Archive of Our Own

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon in Button Manor.

Sunlight rickled in through the large windows, filling the room with warmth and light, and brought with it a lazy sort of air that seemed to infect all the inhabitants. 

While most of the ghosts were unaccounted for and suspiciously silent, the few Patrick could spot were surprisingly well behaved. Julian and Robin played a languid game of chess in their favoured spots, while Kitty and Thomas sat cross-legged on the carpet, talking quietly to one another.

Patrick wasn't why everything was so calm, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. It wasn’t often they got some quiet time, especially not in the living room. 

He snuggled closer to Theodore, handsome as ever in the golden hue,  feeling the responding hum that went through his husband’s chest. It was a lovely little rumble. Theodore’s eyes were firmly on the telly (Dad's Army, again), but his hand did find its way onto Patrick's hip, thumb sliding under his shirt to trace a circle over skin. Patrick shivered pleasantly and let his eyes flutter shut, tuning the show out.

A lazy little nap sounded quite nice, he decided, and well earned after the drama of the previous days…

“I didn't say I did like it," he heard Kitty say, "I just thought it was a bit boring. It's always so exciting in my books."

The spirit box, cackled to life on the coffee table, repeating her words. Pat cracked an eye open, wondering how rude it'd be to turn it off. Very rude, he reasoned. Kitty got awfully upset if she couldn't be heard. Maybe he'd have to postpone that nap for now.

“Such is the tragedy of life," Thomas bemoaned, "that reality falls short when compared to the beauty of fiction."

Kitty blinked blankly at him. “I wouldn't call it a tragedy," she said, "I didn't think it was that bad really."

Curiosity got the better of him. Patrick forced both eyes open and cleared his throat. "What are you both on about?"

Kitty turned to him, feather flittering as she did so. "It's Alison and Mike's anniversary today!" she explained.

Well that explained their absence. They were probably hiding away in their room, just trying to enjoy the day in their own little way. He'd have to catch them later and ask if there's anything he could do to make the day more special. Patrick couldn't so much obviously (you can't exactly put a meal on for the dead), but he could put a movie on his laptop for them to enjoy at least, maybe fill up the bath. They seemed to like sitting in the bath for some reason, even though they couldn't feel the heat or the bubble. But if it made them happy, who cared if it was a bit strange.

"-asked them how they courted one another," Kitty continued. "And..."

"They didn't," Thomas finished. "Chivalry is no more, and with it, true romance."

He let out a long winding sigh, not stopping until he started to wheeze. Then he breathed in, or mimicked doing do, and pouted. Thomas was an expert in taking things that had never to do with him personally. 

"What seems to be the problem?" Theodore asked, finally tearing his attention from the show.

"Oh, it's nowt serious, love," Patrick assured him, patting his chest kindly "Kitty’s just a bit upset that Aison and Mike don't have an exciting story about they got together, that's all."

The line between his brows smoothed, stormy eyes softening. "I see. I'm sorry to disappoint you, Katherine, but I'm afraid most romances have rather dull beginnings."

Patrick laughed, he couldn't help himself. He caught his husband’s eye and said, "Adunno, wouldn't say we had a very dull beginning."

Theodore turned a rather impressive shade of pink. He cleared his throat loudly. "I, ah, well-"

As he stuttered along, Patrick realised a bit too late that maybe he should've kept his big mouth shut. Both Kitty and Thomas' full attention was now on the Butchers, and Patrick had a sinking feeling he knew what was coming next.

"How did you two get together then?" Kitty asked.

That put an end to Theodore’s stumbling, but only worsened his blush. Patrick was feeling a bit hot in the face himself, truth be told.. Their story, well, it was a bit embarrassing really. Even embarrassing felt like a mild description for it, honestly. His mam had laughed herself hoarse when Patrick first told her, and he didn't anticipate a better reaction from the ghosts.

Theodore was of the same opinion. “For good reason. It’s not the kind of story you’d want to hear, I can assure you. It's incredibly boring and dull.”

“Very dull,” Patrick agreed. “You’d fall asleep before we even finished.”

"You just said it wasn't dull," Kitty argued.

"I lied. I do that sometimes, lying."

The ghosts weren’t to be deterred, however, firmly holding their ground like the stubborn souls they were.

“Please?” Kitty pushed, eyes big and brown.

The spirit box loudly parroted her words at an ear-splitting volume.

Before Patrick could think up a distraction or excuse, Julian and Robin put a pause on their game, gazes dead set in his direction. Bloody hell, there was no getting out of this, was there? Once Julian had his teeth in something, he wouldn’t let go, and unlike the other ghosts, the Tory had no qualms about following Patrick into the shower.

Besides, Kitty and Thomas had some impressive puppy dog eyes.

“Fine,” Patrick grumbled. “But I’m warning y'us now, you’re not going to like it.”

Theodore groaned and rolled around, hiding his face in Patrick's chest. Facing the enemy head on was only for practising captains, it seemed. Meanwhile, while the ghosts all got comfortable, settling in for the long haul. Nosy sods, the lot of them.

