Archive of Our Own ^beta

He just has to breathe. He knows this now, like he knows all the other dangers that comes with his job. A lot of problems can be solved when you just breathe and you focus.

Enfield is keeping an eye on his surroundings, the storm hell-bent on throwing him off balance, but he’s keeping stable. He has an iron grip on his rifle, holding onto it like a lifeline, like protection. Another bolt of lightning crashes nearby. They should have been gone by now, he should have been heading back with the others at this point. It was a rescue mission this time and for the most part they’ve been successful, except for one hiccup.  Maybe they’d changed protocol since they got that information. The guards were supposed to be switching out by then. That retinue was supposed to come last week. Maybe something got mixed up with the scheduling. Maybe luck just wasn’t on their side.

They found themselves with their rescued prisoners, almost home-free before an errant guard found them and sounded the alarm. The worst of it was a modern musketeer and his team being the ones to respond. The rescue team wasn’t prepared, but they weren’t the type of people to give up when the stakes were against them, to just surrender there.

It was Enfield who had decided to hold them off, to buy the rest of the team time. He had grabbed Snider’s shoulder with such ferocity, told him to take Master and the prisoners and go, that he wasn’t surprised when Snider didn’t contest it. (There wasn’t time for bickering in the gunfire and it’s not like they were one for tears anyway). All his brother had done was to reach into his own ammo bag, place more bullets in Enfield’s hand and nod. Sometimes, very rarely, Snider could be a saint.

(Or maybe, he just knew better.)

Enfield is competent enough that this worked. He’d be celebrating now if he wasn’t still on the run. Well, that’s sort of a blanket term for this situation. It’s not as if they were hot on his heels; he’d lost them amongst this storm a long time ago. 

But now he was off course, and disoriented in the rainfall, his vision blurry. Their getaway vehicle would be long gone now if things had gone right. He would have made the trek to their rendezvous point if he wasn’t in such bad condition now. Enfield puts an arm over his eyes, trying to make a visor so he wouldn’t have to squint so much. He can tell he’s in the surrounding forests of the base, even if the familiar territory looked so different in the torrent. In the distance he sees a light. There is a momentary panic; flashlights? A team searching for him? But the light has the warm glow of something man-made rather than something mechanical. He can barely make out the shape, but he realizes it’s a house in the distance. He feels hope wash over him. He could hide out there until the storm subsides; he’d ask for shelter. He calculates the risk, of course. (After all, it’s hard to fight majority rule and not live without some caution.) He can’t hide his gun. He could lie about it, but it’s such an old model that it would be hard to come up with a good one. In the best case scenario, the family could be resistance sympathizers. In the worst case, he could at least be gone before they could send word to the authorities when the storm lightens up. 

Enfield tries his luck, and makes way for the home.

He’s turning it over in his mind what a house would be doing so close to a military base. He’s suspicious, but he’s also freezing wet, and doubting himself. Maybe he made it further than he thought. It would be a waste to try to gauge his distance now when he was in such a precarious situation. Soon, however, his questions answer themselves anyway the closer he gets. As the house gets more into view he can see the wear on it, how it’s run-down and damaged. When he reaches the door he hesitates. He would have knocked if he thought someone was living there, but given the condition it doesn’t look like it’s been lived in for some time. The door, too, was slightly ajar already. He glances to the window, it’s blinds drawn, but there was still the faint glow of light, pushing through. The storm is still lashing at his back, the wind nearly knocking him off his feet. He weighs his options. Enfield grips his gun. He slowly opens the door, one finger on the trigger.

As much as he worries, he’s not greeted with a firing squad. He’s also not greeted with a surprised family, shocked at an unannounced visitor. Instead what he sees first is the fireplace, alight and crackling softly. A furnished living room covered in dust, dim and cozy. There’s a figure on the couch, crouched over. First he sees the blood, a hand cradled on their lap, their wrist a dark red, staining the floor. The person is holding it in pain, and they seem to be struggling to move their fingers.

Then Enfield sees the shine of a gun leaned next to them. A very familiar gun.

The person lifts their head when they hear him. Panic strikes Enfield in the chest. It’s the gas mask that fills him with fear the most. It’s broken, the left side of their face visible. He blinks with one blue eye.

“Oh.” The modern musketeer says, “Oh shit.”

Enfield aims instantly.

“Wait! Wait! Don’t shoot!” His enemy stands up, waves his hands, the blood running down his forearm, “Oh man this is bad. Shit. ”

Enfield’s mind is racing, his trigger finger feeling antsy. His mind is trying to fill in the gaps with the adrenaline rush. He looks familiar, so that must mean he’s faced against him before. Something is mentally nudging at him, like no, that’s not it. There’s more. He’s taller than he’d thought, taller when he’s just standing in front of him, but something is struggling to connect, something is trying to fall into place.

Enfield feels cold water droplets hit against the nape of his neck, from his hair. He keeps a steady grip on his gun.

“Look, I know what this looks like,” His enemy keeps talking, noting Enfield’s silence, “But don’t shoot.”

It clicks into place. The glint of his bracelets on his wrists. Enfield blinks. He was the one who they had faced before.

He remembers gunfire and desperation and his own last ditch for safety.

Enfield glares.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.” He threatens through gritted teeth.

“Whoa. Gutsy. Maybe you guys aren’t as cowardly as we thought.”

Enfield feels something ignite in his throat, but he just lifts his gun.

“Wait! God, touchy.” He laughs awkwardly, irritatingly flippant in the situation, “Look, there’s no need to shoot. You got eyes, don’t you? Look at me. You think I can shoot in this condition?”

He tilts his head to motion to his right hand, the blood on his wrist making a clear curve down his arm now. Enfield makes note of the wound, but it’s more severe than it had been at first glance. His wrist was horribly gashed from what Enfield could only assume was a bullet wound. Enfield has been on the battlefield enough times to see the worst of carnage (hell, he was from a time where battlefield surgery was at its most primal beginnings). But he still couldn’t help feeling a little queasy from the damage. It dawns on him in dread and he winces.

“The tendons…”

“One of you is a damn fine shot, I guess I’ll give you that.” He laughs again, “Maybe it was you?”

Enfield can see a threat when it’s thrown on him, but he’s not intimidated. Mostly, he’s thinking that he couldn’t do such expert work. It must have been Snider.

(It was always him, anyway.)

His enemy sees that Enfield doesn’t take the bait, and neither does he shake from fear. He sighs, like in annoyance, and the noise causes Enfield to flick his eyes back at him. He’s still equally staring him down.

Enfield can still feel the storm pounding outside, at his back. 

“How about this? Let me cut you a deal: You and I both know we can’t move in this storm; So let’s just wait it out until it’s over. If you don’t kill me then I’ll let you go free. I get to go home, and you can scurry on back to your rat friends. Deal?”

Enfield feels his trigger finger twitch at the word ‘rat’ but he tries to let it go. He has a decision to make, he knows. As much as he hated to admit it, his enemy was being reasonable and he’s aghast at the idea that these types were even open to the idea of negotiation. Enfield could go back out into the storm, but who knew if there were others still looking for him. He thinks twice despite this, because he has seen how World’s Empire operates: merciless, cruel, underhanded. He doesn’t think it can be that easy. 

