Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

C'est une brute.

This is his first impression of Captain Paddy Mayne.

Though, that is not necessarily true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck is that?” More laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, it can’t hurt to try.

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

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

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

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

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

My heart, like muffled drums,/Goes beating funeral marches.

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

But the man is not there and how – ?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In this moment!”

“Stop!”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you the reason.”

Compound ghost.

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

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

“Yep.”

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All for naught.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it’s Halévy’s turn.

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

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

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

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

“He did it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A coward? How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All hell breaks loose.

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

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

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

“Get out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s eat!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bastard!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, but you knew Sartre immediately.”

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, so it is like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet Augustin wants to ask, wants to know.

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

“No, nothing so noble.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No choice but to follow, he supposes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye. Not far from here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do they offer breakfast?”

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

“Shame you only speak dog, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Paddy’s sentiment was the same.”

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

“Is this a good idea?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is hardly a church, Captain.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Captain.” He greets, weary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bonne nuit, Paddy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What business do we have in Crete?”

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

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

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

“In a submarine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s going where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You will take Derna and Martuba.”

Next to him, he feels Mayne bristle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Benina.” Stirling confirms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t even like the fucker!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

“Any parting words?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, best remember what I said.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Essner appears taken aback, nodding frantically before backing off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cut everyone free. And be ready.”

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

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

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

“You got it.”

“Yes, I-”

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

“Where is Bruckner?!”

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

This is it, then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Augustin follows, his steps slow, reluctant.

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

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

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

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

He does not remain so for long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It must be a useful skill to have.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He perks up at that, confused and curious.

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

“But you managed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mayne looks over his shoulder, at Augustin, at the rest of them. “You, me. Zirnheld and Jordan.”

He doesn’t like what’s to come next and he wishes Mayne would just ignore him but he had put himself in their midst to avoid his own troubles. So, reluctant or not, he is part of the conversation now. Mayne continues to look behind dark lenses but this time he is convinced it is only at him. His earlier transgression creeps up at him, his escape unsuccessful. He doesn’t like this, being unable to see Mayne’s eyes clearly. Like this, the man is an impenetrable fortress, giving nothing away and it is putting Augustin on the back foot.

Finally, Mayne turns back to Stirling. “You did well. Why is there no jollity?”

  “Jollity?” Stirling scoffs, using his hand to drink from the bucket and wash up briefly. “Because… we caught them off-guard. Shot at them rather like what you did at Tamet.”

Whatever embarrassment had clung to him eases immediately, replaced by unease as he watches Stirling admit to his sins and the sins of his men.

“Armed or unarmed they are the enemy.” The Major rationalizes but even he does not sound convinced. “Yes?” Ha adds after a moment, showing his hand.

The dynamic has changed, Augustin realizes. Here Stirling stands, unsure of his footing, seeking validation from Mayne of all people. Mayne who, as it appears, knows naught of the Geneva Convention. However, even Mayne looks unsettled at Stirling’s admission.

When the Captain’s silence stretches for too long, Stirling grows visibly irate.

“I asked you a question, Captain Mayne.”         

He must be doubting himself, doubting everything he’s known. What say you of good and evil? Mayne had asked and while he’s still of the mind that they do not have the luxury, he is not so certain himself anymore.

“Yes, sir.” Mayne concurs, shockingly polite. “Armed or unarmed… they are the enemy.”

It is this show of cordiality that looks to have upset the Major further. Despite how similar, even Augustin can see and has come to know, that the two of them are vastly different. It is in the way they hold themselves, how they count their sins, how they bury them or carry them. And this – the blatant execution of soldiers unarmed – is not something Stirling can seem to either carry or bury, leaving him suspended and looking for answers he will not find.

“I was wrong about Essner.” The Captain informs as Stirling is walking away, making the man pause. “The traitor was Bruckner.”

The Major turns back around with a scoff.

“Whole unit wiped out except for…” Mayne motions to him.

Stirling’s eyes briefly flit to his before he looks away, the guilt gnawing on easy to spot. Augustin gets the sense that he is trapped in a room with these two despite the other soldiers scattered around them still. It’s almost as if they’re sucking all of the air out of the desert, forming a storm that will cause irreparable damage to them all.

“Death sits easy on your shoulders comrade.” And there is the first drop of rain. “Turns out, we drink from the same well after all.” Theatrical as always, Mayne fills his canteen from the bucket and walks away, leaving everyone in the area silent.

Stirling’s face goes through a complicated set of emotions before he finally settles on that familiar anger laced with spite that Augustin can now easily recognize.

“Lieutenant-”

“Do not bother, Sir.” He will not hear any of it, no platitudes, no pity nor condolences. It is as Mayne had said, this is the nature of war.

He walks back to where he was before, mind heavy with what he’s learned. From the start, these men have been operating outside of any restrictions. He had known this, had been aware, but he had not thought further on it, on what it all meant and entailed. But now he knows when it is too late to say anything because saying anything would make him – what? Possibly a hypocrite, definitely a coward.

Fraser comes to find him where he’s seated himself in the shade, sliding down the wall until their shoulders are brushing together.

“You owe me a translation.” The other says after a bit, turning to look at him.

He looks a little ridiculous – dusty, dirt smeared across his forehead, ridiculous mustache and beard on his face but it makes Augustin smile that he’d remembered. That Fraser’s here for this and not to try and comfort him.    

“Tomorrow, at first dawn, when the country starts to whiten,/I will set out. You see, I know you’re waiting for me./I will go by forest, I will go by mountain,/Away from you I can no longer remain.” He keeps his words measured even as his chest squeezes. Mayne had been right, this was a poor choice for a poem to send everyone off to.

“And the rest of it?” Fraser’s eyes are closed, appearing immersed. He’s warm against Augustin but despite the heat of the desert, he does not mind.

“I will walk with eyes fixed onto my thoughts,/Without seeing outside, nor hearing any noise,/Alone, unknown, my back bent, my hands crossed,/Forlorn, and the day for me will be night.” In his periphery, he spots Cooper ambling his way towards them. He waits until Cooper has seated himself on his other side.

“I will watch neither the gold of the falling evening,/Nor the sails in the distance descending on Harfleur,/And when I get there, I will-” He clears his throat, the lump there persistent. “I will put on your grave/A bunch of green holly and blooming heather.”

“Grief.” Cooper hums, oddly solemn for someone of his sunny disposition.