Patrick wound a hand in Theodore’s hair, playing with it as he took his sweet time to think of where to even begin. Sure, he'd told the story a few times now (Theodore had tried to shoulder the burden a few times, bless his heart, but could never even manage five words before his embarrassment took over), yet it never got easier.

Blimey, was he ever going to regret this.

“I should probably start when we first met, but that's not really where it all began…”

---

The Captain was, to be blunt, a wazzock. To be even more blunt, a bastard.

The man marched around their usual stomping grounds, eyeing the field and  scouts with distaste. Beneath his moustache, his lips were twisted up like he was permanently sucked on the world's sourest lemon, and above, his eyebrows were fused into one disappointed line.

He made no move to actually help any of the children, no. He just offered a few sharp words on determination, independence, or some other rubbish before striding onwards. It was silent he thought actually doing his damn job, the one he'd bloody well volunteered for, was beneath him.

When he caught Patrick's stare, he simply scowled. 

How, Patrick mused for the fourth time that day, had this man become an assistant scoutmaster? He couldn’t for the life of him figure it out. Patrick knew for a fact that the Captain (as the children had dubbed him),  not even as a child. He hadn’t even done something similar work with the Cadets or Guides! He’d just come out of nowhere in a heavily starched uniform, claiming to be the new assistant Scoutmaster.

Patrick had tried getting answers, but everyone he asked seemed as clueless as him. There were rumours, of course, and plenty of wild guesses, but none struck Patrick as being particularly believable. Of course, there was no getting answers out of the Captain himself. He was as tight-lipped as a clam. Even getting his real name had been a herculean task, and completely unnecessary as nobody would call him by it. 

That was all Patrick knew about Theodore to be frank, that he’d once been a Captain. 

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Patrick cast an eye over the camp and the scouts, all fighting with their tents. He picked out the group that seemed to be having the hardest time - the Captain’s inspiring speech hadn’t done much to help, apparently - and hurried over.

Keith stared despondently at the rope, tears starting to build in his eyes. He was a nervous little thing, bless him, and not particularly good at paying attention to instructions. Even when he did listen, he often forget what he'd been told the second Patrick stopped talking.

Patrick crouched down beside him, one knee to the ground, and gently waved the small hands away from it. 

“Having a bit of trouble with that, are you?" Patrick asked.

The boy's bottom lip wobbled and he nodded. "I forgot how to do the- thing," he mumbled.

"Double half hitch knot? Happens to the best of us, mate. My old scoutmaster was a nightmare at it, he had to get his assistant to teach us!"

That earned a flicker of a smile from Keith, and for a moment, Patrick thought of Daley. 

He cleared his throat, chest tight. "Why don't I show y'us how to do it, and then you can have a go of it, yeah?”

Patrick tied the knot, going slow as he could so Keith could see exactly what he was doing. That was something soothing about knot tying, the repetitive movements oddly comforting. He did it at home sometimes, found a piece of string or rope or twine and just tied for hours. His sister said it was weird, but it wasn't the worst thing he could be doing on a Saturday night.

The Captain walked by, offering a little hmph at the demonstration and nothing else. Patrick bit back a few words that wouldn’t go down well in front of the kids and got to his feet.

“Think you've got now?” he asked.

Keith nodded cautiously. “I think so.”

“I'm sure you have, and if you do need a bit more help, but call me over.”

Keith scampered over to the other unoccupied tent pole, and though he had a few false stats, eventually tied the knot right. Patrick smiled, a bit of pride bubbling in his chest at the sight. 

That was smothered though as the Captain circled in. “Interesting technique,” he said.

“It’s the proper technique,” Patrick countered. He fought to keep his tone light and a smile on his face. “But if you’ve got a special way of doing it, by all means, show us."

It was complete bull, obviously; there was only one way to tie double half hitch knot and they were both fully aware of that. Well, Patrick was, at least.

The Captain tensed ever so slightly,  shoulders in one tight line. “And undo the children’s hard work? Seems rather unfair, don't you think?"

Patrick couldn’t help but push. The Captain had been bugging him non-stop since day one, and all Patrick wanted was to see the other drop the haughty act for one bloody minute and squirm . That wasn't too much to ask, was it? 

“You can show me on my tent,” Patrick said.

The Captain’s left eye twitched, a fact and barely visible movement. He flexed his fingers around his cane, resisting the urge to rub at it.“Didn’t you say we needed to collect firewood before it got dark?”

Patrick hadn’t, but they did need to.

"Can't go until all the tents are up and ready," he argued.

"Then you best hurry," the Captain sneered, "we don't have much daylight left."

"You should hurry too, mate," Patrick said through his teeth. "Maybe if you're quick enough, you can even show some of the kids your knot-tying tricks."

He shot a tight smile at the man before moving on. 

Patrick tried to shov him out of his mind as he went around the tents, a near impossible task. The Captain was always in his peripheral, following him around at a distance like a predator waiting for the best time to strike. It was hard to look particularly fearsome in khaki shorts and a woggle though.