“And what’s stopping me from shooting you here?”

“What, you’d shoot a wounded man who can’t use his gun? What kind of heartless guy are you?” His enemy laughs. Enfield feels a chill go down his spine at that laugh, something lurching in his stomach. He hates to admit it, but the more Enfield thought about it, the more he can see his point. He felt a pang of guilt at the thought of shooting him here. Shooting an injured and unarmed enemy, who was alone and without aid, just didn’t sit right with him.

(Painfully, he realizes Snider would have done it without batting an eyelash, but he tries not to think about it too hard.)

  His hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed. The storm is still brewing outside, trees tossed about like nothing, rain lashing at the window panes. 

“So you see?” the other musketeer presses on, “There’s no need to shoot. Put the gun down.”

Enfield considers his situation. He had a point; if his fingers couldn’t work then he couldn’t properly shoot a gun. There was the matter that he could just use his left hand, but his aim would be worse, giving Enfield the advantage. Enfield is well aware that no one will be coming to save him anytime soon (not if, at least, they knew the consequences.) If they could just reach that understanding, cold and shaky as it was, he may just survive the night. He could see Master again. He could see this through.

The firelight is still glinting off those bracelets and Enfield catches it in the corner of his eye. He’s still missing something, a forgotten clue on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t put his finger on it.

Enfield is just about to lower his gun, but he stops himself.

“...There were two of you.”

“Huh?”

Enfield said this mostly to himself, in realization. There was something other than bracelets. In the gunfire and chaos, two times the shots. How could he forget? Bright pink alongside that black. He’s seen him before too.

“I remember clearly. There were two of you. Where are they?”

The modern musketeer furrows his brow in confusion trying to parse what Enfield was saying. After a beat, his eyebrows shoot up in recognition.

“Oh! You mean Lai-tan!”

He says this as if Enfield would know who that is. He’s uncharacteristically calm despite being a hostage, Enfield notices. It was sort of infuriating, like he didn’t consider Enfield a threat as much as he considered him a nuisance that wouldn’t do what he’s told.

“What you need everything explained to you?” He begins bouncing one leg, antsy and energetic, “We were separated. I got lost in the storm trying to find you. Hey, this whole interrogation bit you have going on is cute and all, but are you satisfied yet? I told you I’ll let you go, didn’t I? It’s very easy; you just don’t shoot me and you get to leave when the storm ends. Deal?”

Enfield is an easy guy to control that when pressure is placed upon him, he instinctively knows to react as soon as possible. Reciprotive to people’s needs, no matter who that person was. As a result, his mind is being forcibly rerouted to that deal, despite the surrounding details. He makes a quick scan of the room, noting exit points, looking for hiding spaces. Any place that other musketeer could be hiding and surprise him. But there’s no hint that there was anyone else in that house. Enfield pauses, eyes catching on the wooden floors. He only now sees the blood trail leading from the door to the couch, stark red circles on dull brown. He must have also come here out of desperation.

He’s probably making this decision out of desperation too.

The fire crackles on.

Enfield lowers his gun.

“Fine. Just until the morning comes.” He concedes, reaching back and closing the door behind him.

“ Finally.” His enemy scoffs, lowering his hands and throwing himself back on the couch, done with this business, “ Took you long enough.”

Enfield tries very hard to ignore these jabs, the rude behavior. He wouldn’t make for a very good musketeer if he was so sensitive to the comments from the other side. He lets it go, all of it, because he has other things to worry about. With the door closed the storm is quieter now, just a muffled background noise for them, crashing against that small house. With the tension lessened (can you call this lessened? Enfield still feels like he’s going to die any second) it’s only then the rest crashes back against him. He’s shivering, soaked to the bone, weighed down by his wet clothes. It bites into him, welcoming him back to diverted discomfort. He wants to go closer to the fire, but he’s also apprehensive to get any closer to his enemy. Like trying to sidestep the bite range of a snake. He’s eyeing that gun like it’s poison; it’s so much more complex, articulate than his own. Foreign. Wrong.

Oh, please , something decries in him. Don’t be such a coward .

Enfield, in the span of those few seconds, reaches to his shoulder with his free hand and unclips his heavy, wet cloak. He lets it drop to the floor in a weighty thud , his shoulders feeling lighter with the reprieve. He marches past the other musketeer, ignoring his watching eyes, to sit in an adjacent arm chair, his rifle gripped to him like a lifeline. He takes off his cap too, soaking wet, water droplets still traveling down the chain. It’s infinitely warmer when he’s closer to the fire and as grateful for it as he is, he’s still stalwart like a guard. He looks back up, placing the hat to the side.

“If you try anything,” He says finally, trying to assert some authority here, “You know what will happen.”

“Ooh, scary.” The modern gun mocks, back to paying attention to his bleeding hand, not looking up to pay Enfield any mind “What a serious guy.”

He would be lying if he said he didn’t bristle. Enfield’s tiredly thinking this will be a very long wait until sunrise, and that if this continued he might just end up shooting this person out of some childish need at recapturing his pride. Besides what would he say? To an enemy he didn’t see any hope in understanding? He can’t think of any topic to talk about, and if he tried to, all that came up would just be a half-baked interrogation. (About the base, about the prisoners) Besides, he knew he would be leaving himself open for some roundabout questioning too (how did you break in, who helped you) so he decides to stay quiet. In any case, given this guy’s behavior Enfield doubts he’d get anything more than more mockery and insults.

Oh this is bad, he’s thinking. Enfield’s feeling some fire burn in him. He’s already incredibly annoyed right now, as is.

Rain continues to lash on outside, so constant it was starting to register as nothing but background music. The fire crackling was more to the forefront but also starting to fade into the back seat of Enfield’s attention. Only faintly, does he pick up on it. The small and unnoticeable repetition of water drops. No. He looks down and sees it’s not him (he’s soaked, but that’s different). Instead he finds himself watching the blood travel down his enemy’s hand, to the tip of his finger, until it finally releases to the wooden floor. That’s more blood loss then he thought. Enfield distantly, and sadistically, wonders if maybe the wound will do him in before Enfield has to worry about anything.

He looks back up and is startled when his gaze is met. Just one blue eye watching him from a cracked black gas mask. He watches him for only a few seconds. And then the corner of his eye crinkles; he smiles.

A loud crack of thunder tears the air asunder and Enfield jumps. The floor shakes under him, and his already panicked heart feels like it will explode. He catches a glimpse of his enemy, unshaken, but suddenly looking behind him. His attention caught.

“Oh!” The enemy calls out, “Lai-tan, what took you so long?”

Enfield jumps to his feet and turns, holding up his gun to the space behind his seat. He was waiting to be met with the muzzle of a gun, but there’s no one there. Enfield realizes he’s panting, and then a sick laughter fills his ear.

“Oh my god, you’re so scared! ” His enemy mocks him, and Enfield realizes he was being toyed with, “You should have seen your face!”

Something very beautiful breaks in Enfield then, and he turns sharply on his heel and makes way for the couch.

He’s not thinking about anything when he grabs him roughly by the lapel of his jacket, and he’s not feeling anything other than anger when he speaks. 