“Yes.” With a heavy heart and a heavier conscience, he buries it all inside. Chooses the distraction, the mission of the greater good. No luxuries allowed, no privileges reaped. There is only war and there is only survival. Go. Kill. Return. Go again. As rebellious and freeing the regiment’s motto may have seemed before, he now realizes that it is anything but. The words are the shackles that bind these men together, that chain them to a future of suffering and immorality and Augustin has just been added to the queue.

“Hugo,” He huffs, the invisible iron cuffs weighing his hands down. “He wrote it about visiting his daughter’s grave. It has always been one of my favorites but I have not known it as intimately as I do in this moment.”

They don’t speak on it further but neither Cooper nor Fraser leave his side until it is time to go.

They return to base. Bergé does not appear at the rendezvous. Stirling goes to Cairo and Jalo is thrown into limbo.

That night, he cannot sleep. He tosses and turns and Zirnheld sits in his cot, both of them stuck in their own heads, re-living what has happened and what they have seen. They are now a handful, those with Bergé missing in action until they hear from GHQ and those that were with him – gone. He gives up around three, pats Zirnheld on the shoulder on his way out.

He walks the perimeter of Jalo twice, feet sinking into the shifting sands, one of the dogs at his heel. He cannot go on like this, he knows. He needs rest, he needs to be able to focus and perform to his highest capacity but how is he to do that when sleep evades him? His gut churns every time he so much as thinks about closing his eyes and the shame of it all weighs on him like a pressure increasing.

So he continues to walk and upon his fourth turn, he notices a presence stalking after him that is different to that of the dog that’s kept him company. He is not worried. It is quite the opposite of that. He is comforted because there is only one other that would join him out here now that Bergé has disappeared from his life.

He slows down, testing to see if his shadow will catch up or follow his lead. The distance between them grows smaller but Mayne must not be in a talking mood because he keeps them apart. So Augustin walks and even the dog grows tired eventually, scuttling back to where it’s bed is while he and Mayne continue persistently.

He rounds a corner and impulsively stops, turning back to walk the other way. Lost in thought or simply careless, Mayne nearly runs into him.

The man grunts, halting his momentum mere centimeters from Augustin’s form. The silence of the night is broken only by their breathing and the pulse drumming in his ears. Why are you here, he wants to ask. Again, he does not.

“You asked me, a while back, about my thoughts on good and evil… but you hadn’t made your own stance on the issue known.”

Mayne peers up at him, gaze luminous even in the dark. It is never truly black in the desert, the stars too close, the moon too big, but even with this all – he does not think Mayne’s eyes should be this shiny.

“Are you waiting for me to declare myself evil?” The man’s mouth pulls back, teeth bared, taking his question as a slight.

“No.” With a shake of his head, he takes a step back. “I am simply asking. Not everything is a trap for you to fall into, Paddy.”

Mayne’s expression falls then, something other than arrogance and spite taking over, something contemplative. “They are arbitrary terms.”

He waits the silence out and Mayne huffs.

“We ascribe them easily to one action or another. Aye, we see fit to base it on our own judgment too. A privilege, you’d said.” The man hums, eyes once again drawn to somewhere above Agustin’s collar. “Because what does morality know of the moment when you are staring down the barrel? What do philosophers know of a knife pressed to your throat?” The other reaches up as if drawn there, thumb resting on the faint scar he is responsible for.

There is no inconceivable way that the other doesn’t feel his rabbiting pulse.

They are far too close together still, Mayne’s voice rumbling and accent thick. Even weeks later, Mayne’s weight on top of him is still fresh in his mind. This, he thinks, this and the blood he’d lost that day were what marked him, what chained him to Paddy’s orbit. Shackles, words – feelings – Augustin keeps finding new cages for himself. He’d called Mayne the tailor of his own sorrow but he’s beginning to think they are the same in this regard.

A desperate fool, he is, unable to voice the truth of the matter even within the confines of his own head.

“Good and evil pale in comparison to survival.” Paddy retreats, taking his hand with him. “The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow…/We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.”

Mayne leaves him be after that. Leaves him to stew in the tingling of his skin and in his flush and his rapid heartbeats. Torn between continuing his marching and returning to his cot, he instead sits there on the spot and greets the sun.

Sometime in the early afternoon, Stirling returns.

His turmoil from after the mission seemingly forgotten, the man claps his hands and fetches a crate to stand on.

“So, gentlemen, news of the real world beyond our jolly little circus.”

The men gather around him slowly and he follows, Zirnheld close behind him and Seekings on his other side. They had all been – well. Not relaxing, not entirely, but the camp had been silent, almost peaceful. But, it was now time to see what they had wrought.

“We are fewer than we were, but… those men we lost gave their lives in a winning cause.” Stirling’s words are almost optimistic but there is a grit to his tone that removes all the polish from it.

Augustin feels wretched. Gave their lives in a winning cause? No. Not his men. His men had died in vain, denied a chance to fight, stabbed in the back by one they dined with, slept beside and trusted in. There is no honor in that. His hand winds around the bottle in his grip tighter.

“Out of the 17 ships that set sail for Malta, four ships made it through to the letter.”

Zirnheld huffs next to him and the wave of relief that passes between the men of the crowd gathered is palatable.

“Four heavily laden supply ships with food, medicine, weapons and ammunition.”

Despite the heaviness of his own heart, he is glad to hear this.

“Malta is saved.” Stirling declares and a cheer erupts from the soldiers. Again, Augustin is surprised to find some of his burdens eased despite what has happened.

In another grand gesture, Stirling continues. “Africa is saved from fascism because of you.”

Saved might be pushing it, he thinks idly. Is Africa truly saved when its people are still suffering? Though, he supposed saved in this instance does not equate free. From one boot under another.

“Because the planes you destroyed are the planes that would’ve sunk the four ships that made it.”

Zirnheld puts a hand on his shoulder and he sways. For all that the Lieutenant is silent, he is observant. And aside from Bergé, he is the one that knows Augustin best. Well. Perhaps now in competition with Paddy Mayne himself.

“But, in the words of Winston Churchill: this is not the beginning of the end, this is the end… of the beginning." Stirling falters momentarily but pushes through whatever is slowing him down.

“While we were saving Malta, our American cousins finally finished their extended round of golf and decided to join in and give us a bit of a hand.”

“Well about fucking time.” Kershaw’s voice rings through the area and the men jeer, sharing the sentiment.  

