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Chapter Text

When the Captain was on full-time duties as commanding officer of the Area Operation Command Centre, Cocktail Society was the highlight of their week. Friday nights in the NAAFI canteen could get really quite colourful once everyone had the chance to let their hair down a little. There was no reason why they couldn’t do something like that at Button House. Give a bit of a boost to morale in such trying times. It was just the pick-me-up they all needed.

‘What do you think, Havers?’ he asked one morning after putting the suggestion to his lieutenant. He’d long discovered that getting a second opinion on such matters was essential, and Havers always proved to be a reliable sounding board. ‘Would this sort of event go over well with the rest of the men? Or would they prefer another night carousing down the pub? It’s important to get the balance of these things just right.’

He’d detected a slight listlessness among the members of their unit of late. There was every chance they were simply worn down by the weight of their work and the pressures of the war. Alternatively, their malaise might well be a symptom of their respect for their C.O. wearing thin. The Captain couldn’t quite tell which was more likely. Either way, something needed to be done.

‘I think it’s a marvellous idea, sir. Jolly clever of you to have come up with it,’ Havers said with a heartening smile, and the Captain couldn’t help but smile in return. ‘I’m sure the men would welcome a change of pace. And they’ve been working ever so hard recently; I’d say they’ve earned a night off.’

‘Yes, that was exactly what I thought. Should make for a merry evening all round. And I’m sure The Moon Under The Water will manage without a good chunk of its clientele for one Friday night.’ The pub in the village was something of a baffling local curio; drab and dark and not entirely unlike the sort of place Dickens might have dreamt up. It had been practically on its last legs when they’d first requisitioned Button House, but the soldiers didn’t care a jot about the state of it as long as there was ale available. The Captain had only been there a few times, mostly under duress, but it seemed the arrival of the forces in the area had prompted the publican to spruce it up little by little. The last time he was strong-armed into a visit, it had been redecorated to a standard he’d describe as almost tolerable. 

‘It’s a shame I don’t have my dinner jacket with me. That would really set the tone,’ Havers added.

‘It is rather, isn’t it, but there’s no need to go quite that far, I don’t think. We’ll have to get by in the same old uniforms. Use our imaginations a little. Besides, Havers, you always scrub up very well in whatever you’re wearing.’ 

‘Thank you, sir,’ Havers said, averting his gaze, his mouth curving into a pleased smile, small smudges of colour rising in his cheeks. ‘As do you. It would’ve been quite something to see you all dressed to the nines.’

It had not been his intention to make Havers blush. His lieutenant was usually so composed that it put the Captain in something of a flap to see him react like that to a comment he’d made. Quite beautiful. That, alongside the mental image of Havers all spruced up in a dinner jacket, set him rather out of sorts.

‘Anyway,’ the Captain said quickly, eager to change the subject, ‘you never know; we might even be able to make Cock Soc a regular thing if all goes well.’

An unreadable expression flickered across Havers’s face. ‘That’s… er… are you married to the idea of calling it that?’ he asked with careful caution.

The Captain had to brace himself once more against the combination of Havers and the word “married”. ‘I’m open to suggestions, but it does have a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?’

‘Whatever you think is best, sir.’ If Havers caught his captain’s playful continuation of the wedding theme, he didn’t let on. ‘Let me know if you need any help getting everything organised. I must say, I’m quite looking forward to it.’

As tempting a proposition as working with Havers was, Cocktail Society was supposed to be a treat for all of them, including the officers. Besides, there likely wouldn’t be much to help with. The Captain had thrown together plenty of events like this before. It shouldn’t pose any problem at all.

The chaps at procurement, however, had other ideas. They gave a whole litany of excuses about “limited resources” and “more pressing priorities” and so on, which really wasn’t bally cricket of them. Despite this initial setback and in keeping with the hardy British wartime spirit, the Captain vowed to soldier on and make do with what he could gather under his own steam. He’d make the event a celebration of good solid resourcefulness as well as the unit’s hard work. One way or another, he’d see to it that they all had a jolly fine evening. 

Luckily, there was already a small cache of alcohol to hand. The Buttons had had the admirable foresight to barricade away their more fragile possessions in the basement before they left. The Captain chose to believe that this was due to any fear of the house being bombed rather than any prejudice regarding the conduct of its temporary occupants. The very suggestion that members of His Majesty’s Armed Forces would go pawing through their gracious host’s property out of idle curiosity or personal gain was quite beyond the pale. Still, he just so happened to know from his thorough survey of the house that the stored items included a substantial—albeit half-stocked—drinks cabinet. And, well… it wasn’t as though anyone else had any use for it. Besides, they were in the middle of a war and needs must. The Buttons would doubtless understand that it was all in aid of a noble cause. 

Unfortunately, while he possessed the key to the basement, no one had seen fit to leave the key for the drinks cabinet in his care. Nor did it appear to be among the rest of the dusty clutter down there, but he was not so easily deterred. The Captain had never picked a lock in his life, but it should be short work for an officer of the Royal Artillery. He’d taken apart and reassembled all manner of delicate devices in his time, all far more intimidating than a single piece of antique furniture. Most of them, anyway. Opening a basic locking mechanism couldn’t be that complex an operation. He’d wager it shouldn’t take him more than two minutes.

Half an hour later, and after a good deal of fiddling and faffing and a fair number of minced oaths, the door remained stubbornly closed. More troublingly, the escutcheon and surrounding veneer now bore a series of not-inconspicuous scratches and one particularly nasty dent, but if the lights down there had stopped flickering for half a ruddy minute then the Captain might have made a cleaner job of it. He was seriously considering smashing the whole thing open like an egg when it occurred to him that it would be much easier to simply knock the pins out of the hinges and lift the door off. Victory this day! All hail the tireless cunning of an engineer! 

He’d put it all back together at some point. Not just yet, though. That was quite enough effort for one day.

Taking stock of his materials, it was clear that The Buttons either had remarkably eclectic taste in drinks or had had the good sense to spirit away (ha!) the more palatable part of their collection with them when they left. Green Chartreuse, Fernet-Branca, maraschino, crème de menthe, Calvados, blue curaçao, rhubarb bitters, dessert sherry, some ancient grenadine, and the last dregs of a bottle of absinthe. A little unorthodox, but no matter. It excluded most of the more standard cocktails from the menu, but there was still plenty to work with. More than enough to give them a few drink options. It would keep things lively, at any rate.

Havers was correct, of course. When, at the end of his next briefing, the Captain made an announcement about an upcoming evening of cocktails, the collective murmur of interest that followed was enough to dispel any doubts he’d had regarding the unit’s reception towards a more sophisticated form of entertainment. 

Buoyed with optimism, the Captain put off typing up his weekly report for HQ and instead spent a couple of hours putting together a notice about Cocktail Society for the bulletin board, taking the extra effort to make it as jazzy as one reasonably could with only a typewriter to hand. He made sure to include all the pertinent information, such as the date and time and suchlike, but made the executive decision to remain vague about which drinks would be on offer. Partly because he hadn’t worked that part out quite yet and partly, he reasoned, a touch of mystery might further cultivate the air of exclusivity he was after. A grand unveiling on the night would add a certain extra dramatic flourish.

There was no telling whether his tactics had any real effect, but come 1900 hours sharp on Friday, every member of the unit gathered in the briefing room (off-duty personnel only, of course). Summer was almost upon them and the day had been warm and dry, the scents of cut grass and green leaves lingering in the air, and the room creaked around them all like a ship at sea as night fell and the house settled. The straggling crowd fanned out in front of the Captain in obvious anticipation, feet shuffling on the bare floorboards, keeping themselves at a comfortable distance as though he were a performer before a waiting audience. The Captain was no stranger to addressing large groups and those under his command. Still, the pressure of their approval struck faults through his resolve.

Whatever the men may have been expecting, it probably wasn’t this. Even the Captain found the setup rather lacking in the elegance he’d been aiming for. Button House lent something of its shabby grandeur to the occasion, but only if one squinted. It would take great strength of imagination to believe that they weren’t all merely standing in what was ordinarily the briefing room with all the chairs pushed to one side and the addition of a couple of wobbly trestle tables set out with drinks. He’d lined up all the bottles along the tables in the distant hope of conjuring up the image of a ritzy bar, but within the great dusty expanse of the room, it reminded him more of a village hall tombola.

Among the sea of unreadable faces before him, the Captain’s gaze was drawn inexorably towards Havers, standing front and centre, reassuring and reliable as always. In return, his lieutenant gave him a slight nod and an encouraging smile and the Captain was half certain they could’ve heated the whole house with the warmth of that gesture alone.

‘Ah, now. Settle down,’ the Captain began, tearing his eyes away from Havers to address the unit, brimming with renewed confidence. ‘Welcome everyone to what I hope will later be referred to as the inaugural night of the Button House Cocktail Society. Cock Soc, if you will.’ Someone in the crowd made a sound like they’d tried and failed to stifle a sneeze. The Captain hoped there wasn’t a cold going around. That would certainly put a damper on proceedings.

‘As you can see, things are still in the developmental stages, but with a bit of luck, we’ll be able to iron out the creases in the future. Besides, we shouldn’t allow ourselves to be led by appearances. Tonight is about relaxing with a good drink and better company,’ he added, indicating the mismatched array of drinking vessels behind him.

Procurement had also deemed the appropriate glassware to be a needless excess. The Captain didn’t take too great an issue with that slight. It was all theatre, anyway. All that fuss over needing a specific glass for every different cocktail couldn’t be that important, could it? Surely it all tasted the same no matter what one drank it out of, and a miss was as good as a mile in his book. He’d managed to scrounge up a few serviceable wine glasses from the recesses of the kitchen, but he’d had to serve the rest in the unit’s motley collection of chipped teacups and battered enamel mugs. He could’ve helped himself to the Button’s cut crystal glassware, but he hadn’t had the time to go through the hassle of breaking into yet another antique cabinet.

‘Now, to get us underway, we have three exclusive cocktails available for you tonight, all of my own invention. Rations being what they are, I’m afraid there’s a limit of only one drink per person, so choose wisely, but I’m sure you won’t be disappointed no matter which takes your fancy.’

Given both the numerous pressures on his time and his limited range of materials, the Captain hadn’t had much opportunity to experiment with flavour combinations. It ended up being more a case of winging it at the eleventh hour. Still, he knew his way around a classic cocktail or two, enough to take an educated guess as to what might pair well with what. 

‘This one to my left here,’ he continued with a wave in their direction accompanied by a quick glance to check he’d got everything the right way around, ‘is a concoction I like to call a Bombardier. Fruity and sweet with a little bit of a kick to it.’ The maraschino and the sherry should offset the rhubarb bitters quite nicely, he reasoned, especially when rounded off with an extra dash of grenadine and a good glug of ginger beer. Not a bad match-up if he did say so himself.

‘Moving along, we have a Sandhurst Sling. Perhaps somewhat intimidating at first, but with a robust blend of bold flavours waiting within.’ That was putting it rather favourably. The Fernet-Branca seemed to have disagreed with the curaçao in a way that wasn’t particularly pleasing to the eye, but the Calvados would ensure it tasted better than it looked. Probably.

‘And this one at the end here is a Button House Special. Best to let that one speak for itself, I think.’ He’d combined the three green-coloured liqueurs with a healthy splash of lemonade to balance things out. The end result was rather appealing, though a twist of lemon as a garnish might have set it off nicely if only he’d been able to get one. Also, perhaps it was the light, but they did all seem to be glowing faintly.