“You-!”

“What?” He keeps laughing, “Aww did I hurt your feelings? Come on, I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”

“You think this is so funny, don’t you?!”

“Yeah,” he says, his laughter dissolving into incredulous chuckles, “Don’t you?”

Enfield is tempted to say a lot of things, but his heart is still pounding like crazy, and his shoulders feel so tense they’re starting to hurt. He’s still holding him so fiercely, and yet none of this bothers him. Being toyed with was one thing, but having a bully that didn’t care if you fought back was another. He’s so filled with empty pride, it hurt to have it endangered like this.

(But what is he doing? Aren’t you just crawling down to his level? Pitiful .) 

Enfield feels something warm on his glove and he’s shocked to see blood seeping through the white fabric. He follows it and sees it’s coming from the bottom of his gas mask. It trails down the tendons of his neck in one jagged, dark red line. His captive sniffles, glancing downward.

“Ugh, now look what you did.” He says, “You didn’t have to be so rough.”

If Enfield could see his reflection now, he would probably be filled with ten times more disgust than he is now. 

What was he doing? Near death experiences, or almost botched missions, nothing was an excuse for this behavior. He was a musketeer first, wasn’t he? There was a decorum to follow, unspoken chivalry, and he was throwing that all away for brief pleasure. He’s coming down from his panic now, a survivor’s high, losing a vision of red. He’s been so wound up until now, that he realizes he’s being outrageous. He catches himself back, trying to deny the villainy of himself, and gently lets go. 

Awkwardly he wonders if he should apologize. He’s shot them plenty of times before, but thinking that he might have worsened a wound made him feel bad. Something very honorable in him takes his voice.

“...I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Oh! Perfect!”

Before he can finish that sentence he feels something tug at his chest. He looks down and sees the modern gun gripping the strap of his ammo bag towards him, looking at it more than him. 

“What are-?!”

“Hey do you have supplies in this thing?” He shakes the strap, finally looking back up at Enfield, “Or is it just ammo?”

Enfield flushes with more indignation, any momentary pity he felt being kicked out of him. He flares, despite himself.

“That’s none of your business!”

“Don’t be like that; I could really use some bandages right now.”

“I…” Enfield musters up some courage and rips the strap out of his hand, “I don’t have anything like that for the likes of you!”

“Oh, so you do have some?”

It unnerves Enfield how he’s still talking so casually; either his pride was bullet proof or he was stupider than he thought. It also bothers him how he was still bleeding so much and yet acted like nothing was wrong. The blood has begun to stain his collar, but he doesn’t move to wipe it away.

“Like I said I don’t have anything for you.” Enfield stands his ground. He stares up at him, like he was studying him, deciding what next course of action to take. He smiles again, in that strange way he couldn’t see.

“Is this your payback?” He asks and the voice is oddly still compared to its previous bubbliness. Enfield isn’t shaken by it. Finding himself in a position of power gave him some quick assurance. That finally he had some foothold in this situation by denying him something.

“I just don’t see any reason why I should help an enemy.”

“So, what? You’re just gonna watch me bleed to death here?”

Enfield goes quiet. He had been vaguely accepting those consequences but faced with the confrontation makes him feel ill. He looks downward.

“Hey, don’t you guys go on and on about nobility or saving people or whatever? So, what, if it’s an enemy you don’t mind letting him die slowly?” He points out. 

Enfield is sweet. And because he’s sweet this weighs on him heavily in a way it wouldn’t for a lot of other people. He pictures it, despite himself. The long wait of watching someone die when he can prevent it. This is not to say he’s not used to killing, but killing out of action was a much different beast from killing out of neglect. One just had a different cruelty to it and Enfield is not suited to it. It’s true; he feels briefly insulted someone like this was using his own code of honor against himself. Like it could be boiled down into a cheap bargaining chip. Still; he had a point.

“...That’s not what I meant.” Enfield says quietly.

“Liar.” 

He says nothing, because he can’t deny it.

“...I’m not going to shoot you.” His enemy continues, as if sensing the mood. “I just want to stop the bleeding. Come on.”

Enfield is still looking very far away, debating within himself. (If this was Snider he would have just laughed at him, if this was Bess he wouldn’t have been so shaken, if he was just anyone else… ) The fire crackling on is the only sound between them, and the back of Enfield’s body is comfortably warm, turned towards the fire, while his front is freezing. He should watch him die. For all the people he’s hurt and killed, Enfield should be content with that small payback. It would be easier to make that decision across a battlefield, blinded by gunsmoke, by rage. But it’s different when it’s in front of you. Enfield is a very kind and a very sweet person, so he suffers for that.

It was like a mirror was being held up to himself, and he could not recognize the person in it. He was stressed and tired and soaked to the bone, and he does not know this man. At a moral crossroads, and yet, stumbling.

He feels another tug on his bag strap, gentler this time, almost shyly wanting attention. He looks back at him, and he’s looking up. Not exactly pleading, but without the cruelty.

“ Come on. ” He says again, soft and human. 

Weak.

He makes the decision out of impulse, finding a happy middle ground when pushed to judgement. He takes his bag back again, but with less violence this time. He moves.

“Please move over.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll treat your wounds.”

His enemy blinks, surprised.

“... Huh ?”

“Th-that is,” Enfield coughs awkwardly, “I don’t want you trying anything. If it’s just to stop the bleeding I can do that much at least.”

It’s sort of satisfying to see him look so surprised, even if it’s only from the barest of facial cues. At least he wasn’t laughing at him, at least Enfield had some handle on this conversation. There is some judgment of himself (there always is, some lashing thought on how he could do better) but he tries not to think about it too hard. He was sure (he had to be sure) that if Master could see this, they would be very proud of him. Of taking the higher road, of extending kindness when he could afford it. This is what he throws back against any criticisms. It was the noble thing to do. That was all it was and all it had to be.

It’s cold comfort to find the first aid kit was damp but still useable. The storm is still raging outside, muffled inside there. His pseudo patient wasn’t quiet but at least he obeyed instructions.

“Hey, this is real great of you. I really thought you were going to let me die there!”

“Your arm. Please.”

He gives it, and continues to ramble, but Enfield doesn’t hear him. He feels even more sick seeing the damage up close. Exposed muscle, a bloody mess, his bracelets already deeply stained. How was he going on like normal with a wound like this? When he holds his wrist it’s very cold and Enfield can’t tell if it’s from the weather or blood loss. Briefly, he wonders if these musketeers are made of even tougher stuff than him and the others. With quick permission, he slides off the golden bracelets (so many, who needed so many?) and gets to work. He goes to clean the wound, and he doesn’t pay attention to the fact that his white glove is turning a stark shade of red.

“Oh I guess I have to say thank you or something?” He chatters on, “Do I have to say thank you?”

“Is there a bullet in here?”

“Huh?”

Enfield hesitates. It all feels so odd, so creepy, that he’s struggling to talk like normal.

“Do I...Do I need to take out-”

“Oh, that.” He interrupts, “No, I took that out ages ago.”

Enfield feels something squirm in his stomach. He looks up to a placid face, masked, without emotion. He decides to change the topic.