They are to head west while the Americans gather east. The plan is to pinch the Italians and Germans in the middle but as simple as it sounds, Augustin has – as of recently – ran out of optimism.

“It would be foolhardy to think that any of our forces can make it all the way through enemy lines to link up with the Americans, but we are fools. Famous fools.”

Famous when their deeds and crimes alike are kept from the world, when a spy and a general had to conspire to get the Free French involved. Zirnheld takes a swig from his own bottle by his side and Augustin keeps his breathing steady.

“So that is exactly what I am going to try to do.” The major announces with aplomb. “I shall enter the lion’s den in search of a potential supply line through Gabes Gap to link up our two armies.”

The men turn from jovial to confused. To anyone unfamiliar with the area it would seem like Stirling is offering to do something noble and heroic, but by the way Sadler has gone rigid in front of him and the way Seekings is shifting uneasily, he knows this is not so.

“The rest of you continue your fantastic work making axis aeroplanes go pop and bang in the middle of the night.”

It’s almost as if he’s saying goodbye. And some of the men appear to be thinking the same. The nerves churn in his gut, making his palms sweat. What has happened for Stirling to be acting this way?

“While I was in Cairo, I got a note from GHQ.” The man unfolds a piece of paper from his pocket. “The special air service known as L Detachment is now officially,” A dramatic pause more befitting the man’s usual demeanor. “A British Army regiment.”

The men erupt into another round of cheers, but Augustin is brought back to the other night, to Mayne’s words. It’s always Mayne, in the end, who knows, who is the loudest and who believes in his words the most.

We will be reckless in pursuit of your own lofty ambition.

And they had been, reckless and unprepared, rushed out in a flurry with their ill-begotten weapons and unearned confidence. All so that Stirling could crown himself king of the paupers. In that moment, he cannot help but resent the man.

“We did it, gentlemen.”

“Congratulations, Sir.” Seekings’ tone is firm, displeased, and it seems to rankle the man some as he gets off his crate.

“Hurrah for the new Colonel, lads.” Kershaw, oblivious to whatever’s passing between Stirling and Seekings, and somehow yet, Fraser, calls for another round of cheers and drinking.

As the Major – now Colonel, he supposes – walks away, Reg turns to him and motions to the few French remaining.

“To fallen comrades.” The other nods and Augustin’s eyes sting.

“To fallen comrades.” He repeats in their tongue, pouring out his beer into the sand. The men around him follow, paying their respects and before they can begin congratulating him as they are Zirnheld – he turns.

Among the men gathered, Mayne had been absent. But he sees him now, leaving his hammock, a bottle and two cups in hand as he follows Stirling outside the walls of Jalo. A safe distance from the others.

“Something’s happened.” He says and Fraser next to him hums, unsurprised.

Whatever the two talk about leaves the both of them grim-faced upon return.

Sleep evades him again. He had avoided drinking with the rest, avoided most of everyone the entire day and now that he is alone, he wishes not to be. But there is no remedying that so instead, he opts to address the other issue grating on him.

The dogs outside are howling, making him wonder if anyone else is troubled by this seeing as they have been at it for a good half hour.

He takes his insomnia outside, puzzled as to why their canine companions are so agitated.

Fraser is in the midst of them, trying to calm them down but the pack remains wild, stanchly determined to wake every single soul in the camp.

“What’s wrong?” He asks but the other just grimaces, shaking his head. The yapping grows louder, the howling more pained and even Withers has joined – Fraser’s silent companion now one with his kind. He joins the efforts but is ignored much like Bill is, the dogs running circles around them unrestrained and then –

A gunshot rings out through the air.

On instinct, he ducks down and is surprised when Fraser only steps in front of him unconcerned for his own safety. The other’s eyes are trained on the distant sands, staring out into the desert. Then, the dogs fall silent. As if they were never there in the first place, the dogs disperse, leaving behind Withers who is once again silent and obedient.

“Who-” He swallows heavily, eyes jumping to Mayne’s tent. Out of all the men, the biggest risk is always going to be Mayne – an image that the man himself had helped form in Augustin’s head.

“You should rest, Augustin.” Fraser’s voice is gentle but firm – as worried as he is warning him of something.

“If only it were that simple, my friend.”

But he obeys the unsaid command. He returns to his tent, settling onto his cot and counts back from a hundred until he falls asleep.

Cooper and Sadler make it back, Colonel David Stirling is captured at Gabes Gap.

Augustin watches Seekings delivers the news to the silent Captain.

Overall command of SAS regiment, all units to pass to Major Robert Blair Paddy Mayne.

“The mad bastards have put you in charge of fucking everything.” Seekings’ frown only deepens as Mayne beings to laugh.

As he is wont to do, Mayne walks off into the desert. Still chuckling, he walks past Sadler who is looking increasingly harried by the whole ordeal.

Seekings and Riley exchange bewildered stares, accompanied by a shrug from Pat and Fraser sticks to his side as if he is worried that Augustin will try to follow after Mayne. Bill tenses right before Mayne starts shooting the air, predictable in his strange ways enough that Augustin is not concerned about this show of force.

“This is bad for us?” He questions and Fraser shrugs.

“Maybe.” The other runs a hand over his face, scratching at his chin. “Only time will tell.”

Augustin is afraid, then, that they are running out of such commodities.

Chapter Text

Stirling’s capture marks a new era for the SAS regiment. An era of relative peace and quiet, an era of – of going absolutely stir-crazy in the desert.

The first few days nobody is sure how to act. Augustin observes as the others walk around almost directionless, waiting for the next order. But no new orders come and so they roam around Jalo, listless, drinking themselves stupid – or in the case of the newly appointed Major, disappearing into the desert aimlessly every once in a while.

“Where does he go?” He asks Fraser on one such occasion, curious beyond belief but unable to ask the man himself.

Fraser shrugs, hand scratching at Withers’ scruff. “Nowhere. Wherever his – legs take him. He likes to wander.”

Fraser’s lying to him. Shoulders hunched and eyes averted to the safety of his dog, Fraser is lying. And if he is not, then he isn’t telling him the whole truth. The knowledge of it settles heavy in his gut because this is something that’s occurred more than once. Far too often does he think that Mayne, in addition to Fraser and sometimes even Seekings, are keeping something from him. The men of the SAS are a tight unit, this is true, and Augustin, being an outsider, has no hope of being on the same level of trust as the rest of them but. But he thinks that he has proven himself as trustworthy at least to a certain degree by now. And yet things are still kept from him, answers and topics of conversation avoided.

