Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There's a kind of heat in Cairo that feels personal. Like it's been watching you. Like it knows exactly which crack in your resolve to seep through.

This wasn’t that kind of heat.

It was mild, actually. A breeze. The kind of weather you lie about later to make the war sound worse than it was. If someone asked you what day it was, you wouldn’t have had the faintest clue. Tuesday? Thursday? Armistice Day? Didn’t matter.

So instead, you’d found a table tucked against a wall just off Ezbekiah Gardens, one of those chipped, rusting cafe setups where the tea comes pre-stale and every chair lists sideways like it’s halfway through giving up. Whitewashed walls. Fading green shutters. It wasn’t the first time you went there, but it had been months ago, back when the war still felt like a temporary thing.

Your cup was full. Mint tea. Hadn't touched it. Couldn't bear to.

It had been — what? — a week since you dodged death? Give or take a day. After a while the close calls stop coming with drum rolls. They just tap you on the shoulder, nod, and fuck off.

You were in the city on half-permission, which meant no one had told you not to be here. Technically still ATS. Bit of sabotage work. Bit of driving. Bit of showing up places you weren't invited.

You were staring down your tea like it owed you money when he walked up.

“You don’t look like you just saved a convoy from the scrap heap.” His voice arrived before he did.

You looked up slowly, not startled. Just aware. He didn’t say his name right away. Just stood there like a middle-manager who’d taken a wrong turn and accidentally found himself at war.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the empty chair.

He looked too neat for the desert. All legs and stillness. Hair combed. Uniform crisp. Dressed plainly in a khaki uniform. Nothing about him seemed unintentional. The cut was too clean, the buttons too quiet. The sort of man who’d call it ’kit’ and mean it. His shoes weren’t scuffed, which should’ve made you suspicious on its own.

He didn’t wait for your response, he just sat. “Stirling,” he said like it explained something. “David.” Not a handshake. Just a name dropped like a match.

You stood. Saluted. Out of habit. Out of training. “Sir.”

He weaved the title off. “Sit, I’m not here for ceremony.” Then he said, “you were the one who planted the charge outside Matrouh, under the fuel tanker. Four Germans, one officer. No civilian damage.”

“Yes sir.” You kept your hands folded on your lap.

He looked at you properly then. “You’re with the ATS,” he said. “Driver. Mechanic. Sabotage work, unofficial. Fluent in three languages. I’ve read your file. What little there is.”

You didn't correct him. But of course you didn't trust him. Cairo's full of men who offer new jobs over old drinks. But something about the way he said it told you this wasn't that kind of pitch.

“You’ve gone in alone more than once. Never asked for credit.” He looked at you again, this time directly. “Why?”

You paused. You weren't sure if you wanted to let him in. “Because it needed doing,” you said. “And because I knew how.”

He studied you, curious. Like he was confirming something he already suspected. “I’ve been looking for people like you,” he said. “Ones who aren’t waiting for someone to give them orders. Ones who act because they believe something needs to be done.”

He didn’t look like a romantic. That made it easier to believe him. Then he laid down the facts.

“I’m building a unit. Volunteers. Unofficial. Unapologetic.” He took a breath, slow and measured. His eyes stayed on yours. “No ranks, no pomp. Just the job. The hard ones. The ones that matter. You’d be working with men who don’t care where you come from. Only whether you pull your weight, and I think you do.”

You didn't know what to say to that, so you said nothing. But you shifted in your seat.

He went quiet again. “You won’t be listed,” he added, softer now. “No records. No promotion path. No parade when this is over. You’ll do what matters, but no one will say your name.”

It landed harder than you expected. Not because you wanted applause, but because you'd spent so long trying to prove you deserved to be in the room — and here he was, offering you a place on the condition that you vanish. A part of you wanted to ask why it had to be that way, but you already knew.

He didn't flinch or explain. He just let it sit there, bare, and ugly, and true.

“You don’t have to decide now,” he added, as if sensing the gears turning behind your silence. “I’ll be gone by morning.”

You didn't nod. Instead you looked at him fully now.

There was something about him, not charm, not warmth, but clarity. The kind of man who walked into a burning house not to rescue anyone, but to find the fuse, and cut it.

“Sir,” you said, quiet but even. “If I say yes, what do I become?”

He stood. Brushed something invisible from his sleeve. The cafe had emptied around us. “You become what you already are,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t wait.”

And then he left, leaving only the faint trace of tobacco behind.

You stayed there for a long while, finishing your cold tea. Still full and bitter. Not the worst offer you've ever had, or the strangest. But it was the first time you felt like someone had seen you not just for what you were — but for what you could wreck.

You almost missed him. 

He was already in the truck, engine low and humming. He stood like someone who had never really figured out what to do with his hands in public. He nodded when he saw you. 

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he said, almost to himself. 

“Neither did I.” you answered. 

That got the smallest flicker out of him. Approval, maybe. Or relief, carefully disguised. 

The truck pulled away from the city like it was exhaling. Dust snuck into every crevice of the truck. Buildings thinned out. Market stalls gave way to checkpoints. And soon the roads were less road than suggested, fading into sand and scrub. 

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on the gear stick. Neither of you said nothing for the first hour. You just studied him while he kept his eyes on the road. David Stirling looked like he came from money — but the kind that skipped the polish. Soft-spoken, sharp shoulders, and that particular way of sitting that told you he knew things, or at least thought he did. You expected more charm, less seriousness. 

The base looked like someone had assembled it from scratch and forgot to finish. Half tents, a blown-out truck carcass, shirts drying on engine parts. If testosterone had a smell, it was here — grease, sweat, tobacco, and dust cooked under sun. 

The truck slowed to a crawl as you rolled in. 

Men were moving about. Some were shirtless, some half-drunk, a few mid-argument. From the outside, it looked like chaos, but there was a rhythm to it underneath. A pulse that you just had to listen closely. 

And they noticed you. Of course they did. A woman doesn't walk into the middle of the desert camp and go unseen. 

Not all at once though, just in fragments. 

A pause in conversation. A glance that lingered a little too long, they way men look at something they can’t quite place. One soldier stopped cleaning  his rifle and watched openly, brows drawn. Another muttered something low and sharp under his breath. Christ, what’s this then ? And nudged his mate, who barked a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. 

A whistle cut through the air. Two notes, lazy and amused. You didn’t turn to see who’d done it. You knew the sound too well.

They weren't subtle, and you felt like a smudge on a glass. Instead you adjusted your pack, kept your shoulders square. This wasn't new. You'd been the outlier in every room you'd ever walked into; the wrong accent, the wrong face, the wrong body. But that didn't mean you liked it. 

Someone called out, “We recruiting secretaries now, sir?” 

A ripple of laughter. Stirling didn’t slow, just motioned for you to follow. 

“Ignore them,” he said. “They’ll come around, or they won’t.” 

You said nothing. It was easier to keep your jaw still than admit how much you wanted to leave. 

Behind you, someone said, "bet she can't even lift a kit bag." 

Your fingers curled tight around the strap of your pack, just for a second. 

You passed a long table shaded by a fraying canvas, where two men sat. One stood like a statue, arms behind his back. The other was seated on a crate, shirt half-unbuttoned, reading a letter while chewing something that wasn’t food. 

“Jock Lewes,” Stirling said, gesturing to the one who didn’t blink. “This is the other half of my brain.” 

The one with the map looked up first. He had that officer’s stillness, all spine and steel edges. His eyes flicked to you and stayed there a moment too long. Then offered a single nod. “Ma’am.” 

“And this,” Stirling said, turning toward the one still sitting, “is Paddy Mayne.” 

He looked up. Unshaven, sun-reddened skin, hair slicked back. His posture was pure defiance. There was something in his eyes, not sharp, not soft — just alive. The kind of alive that meant danger. His eyes landed on you properly, and stayed a beat too long. 

"This is the newest member of the team," Stirling said. "She'll be joining us." 

Lewes was already shifting back toward the map, but Mayne didn't move. Just held your gaze. 

“Didn’t know we were recruiting from the ATS,” he said, not unkind. Just curious. 

“You’ll find she doesn’t need much recruiting.” Stirling answered for you. 

Still, Mayne watched. Not like the others had. There was no suspicion in it. No doubt. 

You looked back, steady. 

You could see the faint bruise under his eyes, not recent, not explained. You could see the way his hand moved as he stubbed out a cigarette, how the fingers trembled just once before going still. 

And then just as quickly, he looked away. 

“She’s bunking in the medic’s tent,” Stirling said, as if it was already decided. “She’s not here for decoration. Treat her accordingly.” 

Neither of them argued. That told you everything you needed to know. 

Chapter Text

No one told you that the British elite's first method of training was to throw themselves out of moving trucks. But suppose that explained a lot. 

Parachute training started sometime after the briefing, where Stirling handed out blank sheets of paper. For effect. A theatrical touch to drive home what he already told you, and you assumed the rest of the team: that you were a newly formed unit with no structure, no rules, and no real idea what you were doing. You'd figure it out anyway. You'd jump behind enemy lines, blow things up, and vanish before the Germans knew you'd been there. "Simple, suicidal, necessary." 

So naturally, you didn't start with parachutes. You started with a truck. Steel frames and a canvas roof that smelled of old sweat and petrol. An old Bedford, scarred and wheezing, barrelling across an open patch of desert like it had something to prove. 

You were crammed in the back with ten other men, some of which had faces that you could start to name. All nerves and sunburn. Men who'd either become brothers or casualties. No way to know yet. 

The goal was simple: jump out while it’s still moving. Tuck, roll, survive. 

Lewes stood in the dust like a statue left too long in the sun, clipboard in hand, stopwatch slung on a lanyard. He wasn’t shouting, didn’t need to. His eyes flicked across the group like a tally. 

“This is your aircraft,” he said, voice sharp, precise. “And it’s not going to wait for you to feel ready. Jump or don’t. But if you don’t, you’re not coming back tomorrow.” 

There was nothing gentle about him. He didn’t shout to be cruel. He just didn’t know how to be soft. He tapped the side of the truck with the flat of his hand. 

“When I shout your name, you jump. If you break something, crawl. If you freeze, you’re out. And if you hesitate—” He glanced at the wheels, still turning. “Well, you’ll find out.” 

Mayne jumped first. 

He didn’t wait for a cue. Just spat out his cigarette, muttered something under his breath in Irish, and flung himself off the back like a sack of bricks. Sand exploded when he landed. He rolled, stood, and dusted himself off with all the grace of a hungover gorilla. 

“That all you’ve got, Jock?” he called back to Lewes, grinning. 

Lewes didn’t answer. Just waved the next one forward. 

Next was Eoin. Calm and deliberate. He caught the timing like he could see the math of it all, and landed calm. 

Fraser whooped. “Like ballet in boots, that one!” 

Seekings shoved him and yelled. “Oi, watch this!” Then leapt, arms wide like a drunk angel, and landed laughing. Almonds followed, less graceful, swearing the whole way down. 

Then it was you. 

You crouched near the tailgate. Watched the ground skim past like a broken film reel. It wasn't fear, not exactly. Just calculation. Precision mattered, always had. Especially when most of the men around you thought you'd shatter on impact. 

Behind you, someone muttered something. You couldn't catch the words but it sounded like 'lady legs' and you'd heard worse in prmary school. You didn't bother to turn. 

Mayne, now standing off to the side wiping sand from his shirt, squinted up at you. "She's got more brains than half of yous," he said it like an insult. It wasn't. 

Then you jumped. 

Felt the jolt in your knees, a rough skid in the sand, then you were up. No stumble, no fuss. You stepped off clean. 

Lewes didn't smile, but he clicked the stopwatch, looked down at it, then at you, then gave the briefest nod. 

You dusted off your sleeves and said nothing. One jump down, a few thousand more to go. 

After parachute training, you were told to wash, eat, and try not to bleed on the cots. You did none of those things. Instead you were hunched over the side of a generator, knuckles smeared in grase, sleeves shoved past your elbows. The thing was ancient. Coughed like a dying man. Your shoulder still ached from the landing. It'd go stiff by morning. 

A distance away, just within your eye view, Mayne and Cooper were already arguing. Mayne was shirtless, laughing as he threw Cooper's boots onto a tent roof. The sun had turned his shoulders copper, sweat glistening along the ridges of old scars. You caught yourself staring — at the way his ribs moved when he laughed, at the dark trail of hair leading south from his navel — and forced your gaze away. Too late. Fraser cleared his throat beside you, not looking up from his tin can of beans. 

“You keep staring at Paddy like he owes you an answer.” 

You twisted a wire in your hand tighter, so it wouldn't fall apart mid-transmission. "I wasn't staring." 

He whistled. “No, you were looking . There’s a difference.” Then he continued, “that’s the thing about Paddy, though. Everyone wants to solve him, until he bites. Then they back off.” 

“You’re projecting.” 

“Maybe,” he looked off toward where Mayne was locked in some terse argument with Cooper. Something about route timings or fuel loads, it was hard to tell. His accent had gone full north and his hands were flying. “Still, I’ve got decent instincts.” 

Mayne chose that moment to stretch, arms overhead, muscles pulling taut. Someone whistled. He grinned, shark-like, and turned — not towards the sound, but toward you .

Fraser snorted. “Real subtle.” 

Eoin passed behind him then, arms crossed, voice low enough to miss if you weren’t listening. “You act like the sun shines just for you.” 

“Doesn’t it?” Mayne shot back, grinning without turning around. 

Eventually, you managed to coax the generator with the care of someone raised among machines and men who never read manuals. You stood up and handed Fraser a wrench. Didn't say a word.

It clunked into his palm, heavier than expected. “Where’d you learn that?” 

“My father’s garage.” you muttered. 

That was the trick. Not explaining, not justifying, just working. Quietly making yourself harder to replace. They had watched you fix a radio that hadn't worked in weeks. Watched you climb into the hood of one of the trucks and talk it back to life. Watched you set up canvas shelters in a triangle that wouldn't collapse the moment the wind came. 

Didn't say thank you. Didn't need to. 

The next few mornings blurred into drills. Running, jumping, loading gear until your hands blistered and your muscles burned. Just repetition, until every movement was instinct. 

One morning it was map reading. Lewes tossed folded scraps at your feet and told you to unlearn everything you thought you knew. You were split into pairs. You got Eoin, who was quiet in a way that didn’t feel like silence. More like patience, waiting to be proven wrong. 

You mostly walked, adjusted, and barely talked much. At some point, he noted that you read land well, and you told him sandstorms teach you things. He nodded like that was answer enough. 

Eoin had a way of occupying silence without crowding it. He moved deliberately, spoke sparingly, and listened like a man who understood the weight of words left unsaid. You'd seen him dismantle a rifle blindfolded, navigate by the starlight, and go three days without complaint when the rations ran thin. He didn’t demand attention, but you gave it anyway. Because when Eoin McGonigal finally did speak, you knew it would be worth hearing.

That stillness cracked open around Mayne — not much, just enough. They had the easy rhythm of men who’d known each other since one of them still had milk teeth. They moved like two points on the same axis. Mayne with all the restless energy, Eoin the steady counterweight. You could see it in the way Eoin’s quietness settled him, like an anchor holding fast against a storm. 

There was something familiar in it, the way you both preferred silence to chatter, observation to participation. Still, it was hard not to envy that kind of understanding. The only man who could walk beside Mayne without getting burned. 

After a few hours, you found the marker with time to spare. Lewes checked your names off. Beans or biscuits. Eoin took the tin. You took the hardtrack. 

As you turned back, Eoin flicked the compass open and held it out. "Next time," he said, "you lead." 

You took it. Your fingers didn't brush. 

“You’ll last, because you don’t need anyone to say it.” 

“Say what?” 

“That you belong here.” 

You were halfway through a training run. Boots chewing the sand, rifles straped wrong, sweat burning in every crease of skin. Half the lads were moaning already, and the other half were pretending not to. 

Lewes sent the group out again. He lined you up at dawn. Said something about grit and heat-strong being good for character. His eyes burnt like matches. 

“Today, we make things go boom. Small boom. Controlled. If anyone fucks that up,” he paused, looked straight at Seekings. “I will personally dig you into the sand and use your corpse as a decoy.” 

Seekings saluted. “Understood, sir.” 

It was the usual chaos. Bits of wires. Dummy charges. A timer that didn’t look entirely fake. You were crouched near Fraser, fidgeting with a rusted switchboard that looked like it had been made by a blind goblin. Fraser nudged your elbow. 

“Does this bit go to the fuse or the timer?” 

“Neither,” you muttered. “That’s the backup charge. You’re about to fry your eyebrows.” 

“Right,” he blinked at you. “Good to know.” 

Then came the pop. Metal, flame, a shock of sand kicked up in the air like a sandstorm had been shot point-blank. The blast was sharp. Deafening. You flinched — stupidly too close. 

You didn't see where it landed, because the next thing you knew, someone grabbed you. Hard. A yank at the back of your uniform, and you stumbled back just as the second device sparked. You barely registered him before you were grabbed — two fists, rough, shoved hard into your shoulders. Thrown clear. Your arse hit the sand with enough force to rattle something loose in your spine. 

"Christ sake!" 

Mayne’s voice hit like a thunderclap. Hands like iron. 

“Keep your fucking eyes up next time,” he barked, face inches from yours. His grip didn’t loosen until Lewes shouted something unintelligible and the dust cleared. 

Mayne glared one more time, then let go. He spun on his heel and stormed off, leaving behind only the ghost of his scowl and the distinct sense that you'd just been measured against some invisible standard. His attention had been worse than the explosion. At least the blast was quick, but Mayne’s scrutiny lingered like a bad headache. 

You rolled the tension off from your shoulders. 

Fraser, beside you, exhaled long and low. "You alright?" 

You nodded. 