“You don’t have to thank me,” He deflects, “I don’t...I don’t think this deserves thanks.”

“Nice guy, huh?”

“I’m not doing this out of niceness.”

An uncomfortable silence settles in as Enfield wipes up the blood, rubbing away what has dried, to uncover the gash. They sit there, facing one another, his damaged arm in his hand. Enfield begins to feel antsy and rushes to fill in that awkward answer.

“We’re still enemies.” He explains further, “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

And this part, at least, is true. Enfield is trying to convince himself of the same thing. If his words came off as harsh, or if his stance looked callous, that was just fine with him. He didn’t want to act out of animosity, but he also didn’t want to be seen as lenient. This was not done out of niceties but instead a soldier’s kindness. There was a clear difference, which was the affections behind his choices. Enfield would not condone his actions, but he would not see a man die in front of him.

(If it sounds idiotically complicated that’s because it is. Becauses its weakness smothered in excuse. It’s because Enfield is a fool.)

Enfield tosses a bloodied tissue and begins to wet another one with the rubbing alcohol.

“Hmm, hmm.” His enemy hums. “Interesting.”

Enfield furrows his brow. He’s getting exhausted at being mad so he switches to simple confusion for his own sanity.

“What is?”

“I’m just thinking you are really bad at this tough guy act.”

“It’s not-!”

“Can’t you just accept the compliment?” He cuts him off, and he leans against the couch with his right shoulder, easing into his position, comfy as could be. “I won’t say it again so you might as well take it.”

It’s not as if Enfield isn’t used to compliments, and it’s not like he’s shy. Maybe some part of it had to do with who was giving it to him, but it was hard to accept a compliment when he thought he was doing the wrong thing. He finds it odd that he’s trying to harp on this at all. Enfield wonders if he’ll ever understand this person in front of him. If he ever had the chance, he’s sure it would take longer than just one evening spent in a cabin, lost together.

(But maybe that’s the point. Why would he want to understand a war criminal anyway?)

“Anyone would do this.” Enfield instead deflects, “It’s not deserving of a compliment.”

“God, listen to you. ‘Deserving of a compliment’. You’re so old fashioned.” He blinks, and stops. “Oh shit, I just realized I did thank you. Damn .” 

Enfield can’t help himself. He chuckles.

He stops as soon as he realizes. 

They both just, sort of, stop.

It feels so incredibly alien, it was so out of nowhere, that the room just stops to notice. For a few seconds there is no hierarchy, no forceful take of power, of trying to see who could get the upper hand. Instinctively, the fighting (which had been subconsciously continuing up until that point) halts to a standstill. The obvious point: they’re both tools of war. They’re both opposing sides of that war. So no one can blame them, that with a small shared good moment, they both shut down in the face of it, at a loss of what to call that.

(If we can switch the viewpoint here, for just a bit: it was not just Enfield’s laugh, but also Love One’s momentary good-natured quip. They both have lost here.)

Enfield blinks. Honorable person he is, he instantly floods with shame and self-ridicule. He clears his throat, and doesn’t know he’s turned a harsh shade of pink.

“I shouldn’t be talking to you like this.” He announces, mostly to himself. He’s focusing on the pile of bloodied tissues and the forgotten bottle of rubbing alcohol. He’s trying to focus on the idea that he hasn’t flinched this whole time.

“Why not?” He speaks up, and surprises him, “What else are you gonna do? Glare at me from across the room until your eyes explode?”

Enfield wants to laugh again but he’s more careful this time. He goes to say something but stops. He’s sure he should say something here. He wants to keep being strong, but his enemy had already taken a pin to that balloon. He could be honest, but he’s not even sure what to be honest about. He knows it would be wiser not to make friends here. (What is there to make friends with? A sadist, a soldier, a bastard who is happily keeping this world in chains.) But he also can’t deny that a whole evening of stewing in his own hate looked ridiculous when he stepped back. He’s being caught up in something here, but he’s not sure what.

The couch shifts, and it startles him. He’s leaned forward now, and Enfield can see half of his own face in the visor’s reflection.

“Say,” He says slowly, deliberately, “what’s your name?”

(His heart begins to pound wildly again, out of animal fear. He ignores it.)

“I’m sorry?”

“Your name. I haven’t gotten it yet.”

Enfield calculates his situation. Would it be bad to give it? Any covert operation was done under false name anyway, and it wasn’t as if his name was rare. He doesn’t consider the other implications of this, because, as said before, he’s a fool.

“...Enfield.”

It’s like he flips a switch. Like any dark air just instantly dissipates. He visibly brightens, eye going wide. 

“Seriously?”

There’s temporary panic. Has he wronged him somewhere before? Was he holding a grudge? But then he grabs Enfield’s left forearm with his left hand, and Enfield freezes.

“Enfield? Of the RSAF?”

He stops for a moment. Hearing his place of birth here, in this situation, came completely out of left field. This was getting unbearably surreal at this point.

“I...yes? How do you know about that?”

“I’m L85A1!” He points a thumb at himself. Then, casually, he rolls his eyes, “Well, Love One. You can call me Love One.”

What an outrageous name, Enfield thinks arrogantly, and with disdain. He ignores this. He’s trying to search his memory for the previous name, his model. He’s still catching on the memories of the factory he was built in, the modest building, a lost legacy. Love One can see his confusion.

“I was also built there. You know, before it was closed.” He laughs; it’s annoying how nicer he was now compared to before, “This is crazy! What a small world. To think I’d see you here.”

It bothers Enfield how much more friendly he was being from just realizing what they shared. Doubt is the first thing that protects him.

“That...that can’t be right.”

“You think I’m lying?”

Enfield says nothing. It was more like he wished he was lying, but admitting that was just being childish. 

“It was a factory by the lake.” Love One explains to prove himself, “In an English town. You were named after it, right?”

Enfield knows he’s right, and he can’t deny that knowledge. If he knew even those small details, then he must be telling the truth. It floods him, the memories, and how it must have grown without him, after him. He tries to compare himself to the person in front of him, but he can’t find any similarities. Love One isn’t catching on to any of this, and keeps bragging

“Made in 1985, the last one produced there. Ah man, how much older are you?” Love One starts snapping his fingers on his left hand as he tries to calculate it, “Uhh you were invented...shit when were you invented?”

“1853.” Enfield tells him with a hollow voice.

“A hundred years difference! Man, you are old .” He shakes his head, “What are the chances?”

A majority of the time, Enfield doesn’t think about his progenys that much. At least, nothing so far down the line as a hundred years. After a certain point the mechanizations and schematics get so foreign to him that it’s hard to think they had any ties to him at all. He credits that one up to just human invention and the speed he couldn’t keep up with. He’s an antique after all, just an old soul awoken into a radically different time, brought out of slumber for one job. Love One reaches besides him on the couch, and Enfield’s spine goes stiff when he sees him reach for his gun. But he doesn’t move to shoot. He just shows it to him. 

“Look. Way different from yours, huh?” He says casually, “It’s heavy as hell but cool, isn’t it?”

Enfield traces it with his eyes. He looks back up, waiting for this to be another joke or prank, but Love One is just watching him expectantly.