Mayne appears on the horizon and Fraser relaxes next to him, knowing Augustin well enough to conclude he will not pursue this conversation when Major Mayne is nearby.

“Toujours pour la première fois/C’est à peine si je te connais de vue/Tu rentres à telle heure de la nuit dans une maison oblique à ma fenêtre/Maison tout imaginaire.” He mutters, letting it go for now.

He had thought, perhaps again naively, that he has gotten somewhere with Mayne. That they are at least friends at this point, a step above just comrades. But he remains rebuked at every turn, every gesture accept with either scorn or denied outright. And it would – it would all be well and good were it not for Mayne himself, the confusing bastard that he is. Because every time Augustin makes peace with it, with how Mayne refuses his company and his words, Mayne is the one to come seeking him out. 

And this should no longer surprise him. It has been this way from the very start almost. It has been obvious to him from that first day in Cairo. But Agustin, as Mayne has called him out on it, is a romantic at heart. That is, of course, not to say that he-

Eventually, whatever is wrong with Mayne becomes less important.

The war efforts of the British and the Americans liberate Africa from the Germans and the Italians, pushing them out in an effort that takes more men than they were willing to spare. They do all of this and more without the help of the SAS and so the SAS stays, and waits, and begins infighting over the stupidest things because there is naught else to do. The nature of the war changes, it moves to Europe and so the SAS gets – forgotten.

The news of their transfer comes unexpectedly, a man on the back of a jeep dropping the notice off into Cooper’s willing hands before leaving.

“What’s this?” He asks and Zirnheld shrugs, offering him a hand up as Mayne intercepts Johnny.

The Major scans through the letter, a heavy frown on his face that transforms into a mighty sneer the further he reads.

“Gather ‘round you lousy cunts!” The man calls, voice bellowing, making the men scramble to attention.

“It appears as though, with the war in Africa over, we have been given special privileges.” The tone of his voice is deadpan, sarcastic. Whatever is on that piece of paper, is not the mission they were waiting for.

“GHQ has decided that we have had enough time roasting under the desert sun and that we deserve to see water. Or perhaps they think us filthy, in need of a bath.” The joke falls mostly flat, the men confused, and Augustin thinks it wasn’t truly meant as one anyway.

“We are being moved.” Mayne bares his teeth, “We are to abandon our little piece of purgatory out here and drive all the way to the port of Suez.”

“Why?” Fraser grunts, shushing some of the men as they grow impatient.

“They took-” The Major pauses, taking a deep breath. “The human dress is forged iron,/The human form a fiery forge,/The human face a furnace sealed,/The human heart its hungry gorge.”

With a sigh, he steps closer. “Paddy.” While he might appreciate the sentiment, the invocation of the one of the first poems he’d heard from Mayne, the men do not share in their tastes. They will not know the meaning, Mayne cannot hide behind Blake’s words now.

“War in Africa is over.” Mayne repeats, crumpling the paper in his hands. “The deployment we have been waiting for will not come. Not soon anyway. So we will do as they say, and be prepared for when they need us again.”

The loaded silence after the Major’s speech lingers and the man clicks his tongue when the soldiers fail to react.

“Fuckin’ – dismissed!”

He hears Seekings mutter a burdened Christ as he walks past Augustin and Zirnheld shoots him a pointed glance when he refuses to leave with the rest of the men.

“The fuck are you still here for?” The other grumbles, turning around but not walking away from him this time. So he comes to stand next to Mayne, giving him a moment’s reprieve before saying anything.

“You are not happy with this.”

Mayne snorts, shaking his head. “What gave you that idea, Lieutenant?”

“Paddy-”

“Aye, aye.” The man snaps, glaring up at him. “Paddy fuckin’ Mayne, that’s who I fucking am. And who are you, Jordan? And why are you still here? You should cut yer losses, leave now and do summat fuckin’ useful somewhere else.”

The words sting and they are meant to, making him falter and rethink what he was going to say. There is obviously no getting through to the man with gentle words so he will have to shake whatever’s bothering him loose. He’s not attempted it before, Mayne proving too dogged and elusive to catch out, but he is willing to try. He doubts that, at this point, he can do anything more to further the man’s annoyance with him.

“Respectfully, Major, I think you should get off your high horse.” He bites back, using his height to force the other to stare up at him.

“Excuse me?” The other’s expression turns bewildered.

“No matter what you think, this isn’t some personal slight against you. This is not another leash or another cage they are trying to force you into.” Braver than he probably should be, he taps the middle of the other’s chest with his finger. “You are possibly the last thing on their minds. The war has moved, we have known this for days, no? And what are we to do out here when there is no Germans to shoot at? Are we to tear each other apart instead?”

The Major’s eyes widen a fraction before returning to their customary accusing squint. “That is not the fuckin’ problem-”

“Then tell me what is!” He throws his hands into the air, exasperated with the other’s reticence. “What is so important in that cursed fucking desert that you cannot part from it?!”

The other’s face grows expressionless and Augustin knows that he has said the wrong thing.

“Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,/Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,/Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,/And towards our distant rest began to trudge.” The deadpan delivery does the poem no justice, it is said as fact, as a recollection of his own rather that of the original poet.

He blinks, cowed and ready to reel his boldness in if it would only make Mayne stop staring at him with those dead eyes.

“Dulcet et decorum est, pro patria mori.” The other near-hisses the words at him, finally stomping away, leaving Augustin to metaphorically grasp at air.

“Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. It is so easy to misstep when you cannot hear the music, it is so easy to tumble when you cannot see the pitfalls. And Mayne simply refuses to let him hear or see, leaving him stumbling blind in the dark.

Is it worth it? Zirnheld had asked him once when they’d both gotten drunk and Agustin had become loose-lipped and angry with yet another dismissal from Mayne.

He had said yes then, had admitted to the rush of matching Mayne word for word, poem for poem. Of meeting on equal grounds with someone so unpredictable and tightly coiled. Zirnheld had, of course, called him an idiot seeking danger and Augustin had not denied the accusation.

But right now, as he stands in the aftermath of another fumbled attempt, he is not so sure.

He clears his throat and begins the shameful walk back to his tent. It’s for the best, he tries telling himself as he has many times before. But much like all those times, it does not work and being rebuked still hurts more than it should.

