judged them. Augustin does not think that he would have passed the criteria and so, logically, he was never meant to be a part of this regiment. It is only his despondent outlook and his need for camaraderie that has kept him with the wild regiment so far. Well, that, and his attachment to Mayne.

Even now, in the midst of preparing for a raid, he winces in embarrassment when he remembers how he’d broken down over the man resurrecting. While justified, it has left him feeling vulnerable in ways that set his nerves on edge.

“And now, we wait.” Cooper announces once they’re a safe distance from the explosives.

The booming sound of Mayne and Seekings deploying their bazookas is quickly followed by Cooper setting off their own charges. A few moments and the deafening noise fills the air as the blowback rocks both the men and the boats they’re in.

It’s quick work after that. The enemy soldiers aren’t expecting a charge that’s so outright. They’re not expecting madmen rushing the defense line with two handfuls of men. His ears are still ringing by the time they’ve cleared out the first half of the line and he’s broken out in a sweat that he’s certain covers his entire body. The kit is heavy against his back, propelling him forward as he stabs a man that’s trying to rush him from the side.

His knife gets stuck between the man’s ribs, the bone gripping the blade hard, refusing to let go, and he has no time before he’s tackled into the dusty ground. A yell leaves his mouth, his shoulder slamming into loose debris. He scrabbles to get a hold on the enemy but the man is bulkier than him. His eyes are clear and angry, he’s shouting something at Augustin in German and the hatred in his expression is clear. One arm pushing his attacker away with great effort, the other searching the area around him for something to use as a weapon, they grapple. Spittle hits his face and he screams as he’s slammed down into the debris again. He kicks out but he can’t get a good hold on the man. He’s burning up from the inside, he’s being blinded by the sun and the sheer panic he feels isn’t allowing breath into his lungs.

He yells again and then, suddenly, the man is gone. He watches, panting and spluttering, as Fraser wrenches the man away with incredible strength and sends him flying. The man lands against a crumbling wall hard and Augustin rushes to his feet as Bill rounds on the soldier.

“Fraser, no!” He warns when it looks like the other’s ready to go for the jugular.

The Lieutenant’s shoulders heave, hands in front of him, centimeters from the other soldier’s throat but he’s stopped all the same, obliging the hurried request.

“He’s unarmed.” Augustin wheezes, picking up his rifle where he’d dropped it. His fingers are tingling again, his head throbbing and he can already feel bruises forming where he’d hit the dirt, but he can’t – in his good fucking conscious – let Fraser kill an unarmed man just like that.

“Fucker.” Fraser spits, then, in a rather vengeful move, bends down and crushes the man’s wrist with his hand. The solider screams and Augustin is stunned at the vitriol of the action. The sound of the bone crumbling lodges itself inside his head like a splinter, sending his stomach roiling in upset.

“Lieutenant.” He grinds out sternly and Fraser jolts up, turning around with a wide-eyed expression on his face. “There is no need for brutality.”

The other’s expression clears, evening out. Mouth tight and hands clenched at his sides, Fraser nods. “Are you hurt?”

“Lightly bruised.” He huffs, looking around for the first time in a while. The men have cleared the first line of defense and gathered together the ones who surrendered. “See with Cooper about any potential bunkers in the area. I’m signaling the ships.”

Once he’s alone, he pulls the flare gun out and fires it into the air. The green light will signal the destroyers but it’ll also reveal their position to the enemy within Augusta. Hopefully, Mayne and Seekings have cleared out the main harbour and met with the infantry.

“How many surrendered?” He asks, looking over the men.

“About a dozen or so.” Someone behind him replies and he frowns. They’ll have to march the prisoners to the rendezvous point which will put them all at risk of an ambush.

“Fraser.” He calls and the other Lieutenant is at his side in an instant. “Can you take two men and scout ahead? We can’t leave them here, we don’t have enough rope to secure them with.”

The other nods, looking down at his watch. “Back in fifteen.”

Once all the soldiers are accounted for and ordered to stand silently in the shade of one of the buildings, they amount to fifteen men – some of them barely old enough to be in the military to begin with. The rest lay dead, moved into an orderly line and pickpocketed for all their worth in death. Augustin holds his comments to himself, knowing that his own morals and what he is comfortable with are not universal.

More explosions echo the air and another green flare rises from above the buildings in the distance.

Next to him, Kershaw hums. “That’d be Pat and Jock.”

“Five minutes for Fraser to return.” His eyes have been glued to the alleyway that the three soldiers had used to leave the area for the past ten minutes. There was no sign of them yet but the gunfire that can be heard is distant, providing some reassurance.

“Don’t worry, lad.” The other rests a hand on his shoulder and Augustin’s eye twitches. Kershaw’s ability to put everything aside and just focus on the mission is unparalleled. Even when it went against what he believed in, the man had an uncanny ability to overwrite his own morals for someone else’s goals. Like back at the boats where he’d accepted Mayne’s orders despite being one of the first to voice his complaints about their actions. Augustin envies him to a point. Wishes that some of his blasé attitude would rub off on him, too. But it is futile to want for something so unlikely to happen. So he remains tense, remains with his gaze trained on the alleyway.

Eventually, two different howls echo through the air, joining the sound of gunfire and Augustin holds his breath until Fraser peeks his head out of the mouth of the alleyway, waving him over.

“Near the church, there’s Germans making a stand. Mayne and Seekings are still clearing the shoreline. Jock and Pat are coming in. We’re going to pincer them.” Fraser sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “We can stow the prisoners nearby, leave some men to guard them. Should be enough.”

“The rest of the city is clear?” 

“The prisoners, they’re saying the main German unit shipped out yesterday.”

The information, while somewhat puzzling, is welcome. He breathes out, nodding. “Alright, yes. I’ll get the men.”

Kershaw and Cooper take the back while Fraser and he take the front. The rest of their men are split between checking the streets ahead and keeping the prisoners in check. They slowly make their way into the city and the closer they get, the more destroyed the buildings are. Smoldering, half burnt and crumbling.

They leave the prisoners in one of the still-whole buildings, a school of some sort, it appears like and meet up with the two men Fraser had left to observe the situation. The men have situated themselves in a tall building that looks like it held several families at one point. It’s elevated enough to have an advantageous and clear view over most of the rooftops.

“Riley, McDiarmid and Zirnheld are about three streets away.” One of them – Jimmy, he thinks – says, indicating to the other side of the small square. From their position above, he’s just able to see shuffling of men among the cobblestones.

“Snipers?”

Fraser steps closer, peering out the window and up towards the bell tower. After a few seconds of tense silence, the younger shakes his head. “None, they’re all down there. They might surrender.”

“Be prepared for if they don’t.” He warns lightly, nudging Fraser away from the window. “Let Riley know we’re coming.”

He’s walking away as he hears it, the low, drawn-out howl. He doesn’t turn to look, can’t help but shy away from the fact that this is all real. The answering sound sends shivers down his spine and the men holed up in the square start squabbling and shouting loudly.

They surround the remaining Germans, creeping up on them with guns raised from two sides and from the roof of a nearby house. The standoff lasts only a couple of minutes, five at best, and it’s filled with shouting form both sides before the Germans realize they can’t win. The men lay down their weapons and emerge from their hiding spots.

“Good to see you’re still in one piece.” Riley grins at him, beret crooked on his head.

“Yes, not for the lack of trying on their part.” He indicates behind him where Cooper and Kershaw are herding the prisoners from the defense line to join the ones at the square. “Where are the infantry men?”

“Sent them to help Paddy and Reg. They had a little more resistance than expected.” The other huffs, frowning. “Other than that, the town’s suspiciously empty.”

“Fraser said the main unit shipped out already.”

“Huh.” Riley looks up at the sky, tilting his head. “We might be in for an air strike.”

He takes in a steadying breath, shaking his hands out. His shoulder still aches and he’s still sweaty but the day’s not over yet.

“I’ll get the men out of the open.”

“Survived being without me?” Zirnheld’s French is a balm to his heart and he turns, a grin already on his face as the other Lieutenant strides towards him.

“I barely managed. You are a sight for sore eyes.” He accepts the friendly hug, patting the other on the back. “It went well?”

“Yes. They did not think we were stupid enough to attack from the front like we did.”

They share a companionable laugh. In the midst of everything, he is glad that André has decided to stay.

“Though.” The other clears his throat, looking over his shoulder subtly. “The animal howling was more frightening than anything I’ve seen so far.”

He wheezes, a broken chuckle leaving his sore throat. “Yes, yes. Almost as fearsome as Bergé with that machete in the wine cellar.”

This draws a full laugh from the other, the reminder of a time before they’d lost their home easing them away from the topic, allowing Augustin some reprieve again.

“Come on, we should help with the prisoners.”

By the time Mayne and his unit arrive, they’ve already cleared the square of the prisoners. The Colonel whistles lowly and Augustin searches for any signs of injury on the man even though he knows he won’t find any. He hasn’t changed out of his disguise yet though he has the rest of his kit on. He’s still in the fisherman attire but the blue and gray of the material has been soaked with rusty red now. Like always, Mayne appears to have caused quite a bit of carnage and it can be easily read in the way the blood’s spread across him in large splatters.

“Davey, hoist that there, so our friends in the Royal Navy know that their services are no longer required.” The Colonel throws a flag at Kershaw and the other catches the material easily, already working on taking down the two hoisted above the well.

“No looting! Not until I give the word.” Mayne shouts, arms resting on his gun across his stomach. The man’s barely been with them for a minute and he’s already giving orders. Augustin thinks that, despite the initial doubt, he’s settled in his role as leader well.

The men congregate around Mayne as if second nature. Fraser ambles over to stand on his right in the shade of the church and Augustin raises an eyebrow at how tense the other seems.

“Alright, listen up.” The man begins, walking in lazy circles. He wishes he could see Mayne’s eyes but they are firmly hidden behind the dark lenses yet again.

“We rest here tonight. Then, at first light we press north to Cannizzaro to secure the Castello rail head, as per our orders.” The Colonel waves Jock away when he shows up with a crate of alcohol and McDiarmid seems to walk off with a pout. “Cannizzaro will be defended, so go easy tonight.”

Jock turns on his heel and heads for him instead. He stands up straighter as the large man ambles over, offering him the crate now. Fraser snorts at his side and, again, like in Syracuse, Mayne twitches in their direction but doesn’t stray from his speech.

“Eat what food you can find. We move out at oh-four-hundred, so get some bloody sleep, for Christ’s sakes.”

He takes a bottle from the crate cautiously and a blinding grin splits Jock’s face, seemingly pleased with Augustin’s decision. He doesn’t get to ponder on the strange interaction before Fraser is whistling roughly.

Mayne nods, pointing to the sky. “Take cover. Basement shelters, I’d say.”

“Keep your bleeding eyes peeled, all right?” Seekings calls just as an explosion sounds from somewhere above.

“Come on.” Fraser nudges him in the direction of the church and he goes – only slightly motivated by the fact that that’s where Mayne’s heading to as well.

The first thing he notices upon entry is the Nazi flag hung next to the altar. The garish red in stark contrast to the earthy tones of the church and the gold scattered about.

Zirnheld takes the bottle from his hands, uncorking it as they watch Mayne stride towards the front of the church. The Colonel takes a lit candle and then sets the flag on fire. The material burns easily and the men that have followed them in scatter about the pews.

He takes a seat up front with André and Riley, relieved to finally alleviate the ache in his feet. He fears that the lack of sleep will catch up with him quick, that he’ll be dead to the world before he has a chance to speak with Mayne at all.

With Mayne who’s seemingly decided that sacrilege is not something he will concern himself with as he hangs his gun up on the altar crucifix. The Colonel then takes a sip from the baptismal font and cups and pours the water over his neck and face, clearing off some of the blood there. The men around Augustin, when he looks, are watching the display with varying degrees of concern and anger.

“I just want to let those of you who might care know that I have every intention of taking every piece of gold, silver and other valuables from this church for my own profit.” The other leans against the marbled altar rail, posture easy. “And if any of yous have a problem with that, then I will refrain from giving you your share when I sell the stuff in Naples.”

“Paddy, for some of us, this is still the house of God.” Tonkin protests but he looks unsure now, unlike back at the Port of Suez.

Much like Augustin and André, the young Lieutenant is one of the people that had been kept in the dark about the truth of the SAS. It makes sense that the man is rethinking provoking the Colonel at the present, knowing what they know now.

“Pope Pius XII is good friends with Mussolini and has a direct line to Chancellor Hitler himself.” Mayne’s voice echoes the church, decisive and firm. “It’s not God that’s got my goat.”

“Putting your gun up there is bad luck, Paddy.” Fraser voices, tone measured and glasses pushed up into his hair, leaving the doubt in his eyes obvious.

“That thing there?” Mayne looks back, over at the crucifix. “That’s nothing but oak. Christ is in here.” The Colonel points to his chest.

The matter gets dropped as Seekings returns from his exploration of the church, a frown on his face. “Paddy, you better come. He speaks English but not very well.” Explosions rock the skies above them as the Colonel follows after Reg, Riley close on their heels.

The rest of them stay, left in the silence of Mayne’s easy disregard for religion. Out of all of them, Tonkin looks the most likely to try his luck with the bombardment outside. Zirnheld has already begun dozing where he’s lying down, as has Dave, and both Fraser and Jock have stood up, alert and staring at the area behind the altar.

“What is it?” He asks, getting off the creaky pew as well.

“They found the priest.” Fraser frowns. “Paddy’s about to shoot him.”

“Poor fuckin’ taste, callin’ him an American – twice.” Jock snorts, taking a swig from one of the dark bottles.

The younger makes an inquisitive noise and then falters visibly. “Fuck me, it’s the Mafia.”

“Mafia?” McDiarmid shuffles forward, coming to stand next to them.

“Organized crime.” Fraser waves a hand through the air in a vague gesture. “Like bloody royalty but illegal. Priest says they own Augusta. Says they want to break bread and drink wine with us.”

A few more moments pass and then both Jock and Bill are grimacing in tandem, making Augustin huff, amused.

“Let me guess, Paddy did not like that?”

“Aye.” Jock turns away, going back to his kit. “Best behavior now, lads. Boss’s goat got got – again.”

“Bombardments over.” Fraser declares abruptly just as Mayne rounds the altar. “In case you want to leave.”

“Too late for that, my friend.” Zirnheld chuckles, rubbing at his eyes and Augustin pats his shoulder in commiseration.

“Right.” Mayne’s voice rings out clear and firm. “We’ll be sleeping in here, in this house of God. Considering this town is so poor, didn’t he build a nice, big fucking place for himself?” The man doesn’t wait for a response before continuing. “At precisely four a.m. I will be firing live rounds in here to wake you fuckers up.”

Augustin is only half listening, too busy observing the balding priest as he shakily enters the main area. The man’s eyes are wide and alarmed, trained on the burned flag and Mayne’s gun on the crucifix.

“You hurt things in here, you hurt our hearts!” The words burst out of the priest, stilted but passionate. Nobody moves for a second, tension spreading through the air. Just as abruptly as the man had complained, Mayne begins a slow stalk towards him, sending the priest backwards in a panic.

Mayne’s rigid shoulders shift, form growing and the old man’s face falls, mouth opening wide in horror.

“Paddy!” Jock tries but it’s too late. The Colonel’s closed in on the priest, both hands fisted in the man’s robes. Mayne lifts him off the ground, the sound of fabric ripping accompanying them as he walks the priest backwards until they are both pressed to the altar.

“Santo Signore, Padre onnipotente…” The man whimpers, hands scrabbling at Paddy’s forearms uselessly.

A low rumble begins emanating from the Colonel’s chest, the noise growing until it’s a full-blown growl. Seekings, Riley, McDiarmid and Fraser all stand to attention, poised as if they’re being called into battle.

Augustin can’t see much of Mayne from where he’s standing, only the bulging muscles of the man’s arms where he’s rolled his shirtsleeves up and the priest becoming a ghostly shade of white.

“Salvami, o Dio, per il tuo nome. Con la tua forza, difendi la mia causa!” The priest continues his pleas, choked gasps leaving his throat, feet kicking and trying to find the carpeted floors without success.