“It’s not going to bite I promise.” He laughs. 

It’s almost dreamlike to see it here, close and in range. This weapon that’s been shot at him so many times, dormant like this. Enfield can’t help himself; he reaches out with one hand and traces it with a finger. It’s definitely more complex than his but it’s still easy to name those basic components: barrel. Muzzle. Trigger. And yet there was still so much he could not recognize. He doesn’t need to look back at his own rifle to compare because he knows it like the back of his hand. He’s used to looking at Snider and feeling juvenile in comparison, but this was a whole different feeling of divergence.

“I never thought my ancestor would be on your side. This is like some kind of reunion! So what do you think? Impressive, right?”

If they were from the same factory, then they shared the same homeland. He’s trying to picture it; England, it’s legacies. He feels something burn in him as it finally sinks in. One of the last few models, and yet here they were. Enemies against each other, and yet connected by history. His history. His descendant.

Enfield’s descendant.

He feels very numb and then there is a roaring in his ears.

“Man, we’re practically family. This is-”

Enfield slaps the gun out of his hand, enraged. It lands with a thud that echoes in the room against the constant sound of rainfall.

“Don’t compare me to you!”

Love One stops. It feels like the whole room stops. Enfield feels like something is carving out of him. He shakes with anger.

(It’s his own mistakes coupled with the insult. It’s knowing he’s showing weakness here and then seeing what humanity produced when he was gone. It was knowing he had some part in this. Like an infected limb.)

“I...How can…” Enfield flusters through his temper before he finally can get the words out, “If that’s true, how could you possibly call yourself a British gun?!”

Love One doesn’t take long to respond. Annoyed with having his fun taken away, he narrows his eyes and lets out a low, long whistle like watching a train wreck.

“ Touchy .”

“I’m not.”

To calm himself Enfield looks down and sees he has uncovered the gash. He’s thinking to himself this would need stitches but he was in no mood to do this right. He just digs in his bag for the bandages, deciding to close it that way, trying to keep busy. He’s hoping they could drop this topic.

(It buzzes in his head like flies, the revolving thought that they were related. He should be more logical about this; of course history marched on without him. But there was something sickening in knowing that he was just one goal point in a long line that lead to this embarrassment.)

(If we can expose Enfield for a moment: If he was the one to pick up Bess’ legacy how did he manage to fuck this up so badly?)

“Oh, come on .” Love One says with exasperation, “What, you’re gonna start thinking you’re better than me or something? Is that what this is?”

“That’s not it.”

“I was just starting to like you! Don’t be like this.”

Enfield flushes. He names it disgust.

“This should be, like, a happy reunion! You should be proud.”

“How could I be proud of a criminal?”

Enfield chokes out these words with equal parts frustration at him and himself. It makes Love One stop and watch him, and with open air Enfield decides to speak. It’s the hero in him, that begs to be given spotlight.

“It doesn’t matter to me how strong you are.” He confesses, “To know that you’re using that power to hurt people is unacceptable.”

He gulps, and admittedly his hands are starting to shake. Enfield knows he’s putting himself in a senseless position right now, right in the way of a hungry tiger. But something is kicking in, some willful part that wanted the world just so, that wanted to be heard, that, inevitably, liked to look better than everyone else.

“A musketeer should use their powers to help people. As a British gun you should conduct yourself better.” He shakes his head, “I have no idea how you can live with yourself like this.”

His legs feel weak, and he’s sure if he tried to run they would give out on him now. It’s easier to throw quips and insults when you’re armed and they’re shooting distance away. There’s an odd sort of fear having him here, holding him here, and knowing this could go very bad very quickly. Still, Enfield wouldn’t take any of it back. He meant all of it, with the steadfast beauty of a righteous soldier. These aren’t any thoughts he hasn’t had before. He was a strange existence, but he knew his own soul well. He couldn’t possibly understand why his enemies did what they did. It was just too evil for his own considerate self. 

When he looks up, Love One is smiling. Enfield, for a split second, wonders if he will die.

“I really can’t tell right now if you’re brave or just really stupid,” Love One says with sick sweetness, “What do you think?”

Enfield gulps. He doesn’t sound mad but he doesn’t sound merciful either. He still won’t back down.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I’m not sorry I said it,” Enfield reasserts himself, gaining some strength in his voice, “I said it because I think it’s the truth.”

The tension in the air is palpable. Half of Enfield’s attention is on Love One across from him, and Love One’s gun still leaned against the couch. He’s still loosely thinking about the wound he was supposed to be taking care of; of a roll of cloth bandages in his bag. He’s thinking that would be a terrible weapon. He’s trying to think that if worse came to worse how quickly he can grab his rifle. Oh, but damn, that firing rate. Enfield would need one good shot to save himself, but all Love One needed was one good second. For a brief moment he is impressed by his homeland for catching up and making something so deadly and so terrible. Factory of the world, indeed. And that would do him in.

(Ironic.)

The arm Enfield is holding slips out of his hand.

He readies himself.

Love One claps in front of his face and Enfield flinches.

“Ok! I’ve decided!” He announces, throwing his hands up in surrender, “Why not? I’ll indulge you, sure. Let’s talk about this.”

Enfield blinks in bewilderment. He opens his mouth and then closes it. His adrenaline slowly shoots down and he gets a grasp of the situation.

“ I’m sorry? ”

“Oh, shit.” Love One ignores him, shaking his injured hand, “Fuck, that hurt. Hey, hurry up with those bandages.”

“What,” Enfield sputters, “What do you mean talk about it?”

He answers him by jutting his injured wrist towards him like an impatient child with something to show. Enfield grimaces, but takes it, taking the bandaged from his bag and unrolling them. He’s very good at seeing to tasks, no matter his mood. 

“What I mean ,” Love One says with sarcasm, “Is that sure, I’ll talk with you about this. Not like I can shoot you anyway.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Sure there is!” Love One says cheerily, “Like maybe the fact that you’re a hypocrite and a liar.”

He said it so casually, with same cadence, that it takes Enfield a moment to catch it. He blinks, and then glares up under his brow.

“What was that?”

“You heard me. You sure act big for a murderer.”

Enfield goes cold. He doesn’t let this shake him for long. It was just talk anyway.

“If you mean your troops-”

“Hey, grandpa,” Love One cuts him off, “Tell me the story about the Empire the sun never set on.”

Enfield stops.

“Or maybe you can tell me about the American Civil War. Or the Indian Uprising. Which one are you more proud of? And, oh,” he smiles, “don’t forget to tell me the part where this is different from what I’m doing.”

Enfield is quiet.

“You think you’re the only one who pays attention to stuff like that? You think you guys are better than us?”

“It was....” Enfield chokes on his words. Just as he thought he was out of the battlefield, he was being dragged back. He feels very, very cold. “It was a different time.”

“A different time!” Love One laughs, “I’m sure all those people you killed are happy to know it was just because it was a different time .”

Enfield is not here now. He has retreated.

“Look, I’m not saying what you did is bad per se,” Love One continues like he’s bargaining, “I’m just saying you and I aren’t so different, that’s all.”