“Don’t take it personally.” Fraser grimaces as if he’s heard the whole thing. He might have, they were not exactly quiet about their spat so Augustin would not be surprised.

“I am sure you know that’s a feat of great difficulty.” He accepts the proffered drink.

“He does have a talent for it.” Bill confirms with a thin smile. “He’ll come around.”

With a doubtful scoff, he waves the other off. “I am not entirely sure I want him to.”

“I think he’s, ah, confused?” Fraser wavers, looking around as to confirm Mayne is nowhere near. “About why you’re – trying.”

“Trying to what?”

And though the other had come to him first, had breached the topic of his own volition, Fraser looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than talking to Augustin at the moment. It is, regrettably, amusing and somewhat of a balm to his aching chest.

“To talk to him, trying to be his friend. Especially since he’s a massive shit to most people, you included.” The younger motions in the general direction of the camp. “Stirling was the only one that could stomach him for long. Well, Stirling and-”

Abruptly, Fraser’s mouth slams shut, eyes growing wide and Agustin’s mind zeroes in on the unfinished sentence.

“Stirling and who?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Fraser tries but he’s not letting this one go, this is too important.

“Bill.” He warns and the other just shakes his head frantically, lips pressed firmly together and turning white from the pressure.

“No, that’s not something you’re getting from me.” The man declares decisively, features set in a determined expression. “Just… leave it be. For all our sakes.”

Fraser shuffles away, looking cowed and Augustin’s frustration mounts. The revelation, the acknowledgement that there had been another soul that Mayne had been close to, helps Augustin complete parts of the picture in his mind. The piano, the desert, the omission of a name. Mayne’s grief. Incomplete as it is, the picture finally makes sense.

He pours out the rest of the beer he’d been given and picks up a book. They will hardly begin moving this late in the day so he might as well occupy himself with something else.

It does not help distract him from the Mayne issue but with the novel in hand, he can at least pretend.

The SAS gets moved to the eight army forward station: Port of Suez, they are renamed the Special Raiding Squadron and ordered to train.

And so they do.

Mayne develops a tight training schedule for them immediately upon surveying the lands. They do drills in boats, they climb unsteady rock faces and trudge through bodies of water in full military gear. It is as if the Major is making up for the days they’d spent motionless, waiting for orders. The training is, in short, brutal but efficient. 

After so much time spent in the desert, it is strange to see water in such abundance, strange to see grass as sparse as it is. It almost seems unreal and it makes Augustin miss the days when he’d be able to find a park and the shade of a tree to spend his afternoon in. He misses home, he misses his job. He was never meant to be a soldier and yet here he is, aching all over and still wet from their earlier bout of wrestling in shallow waters.

Mayne is hovering above him, casting a shadow onto his back, not helping with Augustin’s dampness problem. He refuses to turn.

It has been exactly fifteen days since they had left Jalo, seventeen since Augustin had decided that he should take better care of his own sanity by cutting back on his contact with the Major. In this time, he has remained professional, a model Lieutenant, but he has made no efforts in befriending the man further, taking care never to be alone with him. He had begun talking with Zirnheld, Fraser and even Seekings more often, exchanging stories about home, about where they’d been and what they’d seen. Even if Fraser and Reg do not share his love for poetry and philosophy, those two things are not the entirety of his interests.

This change in attitude has then, naturally, lead to Mayne hovering.

Like a prickly cat or a neglected dog, Mayne has taken to being in Augustin’s general vicinity while never directly interacting with him. Like a scorned pet, the Major does not seem to know what he wants. Or how to ask for it.

A man who has forgotten how to need, he’d told Mayne once, at the very beginning. Perhaps this goes for wanting as well. He supposes that these are the consequences of being denied things for so often and so long – though, maybe Augustin is now ascribing his own attributed to the Major instead of seeing the situation for what it is. Bergé would call it wishful thinking, he’s sure.

Mayne clears his throat. “You appear to have been injured, Lieutenant.”

He winces, reaching over his shoulder to pat the general are where he’d felt a sharp sting earlier. His hand comes away red at the fingertips. The tussling had been rougher than usual, the ground he’d been slammed against rocky.

“I’ll visit medical later.”

“You should go now.” The man insists and Augustin rolls his eyes. Perhaps it is petulant of him to be this contrary on purpose, maybe he is being childish, but he is no more so than Mayne with his bouts of anger and his tantrums.

“The training is not over for the day, I will get it seen to before dinner.” He insists, looking briefly at the Major. He doesn’t let himself linger, turning back to look at how Fraser is tossing Cooper around in the water effortlessly while the younger of the two seems to be fighting for his life.

“Lieutenant-”

“Leave it be, Paddy. It’s just a scrape.” Reg’s voice cuts the Major off. The other comes to crouch next to him, holding out his canteen. Augustin takes it gratefully with a hum, breathing steady as he drinks.

Something akin to a groan rumbles from Mayne’s chest, startling him and causing Seekings to jolt up. The sound is mean, rough and it’s almost as if it reverberates. Ahead of them, Fraser has also stopped, staring in their direction as Cooper gathers his bearings.

But, instead of saying anything further, Mayne turns on his heel and walks away. The tension leaves with the Major, Fraser continues trying to drown Cooper and Reg sits down next to him, putting out heat rivaling the midday sun.

After the training for the day is over and after they’d had their dinner, he collapses into his cot. Most of the men had stayed in the mess hall, drinking and singing but some are in the tent, already asleep. Augustin plans on being one of them as well but as soon as he closes his eyes, a warm palm to the middle of his bare back startles him so badly he almost rolls off the cot.

The hand presses on him, keeping him down and on the bed as if it is the easiest thing to do and he relaxes.

“Bad for business.” Mayne grumbles, voice low in the quiet night. “You could catch an infection and then what?”

“Then I die.” He snorts, hissing as Mayne presses a gauze doused in alcohol to the scrapes along his shoulder blade.

“Recklessness in pursuit of nothing will not be tolerated.” The man cleans the wound gently, taking care to wipe away the excess blood.

Augustin looks at his own forearm, at the thin raised scar there, and remembers how Mayne had done this for him once already. He’d been too tired to properly appreciate it at the time and now, it only puzzles him. It is not as if Augustin will succumb to a little scrape so he does not know why it’s so pressing a matter for the Major to be looking into.