“How’s your heart now?” Mayne’s voice is barely recognizable as is leaves his wide mouth and Augustin closes his eyes, that same fear from the pill box gripping him again, freezing his veins.

“Apage, Satanas!” The man screams and Mayne drops him onto the altar, letting him roll off onto the other side.

“Fuck’s sake.” Kershaw’s voice is loud in the silence of Mayne’s outburst. The father scrambles to his feet, shaking bodily as he bolts out of the room, clutching at his prayer beads like they’ll save him.

“You know, sometimes, you’re like a wee boy, just seeing how far you can go.” Though much taller than Mayne himself, Fraser seems to cower back some when Paddy turns to him, frame shrinking to his usual size.

“Oh, I intend to go all the way to Berlin. That’s how far I can go.” Teeth on display, Mayne lets himself into the younger’s space and, much to Augustin’s surprise, the younger tilts his head to the side, baring his throat. Though he looks reluctant to do it, the action seems to settle something in Paddy, achieving whatever Bill had in mind with the offer.

It is such a pure display of animal behavior that Augustin can no longer ignore the issue at hand. The dog metaphors, the language Mayne has always shrouded himself and his men with, what Augustin has seen, the resurrection, it all comes crashing down on him. He can only grip the pew behind him for stability as his head spins.

“Then, I will ask for forgiveness.” With one final huff, Mayne takes a step back. “Right now, I’m gonna go for a walk.”

A walk. A walk which, assumingly, includes Augustin as well. He doubts that Mayne would break his promise but Augustin is finding himself somewhat reluctant to be in the man’s presence alone after such a display. He stands up regardless and Mayne’s mouth quirks at the corners.

“Augustin.” Zirnheld hisses, the worry clear in his dark eyes.

“Do not worry yourself over me, my friend.” The smile he musters is feeble at best but it’s all that he can offer at the moment. He leaves his kit behind and follows after Mayne as the man leaves the church.

There are soldiers already outside, enjoying the fresh air now that the aerial assault is over. Some are reading, some playing marbles and Augustin even spies an uninspiring game of chess in progress. He and Mayne walk the streets of Augusta in silence, avoiding rubble and smoldering debris.

Augustin refuses to let himself back out now, even as they pass the carnage Mayne and Seekings had left upon their initial assault on the harbour, the stench of death noxious in the air. What’s left of the mess is enough to have Augustin envisioning it; a two man army, tearing through the enemy forces with ease, impervious to damage, unable to be stopped even by a bullet to the head.

They come upon a concrete pier where a dead soldier lies still in the setting sun, another a bit further away. Mayne regards the one at their feet idly before taking his gun and handing it to Augustin. Without a word, he accepts and holsters it where his own is missing, lost somewhere in the scuffle with the German earlier. Mayne pauses briefly before pushing the soldier into the water, leaving behind only a dark stain.

“Shouldn’t you at least have given that soldier a decent burial?”

Augustin jolts lightly but Mayne is completely unsurprised by Stirling’s sudden appearance. The other could probably hear the man approaching before they’d even made it to this part of Augusta. It’s unsettling, thinking about how enhanced Mayne actually is and what that means.

Stirling’s eyes jump from Mayne to him, lingering as if he is expecting something. Paddy does not greet the man and neither does Augustin, watching placidly as the Lieutenant Colonel’s expression grows irritated.

“Captain Jordan, we haven’t officially-”

Captain, huh?

“Had he been faster than me,” Mayne interrupts Stirling’s attempt at an introduction. “Had he been more accurate than me, had he been less afraid than me, then he would have consigned me to the mercy of the crabs and the eels and the worms just the same.”

“Ah, but that’s not true. Is it?” Stirling’s posture shifts, trying to appear bigger than he is as he comes to a stop in front of them. “More accurate, faster, less afraid. The only outcome for him was death. As for you, well. I suspect it’ll be a long while before you are consigned to anyone’s mercy.”

Mayne scoffs and then, much to Augustin’s mortification and Stirling’s barely-concealed shock, begins unbuttoning his shirt.

“How did you get here?”

“By dinghy.” Stirling’s face remains stern but he’s just as puzzled by the turn of events as Augustin is, it seems. “Tried to get here in time for the fun and games.”

The blue-turned-brown fabric hits the ground with barely a sound, leaving Mayne in his singlet. “Fun and games are in short supply. We’re expecting plenty tomorrow, though. Cannizzaro.” A brief pause as Stirling purses his mouth. “I’m sure you’ll show up once the fighting is over.”

Fraser was right to call Mayne out on his behavior earlier and Augustin knows this is just another example of this. Though, when he is not the one directly involved, he has to admit that it is amusing to witness.

“Yes, Paddy, if you’re not too tired, maybe we could sit down with a glass of wine and discuss exactly why it is that I’ve been sent here. Hm?

Augustin’s eyebrows jump to his hairline, the glasses sliding down his nose. Stirling seems to be fully aware of who he is speaking to; so why, then, is he trying to gentle Mayne into a civilized conversation over a glass of wine? Augustin sits down, fearing that he is unable to hide his displeased grimace quick enough and opting to look away instead.

“Unfortunately, I have a very early start in the morning. We move out at four.”

“No, you don’t, Paddy. You don’t move out at four. Attack on Cannizzaro’s been postponed.”

Augustin hears the low rumble in Mayne’s chest start and stop as the other takes control of himself. He looks up, catching a glimpse of Paddy’s surprise morphing into amused resignation.

“We’re waiting for the Americans to make their landing further up the coast and that has been… delayed.” Stirling finishes with a huff as if he’s very remorseful over the fact.

“Postponed. Delayed. I remember those words.” Mayne drops the singlet onto the ground before following it, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Augustin as he works on taking off his boots.

“This is a large-scale invasion, Paddy.” Stirling’s voice is pleading almost but Augustin knows it is for naught. “We must only move as part of a coordinated strategy.”

Stirling elder still doesn’t know what they’ve been through, what the months of waiting and of an uncertain future had put them through. The infighting, the brawls, the waiting aimlessly and uselessly.

“We have been stood down.” Mayne concludes efficiently, foregoing Stirling’s meandering platitudes.

“We hold our position in Augusta and await further orders, like soldiers do in time of war.” The other insists still, trying to justify taking Mayne off the board again.

“If no-one gives me a war, I tend to make a war of my own.” It is as efficient of a threat as any but Stirling crouches down on Mayne’s other side, undeterred.

“It is no-one’s job to give you a war to fight, a bone to chew, a body to kick.”

“’tis with the bodies I belong.” Paddy’s bare shoulders lift with a silent chuckle and Augustin bites back a smile.

He doesn’t know what exactly the other is trying to accomplish. Stirling knows what Mayne is and how he operates and yet here the man is, in front of Augustin’s very own eyes, trying to hold the leash Mayne is so vehemently against. The tightening of it is near-visible in the dusk and he imagines reaching over and taking it from Stirling’s hands, letting Mayne run free for a change, releasing him of that pressure.  

“By the way, Paddy, I’m now the ranking officer here, which means that you can amuse yourself playing the rebel injured peasant, which I know is your preferred pastime, but the last word lies with me.” All pretense and pleasantries gone, Stirling shows his hand, pulling rank.

The man goes for, what Augustin assumes is, a condescending pat to Mayne’s bare shoulder but the hand is intercepted before it can reach the Irishman.

“Didn’t your mother ever warn you about bear traps in the forest?” Paddy sneers, teeth bared. “You don’t seem like a man willing to chew off his own leg to escape so I’d be careful if I was you.”

Startled, Stirling tries to take his arm away from Mayne but the man deliberately keeps hold, immovable. It takes a few more tugs from the other before Paddy releases him. Stirling nearly topples over in his haste to get away, face red and mouth a grim slash across his face.

Augustin watches their new ranking officer’s hurried steps while Mayne shucks the rest of his clothes.

“Can you believe this cunt?” The man grumbles, tipping over into the water, uncaring of the temperature.

The splash hits Augustin’s boots, washing some of the grime. He takes them off, rolling his pant legs up to his knees and scoots forward until he can dip his legs into the water. Mayne swims a few laps in front of him, going in a tight circle, probably exerting some of the leftover energy. After a while, he returns to float near Augustin’s feet, one shoulder pressed to his shins.

He’s helpless to what is on offer now, eyes taking in the sight of so much bared skin like a man parched. Paddy’s paler now that they are away from the desert sun, has been steadily losing the tan over their time at the Port of Suez. His hair is darker as well and Augustin silently mourns the loss of the sparsely sandy tresses as well as the smattering of freckles over the tops of the man’s shoulders.    

“In Berlin… I will ask for forgiveness.” Mayne mumbles, “But I will receive no such thing.”

“You sound certain.”

Mayne opens an eye, squinting up at him from the water. “"Regis suprema voluntas Lex"/[It will follow the regular course of—throats.]/Some die pinned by the broken decks,/Some die sobbing between the boats.”

“Are you wishing ill on our new ranking officer?” He mocks lightly and the other snorts.

“Were we so lucky.” Paddy huffs, beginning to drift. “No, I fear William Stirling will be a thorn in our side for quite a while yet.”

Augustin hooks his foot under the man’s arm, pulling him back, not letting him get away. “Will our talk be as postponed as our mission, then?”

“No.” The other closes his eyes again, letting Augustin anchor him. The man is still overly warm, even the cooling water not enough to stop the heat he’s putting out. “No, unlike our jailors and leash-holders and noose-tighteners, I will uphold my end of the promise.”

“And will you answer my questions honestly?”

“That remains to be seen.” Mayne grins and he takes his foot away, letting the other splutter as he sinks lower momentarily.

“Bastard.” The other moves over, resting his arms on the pier by Augustin’s hip, a thoughtful look on his face. “My Soul. I summon to the winding ancient stair;/Set all your mind upon the steep ascent,/ Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,/Upon the breathless starlit air,/.”

Paddy recites, mouth shaping the words carefully. “Upon the star that marks the hidden pole;/Fix every wandering thought upon/That quarter where all thought is done:/Who can distinguish darkness from the soul//.”

“Paddy.” He warns lightly. As much as he loves listening to the man and his many poems, he is much more curious about what the Colonel has to say. “You are stalling.”

“My da’, God rest his poor soul, always said we was cursed.” Mayne begins lowly, grimacing. “Said the Almighty hisself was punishing us for the sins and wickedness of our savage ancestors – the luchthonn, the wolf-warriors.”

The unfamiliar word rolls off of Mayne’s tongue easily and Augustin nods, encouraging the other with a hum.

“Always cursed the name Laignech Fáelad for sticking us with it.” The other huffs, shaking his head. “Claimed that Fáelad’s greed and thirst for blood lead him to slaughtering herds of sheep, becoming a blight on Ossory.  That he could not and would not stop, leaving the people hungry, depraving them of their livelihoods and that he led his offspring, his tribe, into following after him.”

He imagines that even if this is all hearsay, there is some truth to it. There has to be since Mayne is right here next to him, possessing abilities that Augustin thought to be imaginary until very recently.

“Not all tales are as grim as my da’ believed. Some said that the faoladh were made to protect us Irish folk from the invaders, that they were tasked with driving the Normans out but that the Normans arrived with silver and fire. That they cut down the faolta, driving them into hiding until they went near extinct.” The other heaves himself out of the water, spraying Augustin yet again and shaking his head like a wet dog.

He purses his lips at the display but lets Mayne get away with it and looks anywhere else as the clear droplets start making rivulets down the man’s firm physique.

“And you were born with this ability?”

“Aye.” The other lies back, letting the last dregs of the sun and the warm air dry him. “A rare fuckin’ occurrence as it is, skipped three generations before finally catching up with lucky me. Tore up the chicken coop first time it happened. I was seven.”

He can’t even begin to imagine what it was like for Paddy, the fear and confusion that he must have experienced.

“There is an old French story that sounds similar, La Bête du Gévaudan. It is said that the beast killed anywhere from sixty to a hundred people. The people claimed that it was as big as a horse, that it had a wolf-like head and a long tail.” With a low chuckle, he glances at Mayne to gauge his reaction. “I suppose it is less of a legend than it is thought, after all.”

“Most legends hold grains of that which is true.” The other confirms, lacing his fingers and resting them against his stomach. “Among the SAS, I am sure you’ve figured by this point, are four more of my kind. Out of the five of us, only I was born into it. The rest, apart for Riley, I turned.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, turning where he’s sat to look at Mayne fully. The man meets his gaze steadily, seemingly waiting for Augustin’s judgment, for his scorn. Instead of hastily accusing the other of evil, Augustin takes a deep breath.

“Why?”

“At one point or another during this here lengthy war, they were all dying.” Mayne grins at his baffled expression and he tries to remember if he’s ever seen a scar or mark on any of the men but cannot remember.

“McDiarmid?” Is the first thing that crosses his mind, unsure how the new recruit fits into the picture.

“Bad fuckin’ case of tuberculosis.” The other huffs. “Shortly after recruitment. Fucker didn’t start showing symptoms until it was too late to even think about treatment. Saw him dribbling blood, collapsed behind the mess hall. Gave him the choice.”

“A false dichotomy.” Augustin points out. Between dying and living like something else entirely, he is not sure he would have chosen death either.

“Maybe so, but he hasn’t regretted it yet.” Mayne heaves himself back into a seated position. “It is not as they say. We are not savage beasts who slaughter mindlessly, we are not tempted by the moon to shed our skins. Our senses are sharp and if we sometimes sprout fur and grow twice the size of the normal man, well – then it is a good thing the SAS is on the side of the English.”

“You are forgetting the ability to cheat death.” He points out. This is a lot to think about and he knows that he will be ruminating on what Mayne’s said until he can finally accept it as reality. He’s always been led by the saying seeing is believing, but for reasons that should be apparent to any who ask, he is struggling with this particular sight.

Paddy’s face scrunches up and he runs a hand through his wet hair. “Nothing is without consequences; getting your brains blown out, least of all. Sometimes parts go missing, bits of memory, empty spaces where I know faces should be.”

“This is all so strange.” He sighs, rubbing at his face, pushing his glasses up momentarily. “It is incredible but it has also fundamentally changed my perspective. I think I am getting a headache.”

Mayne chuckles, slapping him on the back heartily before getting up. Again, Augustin averts his gaze from the white material clinging to Mayne’s hips.

“Any more questions, professor, or did I pass the test?”

“With honors.” He puts his socks and boots on carefully. “This was more than enough for one night.”

“Such low capacity.” The other teases, helping him up off the concrete. “Are you sure you have enough stamina for this war, Captain?”

He grins, quirking an eyebrow, unable to pass on the opportunity. “I assure you that nobody has ever questioned my stamina, Colonel.”

The man barks out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Cheeky bugger.”

Unconcerned with his nudity, Mayne begins trekking back along the pier, boots in hand and a sway to his hips that distracts Augustin for a moment. His stomach clenches at the display, a now-familiar coil of heat settling in the cradle between his hips. Christ’s sake, he thinks, desperately searching for something to say in order to divert his attention. You are not a schoolboy, calm down.

“Say, Paddy, does our decided stagnation call for a new training regiment, then? Seeing as we will be here for an unknown amount of time and all.”

Mayne tutts, wagging a finger at him. “You have just given me an idea.”

He and Mayne sequester themselves up in the bell tower. The floorboards are uncomfortable and the air is muggy but at least Paddy is back in his uniform. They are staring out the wide window, both watching the clear skies. Well, he’s watching the stars, but he knows now that Mayne is listening for enemy movements. Always alert, always ready. He should sleep, should let it overtake him but something is keeping him up, restless and jittery – unable to settle. He shifts where he’s sitting for the nth time and Mayne takes it as incentive to speak.

“Augustin.” The man says pointedly, as if there is anyone else there with them. “When the leash inevitably cuts off my airflow and crushes my windpipe, I want you to be the one to cut me loose.”  

“I-” He blinks before clearing his throat. “I am not sure what that means, Paddy.”

The other just hums, turning his back on the window and settling down. “You will know when the time comes.”