When all the tents were up to scratch, the Captain barked out a call to order, and all the scouts quickly scrambled over. Patrick had to hand it to him, he was rather good at that, but that didn't mean much. A whistle could do the same job faster.

Ignoring the voice in the back of his head nagging him to say thanks, Patrick grinned at the sea of children. “Right, you lot, now we need to go get the wood for the fire!”

He split the group in half, reluctantly handing over the second group to the Captain. All the children came back in one piece, but with an absolutely pitiful load. Patrick said nothing, though he did catch the other man's gaze, raising a brow.

The Captain glared back. Business as usual. 

Dusk set quickly on their little camp, but the kids were quicker, and the fire was burning before the light was gone. The Captain continued to patrol the ground, being of little use. 

None of the kids seemed to care though; they all viewed him as some strange mysterious creature, one that was best observed and not spoken to. Patrick couldn't quite tell if they were in awe of him or just afraid of him, or some combination of the two. A few watched him wide-eyed as he stalked around, whispering to one another.

Patrick didn't listen and tended to the fire. It wasn't any of his business what they were gossiping about.

The Captain only stilled for dinner, and only softened when the hot chocolate was cracked up. A few of the braver kids encouraged him to have a mug, and he eventually gave in. He still grumbled about it being too watery though, the wazzock.

“Then make your own next time,” Patrick said sniped. “Marshmallow?” 

The Captain’s scowl depended, eyes Amber as they reflected the roaring fire. He did take one though, and another when he thought Patrick wasn't looking.

Patrick decided to let that slide; the Captain wasn’t the only one sneaking a couple more into his drink. Besides, Patrick didn’t really like marshmallows anyway. 

As the fire began to dwindle, the kids crawled into their tents, though they wouldn't be sleeping for a while. They always got excited for overnight camps, rare as they were, and it'd take a few more hours before they all fully wrung themselves out.

Beside him, the Captain was scowling at the loudest of the tents, the inhabitants laughing and talking in a mock-whisper, trying and failing to be quiet. 

He tightened his grip on his cane, and Patrick knew what would come after unless he stopped it.

“Oh, naff off,” he hushed, “they’re hardly partying it up in there, just having a bit of a chat.”

“They’re supposed to be sleeping .”

“You can’t expect them to drop off just like that. It’s only been five minutes for Christ's sake.” 

“You shouldn’t be so lenient, Patrick. You give them an inch and they’ll take a mile, make my words.”

Anger bubbled in his chest, and it took all of Patrick's energy to keep his voice low and quiet. Who did he think he was, traipsing around like he owned the place, talking down to Patrick like he was the idiot?

“You’ve only known them for three months,” Patrick pointed out. “I’ve known them for three years . If anyone’s going to know what they’re like, it’s me, and I can tell you that they wouldn’t. They're good kids.”

The only sound that filled the air was the kid's hushed laughter and the cackling of the fire. Patrick soaked in the quiet while he could.

That used to be his favourite part of being a scoutmaster. Helping the kids was great, of course, but he’d always enjoyed the quiet that followed, especially on those rare weekends that they stayed overnight. It was a chance to decompress as the chill of the night settled deep into his bones, hands kept warm by a hot drink, and it left him with a sense of satisfaction and calm he struggled to find in any other part of his life.  

It also used to be his chance to catch up with his assistant Scoutmaster, Morris. Pat glared into the thicket. Bloody Morris. Bloody Carol.

Nowadays, it was just a time to feel cold and miserable, not helped by the fact that the Captain refused to head in until Patrick did. Why the Captain insisted on doing that was anyone’s guess. Maybe it was some sort of pride thing? He couldn’t be the one to throw in the towel first? It sounded like something he’d do. 

Patrick side-eyed the man.

The moon, full and ghostly, hung abo ve them, its light casting the Captain in a mould of silver. His shirt was just a bit too tight around his broad shoulders, hus and shorts (that he claimed he’d only worn because his trousers had gone mysteriously missing) were riding up slightly on the thigh, revealing a long stretch of skin. 

Cheeks flushed, Patrick looked away. 

The Captain didn't even have the decency to look as awful as he was on the inside, oh no. He just had to be all tall, broad, and handsome, and also a massive git. It was unfair, really, some comic joke on Patrick, a way to really rub salt in the wound. He finally found out about his wife and best mate, and the first attractive face they threw at him just had to be connected to a wazzock.

Maybe his sister was right. Maybe it was time to throw himself back into dating.

Patrick raised his mug to his lips, only to find it was empty. He supposed that was as good as any reason to head in. With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and put out the fire with a water bottle, listening as it sizzled into silence. 

“You’re cutting your stargazing rather short tonight,” the Captain commented. ”Tired already?”

Short? Patrick frowned. He hadn’t taken notice of how long he usually spent outside before. He was always in his tent by the time that it got light, and that was all really mattered to him.

The Captain certainly didn’t care either, that Patrick was sure of. By the upturned corner of his lips, it was clear he was just looking for room to make another dig.