"Thanks for stepping in." 

You shrugged. "Just didn't want you to lose the other eyebrow.” 

The rest of the run passed in a blur. Your ribs ached. Your pride more so. By midday, the sun was cruel and unforgiving. And so was Lewes. 

You were back at the chart tent. He slapped your navigation sheet down in the tent and declared it 'five clicks off.' The others went dead quiet. 

You hadn't accounted for wind drift properly. A small error, but enough to get someone killed. No excuses. You just took the map back, recalibrated, and returned with corrections. Lewes gave a curt nod, then surprised you by offering a cigarette. 

“Didn’t flinch,” he remarked. 

You took a drag. “Yet,” 

He almost smiled. That was as close to approval as anyone got. 

By nighttime, the desert finally gave you a breeze. The fire had burned low and the laughter thinned. 

Just mere hours ago, you were all just siting around a fire, joking and laughing. Riley was three drinks deep and Seekings loudly told a story of a monkey, a bicycle, and a colonel’s missing wife. You mostly just sat back and let the fire warm your boots, but there was a quiet click of relief somewhere in your ribs. 

When it was finally still, you walked out toward the perimeter. Nothing left now but a hiss of ash and a few stubborn embers, pulsing faint like a bad heartbeat.  Behind you, the lads slept in a disorganised tangle of elbows and snoring. Riley mumbled in his sleep. Almonds had rolled off his blanket again. One of them farted, mournfully. 

You sat with your back against a jerry can, boots planted firm in the sand. You had the night watch, again. No one really said it, but they liked it when you did. You didn't fall asleep. Didn't mess about, didn't talk. Men trusted silence more than any other badge. 

That was when you heard the footsteps, slow and heavy. Dragging in the grit. Then he emerged. 

At first you thought it was Almonds on a piss break. It had that kind of rhythm of a hungover shuffle. But then you saw the silhouette: shoulders squared, head down, boots scuffing like he couldn't be bothered to lift them. 

Paddy Mayne, barefoot in the sand, shirt unbuttoned like he'd given up halfway through getting dressed. He looked sunburnt and sleep-starved. Flask in one hand. Cigarette tucked behind his ear like he forgot it was there. He stumbled a little. Whiskey-warm and sand-dusted. 

He stopped a few feet from you, just standing there. His outline wavered a bit, drunk clearly. But not so far gone he didn't know where he was. 

You stood. "You alright?" 

He didn't answer. Just swayed a little and waved you off. 

"Jesus," you muttered, stepping forward. "Sit down before you fall over." 

“I’m not that drunk.” 

“You’re pissed.” 

He snorted. “Pissed and present. That’s a rare thing these days.” 

Still, he flopped down beside you. 

You glanced over. “Out for a stroll?” 

He grunted. “Can’t sleep.” 

“Clearly.”

He tilted the flask towards you. You took it without ceremony. Burned like hell going down. Cheap stuff, rough around the edges — like him. 

“I thought you were dead drunk.” 

“I am.” A pause. “Not dead, though.” 

You sat there for a while. Just breathing, just there. The kind of silence that usually makes people nervous, but not him. 

Then, suddenly. “You ever think about packing it in?” 

You didn’t answer. 

He laughed, short and bitter. “It’s a joke. Not a good one.” 

“Wasn’t funny.”

“Didn’t think so.” 

The wind tugged at his hair. He looked at you then, really looked. 

“You’re always watching.” 

“Someone has to.” You said. 

“You fancy me?” The way he said it, almost mocking, almost daring. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“Don’t flatter me.” 

You sat in silence for a minute. Maybe two. You didn't know what to say to that, but maybe he wasn't expecting anything. He kept going, quieter now. 

“There’s a Yeats line,” he said. “Used to think about it during rugby. Before all this.” He said it slowly, like pulling out a loose tooth. “ Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold …” 

You glanced at him. He didn't explain. Instead he passed you his flask. You drank. He stood, or tried to. Wobbled slightly. You reached out instinctively to steady him, and he jerked his arm back like you'd burned him. 

“I’m not broken,” he snapped. 

“Never said you were.” 

Another beat. “You should get some rest.” 

“I’ve got the watch.” 

He stared at you for a long second, then walked off into the dark, barefoot and half-drunk, muttering something under his breath you couldn't catch. But the Yeats line stayed. 

Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold. 

Yeah, that tracked. 

Chapter Text

The sun hadn’t even crested the dunes when the first boot hit the generator. 

Someone grunted, someone else cursed, and someone — probably Seekings — started humming something in the wrong key. 

Domestic bliss, desert edition. 

The SAS weren't strangers anymore. That part had settled. Eoin was better at fixing tents than anyone let on. Fraser made perfect tea out of things that didn’t look remotely like tea. Seekings and Almonds had somehow turned latrine duty into a comedy routine, and Cooper had a knife for everything. 

You were in charge of the old radio that sometimes sparked and sometimes didn't. You didn't speak about the time it shocked Riley in the thigh. Mostly because he wouldn't shut up about it. 

Rifle practise came next. 

Women weren’t supposed to touch firearms — not officially. But Stirling had a way of forgetting those kinds of rules when they didn’t suit him. So he handed you a Lee-Enfield and told you not to embarrass him. In that same tone he’d use to comment on the weather. 

Lewes ran the drill like a conductor. Sharp, precise, and a little terrifying. 

You were all lined prone across a low dune, elbows dug into the warm sand, rifles propped against stacked packs. Targets were tin scraps and dented canteens set up on rocks about forty yards out. 

Cooper lay on your left, muttering to himself about his scope being buggered. Fraser on your right, steady as a statue, barely blinking. Lewes paced behind you like a hawk in pressed khakis, barking corrections whenever a shot landed wide. The smell of oil and cordite floated in the air, sharp enough to sting the inside of your nose. 

You lined up. Took the shot. Then another. The sound kicked back through your shoulder. Your fingers tingled with the weight of it. 

"Shoulder too tight." 

You heard Mayne's voice before you saw him. 

He moved behind you like a storm rolling in. No footsteps, no warning. His shadow swallowed yours. He didn't ask, just reached. One hand slid along your forearm to the wrist, slow and firm, correcting the way you gripped the rifle. His other hand pressed against the back of your shoulder, fingers splayed. It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't rough either, just deliberate. 

"Relax," he muttered, too close to your ear. "You're not throttling it." 

Your throat went dry. 

He didn’t move away, not immediately. Just hovered. Long enough for your pulse to climb. Then came his palm, guiding your elbow down, flattening it into the sand with a controlled sort of pressure. Like you were being pinned — but only just. 

You fired. 

Tin exploded forty yards out. Direct hit. 

He let out a grunt, low and satisfied. “Better.” 

Then he was gone, back into the dust.

You weren't breathing for thirty seconds. 

Cooper looked over, chewing his lip like he was holding in a laugh. Fraser raised an eyebrow, offered a sip from his canteen without a word. Neither of them said anything. But they both saw it. Whatever it was. Pretending you felt nothing was starting to feel like the real performance. 

After endless target practise, enough to satisfy even Lewes, Stirling lightened the mood with a scavenger hunt. “Losers carry rations,” he said, pairing you off like a schoolmaster. Fraser got stuck with you, Riley complained about his useless partner, and Mayne shut him down with lethal efficiency. The list was absurd: a rusted compass, spare tyre, water flasks — military nonsense. 

Seekings limped by with a sand-battered foot. “The desert proposed,” he deadpanned. 

Mayne’s team won, Lewes placed second, and Stirling — deliberately, you suspected — came last. “Next time,” he said, grinning, “we keep score.” 

And just like that, the bloody thing appeared the next morning: a massive blackboard planted right in the middle of camp like some kind of war-time scoreboard. Names chalked in under three columns; Stirling, Lewes, Mayne, with blank spaces beneath for kills, demolitions, successful sabotage, maybe even the number of tyres patched without swearing. It wasn’t for training, but what came after. For the real operations. The actual war.

That afternoon, you’d managed to fix a jammed bolt on one of the boys’ Vickers before Lewes could even shout. And maybe it wasn’t much, just grease and nerves, but it earned a nod from him and a loud “hell yes” from Seekings, which was basically a standing ovation. 

Mayne had been watching. He stepped forward, tapped the side of his head once, then pointed straight at you. “You’re with me,” he said, like it wasn’t even up for debate. 

And no one argued. 

Except maybe your heart, which hadn’t caught up yet. 

There was a stillness that night that didn’t sit right. The kind that made you think the desert was waiting for something. Wind slow, fire low. The sixty names had gone up on the board earlier. You were all supposed to leave at dusk. 

“Someone say something funny before I start thinking,” Riley muttered, sprawled out by the fire like a drunk scarecrow. 

“You thinking is the funny part,” Seekings replied, and got a peanut chucked at his face for the effort. 

Cooper told some godawful story about mistaking a camel for a German patrol once. Kershaw threw in sound effects. Almonds started humming White Cliffs of Dover just loud enough to be annoying.

You didn't say anything, just listened. Watched the orange firelight jump across all their faces. For a second, you let yourself feel like you belonged. 

Mayne was off to the side, sitting on a jerry can, shirt sleeves rolled and eyes on the fire like he was trying to start a fight with it. Eoin leaned beside him, shoulder brushing his like it was nothing, like they did it all the time. Which they did.

“Remember Cairo?” Eoin said, grinning like a schoolboy. “When you tried to kiss that bellydancer and nearly got stabbed with a shoe?” 

Mayne huffed. “She had a mean left hook. I respected it.” 

Eoin turned to you, amused. “He bled for three hours. Wouldn’t let the medic near him. Said he’d rather die than admit he lost to a girl.” 

“That sounds about right.” You said. 

Mayne didn’t look at you, but he smirked, just barely. 

Then he stood, walked off into the dark, just far enough to piss in peace or punch a wall. 

Eoin stayed, stretched his legs out in front of him. “You nervous?” he asked you. 

You shook your head. 

He didn't believe you. "You should be." 

You both sat in silence. Somewhere behind you, Fraser and Seekings had started arm-wrestling on a crate. The others cheered. Riley took bets. 

Eoin handed you his canteen. "I'm glad you're coming," he said. "We need someone who can actually read a map." 

You raised an eyebrow. "Is that all?" 

He looked at you then, the kind of look that doesn't rush. "No," he said. 

Before you could ask what else, Mayne returned. He dropped down beside Eoin again, his thigh pressing yours for a second as he sat. This time, you didn't move. 

Eoin leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You think it’ll work?” he asked, nodding toward the horizon. 

Mayne’s voice was low. “No.” 

“Then why go?” 

“Because someone has to.” 

Another silence. 

Then Mayne reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled paper. “I’m reading one tomorrow night,” he said. “When we get back.”

Eoin blinked. “A Yeats?” 

Mayne smirked again. “Something like that.” 

“Promise not to recite it while anyone’s eating.” 

“No promises.” 

The three of you stayed there until the fire burned down and the jokes turned into yawns. One by one, the others peeled off. Eoin stood first. He gave Mayne's shoulder a squeeze, then yours. Just a squeeze, just enough. 

Then it was just you and Mayne. 

He didn't look at you, but he said, "try not to die tomorrow." 

"I'll do my best." 

He looked over then, finally, and something in his eyes wasn’t soldier. It wasn’t even man. It was something rawer, like grief before it’s got a reason. 

Then he stood too. You stayed by the fire long after it stopped being warm.

The night of the jump, the wind was already wrong. Too sharp, too restless. You stood on the tarmac like shadows with nowhere to be. The plane — a lumbering old Halifax — groaned under the weight of the gear, sweat, and bad predictions. 

The plan was stupid. Bold, but stupid. Steal from your own, an Allied armory tucked where no one would miss it. Then swing around and hit a German-Italian camp before breakfast. No reinforcements, no proper comms, barely a map between the lot of you. Just sixty mad bastards and a handful of knives. 

The sandstorm wasn’t a surprise either. Pilots warned the team. “Visibility’s shite,” they said. “Winds’ll tear you sideways.” 

Lewes said, “Noted.” Stirling said, “we don’t have another night.” 

And Mayne just grinned, like it was a dare. Too desperate to wait, too proud to blink. 

Inside, the silence stretched. You were quiet but not from fear, not exactly. Just that sense of something narrowing. The plane rattled, cutting through the dark like it didn't belong there. Wind leaked at the seams. Your gear was too tight across the chest. You didn't loosen it. 

Someone murmured a prayer. Mayne checked his pack three times, then sat back with his eyes closed, as if trying to dream it away. Eoin was across from you, half-listening to the engines. 

You fixed your fingers. The straps bit into your shoulders. 

Eoin's eyes flicked to yours. "You’re going to cut off your circulation,” he said. 

“I’m fine.” 

He reached over and adjusted the strap near your collarbone. "You're not." His voice was low, matter-of-fact. "Too tight here, too loose here. You'll snap your neck on landing." 

You didn't flinch as he worked. His touch was impersonal but precise. 

There was a weight of eyes on the two of you. Mayne's gaze was unreadable in the dim red light. Not at Eoin or at you. He was staring at the space between your hands where the strap was being fixed. His jaw worked once, then he looked away, at nothing. His fingers flexed around his own harness. 

Eoin either didn't notice or didn't care. 

“Still think we’ll come out of this?” You asked, just loud enough for him to hear. 

He didn’t pause. “No.” The strap clicked into place. “But that’s not why we’re here, is it?” 

The plane lurched. Your stomach with it. 

Eoin sat back, studying you. “Breathe,” he said, “you’re no good to anyone dead.” 

A joke, maybe. 

You exhaled. Nodded once. 

When the light turned green, you stood together. The wind howled through the open door. 

“See you down there,” he said. 

“Sure,” you lied. 

Stirling gave no speech, just a nod. You jumped and the sky opened like a wound. The wind hit sideways. The kind of force that doesn’t let you think, only fall. You spun once, twice. Your chute was late to deploy, ribs compressing on the cord. Your eyes stung with sand and panic. 

When you hit the ground, it wasn’t where you were supposed to be. You knew it before you’d even unbuckled the straps. No signal flares. No other shadows. Just a flat, endless stretch of desert that could have been ten miles or a hundred. 

You didn’t call out. Not because you weren't scared, but because you knew better. So you started walking. 

It was hours before you found him. 

Eoin. 

He’d landed in a shallow ridge, his body crumpled, the chute tangled like seaweed behind him. At first you thought he was moving — chest lifting. But when you got closer, you saw it was just the wind catching his jacket. 

His neck was broken. Clean, instant, not bleeding. Just still. It was twisted in a way that said this is final. His eyes were open. 

You knelt beside him, hands shaking, not from cold. 

He'd jumped like the rest of you. Said nothing dramatic, just tightened your strap and vanished into the sky. No last words. You reached out to touch his wrist. His skin was already cooling. 

There was nothing to bury him with. So you untied the chute and laid it across his body. Took his tags, one of his knives — the one he’d let you borrow one time when yours had gone missing. That was it, you didn’t cry. You couldn’t. 

You sat beside him for God knows how long. Long enough to try, and fail, to close his eyes. Long enough for something thick and heavy to lodge itself in your throat, pressing against your ribs until you couldn’t breathe. You wanted to cry, honest to God you did. But nothing came. You pressed your fingers into your eyes, hard, until colours burst behind your lids and the world blurred enough to keep going. 

And then you did. 

By the time you reached the fallback point, the sun had already burnt most of the shade from the rocks. 

Three jeeps. Sixty soldiers jumped that night. More than half never got back up. You were  the last one. Some snapped their necks on the fall, others bled out on sharp rocks or landed arse-first into cactus — the desert’s idea of a joke. 

All the ammunition was scattered, swallowed by the storm. Sand filled the barrels. Maps tore like paper dolls in the wind. No one knew what the fuck you were supposed to do next. 

It didn’t feel like you'd survived, not really. You just hadn’t died yet. 

Lewes didn’t say anything. Stirling looked at you and frowned like you’d broken something he couldn’t afford to replace. No one spoke when you arrived, just eyes following you. Checking for wounds, for news, for names. Mayne sat on the tailgate of one of the trucks, cigarette hanging loose from his mouth, eyes fixed on the distance. He was whole, untouched. He exhaled smoke through his nose, slow, like the world hadn’t shifted. 

You tensed when his gaze slid to you.

Stirling was pacing. The mission was a cock-up. Total. Flaming. Disaster. 

“It wasn’t the men,” he said. “It was the method. Parachutes are useless in weather like that. Worse than useless. We were scattered like bloody dandelion seeds.” 

He paced like a man rehearsing his downfall. “We’re a laughing stock,” he muttered. “Sixty deployed, barely any back. We’ll be lucky if HQ doesn’t dissolve us entirely.”

You sat beside a crate and wiped dry blood from your sleeve. You didn't say a word. Your hands curled inside your pockets where Eoin's tags bit into your palm. 

Lewes was silent. He was sitting on a canvas roll, staring down at his hands. 

“We have to change tactics,” Stirling said, mostly to himself. “We stop falling from the sky. We start moving on the ground. LRDG routes. Jeeps. Fast. Quiet. Permanent.” 

Mayne scoffed. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?” 

Riley didn’t look up, he just said, flat: “It was a bloodbath.” 

Nobody corrected him. 

Someone passed around a dented flask, but you didn’t drink. Your mouth was cracked open from thirst, but the thought of swallowing something that might dull the edge made your skin crawl. 

Mayne sat across from you, elbows on his knees. “Eoin?” he asked finally, like he already knew. 

You pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth and held his gaze. You didn't answer. 

He stared at you for a long time. His nostrils flared. His foot bounced once, then stopped. His hands curled on his knees like he needed something to hit. He just breathed, measured, like he was counting down from some impossible number. 

“Where?” 

“West ridge.” 

“How’d he land?” 