“Alright.” Augustin nods, accepting this as a part of his duties. A new certainty washes over him, easing his nerves and with the last of his strength he manages a verse for Mayne.“Un malheureux ensorcelé/Dans ses tâtonnements futiles/Pour fuir d'un lieu plein de reptiles,/Cherchant la lumière et la clé//.”

Chapter Text

Mayne is gracious enough to wake him before he begins ringing the bell. Eyes crusted with sleep and his uniform rumpled, Augustin stumbles down the steps until he is back outside in the already oppressive heat.

“We’ve been stood down.” Mayne speaks, tone conversational but across the square, a dead rooster in his hands, McDiarmid is standing at attention. “Get the men up.”

The Corporal nods, heading for the church.

“Is this necessary?” A yawn cracks something in his jaw, making him wince. He’s feeling particularly rough this morning and he can imagine that everything that’s happened in the last two days is at fault. Though, he suspects that that particular feeling won’t be going away until quite a while longer.

“Necessary? This is partially your fault.” The other grins at him, looking far more light-hearted than he did yesterday. This is good, he supposes. Mayne not being angry or worried and stressed is a rare sight so Augustin will forego mentioning the change. It’s only a shame that it comes at the expense of his eardrums. He can’t imagine how his other lupine companions are faring.

“I will not be taking any credit.” He shuffles over to the nearest wall, dropping down into the dust.

Slowly, the men exit the buildings surrounding the square. They’re all in varying degrees of dress and still obviously half asleep. Augustin pities the ones that had gone overboard with their drink during the night but only a little. The ringing of the bell stops and Mayne comes to stand at the top of the few stone steps leading into the tower, hands on his hips, and begins his preaching.

“From now on, if you hear this bell, that means I’ve had an idea…”

Augustin stares, blinking slowly, the veins prominent on Paddy’s forearms entirely too distracting. He doesn’t know if his mouth is dry due to dehydration or something else entirely.

“Which mostly for you will mean bad news because I am not in a good frame of mind, and the only people for me to take my fury out on is you.”

Well, so much for Mayne being in a chipper mood. He slumps where he’s sat, pinching the bridge of his nose. Next to him, Fraser has shuffled closer, crouching down. The younger looks at him and sniffs before wrinkling his nose.

“Took a dip in the harbor?” The other hushes and Augustin nods.

“Paddy did. I supervised lest he drown, leaving us bereft of his morning cheer.” The remark comes to him easily and only once it is out there does he remember that Mayne can hear him perfectly well, no matter how hushed the words. He clams up and Fraser snorts, patting him on the shoulder.

“Should have let the sea take him.”

“If you look across the square.” Mayne descends the steps, undeterred. “Look there, that open doorway – inside there is a foundry, where invisible irons and shackles are being forged-”

“Oh, come on.” Augustin mutters at the dramatic, leave it to Mayne to put on a show this early in the day.

“-keeping us imprisoned in this wee fucking town. And the officer who’s perched by that doorway is the blacksmith who forges those irons!”

And sure enough, there Bill Stirling is, come down from his ivory tower to see what the commoners were up to. There’s a mighty frown on his face, the man obviously not appreciating the finger pointed at him.

“Paddy, what the fuck are you talking about?” Reg’s exasperated question is followed by Stirling’s retreat, no longer willing to suffer through Mayne’s theatrical display.

Lucky him, Augustin thinks idly. Then again, if he were anywhere else, he would not get to see the shifting of Paddy’s muscles under his glistening skin as he prowls between the soldiers. Wouldn’t be privy to the way his uniform pants hug his hips and how his singlet stretches across his chest. He swallows heavily, looking away.

“Since we are stuck on this church-infested slab of a rock for who knows how long, we will have to keep ourselves entertained.” Mayne announces.

“I’ve already shot a cockerel, Paddy, and there’s goats.” Jock points out, seemingly proud. Mayne’s mouth quirks in the faintest of smiles bud nobody else speaks. Next to him, Fraser sighs heavily.

“…That is to say you’ll be free to entertain yourselves in the afternoons. Because in the mornings, before it gets too hot, we the men of the Special Air Service, will train.”

Somewhere near the well, someone groans, the men now realizing that there will be no downtime. With Mayne’s usual training regiment, their afternoons are free, yes, but the training is rigorous enough that it warrants rest and long soaks in water rather than anything that requires actual moving. A thought occurs to him but before he can voice it, Mayne’s continuing with his spiel.

“Ready for the moment when the great chain-makers, and holders and keepers, and stand-us-DOWNERS-” The man’s shout rings out through the air, making Fraser wince. “-are ready to put us once more back into the barrel of the British crossbow and fire us into the heart of the enemy!”

“Here comes the bell again.” The man next to him brings both hands to his ears, trying to keep the noise out as Mayne pulls on the rope. Thankfully, the tolling is brief this time.

“Those of you paying attention will know by now that that means I’ve had an idea. So, here is that idea.” The Colonel turns, pointing into the distance. “Do you see yon mountain?”

They are to climb a mountain in full kit before the worst of the heat hits and Augustin feels unfortunately responsible for their new peril. He would apologize were he not also one of the SAS men that will be executing this task. The complaints of their soldiers don’t seem to move Paddy much for he remains steadfast and somewhat smug on the step.

“I suspect some of you will come to really dread the tolling of the bell. But fuck me, ring it will – until we are set free to be the beasts we are in the noble cause.”

The phrasing is not lost on Augustin, the story he’d told yesterday of the plight on Gévaudan. The rest of the men can never know he’s the one that sowed the seed to their current predicament.

“We move in ten. No dicking about.”

“This is going to be miserable.” He notes and Fraser nods, both of them watching Stirling intercept Mayne.

“The priest went crying to the Colonel.” Fraser tells him, happy to report, sensing Augustin’s curiosity.

They observe as Mayne’s frame grows tense for a few moments as if preparing to battle and then both share a sound of disbelief as Stirling flashes the man the cross hung around his neck. Shortly after, Fraser runs a hand over his face in frustration.

“He’s going to get us all killed.”

“Another faux pas?”

“He thinks his metaphors are cleverly disguised but he’s being a child.” The other stands and Augustin follows, glancing back at Mayne and Stirling. Doing his best impression of Mayne’s accent, Fraser mocks. “My job is to take human beings and turn them into animals.”

This startles a laugh out of Augustin, it leaves his mouth loud and sudden, making some of the men turn their way. Fraser’s cheeks have gone a little red and Augustin can almost hear the embarrassment he’s trying to cover with the clearing of his throat.

“Was that your best attempt, my friend?”

“Yes, well. I don’t sit around all day trying to perfect my Paddy Mayne impression.” The younger grumbles, waiting for Augustin to pick his kit up.

“There’s a new detachment.” Riley has his thumb near his mouth, worrying at the skin, when they reach him.

“New recruits for us?” André asks before nodding to them in greeting.

“No, there wasn’t supposed to be overlap. We should’ve been long gone by the time they came down here. Christ, they’re not even trained yet.” The American groans, loud and dismayed.

“2SAS!?” Fraser bursts out, startling them all and drawing Mayne’s gaze towards their little gaggle as he, too, laughs.

“The bastard has found our replacements and we are not even gone yet.” Zirnheld spits, a few choice curses in French leaving him soon after.

“The originals, what a fucking joke.” Riley shakes his head as Mayne leaves for the church. “What the hell was David thinking?”

“Something to look forward to when we come down from the mountain, no?” He tries to alleviate the situation, uneasy himself but reluctant to voice his concerns.

“Yeah and it’ll be a shit-show.”

“So why the training if you do not need it?”

McDiarmid has been holding the back of the line with him as they descend the mountain, providing Augustin with silent but pleasant company. Or maybe protection. Who is to say?

The marching had been miserable. He can feel that it has left him lightly sunburned across the bridge of his nose, the warmth there prominent, and his feet are aching from the uneven terrain, muscles burning. But, seeing the sea in the near distance, the Allied armada in the bay, makes all the pains a little more worth it. Knowing that they’re making visible progress makes it worth it. Even though he is sweating through every piece of clothing currently on him. He should have taken his shirt of at the least, followed in some of the others’ footsteps.

“A show of solidarity, Jordan. We can’t let the men falter just because a handful of us has had the misfortune of Paddy’s mercy.” The large man hikes up his kit with a shrug, an easy grin on his face.

“And you have adjusted well?” He can’t help but probe for information. Now that he’s accepted this as his new reality, he wants to know more. And out of them all, Mayne is probably the least likely to answer him. So asking around with the others it is.

“Aye, it certainly helps with the fighting.” Jock rubs a hand over his mustache. “It’s the hearin’ every bloody thing that was the problem.”

“But you are handling it.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” McDiarmid slaps him on the back, sending him stumbling as the man laughs heartily.

The narrow passageway opens up into a sandy beach, the sea sparkling in the midday sun because, despite Mayne’s earlier words, their pace hadn’t been efficient enough to avoid the worst of the heat. They line themselves up and when some of the men begin taking off their kits, Mayne makes a displeased sound.

“Do not lay your packs down without my order.” The man instructs, voice firm and Augustin can almost see another bout of theatrics brewing in the man’s brain. A general noise of displeasure ripples through the crowd but Mayne remains undeterred. “We do not rest until we have achieved our goal.”

“Paddy, we’ve been up that fucking mountain and we’ve come down that fucking mountain – that was our goal.” Cooper’s voice is more exasperated than Augustin has heard it in a while, the heat taking its toll on the younger man as well as the rest of them.

“No!” Mayne shouts, leaned back, bare arms over his gun. Arms that should have no right looking like-

“Our goal was spiritual.”

Really, Augustin thinks, the man would be much more attractive if he kept his mouth shut more often.

That is patently untrue, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Bergé enters his train of thought, buying no ticket for the ride and paying no fare, leaving him flustered. True or not, at that moment, Augustin would prefer the silence of the sea instead of Mayne adding to their suffering while remaining largely unbothered.  

“You may not think it but I took yous up that mountain for good fucking reason.”

By his side, Fraser scoffs and Augustin feels a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Our advance was postponed.” Mayne’s hands twitch but the rest of him shows no signs of his earlier ire. “The Americans delayed us, and the earth shook with my wrath! So I led us all up the mountain, and from the top, we looked across Italy.” The man’s arm unfolds, motioning to the wide expanse of water behind them. “And from our high viewpoint, we realized that there is a greater strategy to which we are subordinate.”

“Christ.” Fraser finally caves, muttering to himself.

“And in the cool mountain air, didn’t we accept that we are pawns in a much better game?”

Privately, he thinks that only Mayne has had to make this realization. That the rest of them have long since accepted this as fact.

“And now, our fury has diminished. Yes?”

The men echo an affirmative even though their hearts aren’t really in it and again, Augustin believes that this was all for Mayne’s benefit more than theirs.

“Thus, we have achieved our goal.”

They take it as a sign to start dropping their packs and Augustin finally breathes out a sigh. He’s halfway through unbuttoning his shirt when Fraser jolts up, head swiveling to the hill off to the side and drawing his attention.

“Paddy! 9 o’clock, incoming!”

The Colonel straightens from his slouch at the call, eyes focused. Nobody moves for a few moments and then the man is motioning to Seekings and Riley with his hand – a signal for them to begin creeping below the sightline of where Fraser had indicated.

Lowly, Mayne begins to cite. “The gallows in my garden, people say,/Is new and neat and adequately tall;/I tie the noose on in a knowing way/As one that knots his necktie for a ball.” No sooner than the man is finished with his verse does he open his mouth and bellows. “Take cover!”

A bullet whizzes past them, embedding itself into a canteen Kershaw had raised. The men begin shouting and Augustin finds himself pulled down behind an overturned boat by Fraser, thoroughly shielded which is quite flattering but ridiculous. Some of the men provide cover fire as Pat and Reg dart up the rocky side with impressive speed and agility, the shouting becoming frantic until Fraser shushes them.

“It’s a wee shitty .22 rifle! Three shooters at best.” The Lieutenant calls and Paddy stands up, ready to take action. But just as he does, just as the two sent off are about jump the drystane wall in the distance, another bullet tears through the air, hitting Mayne in the shoulder.

The howl of pain that tears out of Paddy’s open maw shakes through the area and the man goes down like a sack of grain, leaving everyone stunned. 

“They’ve got fuckin’ silver!” Fraser throws his gun to the side, the first to realize what has happened, rushing for Mayne’s prone form.

The chaos unfolds around them, more men rushing up the hill to help the two while the rest hold position and Mayne continues hissing and spitting, writhing on the ground. Jock and Bill have followed him down, trying their best to hold the Colonel still and assess the damage.

“Jordan!” Fraser snaps and Augustin is by his side in a moment. It is as if he’s blind to anything else that’s happening around him. He doesn’t see the men apprehending the attackers, doesn’t see the rest forming a perimeter, encircling them. All he can focus on is the black, vein-like streaks spreading from where the bullet has hit Mayne.

“You need to get the bullet out.” The Lieutenant demands, wide-eyed and going pale.

“What?!” His stomach curdles, bile rising up his esophagus at the thought. “I can’t – I don’t have – the supplies.”

“I can’t touch it.” Fraser insists. “We have to act fast.”

“But-” His throat clicks, Mayne’s fingers latching onto his wrist. He looks down, the sweat beading on his forehead sliding into his eyes. Mayne’s staring up at him, something glinting in his bleary gaze and his teeth sharpening. He’s bitten clean through his lip in an effort to contain his wailing, blood dribbling down the side of his mouth. The expression on his face is pleading, the black veins spreading up his shoulder and towards his jaw.

“Augustin. If it spreads to his brain – he’s going to die.” Fraser’s words cut through him, instilling fear into his very core.

“Alright.”

They tug Mayne’s kit off, disposing him of everything that could impede Augustin’s impromptu operation. Someone shoves a piece of wood between Mayne’s teeth as if it will help.

“Coop, heat a knife.” Fraser instructs, moving to press down onto Mayne’s arms. “Jock, get his legs.”

“I am so sorry, Paddy.” He murmurs, eyeing the entrance wound. This is the second time he’s having to stare down at Mayne as he bleeds out. That is, he thinks, two times too many. The wound is raw, festering from the silver and Augustin presses his left hand into the meat of his shoulder to spread the wound a little, trying to see. Mayne whimpers, hissing around the wooden bit.

“A poem, perhaps, to ease the pain. Hm?” He grins shakily, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. His hands are trembling but slowly, with his right, he inches towards the oozing flesh. “Dans une terre grasse et pleine d'escargots/Je veux creuser moi-même une fosse profonde.”

The meat of the other’s shoulder is warm, made warmer by the infection. It makes an awful noise when Augustin presses deeper and Mayne follows it with a barely-muffled yowl. The wood in his mouth gives an ominous crackle.

“Où je puisse à loisir étaler mes vieux os/Et dormir dans l'oubli comme un requin dans l'onde.” He pushes deeper, trying desperately not to think about what it is that he’s doing. He can’t afford to be sick, not while Mayne’s life is in his hands. Someone else should have done this. Surely, Kershaw or Cooper have already had to dig up bullet from their friends’ bodies. But Fraser had asked Augustin. Has entrusted him with this task.

He switches to English to try and give his mind something else to focus on. “I hate all tombs, and testaments, and wills:/I want no human tears; I'd like it more;-” The men seem to be collectively holding their breaths, not a sound to be heard. Then again, maybe Augustin is deaf to it all, concentrated solely on his task.

His nail catches on something, hits a hard point that he doesn’t think is bone. His jaw clenches as he realizes that he’ll have to go back in with two fingers. The wound opens up more as he moves around, the blood freely flowing and Mayne growing more pallid the longer this takes.

“Fuck.” He grunts, trying to remember the next bit of the poem, mind jumping from verse to the sight before him. “That ravens could attack me with their bills,/To broach my carcase of its living gore.”

With two fingers inside Mayne and the man trying his best to buck off the two men holding him down, he finally manages to snag the bullet. The misshapen thing feels as warm as the rest of Mayne is, it’s slippery and he almost loses the grip on it while pulling it out but.