(It weighs on him like it always does. Lives taken and people failed. It was easier to paint it with the gilded veneer that it was just the advancement of civilization, a kingdom growing. How beautiful it was to call it the factory of the world. It made him look so heroic .)

“You asked me how can I call myself a British gun,” Love One continues, his voice easy and smooth, “To be honest, I don’t. Not a lot, at least. It’s just that right now I’m World Empire’s gun first. That’s all.”

(He knows. Enfield has always known. That if he looked behind him and afforded the people he’s hurt his own attention that he can be called a villain. He’s not so sheltered to think he was a saint and only a saint.)

“But if you think about it this isn’t so different from back then, is it? I think the only thing that’s changed,” Love One hums for a moment like thinking on it, “is that you’re on the losing side this time. Sorry .”

He says that ‘sorry’ in sing-song, in two stressed syllables, in mock guilt. Enfield is beginning to swim back to the surface, like someone had dunked him underwater and wanted to watch him drown. For a brief moment he’s unnerved by the fact he knows Enfield’s history. (Do they study them? Do they remember them? He was just thinking this guy was just a sadistic joke, but he’s seeing now he was wrong.) He tries to collect his thoughts. 

Something kicks in. Like catching his attention. Enfield blinks.

(It is not the image of Snider. It wasn’t Bess. Instead it was that first voice, the innate glimmer, himself… )

“You’re right.”

A rumble of thunder, outside. The shivering shadows cast by the fire. Love One’s hand is pulsing with pain, but he’s very used to ignoring blood, so he barely registers this. He was waiting for Enfield (what a sad guy, what a pathetic model, so old ) to just clam up for the rest of the evening. To take care of him and swallow his medicine and sulk with his tail between his legs. But Enfield looks up.

He looks very determined, with furrowed brow and set eyes. He looks capable.

(He looks lovely.)

“I can’t deny my past. I can’t deny that I’ve caused pain. But…” He averts his eyes here, almost shyly, “But with this new form I can act how I want. I can protect people. I get to choose.”

Enfield looks back at him, catching his gaze. 

“Can you say the same?”

Love One is not a machine built to know shame, he is nothing but a shambling excuse, a poor prototype, a stepping stone to better, but not perfect, things. But it's built in him to relish that, to wear it like a badge of pride, to let the embarrassments slide off his back like it was nothing. Because it is nothing. Because there’s no way to fix who he was, so what was the point in lamenting what he will never have?

He takes in this defiance, just an antique showing off it’s wisdom. There was something tugging at his heart from the start, from the moment Enfield had laughed, and he finally names it. 

Four letters and one syllable and another terrible, terrible mistake.

He likes it.

“So you can bite back.” He notes, impressed. Enfield sees that the reaction he’s getting is more subdued than what he was ready for. He takes the higher road; he is the eldest here, after all. He begins wrapping the wound. He stopped the bleeding ages ago.

“It’s just the truth.”

“Still, to someone else, you’re just an extremist.”

“Maybe. I won’t deny that either,” Enfield responds automatically, “But I’m fighting for someone very precious to me, so I’ll trust them.”

Enfield’s current self is less messy to him. Theoretically, someone could say that of him, he knows. But he’s been on the frontlines, has seen the people he saves, so he isn’t as conflicted about that point. It’s hard to feel guilty when people give you thanks for saving their lives.

“That person,” Love One catches on, tilting his head, curious, “You mean your Master?”

He’s not surprised he was able to deduce it. Mostly because, despite everything, they’re the same in that regard. Enfield tightens the bandage, to get rid of the slack, to give it right pressure. He nods.

“Mind telling me more about them?”

Enfield glares, frowning deeply. “Please,” He says with some exhaustion, “don’t insult me.”

Love One laughs, cat caught with the canary. “Hey, I had to try! I at least had to try.”

Enfield might be scared and on guard, but he wasn’t stupid. He could at least say he had a soldier’s sense about him. Instead, he’s ruminating on something else.

“...You’re not mad?”

“Huh?”

“How can you still talk to me like this?”

Stepping back the absurdity of it was clearer, like it was all so casual that it was hard to miss how strange this was. Enfield has been so hostile up until that point he’s not sure how he’s survived this far. It was like Love One’s nonchalance to his wound; he wasn’t getting hurt by this conversation either. He got annoyed, but when fought against he wasn’t getting more hostile in return. Enfield isn’t sure how to read him. Similarly, he’s getting caught in that mood that was making him talk loosely like this in return.

Maybe he had a point. What else was there to do? 

“I thought I told you,” Love One clears the air, “I’m starting to like you.”

Enfield looks at him, but he doesn’t move to laugh or smile. He just waits for his response. Enfield feels like sighing. Maybe he was putting more stock into this than he thought. He wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of a madman. He decides to drop the topic.

“Nevermind.” Enfield says into his chest. Thankfully the silence doesn’t go on long.

“You still haven’t proven me wrong, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re still the same.” Love One hints.

Enfield is distantly remembering he had something to clip this bandage so it would stay in place. He rummages for the metal bit in his ammo bag as he tries to understand what he was saying. When it dawns on him he blinks rapidly, his eyes widening.

“...Your master.” He confirms.

“What, you thought we all popped out of the ground like daisies?”

Enfield looks back up, still shocked, a million questions on his tongue. He’s met with Love One pointing a finger at him like to stop. He smiles, wagging it in disapproval.

“Uh-uh.” He mocks, “No questions. If I can’t ask, then you can’t either. You gotta play fair.”

Enfield chokes back everything he’s wondering. He was so close to getting something out of this terrible situation, the linchpin to bring down this entire operation. The Resistance had always been on the losing end, just an underdog trying to scale a mountain. To think he was so close to something, but still out of reach was infuriating. Who were they? What was their motivation? Did they have a weakness? He thinks of his own Master; kind and strong and powerful in a way that only a messiah could be. He can’t fathom the kind of person who would have that similar power but only use it for evil. Enfield is still just too good to wrap his mind around someone like that. 

“That person…” Enfield gulps, “You trust them?”

“Of course I do. To me, there is no one better.”

“Even if they’re hurting others?”

Love One sighs. It’s unlike him, and he resettles himself, the couch shifting. When Enfield looks, he finds him looking at the ceiling, as if lost in thought. Calculating his answer, Enfield guesses, making sure not to give too much away. Love One shrugs.

“I guess if I’d have to explain it: they’re doing what they think is right. That person is fighting very hard too.” He trails off for a minute. “I want to help that.”

Enfield is still getting nothing. He takes this answer and tries to see through it, searches it for something, but he knows it’s futile. He guesses there was no point in trying to drag this into the war. Instead, he takes the words for what they were.

(He, of course, could tear apart this idea for the cheap reassurance it was. He thinks it’s an excuse. He still thinks it’s intolerable. But Love One’s tone is uncharacteristically mature. Enfield is clinging to that.)

“So is mine.”

Love One slides his gaze back to him. Enfield has found the piece amongst the packaged gunpowder and Snider’s lent bullets. He holds Love One’s wrist tenderly as he explains.

“I still don’t approve of what you are doing. But I was wrong before; you are making this choice, aren’t you?” He clips the bandage, “I guess you are a perfect descendant for me, then.”