“Not really.”

“There’s no shame in admitting you are. A man of your age-”

Patrick ground his teeth together, stamping out the urge to wrap his hands around the man's throat. Man of your age - Patrick was only thirty-eight! And if the Captain was younger than forty-five, he'd eat his bloody hat.

“How old do you think I am?” he hissed.

The Captain pursed his lips, which wobbled as he tried to hold back a grin. “Well, it’s hard to say, but you can’t be younger than fifty.”

“Fifty?!” Patrick choked, struggling to keep his voice down. “You can naff right off with that, I'm not even forty yet!”

“Really? I would have never guessed.”

Right, that was it. They were sorting this out right here, right now, kids be damned.

Patrick took a step forward- only to stumble, slapping his entire hand on the Captain’s chest instead of the intended single finger. He decided to roll with it. 

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing or what your problem is with me, but you need to cut it out. My job is to look after these kids and make sure they behave, which I can’t do if you won’t behave. So can the snarky comments, wipe that oody smirk off your face, and start helping out. Do I make myself clear?”

The Captain cleared his throat, opened his mouth, but no words followed.

Chest heaving, Patrick pulled away. Finally speechless, aye? He never thought he’d see the day. Mission accomplished, he turned on his heel, making way for his tent, feeling a little bit lighter than he had in weeks. 

Just before he opened the zip though, he swore he heard a quiet “ Yes, sir”.

Patrick shook his head. You really did hear the strangest things at night.

---

Thomas raised a judgemental brow. As his mouth opened, Patrick held up a hand.

“Not a word,” he warned.

Thomas closed it, though reluctantly.

“What?” Theodore asked.

“I was talking to the ghosts, love.”

“Alright.”

---

The next morning, the Captain was silent.

Patrick was honestly quite surprised. 

When he’d finally settled down in his tent that night, the only thought echoing through his head had been oh god what have I done? He’d anxiously bounced between extremes until the early hours, panicking about losing his position or the (admittedly less extreme) possibility that it would only make the Captain even worse, 

Patrick had been jittery by the time he got up, barely an hour of sleep in him, and he was sure either showed.

But the Captain had said a single word. 

No angry calls, texts or emails followed as they rolled into the next week, and their absence was honestly a bit nerve wracking. 

If there had been, at least Patrick would know where they stood, but as it was, he was left waiting for the other shoe to drop. He refused to believe that he’d actually talked sense into the Captain, after all - surely just one quick rant couldn’t do that.

Patrick had the strangest urge to shoot over a text and make sure the man hadn’t given himself a concussion or some other serious injury that would explain his behaviour. He held back though. It would likely only set the Captain off, and as much as he didn’t like the silence, he didn’t like bickering either. 

Patrick shook his head, narrowly avoiding tripping over a stray clump of dirt.

“I’m telling you, he’s a nightmare.”

On the other side of the phone, Gabrielle hmm ed boredly. He'd needed someone to complain to though, and as his sister, she was obligated to listen.

“You know,” she said, “I'm getting the feeling you're not a fan of him.”

Patrick scoffed. “What gave it away?” he muttered, avoiding another clump. “He’s not even supposed to be called captain. Only majors and higher are supposed to use their rank after they leave the forces.”

“...Pat, did you look that up?”

Heat filled his cheek; he blamed the cold air. “No.”

“You did, didn’t you?” He could hear her grin. 

“No, I didn’t. I, I just heard it on the telly,” he insisted, “as you do.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

Gabrielle went quiet. That was somehow more effective than if she’d kept badgering him.

“....So what if I did look it up?” Patrick gave in. “I’m just making sure he’s behaving himself, you know? Not breaking or rules or nowt.”

“You don’t care enough about the military to kick up a fuss about something like that.”

She was, as usual, right. 

Patrick kicked away a lump of mud, pouting as it squelched. “He started it,” he mumbled. 

“I’m sure he did.”

“He did! I was trying to be all nice and friendly on that first day, but he came out of the gate acting like a complete wazzock! He didn’t even give me the chance-”

A throat cleared loudly behind him. Patrick’s stomach dropped.

“...I’ll call you back, Gabs.”

“Say hello for me,” she drawled. 

He hung up and slid his phone into his pocket. Someone up there hated him, he was sure of it. The feeling's mutual, mate.

Taking a deep breath, he swivelled around to face the Captain. 

“Didn’t you get my text?”

It was a silly question as the answer was obviously yes. The Captain wasn’t in his uniform, instead dressed in a cosy-looking olive jumper, wellingtons, and a beige coat, the collar turned up like he was trying to be cool or something.

“Yes, but I thought I should come and assess the damage.”

Patrick grimaced at the reminder and turned back around. Damage was a good way to out it.

He hadn’t thought there’d be boars in Yorkshire, but apparently, there were. Maybe there weren't boars plural, maybe it was just one, but plural or not, it had absolutely gone to town on the grounds, leaving it a right state. There was no space of land that was untouched, holes and lumps of dirt as far as the eye could see, a complete and utter quagmire.