“Shit!” He drops the thing to the side, blood and sand creating a coating around it. Mayne shudders but the veins don’t retreat and the panic that had been abating returns tenfold. He looks up at Fraser, pleading for instructions, Paddy’s blood on his hands and the man’s pulse fading under his palm.

“Here comes the hard part.” Fraser mutters. “I have to hold him down again so you have to do it.”

“Do what?” He’s afraid of the answer but he knows he’ll follow through regardless.

“You have to stick it in there and, uh, twist.” The man’s mouth is flat and he’s looking uncharacteristically nervous.

“Twist.”

“Aye.”

Fraser hands him a knife, the blade of it red with having been held over an open flame for an amount of time. It connects within his brain what he has to do and his stomach clenches, leaving him staring at the thing with dawning horror.

“Okay.” He has never been a praying man on account of his upbringing in France but he thinks that this is as good a time to start as any.

Fraser returns to holding Mayne’s arms and the Colonel’s upset panting starts anew, sensing what is to come.

“I’m really sorry, Paddy.”

The knife goes in smoothly, the smell of burning flesh fills the air as does the roar that’s left Mayne’s throat. The wood between his teeth obliterated by sharp canines now allowing for the noise to seep out full volume. As he twists the knife, something else cracks and he thinks it might be Mayne’s arm where he’s pushing up against Fraser’s hold. Or maybe his leg, where he’s trying to kick Jock off. But he can’t tell at the moment, too busy trying not to throw up as he burns out the remnants of silver from within his friend.

The knife cools and he pulls it out, leaving Mayne huffing and heaving, spit flying as he struggles. The black spreading up his neck slows, stopping fully over the course of several seconds, no source to the infection left to feed it. Mayne’s entire shoulder is covered in red, as is most of his singlet. As are Augustin’s hands. The feeling of having his fingers within Mayne’s body lingers, morbidly intimate, making him ill.

Slowly, Paddy calms and Fraser and McDiarmid release him.

As if a bubble had been burst, Augustin is suddenly aware of the men around him. They’re rowdy, there’s cheering and shouting but they seem relieved instead of scared. He did it.

“Good job, lad.” Kershaw pats him on the back, slowly taking the knife from his hands.

Someone else is talking to him, he’s sure, but he can’t be bothered to look away from the wound that’s growing smaller, closing efficiently and quickly. He takes in his first lungful of air in God knows how many minutes and it makes him shudder.

Mayne’s still prone on the ground and Augustin is still knelt by his side but nobody’s tried to move them yet so he remains, waiting for the man to come to.

Once he has found his voice, he continues. “O worms! black friends, who cannot hear or see,/A free and joyous corpse behold in me!” It comes out as a croak, dry and brittle but it makes Mayne stir never the less.

The other cracks an eye open, bloodshot but its usual mercurial color. A shaky grin tugs at Mayne’s expressive mouth and suddenly, Augustin wants to slam his fist into him.

“I did not enjoy that.” He grouses harshly, wiping his hand on Mayne’s singlet, across the man’s stomach, feeling the muscle clench under his touch.

“I would be more worried if you did.” Mayne sits up, rotating his shoulder. “I liked that one. What is it?”

“Le Mort Joyeux. Perhaps the sickness lingers if you are willing to admit to appreciating a Baudelaire poem so easily.” He stands, offering a hand out that Mayne takes. He pulls the man to his feet even though he knows it is not necessary. The closeness, he reasons, is a comfort. Knowing Mayne is alive and being able to feel his pulse under his fingers settles something in him.

“Maybe it just pertains to our situation and I find that humorous.” Mayne cracks his neck, looking around until his eyes settle onto Pat and Reg who, between them, hold three – kids. They’re boys, they can’t be older than fifteen and they’re struggling feebly against the men’s holds

“Right, what the fuck do we have here then?” The Colonel asks, back to business like he isn’t covered in his own blood, like Augustin hadn’t had his life in his hands a moment ago.

“Sicilian mafia sent us messengers.” Riley shoves one of the boys forward and the kid holds out a white handkerchief embroidered with flowers.

The boy then speaks, Italian rolling off his tongue easily but the smirk on the kid’s face spells something other than peace. Behind him, Pat’s eyebrows shoot up.

“What did he say?” Paddy demands, staring at the offering in suspicion.

“Well, it’s a quote.” Riley clears his throat, “From you, Sir.”

“I see.” The man’s lip twitches, seemingly split between anger and rationale. “And it looks like Stirling isn’t the only one our dear old priest tattled to.”

“We have to assume they’re prepared to drive us away if we do not cooperate.” He shuffles closer, pushing one of the boys’ jacket to the side. Tucked into the kid’s belt is a knife that’s gleaming. Mayne hums at the sight, nodding.

“We don’t want to make enemies where we don’t have to.” Tonkin pipes up, holding the rifles they’d taken off their wayward attackers. Such a small caliber doing so much damage to the Colonel – Augustin fears what would have happened if the Sicilians were serious in their attack.

“There’s one more up in the hill.” Fraser mutters, tracking the line of it with his finger before stopping at a point where a short tree is. “Recon, I’d guess.”

“Fine.” Mayne tucks the cloth away into his pocket, looking reluctant to do so. “Even though an attempt on my life has been made, I will be the bigger person.” The man waves Riley and Seekings away with a dismissive gesture. “Send them back.”

The commotion dies down quick and Augustin watches as Riley herds the boys back up the footpath, letting them go. The kids go running off, laughing as if they hadn’t been at the mercy of Mayne’s temper. Though, maybe that’s why they’d sent kids instead of men, trusting the good nature of the SAS that they would not harm children.

He is relieved that they had been proven right.

“Well.” Cooper claps his hands together before beginning to unbutton his pants. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but this beach rather reminds me of Margate.”

Augustin observes, silent and still, as the men get naked and rush for the water. Slightly behind him, Tonkin has brought out his camera, taking a picture.

“Augustin.” Fraser appears in front of him, grasping gently at both his wrists. “You should get cleaned up, aye?”

“Yes, yes.” He swallows, wincing as he looks at his hands. The red on them is flaking, crusted in some spots and still lightly wet in others. He takes off his boots and socks, ignoring Fraser’s hovering as he crouches in the shallows. The blood doesn’t come off easily, it clings to him as if it’s a part of him now. He wonders if it was the same when Fraser had wiped his face down after – after. He scrubs harder, eyes stinging fiercely and his nose getting runny.

Latent fear makes itself known, the stress of the situation catching up with him. He is exhausted and none of the men around him seem to realize that they’d almost lost Paddy for good. None of them seem to care. At least not to the extent that Augustin does.

Even if he pretended to be blind to his own feelings before, he cannot avoid the fact any longer. He is sweet on Mayne despite the man’s harsh words, his nature and his oddities. He cares for Paddy and the loss of him would hurt more than Augustin had ever anticipated anything hurting. He was not prepared to find this, whatever it is he is feeling. And especially not in the midst of a war.

He had had lovers in Paris, had short trysts with both men and women but had kept adamantly the opinion that he was too busy for romance. And it had been true then so why is it so different now? Why has war allowed time for these feelings to fester? What has drawn him to Mayne so inexplicably?

“You’ll scrub yourself raw.” Mayne’s voice cuts through his tumultuous thoughts and he flinches, realizing that he’s made quite a mess of his hands. He’s not bleeding, thankfully, but the sting of the salt water is sharp.

With a huff, he relents, letting them soak in the sea.

“I don’t think I can do that again, Paddy.” The admission is hushed, a secret shared between them even though he knows certain others can hear it as well.

“Aye, I wouldn’t ask you to.” The man’s drops beside him, squatting in the shallows with Augustin as if they were two boys looking for colorful seashells. “I would not ask you to but with how things have gone for us so fucking far, you might have to.”

He nods, reluctant to look at the other. “Could you have asked any of the others?”

“Sure.” Mayne shrugs, submerging his own hands into the warm water. “But I would not have.”

“Why?” It bursts out of him, Mayne’s confusing words stirring him up inside, making him want to lash out. The infuriating expression on the man’s face isn’t helping the situation either. That placid look that is skirting the edges of looking smug as if Mayne is keeping a secret from the world, the mirth in his eyes that makes them look brighter.

The question, while entirely logical, seems to take Mayne aback. The man blinks at him, mouth ticking up at the corner, getting ready for a sneer. They spend the next few moment staring at one another silently as Mayne tries to come up with something to say, visibly struggling not to just push Augustin away.

“Because.” The other starts slowly. “While I trust my men to fight and carry out mission, to risk their lives in pursuit of liberation…” Paddy’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Having their fingers within my flesh is not something I would have allowed… or tolerated.”

Augustin’s mind spins with what is not being said, what Mayne’s left out, uselessly. He watches the other try and fail to keep a straight face, something complicated distorting his features before the man is walking away.

His heart is thudding in his chest too loudly, there is no doubt about any of their enhanced companions and their ability to hear it. He tries to calm down, tries to focus on the feeling of wet sand between his toes and his fingers. He searches the shallows for shells, keeps his mind and his sight focused on the task. It does not work. He keeps going back to Mayne being shot, to having his fingers in the other’s shoulder, to the fear that consumes him every time he thinks about Mayne dying. 

Alexandre Dumas fils may not have been the prolific writer his father was but La Dame aux Camélias remains one of Augustin’s favorite books. Mayne wasn’t wrong when he’d called him out on his preference for romance because even though his avoidance of the same in his personal life was a choice, he would not deprive himself of it in writing as well. After years of reading and studying philosophy, after teaching it to others, romance had become a sort-of escape for him. Which is why he is partial to Baudelaire and Gautier, why he holds Dumas fils’s novel close to his heart.

And in said novel, Dumas fils writes: How one realizes the shortness of life by the rapidity of sensations! I have only known Marguerite for two days, she has only been my mistress since yesterday, and she has already so completely absorbed my thoughts, my heart, and my life.

Paddy has been in his life for more than two days but within the last two days he has come to realize this shortness of it. The reality of now having to lose something again terrifies him, makes him want to leave and never look back. But at the same time he thinks that his days would be miserably dull without these men, without Mayne. Either that or he would get himself killed on some frontline somewhere in France with no friends to call his own, no one to try and protect him even if it is ill-advised.

“When Paris is free, when the war is over, I should like to take you to see La traviata, I think.” He speaks to no one and to Mayne at the same time, knowing that the man will hear even if he is not calling attention to himself.

There is something comforting in that thought, settling warm in his gut.

Their return to Augusta is more subdued, the men tired after the day’s events and their time enjoying the sea. Augustin has found himself shadowing Mayne again, walking just a step behind the other, keeping silent but watching the way the Colonel twitches at every loud noise.

Once they’re back at the town square, Mayne steals away without a word, shooting up every poster of Mussolini as he heads for Stirling and the priest.

“They have eyes on us.” Fraser informs him as they take a seat in the shade of the well. “I thought it was just the townsfolk staying out of sight yesterday. But the priest’s confirmed it.”

“Ah, this is how they knew where we would be.” He leans his head back against the warmed stone, closing his eyes.

“The meeting’s going swimmingly. He’s already insulted each of them twice.” The other snorts and Augustin can feel the movement of the other’s form as he shrugs his shoulders. In the distance, there are men shouting orders and following orders, 2SAS he assumes. It will be interesting to see what their legacy will be, how many more units will cling to their name eventually.

“Mafia and Resistance meeting tomorrow morning, before deployment.” Fraser huffs, resigned.

“I have noticed that you are the best at this.” He mentions, turning to look at the other. “Even from your… kind, I suppose – you seem to hear the best.”

Fraser nods, mouth thinning. “I can focus it better, hear distant sounds sharper. The rest don’t bother but becoming… this has made me paranoid so I practice.”

“It is impressive.” Augustin declares, bumping their shoulders together and Fraser looks away, always bashful about accepting compliments.

The men of the 2SAS march into the square entirely too orderly and Fraser jumps up, eyes wide and eager.

“It’s Jim.” Fraser points as if Augustin cannot see for himself but he forgives the other for stating the obvious in his excitement. “I thought I recognized the voice but – it’s been a while since he’s ordered anyone around like that.”

And truly, the men are following the parade procession swimmingly. Though, this hardly makes them worth the name.

From out of the building behind the men, Mayne exits, a wide grin already on his face. “Fraser.” The Colonel calls, motioning behind him. “Stirling wants to see you.”

The younger’s face falls a little, obviously split between wanting to greet a friend and obeying Mayne’s order. Augustin nudges him. “It could be important. We’ll be sharing the town with them until morning.”

Fraser nods, allowing Augustin to escort him the short few steps until they’re at Mayne’s side. The shorter pats the Lieutenant on the shoulder before moving towards the men of the 2SAS. Augustin follows, quite happy to see Almonds himself.     

Almonds salutes but it’s almost mocking at this point. “Would you like to inspect the men, Sirs?”

“Jim,” He intones, shaking the man’s hand and accepting the brief shake of his shoulders with a chuckle.

“They’ve got me bashing the square, Sir.” Almonds shakes Mayne’s hand next. “Said they needed someone who knew what the bloody hell they were doing.”

“So they resorted to a spent old fucker like you?” Mayne’s eyes glint, throwing a cursory glance at the men.

“Aye. Escaped a prison camp.” Almonds’ good cheer vanes a little, reminding the both of them why he’d been away in the first place. “And in my relief and elation, I foolishly volunteered.”     

He shares a glance with the Colonel and he can imagine surprise and concern writ over both their faces. To get out, to be free and alive and then to just – go back to it. Augustin cannot – well. Maybe he can imagine it all too clearly, actually.

“Paddy, with respect.” The man continues, tipping his head to the side and ushering them further away from the men, leaving them with a stand easy.

“May I request that you do what you can to get me the hell out of this unit?”

“You have no faith in the new incarnation?” Mayne squints up at Almonds and Augustin turns his head to watch the new recruits. They seem like young men, young soldiers who’ve seen war but it is difficult to say if there is any ability to them outside of action or training.

“Well, the issue, Sir, is that everyone involved in this new regiment is sane.” Almonds proclaims with all the calmness that he possesses and Augustin bites back a laugh. “They also lack certain… conditions that have always put us ahead.”

“Aye, I can see how that would be hazardous.”

He leaves the two men bickering about new intake to intercept Fraser who’s coming out of the house Stirling’s commandeered.

“What is it?”

“I’m being made Captain.” The younger frowns, looking over at Mayne.

“Congratulations, my friend.” He grins though he’s been aware of this for a while.

“Thank you.” The other still looks somewhat reluctant but more accepting of the fact now. “I did not – I never had any particular ambitions of ascending ranks.”

“And yet you possess all the qualities necessary to do so. Is it surprising then?” He lays it on thick, enjoys seeing how the other clams up, thinking that Fraser would rather curl up in a ball than suffer his compliments any longer. “No need to be shy about it. We should celebrate.”

He doesn’t know about the younger but after the day he’s had, he could certainly use a drink. And judging by Mayne’s frown as he leaves Almonds to his 2SAS, it will perhaps be beneficial to him to get a few glasses of rum in while he still can.

Chapter Text

He sleeps in the bell tower again that night, the cramped space smelling strongly of cigarettes now that Paddy has filched some from the new recruits. It is oddly comforting, mixed with the scent of the sea that still clings to both his and Mayne’s clothing. He’d called it an early night. Tired from the day’s training and the shock of seeing Paddy shot again, he’d fallen asleep immediately upon lying down.

And now, awake again, he feels like he hasn’t rested at all. Paddy’s damned bell not helping with that feeling at all.

There is a long table set on the cobblestones in front of the church, a hearty spread of food and drink spanning the length of it. Some of the men have already begun emerging from their sleeping spaces, looking perplexed by the fact that the offer of breaking bread with the mafia and the Resistance wasn’t metaphorical.

“La colazione è servita!” Mayne yells, the Italian leaving him accented in the wrong place.

Out of the men under their command, most remain off to the side, directed by a wave of Paddy’s hand.

“Keep your weapons ready, boys. I want a perimeter.” The Colonel nods to Pat who’s shuffled closer to sit at Mayne’s right. “Riley, translate any whispers.”