Enfield studies his work. Cleaner skin, bandaged wrist. Master would have been proud to see this medical handiwork. 

“...You don’t look so happy about that.”

Enfield smiles bitterly.

“No. I’m not.” He confesses, “But I can’t deny it, can I? All I can do now is fix what went wrong.”

He thinks about that. Similar origins, and now this current divergence. He feels like he owes someone something, but he doesn’t know who and he doesn’t know what.

“I think I would be more willing to understand you,” Enfield confesses, “If you didn’t belong to someone else.”

“Now you’re getting sappy on me?”

It’s said teasingly, and so Enfield struggles to not smile. He shakes his head.

“I feel like you would be a different person if you were on our side. That’s all.”

“You are getting sappy on me! Cute!”

Enfield is starting to lose. His shoulders are starting to shake. He is filled with equal parts regret and absurdity. A soft heart that was aching but then thrown off. He can’t help himself.

He laughs, mostly into his chest, mostly hidden out of shyness.

“Can’t...Can’t you take this seriously? This is so ridiculous.” He struggles to say. The couch shifts again, but Enfield doesn’t look up.

“Hey, hey,” Love One says with a clear smile in his voice, “I got you to laugh again.”

“I’m not…”

“I like you more when you’re laughing. At first I thought you were such a drag, but you look much better laughing.”

Enfield flushes. Something nameless stirs in his heart, and it’s probably from the loneliness.

“You probably have a point. Who knows? And I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather die than work for the Resistance.” Love One jokes. He still has that edge to him, but Enfield just lets it go now. “You’ll find this hard to believe, but I do like talking to you. So it’s too bad you’re not on our side either.”

“I don’t know if I’m supposed to take you seriously.”

“Hm? But I’m always serious!”

He smiles. It feels bittersweet, hurtful in a distinct and yet subtle way. Maybe Enfield wasn’t sad for him, but the idea of missed chances and failed traditions. To know that the future was there, but nothing he could see or know. The pain of someone past their prime.

Enfield lets go of his wrist. The room is coming back into focus on him. He’s only now seeing the fire had died down, and chances a glance to one of the unshuttered windows. He blinks in surprise.

“...It stopped raining.”

Love One looks with him. It’s not daybreak, but that strange edge of it. A dark purple sky, bleeding with blue, humid musty air the byproduct of a storm. There are still wet leaves clinging to the glass panes, and of the forest they can see, is very still and barely quiet. Enfield is exhausted in both body and soul. He was tense before and he still feels some tension now. He survived the night, somehow. Still he feels he’s similarly on the edge of something. An idea. A thought. Despite himself, he talks.

“I,” He begins, “I want to tell you something.”

“Oh?”

“Before you go.”

“Right.”

“I don’t think I hate you.”

Love One says nothing.

“Well, I mean,” Enfield flusters, “I do hate you. I hate what you have done. I hate what you do. I’m ashamed to think that one of my descendants is helping World’s Empire.”

His heart is beginning to pound again, in time, in panic. He feels terribly seen and apparent and human. Enfield tries to spit it out with the momentum. He tries to let adrenaline take the wheel.

“To be honest, I don’t completely understand you. But...But I think I understand what you feel.”

He takes in a deep breath.

“I know what it’s like to fight for my Master. Before you said the only thing that was different was that I’m on the wrong side. But to be honest, I think you are because you were summoned by the wrong person.”

Enfield looks up. Green and baby blue. One hundred and thirty two years in difference.

“I...I think I pity you.”

Like a death knell. A judge’s hammer. Enfield doesn’t feel ashamed for what he’s said because it’s actually the kindest thing he could say. To afford an enemy his thoughts and his heart. He starts to wonder what he would be like if he had met Master. Had been summoned by them. He thinks things would be very different, and very pretty. He wonders if Love One’s malice and unpredictability would soften into something Enfield could just laugh at. It probably would. If they really were family, then Enfield thinks it wouldn’t be such a crazy idea.

A hand slides on the top of the couch, next to Enfield’s head. 

He catches it in the corner of his eye, and when he turns he’s shocked to see Love One has gotten closer. 

His eyes are very dark.

Enfield freezes up.

“What-”

Before either can say anything, a strange static builds in the air. 

Soft, then harsh, scraping with its ebb and flow. It takes shape into something human and noticeable: A faint voice struggles, barely heard, someone Enfield has never heard before. Love One stops, blinking in surprise. He retreats, leaving Enfield to breathe, and he looks behind himself.

“...One...Do...copy…” the voice is starting to gain more coherence. Love One reaches, and pulls out a walkie talkie from beside himself. Enfield feels cold; how long has he had that? Why didn’t he notice? Love One catches him looking, then smiles. He puts up a finger to where his lips would be, like telling him ‘shhh.’ Enfield dumbly nods. He’s starting to get a bad feeling.

Love One messes with the knobs for a while, until the voice finally gets clear:

“Love! You idiot!” It screams and Enfield jumps, “I said do you copy?!”

He clicks the button on the side, “Lai-tan!”

“Don’t you ‘Lai-tan’ me! Where the hell have you been?! We’ve been calling you all night!”

Love One settles down, getting comfortable. He’s cheery again, effervescent. It’s jarring to Enfield, how quickly he switched from threatening to carefree in such a short amount of time.

“Aww you were worried about me? You’re so cute.”

“Cut it out. Where are you? Why didn’t you call us earlier?”

“I tried, but the storm! I couldn’t get a signal. I’m headed back now, no worries, no worries!”

Enfield is quick to put it together. Lai-tan (was that really their name? It sounded more like a nickname); it was the other musketeer. His mind instantly switches back to the original reason he was here, like everything up to that point had been a dream and now he’s waking back up. Master and Snider. Love One glances back to him, like reading his mind.

“Hey, were you able to catch them?”

“Catch who?”

“The pests.”

A frustrated sound comes from the other side, like this was a sore spot he had hit.

“No!” The other musketeer exclaims, “I probably would have if you didn’t run off! Were you at least able to kill him?”

Love One is still staring at Enfield. Enfield panics for a moment, realizing the conversation they’d left on. He’s darkly reminded of their difference in status, in just how easily he could die here. He had been so caught up in the idea of understanding earlier. He was so careless to say he pitied him; he’d forgotten the killer Love One was, stronger and crueler. Stupid, stupid, stupid-

“No,” Love One finally says, “He got away.”

It takes a while for it to sink in. Enfield looks at him surprised. Another frustrated sound struggles from the machine.

“ Ugh. You’re so useless.” It whines, “Do you need me to go get you?”

“No, no, I can walk back on my own.” Love One hums, “Oh, but my tendons got cut. Have the doctor ready.”

“Useless!”

“I love you too, Lai-tan!”

The static stops. Love One blinks, and looks down at the walkie-talkie in mild surprise. He tries the button a few times, but nothing; he gets static but no voice. He looks back at Enfield, and smiles.

“Lai-tan is my little brother.” He brags, seemingly forgetting the situation, “He sounds so cute, huh?”