It was different, when Mayne was Captain, it was easier and made more sense for Augustin to seek his company. But now the man has so many more pressing matters to attend to, more responsibilities to oversee and – he knows Mayne hates it. He has to. He’d barely tolerated Stirling’s command on a good day and now he’s forced to answer to GHQ themselves. He muses on this as Mayne lathers the cuts in some cream that stings as much as the alcohol had.

“I would like to rest, Major.” With an undignified whine, he forces his eyes closed. The day has exhausted him and Mayne’s baffling presence is not helping the matter.

“I am afraid that there will be no rest for us. Not until this war is over.” The man’s hand leaves him and he feels both better and worse for it.

Unbidden, Voltaire’s Candide comes to him: ‘You're a bitter man,’ said Candide. ‘That's because I've lived,’ said Martin.

“Work keeps at bay three great evils: boredom, vice, and need.” He quotes easily. “Is this why you always insist on never letting anything rest, on always doing?”

The man scoffs, some great frown probably on his face that Augustin does not turn to observe. “I have no time for boredom, I have no habits I consider vices and I want or need for nothing."

“We have talked about this already.” He smirks into the crook of his elbow. “Or do forget easily, Major?”

“Aye, I remember you and your philosophizing and social critique of me and mine.”

“It was merely an observation, Paddy, calm.” He turns to his side and away from the other, determined to end this conversation even though the man seems to be intent on sitting by his bedside.

“You-” The other’s voice rises for a moment before he seems to catch himself. The sound of the other shuffling behind him uneasily reaches Augustin’s ears. “Rest well, Lieutenant.”

Something akin to disappointment washes over him, a reflex developed and not yet overcome in the short time since he’d met the man. Whatever the Major had been about to say is lost to the wind, unspoken and put down before it could even form properly. He wonders how many times Paddy had stopped himself from speaking to him, from shaping words when he so easily can with everyone else. He wonders why.

Secret griefs are more cruel than public calamities, Voltaire had written in Candide and Augustin cannot help but agree. Mayne has many secret griefs and they seem to be so cruel that the man cannot shake off the burden they put on him. And this – this Augustin cannot help. This is not a process that friendship can speed along, not something he can influence by word alone. He has… made his peace with this. Or at least he thought that he had.

This oppressive feeling in his chest, so in contrition to how warm talking with Mayne usually left him, speaks to another reality. One where, unfortunately, he is infatuated. Eventually, he does fall asleep. And when he dreams of changeable eyes and sun-bathed skin, he does his best not to think about it in the morning.

They get new recruits. None of them are prepared for what awaits and none of them know what the SAS men had gone through in the desert. The tension between the two groups is palpable.

Though relatively new himself, Augustin had done his share to earn his place with the men – as have Zirnheld and the others. But these recent recruits are pushing their boundaries quite suddenly.

Currently, Corporal McDiarmid had managed to irritate Seekings by merely breathing next to him and they appear to be wrestling quite viciously, interrupting training. The rest are gathered around, cheering and placing bets it seems.

“What did he even say?” He huffs, not willing to put himself between the two brawny men in order to stop them.

“Something about Reg’s mother, I think.” Fraser swipes a hand over his face, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the display.

“That will do it, yes.” Turning around, he tries to spot the Major but if he were present, he most likely wouldn’t have let the two go at it for as long as this. “Have you seen Major Mayne?”

“Major Mayne, is it?” Fraser’s frown eases, replaced by a sly smirk that Augustin dislikes on principle as rare as it is.

“Silence.” He hisses, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Paddy, he’d said last night, drunk and melancholic with all that has happened and has not happened. He’d found Fraser on top of one of the cliffs they usually train by and had held the other soldier hostage until he’d grown too tired to speak. It was bound to happen at one point so he is somewhat grateful that it was Fraser instead of Zirnheld listening to him complain this time around. Somehow, Fraser’s deadpan and stoic silence was easier to bear than André’s pointed stares. Though, Fraser seems to have no love for the Major himself which confuses Augustin to a point – as much as it also makes sense.

This regiment is one contradiction after another.

“You’re ridiculous.” Fraser nudges him with his shoulder.

One moment gone and the next right in front of them, Mayne appears, descending upon the two men like a fury. Gripping them by the backs of their necks, he forces the two apart, holding them back with impressive strength as they try to resume their fight. He’s saying something, the grimace on his face fierce but the scene is too far away for Augustin to hear anything. The two larger men falter, cowering, and split apart, each breathing heavily, still obviously incensed.

He must release some sort of impressed noise from within his chest because Fraser scoffs, shaking his head in Augustin’s periphery.

“Useless posturing.”

The tension doesn’t lessen but the men get back to training and so Augustin gets back to training as well.

The divide persists through dinner and the next several days, no one doing anything to try and unify the men which sits poorly with him but – this is a mess of Mayne’s own creation and therefore he is not one to interfere.

Hand over the bottom half of his face, he watches the men bicker, shouting obscenities at one another rather than working together on the training exercise designed to promote just that. Across the area, the Major is standing much the same, at a loss. Though, Augustin wonders if the man cares at all as long as the goal gets achieved.

“This is worse than when we joined.” Zirnheld notes, sunglasses pushed into his hair in order to see better.

“When we joined, we had something to do. These men are aimless with no end in sight.” He sighs, exasperated. There will be no end to this until they receive further orders and, by the looks of things, that won’t be any time soon.

Later, when the sun’s set and Augustin is again unable to sleep, wandering the station area, he comes across Mayne.

He contemplates turning around and leaving but the Major’s voice stops him before he can take another step in any direction.

“Are we now strangers, Monsieur Jordan, that you should turn away at the mere sight of me?”

Embarrassment wars with self-preservation within him. If he stays, he will inevitably fall to his own naiveté and be disappointed again, but if he leaves, then there is a possibility of never again being on friendly terms with Mayne.

He sits down next to the Major, overlooking the port of Suez. Foisted upon his own sword.

“It did not look like you wanted to be disturbed.”

“We thought we ranked above the chance of ill./Others might fall, not we, for we were wise-/Merchants in freedom. So, of our free-will/We let our servants drug our strength with lies.” The man’s voice rings out through the empty are and across water. “Much like the loyal people of Ulster, we have been lulled into a false sense of security.”

“You do not seem very secure.”

“Aye, this is because I know better for I am an Ulsterman that came after.” Mayne looks over at him, a surprisingly placid expression on his face.

Augustin must admit that he does not know much about the struggle of Irishmen. Most of his schooling had been focused on his home country, on philosophy and literature. And what he knew of world history was now mostly forgotten, remembered only in bits and pieces.