Augustin follows, nodding his hello to Reg, Jock and Cooper who are flanking Paddy’s right and at Kershaw who’s already serving himself food. Tonkin comes to sit next to him, looking disgruntled to be up this early. 

“Something doesn’t feel right.” Fraser grumbles, hunkering down beside Dave. Like this, they’ve occupied one half of the long table, marking their territory quite clearly, encasing Paddy lest their guests try anything funny.

No sooner than they’ve settled, does a truck pull up. Paddy stands abruptly, nostrils flaring and taking a breath deep enough and loud enough for Augustin to hear.

From the truck, a woman emerges first, rifle in hand. She is followed by several men but she is the first one to speak. She looks – well, she looks tired and irritated to Augustin’s eyes. But to the rest of their men – or at least a good portion of the gathered ones – she is something else.

“We are the Resistance.” Her voice is firm as she delivers her announcement. “Giustizia è Liberta Brigade. From Syracuse and from the mountain.”

Mayne hisses, baring his teeth. “Faoladh.”

Suddenly, Augustin understands. He sees that Paddy and his ilk are uneasy, that they’ve shifted in their seats, not taking their eyes off the woman. She is like them. There is a tense moment between the woman and Paddy where they stare at one another, neither moving nor speaking.

Finally, seemingly realizing that Mayne will not back down, the woman tilts her head to the side slightly. “Licantropo.”

Mayne’s shoulders drop, the tension dissipating. “Soldiers from the mountain. Okay. We are the Special Air Service. Beware of imitations.”

The woman’s eyebrows lover, confused at Mayne’s words but as he is wont to do, the man doesn’t elaborate.

“Why don’t you sit down?”

“We were told you invited others.” Her tone turns accusing, cautious.

“I was told to break bread with the Resistance and the people known as the Cosa Nostra.” Paddy elaborates, sitting back in his chair. “We are here, you are here…”

“They are not here.” The woman’s face settles into a frown. “They always arrive before they are due.”

Augustin’s focus wavers, zeroing in instead on Fraser who’s turned his head towards the skies and closed his eyes. The younger looks to be deep in thought but Augustin knows by now that Fraser is listening, is hearing something the others cannot.

“The man in the fancy hat smells a rat.” Riley announces, drawling smugly. The negotiations continue, the men bickering until Fraser jumps up pointing in the general direction behind Mayne. Several guns are immediately trained on the Captain but he is undeterred.

“Two planes, heading this way.” Fraser announces, walking away from the table in a hurry.

“I suggest we get out of the open, ladies and gentlemen.” Mayne picks up a glass of wine from the feast and the rest scatter as instructed – the Resistance looking somewhat reluctant to do so.

There is a low rumbling, the cutlery clattering and the wine rippling in the decanters and then – from his safe spot in the church’s portal – he watches as two planes, two Stukas, descend upon the square, firing on the now-empty table.

“They’ll come around, get ready!” Mayne orders and Augustin falls in line, ducking behind the well with Jock and Fraser as they set the Bren machinegun up at the ready.

The Stukas circle around as predicted, preparing to fire again. The men shout, jeer, the guns are loud and persistent and – and Mayne is right there in the open with his own machinegun pointed at the sky. The planes fly low, aiming for better accuracy, more damage but they’re too close. One of the planes goes down as it’s leaving, exploding in the sky and the men cheer.

Relief washes over Augustin, hauling Fraser in for a hug and ruffling the younger’s hair. “Exceptional work, my friend!” He will not shy away from showing pride but Fraser does duck his head down, ears red.

“It’s the job.” The younger tries to dismiss the praise but Augustin just laughs, bumping their shoulders together.

“So humble!” He is about to say more, about to try and fish up a poem for the occasion when the woman approaches them again.

“Cosa Nostra have no real allegiances.” She spits the words as if they are a curse. “For them, everything is personal. They gave you up to the Germans, what did you do to offend them?”

Augustin winces knowing where this is going, what the offense was.

“Paddy, the lady asked you a question.” Cooper’s eyes are flinty in the sun, stare accusing as the Colonel keeps his silence.

“This breakfast was not my idea, but it has taught me a lesson.” Mayne shakes his cap out, rotating his shoulder. “Be selective about the orders that you obey.”

“I don’t think you should follow him.” Fraser warns, looking guiltily over to the Resistance members that are leaving.

“And yet I am going to do so anyway.” He grins, faint at best, and strikes a course for where Mayne had gone. The rest of the men linger by the table, picking through what’s left and what’s edible. But he doesn’t care about that. He is worried that Mayne will try and make an enemy of those who can stand them down permanently, that he will pick a fight he cannot win, so he follows.

The 2SAS men are busy with something that he does not give a shit about but they still make sure to salute him in passing. He doesn’t pay them mind enough to salute back, focused on finding Mayne.

“…you kick up sand. If you do it here, people are watching. And God is watching.”

He catches the tail-end of the sentence, Jim’s measured tone firm but the topic stops him in his tracks. Staying out of sight feels like he’s spying on his friends but he does not want to interrupt them, curious about where the other is going with this.

Almonds continues, exasperated. “Look, you don’t even hate. Not really. You just… You get mad and then you… squeeze the trigger. And then you make other people mad to make your madness seem alright.”

“Jesus fuck, Jimmy, that’s-”

“Speaking as someone who doesn’t usually give a toss,” Almonds’ tone rises, losing that calm quality to it in an instant. “You have to change, Paddy. Someone has to make you change.”

Some of the passing 2SAS men are now looking at him as if he’s lost his mind, but he can’t be bothered to reassure them of it being otherwise because Almonds is confronting Paddy outright. He’s only ever heard David Stirling do this in the past, only ever seen Fraser try and give up halfway through when Mayne began reciting poetry at him.

This is something that, the last time Augustin tried, had gotten him such a cold stare in response he had felt his skin grow bumpy under it.

Brave, Almonds continues. “Be it God, or someone else or – or the ghost of that Catholic boy that you left buried in the desert.”

Ah, Augustin swallows, leaning back against the wall as his knees grow weak.

So this is what it is all about. All of the grief he’d seen in Mayne back then, all of the anger and the loneliness that clung to the then-Captain like a shroud. This is the crux of Paddy and his suffering, the center of him. And like a fool, he’d blindly hit the nail on the head the one time he did attempt to confront him about it.

What is so important in that cursed fucking desert that you cannot part from it?!

Like a tank bulldozing onward, he’d torn through Mayne’s weak spot heedless of what he was dragging behind him, what sort of havoc he was wreaking. He didn’t know. How could he have known? He was not there for the conception of the SAS, he was just some French man that Paddy got saddled with. Just someone who liked prodding and poking for the fun of it. But it is not so now, he has grown past the base antagonism, has replaced it with something much more tragic and much more hopeless.

“I wish to speak with Colonel Stirling.” Mayne grinds out, tone flat. “Who ordered me and my men into a deathtrap.”

Almonds walks past him on his way but does not seem to notice Augustin. And it’s for the best, he doesn’t know how he’d excuse the lingering, the outright eavesdropping. He had only wanted to make sure Mayne was not stirring up trouble with the brass and now he’s been – what? Saddled with the knowledge he’d sought after all along.

He takes a deep breath, pushing his hair back from his forehead and trying his best to compose himself. With the intention of never mentioning what he’d heard, he walks through the archway, head held high.

He intends to head for the coast, for the pier; to pretend like he’d been going there all along but out of the corner of his eye he sees Mayne. And the man is – he’s heading straight for Augustin. Like a coward, he quickens his pace, a step away from running, but it’s useless.

Mayne snatches him by the wrist and drags him into the darkened entrance of the building to their right. He finds himself deposited in the hallway while Mayne closes the door, plunging them into complete darkness.

“This is unfair.” He mutters, considering Mayne can most definitely see while he cannot.

“If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,/You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.” The other sneers the verse from somewhere in front of him, making Augustin almost want to reach out and touch. “It is rude to spy on people.”

“I did not intend to-”

“Ah, but you did it anyway.” Mayne’s tone dips, his heat growing closer as if he is mere centimeters away from Augustin. His eyes are trying valiantly to adjust to the dark but it’s useless, he can only stare out into nothing and hope for the best.

“I’m sorry.” He swallows, unsure of his footing but willing to take the opportunity now that it has presented itself. “But right now, what Jim said-”

“Leave it.” Mayne growls, eyes sparking amber in the dark, the spot of color there and gone again within seconds.

“When you came back after what happened at Capo Murro di Porco. You opened your eyes and called me Eoin. You were confused, displeased that it was me and not someone else.” He persists, ignoring the way his own body is warning him against it, how his palms sweat and how heavy his tongue feels in his mouth. “Who is – who was he?”

“If you know what’s fuckin’ good for you, Jordan, you will shut your mouth.”

Aghast, he throws his hands into the air, anger surging at the attempted dismissal. “What is your problem!? You recite me poetry as if we have known each other for years, care that I am unhurt, tell me about your condition, about your father but refuse to even - you are a confusing little man with an ego the size of the moon!” He does not stomp his foot against the ground but it is a near thing, the frustration mounting.

He finds himself slammed against one of the walls, hitting the light switch with his shoulder. A bare bulb flickers on above them, finally providing him with the sight of Mayne’s sneer as he spits his words. “And you are as good as a waif with your fuckin’ pleading, sad eyes, swaying like a willow in the wind! I am not your friend, I do not wish to be your friend, and I do not need-!”

“What you need is another bullet to the head!” He screams, hurt, uncaring of who hears, his heart in his throat and rage in his veins. It is the same thing over and over again with Mayne, with-

“Oh? You think I haven’t tried?!” Mayne’s mouth splits into an eerie grin, his limbs falling still, fists flexing around handfuls of Augustin’s shirt. “I have. Over and over again. And every time I come back, part of my God-given past missing, haunted by disappointed ghosts, it makes no fuckin’ difference at all!”

Augustin’s breath leaves him in a rush, chest squeezing tight at the admission. His words fail him as he lets Mayne press closer until the man’s nose is resting against his cheek. The heaving of his lungs slowly eases, ribcage rising and falling in tandem with the other’s. Something almost tender envelops them, something Augustin is terrified of, driving out all the anger.

Lowly, he begins again. “You said – you said that a shot to the head will slow you down. That you lose parts of yourself, memories. What else is there to it?”

“Do not ask questions you want no answer to.” Mayne’s voice rumbles, mournful.

“Paddy.” He pleads without words, employing his sad eyes.

“I dreamed I moved among the Elysian fields,/In converse with sweet women long since dead;/And out of blossoms which that meadow yields/I wove a garland for your living head.”

Mayne is too close to him, leaving Augustin unable to look the man in the eyes, leaving him bereft. But he bears it, waits patiently for the other to respond. Because he will, somehow Augustin knows that he will.

“The line between life and death is a thin one.” Mayne murmurs. “They say that those who’re on it see their lives flashing before their eyes but it is different for us – for me.”

Breath held in his chest, he waits some more.

“For me it is a boat. It is a boat on a lake and I am fishing, Fintan mac, and next to me is a ghost.” Mayne releases him abruptly, turning around and crouching down, hands going to his head as if he is in pain, fingers buried in his hair. “The one Jimmy spoke of. The one I seek out at the cost of my own history and fear seeing all the same.”

“You weren’t able to save him.” He surmises, his chest tight and his hand shaking as he brings a palm to the middle of the other’s heaving back, lowering himself as well.

“Aye. The one time it fucking mattered I was not able to-” Mayne’s voice cuts off, a low whine leaving his throat.

The man’s trembling, he notes, fighting back whatever is tormenting him – be it grief or rage – and Augustin is terrified of making the wrong move, of saying the wrong thing.

“Paddy.” He cautions, keeping his voice even. “Did the others not matter? What about Fraser and Reg, and-”

Mayne jerks away, turning around as if to swat at him, arm raised. His face is red, eyebrows lowered, eyes watery and wide, frantic. Augustin doesn’t wince though he is near certain that Mayne will try and have a go at him. But the other stops at the sight of him and great, now he’s afraid of what his own face is doing to have caused this.

Paddy pivots, much to his surprise, cupping his cheek instead, thumb under the rim of his glasses.

“Why the fuck are you crying, huh?”

Ah.

Now that Mayne’s drawn attention to it, that the other’s warm palm is pressed to his skin, he feels the damp trails there. Sure enough, he is weeping like a babe, the picture in front of him growing blurry. With a choked laugh, he wipes at the other side of his face.

“Aren’t you always saying that I am a romantic?”

“Aye, soft-hearted fool.” The other grumbles, the anguish in his expression clearing in favor of resigned acceptance. Mayne tilts his head back with his hold, the movement somehow familiar and Augustin’s hard-won breath hitches, heartbeat stuttering. Oh, they’ve just entered dangerous territory. Mayne has to realize what he’s doing, what this would look like were anyone else to see them.

But the man seems focused on something else; on the long-forgotten, pale scar decorating his neck. 

“Does – does your ghost talk to you?” He swallows under the pressure of Mayne’s thumb on his throat.

“He does.” The other hums, distracted. “He calls me names and curses me for being a Protestant cunt.”

A laugh is startled out of him, the tears now dried up and the salt stinging a scrape on his jaw. “Is he, perhaps, correct to do so?”

“Aye.” Mayne nods, taking his hand back, taking the overwhelming heat with him. “He is – was rarely wrong.”

“I am sorry for eavesdropping.” With his knees aching from the awkward position they’ve found themselves in, he drops back into a sit, leaning against the wall. “It wasn’t my intention. Really.”

“And what was your intention then?” Mayne coms to sit next to him, making Augustin smile into his own chest.

“I had hoped to prevent you from tearing Bill Stirling apart.”

Mayne barks out a wheezing chuckle, shaking his head. He then turns to look at Augustin, staring intently at him. He should be used to this by now, to the man’s long and probing looks but he still finds himself flustered, averting his gaze.

“Bill fucking Stirling is playing with forces beyond his comprehension.” The other declares with conviction.

“Oh, is he now?” He teases, pressing his shoulder to Mayne’s. “How dramatic. I would sooner call him a man trying to wrangle a bucking bull.”

The other makes an intrigued noise, grinning. “Why are we replacing dogs with bulls?”

“I wish we wouldn’t use either.” Augustin admits, finally speaking his mind on the topic. “As I said before, you were not assembled like a gun but you are not a dog biting the hand that feeds either. Separating oneself of one’s humanity can have repercussions that-”

“Oh, spare me the philosophizing!” The Colonel groans, already tired of his attempted tirade and his smile grows, pleased with himself.

“Can I ask you something?”

“As if my permission or lack thereof has ever stopped you before.” Mayne snorts, bringing his knees up.

“Is your name really Blair?”

“You cheeky fuck!”

“It is a fine name-! I just-”

The weight drops off of Augustin’s shoulders as they bicker idly on their way back. Mayne informs him they have an hour to get ready to ship out and that he intends for the SAS to do as much looting as they can within that time.

Once they rejoin the rest, Fraser is looking between them as if one of them has grown a second head. It is – amusing. And slightly insulting.

“I hear we’re hitting up a bank.” The younger says, all casual like.

“Is that all you hear?” He bites back a grin when Fraser ducks his head away.

“It’s surprising.” The other admits, rubbing the back of his head. They’ve started walking towards the intended bank. Up ahead, Cooper is excitedly chattering about explosives, amusing Reg and Riley.  

“It is.”

Nobody is more surprised than Augustin himself. To have Paddy come out and say it, to admit to his grief – even in the middle of an argument like he did, it’s something else. He can imagine how someone like Fraser who’d been there from the start is perceiving their interaction. He is, also, growing a bit frustrated with constantly being overheard but this is a problem for another day.

“I’m glad.” The other manages, keeping the grimace mostly off his face. “After everything, you – you deserve to know.”

“I wouldn’t presume to say what I deserve and what I do not but I am… happy that he told me regardless.”

They make quick work of the bank and the surrounding houses. Some men focus on food and drink while others loot for valuables. Augustin retraces their steps back to the square.

He is a man in the midst of a war unsure of his future, the raiding holds little appeal to him. Instead, he finds a mirror and a razor in one of the surrounding apartments, opting to neaten his appearance a little.