There followed a bit of polite chaos as everyone surged forward to grab their drink of choice. The Captain tried to make sure they were all distributed fairly, but there was only so much power one person could wield in these circumstances. It was all he could do to rescue a wine glass of Bombardier for himself.

He was all too aware that the more elegant thing to do would have been to mix the drinks on request, but he hadn’t managed to lay his hands on a cocktail shaker. He’d given each drink a good stir with a teaspoon, though. Similar principle. He also didn’t have any measures, and he’d rather not have to judge everything by eye with everyone looking on. If the odd drink here and there ended up slightly stronger than expected, then, well, good for them. 

Once everyone had a drink in hand, the Captain stepped forward and raised his glass in a toast. ‘To Button House and a swift victory!’ As the rest of the unit lifted their drinks in return and collectively mumbled something similar, he took the first experimental sip. 

He had to summon every last ounce of his will not to spit it straight back out again. Judging by the taste coating his tongue—somehow both acrid and saccharine—it was clear something along the way had gone horribly wrong.

‘That’s, er, certainly… bracing,’ he said, doing his best not to splutter through the burning sensation now lining his throat and to maintain a presence of relaxed affability to the men who were now all eyeing their drinks with some reticence. ‘Yes, quite… complex. Something of an acquired taste, perhaps.’

There was a heavy beat of doubt where the Captain was certain that the whole conceit of the evening would collapse and what little faith in his authority that remained would be kicked out from under him. The unit’s willingness to trust him hung in the balance. They stood around him, backlit by the last pale light of the day, their expressions lost to shadows. 

But then the moment broke with a dull clatter of enamel mugs being clunked together, and the room filled with friendly chatter as the men drifted into groups to talk amongst themselves.

The Captain did his best to play the role of the good host, mingling with his subordinates and making small talk as he understood one was supposed to. A pleasant bit of chit-chat about the weather and the minor details of their lives and such. It wasn’t often that he got to socialise with the rest of the unit. The issue of rank always made it a little tricky; he couldn’t allow any of these people to actually know him, to be anything less than the immovable figure of their commanding officer. Thankfully, Cock Soc allowed for some illusion of compromise on that front.

It was all going terribly well, he thought as he moved about the room, catching odd little snippets of conversation such as ‘that’s one word for it’ and ‘I dare you’ and ‘while he’s not looking’ floating through the low hum of high spirits. Not bad, considering how ramshackle it all was just below the surface. Though, if it had been up to the Captain, they’d have also had a gramophone crooning away in the corner to really liven things up and maybe even get a spot of dancing going, but no such luck. Procurement hadn’t even bothered to respond to that request.

Without thinking, he took another sip of his Bombardier and regretted it. Hopefully, it was only his drink that was quite so disastrous. As unschooled as he was in the particulars of mixing drinks, he was still pretty sure that grenadine was not supposed to drift about in sticky little lumps. Unwilling to lose face in front of the men, he braved one more sip and fought his expression into something he hoped conveyed mild and well-tempered enjoyment. 

At the very least, he was now quite comfortably tipsy, the evening taking on a slightly dreamy sheen around the edges.

Through the crowd, the Captain caught sight of Havers standing alone by the fireplace, a shining beacon in the darkening room. His feet seemed to carry him towards his lieutenant of their own volition, and he didn’t resist. Havers met the Captain’s eye while he was still a few steps away and his usually impeccable demeanour softened a little as he approached, his face brightening into that familiar easy smile. A spark leapt in the Captain’s chest, though one not quite strong enough to ignite.

‘Ah, Havers, there you are. Enjoying yourself?’ 

‘Yes, sir. I must say, it’s all come together quite nicely, hasn’t it? Jolly nice to relax a little.’

‘Indeed, but do try not to relax too much. We may be off duty, but maintaining a degree of vigilance at all times is key. One never knows what the Jerries might spring on us at any moment.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Goodness, but wouldn’t that make for a lively evening? A round of cocktails followed by a proper dust-up with the enemy. They wouldn’t know what hit them!’ The Captain grinned at the idea of leading the unit to glory, armed with only their fists and good British brio before he remembered himself. ‘Speaking of such things, which of the options did you go for?’

Havers’s brow creased in confusion. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘The cocktails.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Havers glanced down at his mug. ‘The, er, the green one.’

‘Excellent choice. I think that one might be my favourite.’ Not that the Captain had tasted it, but it certainly looked the most professional.

‘Yes, it’s… quite something. If I may ask, what gives it that colour? There’s rather a lot of mint in there—as far as I can tell, anyway—but I wouldn’t have expected that alone would have made it quite so… vivid.’

‘Very well intuited, Havers! Yes, good to know that the flavour of the crème de menthe is coming through. As for the colour, that will largely be the work of the Chartreuse, although I suspect the absinthe is also playing its part,’ the Captain said, rocking back a little on his heels.

Havers blinked at him. ‘Together?’ He took a deep breath and let it go, something like a fond smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. ‘Of course. There’s some logic in that, I suppose. I’d assumed all those bottles were for decoration…’

‘They’re serving dual duty, if you will. I thought it might be a fun little game for those with more refined palates, matching up the flavours and so on. Though don’t tell anyone I’ve already let slip about the absinthe.’ He glanced around to check if they might have been overheard, only to find that, aside from the two of them, the briefing room was all but deserted. ‘Where on earth has everyone gone?’ he asked into the empty space. ‘It can’t be that late, can it?’

Havers looked over his shoulder as if expecting to find more members of the unit hiding just out of sight. ‘I wouldn’t like to speculate, but I’d wager they’ve all slipped away to the pub.’

The Captain felt himself sag under the weight of his disappointment. ‘The bally nerve of it!’ he hissed. ‘They couldn’t even stand to stay for a full hour. I’ll put the lot of them on manoeuvres for a week. That’ll teach them.’

‘Please go easy on them, sir,’ Havers said, the note of pleading in his voice catching at the Captain’s heartstrings. ‘It’s only a social event; no harm done. Besides, you did establish a one-drink limit. No doubt they just left to carry on what they started.’ 

‘Yes, well. Good of you to advocate for them, Havers. Pity it never occurred to me.’ The Captain knocked back the last of his drink, gritting his teeth against both the appalling taste of it and the grasping embarrassment at the poverty of the night’s entertainment. ‘And here you were stuck talking to me so you couldn’t sneak away with the rest of them. I should have realised sooner.’ He inclined his head towards the door and attempted an understanding smile. ‘Go on. You might still be able to catch up. I’ll get everything squared away here.’

‘No thank you, sir. It was never my intention to duck out on you,’ Havers said to the Captain’s blessed relief. ‘I was rather looking forward to this evening and I’m in no mood for the pub, now. They can get quite rowdy down there after a few drinks. Besides, it would hardly be fair for the whole unit to abandon you, not after all the work you’d put in.’ Havers gave the Captain a look that on anyone else would have been pitying but on him was transformed into honest sympathy.

‘Are you quite sure? It won’t be much fun with just the two of us.’ Sometimes, the Captain caught himself saying things that flew so hard in the face of his interests that he had to wonder if he was a complete idiot or if he’d simply spent so long fighting his inclinations that self-sabotage had become second nature.

‘I don’t see why not. The night is still young. No reason why we both can’t muddle on together,’ Havers said, his eyes practically twinkling. ‘A few drinks and some pleasant conversation; I can’t think of a better way to spend my evening, if I’m honest.’

The Captain bobbed on his toes despite himself. ‘Well, it doesn’t sound half bad when you put it like that. Especially now we have no reason to be beholden to the one-drink limit.’ He picked up one of the mugs of Button House Special that had either remained unclaimed or had been swiftly abandoned, drawn by the allure of its vitreous gleam. ‘Well, good health!’ 

As it transpired, his first drink was not the only one that had been badly mixed. If anything, this one was worse. And even though he knew full well what was in it, he’d have had a hard time picking out the ingredients from the resulting flavour. Except for the mint. That had all the subtlety of a sound punch on the nose.

‘Oh, that is quite… special,’ he said, trying to blink back the watering in his eyes.

It was difficult to say how much time passed after that. They filled the hours with eager discussion of the cricket—both the scrappy efforts of the Button House XI and those of the county clubs—the movements of the war, and an exciting but very hush-hush project that had recently come through from HQ concerning the design of a new limpet mine. There’d been a brief foray into the subject of family and “back home” but it seemed neither of them had much they were able or willing to contribute on that front.

‘Do you ever look at the portraits around here,’ Havers said, gesturing vaguely towards the opposite wall, ‘at all the stuffy, unsmiling faces of the people in them and think: “I bet you were utterly miserable to live with”.’

‘Perhaps not that precise sentiment, but I know what you mean. There’s one of a chap in the library with a set of expansive mutton chops and a look in his eye I don’t like one bit. I always can’t help wondering about the poor woman who got saddled with him as her husband. What a wretched existence that would’ve been.’

They were sitting on the floor now, side by side, backs against the wall. Standing had become increasingly precarious as the evening wore on. It was fair to say that both of them were past their best, and the quality of the conversation was not quite as befitting of officers of the British Army as it had been. Havers was taking his chances on a Bombardier while the Captain was nursing his third Button House Special. Possibly his fourth. He’d lost count.

Judging by the number of unfinished drinks secreted in various locations around the room, it seemed even the one-drink limit had proved too much for most of the unit. There were cups stashed behind chairs, perched on windowsills, and nestled next to the ornaments on the mantelpiece, to name a few choice spots. He and Havers, both quite tiddly by that point, made something of a game of finding as many as they could. In the end, it was Havers who emerged victorious, having discovered a small cluster of mugs left just outside the door, all of them still as good as full. His prize was another drink.

The Captain was unsure whether it was his determination to claw some success back from the disaster of the evening that kept him drinking, or if it was the same old yen to stay with Havers for as long as possible that was the greater contributing factor. They never usually spent time together like this. Socially. Even on the evenings when they worked together in his office, the more idiosyncratic parts of their personalities remained locked tight behind the standard military formality. But not tonight, it seemed. He wasn’t ready to relinquish this new freedom just yet. 

‘The one that gets me is her by the door. The woman in blue with the little dog. You just know she must have been perfectly beastly to the artist if he chose to make her look so judgemental.’

‘Yes, I know the one. But, ah! Have you seen the dog?’

‘The… dog?’

‘Yes, the actual dog in the painting; they had it stuffed, you know. Baffling, ratty-looking thing. Looks like a cat gone wrong. It’s around here somewhere, probably been tidied away in some cupboard for safekeeping, but it’s quite something to behold. I showed it to Barry once and I think he took it as an insult.’

Night had stolen up on them, and the usual starkness of the briefing room was muted under the mingled half-light of the lamps, the corners draped with velvety shadows the colour of bruises. This was the atmosphere he’d had in mind, the image he’d been chasing; sultry and moody, all hushed tones and sidelong glances. What a disappointment that they were the only two left to see it play out. 

Not that he minded Havers’s company—really quite the opposite, if anything—but he’d had every intention of using the event as an excuse to be suave in front of his lieutenant, and now that particular vision lay thwarted and unthinkable under the circumstances.

The Captain attempted to swallow down another mouthful of his drink before he could taste the worst of it. Alas, he was unsuccessful.

‘Still acquiring the taste?’ Havers asked with a not unkind smile.