“There will be trouble?” The ominous warning in Mayne’s words is obvious and much like with other things of this nature, the man tends to be right.

“Most certainly.” The other confirms, “It is the nature of it that remains undetermined.”

“And are we prepared?” The moon is bright in the sky, its reflection wavering in the water ahead. Augustin wonders how ill-advised it would be to slide down the bank and into it.

“Prepared or not, we will do what needs to be done.” Mayne’s response is typical if labored, the hunch to his shoulders a despondent one.

Like Augustin himself is pulling all of his teeth out, Mayne continues. “When we last spoke, before our relocation, it appears that I – ah.”

Oh? What’s this? He perks up, eyes widening when he realizes that the other is trying to actually talk to him about the lack of – of each other in each other’s company.

“It appears that you offended me?” He offers when Mayne’s words fail him.

“Yes.” Succinct as always.

“No.” The denial is easy because it is true. “No, you did not offend me, Major.”

How does he explain it? How does he elaborate without showing his hand? He cannot tell Mayne that he’d retreated in order to save his own feelings, in order to preserve what little peace can be found in the middle of war. Cannot admit to the feelings being anything other than friendship, in the first place. That the rush of being acknowledged by man makes him feel juvenile, that the joy he finds in their exchanges is enough to fuel him through the droll boredom of their repetitive days. Nor can he admit to wanting to be closer, wishing for the man to talk to him about things of a more private nature, of his life and the ones he’s lost. The position he’s found himself in is precarious.

The other turns to him, brows furrowed. “Then – what?”

There is no telling the truth further so he lies instead.

“Socializing with a Lieutenant does not befit a man of your station, Major.” His smile is weak, the dishonestly fairly obvious – especially to someone as perceptive as Mayne.

The man tutts loudly, fists clenched in his lap. “Were I to care about propriety, were this regiment to care about propriety, we would have gotten nothing done.”

“Do not tell me you have missed our talks.” He pivots, drawing attention away from the actual lie and into territory that focuses on anything other than him.

“And if I have?” Mayne challenges, no regret to be seen in the firm stare he’s affixed Augustin with. “Who else am I to talk to? Fraser would rather avoid me, Jim lasts three seconds before trying to psychoanalyze me and Reg cannot string two intelligent sentences together, the barmy fucker.”

“This less than generous depiction of our comrades might be the reason why.” He points out and Mayne waves a careless hand through the air as if swatting at mosquitoes.

“The point stands.”

Traitorously, his brain does the opposite of the heart beating in his chest and latches onto the part where he is, apparently, Mayne’s only option and not the one he’d necessarily choose. Despite this seemingly being the case, the man has admitted to missing their exchanges which lights that unfortunate fire within him. He doesn’t know what to do with this, how to respond. Once again, whatever he says, he will doom himself with.

He takes a page out of Mayne’s book and recites instead.

“Et qui sait si les fleurs nouvelles que je rêve/Trouveront dans ce sol lavé comme une grève/Le mystique aliment qui ferait leur vigueur?//” It is not the first time he’s reminded of the poem and originally, he’d thought his heart the ruined garden ravaged by storm. It stands, then, that the rest of it rings true as well. That his biggest enemy is time and the lack of it, that he will be his own downfall. While not necessarily in the habit of self-loathing, he can appreciate what Baudelaire was conveying.

“— Ô douleur! ô douleur! Le Temps mange la vie,/Et l'obscur Ennemi qui nous ronge le Coeur/Du sang que nous perdons croît et se fortifie!//” He finishes with a sigh, letting himself lean back far enough until he is flat with the ground.

Mayne’s mouth quirks under his mustache. “That sounded almost optimistic.”

“Will you ever tell me how much French you actually know?” Volleying words against the other is easy – far easier than answering the man honestly and he supposes that this is why Mayne always does it as well. There is too much vulnerability in what they are asking of each other and while Augustin might have been willing to allow for it at one point, he is no longer sure.

“Perhaps if you continue citing poetry in your tongue at me and I continue to listen, you will eventually be able to discern the truth.”

And isn’t that the crux of the problem? Augustin will always be left to and unearth what is true on his own, given only crumbs to follow.

He closes his eyes before heaving himself up off the ground. He barely makes it a step before warm fingers wrap around his bare forearm, pressing into the scar there. Sucking in a startled breath, he pauses, turning to look at Mayne. At the man who has his mouth parted, eyes glistening and look of remorse on his face.

“I do not understand you.” Mayne tells him flat out, perhaps the first truly honest thing he’d said. “Stirling thought us similar, cut from the same cloth, but the reality of it is far different.”

“To understand me, Paddy, you have to talk to me.” The emphasis on talk doesn’t go over the other’s head.

“I am – trying.”

“Are you?” He pulls away slowly, shuffling and putting some distance between them. “You talk and expect to be listened to but you only speak the words of others. As you do not understand me, I do not understand you. And perhaps that is where this friendship should remain.” As much as it pains him, laying it out in the open is much healthier than beating himself up over things left unsaid.

“I was not built for idle chatter.” The man persists and Augustin rolls his eyes.

“You are not a weapon to have been assembled nor are you a tank built in a factory.” With some amount of exasperation and a great deal of exhaustion, he fits his palm on the other’s chest, over his heart. “No matter what they had made you think, while you have this, you have your humanity.”

Somewhat embarrassed but feeling like he’d said the right thing for once, he walks away. Does not allow himself to hover and wait for Mayne’s reply. There will be time for that, he hopes, for the man to come to him without the attitude of a stray cat. But until then, he is now cautiously optimistic.

All human wisdom is contained in these two words – ‘Wait’ and ‘Hope’.

The forward station has other perks aside from the abundance of water. They no longer have to make their own food, privileged enough to have access to catering. Their tents are bigger, resembling barracks rather than slapdash shelters, the booze is better and easily available and – the mail. Letters come to them easier now that they are near civilization again.

He’d gotten one from some distant cousin of his, deployed with the English forces on account of living in Brighton. Through some less than legitimate channels he’d managed to contact Augustin’s sister so he is pleased to read that she’s made it out of occupied France safely but is saddened that she cannot write him directly. The letter is heavily censored, or course, but it is enough. He is not the only one with mail, naturally.

Cooper seems to be beaming at his own letter and Reg has sequestered himself somewhere, evading the younger’s prying eyes, reading his in private. Fraser’s customary flat expression is in place and the rest of the men have either already read theirs or are prolonging the wait by the looks of it. Morale is, overall, high for a change and nobody seems to mind the break from training.