It is strange to see his own reflection this clearly. He is used to catching sight of himself in rearview mirrors or windows in passing; it has been a while since he’s had the luxury of the view. He grimaces at himself, at the light narcissism, and decidedly begins shaving off the scruff accumulated on his face. It is not a beard, not truly, but it is more than he’d allowed for in the past. His hair’s also gotten long, curling gently at the ends but he does not want to rummage around for scissors so this will be an issue for another day. He does not stare into his own eyes, into the gaunt hollowing that’s overtaken his cheeks, accenting his cheekbones, nor the various scrapes and scars he’s earned himself. There is no time to dwell on this; it will do him no good to catalogue it all.  

Once he is done, he cleans everything up, putting it back neatly where he’d found it, leaving no trace that he was there.

Over time, other soldiers will surely find this apartment, will ransack the rooms and take what they please but he will not because he does not need their watches and their paintings, their silverware and fine porcelain. 

The men have congregated back at the square, rowdy and happy with their acquired goods, loading it into the back of their truck. His chest tightens at the sight of a piano in it as well. It is good to see them this jovial despite the ill-gotten loot that leaves Augustin uneasy.

He is observing Jock and Kershaw trying on various hats when Mayne appears in front of him, thrusting a something at his chest. Startled, he looks down and finds that it is a book. It’s Petrarch’s Canzoniere, his poetry.

“I do not speak much Italian.” He smiles, fond and clutching at the collection lest Paddy try and take it back.

“Maybe it’s time to learn, considering we’ll be stuck in this shithole for the foreseeable future.”

Mayne’s eyes dart from the poetry book to his face before flitting away. He starts rummaging through the pockets of his newly-acquired leather jacket for something. The man pulls out a lighter and the zippo, too, gets shoved at him. Augustin fumbles with it for an embarrassing second before he gets his fingers around silvery thing.

“See Riley about a jacket.”

Paddy stalks off without a word more, leaving Augustin feeling like he’d missed a step again.

Should he have shown his gratitude in some other way? Does Mayne not know that Augustin will take his knowledge of Latin, the Romance language group at large, and try and parse through the poetry regardless? He should – Mayne’s made leaps in trying to talk to him and here Augustin is, seemingly stumbling through simple interactions. He feels heat in his cheeks, embarrassment making the back of his neck sweaty.

As instructed, he seeks Riley out.

The man wrinkles his nose at him, gaze tracking the book he’s putting into his bag and then the lighter. It’s most likely that the other knows where he’d gotten the items from. Which is as impressive as it is annoying. Augustin is not used to feeling shy.

“Mayne tells me you have a spare jacket?”

“Sure do.” Pat nods, pulling an A-2 from the back of the truck. It is a deep brown and slightly scuffed at the shoulder. It is well-worn but the light damage only serves to show the quality of it.

“Thank you-”

“Paddy made sure I keep it away from the rest of the vultures in case you wanted it.”

Jesus Christ. And just as he’s thought it, he hears Fraser repeat the sentiment from the other side of the truck. He doesn’t get to comment further or ask because the men start getting rowdy again and then they’re all cheering for the return of Jim Almonds, accepted once again into the fold of the SAS.

Mayne jumps into the back of the truck, whistling to get their attention, trying to draw them from swarming Almonds like excited flies.

“Men of the SAS – known to the uninitiated as the SRS – can I invite you to welcome back my good friend, this fine regiment’s voice of reason, Staff Sergeant Jimmy Almonds!”

The men cheer and clap, someone hands Jim a bottle of something pungent and all Augustin can think about is what Almonds had said earlier. How he’d confronted Mayne.

Jim must feel Augustin’s eyes on him because once he is free from Riley’s generous hug, he is turning towards him. There is mirth in the man’s gaze though his expression is somewhat stern. Augustin feels the urge to stand up straight, to stop his useless slouching. It is not often someone is taller than Augustin and though the difference is slight, he feels it with the way Jim stands at attention now.

“It’s good to see you and Zirnheld still with the men. Though if that means you’ve lost your minds or not, remains to be seen.” The other pats him on the back, continuing their interaction from yesterday now that Mayne’s busy elsewhere.

He shrugs. “It is as you said, we foolishly volunteered.”

Almonds shakes his head, a smile tucked away under his mustache. “Zirnheld maybe, but I think you’re here for a reason, lad.”

He feels his eyebrows trying to reach his hairline and he has to adjust his glasses where they’ve slipped down his nose at the action. “In some sort of divine purpose manner?”

Jim snorts out a laugh at that, eyes disappearing into his grin. “I wouldn’t go that far! But, the men have told me you saved Paddy’s life yesterday, so who knows.”

Maybe the cryptic nature of conversation is an English thing because Augustin feels, again, like he is missing pieces of the puzzle that should have been given to him prior. He hides his frustration behind a polite smile, feeling it impolite to demand answers from the man. 

“Listen.” Almonds pulls him aside, taking away from the rest of the men and Fraser makes an aborted effort to grasp at him. He waves the younger off though he is touched at the concern. Almonds is one of their men, he wouldn’t harm Augustin. At least he thinks so.

“I am sorry they were late to explaining things to you.” Almonds sighs, running a hand over his face. “And I know Paddy would never say it but you’ve been-”

“Jimmy.” Mayne’s warning cuts through the air. “What’ve I said about speaking on my behalf, huh?”

“Well, if you spoke more-” Almonds cuts himself off, frustration bleeding through his calm demeanor.

“I’m sure the men would say I speak too fuckin’ much, eh?” Paddy’s grin is sharp, followed by the loud agreement of their men.

“Whatever it is, he will say it eventually.” Augustin finds that, oddly enough, he believes his own words. It had taken Mayne months to crack open in front of him but he had done it. And though Augustin may not have many more months left, he will wait patiently for anything else Mayne might want to share with him.

Jim’s eyes search his face for a few moments before he nods. “Alright. Alright. It’s good to see you, Jordan.”

Paddy would never say it.

No, Augustin thinks that they do not realize what Paddy would say given enough patience. Given enough time for his barking to turn into something that any man can understand. Because Paddy has told Augustin a lot more than he’d ever thought he would, the push and pull between them finally bearing fruit.

Cannizzaro is a small obstacle in their pursuit of victory but it sets the tone for their advance. The battle is short and brutal and for the first time, he sees the extent of the damage Mayne and his ilk can wreak with their bare hands.

He’s on the outskirts of the town, helping Dave and some of the others round up the soldiers that have surrendered when Paddy and Reg return. He looks up from the task at hand and has to physically hold in his gasp at the sight. Both of them are drenched in blood, it drips off their hands, going up their forearms. There are big splatters of it across their chests, their faces, and he doesn’t doubt that the rest of their lupine companions look the same – wherever they currently are.

“Jock and Pat are taking care of the bunker at the far end but that’s the last of them.” Reg informs them, trying to wipe his hands off on his pants uselessly.

“Finished up early, lads! Do they need our help in Catania?” Kershaw offers the other a clean rag, a spare bit of cloth of some sort that Reg waves away.

“Don’t yous know our mission is to push and to never look back?” Mayne sneers in response.

“What he means is: we are to stop any of the forces from escaping Catania this way but they do not need our help.” He shoots Mayne a look. They hadn’t been instructed to do much once they cleared out Cannizzaro. The instruction was to wait for a bit after, but Stirling’s suggestion that they should take said break was laden with implications.

“Fraser,” Mayne says into the air, confident that the younger Captain will hear him. “Take a handful with you and guard the road.” The Colonel’s eyes move between the three of them, finally settling on Kershaw. “Second watch.” The other salutes and goes to gather a few of the men and inform them.

Next to him, Seekings hums and then begins taking off his shirt. Augustin jolts as a wet splat hits the skin of his forearm, blood flying from the wet material of Reg’s uniform. He frowns and then looks back up. Truly, the sight of the two of them is gruesome. But, while Seekings has already begun heading for the shore in order to wash up, Mayne remains still and silent. The man seems to be watching the gaggle of Italian soldiers they’d captured, possibly also keeping an ear out for Pat and Jock. His stomach rolls, the stench of iron and rot reaching him.

“Do you enjoy being covered in other people’s blood or is it just your own?” He prompts, taking a cautious step away from Mayne.

The other snorts, looking down at himself. “Is it even worth it when I’ll just end up the same next town over?”

“Yes, I’d say so.” He must have made a sound or a face because Paddy’s mouth splits in a grin.

“Come on, then. Since I’m offending your delicate sensibilities, you can help me.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just starts walking away, expecting Augustin to follow. Knowing that Augustin will.

He’s past the point of cursing himself for being predictable so Augustin does go with him but makes it a point to walk next to the Colonel instead of behind him. It’s petty, perhaps, but it makes Augustin feel like they’re – equals.

They end up in someone’s yard, the house long-abandoned. He waits as Mayne rummages around a shed until he comes up with a metal trough. And, despite his words, he does not ask Augustin for assistance. The man takes off most of his clothes and then holds a hand out for Augustin’s shirt as well.

The silence between them is pleasant. There are birds chirping, still active despite the sun getting lower on the horizon. The treetops around the house rustle as well and for a moment, Augustin forgets the war. For a moment, he is a man on a break from teaching, in Italy with nothing to do but sit around and watch his companion’s muscles strain as he rubs the stains out of his clothes. Mayne works at it diligently, no stranger to the task, Augustin’s lightly bloodied shirt first and then his own clothing until the water is well and truly red with it.

The iron tang is joined by the smell of magnolias from the tree enveloping the corner of the house; he gets the silly urge to go pick one and tuck it into his pocket for safe keeping. If he were a painter, if he had any artistic inclinations at all, he would make a pastiche of this. Choosing, perhaps, impressionism and using Monet’s loose and easy style to capture the motion of the trees and the shifting of Mayne’s arms.

“Do you know of Daubigny?”

Mayne hums, shaking his head. “I do not.”

“A painter from a family of artists, worked in the style of the Barbizon school. Landscapes mostly.” He sits down onto the few loose brick stacked nearby. “His paintings much remind me of this.”

“This?”

Clearing his throat does not help chase away the light embarrassment like he’d hoped it would. Instead, it just makes Mayne raise an eyebrow at him, eyes glittering with the reflection of the sun from the water.

“The early summer, the Italian coast and the fields we’ve passed by. The sounds around us – when they are not those of men dying.” The explanations feels false on his tongue but he cannot say this; the feeling I have when I see you surrounded by nature, doing something mundane. “La vanne d'Optevoz and Le Printemps in particular, I think.”

Again, Mayne hums. “As I am not familiar, I will have to take your word for it.”

The embarrassment persists, leaving him bashful. “When we have reached Berlin, when you have asked for forgiveness and when Paris is free, you should go and see them.”

The other chuckles, voice low. “Careful there, Jordan, you are verging on wishful thinking.”

He ignores the teasing remark, pushing through it. “We will, perhaps, have to wait a while since they had emptied the Louvre ahead of the war but it will be worth it.”

“Aye, I would like to take in the magnificence of the Venus de Milo and Niké of Samothrace in person.” The other shakes his wet shirt out, sending droplets of water scattering into the light breeze, the sound of it loud.

“Do you prefer sculptures to paintings then?” It is curious that Mayne chose those particular statues over something more famous like Da Vinci’s or Rembrandt’s works.

“There is something to the… physicality of it.” The other drawls, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth even though he is trying to remain serious.

He is teasing again, Augustin realizes and then huffs. “I regret to inform you, Colonel, that they will not let you fondle the statues, no matter your rank or the number of medals on your coat.”

The other laughs, bright and hearty, unrestrained. The indignity of being mocked eases as quickly as it had risen, leaving him flushed in the face of Mayne’s joy. Leaving him wanting to say more, to keep the joke going even though it is at his own expense.

“This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes./I have my medals?—Discs to make eyes close./My glorious ribbons?—Ripped from my own back/In scarlet shreds.” Mayne cites the grim poem with that same smile on his face and Augustin’s stomach rolls.

This all must be so easy for the other. It must seem like relief every time he is close to death. He has admitted to seeking it even, hurtling towards his ghost. Away from Augustin and everything useless that he’s feeling. The knowledge sits uneasy with him, that Mayne is going to keep fighting carelessly until he is stopped for good, that he won’t care whether he lives or dies. That Augustin will. He does not resent Mayne for being what he is, he would not stoop to that level because he does not truly know what it is like, but it is difficult not to take offense with the easy dismissal of life.

“Your – you’ve soured.” Mayne’s smile drops abruptly, face growing serious as he stares at Augustin.

He jolts, looking down at himself as if he’d see something out of place on his person. “What?”

“Your… mood.”

“You can – you can tell that?” He was sure that he had hid his thoughts well, that he had not felt his expression shift that much.

“I can smell it.” Mayne grumbles, wringing out his singlet over the trough.

“Ah.” He blinks slowly, another piece of the world’s most elaborate puzzle revealing itself to him. He had thought that it was a metaphor before, that Mayne was exaggerating about the stench of betrayal. Mortifyingly, he thinks about what else Paddy can sniff out.

“When I was little, mother used to take us to the museum and me and my sister would amuse ourselves by pretending to be people in the paintings. We would tell stories, make up things about them because it would be boring otherwise.” He sighs, trying to calm himself down by taking a deep breath of the magnolia-scented air. “Do not worry yourself over my mood, I was simply reminded that we are not truly in a Daubigny painting.”

Mayne is quiet for a few moments, stretching up to throw his clothes over the short, stone fence encircling the garden. “And if we were, what would we be doing?”

He sucks in a breath, keeping the two paintings in his mind’s eye. The tall grass and the white bloom of Le printemps, the greens and the pale sky, the man and woman walking. “In Le printemps I think we would be lying on a grassy hill. The hill is away from the city, in the countryside, and the skies are clear, bees buzzing around us. You are reciting your droll Eliot and I am grading paper because I always take my work home with me.”

He is aware what it sounds like, what sort of an image he is painting but Mayne had asked about them together specifically. The romanticism is not his fault.

“And in the other?”

He can’t look up, can’t meet the other’s eyes. The hush that’s fallen over them is familiar by now but he still refuses to meet it head on, fearing that Mayne will tear it to shreds if it threatens to break the shape they’ve confined it in.

“The Flood-Gate at Optevoz.” He rubs at his face, wiping away sweat and taking his glasses off for additional safety, fencing himself off from Mayne with his own short, stone wall. “There is a lake there. I imagine you would… you would be fishing. Either off the gate itself or from the shore and I would be reading. Not poetry but not philosophy either. Perhaps I would be giving one of your English authors a chance, giving scathing commentary all the while.”

“You’d be scaring the fish away.” Mayne’s voice travels as he moves around the yard, leaving Augustin’s sightline, making him nervous.

“There is a forest nearby.” He refuses to budge, refuses to show his belly in this strange game the other is playing with him. “When you inevitably catch nothing, you can go chase game to your heart’s content.”

“Setting me loose on the unsuspecting population of France.” The other’s chuckle is low, the heat of him having migrated close to Augustin’s back. “Trying to have a repeat of Gévaudan?”

A hand, scorching and large, wraps around his throat from behind, tilting his head up. Warmth, dangerous and lightning quick, plummets into his gut, stirring arousal in its wake. He looks up at Mayne, the wrong way around, trapped.

“But you are not a beast, Paddy. Your leash is too short for that.” There’s fire behind his eyes, making them water as he meets the other’s gaze. His expression is set into a sneer, which is customary at this point but, in addition to that, there is also something Augustin has not seen before – conflict. Mayne is so sure of his decisions with the men, so certain of his every order and so calculated in the way that he moves. And this – this is anything but that.

“And in this painting of yours, who is the one holding it?”

The challenge in the phrasing is as clear as any but Augustin shies away from it, terrified of what the prize for winning would be.

“Even without a handler, it would be wound too tight.”

The other makes a contemplative noise, a rumble in his chest, as his eyes rove over Augustin’s face. He does that a lot, now that Augustin is thinking about it. And while the thought of the other trying to read him seemed far-fetched to him only a few weeks ago, it is now something akin to reality.