‘If anything, it’s only becoming more elusive,’ the Captain said thickly. ‘Good heavens, it tastes like minty cough medicine, doesn’t it? The sort you know must be terribly good for you, or it wouldn’t taste half as bad as it does.’

Havers threw his head back and laughed. ‘Yes, that’s it! I was having trouble pinning down the exact flavour. The mint was undeniable, but cough medicine, yes, exactly!’

The Captain laughed along with him. It was difficult not to when Havers was so overcome. There was the relief, too, of not having to pretend the night was something it wasn’t any more and had never really been to begin with. That it was elegant and refined in any way. That all the drinks weren’t dreadful. 

He swirled his cocktail around in his mug, the liquid sticking to the sides in a grisly fashion, and made a show of inhaling its aroma. ‘Yes. An intriguing bouquet. Top notes of boarding school medical wing.’

‘I’m getting, hmm, yes, shoe polish…’ Havers said in mock reverence, joining in with his little farce.

‘Vibrant hints of wet metal.’

‘With just a subtle undertone of mothballs.’

The Captain eyed the contents of his mug as though it might decide to strike first and braved another mouthful, bracing himself against the way it clawed down his throat. ‘Most invigorating,’ he choked out, his voice hoarse.

Havers sipped at his cocktail, flinching a bit as he swallowed. ‘I’m not sure why I’m still drinking this.’

‘Because it’s all we have. And you don’t have to pay for it. And it’s not all that bad, in the end.’

‘It is still quite bad.’

‘And yet, here we are.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Havers said, raising his mug in a toast to nothing in particular before draining the contents. The Captain did the same. It seemed rude not to.

At some point, Havers had divested himself of his tunic and now sat in his shirt and braces, his sleeves rolled up to compensate for the muggy night air. As a result, The Captain’s scattered attention was repeatedly drawn back to the details of Havers’s forearms: the dark, downy hair covering his skin, the lines of the tendons in his wrists, the subtle suggestion of his toned muscles as he moved. Funny, the Captain thought, how after so long spent buttoned up and hidden beneath their uniforms, a small glimpse of such an ordinary part of another man’s body could seem so intimate.

He was really rather drunk, he realised. Well past comfortably tipsy and a long way from the relaxing buzz he got from a finger of whisky at the end of a trying day. The strictures of being C.O. didn’t tend to give him a lot of opportunities to indulge, and he usually welcomed the unspoken constraint. He didn’t quite trust who he was when his inhibitions were compromised.

But he was well and truly out of sorts now. What was done was done. No reason not to press on.

To his left, a teacup containing what appeared to be an abandoned Sandhurst Sling that had survived their earlier hunt peered out from under the cover of the curtains. It wasn’t that much of a stretch to rescue it. The Captain gave it an experimental swirl, causing the contents to slide about in a greasy, disjointed little eddy. He might as well sample all of his creations. Discover exactly what he had wrought.

He knew it would be a mistake from the smell alone, but that didn’t stop him drinking it. And good lord, it was easily the worst of the lot. From deep within the blinding white assault of his revulsion, the only word he could summon to describe the taste was “flammable”.

‘Is that one of those other ones? Sandhurst whatsits?’ Havers asked, watching the Captain out of the corner of his eye, his head lolling against the wall.

The Captain nodded, not quite able to assemble the full use of his voice.

‘Don’t do it to yourself. I don’t know what you put in there, but it’s not worth it, free alcohol or otherwise.’

‘If I don’t, it’ll all go to waste. That would certainly set a poor example to the unit.’ The Captain ventured a second sip, hoping the experience would improve the more he was exposed to it. It did not.

Havers cast around the empty room. ‘The unit isn’t here to set an example to. You’ll end up killing yourself if you drink all this. Come on. Give me that.’ He leant forward and carefully pried the mug from the Captain’s grasp. The Captain resisted a little, only so he could enjoy the contact of Havers’s fingers on his, but gave up the fight after what he judged to be an acceptable number of seconds.

Confiscated mug in one hand, Havers placed the other on the Captain’s knee, the full weight of him pressing down as he hauled himself to his feet and made a slightly wobbly path over to the drinks table. He picked up a few of the bottles one by one, giving each a quick swish to check their contents, and returned with a bottle in each hand. 

‘This should be a step up from another Button House Special. A low bar, I know. Take your pick,’ Havers said, offering out the bottles. ‘We have the remains of the maraschino and some fairly elderly apple brandy.’

‘Is the sherry all gone?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

The Captain blearily pondered the options before him. ‘The maraschino,’ he said eventually, managing to use most of the correct syllables.

‘Excellent choice, sir,’ Havers said, handing the bottle over and sitting back down slightly closer than he had been before. ‘A fine vintage. Well, cheers.’ He gently clinked his bottle against the Captain’s before taking a quick swig.

‘Cheers,’ the Captain echoed and followed suit. On its own, the maraschino was little better than the cocktails and somehow managed to clash horribly with the aftertaste that still clouded his mouth.

Havers was having a similarly bad time. He was inspecting the bottle’s label, the back of one hand pressed against his mouth, face creased in displeasure. ‘I’m not sure this is Calvados,’ he said through a cough, the words strained. ‘I’m not entirely certain it’s alcohol.’

‘Well, it was in the Button’s drinks cabinet with all the rest.’

‘That’s where all this came from? I should have known. I’d never even heard of rhubarb bitters before tonight. This place is like something out of an Agatha Christie novel; the more I learn about the Buttons, the less sure I am of their sanity.’ Havers gave the contents of the bottle a cautious sniff and recoiled. ‘I think they’ve reused an old bottle to hold some sort of home-brewed moonshine. You could probably strip paint with it.’

The Captain leant over to check for himself, but the fumes caught him first and he reeled back, his eyes stinging. ‘Yes, that’s quite er… hmm. Dreadfully sorry. It does explain a few things, though. Better make sure we hide that before the others find out; things could get messy if they get their hands on it. Well, messier, at any rate.’ 

He took another slug of the maraschino and tipped his head back. He hadn’t been nearly this soused in a long time. The night pulsed around him, alive and whirling, carrying him with it. The ridiculousness of the whole situation landed on him then like a fat drift of melting snow falling from a roof, and the laughter welled up and out of him, echoing across the room.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘This. Everything,’ he sighed as the laughter subsided. ‘I tried to do something nice for the unit and it went about as wrong as possible. Of course it did.’

‘The intention behind it won’t have gone unnoticed,’ Havers said. ‘The effort alone will have gone some way to boosting morale, I’m sure.’

‘Yes, well, indeed. They’ll all be having a good laugh at my expense for a while. That’ll cheer everyone up.’

‘I’m sure they won’t—’

‘Don’t try to soften the blow. I know what they all think of me. I’m well aware everyone only respects me as far as they have to without tipping into open insurberber… insporb… rebellion. I don’t tend to inspire much in the way of loyalty. I’ve never been the sort of noble figure men rally around.’ He flicked a hand at the empty room. ‘Case in point.’

‘That’s not true,’ Havers said quietly. ‘I respect you.’

‘Oh come now, Havers—’

‘I mean it. You’re doing a bloody good job, all things considered.’ Havers didn’t meet his eye, his brow furrowed in earnest concentration, a slight blush colouring his cheeks that quite disarmed the Captain. ‘I may be speaking out of turn, but I have come across a good many officers in my time who were as vicious as they were… incompetent, that’s the one. You have so far proven yourself to be neither, and by all accounts that’s a precious rarity. You… your enthusiasm for both the work we do here and for the unit’s well-being means a great deal to me, sir, and I’m jolly glad to be serving under you. It’s an honour, if anything.’

The Captain struggled to find the language to respond, both from the drink slurring his thoughts and the sudden rush of unrestrained affection for his lieutenant detonating through his body. 

‘I’m sorry about that. I rather got ahead of myself there,’ Havers said with a tight little sigh.

‘No, not at all. Thank you, Havers,’ he said at last, the words a touch shaky. ‘Most kind of you to say so. Your opinion is incredibly valuable to me; I hope you know that. And it’s an honour working with you, too. Damn fine chap that you are.’

It was nice, he thought, that beneath all the rigidity of their positions in the army, and beyond the complications of the wayward stirring of his emotions, he and Havers could be said to be friends, of a sort. Friendly, at least. There was a tender understanding between them, a sense that Havers spent time with him not out of duty but because he genuinely wanted to. When this was all over, perhaps they might keep in touch. Maybe even see each other from time to time. That was a pleasant thought. The Captain wasn’t sure when he’d last had a real friend; the army had removed all space or need for them. But it was a relief to be around someone who gave him cause to relax his defences, at last. Someone who actually seemed to like him as he was.

Dangerous thing, though, friendship. Especially all the closeness that came with it. For a man in his position, genuine platonic intimacy too often only cleared the way for rampant wishful thinking, and then the lines could become very blurred. His attraction to his lieutenant only grew stronger with each passing day, and the twin deceits of hope and desire made it far too easy to read more into their interactions than was really there.

Anything could be seen as an invitation when viewed under the right light. Havers arching back in his chair to stretch out his shoulders, a cigarette dangling from his long fingers as a curling plume of smoke escaped from between his lips. Havers lying sprawled on the grass, sweaty and dishevelled after the rigours of a training exercise, his chest heaving as he gasped to regain his breath. Havers on that one summer afternoon at the lake, near naked save for his swimwear, positively dripping all over the place, slicking his hair back from his forehead and smiling as he said ‘The water’s lovely, sir. Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’

Because yes, he very much could. Obviously, resoundingly yes! But at the same time no, absolutely no, good gracious no, and his whole future rested in the balance of which impulse was the strongest. But every day the answer remained resolutely no, always no, an endless stream of resistance to the half of him that cried out YES just a fraction too late and not as loud as the half of him that planted its feet and insisted, once again, on no. 

He was so tired of this fight, against himself and against everyone else. He’d learnt long ago that it was a war he could never win, no matter which side he was on. At least this way, he was the only one who suffered. No need for collateral damage.

‘Pass it over,’ Havers said, nodding to the bottle of maraschino. His cheeks were rosy from the drink, his eyes sparkling with some hidden mischief. The Captain handed it to him, unable to look away as Havers drank, his mouth meeting with the exact spot where his own had been only moments earlier.

‘Thank you,’ Havers said, fighting back a slight grimace as he handed the bottle back. The Captain stared at the mouth of the bottle for a second before taking another swig, electrically conscious the whole time that now his lips, too, were touching where Havers’s had. If he concentrated, he allowed himself to imagine he could taste his lieutenant beneath the alcohol. From the edge of his vision, he was just able to see Havers watching him as he drank.

Perhaps, though… was this normal? Did other men casually drink from the same bottle and think nothing of the implications? Pass it back and forth, never once considering how close it was to sharing a kiss? Blurred lines were one problem, but knowing where the lines even were to begin with was quite another.

The Captain held out the bottle again and Havers took it. Once again, he found himself powerless to look anywhere else but at Havers as he tipped his head back, his soft pink lips pressed against the glass. But this time, Havers didn’t look away either and drank deeply while watching his captain watching him back, his eyes bright with the knowledge of it.

Head swimming, limbs leaden, the Captain’s thoughts and his words and his reason all came unmoored from one another, reality sliding away beneath him. An emotion that felt remarkably like bravery bloomed up through the middle of it all. The night was molten, viscous, ready to be reshaped into something new.

He leant over so his shoulder rested against Havers’s and reached out a hand, not for the bottle, but for the bare skin of Havers’s arm, near trembling with the need to touch him.