Until it was caught, Pat couldn’t in good conscience bring the scouts back, so there was no session that week.

But there Theodore was anyway.

“...What are you doing here, might I ask? It's not exactly safe at the moment, and I'd have thought, if given the chance, you’d stay home, watching the football.”

Patrick wetted his wind-bitten lips.

He didn’t like being home, not anymore. Hell, he didn't even think of his flat as home, it was just somewhere he went at the end of the day. It was small, cold, and quiet, far too quiet.

Even with the telly or radio on, the windows left open to beckon in the sounds of the cars outside, his neighbours on all sides making a racket, it still wasn't enough. It wasn't Daley’s happy chatter, his excited laughs, it wasn't the sound of the kettle whistling for two, or a whispered “I love you”.

It was all just white noise. It scratched at his ears.

“No match today,” Patrick replied. 

The Captain didn’t know enough about sports to call him out on it.

“Ah.”

The man said nothing more, and they both leant against the fence as a cold wind blew in, observing the grounds.

Patrick kept waiting. For what, he wasn't sure, but nothing came. After another five minutes, Theodore left as quietly as he’d arrived, leaving no explanation in his wake.

Patrick spent another hour or two walking around the field mindlessly before leaving. 

---

Theodore burrowed out of the safety of Patrick's chest, face caught in a frown. “I don't remember our conversation being that short. I’m sure I said more.”

Theodore had, but that something more was a curse as he tripped over a hole and nearly headbutted a tree, and Patrick was trying to preserve some of his husband’s dignity. 

“Nope, you said nowt. Now shush, I’m not done.”

---

Two weeks after, the boar had been caught, the grounds (mostly) fixed up, and the Captain was right back to normal. 

He scowled, he stomped, he barked, and he continued to insist that he absolutely had an extra special way of tying knots that was just so much better than Patrick’s. But of course, he couldn't actually demonstrate it, and he had a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why. What was that reason? Oh, it seemed that someone was calling him and he just had to go-

Patrick smothered a yawn as he gathered up the bows and arrows, making his way over to the targets. All the scouts were lined up, and the Captain stood behind them, chin raised ever so slightly. 

What, did he think he was too good for archery of all things? Christ.

Patrick let out a deep breath before plastering on a smile. “You ready troopers?” 

All nodded and cheered excitedly, all but one.

Keith gently tugged on Pat’s sleeve. “Skipper, I really don’t want to do this.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d asked to opt-out of an activity, and Patrick was sure it wouldn’t be the last. Anything involving sharp objects tended to make the child nervous, especially after The Incident. If Pat was being honest, after The Incident he was more than happy to keep Keith away from sharp objects too.

“Okay, Keith, why don't you go stand with Captain back there?”

Keith let out a relieved breath and practically ran away from the targets. Patrick caught the Captain’s eye and gave him a stern look. He hoped it did its job of conveying the message ‘for god’s sake, be useful for once’, though knowing his luck wouldn’t. The Captain scowled back, which probably meant he got it.

Only a few more hours left, Patrick reminded himself, then it was all over. That didn’t do much to comfort him though. There was still next week, and the week after, and the week after that…

The archery session went surprising well, not a single hair injured on anyone; a large improvement from the last time they tried it, even if no one had managed to hit bullseye yet. 

Hayley, one of the rambunctious scouts, seemed especially annoyed with that and threw her bow to the ground. “This is stupid, I haven't even hit it once!"

“Don’t throw the equipment,” the Captain snapped.

She grumbled something under her breath and picked it back up. Then, she got a worrying look in her eye. “Can you hit a bullseye, Captain?”

Patrick wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.

The Captain tensed up, knuckles white against his cane. That was a no then.

He spluttered. “I-”

“Course he can,” Keith defended in a timid tone. “He’s a captain. I bet all captains know how to do stuff like that.”

“Go on then,” Hayley goaded. “Show us.”

“I don’t see why that’s necessary-”

The Captain was cut off by the rest of the children immediately kicking up a fuss.

Patrick stood back and watched it all, torn between wanting the Captain to keep his distance from the arrows, and wanting to see him muck it up completely. Regardless, he really needed to step in and say something… 

“Come on, Cap, why don’t you give it a go?” he said.

That wasn't what the Captain wanted to hear. He snapped his head in Patrick's direction, glowering madly.

Then, he sucked in a breath and marched over, snatching the bow off Hayley.

As the kids cheered loudly, he walked up to the firing line.

“You know very well I’ve never done archery before,” he hissed in Pat’s ear.

His breath was warm and gentle, even though the words were harsh. Patrick shuddered slightly. 

“There’s a first time for everything!” he chirped. “Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it.”

He didn’t need that much help, in the end, Patrick was loathed to admit. The Captain had clearly picked up something from the run-through earlier, it was just his posture that needed fixing.

Patrick tutted and stepped closer, gently cupping the man’s right elbow and lifting it slightly.  “You’re never going to get bullseyes if you’re aiming down there, mate.”