The other tutts, releasing him abruptly, moving away and taking all the stuffy air with him. “It is a shame, then, that we seem to be stuck in a Kipling poem instead of a Daubigny painting.”

“A shame, indeed.” He breathes out, trying to keep himself steady even though his limbs feel liquid.

This is not all in his head, he realizes. Every time Mayne had kept him close, allowed him inside his mind, it had all been with some sort of purpose – some sort of privilege that the others are not granted. If it is to the same end that Augustin seeks, he is not sure, but Mayne is-

He stops himself, stops the thoughts lest his heartbeat speed up again.

Three things are clear to him now, in this moment. The first is that, well, Mayne is aware of Augustin’s feelings – to an extent at least. The second is that, to an extent, the other must reciprocate some of them. Though, whether purely physical or something else, he would not dare presume.

And third, and final, Mayne is as reluctant as Augustin to do anything about their delicate situation. The deterring factors around them, of which there are many, too persistent in their wish to be taken into account, leaving them hesitant. At least, from Augustin’s side. He can only speculate what – or who – is stopping Mayne.

He would like to kiss the man, he thinks idly as they walk back towards the rest of their regiment. He would like to lie on that hill with him and kiss him when he grew bored of the students’ papers, of listening to Eliot, and kiss Paddy Mayne silent. Or on the shore of that lake, when he has driven all the fish away, he would like to take the fishing rod from the man’s hands and replace them with his own dry palms, pulling Mayne into himself, cutting off his complaints with his lips.

Wishful thinking is right and wishful thinking it will remain.

Chapter Text

He had, rather foolishly, thought that being away from the great sands of Egypt would afford him some variety in life. And yes, of course, Sicily is nothing like the desert nor their brief and dull stay at Port of Suez, but. But.

While Augustin was never truly partial to the naturalism movement, he had found Émile Zola’s body of work quite fascinating. Particularly, his third novel Thérèse Raquin. Though the critics of the time had had only harsh words and disregard for it, like Zola, Augustin himself is of the opinion that it was criticized under false pretenses. In the preface Zola had stated: In our time there are scarcely more than two or three men capable of reading, understanding and judging a book.

And in the novel itself, the man had written: He knew that henceforth, all his days would resemble one another, and bring him equal suffering. And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him. When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter.

The days that pass after Cannizzaro are much like that. They are bitter, tinged with metal from the spilled blood trailing their every waking moment, filling their footprints. The fighting is dirty, close quarters requiring a personal touch. If there is a building bigger than a house, Mayne and his ilk will go in and clear it, leaving the surrounding area to the others. The strikes are conducted in the dark, under the cover of the night but what upsets him the most is, well. He should be used to it by now, that these men are more often than not unaware of having been attacked until it was too late for them to fight back.

The sort of remorse Laurent experienced was purely physical. His body, his irritated nerves and trembling frame alone were afraid of the drowned man. His conscience was for nothing in his terror.

He tries separating himself from it, this is the nature of war, but it still weighs on him heavily. Because the fighting is endless and their pursuit of freedom is persistent so there is little time for anything else – there are no distractions for him to latch on to. Mayne is busy ordering the men about, busy snapping his maw at those who dare question him while the rest of them try and remain in his good graces. But, Augustin would argue that this is not out of the ordinary. This is how things are when there are orders to carry out.

No, what worries him is Fraser. Fraser who’s grown more drawn and pallid the longer they continue this campaign.

“You’re concerned.” Mayne’s statement catches him off-guard some. Or maybe he was just hoping Mayne wouldn’t notice, unlikely as that may have been.

“I’m always concerned.” With a clearing of his throat, he turns away from the men and begins walking.

The city of Messina is grand. Well, what’s left of it is. A lot of it has unfortunately been heavily bombarded by the Allies with the harbor getting the worst of it. There are other soldiers milling about now, the army having moved into the city in full, and Augustin can almost imagine what it was like before the war. Bustling with families, children playing on the streets, a farmer’s market in the square.

“Aye, but this is a concern of a different nature.”

“There is a poem by Pablo Neruda.” He grins though he doesn’t feel like it. “My dog has died./I buried him in the garden/next to a rusted old machine.//” Mayne snorts next to him, amused, standing close enough for his presence to manifest itself as persistent heat.

It’s been almost a month since Paddy’s had his hand around his throat and yet Augustin still thinks about it every time the collar of his shirt constricts him, every time the rays of the sun hit the bare skin at his nape. 

“Some day I’ll join him right there,/ but now he’s gone with his shaggy coat,/his bad manners and his cold nose,/and I, the materialist, who never believed in any promised heaven in the sky/for any human being,/ I believe in a heaven I’ll never enter.”

They’ve moved away from the rest now, Mayne seemingly content to follow Augustin on his aimless walk. He had been hoping to distance himself from the worry but Mayne’s bringing it with them. But at least this far out, and with the sounds of the soldiers marching through the city accompanied by tanks and other vehicles, he can pretend that they have privacy.

“So you’re worried about your dogs dying.” The other raises an eyebrow, slowing them down until they’re standing still again.

Well, he has only himself to blame for this particular occurrence of the animal metaphor.

“This has been difficult for all of us.” He lowers himself to the ground, easing into the shade of a bombed out building, unbuttoning his shirt to help with the oppressive climate. He’s one of the few men that still wears his uniform, one of the few to have had the luck of avoiding having it dirtied in the first place. The rest having given up on trying to clean the blood off of theirs because there is never any time to spare. Looking down at himself now, he wonders if it is by design that he’s been kept away from the more visceral fights.

“More so for some than others.”

Mayne comes to crouch in front of him, the look on his face oddly flat. “I had offered you a way out and you called me a bastard to my face. I am afraid it is too late to offer it again now.”

“I am not talking about myself.” He rolls his eyes, regretfully remembering every detail of that particular conversation. “Fraser seems… shaken.”

“Fraser.” The other repeats as if he cannot believe the words coming out of Augustin’s mouth, both eyebrows nearing his hairline.

“Oh, could you not smell the despair on him?” A defensive feeling bubbling up within him makes the words land harsh and terse. Fraser is his friend and if Mayne, as the Colonel of their regiment, as the head of his ilk, will not do anything about it, then he has to know if it is time for him to step in.

“I was busy.” The other’s response is equally brusque, gaze averted and staring intently into the distance, at a convoy passing by.

“As we have all been, but here I am, having the time to worry over someone else’s wellbeing regardless.”

The other grimaces, mouth tugging down at the corners. “And I presume you would have me… talk to him about it.”

“Paddy.” He reaches out, grasping the man’s wrist. “Is he not like family to you? You told me you are responsible for his condition. So, by some logic, you are responsible for him. More so than you are for the rest of us in the SAS.”

The other’s pulse is fast, his skin warm but dry and Augustin has to stop himself from running his thumb along the deceptively delicate protruding bone of his wrist.

“The relations between me an them lot are complicated.” Voice low, Mayne remains steady, letting Augustin keep holding on to him. If he said he was not worried about the other bolting, he would be lying.

“They are like my kin, it’s true. But the feeling of it, of this belonging – Reg once described it as a tug at his shirtsleeves, sommat always lookin’ to pull him my way, under my command.” The man rubs at his forehead, obviously burdened by this. “He and McDiarmid have never had much trouble with it but Fraser. Oh, Billy’s always been too sound of head for this regiment.”

There’s fondness in the way he speaks about them now, like he does not regret it even though, by the sound of it, he’s chained himself to these men for possibly a very long time. Paddy Mayne cares more than he’ll ever show it and this is something he’s known for a while now.

“Riley’s different.”

He can’t say whether Mayne predicting and intercepting his questions is a good thing but it is certainly easier than having to ask them by himself.

“Already came to us like that. Said he’d gotten bit as a child.” The other tugs out of his hold, coming to sit next to him instead. Augustin mourns the loss of touch briefly before Mayne’s pressing their shoulders together in the oppressive mid-August heat.

“So he is a – distant cousin, twice removed?” He grins when the other laughs, smile wide and easy.

“Yeah, you could fuckin’ call it that.” Paddy nods, “He knows better than to challenge my authority. Peaceful sort, for a Yank.”

The other’s looking at him expectantly, eyes trained on his face as if he is expecting Augustin to react to this new information negatively. He had not given the other reason to doubt him but he can imagine that a certain dose of caution is always necessary when you’re living with a secret this big. Those eyes don’t leave him even after Augustin falters, turning away. Deliriously, he remembers a stanza later in the same Neruda poem.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,/paying me the attention I need,/the attention required/to make a vain person like me understand/that, being a dog, he was wasting time,/but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,/he'd keep on gazing at me/with a look that reserved for me alone/all his sweet and shaggy life,/always near me, never troubling me,/and asking nothing.//

“Will you speak with him?”

Mayne sighs, slumping against the wall, the leather of his jacket scraping down dust. There’s a rip in the sleeve of it, someone having taken a swing at the Colonel with a knife just this morning.

“And what do I say to him, exactly?”

“Fucking hell, Paddy! I don’t know! Are you okay? Or what’s wrong? Those should give the two of you plenty to go off of.” He steels away, getting up to pace, to expel some of the nervous energy that’s been roused by frustration. Why is it so difficult –? The irritation rises quickly and unexpectedly; he hadn’t thought that Mayne would need to be taught basic decency.

Mayne’s expression sours, a grimace overtaking his features. “What fuckin’ use-”

“Paddy!” He cuts the other with a shout, appalled at what he’s hearing.

What use?! Is that it? Is the difference between him as a Frenchman and the rest of them so wide purely because they had not been taught differently? Has he been blind this entire time? He should have known better, should have seen it. But Mayne’s eloquence, his intellect and witty nature had blinded him to the fact that the man is simply – different by fact of nurture. He has spent too much time surrounded by Bohemian artists and intellectuals for most of his adult life. He was probably forming alliances and judging people on their values while Paddy-

“What use am I then? Or are we not friends?”

Mayne’s teeth clamp around whatever had wanted to leave his mouth, the man taking a moment to breathe deeply instead. The other gets up as well, movement fluid and steady as if he’s afraid to spook Augustin.

“You are too sentimental for this war.”

“Yes. I am.” It is entirely too easy to agree, entirely too easy to let himself get riled. “Nobody is meant for this war. We should not be fighting a war at all!”

“But we fuckin’ are, so I suggest-” The other points a finger at him and Augustin has had enough for one day, he thinks.

“Fuck you.” The words burst out of him, immature, childish, and spiteful because once again, he’s allowing this to happen.

It was easier in the beginning, when he was just infatuated with Mayne and the general sense of grief draped over his shoulders. It was light work shrugging the hurt off because he barely knew the man. So he could roll his eyes, could threaten to leave or withhold and Mayne would eventually cave but now – now everything seems so real.

I have something to lose now, he swallows heavily as Mayne face tries to settle on an expression he will allow to show.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,/and we don't now and never did lie to each other.//So now he's gone and I buried him,/and that's all there is to it.

“Stop that.” Mayne demands irritably, head raised so that they can maintain eye contact.

Augustin has always been a tall individual. Even as a child, he’d been the tallest in his class and later on in life, he could only rarely find someone that is at eye-level with him. He was, still is, conscious of how people can be intimidated by his height and has always done his best to come across as unassuming, to slouch a little, put his hips forward unless he is standing at attention. Which is why it is with some surprise that he realizes he is looming over Mayne now.

“Stop what?”

Mayne sneers, teeth bared for a moment before he’s turning around. “I’ll talk to Fraser.”

The other walks away, leaving Augustin on his own again, deflated. That could have gone better, he thinks, pinching the bridge of his nose. He needs a smoke.

Sleep evades him that night. He lies in a borrowed bed in a borrowed room, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, sweating even as the clock ticks past midnight.  He gives it another fifteen minutes before he gives up and throws the sheet off himself. Bare-footed, he sneaks out of the apartment and pads down the granite flooring of the hallway. He finds the steps that lead up easily, tucked away in the corner of the building. He emerges out into the night without any interruptions and hopefully without having woken anyone up.

The first thing he sees is the moon. It’s big and luminous, taking over the sky, leaving little room for the stars that surround it. He ambles over to the edge of the roof, to the raised trimming that’s decorated intricately, creating a railing wide enough for him to sit on. The air is still muggy but unlike in the room, there is a breeze out here that is washing over his face gently. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

Messina is silent. The men that have occupied it gone and the new ones finally getting a decent night’s sleep. There are soldiers left guarding vital points of it but they are far away from him, creating the illusion that he is all alone in this Sicilian city. He wishes he had thought to bring a drink out with him. He is too sober for the oppressive thoughts trying to weigh him down. There are only so many times he can go over his favourite poems within the confines of his mind before they grow stale. 

He’s trying to remember which constellation is directly above him when the sound of something breaking startles him. He flinches, almost overbalancing on the railing before jolting away from the edge, his heart in his throat. He doesn’t have a gun with him, nothing to defend himself with. He was stupid enough to think himself safe, to-

He’s frozen to the spot, knees locked and stiff, eyes the sizes of dinner plates with how strained they feel.

There is something dark standing on a roof in the distance, the terracotta sliding down the side of the building and hitting the ground with that same shattering sound. It is a mass shrouded in darkness, heaving. He cannot make out the shape of it but when it starts moving it’s in his direction. He turns on instinct, bolting for the door he came through earlier, still open and looking more and more like salvation by the second.

He doesn’t make it three steps before he’s being shoved down. His palms scrape against the rough ground and his breath leaves him in a wheeze, ears ringing. There is an unbearable weight against his back, a sound like thunder rumbling above him, rattling around in his lungs. He squeezes his eyes tight, every muscle in his body protesting and trying to push up but it’s useless. He’s completely immobilized. Warm breaths hit the back of his neck, something wet dripping down the side of it in a viscous slide. Though his lips open, he can’t make a sound, every word he could have possibly produced stuck in his throat. Eventually, he whimpers, the fear getting the better of him.

And then – just as quickly as the weight came, it’s gone. He scrambles to his knees, looking around frantically as he tries to get vertical again. The mass has grown larger and he realizes that it’s two forms now. They seem to be – they’re fighting. The sound of it is visceral, the snarls and the growling, a bone being snapped in two and then – an all too familiar howl.

He gasps, stopping just short of the door he’d been walking backwards towards.

“Paddy?” The name is out of his mouth despite his brain urging him not to draw attention to himself.

The form on top freezes, slowly turning his way. Under the light of the moon he can only make out the two amber spots that have to be the other’s eyes, every other feature is indiscernible. The shape of it blends together with the night sky, barely standing out, but the eyes are so vivid. It has to be Mayne.

“Fuck.” Sucking in a sharp breath, he takes another step back. This isn’t something he can help with, not something he – he doesn’t think Mayne would wish him to see. At least not without explicit permission.

As quietly as possible, he closes the door behind him. Ignoring how the sound of the fight continuing sends shivers down his spine. He should have stayed in bed, stuffy air and heat be damned.

He doesn’t get much sleep and in the morning, Mayne is gone, leaving him, Fraser and Almonds to receive the 2SAS and Bill Stirling.

The Colonel takes one look at the three of them and rolls his eyes. Without a word further, he waves them away.

“What happened?” His fingers find Fraser’s wrist, tugging the other to the side.

“Rough night.” The younger squints at him and then grabs his hand. With a gentle motion that he should have anticipated, the other turns it so that his palm is facing the sky. “What’s this?”

With a sigh, he wiggles his fingers until the other lets him go. “My answer will depend on if you know where Paddy is.”

“Were you out last night?!”

While the concern is flattering as always, Fraser’s dogged questions aren’t getting them anywhere. He rubs a hand over his face and then winces as the scrapes begin to sting.

“I couldn’t sleep so I went up on the roof for some air. I was… attacked.”

“Shite.” The other hisses, turning around in a tight circle as if looking for someone. He pauses then, craning his head back and to the side. Augustin watches as Fraser’s frown deepens the longer they’re both silent.

“He’s down by the shore, I think.”