He stopped himself just in time. Nothing but wishful thinking again.

‘I suppose we should start stowing all this away,’ he said quickly, redirecting his reaching hand to brush away some imagined imperfection on his trousers. ‘Hide the evidence. The less anyone remembers of this night, the better.’ The Captain heaved himself up, realising too late that he’d missed the opportunity to bolster himself against Havers’s knee as he’d done to him. Though once upright, his head sluiced with the effort, and the room pirouetted around him, gravity re-centring itself on an unknowable new pivot. He staggered under his own weight but was steadied by a pair of strong hands catching him.

‘Careful.’ Havers’s voice was soft in his ear.

‘Ah, thank you, Havers. I’m fine, really. Just had one too many, perhaps. Set me a little unsteady there.’ He tried to pull back, but everything tilted again and his body was not wholly his own.

‘The evening seems to have taken its toll on both of us,’ Havers said, grinning helplessly and swaying slightly. ‘I think we’d better get you to bed.’

The Captain felt the blush wash over him like a tidal surge. Not that Havers would have meant it that way, of course. But gracious, if only. ‘Yes, I, er… you really don’t need to trouble yourself.’

‘On the contrary, I rather think I do.’ Without waiting for further permission, Havers slung an arm around his waist, arranged the Captain’s arm across his shoulders, and began to steer them on a somewhat sinuous path in the direction of the sleeping quarters. 
 
There was purpose and intention in the Captain’s limbs, but they were commanded by a new disobedience and were intermittently unwilling to bear the weight of him. Had his head always been this heavy? Thankfully, he had the reliable solidity of his lieutenant to hold him up, his fingers pressed into the softness at the Captain’s waist as he guided them both onward. The Captain balled his fist into Havers’s shirt in an attempt to hold himself steady, but the thought of the thin slip of skin he might have exposed by pulling Havers’s shirttails free from his waistband only set him further awry.

The Captain knew all the ins and outs of Button House better than anyone else in the unit, but it was now hazy and unfamiliar, rooms either missing or not where he’d expected them to be, the night newly slippery around him. Part of him hoped the house might conspire with him to allow them to stumble on indefinitely, the corridors transforming into a labyrinth illuminated by silvered and soft-edged strips of moonlight, the two of them holding each other in this almost-embrace for always.

But his bedroom door soon appeared before them like a ship through the fog, and the handle turned with ease, and within his bed lay warm and inviting. The Captain sank down onto it, the comfort mingling with the disappointment that it came at the cost of the press of Havers’s body against his.

Havers disappeared for an immeasurable stretch of time—it could have been seconds or hours; there was no way of knowing—and returned with a glass of water.

‘Make sure you drink that. It should help a little,’ he said as he set it down on the bedside table.

The Captain lay back and closed his eyes, enjoying the way his dizziness set the bed swaying beneath him as though it were rocking him to sleep. He was on the verge of dropping off when the distinct sensation of his shoelaces being pulled loose dragged his attention back to the waking world.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked without sitting up, eyes still shut.

‘You can’t go to bed with your boots still on,’ came Havers’s voice from somewhere towards the floor. He loosened the laces and, holding him by the ankle, slid the Captain’s foot free. The warmth of Havers’s palm radiated through where his sock had worn thin at the heel.

‘I’m not so far gone that I can’t take off my own boots.’

‘Perhaps, but I am a little concerned you won’t remember to,’ Havers said, already working on freeing the other foot, and the Captain couldn’t bring himself to tell him to stop.

‘Thank you,’ he mumbled towards the ceiling, the words blurring together like paint on wet paper. He wasn’t sure if Havers had even heard him. 

‘Come along. I need you to sit up for a moment,’ Havers said, rising and grabbing both of the Captain’s hands to haul him upright. The Captain tried to comply, though his body was heavy and slow, and that dark, disobedient part of him he usually kept in tight check was too delighted at having been given a reason to hold Havers’s hands to want to let go. 

No sooner had he slumped forward and Havers’s hands slipped from his grasp, the mattress beside him sagged beneath an unseen weight, threatening to send him toppling over again. The Captain opened his eyes to find Havers sitting next to him, busying himself with undoing the Captain’s belt. 

‘What’s this now?’ the Captain asked, unable to keep a note of panic from hitching up into his voice.

‘You can’t go to sleep in your belt, either,’ Havers replied, fumbling with the buckle. ‘Well, you could, but it wouldn’t be very comfortable. Though you might have to since I can’t— oh, blast this thing!’

‘Here,’ the Captain said, reaching down to undo it himself, his clumsy fingers tangling with Havers’s. The two of them working together proved to be more of a hindrance than a help, but eventually the buckle slid free. The Captain tried to manoeuvre out of the whole apparatus as one, twisting it up over his head to pull it away, before realising that the cross-strap was still held fast under his epaulette, only tangling him up further.

‘What the devil…? Stuff and utter nonsense!’ he said, laughing helplessly at the mess he found himself in. ‘Who designed this bloody thing?’

‘Him. You know… whatshisname. I imagine he was terribly proper about everything and expected exemplary behaviour from soldiers at all times and never even entertained the notion it might become a bit of a hazard when inebriated,’ Havers offered, laughing along with him as he failed to unravel the snarled jumble of belts.

‘Good lord… I’m surely not drunk enough to excuse this…’

‘You’re still a fair ways away from sober, though.’ Havers paused, surveying him for a second, and the Captain fought to make his peace with it. On the one hand, he would rather no one saw him in such a state; bedraggled and awkward and not wholly in control of himself. But with Havers’s eyes alight with amusement and what he might easily mistake for affection, for once the Captain didn’t feel as though the laughter was all at his expense.

‘Now, here’s an easy solution,’ Havers continued, beginning to undo the buttons of the Captain’s tunic. The Captain’s hands made an involuntary movement up to help him but he stopped himself almost as soon as he’d begun. Instead, he relinquished control and focused on the forbidden thrill of being undressed by another man for as long as it may last. Havers’s fingers were careful and slow, the buttons becoming little flashes of gold as he was gradually laid bare. For the briefest moment, he let himself believe this was real, that it would lead somewhere, that this wasn’t a mere act of duty but of genuine desire. 

But then the last button came free, and the dream was over.

Havers stood to help the Captain out of his tunic, working it off his shoulders and down his arms, then placed it almost reverently over the back of the chair by the window. Then he returned to the bed, sitting close enough that the Captain could feel the heat radiating from him, the length of their thighs touching.

‘Just your tie now,’ Havers said quietly, moving closer still until he was barely a breath away, easing the knot loose. 

The Captain watched Havers at his task, the careful concentration in his eyes, his pupils vast and dark in the gloaming, the golden light from the lamp illuminating the planes of his face as though he were something holy. 

‘You’re so kind to me,’ the Captain murmured.

‘It’s no less than the decent thing to do. What anyone deserves.’

‘No one else is.’ 

‘Yes, well…’ Havers said, the tie slithering against the back of the Captain’s neck as he pulled it free. Then, so quietly as to be almost inaudible, he added ‘I’m not like everyone else,’ swiftly followed with ‘Chin up a little; I just need to get the button,’ at his usual volume.

The Captain complied as Havers worked at undoing his top button nestled in the starched confines of his collar. He was so close the Captain could count his eyelashes and make out the fine creases gathered around his eyes. Havers eased the button free, and his fingers moved down to the one below it, lingering there only fleetingly before falling away.

‘I think that’s you sorted for now.’

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ the Captain said, his mouth working too fast for his brain to keep it in check. ‘Thank you for staying with me this evening, Havers.’ The implication underlying his words caught him a second after he’d spoken, but he chose not to reel it back. Havers would forgive him the odd impropriety, he was sure. Tonight was a night for mistakes, it seemed.

‘Think nothing of it. I was happy to help.’ Havers smiled softly and placed a hand on the Captain’s thigh. The Captain considered it for a moment; the angles of the joints, the splay of his fingers, the heat of his skin sinking through the material of his trousers. Despite his diminished state, he was struck with the sudden clarity that perhaps the placement of Havers’s hand was not just a simple careless gesture but a deliberate choice. A question.

‘I, um, I should be going. Leave you to it,’ Havers said, tapping his fingers lightly on the Captain’s leg, his thumb pressing down a fraction harder. ‘Good night, sir.’ He moved to rise from the bed, but the Captain caught his wrist before he could get to his feet. The skin there was beautifully smooth.

The night crystallised around him then, all the little looks and touches, the kindness, the continued warm presence of Havers’s body beside his, and the hand on his thigh, both asking and answering the same thing. And he knew he shouldn’t, but the Captain had spent his whole life pushing down the same urges, denying himself what he couldn’t help wanting. All of it building like a great churning torrent of water behind a dam he had neither the strength nor the will to hold back any longer.

‘Stay. Please,’ the Captain breathed.

The rules were unmade and rewoven and ripe with possibility. The familiar thirst of yes called out from within him in a clear and sonorous note, unsullied by doubt or caution or the iron grasp of propriety. If the ever-cautious alarm of no sounded at all, it had sunk and lay silent beneath the resounding clarion call of his want.

The Captain slid his hand from Havers’s wrist into his waiting palm, their fingers interlacing. Finally giving in to the unyielding pull he’d been resisting for weeks, he leant in and pressed his lips to Havers’s. Softly, tenderly, the barest touch of skin against skin, but unmistakable in its intentions. A question of his own. 

Like a clap of thunder, the full force of his long-held restraint returned as a deafening, panicked roar in his ears, and the Captain pulled away with a gasp. Abashed and ashamed, his heartbeat battered in his throat, the crude recklessness of his actions shocking him back to cold sobriety. 

‘I—’ he faltered. How could he ever explain himself? What words could ever be enough?

Mercifully, Havers didn’t flinch away in disgust, didn’t sneer back at him in hatred or confusion or pity. Instead, he smiled shyly, and squeezed the Captain’s thigh, moving his hand a little higher. Havers’s gaze flicked from the Captain’s eyes to his lips and back again before he leant in to return the kiss. And, utterly helpless against such grace and the promise it offered, the Captain met him halfway. No more questions. Only answers.

This time it was softer. Longer. Deeper. Unsure what to do with his trembling hands, the Captain placed one on Havers’s waist, the other resting lightly on his chest, while Havers cradled his face in both hands as if he were something delicate and precious. Everything else melted away: the house and his command and the uniforms and the war. They were simply two people who had finally found each other despite all the odds against them. There was only the heat of their bodies, the ragged hush of their breathing, and the taste of Havers in his mouth.

Their kisses quickly shifted from fluttering and tentative to insistent and hungry, their need becoming increasingly transparent, soft moans and sighs escaping under every breath. They were both a little graceless, ungainly and overeager for each other, the Captain losing himself to the building rhythm of their movements, Havers’s hands fisted in the Captain’s shirt.

He was torn between wanting to savour each individual touch, every sparking sensation, to luxuriate in every glittering facet of this moment with this man his heart had been crying out for ever since they first met, and needing to throw himself headlong into the passion, to gorge himself on this boundless pleasure that was so readily given. He’d been starving for so long. Before that evening, the idea of kissing Havers had seemed so distant and impossible and transcendent, but now it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. The Captain wanted all of him. He wanted Havers to have all of himself. To finally let go of everything he’d been holding back, holding in.

Havers’s tongue found his, hot and slick, and the Captain responded in kind, chasing the decadence of it, his every nerve luminous and vibrant and singing, his whole body aching with the need for so much more. He could feel Havers’s smile against his mouth. 