The Captain swallowed thickly. “My aim is fine.”

“Sure, if your goal is the ground.”

A few of the kids snickered, and Patrick cleared his throat. Behave , he reminded himself. Beside him, the Captain was bright red.

“Right, er,” Patrick continued, “Just bring your foot back a little more, yes that’s it, and then-”

Bullseye.

Patrick stared at it in shock. “Blimey.” 

The Captain turned to him and grinned. A grin , not a smirk or a condescending smile, a proper toothy smile, eyes crinkly proudly. As it turned out, he looked rather nice when he smiled.

Patrick cleared his throat and stepped away. “Nice shot.”

“I told you my aim was fine.”

And the smirk was back. Well, it was nice while it lasted.

“Want another go?”

The bow swiftly found its way into Patrick’s hand. He bit back a smirk of his own. Coward. 

---

“You don't seem to get getting along that well,” Kitty noted.

The spirit box loudly and sadly parroted her words.

“Yes, I admit I can't see how this ends in romance,” Thomad agreed, “though is gratifying to know the Captain had always been a philistine wazzock.”

“Oi,” Patrick scolded. “That's my husband you're talking about.”

Thomas patted the air above Patrick's shoulder. “I know, and you have my sincerest apologies.”

There were times when Patrick was glad his husband couldn't see the ghosts, and those times were whenever Thomas spoke.

“Thanks, Tommo,” Patrick said dryly.

“There's still time for you to escape,” he whispered.

“Yeah, no.”

He knew Thomas didn't mean anything by it - he had it in his head that Patrick was ‘too good’ for Theodore, though who knew why - but it did get a bit dull after a while.

“Is Thomas done insulting me?” Theodore asked.

“No," Thomas said.

“Yeah," Patrick said.

On the other side of the room, Julin had fully turned around in his chair, not even trying to hide the fact that he was listening in. Robin was long gone, bored by any story without at least one mammoth.

“I wish I'd never asked,” Kitty bemoaned, playing with her ribbons. “You're both being so mean to each other!”

“The Captain is being mean,” Thomas argued, “Pat is simply defending himself!”

“I hate to say it,” Patrick interrupted grimly, ignoring that last comment, “it gets worse before it gets better.”

“No!” Kitty exclaimed.

He gently dug his nails into Theodore’s scalp, wincing. “Yeah…”

---

After the archery incident, things had went from bad to terrible. 

The Captain had once again gone silent, but unlike before, the silence came l with a nasty sneer that refused to leave. He hovered around Patrick like a gantt, not leaving his side for even a second, and only opened his mouth when directly spoken to. 

Throughout the entire afternoon, Patrick felt like someone was dragging a drawing pin over his skin, the man’s stare too intense to ignore. 

Patrick prayed none of the kids had noticed anything; the last thing he needed was them chin wagging and word getting to the parents that something was wrong. They could be awful viscous, those parents.

Patrick tried to focus on doing his job, all the while spiralling internally. He hadn’t gone too far the previous session, had he? It was just a bit of teasing, hardly worse than what the Captain had done to him. And the Captain had gotten a bullseye in the end, so he'd hardly come out looking like an idiot. 

Shaking his head, Patrick slung his bag over his shoulder, grunting slightly at the weight. It was back to normal that week, so the kids were all packed into the battered bus like sardines, ready to go home at six o'clock on the dot. Patrick managed a smile long enough to wave them off, but the second they were done, so was the smile.

God, it'd been one hell of a month.

Foot falls, softened by soft grass, sounded behind him, and Patrick frowned. Theodore usually took the bus with the rest of the kids while Pat made sure the grounds were in tip-top shape.

He didn’t really need to - the driver was good enough at handling the kids on his own and knew not to leave until the last one had been collected by their parents - but the Captain insisted on going along. 

Knowing him, he probably didn't trust the driver to do his job right.

Patrick looked to the side to find the man's eyes were on his arms. He wasn’t sure why; the Captain, had seen his badges plenty of times before.

“You want something?” Patrick asked.

The Captain jumped and cleared his throat. “Yes, I-” He straightened up, putting on a fierce scowl. “I wanted to have a word with you about your behaviour.”

“My behaviour?”

“Yes.” The Captain nodded sharply. “I can’t help notice that you seem to lack discipline, both you and your troop.”

Patrick ground his teeth together. It was one thing to insult him, but another to bring the kids into it.

“Adunno what you're talking about, mate.”

“If you carry on the way you are, there’s no telling how these children will turn out,” the Captain said, “I told you before that if you give them too much leeway they’ll stamp all over your authority, and last week proved it. You gave into their demands that I join in.”

“For god’s sake,” Patrick groused, “I didn't ‘give into their demands’, it were just a bit of fun! You don't have to take everything so seriously.”

“Well someone has to,” he sneered. “You clearly can’t be trusted to be the adult here. How you ever became Scoutmaster, I’ll never know, I-”

Patrick was not a violent man. He did not like violence and avoided it whenever he could. 