You didn’t soften it. “Neck broken, instant.” 

His knuckles whitened. “You left him,” he said, not loud, not accusing, just raw. 

“There was nothing to bring back.” 

That landed hard, a muscle jumped in his jaw. He stood up so fast the crate rocked behind him. Took two steps toward you and stopped, close enough that you could smell the sweat on him. “He wouldn’t have left you .” 

You let that settle. “Then you would’ve buried two.” 

His breath hitched, right before his face went blank. He didn’t speak again. Instead he turned, walked off into the dark, spine rigid with something too broken to name. 

Then Stirling again, calm this time, almost too calm: “We don’t dwell. We record, we adjust, we hit again.” 

“Hit what?” someone asked. 

He looked up then, straight ahead. “The war.”

Chapter Text

No one said it out loud, but the camp felt smaller. Half the tents were empty. The rest looked like they hadn’t been touched since the jump. Flaps flapping in the desert wind like loose teeth. 

None of you spoke of Operation Squatter. Not properly. The name floated sometimes, but no one told the whole story. Grief was still catching. 

Eoin was still dead. And Paddy Mayne was still looking at you like you'd killed him yourself. 

He hadn’t said it out loud, but you'd rather he had. It would’ve been easier than the silence that followed you like blood in the water. 

The air hummed with restless energy when Stirling gathered all of you by the trucks, a blueprint pinned open with a knife. Parachutes were out, jeeps were in. You’d strike hard, hit airfields and depots, then vanish. No more blind drops. 

He then handed out assignments. Four jeeps, each with a saboteur, a gunner, a driver, and someone who didn’t panic. “You’ll run drills with the LRDG starting tomorrow. Learn the terrain like your own teeth.” 

Your name was written at the bottom of the lists. Driver . 

You looked up. Stirling met your eyes. He wasn't giving you a second chance. He was giving you the war. 

They came in from the horizon like a mirage that had manners. Six trucks, all silent except for the crunch of sand and the low grumble of diesel. The Long Range Desert Group. Leather-skinned, sun-bleached men with faces like cracked parchment and uniforms that were half wrong. Arab scarves in place of hats. 

You'd heard about them. Everyone had. 

The men who mapped the desert without compasses. Who could find a flyspeck of fuel in a hundred miles of nowhere. They climbed down one by one. Captain Sadler was the last to dismount. Tall and lean. Sky-coloured eyes under a peaked cap that had seen better years. He didn’t look like a soldier. 

“SAS,” he said like it was a diagnosis. “Right.” 

Stirling stepped forward, shook his hand. They talked briefly. 

Sadler glanced at the rest of the team, then his eyes landed on you for half a second longer than the others. Then back at Stirling. “Didn’t know we brought the ATS,” he said, loud enough to carry. “What’s a tea lady doing in a warzone?” 

Cooper coughed, but no one laughed. There was just that awkward shuffle when men aren’t sure if they’re meant to. 

You didn't flinch. Instead, you walked to the jeep you were assigned to and started checking the engine like his voice hadn't even reached your ears. Fraser gave you a look that said ' do you want me to knock him out or should I wait 'til lunch? ' 

Mayne looked like death warmed over. He was slumped against the side of a Bedford, unshaven and unslept. Half-drunk or half-dead or maybe both. His uniform was unbuttoned, hair uncombed, boots unlaced. Grief does strange things to people. For Mayne, it made him quieter, which was worse. 

When Sadler passed by, he gave a nod, but it was you he looked at after. Not the same as before. Still bruised, but still sharp. He hadn’t spoken to you properly since you came back, and you didn’t plan to start now.

The sun was already punishing by the time the engines started. Sadler laid out the route. No map, just words, crisp and fast: “Northwest ridge, loop east. Flash signal by 1400, back before dark. No tracks, no noise, no bloody ego.” 

The last part was probably for you and Mayne. 

You drove second in line, behind Sadler. Mayne didn't say a word when he climbed in, his jaw clenched. That same clouded look. When you reached across to check the ammunition belt, his forearm brushed against yours. The contact burned through your sleeves. 

Fraser and Seekings took the back seat, caught in the crossfire of your shared silence. 

You adjusted the mirror. “You gonna give directions, or just sulk in Morse code?”  

Mayne scratched his beard. “North-northwest until I say otherwise.” 

“Copy that, Captain Cheerful.” 

Seekings winced like someone had slapped him with secondhand tension. Fraser looked out the window and mumbled something about checking for mines just to be anywhere else. 

“Try not to stall,” he said as you buckled in.

You didn't say anything, instead you shifted gears just enough to make the jeep lurch and press his thigh harder against yours. His hand flexed on the jeep's grip, knuckles whitening. 

The first leg of the route was brutal. Loose sand, fractured rock, gullies that opened like mouths. You could feel them watching you — Mayne especially. The kind of stare you feel in your spine. 

“Feels like a bloody funeral procession,” Mayne muttered as you slowed to crawl past a dune crest. His knee bounced once, twice, then stilled when you downshifted and the vibration ran through both of you. 

“That’s the point,” you said. “They don’t want to be seen. Or heard, or dead.” 

“Right,” he said. “But one good explosion still gets the job done.” 

“Only if you’re around to light it.” 

He didn't answer. But you caught him watching the others. His heat shifted closer as you hit a bump, his shoulder pressing firm against yours. Not an accident. Maybe a challenge. You didn't yield an inch. 

“You’re light on the clutch,” he muttered eventually. 

By the second checkpoint, you'd taken the jeep up a dune sideways to avoid detection and past a gully that would've swallowed a lesser engine. 

When you reached the signal point, Mayne finally turned to you, his voice low. "Where'd you learn to drive like that?" 

“My dad’s garage. He taught me on sand before I ever touched tarmac.” 

He stared at you for a moment. You kept your eyes on the horizon. 

Fraser, wiping sweat from his face, muttered, “Remind me never to doubt that again.” 

Seekings added, “Remind me never to eat right before one of her turns.” 

You looped back just before dusk, tyres erasing themselves as they rolled. The others watched you return, eyebrows raised. Sadler walked the line, scanning the tracks. 

“Decent,” he said. “Still slow, still loud. But decent.” 

That was as good as it got. 

Mayne didn't speak again, but when you killed the engine, he lingered a second longer. Still didn't look at you, but said, "thought we’d need a shovel halfway up that ridge.” 

You didn’t look at him. “We didn’t.” 

“You sure? Felt like I left half my spine back there.” 

His voice was lighter than it had been in days. Almost teasing. Almost. 

A pause. Then, quieter. “You’re better at this than you let on.” 

You glanced at him then. “Not letting on,” you said. “Just learning.”

“Mm,” he opened the passenger door, pushed himself out. “Learn faster. Next time it’s not training.” 

Coming from him, it was basically a love letter. 

You didn't realize how hot the midday sun offered. The fabric of your shirt was stuck to your spine, but you ignored it. When you joined the others, Mayne was watching you. Not obviously, just enough to register it — the weight of his gaze like a hand between your shoulder blades. He stood very still, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows slightly raised. His eyes tracked the sweat dripping down your neck. It made your skin prickle in a way that had nothing to do with the heat. 

Less mourning today, you thought. Or maybe he just liked the view from the passenger seat. 

The desert doesn’t clap for you when you survive. No cheering, no medals, no applause. It rewards you with sand in your teeth and the occasional new hole in your trousers. 

You'd stolen ammunition from the New Zealanders a few nights ago — not borrowed, not requisitioned. Stolen. Polite mutiny, dressed up in night ops and bad accents. One of the lads had swapped signs around their base so no one could even tell what was missing until you were miles out. 

The trucks groaned under the weight of crates you weren’t supposed to have. Shells, fuses, enough bullets to make an argument stick. You drove one of the six jeeps again before breakfast, the wheels held together with prayer and copper wire you’d twisted by hand the night before. It was made under the hood and Lewes’ relentless shadow. 

“This,” he said, pointing at the battery housing with a screwdriver, “is cocked wrong. Again.” 

“I’ve adjusted it twice.” 

“Then do it a third time. You want this thing dying in enemy territory?” 

No. You didn't. But you had adjusted it twice. With hands that were already splitting at the knuckles and a shoulder that hadn’t stopped aching since the LRDG run. You wiped your face with the back of your arm and didn't bother checking if it left grease behind. It always did. 

He moved to the other side, started rattling off voltage numbers and pressure thresholds. You didn’t catch half of it. Your vision blurred for a moment. Blinked. Saw double. Blinked again. 

“You’re not listening,” he snapped. 

“I am ,” you muttered, twisting the copper wire tighter. Your fingers slipped and a jolt of pain shot up your palm where the fresh blister had cracked. 

Lewes didn’t slow. “You’ve got a two second ignition delay in this one. That’s a kill zone. Fix it.” 

You swallowed. Swallowed the sting and the growing heat behind your eyes. You were already drenched in sweat and your mouth was dry as chalk. But Lewes kept going, every misalignment, every tiny fault, every click that wasn’t tight enough to survive three minutes past hell.

"Soldier," he barked suddenly. “Look at me.” 

You stood up too fast and the world tilted. "Yes, sir." 

“You’re good,” he said, not kindly. “But the desert doesn’t care.” 

“I know.” 

“No, you think you know. But when it’s 3 AM and you’ve got sand in your lungs and a half-dead man bleeding on your lap while your spark plug’s dead? You’ll remember this conversation. Fix it again .”

You didn't move. Not right away. 

“You want me to replace you with Riley?” 

That did it. You crouched again, jaw clenched so tight you thought you might crack a molar. Your fingers trembled. Your nails were black with grease. 

He watched a moment longer. Then, finally, walked off, but not before dropping one more instruction: “When you’re done, check Cooper’s rig too. He’s useless at anything under the bonnet.” 

You didn’t answer but you checked it anyway. Because that’s what you do when you’re part of the team. You take the hit and grind your teeth. You fix it again, even if your hands are bleeding and seeing double, even if the man yelling at you is right. 

By the time you finished Cooper’s rig, your knees had locked up and the sun had turned everything into a hot white smear. You washed your hand with petrol because there wasn’t water to waste, and wiped the worst of the grime off with a rag that smelled like grease and burnt toast. 

When you looked up, the others were already gathering. Maps rolled open, boots scuffed the ground. Fraser tossed you a half-melted chocolate bar. you caught it, pocketed it. 

Stirling’s voice cut across camp; crisp, direct and already mid-sentence. And just like that, it was time to go kill something. It was supposed to be a hit-and-run. Small enemy supply camp. In and out, light the place up, don’t die. Steal what was needed. Get out before anyone had time to radio home and ask for dinner reinforcements. 

Stirling stood in front of the blackboard. “If we lose the element of surprise, we lose the upper hand.” 

You were already losing feeling in your hands, but sure. 

“We’ll breach through the supply gate, split. Three jeeps in, three jeeps cover. We’ll move fast, no shots unless it’s a last resort.” 

You blinked at the board. Squinted. The letters didn’t make sense. Your eyes kept drifting off. The lines blurred together. It was too hot. You hadn’t eaten since God-knows, and hadn’t slept more than two hours. The headache came on slowly. 

Then you felt it. That burn of attention behind you. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Christ, Mayne was being difficult. You’d caught him checking his gear three times earlier — gun, knife, more grenades than anyone needed. 

He was half-slung in the shade, arms crossed, sunglasses on, hair slicked back with more oil than a crankshaft. His mouth was set in that miserable line it always took when he’d run out of people to blame and started turning on himself. 

He glanced at you once, not a word. Just that same miserable heat behind the glasses. 

You stared harder at the board. You tried to refocus. 

Then his voice, flat as sand: “She’s gonna drop if someone doesn’t feed her soon.” 

Stirling paused mid-sentence. Everyone turned, and you wished the desert would swallow you. Or at least knock you unconscious. 

“I’m fine.” You muttered. 

Mayne didn’t look at you. “Didn’t say you weren’t.” 

And that was that, no kindness, just observation. He’d noticed and now the whole bloody camp knew too. 

Stirling cleared his throat. “If you’re all done trading nursery tips, we’ll move on.” 

Mayne leaned back and muttered something under his breath. Still angry and difficult, but not quite all teeth anymore. Just frayed at the edges, like the rest of you. 

Stirling wrapped the rest of the plan in a bow of calm military detachment, then started calling out jeep assignments. You didn’t need to be told where you were going. There’s a rhythm to these things. Once you’re the one who knows which pedal does what and figure out how to keep the engine from coughing itself dead, you stop getting asked. You just get pointed. 

You rubbed your temple, the pain was back. Sharp now. You ducked out of the lineup and headed for the shade of the mess tent. What passed for coffee was stewing in a dented kettle, strong enough to resuscitate the dead. You poured a tin cup’s worth and drank it like penance. 

The effect was immediate. Your stomach turned over. You saw God, briefly. Still felt like your bones were being carved from the inside, but at least you weren’t about to pass out on Mayne’s boots. Small mercies. 

Back by the trucks, you found him already checking over the gear. He ran his hand across the bonnet, flipped the hood, inspected the belts. His sleeves were rolled up, sunglasses perched higher now, and the tendons in his forearms looked like rope stretched too tight. 

“You alright?” Fraser asked quietly as you climbed in behind the wheel. 

“Sure,” you said. “Can’t see out my left eye but that’s character building.” 

He snorted. “Don’t let him hear that.” 

Too late. Mayne turned his head, slowly. 

“You good to drive?” 

“You want a demonstration?” 

He didn’t smile. “Not particularly. I’d rather not die today.” 

“Then buckle up.” 

Fraser called out the roster. “I’m nav.” 

You almost sighed in relief. He had a good head for terrain, didn’t flap easy, and knew how to shut up when needed. That last part alone made him a godsend.

Seekings climbed in next, gear rustling and metal clinking as you locked in. Mayne took the last seat, back right, gun propped, eyes already scanning the horizon, but when you caught him in the rearview mirror, they flicked to you.

You adjusted the mirror, ignored the throb behind your eyes and the nausea curling in your stomach. You twisted the key. The engine roared awake. 

By nine, you hit the ridge. Your hands gripped the wheel so tight your knuckles ached. The nausea had faded to a dull buzz behind your eyes. 

En route, Mayne didn’t speak again. Not directly, but you felt his stare burning holes through the back of your seat. And honestly? That was the least of your problems. 

The mission started off clean. The lot slid into position with a tight formation. Fraser hopped out first, Seekings followed. You stayed put, with the engine running and your hands braced tight on the wheels. Your eyes flicked from ridge to ridge like they might grow teeth. You were on overwatch duty. Security, if you wanted to make it sound fancy. 

Mayne jumped off last. He paused, dug into his pocket, and tossed something onto your lap — a half-squashed bar wrapped in paper. “Eat.” 

You turned it over in your hand. “Since when do you share?” 

“Don’t get clever.” His hand touched your shoulder as he passed. Then signalled a quick two-finger wave over his shoulder and disappeared over the rise. “Stay sharp.” 

That was it. The nicest thing he’d said all day. 

Ten minutes in, you threw up behind the wheel. Didn’t even get out, you just leaned sideways and let it happen. Your body had given up being polite. Coffee and adrenaline made a poor breakfast. 

You wiped your mouth with a sleeve that was already stiff with sand and sweat. Spat twice, took a sip from your canteen and swirled it like mouthwash. Then tore into the brick bar Mayne had shoved you earlier, chewing hard, trying to scrape the sour taste of bile off your tongue. 

The sun was baking everything in place. Your boots felt two sizes too tight. Your shirt clung like wet paper. Somewhere over the ridge, you heard the first crack of rifle fire. Then more. Then too many to count. 

You stayed where you were. 

Shots, crashes. A bright arc of flame too close to be friendly. You could hear Mayne’s voice shouting somewhere, low and sharp. Orders. Insults. Battle poetry. A flash signal cut through the heat. That was the team's. 

You reached under the seat and grabbed the canvas pouch. Charges, fuses. Backup protocol in case things went loud and ugly. Which they had, naturally. 

Knife in your boots, Eoin’s. It stayed with you like a second pulse. 

You made the run just to the edge. One of the trucks was unguarded. German transport. Beautiful things. You ducked low and shoved a time charge on a tyre. Another one on the crates stacked behind it filled with oil and ammo. Should do nicely. You crouched low and tried to breathe without heaving again. 

There was another signal. Fraser’s silhouette was waving you in. Time to go. You scrambled back toward the jeep. The blast didn’t go off yet, but you didn’t look back. You never look back. 

Mayne and the others piled in fast. Fraser landed in the seat beside you, already reaching for the map. Seekings was last. He was limping, enough that every second felt longer than it should. One hand on his thigh, the other waving, trying to look casual about it. Behind him, gunfire cracked in the heat. 

Fraser tapped the hood. Twice, the all-clear. 

But you didn’t move. 

You watched Seekings stagger closer, sand kicking up around his boots. You could already hear Mayne before he said a word. 

“What the fuck are you waiting for? Go!” 

Still, you didn’t. Not until Seekings made the final leap into the back while he groaned something about his knee. You slammed the clutch then, floored it, and the jeep took off in a spit of gravel and noise. 

Mayne growled from the back. “Jesus Christ, you trying to get us all killed?” 

“Thought you wanted a full headcount,” you muttered. 

Fraser didn’t say anything. Just gave you that sideways look. 

Behind you, the bombs went off. You didn’t stop until the rocks started looking familiar again. Until the sun dipped low enough to cast shadows over the same fuel drums and tyre tracks you’d memorised weeks ago. Home, if you were desperate enough to call it that. 

The jeeps rolled in battered, half-empty, clattering with heat and blood and nerves barely stitched together. Seekings climbed out like a drunk dismounting a barstool. His limp was worse now, and Cooper had to half-catch him when his bad leg buckled. “The sand tried to eat me,” he said. 