He brought one hand up to trace the length of Havers’s neck then up through his hair, pulling him in closer. His other hand sought out the untucked part of Havers’s shirt, sliding his fingers up and under until he found the expanse of smooth, warm skin and the curve of his hip. Havers made a desperate, gasping moan in the back of his throat at the contact, and it was all the Captain could do to remember how to breathe.

Never breaking the kiss, Havers’s hand drifted from where it had settled at the Captain’s shoulder, back down to that second button where his nimble fingers worked it open at last before trailing on to the third. He pulled away slightly, examining the sight in front of him.

‘There you are,’ Havers said between gasps, flushed and breathless and practically glowing with desire. He curled a hand up to cup the Captain’s face, fingertips dancing along his cheekbone. ‘God, you’re beautiful, aren’t you?’

The Captain had no response to this other than to kiss him again as though he might die if he didn’t and reached for Havers’s tie, pulling him closer, down on top of him.

‘James,’ Havers purred against his lips, the simple syllable drawn out and languid, overflowing with longing and delight and desire. Spoken like that, it might have been the most delicious sound the Captain had ever heard. It was the first time Havers had ever said his name. He hadn’t been aware that Havers even knew what it was. 

‘Anthony,’ he sighed in response, the word spilling from him as if it were a breath he’d been holding for far too long. As Havers draped himself on top of him, trailing kisses along his jaw, the Captain shifted his grip up to the knot of Havers’s tie, working it undone.

The creak of a floorboard out in the corridor gave them half a second of warning before the sharp knock on the door interrupted everything.

‘Sir?’ came a muffled voice from the other side.

His heart a living thing inside him, the Captain froze in place, both he and Havers watching the door like prey animals assessing a potential predator. 

‘Fuck,’ Havers hissed under his breath. The possibility that Havers was even capable of swearing had never once entered the Captain’s thoughts before that instant. He still had enough of his wits about him to register that now was not the time to be finding it attractive.

Logically, the Captain knew he should answer the door; it could be something important that only his leadership could defuse. But he also suspected that if they waited and kept quiet, then the visitor might give up and leave. Not that he dared try to communicate any of this to Havers. He didn’t dare even breathe.

All was still for the space of a heartbeat. The Captain was just beginning to think they were safe when the silence was broken by the biting clack of the door handle being turned.

In the split second it took them both to realise that neither of them had had the foresight to lock the door, Havers was up off him and a good two steps away, while the Captain had arranged himself in what he sincerely hoped was a presentable fashion on the edge of the bed.

Borrowsby’s pale face appeared around the door. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir— oh, good evening, Havers.’ Borrowsby stood in the doorway, eyes darting between the two men before him, searching for some explanation for the scene he’d discovered.

‘I was just making sure the Captain made it to bed in one piece,’ Havers said, smoothing his hair back into place with an easy sweep of his hand disguised as a casual gesture. He was surprisingly calm considering how much he’d drunk and what they’d very nearly been caught doing. ‘He’s a little worse for wear, as you can see.’

The Captain lolled to one side slightly and sighed. ‘What can we do for you, Borrowsby?’ he asked, deliberately over-slurring his words, playing into the part. At the very least, it kept the enmity out of his voice. Bastard, bastard, dreadful bastard that Borrowsby was. He’d find a way to make his life miserable when he was back on duty.

‘Oh, nothing too pressing, sir. Sorry for the intrusion.’ You’d better be. ‘I was just wondering what we should do about the briefing room. It’s still quite a mess in there.’ Judging from Borrowsby’s glassy stare and the way he was leaning on the door frame for support, he was also more than a little compromised himself.

‘Leave it for now,’ Havers cut in. ‘It won’t get any worse before morning, and I suspect none of us is in a fit state to do it justice.’

‘Yes, well, thank you, Borrowsby.’ If it came out half as sarcastically as he meant it, at least the Captain had an excuse. ‘Is that all?’

‘Yes. Apologies again for the late interruption, sir. Good night.’ And that might have been that had Borrowsby’s eyes not landed on Havers at the last second and pushed the door open a little wider for him.

‘I’ll take my leave, too, sir, if that’s alright?’ Havers said quickly, turning to look at him. There was a slight tic at his jaw and a tense suggestion in his expression the Captain couldn’t quite read.

‘Yes, of course. Thank you again, Havers.’

‘Good night, sir,’ Havers said with a small nod, his eyes lingering on the Captain a beat longer than necessary. And with that, he followed Borrowsby out and shut the door behind him.

The Captain didn’t know how long he waited in the hopes of Havers coming back. He settled onto the bed, the room whirling a stuttering dance around him, the lamp burning ever lower. His eyelids grew impossibly heavy, a profound exhaustion stealing over him. He tried to stay awake, but his vision blurred, and sleep claimed him like the waiting embrace of a long-lost lover.

Chapter Text

Morning greeted him like a swift kick in the skull, made worse still by the white blade of sunlight searing through a gap in the curtains and slicing across his face with almost vindictive precision. The Captain’s first thought was that someone had driven an iron spike in through one temple and out the other. He tried to open his eyes and failed miserably. Everything hurt; every movement, every thought, every sound. Never had birdsong been so wretched.

‘Shut up, robin!’ he croaked, his voice sounding far too loud in his own ears. The bird disobeyed the order with almost gleeful defiance.

The Captain tentatively raised his head from the pillow, sending a pulse of pure agony surging behind his eyes. His insides curdled and sloshed at the slightest provocation. The inside of his mouth tasted like something had crawled in there and died. Also mint.

Through the limited, blurry murk of his thoughts, the distant knowledge that this was all the fault of Cock Soc presented itself. Good lord. Something had gone very wrong somewhere along the line.

Slowly, the Captain pulled himself upright, dislodging the full force of his hangover in the process. The world careened and heaved around him with the effort, prompting a wave of nausea to pitch up from the depths, threatening to revolt against this sudden shift in gravity. All his joints wailed like a creaky door. And his head. Sweet lord in heaven. A glass of water winked at him from his bedside table and it took the concentrated efforts of all his diminished motor skills, but he eventually persuaded himself to grasp it in his shaking hands and swallow a few mouthfuls. Slaking his thirst did little to improve matters. Horses and stable doors and so forth.

Amongst the scattered wreckage of the morning, he dimly registered that he was still wearing his uniform. Most of it, anyway. The events of the previous night were still terribly hazy and easily forgotten behind the more pressing issue of feeling like he’d been screwed up into a ball and thrown away. He remembered being in the briefing room, but the details of how he’d made it back to his quarters eluded him. Looking around, there were no obvious signs of chaos or disruption, which was some small source of relief. However, it took him altogether too long staring unfocused at his boots before he realised that they were in the wrong place. They were paired together with the laces tucked inside as always, but rather than having been lined up beneath the bed beside his slippers, they stood placed next to his desk. Odd. 

Now he thought of it, his tunic, too, lay folded neatly over the back of a chair—with the notable exception of his belt dangling twisted and awkward from the shoulder—instead of hanging up in the wardrobe as usual. Judging by the ferocity of his headache, it was easy to believe that he hadn’t been in a fit state to even operate a coat hanger.

The Captain reached for his collar to do up his buttons and, in an instantaneous blaze of clarity, remembered every single thing that had transpired in his room mere hours before.

Havers.

One hand flew to his mouth, fingers lightly tracing across his lips as if he might still find Havers’s presence and the lingering remnants of their kiss there. Their kiss! A good many kisses, if he recalled rightly, every last one of them utterly glorious. And all the rest… the confidence of his hands, his eager sighs, the look of hunger in his eyes. Havers on top of him, the satisfaction of the weight of his body against his at last, pinning him down… That had actually happened, hadn’t it? He hadn’t dreamt it.

God above, if it hadn’t been wonderful. Like the sun coming out. Like a butterfly finally breaking free of its cramped chrysalis and learning to fly. If only he could have sunk into Havers’s arms and stayed there forever.

It had all been real, all of it, all along, and he’d been too blind, too stubborn, too scared to see it.

To think he might have woken that morning with Anthony in bed beside him… The notion wasn’t new to him, but he’d always assumed it would never be anything more than a fantasy. Anthony lying mussed and sleepy and warm. Shirtless, too, if not completely naked beneath the sheets. The image of it was even more thrilling now that the very real possibility of it had now danced much closer.

Had they not been interrupted, who could say what would’ve happened? The Captain’s imagination ran away from him, entertaining all the variations of where last night could’ve ended up had fate not intervened. How much further Anthony might have undressed him. How he would have returned the favour. All the things they could have done to, for, with each other, wound together, lost in the throes of passion. Anthony, skin sheened with sweat, his head thrown back and his eyes half-lidded, clutching at him as he uttered ‘James, please,’ the words desperate and breathy, and James would have gladly complied…

But it all looked rather different now, the harsh light of the new day casting long, sharp shadows. There was no trace of Havers remaining on his lips, only rough, chapped skin. A new colour of queasiness washed through him.

He’d spent his whole life so keenly aware of the danger that lay in wait within him, of the line he could never cross, always watching it in his peripheral vision, reassuring himself he was safe as long as he was careful. And now he’d awoken to find he’d leapt across the boundary with gay abandon, totally heedless of all the damage that might come boiling up out of this one small digression.

Was it small? In the immediate aftermath, the ramifications of their behaviour felt enormous. Suffocating. Inescapable. Like some great prowling beast he’d managed to outrun so far but had finally caught his scent.

The fluidity of last night and the boundless possibilities it offered had now settled and hardened into something alarmingly and conspicuously the wrong shape. And who, if not him, should be the one to beat it back into its proper form? 

The Captain lifted his hand up to cup his own cheek, right to left, in imitation of the way Havers had held him. A poor substitute for the soaring euphoria of the real thing. There you are.

And now he had to go downstairs and give commands and maintain order in his unit and he’d probably encounter Havers at some point and then they would need to have a conversation. There was no telling which way it would go or what Havers made of last night’s escapades and what expectations he may harbour… The thought was enough to set his stomach churning again. 

There was nothing for it. This was all his doing and he’d have to take the consequences on the chin. But first, he’d have to summon up the strength to make himself halfway presentable. None of it would be resolved by hiding in his room all day and sleeping off last night’s excesses, no matter how much he wanted to.

The Captain took stock of the current state of things. Realistically, he was aware he should change into a clean set of clothes, but he had neither the will nor the energy. His trousers were a bit rumpled but still fairly respectable. They’d suffice. His shirt, however, was a different matter entirely; creased in all directions and had bunched itself up under his braces while he slept. Unacceptable in every regard, but then who would see it? His tunic would go a long way to covering up a multitude of sins. Indeed.

He dragged himself over to the washbasin and hazarded a glance in the mirror. The man in the reflection was only vaguely recognisable; scruffy and grey and exhausted-looking. One might well assume he’d spent the night sleeping out on the gravel. After a few long minutes staring at himself, wondering if he could get away with not shaving, he eventually concluded he couldn’t. There were standards to uphold, even if some things had already slipped. The key, he told himself as he soaped up his face, was not to let on quite how badly they’d fallen out of place.

Breakfast that morning was kippers and hard-boiled eggs. On any other day, the Captain would have seen this as something of a rare treat, a welcome respite from the plain porridge and toast they usually had to make do with. As it was, the smell alone provoked a violent protest from what remained of his constitution. The very idea of actually eating even a single mouthful was an impossibility. 