But his fist didn’t feel the same, apparently.

With a second thought, he hit Theodore right in the bridge of his nose, the man’s head snapping back at the force.

He stumbled back and hit the ground with a loud thump.

Patrick stood above him, heart drumming loudly in his ears, staring him down. The camp around them was quiet, and below him, Theodore was still and pale. Before Patrick could even process what he’d done, Theodore spoke.

“I love you.”

“What?”

---

“What?” Kitty screeched. 

The spirit box dutifully screamed too.

Pat swallowed, looking away. “I did warn y'us that it got worse.” 

That was the real reason he didn't like telling that story. There was no good way to put a spin on ‘I punched my future husband in the face’.

Theodore, still hiding, palmed Patrick's side. He didn't say it, but Patrick knew what he was thinking: don't you go beating yourself up over that again . They'd have that conversation many times, but Patrick still felt a bit bad about it. Who wouldn't?

Kitty looked utterly aghast, but Thomas and Julian (who’d plonked himself right down beside the other two) looked like they were having the times of their afterlives. At least someone was enjoying this.

Theodore tried to burrow further into Pat’s chest. He let him.

---

Pat stood there, fist raised, gaping stupidly. He tried to muster some words, but he couldn’t. How could he? How on earth was he supposed to react to that ?

Below him, the Captain was steadily turning a concerning shade of red. What little blood wasn't filling his face was flowing out of his nose, and though he'd pinched the bridge and pulled out a hanky, he made no move to get up. He swallowed thickly.

“I-”

Pat held up a hand, and the Captain mouth shut with a snap.

The wind whistled in the nearby trees, a few birds sang, and Pat’s mind was buzzing. He stepped back, turning away from Theodore’s prone figure. His hands shook as he breathed.

He tried to think, but to be frank, he wasn’t doing a good job of it. It was all white noise and confusion.

He turned back to Theodore.

“...Okay,” Patrick said. It came out calm and collected, and he wasn’t sure how. “Okay. There’s a cafe down the road. We’re gonna go there. You're going to go to the bathroom and clean off that blood, I’m gonna buy you a drink, we’re gonna sit down, and you’re going to explain yourself.”

“I-”

“That’s an order, Captain.”

The Captain licked his lips. “...Yes sir.”

Patrick thrust out a hand. The Captain let go of the bridge of his nose and cautiously took it, palm was cold and rough. Pat let go as soon as the other man  was steady on his feet. His fingers tingled even after he'd tucked them into his pocket.

The walk to the cafe was one of the most uncomfortable experiences in Pat’s life, but he pushed through, mind still buzzing with questions. He just couldn't understand it, of all things for the Captain to say, why I love you? Was that his idea of a joke?

If it was, he sure wasn't laughing.

As Patrick had laid out, they went to the cafe. The Captain cleaned himself up as Patrick picked a table near the door, overlooking the nearby field. He bought them both tea and a slice of chocolate, and waited. The rest was super to the Captain. 

When the man returned, he didn't look much better. He'd washed off the blood as best he could, but a few stubborn flecks stayed, and his coat was absolutely caked in mud. He didn't complain once though, eyes stuck on Patrick. He barely even blinked as he sat down, as if certain Patrick would disappear the second he did.

Patrick continued to wait.

It felt bizarre, sitting with the Captain outside the realm of the camp. He could only picture the man in the field with the kids, or off on some training base, barking out orders, but here they were.

The Captain took a long time to find his words, and he started with some strange ones. 

“...Theodore.”

Patrick blinked. “What?”

“If we're going to have this,” he cleared his throat, “ conversation , I'd rather you called me Theodore.”

Patrick found himself oddly relieved. He could almost convince himself he was talking to another man that way.

“Okay, Theodore it is,” Patrick granted. The name felt nice on his tongue. “Now, Theodore, are you gonna explain yourself?”

“I…I’m not sure I know how.” Theodore licked his lips, fingers flexing around the handle of his mug.

Patrick pursed his lips. Of course it couldn’t be that easy. Regardless of the man, it was still the Captain he was dealing with.

“Fine. Let's cut to the chase then: did you mean it?”

There was no hesitation, no second guessing.

“Yes.”

A deep breath escaped Patrick. Well, that was something. What kind of something, he honestly wasn't sure, but it was something. He leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his tea. It warmed his cold and aching fingers.

“You’ve known me for three months, mate, and I’m pretty sure you’ve hated me for all of them.”

Theodore made a nose, low in the back of his throat, staring at Patrick imploring. He leaned over the table, getting as close as he possibly could.

“I don't hate you, I-I never hated you. I'll admit, I didn't like you at first-”

“Wouldn't have guessed.”

“ But that only lasted a week or so. After that point, I didn't hate you, I just… I hated how you made me feel.

Patrick knew he was being difficult, but he just couldn't swallow it.

“Really? Because it seemed like hate to me.”

“I wasn't, I just- I liked you, and I had no idea how to handle that,” Theodore said quietly. “Emotions are awfully messy things, Patrick, and you do so make a mess of me.”