He looks frustrated, sweat beading at his forehead and Augustin thinks that maybe he’s being selfish. He feels as if he’s exploiting the younger’s talents for something that will resolve itself naturally. 

“You are uncertain?”

“When there are other sounds in the area, it’s difficult to parse through the noise. He’s probably somewhere rocky where the water’s loud.” Fraser shrugs, arms crossing over his chest.

“So what makes you think he’s there if you can’t hear him?”

It’s fascinating, watching the smirk transform the other’s face. Fraser’s usual visage portrays either indifferent calm or flat disapproval. The smirk makes him look younger, mischievous. He bites back his own smile, trying to remain professional.

The other motions to his ear, hand waving about his head. “There are these… irregularities. The sound of the waves down there is pretty erratic, chaotic. But in between them, I can hear a steady, even sound. Most likely Mayne’s breathing or pacing or something organic like that.”

“Amazing.” He breathes out, wide-eyed and impressed. No matter how often he gets to witness the way their lupine friends heal quickly or move faster than possible, Fraser’s demonstrations of skill when it comes to something as simple as hearing always leave him stunned. If it is true, and it most likely is, then Fraser is truly a wonder.

“Uh – I just.” The younger cuts himself off with a shrug, cheeks growing rosy.

“My friend.” He croons, hand grabbing the other’s nape, shaking him a little. “Do not detract from your accomplishments. Take pride. Do I have to tell you every time?”

“Are you going to find him?” Fraser diverts, letting Augustin’s hands linger.

He nods, taking his glasses off to relieve some of the pressure from the bridge of his nose. “Yes. I think he’s… reacting rashly? Embarrassed? I am not sure. He saved me from the attacker but I do not think he wished for me to see him like that.”

“He said he’d smelled wolves in the city but we weren’t sure.” Fraser places a warm hand onto his shoulder and while he appreciates the gesture, the heat he’s absorbing from the sun is already more than enough.

“We set up a perimeter but as always, Mayne managed to sniff him out before any of us could catch up.” The other elaborates, wincing. “If we were there sooner-”

“Tsk!” Augustin flicks the tip of his nose and Fraser reels back, stunned. “Arrête tes bêtises! Paddy was there as quickly as possible and the rest of you wouldn’t have made a difference. Do not worry about me on top of everything else.”

Fraser rubs at his nose, eyes averted at the scolding. “What are friends for?”

He raises an eyebrow and Fraser gives him a shaky smile in return. Well, at lease someone doesn’t have an issue admitting this.

“Speaking of.” He mutters, turning on his heel to head for the bombed-out harbor.

“If you’re going to try finding him, you should, ah… bring some clothes with you.” The other calls after him and Augustin halts, hands clenching at his side. Naturally, since Mayne hadn’t exactly been human last night so wherever he is now is the aftermath of that. Though their Colonel doesn’t seem particularly concerned with his nudity, there are still civilians present.

“Right. Of course.”

He finds Mayne in a spot akin to what Fraser had described. The coast is a rocky thing itself, cliffs and caves aplenty. It takes him half an hour to sot the other. Mayne is in a grotto of some sort and at first glance, Augustin thinks he’s – that he’s dead. But when he gets closer, he can clearly see the other’s shoulders moving with the steady rhythm of his breathing. He approaches the man lying naked in the sand, eyes closed with his arms pillowing his head.

“Fraser’s getting better at that.” Mayne comments, not bothering to move as Augustin pads barefoot through the shallow waters at the entrance to the grotto.

“Yes. It is remarkable. And incredibly useful.” He comes to a stop at Paddy’s side, taking in the expanse of unmarred skin for a moment before dropping the folded uniform on the other’s back.

“Aye, when it’s not me he’s snitching on.” The other finally cracks open an eyelid to take a look at him. “How’re the hands?”

“Cleaned and sanitized so I’ll live.”

Weighing his options, he decides taking a seat by Mayne’s shoulders is his safest bet. This way, he can easily avert his gaze and stare out into the sea instead of being tempted by what he’s being shown.

“You could have died.” Mayne’s voice comes out flat, accent thick and mouth pursed.

Ah. As if through a fog, Gautier’s words come to the surface of his mind and he parts his lips to speak them. “Quand je mourrai, que l’on me mette,/Avant que de clouer mon cercueil,/Un peu de rouge à la pommette,/Un peu de noir au bord de l’œil.//”

The other’s grimace deepens and Augustin looks away again, a coward. “Car je veux, dans ma bière close,/Comme le soir de son aveu,/Rester éternellement rose/Avec du khol sous mon œil bleu.//”

“Augustin.” The other sits up, trying to catch his eye but he remains reticent. “It hadn’t come to that, it’s true, but it could have. You’d seen the bastard, seen me.”

“But you-”

A hand on his cheek, turning him to finally look at Mayne. The other’s pupils are pinpricks, the marbled blue of them so clear and so shiny.

“Do not make me be selfish, Jordan. Because I am known to want to do so.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, mind whirring with what the other could mean even though the answer should be obvious and is, indeed, so.

“You do not want this burden.” Mayne continues, thumb digging into his cheek, tugging his lower lip down lightly. It is distracting to the point where he almost misses the other’s next words. “You do not want this tether.”

I do, he thinks, trapped in the intricate net Mayne has woven. Though not the exact one the other is describing, he does want it. The connection, the promise, the privilege of relying on the other being there for him. It’s embarrassing to admit that even to himself so he remains silent, lets Mayne stare at him and does his best to ignore the sparks of arousal making his eyes water a little.

The other’s nostrils flare, eyes flickering over his features, upper lip twitching. The air grows heavy, Augustin’s chest tightens but again, Mayne pushes him away. Heartbeat rabbiting, Augustin can’t look away quick enough so he gets stuck watching the other pulling his uniform up. He imagines the tether now, imagines it as a physical thing between them, something he can bring a finger to and strum like a string on a guitar. Would it make Mayne’s heart beat as fast as his does, or is his head in the clouds again?

Fully dressed and with his hands on his hips, Mayne stares out into the sea. “Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-leads,/Which long to nuzzle in the hearts of lads, /Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth /Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.”

“Stirling refused to give us our orders without you there.” He follows in the other’s footsteps as they leave the grotto.

“Aye, he must have missed me terribly to send you to fetch me.”

Augustin scoffs, surprisingly offended. “As if any manner of coercion other than my own foolish free will could force me to go after you.”

The silence that follows is like a loaded gun, cocked and ready for the noise of a shot fired. Perhaps he’d said too much. Mayne’s been flighty as of late so maybe he’s spooked the other with this admission. He had thought it obvious by now but – he does not know what the other’s brain is ruminating on.  

Eventually, halfway to the city, Mayne turns back and grins at him. It’s always endearing when he does this, always makes Augustin pause and take a moment to drink it in. it’s just so, so rare these days that he feels like he could start writing poetry of his own whenever he bears witness to it.

“Should be calling you the dog catcher.” Is what the man finally says.

He rolls his eyes, the weight he hadn’t realized was weighing on him releasing from his shoulders. “That is a big demotion from my actual occupation.”

“I’d say you’re more suited for it than philosophy.”

“Of course you would, you have no patience for philosophy and you’re-” He stops himself, cheeks heating at having been baited this easily. Mayne just cackles, continuing their trek towards the city, probably very pleased with himself.

A dog set loose, at least for now.

Sicily is liberated in under forty days. Thirty-eight to be precise and Augustin is there for every single bloody one of them. Having lost the support of his political allies and the people of Italy, Mussolini was arrested on July 25^th. (Later, much later, they will hear news of Mussolini’s and Petacci’s bodies being hung upside down over a square in Milano and they will make a toast and cheer).

On the 4^th of September the SRS invaded mainland Italy at Bagnara Calabra – aptly named Operation Baytown.

That was yesterday.

Today – today they can rest. At least for now.

He’s sitting with Fraser on the stone foundations of what could have once been a house or a terrace. They’re outside of Bagnara at the present, having left the city to the military proper after helping liberate it. Cooper’s approaching them as Fraser tenses up at his side.

“Someone’s coming. Probably Stirling.”

“Mail, boys.” The younger chirps, handing both him and Fraser a letter before handing one to Zirnheld across from them. The men scattered around the area perk up, all happy to be thought of, happy to have someone writing to them.

He takes a few moments to read it. Last time, it had been his distant cousin contacting him but now the letter is from his sister directly. It feels as if it has been too long since he’d seen her, far too long after a lifetime of – first sharing a home and then an apartment building.

“Who’s it from?” Fraser asks, surprising him with his inquiry.

“My sister, Josephine.” He smiles down at the delicate handwriting fondly. He can tell by the other’s raised eyebrows that he wants to ask more but Fraser has always been hesitant about things like these so he spares the younger the effort. “She managed to get out of France just before the occupation. Last month, she finally made it to Brighton to join a cousin of ours.”

“I’m glad she’s safe.”

He is, too. He wishes he could see her, wishes he could take her aside and tell her about Mayne about everything that’s happened. She wouldn’t believe him, would tell him he’s read a romance novel too many but he’d be grateful that she’s there, listening to him regardless. He wants to. Well. He wants to go home. The sickening feeling that crushes his chest inwards leaves him almost breathless but he can’t let it show. But, despite his best efforts, Fraser notices.

“Augustin.” The other grips his wrist, fingers pressing into his pulse point.

Shaking his head, he sniffles. “I’m okay. It is just – it has been a while. And my mother and father left Paris even sooner than the war started so she has been my only family.”

“I hope you can see her soon.” Fraser bumps their shoulders together and his other side gets occupied by Seekings, dropping down to sit next to him and offering him a cigarette. It’s touching how they seem to be taking care of him, how they congregate around him when he’s upset like – well. Like his grandfather’s old Irish wolfhound would. He chuckles quietly, keeping that thought to himself.

“Here comes his lordliness.” Reg grunts, taking a swig from his bottle.

Nobody bats an eye as the car pulls up. The men continue about their day as if there isn’t a Lieutenant Colonel there, as if it is a civilian pulling up. Stirling steps out of the vehicle, already looking incensed at the reception.

Next to him, Fraser and Seekings bristle, squaring up as one of the men left in the car stares their way with wide eyes. As far as Augustin can tell, he’s a young fellow, sort of mousey-looking. He’s got a nervous quality about him that both amuses and worries him.

“Fucking salute me, damn you, Sergeant!”

The shout is abrupt, making everyone pause briefly and then separate into groups, eager to either listen in on the conversation or place bets on fists being thrown. Augustin pinches the bridge of his nose, this is not something they needed.

“Ten on Stirling losing it first.” Seekings hums, lighting up.

“Have you seen Paddy recently?” André challenges, digging through his pockets for spare change.

“He won’t do anything.” Augustin pitches in, refusing to place a bet but feeling like he should – defend Mayne’s honor, maybe. Whatever it is, it’s making him embarrassed. Especially when both Reg and Fraser snort in amusement.

“Aye.” Seekings points a finger at the truck, eyebrow raised. “What about the little yapper over there?”

The man in question sits up straighter, eyes squinted in their direction.

“Greville-Bell.” Fraser hums, gaze firm and unrelenting. The other squirms where he’s sat. “D’you think Stirling knows?”

From inside the ruin that Paddy had deemed their officer’s club there’s some more fighting words between the men – mostly from Stirling’s side – before they quiet down again. Cooper passes by them, the grin still firmly on his face, only pausing to roll his eyes and deposit his hat onto Augustin’s own head.

“Possibly.” He fixes the hat so that it sits more securely on his crown. “He might be keeping the boy as a personal guard.”

“Personally, I think we look good as we are.” Reg grins, motioning to the inside. “Stirling’s complaining about our state of dress.”

“Ah.” He looks down at himself, at the white shirt that he’s donned. Well, it’s not much different than what he was wearing in the desert but he supposes that out here, they have to be more presentable.

Fraser makes a curious sound, looking at him. “There’s a French woman, a journalist. She’s trying to reach us.”

He meets eyes with Zirnheld and the other shrugs, tipping his drink Augustin’s way. “Could be any number of them.”

“This far out? Would they go through the effort?” He shoots back, puzzled.

“Fuck’s sake.” Seekings jolts from his seat, huffing. “Job tonight, Termoli. We’re working with the Resistance.”

The men around them groan in dismay and Greville-Bell’s frown deepens at their display.

“There goes my beauty sleep.” Zirnheld stretches out a hand, letting Seekings haul him up.

“I am afraid not even the full eight hours would help you there.” He teases, dashing away when Zirnheld tries to have a go at him with an indignant shout.

Stirling catches them in the middle of roughhousing. He has the Lieutenant pinned to the ground with his arm on his back. It’s a situation they’d found themselves in purely because Fraser had tripped André up on his turn, helping Augustin. Stirling stands there with the cheering men, disapproval clear on his face but says nothing. When André taps out, Stirling walks away, that same air of self-importance following after him like a cloud.

“Better luck next time, my friend.” He pats Zirnheld down, trying to help him with the dust and the other waves him off.

“I would like to see you without your guard dogs around.” Though his words are somewhat of a jab, Zirnheld still smiles at him and Augustin shakes his head. Guard dogs. Well, he has had his suspicions as of late but he can’t exactly pinpoint the why of it all. Of course, he is friends with them, but that can’t be all of it.

Almonds walks out of the makeshift club, papers in hand and starts giving orders. He takes the opportunity to go see Paddy, slinking away from the men like he’s doing something illicit.        

“What have I earned for all that work,…/For all that I have done at my own charge?/The daily spite of this unmannerly town/Where who has served the most is most defamed,/The reputation of his lifetime lost/Between the night and the morning…” The other’s voice is muffled, coming from between his palms as he presses them to his face.

“You did not enjoy this visit from our good friend William Stirling, then?” He sits down next to the man, reaching over and grabbing the bottle Mayne had abandoned at some point.

“Like sand under the foreskin.” Paddy huffs, the analogy familiar enough by now to draw a laugh out of Augustin. The brief moment of levity is just that, brief. Because when he meets the other’s eyes, Mayne looks troubled.

“What is it?” He offers the other the drink even though he knows it does nothing for the man.

“Our friend Bill Stirling seems to think us animals that can’t tell the difference between friend and foe.” Paddy grinds out through clenched teeth, taking the bottle.

“Well.” He winces, “I think that is a consequence of a reputation you worked hard to cultivate.”

“That’s reasonable of you to say.” The other scoffs, mouth flat.

“The men and I know that this is not the truth.” Making sure to keep any accusation out of his tone, he continues. “But Stirling’s only seen you at your worst. You have not set a good… precedent.”

“I am not here to set a good anything.” Mayne hisses, shoulders heaving. “I am here to do what I do best and if I cannot do what I do best then-”

“Paddy.” He gentles, taking off his hat and setting it aside, making sure to keep the other’s attention on him. “You are good at many things. You do not have to be blowing up planes in the dead of night for your work to be making a difference.”

“We are nocturnal creatures.” The other persists and Augustin know that the theatrics are coming so he cuts the other off.

“You are also men. You are members of the SAS, you are the SAS.” With a sigh, he takes the bottle from the other’s hand and takes a swig of the bitter, herbal liquor himself. “I would prefer that none of us were good at this but we are. Lupine or not. So for as long as they need us, we’ll be doing the spearheading for them, yes? Besides, did we not establish that things are rarely black or white?”

“You that have not lived in thought but deed/Can have the purity of a natural force;/But I, whose virtue are the definitions/Of the analytic mind, can neither close/The eye of the mind nor keep my tongue from speech.” The other stands up, running his hands through his damp hair. “You are a pain in my arse.”

A bubble of joyful emotion makes his chest expand and his stomach clench, he tries biting down on the grin he feels stretching his mouth but fails.

“I live to be an annoyance.”

“You live because of sheer dumb luck.”

But that’s not true, he thinks, happy. No, he’s alive because he has people that care about him watching his back, he’s alive because they’re good at their jobs. Because Mayne’s taken a bullet for him, because Fraser, Seekings, McDiarmid and Riley are always hovering in his periphery. Because Zirnheld stuck by his side even though he could have left at any point in the past. Mayne will have to see the truth of it eventually. He just hopes it happens before they get their regiment dissolved.