He made a mental note that if he ever had the fortune to meet any of the boys from procurement, he’d serve them all a jolly good bunch of fives right up the bracket. They could certainly choose their moments. 

With every second he spent in the mess hall, he became increasingly convinced he would collapse in on himself and die on the spot. Merely being in the vicinity of other people eating made his insides flap about like a landed fish, and the screeching chorus of scraping cutlery was akin to a rusty knife sawing at the roots of his teeth. A cup of strong, vaguely sugary tea would have to be more than enough sustenance for the time being.

Any further attempts to go about his daily routine as usual fell apart rather quickly. The Captain had never noticed how noisy the house was before. Everywhere was alive and swarming with the shriek of ringing telephones and the chittering of typewriters and the clamour built ever higher by everyone raising their voices to be heard over the din. Every room was rancid with smells newly violent in their potency: hair pomade and stale cigarette smoke and the soured fug of intermingled body odour. He didn’t have the mental stamina to label the precise nature of the agony it produced in him.

The house seemed altered that morning as if he were looking at it through a mirror. Everything was in its rightful place and nothing was outwardly different from the same time only a day before, but some unnamable quality had changed. When the Captain had first arrived at Button House, he’d thought the property was quite magnificent, but now he could see how shabby and run-down the place was. Dust gathered in every corner, the paintwork was cracked and peeling, and the initial speckled hints of mould climbed the walls. The house was beginning to rot around him.

He didn’t dare show his face among the rest of the unit, but his inability to disguise his fragile state was the least of his worries. They would surely all know what had happened, what he’d done. They’d read it all over him, taste it in the air. It was inconceivable to him that they wouldn’t.

At least, as yet, there was no sign of Havers. Small mercies.

Instead of his usual rounds, the Captain spent the better part of the morning hunkered down in his office with the curtains drawn, waiting for the bones in his skull to stop sliding about and hoping he wouldn’t be missed. He tried to muster the strength to get some work done, but between the horrors wreaking themselves on his innards and the frequent flashes of memory from last night intruding on his thoughts, it was impossible. Even if he had the wherewithal, there was a strong chance his report to Head Office would not be about the progress of their latest development project at all and would instead be a long, detailed contemplation on the theme of Lt. Anthony Havers and the way his smile brightened his eyes and his nimble skill at undoing other men’s ties and the way he’d said the Captain’s name as though he was tasting the word for the first time and found it exquisite. 

The Captain closed his eyes against the thought but was only met with images of Havers shimmering against the backs of his eyelids.

Giving in, he allowed himself to recall each specific sensation that had accompanied their little tryst, no matter how small: the warmth of Havers’s hand resting on his thigh, the soft snap of undone buttons at his throat, the unravelling desire in his voice as Havers told him he was beautiful. A deep, secret part of him always seemed to click into place when Havers was around, and, for the extent of those scant minutes, everything had been in perfect alignment, free and sure and right.

As always, there was the delicious, selfish pull of wanting it, swiftly extinguished by the stark impossibility of having it. Like trying to catch smoke; delicate, curling strands swept away into the empty air by a clumsy, grasping hand. 

Now he had more of his wits about him, he was mortified at having kissed Havers. Had it not been for the alcohol and the abandonment of his inhibitions and rationality, he would never have dared even consider it. He’d thought he’d had that particular issue well in hand; years of bricking up and pushing down the wayward parts of himself until they sat in a tight, dark lump deep inside him. Never forgotten, but always securely battened down. For so long, he’d resigned himself to a life of restraint, his emotions tearing at his heart like a trapped animal, silently suffering the constant ache of self-denial. It was frightening how readily he’d discarded all his defences and good sense the instant a few drinks and a bit of kindness from a handsome man had softened him up a little.

It wasn’t his fault, he tried to tell himself. The circumstances had come linked together, one after the other, dragging him along with them, all out of his control. But would anyone care whose fault it was? When had he ever been the sort of person who was allowed that kind of grace?

The shining realisation that his feelings were reciprocated had slowly tarnished as the morning wore on. Havers had kissed him back, hadn’t he? Gladly, eagerly, without the least hint of confusion or question. Or had he only imagined that? The Captain might have misread the situation entirely. Even if not, it was possible that their brief liaison had held little significance for Havers. It could easily have been nothing more than a drunken fumble for him. Or, God forbid, an experiment. Any port in a storm, as it were. Lord knew they were all so lonely.

Or worse. A trap. That would explain Havers’s behaviour last night; staying with him after everyone else had cut him loose, his unending kindness, his seduction carefully arranged so that it was the Captain who would spring the jaws shut. He’d surrendered to his desires and dismantled his barricades, and in doing so had provided the ammunition to bring about his own downfall. 

Havers wouldn’t, would he? The idea seemed so at odds with the man he knew, but perhaps he’d never known the real Havers at all. Lying was so frighteningly natural for some people. The Captain had no way of knowing until the blow had fallen. He wasn’t sure he could’ve felt more ill at that moment, but he managed it, his hangover an act of divine retribution for his misdeeds in all their forms. He’d have to handle this with the utmost care. No more mistakes.

He attempted a sip of tea only to find that it had gone cold.

Across the room, Barry huffed in displeasure, glaring at the Captain with an extra layer of judgement on top of his usual haughty expression.

‘Don’t you start,’ the Captain muttered. Barry only sneezed in response.

His gaze wandered to the posters lining the walls of his office, the words soft and bleary in the half-dark. “Keep It Under Your Hat” one demanded. Quite. “Every Fit Man Wanted” proclaimed another.

There was a war going on out there. It wasn’t that he ever forgot—how could he?—but so often all the routines and mindless bureaucracy and the relative peace and solitude of Button House blurred and blunted it into something much more benign, too distant to be of any real consequence. They were one small cog with no concept of the scale of the machine it was in. At that very moment, there were good, brave men out there fighting and bleeding and dying for the cause. Making a real sacrifice. Thousands upon thousands giving up their comfortable lives for the sake of King and Country, doing everything in their power to see this menace over and done with as soon as possible. And here he was, throwing frivolous parties and getting drunk beyond all excuse and engaging in unacceptable conduct with his subordinate. A tawdry little scandal, all in all.

He was a disgrace. No other word for it.

The tangled and tightening knots of the Captain’s shame were interrupted by a knock at the door.

‘Enter,’ he answered as loud as he dared.

Havers appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a thick slice of noise from the house beyond. For a brief second as he stepped forward, he was framed by a stray beam of sunlight, strands of gold drawing an outline around him and catching in his hair. The Captain clung to the sight of him like a shipwrecked sailor to flotsam, his previously sturdy resolve already wavering dangerously. 

‘There you are. No one’s seen you all morning,’ Havers said, his tone light but a tad too cheerful, the words carrying a faint air of having been rehearsed. He stepped aside as Barry made his escape in search of somewhere his presence would be appreciated, then shut the door firmly behind him and set the catch on the lock. ‘I say. It’s awfully dark in here, isn’t it?’

They were alone together again. The Captain had to work to steady his breathing, acutely aware of how little time had passed since they’d last seen each other and how loudly what they’d done echoed between them. His whole being lurched with guilt.

‘Needs must. It’s altogether too sunny today,’ he said, attempting to match his usual formality. His voice had all the quality of a bad gear change.

‘Yes, it is. I quite agree,’ Havers said, leaning back against the wall and scrubbing a hand over his face. ‘And much too loud. Goodness, it’s rather nice in here.’ There was a noticeable sheen of disarray to Havers that morning, conspicuous compared to how well put together he usually was. His uniform was as impeccable as ever, but his normally excellent posture was reduced to a slightly lopsided stoop, his shoulders hunched as if shielding himself from a harsh wind. Smudges of dark shadows gathered under his eyes, and he looked much paler than usual, his face shining in the gloom.

The Captain realised too late that he’d forgotten to go through the whole rigmarole of telling Havers to stand at ease, or rather, that Havers had already taken the liberty. Did it matter? These were exceptional circumstances, after all. The army wouldn’t fall apart from this one lapse in protocol, not on top of their wanton abandonment of all propriety the night before. But then if they didn’t have protocol and propriety, what was left?

For a moment, he didn’t know what to do, to say, how to behave. He’d been practising conversations in his head all morning, tattered scraps of sentences chasing their own tails, and now they’d all been wrong-footed. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ the Captain asked quickly. The sooner Havers was out of the room, the sooner his heart might stop ricocheting around his chest.

‘Yes, actually, I, um… I just came to let you know that we’ve cleaned up in the briefing room and got everything set back where it was,’ Havers said with a hint of a smile. It was not the usual confident smile the Captain had grown so accustomed to but was instead halting, uncertain.

‘Oh, thank you. Very thoughtful of you. I’d have done it myself, only…’ He was about to say that he couldn’t stomach even the idea of a Button House Special, let alone having to be in a room with the dregs, but caught it as being a touch over-familiar just in time. He and Havers weren’t supposed to be friends, he reminded himself, no matter how friendly things may have become.

‘No, of course. You have far more pressing duties to attend to. Besides, you did all the work setting it up; it’s only fair we should show our gratitude for your efforts by taking it all down.’

Surely no one in this godforsaken house was the least bit grateful for last night, but it was nice of him to pretend otherwise. Always so kind… ‘And the, er… contraband?’

‘The…?’

‘The alcohol. That dreadful paint thinner stuff.’

‘Ah, yes! I see. It’s currently under lock and key in the back of my wardrobe, awaiting further instructions,’ Havers said, his fingers straying to fiddle with his cuffs. ‘I don’t think anyone saw me put it in there, though they’d be quite out of luck even if they had.’ 

‘Good thinking. I’ll return it to the basement the next chance I get. Best place for it.’ The idea that the Captain might have to set foot in Havers’s room to fetch the bottle caught up with him and shivers of possibility danced across his skin. He’d likely have to go under cover of darkness so as not to be seen by anyone else in the unit. And Havers would have to be there to let him in. And what if, what if, what if… He stopped that line of thinking short before it galloped on ahead of itself. ‘Best that you bring it down to me when the coast is clear,’ he added brusquely.

There was the slightest pause and something in Havers’s countenance wavered. ‘Good idea. I’ll see to it as soon as I can.’

There followed a few dense seconds of silence while the Captain tried his best to think of something to say. He was aware they’d reached the point where he would ordinarily dismiss Havers with the usual “yes, thank you, carry on,” or some such, but he found he didn’t want Havers to leave just yet. Or at least, he didn’t want to be the one to make him leave. Instead, he shuffled some papers around on his desk in a deeply unconvincing act of appearing to be busy and waited for Havers to excuse himself by saying something polite like “sorry to have disturbed you” or “I’d better be getting back to my duties,” but the moment never arrived.

‘I, um, I… I also came to see how you were faring this morning,’ Havers said, stepping forward, eyebrows raised in mild concern. ‘If I may say so, you drank quite a lot last night.’

‘I… er… that, yes, I’m… coping. By and large, anyway. Certainly not firing on all cylinders.’ He grimaced a little for emphasis, using it to camouflage his relief at being gifted such a safe topic of conversation. ‘And, er, what about you? Holding up better than me, I trust?’

‘I must admit I’m feeling rather delicate,’ Havers said with a look of contrition mingled with shared conspiracy. ‘Just about managing to hold it together, though I couldn’t face breakfast.’