“No,” said Fraser, “you just run like shite.” 

“Elegantly,” Seekings shot back. “Elegantly like shite.” 

Seekings caught your eye mid-monologue and tipped his leg toward you. “Owe you one,” he called. 

Lewes stood near the edge of camp, watching. Arms folded, unreadable as ever. Stirling beside him was already barking orders about supplies, debriefs, radios. No one congratulated anyone. 

You turned the engine off. The silence hit harder than the gunfire, but at least you drove everyone back. Even with blistered hands, ringing ears, and heart in your throat the whole time. 

Mayne didn’t say a word. He just dropped out of the jeep, sand up to his knees. He walked past you without slowing. 

“Next time you follow the fucking orders.” 

You blinked. “I was covering for Seekings.” 

“You cover for everyone , or you get everyone killed.” 

It wasn’t the words. It was the way he said them. Like you’d failed him personally, like you’d betrayed something you didn’t even know you’d agreed on. 

You didn’t say a thing though. Didn’t let him see the way your jaw locked. But he must’ve known anyway, because he stopped. Looked at you again — longer this time. 

And said, quieter, “don’t make me regret it.” 

He never said what it was. But it didn’t matter, because it was already yours to carry.

Chapter Text

By midday, the heat was up, the shouting was louder, and the board had grown teeth. The tally under Mayne’s name was stacked with kill counts and victories like he was collecting sins. Suppose your team had delivered more destruction than anyone. Lewes was close behind, while Stirling was dead last. And he was not pleased. 

”Christ, it’s not a bloody football match,” Lewes muttered. 

Mayne was leaning against a crate, arms folded, mouth curled just enough to look smug. When Stirling looked over, he tipped his flask like toast and winked. Stirling’s eye twitched. 

“New orders,” Stirling barked, turning away from the board. “Three targets. We hit them fast, hard, and we don’t stop to count the medals.” 

The briefing was swift, no-nonsense. Lewes and his team were supposed to go to the MRSA base at Brega to take out the aircraft hangars and runway. Stirling tasked his lot for Agedabia, targeting supply crates and ‘maybe more Luftwaffe’. While Mayne — yours — were going to the Tamet airstrip. Immediately after it was over, the room broke, boots shuffled, and men filtered towards trucks. 

Although there wasn’t time for much before the raid, you needed to finish one more thing. One more wire. One more casing. One more chance to prove you were good for something.

Lewes had asked you, offhandedly, if you could tune the detonator on one of his original designs. A version of the canister bomb they were planning to use tonight. Said it might buy the team more time between plant and blast — ”if you don’t cock it up,” he added, helpful as ever. 

So you sat cross-legged in the dirt outside the tent, the dry heat pressing into the back of your neck, tools fanned out around you like a surgeon prepping for the last operation of the day. 

Lewes came over without ceremony, dropped into a squat, no hello. “Still alive, then,” he said. 

“Against all odds.” 

He handed you a screw. “Fuse is twitchy. Wants to pop early.” 

You adjusted the detonator, braced it with the back of your knuckle. You both worked in tandem, not quite talking but not silent either. 

“You ever think about what we’ll do when the war ends?” He asked, eventually. 

You looked at him sidelong. “You going soft on me, sir?” 

“Trying not to.” 

He passed you the final component and watched as you sealed the casing, soot sticking under your fingernails. When you handed it back, he weighed it in his palm like he already knew what it would do. 

“Do women like shawls?” 

You gave him a look. “You’re asking me?” 

“You’re the only woman I’ve had a proper conversation with in weeks.” 

“That’s a worrying fact,” you paused, but then continued, “you’re engaged?” 

He hesitated. “Not formally. I haven’t asked yet.” 

“She’s the reason you joined?” 

“Partly,” A beat. “I told her I’d make the war mean something.” 

“She’ll like the shawl,” you said, apropos of nothing. “If it smells less like cordite.” 

He looked at you, blinked. Just stood, the way officers do when they don’t want you to notice how tired they are. You finished the last wire, closed the casing, wiped the soot from your fingertips. 

He tilted his head, half-smiling now. “Something practical. No frills.” 

“She’s a lucky woman.” 

Lewes didn’t answer that. Just gave the bomb a final pat, the quiet air between you stretching too long. 

“Neat work,” he said. “Cleaner than Riley’s last three.” 

“Don’t let him hear you say that.” 

“I won’t. I want him to improve.” 

“Make sure it counts,” you said, before you could stop yourself, referring to the shawl. 

He nodded and then he walked away. 

That was the last thing you ever said to him. 

The Tamet airstrip baked in the noon sun like a graveyard waiting to be filled. It was flat, too flat. Rows of enemy aircraft parked like sleeping giants across the runway, all perfect targets if you reached them. 

Six miles out, you ditched the trucks. 

“No noise,” Mayne said, voice low and tight. “We plant and we go. If you see a German, smile politely and blow his fucking legs off.” 

The plan was simple. Sneak in. Plant the charges. Time the detonation and get out fast. 

The group planted eight bombs in total. Kershaw and Fraser swept the north end. Seekings and you handled the fuel line. Mayne stalked between you like a fuse waiting for a spark. You kept your mouth shut and your hands steady, even when sweat dripped from your hairline into your eyes and every nerve from your spine to your thighs was screaming. 

Mayne called for regroup just before dusk. You retreated fast, the first of the detonations already rumbling behind like thunder cracking the earth’s teeth. 

Back in the jeep, you gripped the wheel hard enough to bruise. 

“Drive.” Mayne said. 

The fires behind lit the sky orange. 

When you reached base, the competition board had new chalk marks already. Mayne’s team. Highest kills, again. Lewes wasn’t even back yet. Stirling stood near the edge, arms crossed, cigarette burning low, watching the numbers climb with a blank look that didn’t match the rest of the cheering. 

No one mentioned it out loud, but the board did. Mayne: 17. Lewes: 12. Stirling: 2. 

Even Stirling’s chalk mark looked embarrassed. 

The rest of camp had started to settle into a kind of tired celebration. You sat by the truck and ran your fingers over the last detonator Lewes had given you. He’d call it ‘a quiet thing for a loud job’. It was smaller than the others, neater. Still stained with dust from the last time he’d adjusted it. 

It wasn’t even night when the word came. 

Sun hung low over the dunes, painting the sun copper. You were wiping grease from under your nails when Almonds climbed off the truck — blood on his sleeves, eyes too bright. Not from adrenaline, but from loss. 

You all looked up one by one. Something about him was wrong. 

Stirling was already approaching. “Well?” He asked. 

Almonds didn’t answer right away. 

“Where’s Lewes?” Stirling pressed. 

Almonds shook his head. “Didn’t make it.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“We were circling out,” Almonds said. “German aircraft must’ve been watching. Caught us just as we were pulling off the ridge.” 

“And his body?” Stirling said, voice thin. 

“We didn’t — we couldn’t carry him. We left him.” 

Left him. 

The words landed like echoes in your chest. Left him. Like you left Eoin. 

And that was when it started. The splitting. A pressure between your ribs, between your eyes. Something old and buried had clawed its way back to the surface and found a fresher wound to fester in. 

You didn’t realize until then how much of him had held this place together — not through orders or barked commands,  but through steadiness. The kind that doesn’t announce itself until it’s gone. 

And now it was gone. 

After the news, you stayed behind in the supply tent. You told Fraser you needed to sort the detonators, which was only partly a lie. Mostly, you just needed a room that didn’t talk back. Somewhere the grief could sit without echo. He was close enough to watch, far enough to let you be. That was Fraser. 

You were sorting out the crate — rechecking fuses, setting aside the ones that looked wrong — when boots crunched outside. Then the flap peeled back. 

Mayne walked in with that same restless presence, like he belonged to the war more than he belonged to anything. He didn’t look at you, just crouched by the bench and grabbed a fuse from a crate beside you. Turned it over in his hand like it might answer something he hadn’t figured out yet. 

“What are you doing in here?” you asked without bite. 

He grunted. “He used to keep the clean wires in the left box. Now it’s all backwards.” 

“That was his system.” 

“Figured I’d sort it before someone blew their fingers off.” 

You didn’t look at him. Not right away. Your hands stilled on a bundle of cord. 

“He taught me to wire charges properly,” you said, finally. “Said I have steady hands.” 

Mayne didn’t move. 

Then let the fuse drop into the sand like it had burned him. 

“He said the same about Eoin.” 

The room shrank. Your chest tightened. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He looked at you. Not with anger, not even coldness. “Means you’re steady. Until you’re not.” 

That was when you stood up. 

“Don’t do that,” you snapped. “Don’t bring him up like that.” 

“Wasn’t bringing anyone up. You did that yourself.” 

“You are. You always fucking are.” The rage cracked out of you like lightning through bone, sudden, scalding. 

“I said a sentence.” 

“You want to blame me for Eoin? For Lewes? For all of it? Fine. Do it. Just say it to my face.” 

His mouth twitched. “You think this is about blame?” 

“No.” You spat. “I think it’s about guilt. And you’ve been carrying it so long, you wouldn’t know what to do if it wasn’t dragging behind you.” 

That struck something. You saw it, a twitch in his jaw, a tiny recoil behind his eyes. 

“You talk like you know me,” he muttered. 

“I know enough. I know you watch everything, but say fuck all unless it’s to cut someone open.” 

He stepped closer. “So what? You want softness now? A fucking hug? Or just someone to nod while you polish his memory?” 

“No,” you said. “I want you to get out.” 

But he didn’t move, just stood there. Breathing like he’d run a mile, hands flexing and unflexing at his sides. All that grief clawing under his skin, looking for somewhere to land. You stared at each other like two cliffs about to collapse inward. 

Then he turned, finally. Picked up the fuse from the sand. Palmed it once. When he looked back up, his voice was flat. Just him again, stripped down to the worst of himself. 

“You’re still steady.” 

And then he walked out. Boots crunching over gravel, fuse still in hand like he hadn’t just torn open every raw part of you. 

You stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight you felt the sting of your nails breaking skin. Your body was shaking, from the heat, the fury, and from everything you’d been holding up with spit and stubbornness. You wanted to throw something. Anything that would make a noise loud enough to drown you out. 

But you didn’t. Because you knew if you let go, you wouldn’t stop. You’d tear through this whole place until there was nothing left but sand and wire and regret. 

So instead, you squatted. Right there, between the tyres and the toolkit and the wreck of what used to be your composure. Head in your hands. 

And you cried. God, you cried. 

Silent, vicious sobs that gutted you from the inside out. You covered your face with dirt-slick palms, like hiding would make it smaller, like no one would see the grief if you buried it deep enough in your skin. 

But it was there. The weight of Eoin. Of Lewes. Of everything you couldn’t save. Everything you weren’t fast enough to fix. 

And him. That impossible man. That rage-fueled ghost in a uniform who saw through you more than you wanted him to. You didn’t know what hurt more — the grief, or the fact that you couldn’t even hate him for it. 

Eventually, the sobs stopped. Not because you felt better, but just because your body gave out. Empty. Dried out like the desert around. 

You sat back on your heels, mouth open, chest hollow. 

The detonator was still on the ground beside you. Quiet thing, for a loud job. You picked it up, brushed the sand from the edge, and held on. 

Because it was the only steady thing you had left.

Chapter Text

Realist was gone. 

Now you were left with Stirling, the dreamer, the strategist, the man who saw maps like prophecies. And Mayne, the madman, the weapon you don’t aim so much as unleash. 

The raids had worked. The destruction was loud enough to reach Cairo, and loud enough that GHQ started pretending to know who you were. SAS was no longer a joke acronym someone scribbled onto a folder. Not after what the team did to Tamet and Brega. 

Someone at GHQ was impressed enough to hand out promotions. Seekings got bumped. So did Cooper. Sadler finally got his stripes — Sargeant now, which suited him, even if the rest of you still called him Sadler like it made no difference. 

And you? Of course not. 

There’s no box tick for ‘drives like hell and doesn’t die’. No form for ‘female, technically not even supposed to be here’. Outside the ATS, you were just the desert’s secret. Stirling didn’t look at you in the eyes when he handed out the new titles. 

They gave the team five days leave in Cairo. A reward, they said. Everyone went. 

Except Mayne, or course he didn’t. 

He stayed behind like a shadow that refused to shift, pacing the desert alone. It was like if he stopped moving, he’d have to feel something. 

And the desert wasn’t quiet that morning. It crackled with dry wind, boots over gravel, engine noise too far off to matter. But inside you, everything stayed loud. You told yourself it was over. The argument, the grief, the useless ache blooming every time he looked at you. You didn’t want a confrontation. You didn’t want comfort. But you couldn’t leave with that weight still lodged between your ribs from the night before. 

You found him where you knew he’d be. Half a mile from camp, pacing the rocks, shirt loose at the collar, hands running through his hair like he could scrub something off if he tried hard enough. 

When he saw you, he didn’t flinch, didn’t greet you. “Thought you were off playing city girl already.” 

“Tomorrow,” you said. “One more day of hell.” 

“Lucky you.” His voice was flat. “Five days without sand in your knickers.” 

You walked closer. “You’re in a better mood.” 

“Am I?” He glanced at you sideways, then away again. “Maybe I ran out of bad ones.” 

You both stood there for a while, in that weird quiet only Mayne could create. He crouched near a rock. Something tense sat in his shoulders, all sharp lines and held breath. 

“You meant what you said last night?” You asked. 

“Don’t know. I say a lot of things.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

“That’s the only one you’re getting.” 

There it was again, that flicker of something under the surface. He glanced up and squinted. His eyes raked over you, slow and calculating. Then he stood and took a step closer. 

“Why’d you come out here?” He asked. His voice dropped a notch. “You miss the yelling?” 

“No.” 

“Want me to say sorry?” 

“No.” 

Another step. He was close now, you could smell the sun on him. 

“What then?” 

You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t know. 

He looked at you like he might, or more like he already did. Like he saw something in you that you didn’t want noticed, and instead of pulling away, he stepped further in. 

“You’ve been staring like you want something off me.” 

“Not everything’s about you, Mayne.” 

He snorted, eyes dropping to your mouth for half a beat. “Feels like it when you look at me like that.” 

You stood like that, close enough to bruise, close enough to fall. Then he reached past you, brushed your arm, barely, as he picked up his rifle from the rock behind you. His hand lingered a second longer than it had to. 

“You should go pack,” he said. Voice back to flat, normal. 

You didn’t move. Just watched him shoulder the rifle and walk away, slow and loose and maddening. 

And for the second time in two days, you stood in the middle of the desert with something sharp in your chest and nowhere to put it. 

You knew he’d show up.

Because it was the kind of silence that asked for company. Not comfort, just presence. Like a wound trying not to heal wrong. 

He didn’t knock, didn’t say your name, just watched you roll your socks like he’d been standing there longer than he should have. You didn’t stop what you were doing. Just smoothed out the hem, pressed it flat canvas like it mattered. Like you were someone who gave a shit about creases. 

Glancing up was a mistake. 

He didn’t speak at first, leaning against the tentpost. His beard had grown thick over the last few weeks, gone from trimmed to untamed like the rest of him. He looked unshaved, unbathed, and slightly more biblical than you remembered. 

“You’ve gone quiet,” he said. 

“I’ve always been quiet.” 

“Not like this.” A beat. “Not since Eoin.” 

Your hands paused in the middle of a fold. Not because you didn’t expect it, but because you did. And yet it still landed like a punch to the sternum. 

“You go quiet when when you’re angry,” he went on. “Same as him. Get that look in your eye like you’ve already left the room.” 

“I’m not Eoin.” 

He nodded once. Like that hurt more than it meant to. “Aye, I know.” 

But you didn’t think he did. Not really, not when he still watched you like you were something he hadn’t buried properly. 

You turned back to your bag. Took out a shirt you’d already folded just to have something to touch. 

“You know that poem?” He asked suddenly. “Graves. ‘ Love without hope —“ 

You didn’t look up. “Let the imprisoned larks fly. Yeah, romantic.” 

“Fucked up is what it is.” He scratched his beard, looking at the floor. “Feels like that sometimes, doesn’t it? Wanting something that won’t let itself be caught.” 

You didn’t respond. 

He kept going. “You and I. We don’t talk like we should. I used to argue with Eoin, and at least I knew where we stood after. He’d throw something. I’d throw something heavier. Sorted.” He finally looked at you then. “You just sit there, like I haven’t already lost.” 

Your mouth went dry. You stood before you could think. “You think I want to be like him?” 

His jaw tightened. “I think you can’t help it.” 

“Neither can you.” 

Silence. Hot and pressing. 

He stepped closer, eyes dark and unreadable. “I used to shout when I was scared. When I was hurting. Thought it made things better, louder meant truer.” 

Another step. 

“But I’m not gonna shout at you.” 

He reached up, brushed a hair from your cheek. Rough fingers, calloused and warm. The backs of his knuckles dragged over your temple like he didn’t quite mean to. 

“I don’t want to win against you.” 

The heat behind your ribs bloomed into something harder, heavier. You couldn’t breathe. 

“I’m leaving for Cairo,” you said, stupidly, pointlessly. 

“Aye.” 

“You came to make sure?” 

He didn’t answer that. “Don’t get soft out there.” 

“I never had the luxury.” 

His eyes flicked to your mouth again, just for a second. “And I did mean what I said,” he said, “you’re steady. Don’t let them change that.” 

Then he left. Left like he was afraid staying would undo him. And maybe it would’ve. 

Time moves slower when there’s nothing trying to kill you. 

Days in Cairo felt longer than all of those months in the desert. Everything felt softer, louder, strangely padded. You didn’t trust it. The war was quiet in Cairo, and quiet things made you nervous. 