It would almost be romantic if there wasn't blood still drying on Theodore’s face and a red mark on his nose, the skin threatening to bruins.

Guilt flooded through Patrick's veins at the sight of it, along with a healthy helping of shame. He bloody well knew better than to throw a punch, what was wrong with him? He swallowed it down. 

“So, you’ve been acting like a git this whole time because you… did like me?”

“Yes,” Theodore admitted. He still hadn't moved away, hunched over the small table. 

"And me punching you, what? Pushed you to confess?”

“...In my defence, you do look particular handsome today," he said with a sheepish grin.

Patrick stared at him in disbelief. The smile faded.

"I-I really don't know how to explain it, Patrick,” he tried again, “I was angry at myself for falling for you. I… I grew up Catholic, and was taught to believe my feelings towards men were my fault, my flaw. And when I realised I'd fallen for you, I was just so mad, and rather than take it out on myself, I suppose I rather took it out on you. I'm sorry, you never deserve that…”

He looked like a kicked puppy, wound down and worn out. Nothing about it seemed disingenuous though, he just looked-

Exhausted. He looked exhausted. 

Patrick put down his mug and learned forward. “If it makes you feel any better, I thought you were a catch from day one, and was pretty disappointed with myself for thinking you fit.”

He wasn't sure he could trust that I love you, but he could trust this: Theodore liked him, and Theodore was sorry. That was good enough for now.

Theodore coughed, the apples of his cheeks pinking. “Did you really?”

“Yeah. And I'm sorry for being such a wazzock too, I didn't really help things.”

“No, but you did try to be kind. That's more than I ever did. I really am sorry for how I treated you, Patrick, you never deserved that.”

It was no wild declaration of love, but Patrick preferred it. It was an actual starting point, something they could work with, not some incomprehensible endpoint. 

He smiled softly and reached across the table. “Thank you, I really appreciate that.”

Theodore stared wide-eyed at their eloping hands. He swallowed, and turned his hand over, threading their fingers together. His eyes flickered up to Patrick's, and finding no refusal, held on tight.

It was a sweet, a side of the man Patrick hadn’t seen before. He wouldn't mind seeing more of it. 

“Why don’t we start from the beginning?” Patrick asked. He didn’t let go of the other’s hand, just lifted it and shook. “Hiya, my name is Patrick. 

With the softest of smiles, Theodore shook back. “My name is Ted. It’s very nice to meet you.”

As the sky outside turned peach and the hours stretched on, ankles hooked under the cafe table, Pat felt like maybe, just maybe, they might just make something out of this messy start. Something good, something that could last. 

“...So, how did you become a scoutmaster assistant?”

“Nepotism.”

“Right.”

---

Theodore scowled up at him. “Was that really necessary?”

Patrick leaned down, kissing his forehead. “Yes.”

Despite his grumbling, Theodore still smiled at the kiss, cheeks tinged pink. It was still a very good look on him, though Patrick didn't have the privacy to thoroughly enjoy it.

“What a tale,” Thomas said dreamily, “such rich fodder for a poem.”

He could put aside his loathing for the sake of a poem, it seemed.

“It weren’t that exciting, mate,” Patrick said. “Just us bickering until I punched him.”

Thomas ignored him, no doubt already thinking of how best to turn their awful start into a mediocre poem… or how best to plagiarise a Kylie Minogue song until it somewhat resembled the story of their relationship. Either way, Patrick wasn't looking forward to hearing it.

He would though, and would write it down if Thomas asked. He was a weird one, but he was Patrick's mate, and if it kept him happy, it was worth a bit of discomfort. 

Kitty meanwhile looked devastated. “But, that’s such an awful story!”

“Yes, it is rather,” Theodore turned to look vaguely in her direction. 

“There’s a reason we don’t like telling it,” Patrick continued. 

Not even Daley knew the whole truth, and Patrick planned to keep it that way.  

“But,” Theodore said, “I'm sure Alison and Mike's story looks much better in comparison now, doesn it?”

Kitty gasped and jumped to her feet. “Yes! I should tell Alison! She'll feel much better after hearing that!”

“Wait, Katherine, no-”

But his words fell on deaf ears, and Kitty raced from the room. No doubt the whole house would know by the end of the day...

Patrick sighed and checked the clock. It was nearly time for Robin to watch that space documentary he'd been on about all week. Patrick would slap it and drag Theodore to the safety of their bedroom, where they spend the rest of the day cringing in peace.

Julian lounging against the air of the sofa, wearing his trademark sleazy grin. “So, he likes to call you sir, does he?”

He wriggled his brows.

“...Thomas, kick Julian in the shin for me, will you?” Patrick asked.

“Will do!”

“No, wait, I- gah!”

Patrick snickered and snuggled back down with his husband, getting cosy. It didn’t count as violence if he wasn’t the one doing it, right? Right.

“What did Julian say?” Theodore asked.

Patrick cupped the back of his neck and brought his head close, their lips brushing against each other.

“Never you mind, love. Never you mind.”