‘God, don’t remind me.’ The Captain did his best to smother the memory. ‘We’ve no one to blame but ourselves, of course. This is what happens when you overindulge.’

‘Indeed. It’s been quite a long time since I was nearly so drunk. Rather remiss of me to forget what a hangover feels like, though I’m sure they were never as bad as this when I was younger.’ Havers laughed a little at this, but it was short-lived, all breath and no sound.

There it was: a second source of regret swimming up from the murky depths of the Captain’s memories.

‘Cocktail Society wasn’t my finest hour, was it?’ he said quietly. How had he ever thought such a slipshod, clinker-built mess was a convincing substitute for the image of elegance he’d pretended it was? Amateurish on every level and all the more pathetic for how hard he’d tried to make it into something it very much wasn’t.

Havers had the decency to give him a sympathetic smile. ‘Perhaps not on the face of it, but I honestly think it was an excellent idea. Wonderfully creative of you. I’m sure the others appreciate the thought you put into it.’

‘That’s why they all left, was it?’

‘At least they turned up; they could just as easily have dismissed the whole thing from the off. Better high hopes and good faith than none at all. And I know you tried your best to make a go of it. It’s not your fault you didn’t quite hit the mark.’ Havers’s tone was so forgiving it was almost unbearable. 

‘That’s very kind of you to say, but if it’s not my fault, I don’t know whose it is.’

‘Since I’m the one who encouraged you to go ahead with it, I suppose that makes it mine. But not everything needs to be someone’s fault. It was just a case of bad luck. Cocktail Society’s next outing will all run much smoother, I’m sure.’

‘I highly doubt there will be another Cocktail Society after last night. It’s clear we don’t really have the audience for it. Besides, I think we used up everything except the crème de menthe and that concoction you discovered, and I don’t hold out much hope of being able to get a hold of anything else.’

Part of him clung desperately to the possibility that the two of them might be able to go on like this, pretending nothing had happened, ignoring their drunken transgressions. But the discussion was spiralling closer and closer towards the crux of the previous night’s events, and a new light seemed to dance in Havers’s eyes as the subject drew nearer. Havers knew about him, his proclivities; there was no way around that. It was about time the Captain showed some backbone for once, took charge of this thing before it bloated and sprawled into something far beyond his control. One disaster leading to another.

He cursed himself for his weakness, for the indulgences that had led to this point and one of the most awkward conversations he’d ever had to initiate. For having to openly acknowledge what had passed between them. How he’d let himself come so undone. Who exactly he was. 

For the first time that day, the Captain allowed his gaze to properly meet Havers’s. The usual dark brown of his eyes was near-black in the low light, his lips parted slightly. The Captain had to look away almost immediately.

‘Look, Havers, about last night.’ His mouth was dry, his tongue thick and heavy against his teeth. ‘I, er, trust you can recall what happened. The two of us… in my room…’

Havers’s Adam’s apple bobbed precariously. ‘I do. Yes,’ he said carefully, taking half a step closer. 

The Captain took a deep breath and found he still didn’t know what he was going to say. ‘Well then, I, erm… I really must apologise for my behaviour. For how things got… out of hand. It’s fair to say my faculties for decision-making were in a rather diminished state, but that’s no excuse. It was an appalling dereliction of duty on my part.’

The reasons did little to assuage the shame clawing up through him. A tricky foe to vanquish at the best of times. Always there, circling like a shark, teeth bared.

‘I only hope you can forgive me,’ he added, though he didn’t mean it. Forgiveness was the last thing he deserved. 

‘I assure you, there’s nothing to forgive. After all, it was something of a… joint effort.’ Havers’s expression was soft, verging on bashful, the first hint of a blush rising in his face. He wetted his lips, the action fleeting and unconscious but utterly captivating.

The Captain’s thoughts returned unbidden to the previous night: Havers helping him to undress with almost reverent care, the delicacy with which their mouths had met, the delirious sensation of Havers’s tongue tentatively meeting his own. He thought again of how Havers had looked at him with his eyes full of a vulnerability the Captain hadn’t seen before, and a wave of desire swept through him. But no. Havers may have engaged willingly, but he was the one who started it all. The blame lay squarely on him.

‘Yes, well, regardless of where the fault lies, I’m hoping I can count on your… discretion. I’m sure neither of us will fare well from any rumours bandying about.’ The Captain attempted a reassuring smile, but it never got any further than an ungainly twitch. His whole body felt wrong; cumbersome and ill-fitting and over-warm. He was about fit to crawl out of his skin with humiliation.

‘Yes, of course. I won’t tell a soul. I wouldn’t dream of it.’ 

The Captain swallowed thickly and chanced another glance up at Havers then away again, unable to bear the scrutiny. ‘Thank you. It’s terribly good of you, all things considered,’ he said. He was trembling, he realised, and he clenched his fists against his own body’s treachery. ‘Again, I really can’t apologise enough for my conduct. I’m sure it goes without saying, but I’m frightfully embarrassed about it all. Dreadfully inappropriate of me to allow myself to become so lax in my decorum. Most unbecoming of a commanding officer.’

‘No, no. Really. I promise, you’ve no reason to be embarrassed.’ Havers paused, the seconds endless as he searched for the words he needed. ‘It was nice,’ he said at last, not daring to look at the Captain, his voice a breath above a whisper, the blush across his cheeks now reaching up to the tips of his ears.

The Captain faltered, unable to form a response, his heart a flaring fire. Havers was right. It had been nice. Rather more than that, if he was being honest. Marvellous was the first word that came to mind. Glorious. A rare and beautiful thing, like a bird that had briefly escaped its cage. All morning, the only thing he’d wanted to do was to go back to his room with Havers, pick up from where they’d left off, and allow what they’d started to reach its logical conclusion.

And perhaps, given Havers’s favourable reaction, they still might. But the possibility that the snare was still around his neck lay ever-present in the Captain’s thoughts. Any move in the wrong direction would end everything.

‘Yes, well. We should put all that behind us, I think. Do our best to forget it ever happened.’ 

Havers’s head snapped up and his gaze latched onto the Captain’s, his eyes brimming with hurt and confusion. The unguarded honesty of his expression was enough to pierce clean through the Captain’s chest. It was plain in that moment that what had happened the night before had been neither a mere fleeting dalliance nor an attempt at entrapment. It was all achingly real. Havers had wanted the Captain the same way the Captain wanted him: deeply, endlessly, hopelessly. And for a few perfect minutes, they’d had it, like fire stolen from the gods.

But the Captain had already risked enough. Providence had saved him from the worst of his mistakes, and he wasn’t about to be ungracious.

‘If… if that’s what you want?’ Havers said at last, his voice thick with suppressed emotion.

It wasn’t. Not in the least. The Captain didn’t want to be doing any of this. He felt as though he might fracture under the lightest touch, shards of his heart already sharp against his ribs. 

‘I… it is. Yes, I think it’s for the best, Lieutenant.’ The words felt outsized and unwieldy, resistant to being linked in the right order.

Havers pursed his lips then let out a strained sigh, his eyes roaming over the Captain’s face, searching. He stepped closer and placed a tentative hand on the Captain’s own.

‘James…’ he breathed. Unlike when he’d used the Captain’s name last night, the word came out short and desperate. Pleading. Remarkably brave of him, the Captain couldn’t help thinking. Admirable as always. He would never have been so bold.

The Captain turned away, weak with want, unable to meet the intensity of Havers’s unasked entreaty, unable to trust himself. 

‘Please don’t,’ he whispered, though he didn’t move his hand away. It felt safer to speak at this volume, as though they could only acknowledge the strength of what had happened— what it had meant to him and that the distance he was putting between them was more a matter of necessity than what he really wanted—under this scant veil of secrecy.

‘Last night… That wasn’t nothing. All this time… if you only knew—’

‘You must understand,’ the Captain cut in, more a plea than a question, half certain his heart was ready to split in two. He hoped above all else that he didn’t have to explain this, to have to outline every twist of the tense knot of rank and duty and decency they found themselves entangled in. The fraternisation alone would see them both ruined. And while some of his reticence was for the sake of his own skin, most of it was for Havers. He couldn’t let himself be the worst thing that ever happened to him. 

It might have been wonderful. Right up until the point it wasn’t.

‘It’s not you, far from it. It’s just… we can’t. You know we can’t,’ the Captain said at last.

‘I…’ Havers whispered back, visibly struggling for the right words. ‘Yes.’ His grip on the Captain’s hand tightened a fraction, his thumb smoothing along his knuckles before he let go and stepped back. His Adam’s apple bobbed again, his mouth set in a tight, tremulous line. 

The Captain debated going to him, gathering him into a tight embrace, consoling them both. Would one last kiss serve as a sincere apology? Possibly, but if he allowed himself to kiss Havers again, he was certain he’d never stop.

‘What do we do now?’ Havers asked, his voice frail. His fingers still rested lightly at the edge of the desk.

‘The, er… the same as always, I suppose,’ the Captain said. What else was there? He swallowed, trying to push down the lump forming in his throat. ‘There’s a war on,’ he added unhelpfully.

The Same As Always seemed to exist in a time long past, too rigid and anachronistic in the light of a changed world, though it hadn’t even been one full day since everything had altered beyond all repairing. How could he possibly pretend they might carry on just as before when the truth of what lay between them was still real and electric and clutched at him with both hands?

Havers drew in a deep, ragged breath, blinking rapidly, and pulled his shoulders back into a model of correct posture. He opened his mouth as if to say something but apparently thought better of it. ‘So that’s that, then?’ he asked instead, squeezing his eyes shut.

‘I’m sorry,’ was all the Captain could think to say. There was no use in going into the specifics of how the circumstances were against them. Havers almost certainly knew them every bit as well as he did.

Havers’s chest heaved with a snatched breath. ‘Me too.’ He took a step back, his fingers falling away from the desk.

The silence of the room stung as they both waited, neither sure what they were supposed to do, clinging to this uncomfortable gap in time where it was undeniably over but it was still not yet done. 

‘Will, er… will you be joining us for lunch, sir?’ Havers asked at last, wincing slightly at the flimsiness of the topic, his blank gaze fixed on a point somewhere just above the top of the Captain’s head. His tone was suddenly crisp and formal, and it occurred to the Captain that that was the first time he’d called him “sir” all morning. Good, he willed himself to believe. This was good. Everything in its proper place.

‘Difficult to say at the moment. Do you know what it’s going to be?’ He himself was aiming his attention at the negative space just below Havers’s left ear and doing his level best to ignore the smooth column of his neck.

‘Soup of some kind, as I understand. I’ve no more detailed intel beyond that, I’m afraid.’ A pause. ‘Sir.’

The Captain didn’t need to know any more. The very idea of soup of any variety was a remarkably unpalatable prospect. His insides responded with an involuntary spasm that felt more like a threat.

And God, how did they end up here? A matter of hours ago they were in each other’s arms, and now they were discussing lunch as if nothing had happened. Trudging through this obvious pantomime as if it were all normal. It didn’t matter that this was exactly what he’d asked for. He hated every inch of it. Everything hurt.

‘We’ll see, Lieutenant. I have a lot to be getting on with here. Very busy.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Havers nodded curtly, pausing only shortly before he moved towards the door but stopped almost as soon as he’d started. ‘Although, while I think of it, there is still one small point of order that needs to be addressed,’ he said, turning back.

The Captain’s heart managed to both leap and sink in the same instant. ‘Yes?’