You spent most morning staring at the ceiling. Thinking. Not thinking. Trying to unstick the sand from under your nails and the noise from inside your head. You could hear your thoughts here and that was the danger. 

You were placed in a woman’s quarter, in an old officer’s house repurposed for ‘temporary lodgings’. Polite words for a tiled room with a cot, a cracked mirror, and a door that locked from the inside. 

Still, it had running water. You showered with the lights off, just in case. Even alone, you caught yourself glancing over your shoulder. After, you scrubbed until your skin burned, until you didn’t feel like the same girl who’d knelt in the sand beside detonators and bleeding men. You stood in front of the mirror with water dripping off your chin and wondered who the hell you were trying to be. 

Out there with the SAS, you were a gear in the machine. A necessary part. Dirty fingers on the wheel. Here? You were nothing again. Just a name on a ledger, a woman without a uniform, without a voice, surrounded by linen dresses and officers’ wives who smiled like knives. 

You were thinking of going in early. 

Of course, you didn’t say it out loud. Not yet. For now, you just sat in the fading sun, hat tilted low, trying not to think about the man you weren’t supposed to miss. Or the man you’d never become. 

That night, you cut your hair. 

No real reason or dramatic music. You just didn’t want to carry the weight of old versions of yourself anymore. So you made it neck-length, still wild but manageable. Then you found a hat and shoved it on. It didn’t look like you. That was the point. 

Fraser saw you the next day. 

“I like it. Looks very espionage chic.” 

“Don’t tempt me.” 

He grinned. “Please. I’d be honoured.” 

The two of you strolled the dusty road toward some cafe that Cooper was already in, flirting shamelessly with a nurse who looked like she could break him in half. Riley was deep in a heated debate with Almonds about who could run faster if chased by a tank. You sat back, drank tea that did taste slightly less like radiator water, and watched the world turn. 

You were ridiculous, but you were together. And for a moment, that was enough — until it wasn’t. 

A group of Scottish soldiers swaggered by. The type who looked like they belonged in pubs more than patrols. One pointed at your hats and smirked. “Oi,” he called out, loud enough to echo off the sandstone walls, “where’s the ice cream truck?” 

“Looks like the circus let a few monkeys dress themselves,” another chimed in. 

Something in the air snapped, tight and inevitable. It didn’t take long. A word was thrown, then a shove. Then someone swung, hard, fast, and sloppy. Chaos. 

The kind of beautiful, stupid chaos only soldiers on leave could conjure. 

They didn’t hit you, not at first. No one wanted to be that guy, but in the tangle of bodies and fists and shouts, someone pushed too hard. You hit the ground, elbows scraped. Something metallic and unkind exploded in your chest, not pain exactly, more like release. 

So you stood, and you didn’t think. And you threw a punch. 

It landed with a crunch. You felt in your knuckles, then another. One of them stumbled back, eyes wide. He was more surprised than hurt. Maybe you were too. 

But in that moment, you didn’t feel like a woman or a soldier trying to matter. You felt like Paddy fucking Mayne. Contagious bastard. Maybe his recklessness was a virus, and you’d finally caught it. 

Someone shouted. A whistle blew, sharp and official. Military police. Shit. 

“Scatter!” Fraser barked, already grabbing your sleeve. Cooper was behind you, bruised and grinning like a madman. 

You ran. Through alleyways and side streets, dodging fruit carts and curses and the trailing echo of that damn whistle. Your ribs ached. Your boots were too loud. Blood dripped from your nose like punctuation. 

When you finally dropped, backs pressed against a shadowed wall, all three of you were heaving for breath. You wiped your sleeve across your face. 

Fraser looked at you. “You alright?” 

You nodded. “Feel like I punched a brick wall.” 

“You look like one punched back,” Cooper added. 

You laughed, then winced. “Please tell me we won.” 

Fraser tilted his head, considering. “I’d say, honourable draw.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Seekings said, limping out of the dark behind you with one shoe missing. “I just gave a headbutt to a man twice my size.” 

You leaned against the wall, finally letting the adrenaline bleed out of you. The others laughed and bickered. You touched the blood drying under your nose and grinned. Your punch form was rubbish, Mayne would’ve said something smug like ‘ your stance is shite ’ if he’d seen it. 

By noon, the news had already spread. A half-dozen off-duty soldiers got into a brawl. Some were stuck in holding, Riley and Kershaw among them, of course. Apparently, you were just a civilian who’d been ‘caught in the chaos’. Poor girl. Wrong place, wrong time. 

Later that night, you and the others nursed cheap drinks at a bar that smelled like dust and dish soap. The lights buzzed. The chair wobbled. Riley’s absence left a noticeable gap at the table. 

“I still can’t believe you decked a guy,” Cooper said, shaking his head. 

“She didn’t deck him,” Fraser corrected. “She obliterated his soul.” 

“I was defending myself.” You muttered, sipping whatever the hell they’d pour you. 

“You were possessed,” Almonds said. “By Paddy.” 

That got a few laughs. 

But later, when Stirling arrived — all stiff jaw and storm cloud eyes — the room quieted. He didn’t say anything, just stared. Not at the boys, not at the missing ones, but at you . Disappointment is a strange thing. It doesn’t pierce, it dulls. Like a blunt knife pressed into skin until it bruises. His look wasn’t cruel, but it held weight. That sense that he’d expected more from you, or maybe just less of whatever you’d become. 

You didn’t say anything. 

The fight had lit something in you. Recognition. Of what you could become. What you had become. That pulse-pounding rush of control, when the world spun too fast and you didn’t flinch. It was terrifying and addictive. 

You found Fraser by the alley behind the bar, smoking something he probably didn’t buy legally. His eye was turning purple now. He looked oddly proud of it. 

“Going back,” you said. 

He exhaled smoke. “To the scene of the crime?” 

“To the desert.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “You miss the sand in your socks that much?” 

“I miss the noise in my head being useful.” 

He studied you for a second, then tilted his head. “Or is it Paddy?” 

You gave him a look. “I said useful .” 

He laughed. “You’re mental. But alright. Go punch the desert back into shape. Just don’t let it chew you up.” 

You nodded once. 

Inside, Cooper clapped your back in support. Almonds said something dramatic about lost sisters-in-arms. Riley — somehow freshly released, just called you a ‘traitor’ before falling asleep on the table. They didn’t try to stop you. 

The next morning, you packed what little you had and left before the sun could remind you how hot Cairo could get. You wore the uniform again. No rank, no badge, just the hat. 

The desert was waiting, and so was war. And maybe, just maybe, so was a version of yourself you hadn’t yet met. The one you hadn’t punched out of shape. Not yet.

Chapter Text

You shouldn’t have been excited. Most people didn’t itch to return to heatstroke, sand in their underpants, and a mess tin full of beans passing as dinner. But your pulse was too steady, your mouth was too dry, and you caught yourself smiling at a passing vulture like it was an old friend. Maybe you’d gone mad — or maybe it was something else entirely. 

The camp was quiet when you arrived. Most of the jeeps were gone, the air smelled like metal and yesterday’s sweat, and Mayne wasn’t there. But his things were — haphazard and grimy. A full-grown beard’s worth of shaving kits untouched and his boots sat by the bedroll. 

You unpacked slowly, left your new beret buried in the bottom of your pack. You lit the stove, boiled whatever passed for stew and tried not to count how many bruises lined your knuckles like tally marks. Cairo felt a million years ago. Basically a fever dream of fists and dusts and Stirling’s grim stare. It had served its purpose. 

The wind shifted and a shadow fell. Mayne returned without warning, just a shape in the half-light, taller than memory and somehow heavier. 

He looked like hell. Worse than before, if that was possible. His beard was overgrown, sleeves rolled halfway and sunburnt to the elbows. There was a fresh cut near his jaw like he’d lost a fight with something sharp and mean. 

His eyes landed on you — not immediately. First, they skated past you, unfocused. Then they snapped back, narrowed slightly, like maybe he’d walked too far in the sun and you were just a mirage. Something conjured by heat and memory, enough to look real. He stared at you like he was trying to piece it together: why you were here early, why it was you and not the others, why you were sitting at his fire like you hadn’t left. There was a flicker in his face. The kind that said: am I losing it? Or is she really here? And for a second, you wondered the same thing. 

“You cut your hair.” 

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you noticed things like that.” 

He sniffed. “Hard not to notice.” 

You blinked. “Thanks?” 

He shrugged, mouth twitching like he might almost smirk. “Didn’t say I hated it.” 

The wind kicked up and carried the awkward toward the dunes. Mayne dropped his kit and, without a word, sat beside the fire. You handed him a mess tin of something burnt and barely edible. He took it, gave it a sniff, then a long look like he was deciding whether it was food or poison. 

His gaze drifted to your hands, but didn’t comment. He just stared quietly like he was counting each of the fresh bruises blooming. 

Then he said: “You beat the convoy back.” 

You shrugged, too fast. “Cairo’s nice and all, but it’s not exactly relaxing when everyone wants to get pissed or married.” 

“So you ran back to hell for peace and quiet, eh?” 

You tried to keep the grin from tugging at your mouth. “You’re one to talk.” 

He chewed a mouthful of whatever he was eating, then said nothing. But you could feel him watching, not just your hands, but also the way you stirred the pot, and the twitch in your shoulders. 

“Figured you might’ve needed a cook,” you added, too breezy. 

Something loosened in his shoulders. And still, he kept staring. 

The fire chewed through wood between you. Shadows flicked against his face, catching in the hollows under his eyes, the growing scruff that looked like it had won a fight against a razor. He hadn’t shaved, probably hadn’t slept either. His shirt was dust-crusted, collar half-undone, the same way he always looked after vanishing into the dunes for too long. He didn’t talk, just ate like it was a chore and you were the punishment. 

Then he spoke, finally. “You punched a camel?” 

You grinned, too quick. Too pleased with yourself. “Street fight.” 

His eyebrow climbed, slightly, like he couldn’t tell if you were joking or confessing to a crime. 

“They started it,” you added. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Then, barely there, the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re a menace.” 

“Takes one to know one.” 

“Stirling pissed?” 

You gave a small nod. “Probably still polishing the paperwork right now.” 

“Good.” 

You glanced at him. He looked tired. Still Mayne, but duller, somehow. Blunted by something heavier than rage. You wanted to ask where he’d been, what he’d seen, but instead you said, “You missed the chance to see me in a skirt.” 

“Can’t imagine that.” 

“You’d be surprised.” 

He looked at you then, like the desert had dropped away for a second. His gaze lingered a moment too long. 

“Maybe,” he said, voice lower now. “But I think I prefer this version.” 

Your throat tightened. You didn’t know what to say to that. So you stabbed a bean instead. He leaned back, arms stretched behind him, face turned slightly your way. 

“You ever think,” he murmured, “you’re more dangerous now than when you first got here?” 

“Why? Because I have a knife and short hair?” 

He didn’t laugh, not really, just let out a dry, throaty sound that might’ve been one once. “Nah, ‘cause you’ve stopped pretending you’re not here.” 

There was a beat. 

“Reckon that’s when people get lethal.” 

And you didn’t know what to say to that either. 

So you both sat, bruised and burnt and barely talking. But something had shifted, not fixed, not better, but different. And you wondered if the next explosion wouldn’t come from a bomb, but from whatever the hell this was. 

The fire was already lit when you woke. The kettle was on, something was bubbling. Something that smelled like regret and old tins. 

You sat up slowly, body aching in the usual places. You rubbed your eyes, blinked blearily at the firelight, and saw him crouched over it. His back was facing you. Shirt clinging to his spine, hair a tangled mess, beard even worse. 

He hadn’t noticed you yet, or maybe he had. Hard to say with Mayne. 

He hadn’t slept in camp. You’d known that before you saw his boots, still soiled with the red dirt from miles out. Something in him had stayed out there, somewhere in the sand. 

Still, he made breakfast. Two tins, badly warmed. He set down the spoon and straightened. Then turned to hand you the tin like it wasn’t an offering. He sat opposite, elbows on knees, looking not at you but just past the desert. 

“I didn’t poison it,” he said. 

“Shame.” You took it anyway. 

Both of you ate in silence. The sky turned from sand-colored to something almost blue. The bread was stale, and the tea tasted like a spoonful of ash in hot water, but you ate it without complaint. 

He glanced up once. “You still sleep like you’re waiting for something to go wrong.” 

“I am.” 

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. It stayed quiet until you shifted on the bench, adjusting your boot, and muttered something under your breath about the sand getting everywhere. 

“What was that?” He asked. 

“Nothing.” 

“Sounded like bitching.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “You trying to start something?” 

He didn’t answer. Instead he stood, stretched, and rolled his shoulders with that lazy predator air that always set you on edge. 

“So,” he said. “You’re shite at brawling.” 

“Excuse me?” You blinked. 

He glanced down at your knuckles, then back up. “Judging by the state of your hand, I’m guessing you throw punches like someone who’s never been properly hit back.” 

“I landed three.” 

“You landed one . Bet the other two were flailing and hoping.” 

“It worked, didn’t it?” 

He shrugged, slow and unimpressed. “Aye. So does a headbutt, if you don’t mind the bleeding.” 

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. 

He tossed the knife once, caught it by the hilt, and offered it. You took it, weighed it in your palm. It was heavier than yours, slicker, and used. 

“Since you’re not allowed a gun, thought I’d teach you something useful.” 

“What is this, penance?” 

“Consider it insurance. Or boredom.” 

His smile was the dangerous kind, a twitch of mouth that didn’t reach his eyes. He brushed the dust off his trousers, then rolled his sleeves. That same old cocky edge humming through him. 

“Come on. You drive like the devil, let’s see if you can fight like him too.” 

You circled each other with no formality. Mayne with his fists, and you with a knife, sore muscles, and suspicion. 

He lunged. You dodged, barely. 

“Too slow,” he muttered. 

Again, you took another step. He grabbed your wrist, twisted. 

“Ow — Christ.” 

“Still five seconds late.” 

You swore and yanked back. You both moved again, the dust curling around you like smoke. He didn’t hold back, not really. It was just enough to avoid breaking bones, maybe. 

“You’re holding your stance like a bloody mannequin.” 

“Sorry,” you snapped, “I left my ballet shoes back in Cairo.” 

“Try not to look like you’re apologising every time you throw a hit.” 

“I’m not—” 

“Then do something.” 

You did. You lunged, wild and desperate. 

But he caught you. Slammed you down into the sand hard enough to knock the breath out of you. You lay there a beat, with his weight pressing down, hand still locked around your wrist, knife at your throat but not cutting. His breath was in your ear, harsh, close. 

“Again?” he asked, voice low. 

You shoved him off. “Fuck you.” 

He grinned, teeth bared. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” 

You tried. Again and again. Every round had more sweat and more dirt. More pieces of whatever the hell this was between you rising to the surface. You saw it in the way he moved, how he held back, then didn’t. 

You struck again and missed. He caught your wrist, twisted, just shy of cruel. 

“Still too slow.” 

“You teaching or trying to break something?” 

He came close again. “Break something, then teach it how not to snap next time.” 

You wanted to hit him. God, you wanted to. He saw it in your face. 

That grin, that knowing fucking grin. “There it is.” 

“There what?” 

“That twitch. That heat. Same look Eoin had when he got caught lying. All quiet and stiff like your own skin doesn’t fit.” 

You froze. He saw it and pushed harder. 

“Don’t pretend you don’t feel it. The guilt. The weight.” 

“You don’t get to say his name like that.” 

“I say his name however I fucking want.” 

You lunged, not with the knife, just with your whole body. You shoved him. But he barely moved. 

“You think you’ve got the monopoly on grief?” You spat. “You think I don’t carry it too?” 

He shoved back harder. “I know you do. That’s the fucking problem.” 

You stumbled, caught yourself. The knife was still in your hand. Your pulse was wildfire. 

“You want me to say it?” You hissed. “That I should’ve died instead?” 

“No,” he said, low and bitter. “I want to stop seeing him every time I look at you.” 

You froze. “What?” 

“You want to be him?” he barked. “You act like him, talk like him. Hell, you wait like him, but you’re not.” 

You could barely see, because everything suddenly blurred. Your skin was hot, breath short, throat dry. “And that bothers you?” 

He stepped closer. His eyes were dark. “Bothers me that I can’t figure out if I want to train you or strangle you.” 

“Maybe both,” you spat. 

He raised his hands. “Come on, then. Come on .” 

And you did. Knife up. Feet wrong. Balance off. The blade caught him, right across the side of his ribs. 

He hissed, sharp and real. He stumbled back. 

You dropped the knife like it had scorched you. “Shit. Paddy, I didn’t—” 

He looked at you wide-eyed for half a second. Then he pressed a hand to the blood. It was not a deep cut, but bleeding all the same. 

You stepped forward, shaking. “Let me—” 

“No.” 

“I didn’t mean to—” 

“I know .” His voice was low but not angry. 

You looked down at your hands, shaking. “I’m sorry.” 

He stepped back, wiping blood from the shallow graze across his ribs. “ Christ ,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “You don’t even know your own strength.” 

“I said I was sorry.” 

His face was unreadable, but everything in the line of his jaw said he wasn’t done. He stepped forward, chest almost touching yours now. “You don’t get it, do you? Every bloody time you walk into a room, I brace for his voice. Every time you look at me like I’m the enemy, I hear him telling me I’m not.” 

Your throat clenched, you shook your head. “I didn’t ask for that.” 

“You didn’t have to.” 

His voice was breaking now. “I’ve been going out there,” he said. “Every night. To where we left him.” 

“What?” 

“West ridge. Past the outcrop. He’s still there. I sleep beside what’s left of him. Dig with my bare hands like it’ll make up for not dragging him back the first time.”

You couldn’t speak. 