Fraser jolts up where he’d been sitting, appearing alarmed all of a sudden. Augustin observes as his head swivels, frantically looking around for something. When he does not find what he’d been searching for, he heads in the direction of the commanding officers’ barracks, practically rushing. From across the area, Reg is heading the same way and Augustin spies Riley intercepting Jock before he can do so as well.

His gut clenches, the fear that whatever Fraser had read in his letter has something to do with Paddy. That he’d gotten news from England, that something terrible has happened. He stands, frozen for a few moments before both Fraser and Seekings emerge from around the corner, looking cowed, Reg sporting a split lip and Bill clutching at his own wrist, rotating his hand.

He – he doesn’t dare. Knowing Mayne’s temper and seeing what are, most likely, signs of a scuffle between the Major and the other two who’d rushed to his side, he is sure to earn himself something similar if he were to try and talk to the man now.

So he waits.

Lunch passes with no signs of Mayne and so does dinner. Only when his patience runs out does Augustin venture to seek the man out. He procures some bread and cheese from catering, privileged enough to be one of the few that they actually like, and heads for the shore. Mayne will most likely be there alone, will probably still not want to see him, but he has to try.

Mayne’s sitting where Augustin had stumbled upon him the other night. He’s clad in his singlet and has one hand wrapped around a bottle, the other buried in his hair. The picture he makes is as sad as it is threatening.

“This is not a good time, Jordan.”

“I thought you agreed to talk to me?” He sits down next to the Major again, closer than he should perhaps but it is a necessity.

Prying the bottle from the man’s hand, he replaces it instead with the bread roll, holding out the cheese after. “You did not eat today.”

When Mayne turns to face him, Augustin almost drops the food and drink he’s holding with how badly he startles.

“Ah,” The sharp intake of breath he takes in is entirely too loud in the night, too incriminating.

Mayne is – Mayne is bare-faced, clean shaven for the first time since Augustin has known him. He is suddenly aware of just how handsome the man really is, forced to acknowledge that his infatuation with the Major is not purely intellectual but quite physical as well. The eyes that peer up at him are red-rimmed even in the dark and his mouth is pouted as if he’s stopping himself from cursing Augustin out. And Augustin cannot stop staring, eyes greedily taking in every detail, every line and freckle. He looks younger, looks less the madman and more the poet.

“No, I did not have much of an appetite.” The man confirms but takes the offerings regardless.

“Something’s happened.” It’s an observation, it’s a fact and Mayne nods.

“I received word from home.” The other inhales deeply, holding the air in his lungs for a few moments before releasing it slowly. “I received word that my da’ has passed away.”

“Paddy.” His hand shoots out, fingers encircling the other’s wrist and Mayne looks down at the point of contact. Neither moves, neither says a thing and Augustin’s heart jumps to his throat. This is not what he'd expected the news to be.

“Je vous adresse mes sincères condoléances.”

The man nods, using the back of his other hand to wipe under his eye for a moment. “I am going into Cairo, I will be asking for compassionate leave to attend his funeral.”

The new look makes sense then; he can hardly show up in front of GHQ looking like he did in the desert.  

With a hum, he releases the man, wishing that he could say something, anything, to make it better but he cannot because there is no helping it. This is something that Paddy has to go through and Augustin can only sit and listen if he is willing to talk or leave him be if he so wishes.   

And since the Major does not tell him to go, he sits by Mayne’s side as the man eats in silence; sits with him as Hati chases the Moon across the sky and Sköll replaces him, chasing the Sun.

Major Mayne leaves in the morning and does not return for three days.

The first day, he is not worried. It makes sense that it would take time, that Mayne would seek an audience in person and had then probably been directed to go through channels other than just showing up.

By dinnertime day two, both him and Fraser are somewhat jittery, unable to rest in one single spot for too long, taking turns observing the horizon. Zirnheld tries to ply him with drink, tries to distract him by reiterating the latest gossip he’d come across but it is useless.

By day three, he has begun chewing around the nail bed on his thumb, startled to find the iron tang of blood filling his mouth once he breaks skin fully.

It is sometime after lunchtime that Mayne finally shows up.

Augustin had sent the men off to train, leaving them with Fraser and Zirnheld only, cautiously staying behind in case anything has truly happened. But, instead of sitting around uselessly, he has decided that helping with the cooking is a much better use of his time – and, the tent is positioned in a way that allows him to see any incoming vehicles immediately without making it look as if he is actually waiting for anyone.

Mayne is heading his way already once Augustin finally spots him. The weight off his shoulders drops and the tight hold he’d had on the plate of soup relaxes. He steps outside to meet the Major but before he can even speak, Mayne’s eyes dart from his face down to the plate in his hands and the man stops. The other stares at Augustin who’s also, in reaction, halted his movement.

He watches, perplexed, as Mayne turns on his heel and begins walking away instead.

“Shit-” He drops the plate back onto one of the tables, wiping his hands on his shirt as he hurries after the Major.

“Paddy! Wait-”

He manages a grip on the man’s arm but is quickly shrugged off, the other turning to sneer up at him.

“You are the second man that has tried to handle me today.” Voice rougher than gravel and a visible redness around his right eye, Mayne practically barks the warning at him.

“What?” He falters, easing back.

“I would suggest you not test my patience while I still have any left.”

“You – they denied you leave.” There is no other reason why the man would be here, acting like this. The conclusion is logical and yet Mayne looks somewhat startled. “I am sorry, Paddy.”

The other closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, running a hand over his dusty face. “Yes. Yes they denied me. And then I acted in accordance to this decision and then they carted me off to Ghadzi.”

“But… you were let go?”

Mayne’s nose wrinkles, distaste clear in his expression. “When the men are back for dinner, inform them that there will be a briefing tomorrow at midday.”

“Do we finally know the nature of our trouble?” He is not hopeful, no, he would much rather they stay here and be bore than go out again just to die but – but he is glad that change is coming.

Mayne’s mouth ticks up at the corner – and it is incredible seeing it now, unobstructed, as it transforms into a roguish grin. “Aye, that we do.”

When Augustin is alone later, he will fear for how ominous the sound of those words is, but for now, he can only look his fill as Mayne walks away from him, shoulders set and fists clenched at this side.

Certainly, they have finally gotten their orders.