Havers hesitated. It may have been the light, but he seemed to sag a little. ‘On second thoughts, it’s only a general housekeeping matter. It can wait.’

‘No, no. We might as well deal with it while you’re here. It’s important we keep everything ticking over.’ This was precisely what they needed. Some standard day-to-day business to keep them grounded.

‘You still need to assign someone to latrine duty for the week.’

‘Borrowsby.’ He didn’t even need to think about it.

The Captain made the grave error of making eye contact with Havers then, seeing the spark of amusement in his eyes, the smile alighting on his mouth that brightened his whole face before he tucked it out of sight again. A joke they shouldn’t share but did, an admission of longing barely legible underneath.

‘Very good. I’ll let him know.’ 

‘Excellent. Thank you, Lieutenant.’

‘Will that… is there anything else?

‘No, um, yes, no, I think that’s everything… You’re dismissed.’ The Captain picked up the nearest piece of paper and pretended to read it as Havers turned to open the door. His heartbeat roared in his ears, his blood thrumming with hope against hope that Havers would refuse to accept this, that he’d summon up all his courage and turn back and vault across the desk and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him and insist he couldn’t leave like that, that last night had been the only time he’d felt truly alive, that he couldn’t let what they had slip away when it was everything he’d been searching for his entire life, and then the Captain would say “But what are we going to do?” and Havers would say “I don’t know, but we’ll find a way.”

But Havers had more sense than that.

As soon as the door clicked shut, the Captain buried his head in his hands and groaned. He was too old, too tired, too bloody used to all this to cry. The need billowed up inside him, but he hadn’t the will to meet it. Instead, he pushed it back down and locked it away with all the other parts of him that weren’t allowed.

Havers’s words rang through his thoughts like a tolling bell. If he only knew… what? What sweet confession might have spilled from those lips, that beautiful mouth that had been on his only the night before? The Captain already knew; of course he did. The agony in Havers’s eyes said enough. Best to leave it unsaid, perhaps. Best not to lend any more weight to their sins.

He sat back, eyes closed, nurturing the pulse of this particular pain. It was only what he deserved. It hurt now; it always did at first, but it would fade in time, however long that might take. 

And, in the meantime, he only had to see Havers every single day, had put his walls back up, had to keep playing the role of commanding officer, reliable and unmovable. The prospect now seemed beyond ridiculous, their shared knowledge confirming that it was nothing but a flimsy conceit hiding an ordinary fallible and fault-ridden man beneath.

He’d been careless, opened the door he’d kept shut tight for so long, and now all the great awful mess within had come spilling out. Not unlike Pandora’s box. Except this one had no hope waiting at the bottom.

And then, in the same vein, there was Icarus, of course. Nearly. So nearly. 

And, naturally, one didn’t steal fire from the gods without there being retribution of some kind. Torture for all eternity, wasn’t it? The same as always.

The only thing to do was to carry on. That was what good soldiers did.

They managed remarkably well, the Captain thought when he allowed himself to acknowledge the situation. There was still much to keep them occupied, a war still to win. He and Havers went about their duties with the same diligence as before, always faithfully following the well-worn lines of their routines.

There was no avoiding each other, however, and the plain truth of how they both felt about one another lay in the space between them like an undetonated bomb.

‘Ah, Lieutenant. How can I help you?’

‘This morning’s post, sir.’

‘Ah. Thank you. Very… yes.’

Their every conversation became serrated with a strict adherence to formality. All exchanges, whether out among the unit or alone in his office, were kept brief and rigidly on topic, both of them clinging to a forced veneer of normality because they both knew too well that there was nothing but a sheer precipice lying in wait beneath it.

‘If that’s all, sir?’

‘Yes, Lieutenant. Good work. You’re dismissed.’

If anyone noticed any difference in either of them, the Captain never heard about it.

His desk had never been so tidy, his office so ordered, his stack of completed paperwork so precarious. Keeping busy was the trick, and the Captain typed until his fingers were red-raw. The pressures of being Commanding Officer were constant, and their work was vital, and if he distracted himself enough, then he couldn’t succumb to the anguish waiting at the edge of his every thought. If there was no space to remember, then he might force himself to forget. 

Through some grim mercy, the demands of the war increased daily. Sometimes, the Captain managed to spend hours without seeing another soul, his thoughts dulled down with orders and reports and deadlines. When the real work ran out, he typed up the stunted details of the war that came in over the wireless. Keeping a record of it all would be useful, he told himself. It showed initiative. Dedication.

Out in the corridor, beyond the solid barrier of his office door, passing footsteps and the murmur of conversation intruded on his hard-won peace. Even without being able to make out the words, the Captain could tell from the tone and cadence alone that one of the two was Havers.

Just the faint sound of his voice was enough to trip the wire in the Captain’s memory, and the heartbreak came flooding back worse than before. His fingers stilled on the keys, the words on the page swimming, his heart a lead weight in his chest that dragged him under to drown drown drown.

Despite his best efforts, he could not forget all about it. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t want to, but wallowing in what ifs wouldn’t help anyone, and no matter how hard he tried to push it away, the understanding of what had occurred and what still could be only chimed all the louder. Each recollection was accompanied by another twist of the knife, but the Captain couldn’t stand to let the images leave him forever. If he knew of a way to preserve every last detail of his already waning memories of that night, he’d do it as fast as a fired bullet. It was better, he reasoned, to feel the bite of the recoil than to wilfully forget and feel nothing at all.

The morning briefing was going surprisingly well; all the members of the unit had arrived in a timely fashion, and there was a minimum of glazed expressions and bored whispers rippling among the ranks. The Captain was in fine fettle, buoyed by the necessity of the work still to be done. That was until Havers’s eyes met his across the room, and the Captain had to summon every ounce of control to proceed as though nothing was amiss.

Too often, the Captain would turn from whatever had held his attention to find Havers already looking at him. Or Havers would look up to meet the Captain’s lingering gaze. Across the common room, during a cricket match, in the canteen. This sort of thing used to happen all the time before, and back then they would simply smile at each other and carry on. But it was only now, cursed with the knowledge of what it all meant, that such things carried an extra sting.

The same message as always shone clear in his perfect dark eyes. I’m right here, they seemed to say. I know your heart. I feel the same. We could, if we wanted. If you’d have me. The Captain wasn’t sure what he’d give for it to only be that easy. 

He had thought Havers might hate him after all that had happened. It seemed only inevitable that Havers would resent both him and his rejection, and the Captain couldn’t decide whether he hoped for or feared the widening schism between them. But it was abundantly clear from every single second of every interaction they now had that the opposite was true. If anything, Havers’s feelings had only redoubled. And judging from the constant, searing ache he carried, the same was true for the Captain, too.

The sharp tug of his belt at his shoulder kept him in check, reminding him of his duty, what was expected, what was proper. His feelings held, as always, like a blade at his throat.

And, as always, the Captain looked away first.

It was late enough that the diagrams he’d sketched out were starting to waver in the lamplight. He really should call it a night, but they were making such excellent progress.

Across the table, Havers stared dully at the document he was holding. ‘I’m worried about the weight,’ he said without looking up. ‘These reinforcements will only add to it, and there’s a danger it’ll end up too heavy for the frogmen to carry comfortably. And if that means we have to make the whole thing smaller, then it won’t be much good to anyone.’

‘We still have a few options in hand,’ the Captain replied, rifling through the papers scattered about the desk. ‘It’s worth seeing if we can throw together a couple of quick prototypes, test some materials for the housing, see how they play out.’

Havers was the ideal partner for Operation William; his technical knowledge was exemplary and, well, he’d more than proven his ability to keep secrets. It was crucial that they didn’t allow personal matters to stand in the way of progress. They were professionals and there were far larger stakes at play.

If anything, their… situation was something of a boon. They were briskly efficient in their work, only asking pertinent questions of one another and making the necessary deductions, leaving no room for idle chatter. Occasionally, their fingers brushed against each other as they worked, or they found themselves standing rather too close so that it would take no effort at all for the Captain to turn and brush a hand up Havers’s neck and lean in and kiss him again… but they always caught themselves, stepping away with muttered apologies. 

Still staring at the page he was holding, Havers let out a deep sigh that rang with all the same loss and want and agony the Captain felt in return that cut straight to the heart of him. It took all his will not to pull his lieutenant to him and tell him he was sorry and they didn’t have to endure this and everything would be alright. 

But such lies would do neither of them any good. 

‘It’s late. You should get your rest, Lieutenant. I’ll finish up here.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

The Captain hunched over a little closer to inspect his calculations, refusing to let himself see the weary hurt that lined Havers’s face or the way he hesitated ever so slightly at the door as if readying himself to ask if the Captain might want to follow him up. But the only sound was the latch clicking shut, and when the Captain looked up again, he was alone.

Only once did Havers dare to breach the unspoken terms of their agreement. One evening, alone together in his office, he reached across the desk to slide his hand into the Captain’s, the sort of easy, reassuring gesture extended from one lover to another. Instead of shying away like a frightened rabbit at his touch, the Captain gave in to it. Havers’s palm was warm and dry, long fingers twining effortlessly with his. 

The Captain squeezed. 

Havers squeezed back. 

And then they pulled away, neither looking at the other, never mentioning it again, never seeking more.

He never did fix the drinks cabinet.

The nights were the hardest and this one was no different; the lights turned low and the curtains shut tight, the darkness and the silence conspiring to conjure up the illusion of a more permissible world.

The Captain lay awake again, staring at the ceiling, his mind swirling with thoughts of Havers, wondering whether he too was doing the same in his own room only a few doors down. How could he think of anything else in this bed now? He replayed the same arguments over and over again, caught in the endless back and forth of half-convincing himself that it would be the easiest thing in the world to leave his bed. To go to Havers’s room. To knock on the door. To ask to be let in. To give in to all of it.

He should, shouldn’t he? What a damned fool he’d been to reject what he’d spent years longing for when he’d had it right in front of him, wanting him back. If the middle of a war wasn’t the time to make the most of the love he’d found before him, then when was? He would cradle Anthony in his arms and apologise and declare that he’d been wrong, and Anthony would smile that beautiful smile of his and he’d take him into his bed and… yes… that was exactly it. How could he have failed to see it before now?

Anthony was waiting for him. Had been waiting all this time.

The Captain made it as far as his own door, bare feet on the floorboards, a shaking hand resting on the doorknob, scraping up the resolve to open it, only for cold reality and reason to catch him by the scruff of the neck and haul him back in line.

Blast the night! Blast its lies!

Though, he asked himself for the hundredth time, if Havers were the one to come to his room in the dead of night, heart already pounding, the question perched unasked on his lips, would the Captain let him in? He just might, though the opportunity to test this theory never presented itself. Each night was as dark and empty and lonely as the last.

When Havers told him he’d put in for a transfer, the Captain knew it was, at least in no small part, his own reckless and unchecked impulses that had driven his lieutenant to that point. He recognised this information for what it was beneath the varnish of military rigour and reserve. It was another question. It was Havers asking if the Captain would like him to stay. If there was a future for them? If they might still find a way?

He could have stopped it all, of course. One letter would put paid to any talk of transfers or heroism or anyone sacrificing themselves for glory at the front. Havers would remain at Button House, safe and healthy. Always within touching distance but never any closer.

But he never sent such a letter. He never even wrote it.

Though it as good as tore his heart to ribbons to watch Havers go, to let him walk away, for all the love he felt be transmuted into fear, the Captain knew he couldn’t ask Havers to stay. Not again.