“I laid him to rest.” His eyes were glass now. “No cross, no prayer. Just sand and sky, and me.” 

You wanted to say something, anything, but all you could do was stand there. Knife limp in your hand, as if the truth had knocked the air out of you. 

“You think this war gives a shit about our grief?” He growled. “It doesn’t. It eats it. And I let it eat me, because I thought maybe it’d leave him alone.” 

He turned, just a half-step. 

“I don’t want to hate you,” he muttered. “But sometimes — sometimes you make it easy.” 

The knife slipped from your hand and hit the sand. You didn’t reply. Couldn’t reply. Because ‘ me too’ was right there, just under your tongue. You waited for him to walk off again. Vanish into the dunes like he always did when the world got too sharp. But he didn’t. 

So you moved, silently, slowly. Picked up the knife from the sand and brushed the grit from the blade with trembling fingers. Then walked past him, brushing his shoulder with yours and knelt by the crate. You grabbed the tin of boiled water. Gauze. A strip of clean cloth. 

“Sit,” you said. 

He didn’t answer, but after a beat, you heard the crunch of boots behind you, the groan of old bones settling on a crate. He grunted low when he lowered himself down. 

You wet the cloth and pressed it gently to the wound. He flinched. 

“Serves you right,” you muttered, almost to yourself. 

He huffed. “You’re the one with the blade.” 

“You’re the one who pushed.” 

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t say anything at all. 

You cleaned the wound carefully, methodically. Your hands had steadied again, but something in your chest hadn’t. 

“I’m sorry.” You said, quietly, for the hundredth time. 

He didn’t flinch this time. Just let out a breath through his nose. “I know.” 

It landed like a truce. 

The fire casted orange over the cut of his jaw. His beard had grown wild, and you wanted to say something about it. About him . About the way he looked more man than soldier tonight. But the words stayed in your throat, and you didn’t want to let anything else slip out wrong. 

You sat back, wrapping the gauze tight, then tore the end and tied it off. 

“You done?” 

You nodded. 

He didn’t get up. Instead, he reached out — slow and tentative — and ran a hand over the edge of your hair, where it curled awkwardly at the base of your neck. His fingers were rough, warm. 

“It suits you.” 

You swallowed. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“Neither do I.” 

The space between you shrank and thickened. His hand slipped from your hair to your jaw, thumb grazing your cheekbone like he was trying to memorise something he’d already forgotten once. 

When you looked up, he was already looking at you. 

And for a second, you thought he might close the distance. Might do something reckless and wrong and real. But then he sighed, not out of frustration or regret. Something softer, like surrender. 

His arms came around you. Not hungry, not rough, just firm, solid.  A squeeze so tight it knocked something loose in you. You buried your face into his shoulder. He didn’t say a word. He held you for a breath too long and then let go to turn away. And like always, left you with everything unspoken still burning behind your teeth.

Chapter Text

“I swear to Christ, if you farted in that truck one more time—” 

“Wasn’t me, it was Cooper.” 

“Cooper’s been asleep for the last two hours.” 

“So? Man farts in his sleep. Ain’t a crime.” 

You didn’t get up when you heard them. Just sat near the fire while stirring something vaguely edible in the mess tin and bracing for impact. The camp had been too quiet for too long. That was about to change. 

The first boot hit the ground like a punchline. Seekings barrelled out of the truck, all dust and noise and limbs too long for his own good. 

“Still alive, are you?” he bellowed. “Thought maybe Paddy got sick of the company and left your bones in the sand.” 

“Charming,” you called back, deadpan. “Remind me to write that on your grave.” 

Cooper stumbled out next, hat askew, shirt half-unbuttoned. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” you said. “Just peace. Quiet. Sanity.”

Riley came after, face sunburnt, complaining about everything from the heat to the sand to the way Seekings breathed. Fraser was last.

“Miss me?” he said.

“Not even a little.”

He dropped beside you, shoulder bumping yours.

“And yet you kept my spot warm.”

“You’re replaceable,” you muttered, but you didn’t move.

Truth was, you had missed him. The ridiculous banter, the shoulder nudges, the way he filled the air with noise and made it easier to breathe.

But there was something strange about seeing everyone again. The camp felt smaller now. Or maybe too full. Mayne was still around — distant, somewhere — but it wasn’t just the two of you anymore. No more quiet meals. No more bruises and silences that meant something.

Fraser followed your gaze, past the fire, to the edge of camp where Mayne stood with his back to you, arms crossed, sunglasses on even though the sun was slipping low.

“Christ,” Fraser muttered. “You two finally kill each other while we were gone, or just get weird about it?”

You blinked. “What?”

He grinned, elbowing you lightly. “You’ve got that look.”

You snorted. “Maybe I always got that look.”

He stood, brushing dust from his trousers. “Exactly.”

They came like sandstorms. Loud, fast, and with far too much gear for people who’d allegedly parachuted in. The men stood in the back, steady despite the rough terrain. They rolled in like they had something to prove.

And that was their first mistake.

Twenty of them in total. Shouting across each other in French. They were mostly lean, sun-worn, and carried themselves like they’d been born in smoke and gunpowder.

“They pack like priests,” Mayne muttered beside you. “Look at that.”

“They’re not priests,” you said.

“They’re French.”

You didn’t reply. But you kept watching.

The chatter around camp said it had been a woman’s doing, at least partly — a French spy who managed to get under David Stirling’s skin. No one got past Stirling. Except, apparently, a woman with the right cause and a stubborn streak made of forged steel.

You watched him now, Stirling. Tall and rigid by the edge of camp, his uniform was immaculate even in the desert heat. His mouth a flat line, his eyes half-shadowed by the brim of his cap as he studied the newcomers. He didn’t look pleased. But he didn’t look surprised, either.

You turned. Stirling stood beside you. He always spoke like he didn’t want to waste a breath. “You speak French,” he said.

You nodded. 

“Good. Most of them don’t speak English.” His eyes didn’t move from the French troops. “Keep an ear out. Let me know if anyone sounds off.”

You raised a brow. “Spying on our new friends?”

“ Observing ,” he corrected. Then added, “And keep an eye on Mayne.”

You looked at him then. He still hadn’t looked at you. “Why me?”

“You’re the only one he listens to. Sometimes.”

You wanted to argue with that, but you didn’t have the energy for the lie. 

He nodded once and walked off, already shifting toward another task, another moving part. That was Stirling: always two steps ahead, always half-removed from the thing he’d built.

You turned back to the newcomers. They were still shouting over each other. One of them had already found a crate to sit on like he owned it. Another was trying to light a cigarette against the wind. They moved with the confidence of men who knew how to lose everything, and still chose to come back.

Georges Bergé looked like he’d been carved out of sheer determination. When he spoke English, it was thick with a French accent.

“These men,” he said, “are not trained like yours. But they are fighters. They will give you everything they have.”

Stirling’s expression didn’t budge. “They’ll need it.”

Bergé raised a brow. “You have someone to train them?”

Stirling’s reply was immediate. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Toward Mayne. Who, unsurprisingly, looked absolutely thrilled by the idea.

Bergé gave a short laugh. “That one?”

Stirling only said, “You wanted a madman.”

Bergé gave a slow nod, clapped his hands once like settling a bet, then turned back toward his men. Already barking something in French about formation and standing up straight like real soldiers . The sand hadn’t even settled behind him when you felt a shift at your shoulder.

Mayne. Still dust-covered from wherever he’d been brooding, beard thicker, boots unpolished. He looked at Stirling, not at you. Not yet.

Stirling turned. “You’ll lead it.”

The pause that followed was too long for comfort. Too short to stop. Mayne’s jaw ticked. “No.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.” Stirling’s voice was quiet. It always was. But there was an edge in it now. 

Mayne crossed his arms. “So you can go rack up the next score while I teach French boys to shoot straight?”

His tone was low, not mocking, just bitter. Not toward the French. Toward what he’d lost.

You saw Stirling’s jaw tighten, a single muscle twitching. “Lewes isn’t here,” he said. “That means it’s you.”

That landed hard. Not because it was cruel, but because it was true. And it didn’t need to be said, not really. You all knew it.

Mayne didn’t argue again. He didn’t nod, didn’t salute. He just turned and walked. The way he always did, when grief sat too heavy on his shoulders to wear like a uniform.

You stood there, watching him disappear into the gold of the evening. 

You had several jobs now: translator, liaison, watcher of volatile men and one very volatile commanding officer.

Wonderful.

None of the lads liked the French.

Not outright, but it hung in the air. It was stiff and sour. Sharing camp with them felt like being told to split a foxhole with strangers who didn’t know how to breathe right. They were too loud, too polished, and too unfamiliar.

And still, you watched. From the edge, like always.

Twenty French paratroopers. Bergé’s hand grenades. You could feel it in how they stood: ready to go off, even at rest. Most were loud. A few were too quiet. And they weren’t just French, though. The unit was a mess of exile and desperation. It wasn’t a regiment. It was a rebellion sewn into uniform.

It wouldn’t have been surprising if they started letting women in next. Wouldn’t have minded, either. Would’ve been nice to have company who didn’t piss standing up.

But two stood out. Both German-born. Stern. Clean movements. Always together. They didn’t laugh when the others did, didn’t relax. They watched everything. You clocked it early. The way their boots were polished too clean, how their hands never strayed far from their belts.

You didn’t speak to them. Not yet. But you remembered their faces. Watched how the others moved around them. 

Instead, you found someone else. Jordan.

He looked like someone had plucked a violinist from a recital hall and dropped him from a plane. Tall, bony, and too clean. His glasses smudged from nerves or dust, or probably both. He smiled when he saw you, polite, cautious, the kind of man who apologised before speaking.

“Your accent is good,” he said in French.

You talked for a moment. Nothing serious. Just the kind of banal exchange people make when they’re not ready to mean anything yet. Then you moved on, back toward the supply truck, where someone had left a boot full of sand.

Mayne stood near the tent line. He looked different in the light. Not softer, not really, but tired in a way he wouldn’t admit. The beard had grown uneven, like he’d stopped caring halfway through. His eyes were dark again. Always watching.

You brushed past him.

He didn’t turn his head, just spoke low. “French sounds better from you.”

You almost tripped. “Pardon?”

“Your French.” He glanced sideways, like it was a crime to say it. “Could’ve sworn you were born on a vineyard.”

“That was dangerously close to a compliment.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

You turned to face him properly, and you stood there, just a few feet apart. Wind curling between you, shifting sand at your boots. Somewhere, someone shouted a command in French.

“He’d hate this too, you know,” you said.

His eyes flicked to yours.

“Lewes,” you added.

He didn’t speak right away. When he did, his voice had a rawness to it.

“Aye,” he said. “But he’d have known how to do it right.”

Tension rippled between you. Not quite grief. Not quite desire. Something messier, hungrier.

His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second too long.

Then, like it meant nothing, he muttered, “Tomorrow. Don’t fuck off somewhere.”

And just like that, he was gone. Swallowed by the firelight and noise.

You turned back to the French troops. Their campfire flickered bright. Their laughter didn’t quite reach you. You sat on a crate nearby and watched them quietly, studying every twitch and smile, until the night settled back into place around you.

By nightfall, they were half-settled. French in one corner, SAS in the other. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just waiting. Someone was singing softly in French. A hymn, you think. One of theirs.

You didn’t join in.

“You know,” you muttered to Fraser as he checked his rifle, “if Churchill’s son dies on this trip, we’re all going to end up hung for treason.”

He snorted. “Not if Stirling throws him in first.”

Then they were gone — every one last of them — bound for Benghazi with Stirling and the Prime Minister’s golden boy, Randolph. Off to write headlines. While you stayed behind. With Mayne. And twenty French paratroopers who smelled like leather, sand, and bruised egos.

Mayne didn’t hide his disdain. He led the briefing with his arms crossed, chewing on a matchstick, not bothering to pretend he wanted to be there.

“You sure they’re soldiers?” he muttered. “Look like a rugby team lost in the wrong desert.”

You said nothing. Just adjusted your notes and translated the drill orders as cleanly as you could. You mostly stood near the back, arms folded, trying to blend with the dunes. When the French hesitated, you stepped in.

“Line up,” you barked in French. “Back straight. Eyes forward. Don’t faint.”

They nodded. Too eager. Too trusting.

Mayne stood shirtless in the punishing sun, his olive-drab shirt wrapped around his head like a mad prophet's crown. His dog tags glinted against his sweat-slicked chest with every movement, the chain digging slightly into the sunburned skin at the back of his neck. From your perch on the ridge, you could trace every rope of muscle along his back as he gestured violently at the French recruits — they flexed when he heaved a sandbag onto his shoulder to demonstrate, then vanished when he let it drop at their feet in a cloud of dust.

He looked completely unhinged. The mirrored sunglasses he wore reflected the terrified faces of the French commandos back at themselves as he barked orders.

It didn't stop you from watching though.

The heat had teeth. And by midmorning, it was gnawing through tempers, pride, and whatever sense of unity these men had managed to pack in their kit. Discipline? Gone. Burnt off like sweat. The drills collapsed into barking, then the barking into snarls. 

And that was before Mayne split them down the middle. The tension cut through the air like a fresh-bladed knife.

“What are we doing?” someone asked. In French.

“Building towers,” Mayne said, barely glancing at them. He swayed slightly where he stood. Still wore his sunglasses. Still smelled like whiskey and the desert. “Two teams. One tower each. Three storeys. High enough to count. First to finish wins.”

There were no rules. Just spite and bad architecture.

They didn’t like it. That much was obvious. Half of them turned to you for clarity. The other half muttered under their breath. You translated anyway.

The materials were a mess: warped timber, frayed rope, rusted brackets. A scrapyard challenge in full sun. But still, they moved. Reluctantly. Urgently. Sweat already darkening the backs of their shirts.

One team worked fast. Barked orders, tried to imitate army drills. The other team moved in fits and starts, efficient when they weren’t being ignored. They were building towers, but what they really wanted was to tear something down.

Jordan stuck close to you, panting from the heat, trying to give some sort of support to the other team, until someone shouted at him to stop helping “ les autres .” His face pinched. He didn’t respond, just drifted off behind the crates again.

You didn’t miss the way Mayne sat above it all. High on the ridge like some hungover god of war, smoking and watching and not giving an inch. His jaw was locked. His right hand twitched near his holster more than once. He wasn’t just testing them. He was waiting for them to break.

You walked up the slope.

“You’re drunk,” you said, low.

He didn’t look away. “And they’re still slower than piss uphill.”

“They’re soldiers, not circus monkeys.”

“They’re men who want to kill Nazis,” he said, voice flat. “They don’t get to whine about splinters.”

You exhaled through your nose. “You’re going to break them.”

“Aye.” He took another drag. “That’s the point.”

Below you, one tower tilted too far left. The French team yelled in panic and scrambled to prop it up. A plank cracked. Two men fell off, shouting curses. The tower held. Barely.

The other team was quieter. Focused. The German, Essner, used a ration tin to measure height increments. Another man kept the ropes steady. But the tension didn’t ease. It just simmered.

You looked at Mayne again, sunburnt, shirt open at the neck, knuckles scraped. He didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. Just sat there, daring the whole world to flinch first. 

He eventually fired first.

The crack of the shot ricocheted off the hill. Sharp, ringing, too damn close. It didn’t hit anyone. But it didn’t miss by much, either.

One of the French recruits flinched so hard he dropped the plank he’d been hauling. The others hissed under their breath, barely keeping the tower from tipping again. No one said anything loud enough for Mayne to hear. They’d learned better.

Another shot. This one skimmed wide, deliberately, maybe. He was loading fresh rounds like he was swatting flies. One after another, calm as a metronome.

“Up faster!” he barked, his accent thicker now, rawer. “If it falls, I’ll make you start over. From the fucking sand.”

They didn’t understand the words, but at least they understood the threat.

You stood behind him on the ridge, arms crossed, watching the sweat bead along his spine. He paced barefoot in the sand, chewing a matchstick down to pulp, snarling at gravity like it was a personal insult.

And then, without turning. “You going to stare all day?”

Your heart lurched. For a split second, you thought he’d caught you watching the way his shoulder blades moved, the muscle flex in his back every time he raised the rifle. But he nodded past you. Toward the French.

“Or tell me what they’re saying when they think I can’t hear?”

You hesitated, then stepped closer, swallowing your pride and the dry heat clinging to your throat.

“They say you’re a madman. That this training makes no sense.”

“Aye. And?”

“And that if you get them killed over some bloody scraps, they’ll mutiny before the Germans get the chance.”

He spat the matchstick out. “Good.”

Then he walked again. Always pacing and watching. Like a caged dog pretending the bars weren’t there. Every few minutes — bang . Another round. Another flinch. Once, the bullet hit dead center on a crate. The wood exploded in splinters. One of the recruits shouted something in panic French and dropped to the ground.

“Pick it up!” Mayne bellowed.

They scrambled.

You took a step forward. “ Je sais, c’est de la folie, mais —”

“I don’t need you to translate,” he snapped, suddenly. Loud. Sharp enough to turn heads.

You flinched.

“They’ll understand when they hit the ground.”

His voice was colder now. Measured. Almost dead.

He didn’t even look at you when he said it. Just reloaded. You stood there for a moment, letting the silence after his words settle like dust. Around you, the towers groaned and swayed. Men cursed softly in French. A plank cracked under the pressure.

Still, Mayne paced.

Still, he shouted.

Still, they moved.

And you just stared at his back and thought: What are you doing ? Was it grief? Was it guilt? Or had he finally run out of things to blame you for — and decided twenty strangers were a better target?

Whatever it was, it was eating him alive. And if you didn’t stop this soon, it’d take the rest of them too.

“Mayne,” you called out, loud enough to carry over the wind and shifting crates.

He didn’t turn.