Oh. Him too? Enfield thinks, but says nothing. To call what just happened ‘cute’ felt like a delusional statement, especially if he was cut off like that. It was strange to think the modern guns had their own relationships, just as complex or haphazard as their own. A younger brother, just like him. They really were more similar then he gave him credit for. It feels too awkward to say anything to that so he decides to switch the topic.

“You didn’t tell him about me.”

“‘Course not. I told you I’d let you go, didn’t I?” Love One replies casually as he pockets the walkie-talkie. “Consider my debt paid.”

He waves his right arm in indication. The hand looks pale, the fingers stiff, but the bandage has stayed a clean white. The sun is starting to rise behind him, harsh and bright, casting shadows that were practically black. To Enfield it really did feel like he was waking up from a strange dream. His mind rushes back in with logical procedure; the mission, his Master, those prisoners, how he will get home. It feels so surreal to think he talked with a modern gun for the whole night and lived. That he tended his wounds without thinking. He’s sure that if he looks back on this he will wonder if it really happened. He’s still wondering, even now, if any of this really happened.

All of this only happened in a night. A glimpse at his future, at the enemy side. A very small, but passionate, part of him almost didn’t want to leave.

(There was so much else to say, to ask. To know.)

“Oh-kay~” Love One announces as he gets up, and stretches his arms above his head. A tall, lanky figure lit up by the sunlight behind him. He drops his arms and takes in a big sigh. Looks down at Enfield.

“Time to get to work.”

“Huh?”

Then he picks up his assault rifle with his left hand. 

The gunshots ring loud as he shoots him in the leg.

Before Enfield can scream in pain, Love One forces a hand over his mouth. Enfield’s vision blurs from the shock, his leg is numb and then feels like it’s on fire. He screams but it’s muffled against his palm. Love One watches him coldly.

“Ah, ah.” He says softly, “No screaming now. You don’t want everyone at the base to hear you, do you?”

Enfield tries to choke down the screams, but he begins to cry.

“No hard feelings, okay? I’m just doing my job. It wouldn’t look good if I just let you go free, would it?”

Enfield wants to curse him out, but he’s still keeping him gagged and he’s beginning to panic. He’s staring at his assault rifle, his left hand that held it confidently. He goes pale. Love One catches him looking, then looks back.

“Oh, did I forget to tell you?” He says lightly, “I’m left handed.”

All of it. Enfield begins to shake. This whole time, all of it was planned. He was so wrong about everything; his behavior, his competence, this situation. Enfield had been just prey from the beginning. Any step of the way he could have died here, his life in the hands of someone’s whims. He had it all wrong. Love One wasn’t potential, he wasn’t someone deserving of pity, or an innocent bystander of unfortunate circumstances. Enfield was just placing a soul onto something familiar, related to him. He was just being a narcissist. The sun is rising high now, and Love One’s blond hair shines brilliantly in the light, his face shadowed.

He was just a monster. Plain and simple.

(Maybe he really was a worthy descendant.)

“I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t I kill you before?” Love One tilts his head, and Enfield struggles to focus through the pain, “I mean, I was thinking about it. But I wasn’t lying before. The more I talked to you the more I realized: I like you.”

The air reeks of gunpowder and blood. Enfield doesn’t give the response he wants; he just keeps watching him scared and shaking. To Love One, it was sort of adorable how dense he could be, but he decides to give him a nudge.

“I really, really like you.” He repeats for emphasis.

Enfield takes this in. He gives him enough time to think about it, to see it’s weight and serious intent, until Enfield gives him that look of fear he wanted. Love One smiles in satisfaction.

“So this is how it’s going to go,” He glides past this effortlessly, “I’m going to leave first. I’m not going to look for you. But if you just so happen to get caught, well, I guess that’s up to you, isn’t it?”

Enfield’s mind is blank at this point with fear and self-preservation. He nods slowly, in understanding.

“Great! Perfect! Glad you understand.” He takes his hand away, and instantly Enfield begins to gasp for breath, out of panic or pain he’s not sure. He looks down to his leg and winces when he sees three bullet holes, bloody and aching. He keeps reassuring himself that it’s fine, that he’s had worse. That he’ll live, that he can’t die here. He’s incredibly confused, just as he was scared. His heart can’t decide what stance to take. Betrayal, maybe. Terror, mostly.

He hears the clicking of a buckle and looks up. Love One has reached behind his head now, still looking down at him with half-hearted eyes.

“Hey, since I like you so much, I’ll leave you with a present. You can tell the other rats you won it off me. You know; impress them.” He explains. 

He takes off his gas mask. Enfield looks at his face when he uncovers it. His first thought is what a ridiculous pair of glasses to be in a setting like this. His second is that he looks so human. The modern guns were easier to see as the enemy because there wasn’t a face to put on them, someone to sympathize with. It’s jarring to think he could look so similar to them, that he wasn’t just a demon to fear.

 His third thought is that he had no business looking so handsome.

Love One drops it on Enfield’s lap. Enfield looks at his reflection in the cracked visor. He wants to say something. He needs to say something. For his own pride. For whatever potential they had back there.

He’s grabbed by the jaw, softly, and he feels the rings slide against his skin. He gasps when he feels Love One kiss him on the cheek.

“Something to remember me by.” He whispers, teasing, a palpable grin in his voice.

Maybe Enfield had been naive to think there was anything to relate with him. Maybe he was gullible to try to take the higher road. He should have shot him when he had the chance. He should have let him bleed to death. He shouldn’t have allowed an enemy mercy, no matter if they were related. Yet, stepping back, Enfield can’t help but be impressed by how this all played out. How he was still able to come out on top. True, this just meant that he should be more careful, that only a fool would be easygoing in a war. But it was more than that: the last one from his line. A hundred years difference, and there he was. His own. Cunning and meticulous and easy to underestimate. 

Maybe Enfield wasn’t honest with himself. Something dark in him is seeing it from another point of view. He didn’t pity him because he didn’t serve someone kinder. 

He wanted him because the Resistance could be so much stronger if they had more soldiers like that on their side.

(Enfield is always thinking about how to be better than anyone else, after all.)

Something is beginning to twist in himself, and it's like dripping blood into a clear glass of water. It drops, and then spreads. It consumes.

When Enfield comes back into focus he’s found that Love One has started to leave. He feels cold there, aching and wanting. Left behind and forgotten. It was all so in reach, knowing that he led to stronger things, that he was closer to power. It was so terribly familiar. Love One opens the door and the light floods in, blinding and intense, and Enfield can’t help himself.

“ Wait! ”

Love One looks over his shoulder. He’s surprised to see Enfield has not grabbed for his rifle. Instead he just sees him panting there, one hand pressed over his wounded thigh, another gripping the couch. He looks enraged. Flushed and in disarray.

(He thinks it’s a very nice look for him.)

“Don’t…” Enfield gulps, gritting through his teeth, “Don’t leave a job half-finished.”

It only takes him a few seconds to realize what he’s saying. Love One grins. He turns on his heel. His shadow falls over Enfield, blocking the light.

Enfield doesn’t flinch when Love One puts his hands on the back of the couch. He doesn’t draw away when he leans over. He just grips the strap of the gas mask in his hand and closes his eyes, letting it happen just as he wants.

Enfield’s first kiss tastes like blood and biting.