“Paddy.”

That made his head tilt. Not all the way, just enough to show he’d heard.

You stepped down the ridge toward him, slower than you felt. Your chest was tight, heat and tension knotting around your ribs.

“What the hell are you trying to prove?”

His jaw tightened. “They want to wear the badge. They better earn it.”

“They’re not us,” you said, careful. “They haven’t been through what we’ve been through.”

“They’ve got mouths, don’t they? Legs? Guns?” He threw an arm toward the chaos below. “Then they can run, they can carry, they can fight. Or they can fuck off back to France.”

Something cracked then. Not in his voice, but in the air between you. The look in his eyes wasn’t just fury. It was pain. Exhaustion. Something older and much, much heavier.

You stood your ground. You always did with him. “What are you so angry about?” You asked. Enough to sting.

He stared at you, breathing hard. Like he could burn the words off your skin. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

“Then who does?”

He didn’t answer.

“Is this what you want now?” You asked. “To be feared? To go out in a blaze of fuck-all glory because it’s easier than grief?”

He didn’t even blink. “Better than pretending it doesn’t exist.”

“And this? This is the alternative? Torching the whole desert down with you?”

“I didn’t ask for a shadow,” he said. “Didn’t ask for someone who looks at me like they know better.”

“I don’t know better,” you hissed. “I just know you’re not the only one hurting.”

“Then fucking act like it.”

You stared at each other. The kind of stare that could unmake a person. Your fists clenched, every breath like it scraped bone.

And then it happened; movement at the edge of the ridge. Jordan. Too eager, too naive. His glasses crooked from the run, one hand up in truce, the other gripping a revolver like it was a white flag. You didn’t even know he had one. Maybe he brought it for protection, maybe it was just habit. Either way it was a mistake.

But Mayne saw him. Fast. In a blink, Mayne had him.

Jordan yelped, barely a sound, before Mayne slammed him into the dirt, fast and brutal. Knee in his back, arm twisted. He didn’t use the rifle this time.

He took the revolver. Jordan’s revolver.

“Wait!” You shouted, lunging forward, but you didn’t reach him in time.

Mayne didn’t answer. He just stood over the boy, revolver in hand. Turned it once. Checked the weight like it was a cigarette case.

Then calmly cracked the chamber open and dumped the bullets into his palm.

All but one.

“No—” you started, stepping forward again.

But he was already lifting it to his own head with no hesitation. Like it wasn't a performance, just muscle memory, like he’d done this before. Like it was safer than talking.

And then, just like you’d seen before, his voice dropped low. Reciting. “ I am the master of my fate, ” he spun the chamber. “ I am the captain of my soul .”

Click . Nothing.

A dry breath escaped your chest. Your stomach lurched, but he just rolled his neck, loose, almost disappointed. He reloaded the single bullet. Spun the chamber again. And this time, turned it toward Jordan.

The poor bastard had gone paper-white. Arms stiff in the air. “Vous êtes malade,” he stammered. “Vous êtes complètement fou—”

Mayne’s finger rested on the trigger. His arms were steady.

You moved. You didn’t think. You just moved. Shoved past the rise, stepped between them, and grabbed the revolver. His hand still warm on the grip. Your heart was pounding so loud it hurt. You held it tight. Lifted it. To your own head.

“Don’t,” he said, voice suddenly sharp. 

You stared back. “You want a ghost? I’ll give you one.”

His face changed, just for a flicker. Shock. Real, raw panic.

Your breath trembled in your chest. You didn’t know what the hell you were doing. Maybe you wanted to scare him. Maybe you wanted to end something in you. You didn’t know. “I’ll do it. I swear to God—”

You started to press the trigger.

But Mayne moved, fast. Ripped the barrel from your temple and wrenched it away just as the gun fired.

It shot wide. A blast into the sand. Smoke curled into the air.

You stood frozen. Your ears rang. Your vision blurred.

He gripped your wrist, hard, as if making sure you were still there. Your legs buckled. The revolver fell. The world shrank.

You looked at him, eyes wide, throat dry, chest cracking open. And then the panic hit. Not just fear, it was a collapse. Your lungs stopped cooperating. Your hands shook. The ground tilted. You turned, staggered back. Dropped to the ground with your hands over your head. You couldn’t breathe.

Every sound became too much. Every breath too sharp. Your heartbeat thundered behind your eyes.

“You’re alright,” you heard him say, distant, as if underwater. “Hey,”

But you couldn’t move.

You sat in the sand, crumpled like paper, shaking so hard your teeth rattled. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t speak. The air wouldn’t come.

He stayed anyway. One hand hovering over your back. Not sure what to do. Not sure how to fix what he broke. But he knelt beside you. Not touching. Just there. And for once — for once — he didn’t say a word.

Chapter Text

The shot still rang in your head. Not hours later — minutes . Maybe even seconds. Echoing somewhere between your ribs like it had dwelled itself in to stay.

The ridge was silent now. The towers abandoned mid-build, wood half-stacked, ropes trailing like snapped nerves. The French had stopped pretending to work. Jordan had peeled away in a daze, slipping downhill like he wasn’t sure his legs still worked. No one looked at either of you. No one dared.

You sat on the groun with your knees drawn up, arms crossed tight. Still in the spot where it happened. Your fingers twitched, a restless, broken rhythm. Like they couldn’t forget the feel of the revolver. Of his hand clamping down over yours.

The way his eyes had gone wide. Not with rage, not madness. But Fear. Real fear. The kind that doesn’t bluff. The kind you don’t fake even if you wanted to.

You didn’t hear him approach. “Water,” he muttered, crouching beside you. 

You stared at the canteen he held out. He didn’t shove it at you, just waited. His knuckles still looked bloodless from gripping too hard.

You didn’t reach out. Couldn’t. The shaking hadn’t stopped.

He sat down next to you. A few inches away. Close enough that you could hear his breathing, see the line of dried sweat running down his neck. Still shirtless. Still smudged with powder and sand.

“They think we’re mad,” you whispered.

He grunted. “Aye. Well. They’re not wrong.”

It wasn’t a joke, but you let out a sound anyway. Something short and cracked. “I scared them.”

“You scared me .”

You turned sharply. He wasn’t looking at you, just rubbing his fingers over the beard on his chin like it itched him more than usual. The cut on his ribs was still bleeding a little, but he hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care.

“I didn’t mean to—” you stopped. Didn’t even know what you were apologising for. “It wasn’t just the gun.” Your voice came out small. “I just wanted it to stop. All of it.”

He still didn’t look at you. But his jaw shifted. Clenched, then released. “You think I did it ‘cause I wanted to die?”

You blinked at him.

He turned then. Face unreadable. “No. I did it because I needed to feel something sharp. Something louder than the rest.”

Your throat squeezed. Your eyes burned. It hit you all at once; the gun, the ridge, the French faces twisted in disbelief. His hand. Your hand. The click.

And the almost .

The tears came without warning. You didn’t sob. Didn’t move. Just let them fall like your body had given up trying to hold it all in.

“I should’ve died,” you said. “Not Eoin. Not Lewes. Me .”

He didn’t interrupt. Just stared at the ground like it had answers.

“I’m so fucking tired of carrying ghosts,” you whispered. “Of proving myself to men who won’t see me. Of pretending I’m part of something I was never invited to. And now I’ve got blood on my hands, and a memory of a bullet that should’ve ended me.”

Something shifted in his posture. His shoulder brushed yours. He didn’t pull away.

“You don’t get to act like that just because you loved him,” you blurted.

That did it. His eyes snapped to yours. Unblinking. Exposed in a way he never let himself be.

You swallowed. Too far. Maybe too cruel. But it was out now, and you couldn’t shove it back in.

“You think I didn’t see it?” You asked, quieter now. “The way you looked at him. The way you look at me when you’re trying not to.”

He stared like you’d cracked something open. “I didn’t want you to carry this,” he said, voice low.

“But I did,” you replied. “And so did you.”

Neither of you moved. Not for a long time.

And then, without asking, he reached out. Touched your hair. His fingers barely brushed it, but you felt it like a pulse. A squeeze. A breath.

Then he pulled back.

And left you there, staring into nothing, full of everything.

The towers still stood.

Slanted crates, fraying ropes, and sun-bleached canvas stitched into a structure that looked like it had no business surviving the wind. And yet, somehow, it did. Three stories tall, barely. Balanced on guts and spite.

By the time you got back from the ridge, the camp had quieted. Not in a peaceful way. More like the moment after an explosion, when everyone’s ears still rang and they weren’t sure if the danger had passed.

The French had gone back to work silently. No more shouting, no more posturing. Even the loudest ones were subdued. Something had shifted.

Jordan had melted back in with the paratroopers, pale and tight-jawed, clutching a mess tin he hadn’t touched. He didn’t look at you again. But the others did.

Not out of camaraderie. Not out of thanks. More like out of fear. They looked at you the same way they looked at him. At Mayne. Like you might be a fuse too.

You heard a mutter in rapid French, low, cautious. “ Ils sont pareils. ” Another voice replied, something clipped and sharp about mad bastards and English wars.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. You just stood a little straighter.

Mayne didn’t say anything either. He stood at the base of the structure, squinting up at it with his hands on his hips. He looked steadier now, somehow. Worn thin, but grounded. Like the violence had bled some weight off him.

His fingers were still red. His temple crusted with sweat. And still no shirt. The sun carved him into something jagged and real. A warning more than a man. He took a slow breath. Tapped his boot once against the sand. Then he barked: “Jump.”

That was it. One word, flung like a grenade.

The French froze. They glanced at each other, confused, bracing. Like they were waiting for the punchline. But none came. 

Mayne gave no elaboration. It wasn’t just about orders anymore. He wanted to know if they’d obey in spite of him.

One man moved. Halévy. Maybe he had something to prove. Maybe he just couldn’t bear standing still any longer. He walked forward, looked up at the tower like it might spit him back out, then climbed. Every crate groaned under his weight. The ropes swayed. He paused at the top, just long enough for silence to stretch too thin.

Then he jumped.

The landing was hard. Uneven. He rolled, coughed, and sat up — breathing.

That was all it took.

Another followed. Then two more. Then the rest, each hurling themselves from the tower like they were trying to shake off the fear clinging to their backs. They landed rough, but whole. They cheered for themselves. Not for Mayne. He didn’t smile. Didn’t clap. Just muttered “not bad” under his breath and turned away.

You stayed where you were. Outside the circle. Eyes scanning the French, noting how they still looked over their shoulders. How they still flinched when Mayne walked too close. How some of them looked at you with the same nervous edge, like you’d been infected by proximity.

And maybe you had. Your hands still trembled.

Jordan caught your eye again. His expression unreadable now. Not quite gratitude. Not quite suspicion. Just tired. He gave you a nod, small, tight. And you returned it.

It was only then, as the dust settled and the adrenaline thinned, that you heard it. The low rumble of trucks in the distance. Engines growling across the desert like thunder with teeth. The rest of the SAS were back.

Wheels kicked up sand. Radios crackled. The smell of petrol, heat, and triumph rolled over the camp in a wave. Stirling rode up front, sunglasses polished, face expressionless. Randolph Churchill stood beside him, sleeves rolled, smile smug, waving like he thought he was everyone’s victory.

They returned louder than they left.

Later the three of you stood by the briefing table — Stirling, Mayne, and you. Everyone else buzzed in a loose perimeter, pretending not to eavesdrop. Dust still clung to the folds of your uniform. You hadn’t had a chance to wash off the sweat. Not that it would’ve made a difference.

Stirling adjusted his sunglasses. “Benghazi’s done.”

Mayne lit a cigarette. Said nothing.

“We planted explosives in the harbour, at the fuel depots.” Stirling continued, “Got out without a single man lost. Damage reports should start rolling in any hour now. We left the Italians scrambling.”

You caught a flicker of something behind the glasses. Pride, maybe. Or something colder.

“And Randolph?” Mayne asked.

Stirling’s mouth twitched. “Delighted, naturally. Says he’ll push for more support. Equipment. Ammunition. Possibly even new trucks, if he can be bothered.”

“Brilliant,” Mayne muttered. “All we had to do was babysit his political ambitions.”

Stirling ignored that. “You’ll brief the French. Get them ready. If this keeps up, they’ll be joining the next op.” Then his tone shifted. “Now the French.”

Mayne exhaled smoke through his nose, slow and heavy. “Couple might hold. The rest’ll melt like piss on a skillet.”

Stirling glanced at you.

You cleared your throat. “They’re improving. Slowly.”

Mayne snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

Then, after a pause, he added, “There’s two I’ve got an eye on. The Germans. Look like they’re casing the place.”

Stirling arched a brow. “You think they’re plants?”

“I think they stare too much,” Mayne said, flicking ash onto the sand. “At me. At her. Like they’re waiting for something to slip.” He didn’t look at you when he said it. But the weight of it still landed.

You hesitated. Then added, “They keep to themselves. Don’t laugh. Don’t flinch.”

Stirling didn’t react much. Just stored the intel behind that still mask of his.

A sound drifted from the nearby tent, the soft, out-of-place tinkle of piano keys. Faint. Fumbling. Someone was trying to play. Whatever it was, it made Mayne’s entire posture changed.

His eyes sharpened, and in one silent movement, he flicked his cigarette into the sand and turned on his heel, stalking off, not toward the mess, or the barracks. Toward the tent with the piano.

Stirling watched him go. Then shifted slightly, not turning to you fully. “And him?”

“What about him?”

“Your observations,” he said, almost offhand. “He trusts you.”

You were not sure if that was a statement or a test.

“There’s tension,” you said carefully. “Between him and the French. Especially after the tower exercise. He’s,” you were trying to find the right word, “ pushing them.”

“And?”

“And I think he’s not trying to train them. Not really. He’s testing how much they’ll take.”

Stirling studied you. The desert wind tugged faintly at his sleeves.

“He’s angry,” you said. “And unpredictable.”

“But still here,” Stirling murmured. Then: “Keep him that way.”

You didn’t respond.

There were a hundred things you could’ve told him: about the russian roulette, the grief boiling beneath Mayne’s skin, the way you could still feel his hand wrapped over yours, dragging a bullet from fate. But you said none of it.

Instead, you just stood there. Watching dust trail behind him like smoke from something long burning. And you stayed still. In the emptiness of that tent.

Let the sweat dry sticky on your skin. Stared at your hands like they weren’t yours. Red-knuckled, dust-streaked. They trembled a little. Always did, now. Even when you held them still. Even when you told them to stop.

You let out a breath through your nose. It felt shallow, but it was enough. Prepared yourself to go back out. Brushed your hands off on your trousers and stepped out into the waning sun.

The base had settled into its usual late-afternoon rhythm, humming with the sounds of camp life winding down. The sun wasn’t quite down yet, but the gold had started to stretch long across the gravel. Shadows of canvas poles dragged.

Somewhere across the yard, the sound cut through, sharp and sudden. A crash. Then the unmistakable thud of someone hitting the ground. And then another.

Heads were turning toward the tent at the edge of camp. The one with the piano.

Inside, it was carnage. The air stank of sweat and dust and something sharp. French voices shouted, cracking in panic. A man staggered back against the wall, nose already bloodied, while another crawled on all fours, clutching his ribs.

And there, in the centre of it, was Mayne. Hunched like a wolf in the middle of a flock.

He had Essner by the collar. One fist wound tight in the man’s shirt, the other cocked and ready. His eyes were wild, somewhere between grief and rage.

The piano sat crooked behind them, lid thrown open. One of the paratroopers must’ve tried playing it. The keys were still vibrating, soft and sour.

“Merde, arrêtez, s’il vous plaît—” one of them begged.

“Hey,” you said, stepping in. Not shouting. Just being there. “They didn’t know.”

He didn’t look at you right away. His breath came hard through flared nostrils.

“They didn’t know, Paddy.”

Something cracked. Not in his knuckles, not in the air. Somewhere deeper. His fist loosened. Slowly, reluctantly, he released Essner, who collapsed into the arms of the others.

But before they could say anything to him, Mayne spat at the ground near their feet. A single word followed, spat in guttural French: “Insectes.” They flinched. One of them muttered merci in passing, eyes low. Another brushed past you with a nod of apology. You nodded back. I’m sorry, too , it said.

When they’d scattered, you followed him out into the dusk. His shoulders were still high, his jaw still locked. But his hands were shaking.

“That was you and Eoin, wasn’t it?” You asked softly. “The piano.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just kicked at the dirt, jaw flexing. But then, “Aye,” he said. Voice low. “He was teaching me.” He sniffed, looked down at his boots. “Couldn’t read a bloody note. Only played the same stupid song.”

You stayed quiet. Listening.

“He’d sit there. Right where that bastard was. Messing the keys up. Said I had pianist’s hands,” he scoffed. “Bastard.”

You watched him. Watched how he rubbed at his chest like something there still ached. Watched how he couldn’t meet your eyes, but couldn’t quite look away either.

Something shifted in him. His shoulders dropped just slightly. The fight drained from him, that was obvious. He looked at you then, really looked. And for a second, it was like he saw you for the first time.

Not the woman in uniform. Not the mouthy translator. Not the quiet shadow to his grief.

Just you.

The wind caught your hair. He didn’t look away. Not this time. His fingers twitched. Like he was thinking of reaching. Like he wanted to close the space between you and didn’t know how.

The moment stretched — taut, electric.

Chapter Text

Despite how still the camp was, the noise in your ribs hadn't gone anywhere and it was deafening. You couldn't really tell what it was. It could've been adrenaline, still dripping through, or it could've been something entirely worse, something lodged deeper — hollow, rattling, like a part of you had gone missing. 

And the worst part was that you weren't panicked, or anxious, not even unsettled. You were calm, somehow, in the middle of it. You caught yourself wondering if this was what acceptance meant, if the part that was fighting had already left, or maybe just stepped aside, folded its arms and said: fine, let's see how far this goes. 

You should've died today. That wasn't a theory, that was a fact. Maybe you still could. And you weren't scared, which, if you really thought about it, landed heavier than the thought of death itself. 

You looked down at your hands. They obeyed when you told them to, fingers curling, uncurling, like little soldiers, but they didn't feel exactly like yours. Not really. Your feet, too, they were just dull weights pressing into your cot, kind of pinned there, but not tethered to anything that felt real. 

You blinked, raised your hands again, and touched your face. Warm. Still here. You didn't feel relieved. 

You breathed through it a few times, then dragged the curtain aside and stepped into the cold night. Just to check. The campfire smoke sat low and heavy, laughter bleeding in from somewhere far off, along with plates clinking. As expected, no one was looking. 

Back inside, the tent smelled of antiseptic and damp cotton. You crouched, reached beneath the cot and pulled out the tin, opened it slow. The knife was there — Eoin's. You lifted it, balanced it in your palm, the edge catching the faintest slice of light. It was heavy, and somehow patient. Almost like it knew you'd come back eventually. 

Then you left outside again, still barefoot. You didn't bother to pick a direction, you didn't need one. You just let the wind lead and let the dark cradle you. You feel the sand slipping between your toes like silk, and you kept walking until the lights of the camp were no longer camp, just a soft smear of orange on the horizon. When you finally stopped, you were surrounded by nothing.  

You knelt back and sat on your heels, felt the wind graze over your skin. Your thighs were tucked under you, ankles buried deep in warm grains. You planted your palms flat to the earth, tried to lift it with your hands, but it slipped clean through your fingers. It knew better than to stay. 

For some reason you wanted to unbutton your shirt, so you did. One by one, slowly, until the collar fell slack around your shoulders. The air touched you wrong. It wasn't cold, but foreign. It was skimming over you like you weren't solid enough to catch it. 

The knife was still there in your hand, waiting. You turned it over in your palm, feel the sharp against your fingertip. The skin gave easily, a pinprick of red blossomed. A warning shot. 

You didn't know what you wanted. Maybe to bury it? To carve something permanent — a name, some line worth remembering? Or maybe you just wanted to see what was inside. God knew this skin didn't feel like it belonged to you anymore, so maybe you could prove it. 

Eoin's knife stared back at you. Then you set it to your chest in a dragging motion, slow enough to feel the steel parting skin. Heat bloomed under it, searing, and then the sting widened, darker, richer, a kind of pain that filled the hollow you'd been carrying all day. Blood welled fast, thick and sticky, running down your chest in uneven tracks. The proof of being alive finally made sense when it hurt. 

You didn't hear the footsteps from behind you, not until it was too late. There was a blur, sudden and violent. The knife was ripped from your hand, flung into the sand with a dull thud. It was wrenched so hard the blade scraped skin on its way out. Then hands, rough and real, closing around your face. Fingers smeared instantly with blood, your blood, dragged along your jaw, your cheeks. 

Mayne dropped to his knees in front of you, his eyes blown wide, chest rising like he'd sprinted the whole way. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" His voice cracked at the edges. "Are you out of your mind?" 

His thumbs pressed against your jaw, slippery, his breath sharp against your face. 

"You hear me?" His voice came lower this time. "What were you doing out here?" 

You didn't try to answer him. 

He shook you once, enough to snap the air around you. Your head jerked, your body catching up with itself. "I don't know." 

He stared at you, unblinking. His pupils were wide. His hair was a mess, strands caught by the wind. There were flecks of sand and blood on his hands, on his sleeves. "Jesus Christ—" 

"I wasn't going to do anything," you murmured. 

"Didn't look like nothing," he shot back, his voice cracked. "You were gone." 

His hands moved, restless. He let go of your face only to press his palm flat against your shoulder, then slide down to your arm, and your chest, over the cut. His hand came away red. He froze, staring at his own palm like he didn't recognize it, then shoved it back against you, desperate to cover the wound.  

You dropped your gaze. "Sorry." 

He didn’t respond. He just kept his hand there, pressing against the slick mess he couldn't stop. 

“I don’t know what happened,” you added, the words tumbling out. 

There was a silence, taut and breathless. Then, softer, almost begging: “Come back.”

“I am back.”

“No, you’re not.” His hand found your face again, rough thumb brushing your cheek. His skin was shaking. You didn’t lean into it. You didn’t pull away. You just stayed there, caught in the space between him and nothingness. 

His mouth twitched, the tension showing itself in tiny movements. “Christ,” he muttered, scanning you. “You’re freezing.”

Only then did you feel it, the cold biting into your arms, your legs, across the blood-slicked skin you’d left exposed. The desert night had crept up silently, but you knew he wasn’t talking about the air.

He shrugged off his jacket. Didn’t offer it with kindness. He just closed the space and threw it over your shoulders with a heavy snap, like he was dressing something already dead. His hand lingered to hold it shut against your chest. The fabric weighed you down. It smelled like him — everything unclean and alive.

"Come on," his voice was frayed at the edges. "You're done wandering the bloody dunes." There was no bark into it like how he usually carried himself. 

He offered his hand. You stared at it, red already drying in the cracks of his knuckles, streaked down his wrist. You took it anyway. Your own palm slid against his, slick, blood, sticking your skin into his. He pulled you up in one swift movement. Your knees buckled instantly, collapsing, but he caught you before you dropped. His hand dug into the crook of your elbow, steadying y ou. His jacket slipped on your shoulders with every movement, tugging at the gash across your chest, making you hiss. He didn’t let go. 

He just set his palm against your back, guiding you through the sand. Every step left a darker print behind you, blood soaking into the grains. He must have seen it, must have known how much you were losing, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t mention it.

He just set his palm against your back, guiding you through the sand. Every step left a darker print behind you, blood soaking into the grains. He must have seen it, must have known how much you were losing, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t mention it. 

By the time the lights of camp bled back into view, your body had gone numb, every step a weightless drag. He walked you past the tents. Shadows flickered in lamplight — Frenchmen turning to look, then quickly away. You just kept moving. 

He didn’t pause until the flap of the med tent. He held it open, and you stepped inside. 

You sank onto the cot, the jacket pulling, fabric sticking into your chest wound. When you shifted, it peeled away with a wet sound, strands of blood stretching and snapping before staining your lap. Paddy stayed standing by the flap, shoulders heaving, like he didn’t trust himself to move closer yet.

He didn't sit, he eventually kneeled, leaning slightly forward. His fingers hovered at the buttons of your shirt, moving slow at first, bracing for you to slap his hand away. You didn't. 

"Let me check," he said. 

He unfasted what you'd left undone. The fabric peeled open, where stiff blood had already dried into it. When the collar fell back, he spotted the nick immediately. High on the shoulder, jagged from where the knife had slipped. 

"You cut yourself," he said flat. 

You looked away. 

"Did you do anything else?" 

You shook your head. 

"You sure?" 

Another shake. 

He stared at the wound for a long time, you could see a muscle in his cheek jump. Then his gaze flicked up, pinning you in place. 

"You don't get to scare me like that." 

You risked a glance at him. His eyes were still hard, but there was something frayed around the edges. That Paddy Mayne kind of softness — the kind that looked like it hurt him to let it out.

“I wasn’t—” you started.

“Don’t.” His voice snapped. “Don’t say you weren’t going to. I’ve seen that look. I’ve had that look.”

You clutched the jacket tighter around you, and the motion pressed fabric into the wound. The sting flared hot. Funny how pain always waited its turn.

“You’re bleeding into my coat,” he said. Not unkindly.

You shrugged.

He yanked a strip of gauze from the tray, dunked it in a tin cup of water, then pressed it to your skin without warning. You hissed, jerking under his touch, but he held steady.  

“I don’t know what happened out there,” you said finally, voice thinner than you’d meant it to be.

He didn’t answer. Just pulled the cloth back, checked the wound, muttered something under his breath, and went at it again. He cleaned around the edges, careful in places, rough in others, like he was fighting himself not to shake. The gauze came away stained, blooming red in seconds, his knuckles slick with what leaked through.

You glanced at him.

He was still kneeling, still bent over your shoulder, glaring at the bandage like it had insulted him. His lips pressed tight. 

“I’ve seen a lot of mad things,” he said. His voice was lower now, quieter, but no less jagged. “Mad men. Mad war. Mad rules. But that—” he paused, tilting his chin toward your shoulder, toward you, “tonight, that was something else.”

“Worse?”

“No.” He shook his head once. “Not worse. Just closer.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” He cut across you like a blade. “That’s the worst part. You didn’t mean to, and you still scared the shite out of me.”

The words landed harder than the pressure on your wound. Something in you folded in, curling your knees closer, shrinking.

He saw it. And something inside him cracked further.

"Hey," he said, softer now. One hand came up, his thumb pressing faintly under your jaw, tracing the ridge. His grip was steady, but not tight. "You back yet?" 

There was something lodged in your throat. You couldn't answer. So you just stared at him, through him. His hands stayed firm against your face, anchoring you. And you should've looked away, and yet you didn't. 

Instead, you studied him. The twitch in his jaw, the shallow flare of his nostrils. The faint grind of his teeth like he was chewing on words he couldn't spit out. His brow pulled together, the knot of fury he always wore. Only now there was something else beneath it, some kind of lightness you weren't used to, a softness that didn't belong to him. It almost looked admirable, and it made you want to look away, because the thoughts crept in sharp and uninvited: maybe he was only wearing this softness for you, maybe you'd forced him into it and you couldn't live with that. 

You swallowed. "Paddy, there's something I left out there." Your fingers dug into the jacket, wrinkling the fabric. "In the dunes." 

He tilted his head, there was a sort of brutal patience that he carried. 

"It was Eoin's knife," you said, your throat closing tight. "I took it that night, when I found him." The picture of his lifeless body burned hot in your skull. "Been carrying it like — like a bloody relic. Didn't even think about it until I was holding it and—" 

You choked on your words. He stayed silent, like he was letting you burn through it. 

"And his tags," you tried. "Still got those too. Still wake up thinking he's in the tent next to mine. Still hear him. Sometimes—" your voice faltered. "Sometimes in you." 

You said it too sharp, and you said it because you wanted to watch him break. Wanted to see what was left in him when you shoved the wound open. Anger, maybe, or rage, or something loud, something that would cut through the suffocating quiet between you.

And your words got something, a shift behind his eyes. Sadness, maybe, or understanding, maybe both. He looked at you for a long time. 

Finally, with a voice that sounded like it hurt. "You think I don't?" 

"I laid it on you, didn't I?" His tone cracked. "Didn't think, just needed someone to bleed for it. You were there, I wasn't. Simple as that." 

You wanted more, needed more from him. "You still see him when you look at me?" 

He exhaled. His hands were still on your face, but one started to move. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, dragging slow to your cheekbone, tracing your jaw like he was trying to memorise or erase it. His voice came quiet. "No, I used to. But not now." 

Maybe he believed it at the time, but you knew better. 

"I got it wrong," he said. "About you. About him, too. He wasn't some golden boy. He had his mess like the rest of us. You. Me. No saints around here." 

Your lip trembled. His thumb caught the corner of your mouth, then it drifted down, slowly. Like he knew he shouldn't, and couldn't stop himself anyway. His eyes had dropped now, locked on your mouth. His breath hitched when you swallowed. 

"You don't have to—” you tried, but the words dried once you saw the way he looked at you.

His breath stuttered. Shoulders braced, jaw clenched, chest rising hard like he was holding something caged inside. He leaned in, slow, so slow, enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his skin. But he didn't touch you, not yet. He just froze, like someone mid-detonation, like if he moved even a fraction further he'd never stop. 

“I want to,” he muttered. “But I won’t.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came. Just air.

He shook his head, sharp, like it burned. Like it physically hurt to pull back. “Christ,” he whispered, jaw flexing, “you’ve already got half of me buried in the bloody sand. I’m not giving you more to lose.”

He leaned back, exhaling rough, like it gutted him. His head tipped toward the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut like he was praying, or bargaining, or punishing himself. His hands scraped down his face, then locked at the back of his neck like he was trying to wring the heat out of himself.

You turned sideways, studied his profile. His face still taut, still locked, unreadable. You thought about the war. About how every road led here. The after. The silence. The never-quite.

He cleared his throat.

You opened your mouth, hoping words might come, anything, but you couldn’t. You never could. Instead, you reached for his hand. Slid your palm against his. He looked down at it, at your fingers, but said nothing. Just squeezed back, once, hard enough to ache. Then, under his breath, like the words themselves were bitter: “I’m gonna let go now.”

It wasn't meant to be cruel. 

He waited a second longer, like testing himself. "I'll walk it off. Or drink it off. Either works." 

And he let go, gently. Then rose. His movements were too slow and careful, like every muscle had been told not to make a mistake. He opened the flap, and let the night air brush his face. Then paused, looked back. 

"You're not gonna do anything stupid again, are you?" 

The old Paddy would've barked it or laughed through it. This one just said it low and quiet like it mattered. 

You just gave him a crooked smile, voice dry. "Define stupid." 

He gave a sound — half scoff, half breath — and walked off into the dark.

Chapter Text

He killed the gazelle himself. Shot it just past the edge of camp. Carried it back slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. Blood soaked into the cuff of his shirt, down to his elbow, painting his forearm like some ancient offering. He said nothing when he dropped it in front of the fire pit. He just scanned the ground, found a blade, and started carving. Like it was a job he’d done a thousand times before. 

The French watched from a distance, mostly quiet. Not scared exactly. Not anymore, but still cautious. Wary. Like they weren’t sure which version of him they’d get this time: the brute, the joker, or the madman with the revolver.

They weren’t just watching him, though. They glanced at you too. Like you were something to track, something just as strange. 

Mayne worked like he had something to prove. Or maybe something to undo. He knelt by the fire pit, sleeves rolled, blood streaked in rust-colored whorls across his forearms. A fresh cut glistened on his knuckle. He worked fast, stripping meat and hide with the same focus he’d used to clean rifles. Blade flashing in rhythm with his breath.

You watched from a few feet away, arms crossed, dust caught in your lashes, sweat drying on the back of your neck. Your whole body still felt wrong. It was off-balance and heavy in places it shouldn’t be. But you didn’t move.

Stirling stood nearby, trying not to look too pleased with himself, as if he’d orchestrated the whole performance. Maybe he had.

Mayne didn’t ask for help, but you stepped in anyway, holding the spit steady while he tied it down with wire. Your fingers brushed once, twice. Each touch lingering half a heartbeat longer than necessary. He didn’t flinch. Neither did you.

“This your version of an apology?” You asked.

“It’s meat,” he didn’t look up.

“That your grand philosophy?”

“Men stop bitching when they’re chewing.”

You watched him work. Watched his lip catch slightly when he concentrated, the pulse in his throat that jumped when your knee bumped his. Sweat slicked the sides of his neck. Blood kissed the edge of his jaw like war paint.

You wanted to lick it clean.

Instead, you tightened your grip on the spit. “Stirling told you to make peace.”

“Aye,” he muttered, sawing through cartilage. “So here I am. Peaceful as fuck.”

“Not much of a speech.”

“Didn’t think they’d want one.” He nodded toward the French. “They already think I’m mad.”

“Are you?”

He looked up at that. Firelight flickered across his face, caught the sharp hollows of his cheekbones, the bruise blooming on his collarbone, the stray hairs that had fallen forward onto his forehead. His eyes found yours and stayed there. That blue, shadowed and deep, like seawater under moonlight.

“Does it matter?” he said.

“Not to me.”

He stared at you for a beat longer than he should have. Then, like he couldn’t help himself: “You look different today.”

You blinked. Last night flickered across your mind for a split second and you couldn't meet his eyes. "Yeah, well. Had a good night's sleep. That's why." 

His gaze dragged over you. Slow, deliberate. pausing at your mouth, your eyes, the sweat-damp hair clinging to your neck. “Must've been some dream." 

The fire cracked between you. Behind, the French inched closer, drawn by the scent of meat and something sharper. Someone muttered a joke in hushed French.

Mayne didn't move. Didn't blink. Just kept watching you like you were the only thing left to look at in this godforsaken desert. “Say something in French,” he said suddenly.

You frowned. “French?”

He tilted his head. Thumb brushed against his lip, leaving a faint smear of blood like he was painting himself with it. “Yeah. But not just anything. Say ‘ We are without previous experience, newcomers, in love .’ Something mad like that.”

You stared at him. “You want me to lie to you in poetry?”

“Humour me." 

So you did. It came out soft, dry at the edges, like wind scraping glass. A sentence that didn’t quite belong to either of you.

He exhaled slow. Gaze distant now. Gone somewhere.

Then, like the thought had already been waiting behind his teeth, he murmured, “‘ Desire is alive, an ache in our vaporous foreheads . René Char.”

He didn’t explain. Didn’t say why it came to mind. Just looked at you — not through you, at you — like something in that moment fit too well and he didn’t know what to do with it.

And you didn’t know what to do with him. Not when he was like this. Soft-spoken, bloodied, half-unravelled from the inside out.

Then he stood, hoisted the spit with one arm, and walked it over to the French like a king presenting a trophy. He didn’t say a word. Just handed it off.

One of the Frenchmen saluted him.

Mayne didn’t return it.

He turned back to you instead. Eyes dark. Hands still bloody with the kill.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to look away.

The fire had burned down to cinders, bones cracking softly in the embers. Someone — Riley, probably — told a joke filthy enough to send Seekings into a coughing fit. Kershaw laughed so hard he nearly choked on a mouthful of flatbread. Even Fraser cracked a smile.

It was the rarest thing of all: a good day.

Sunbeat and bellied, the men lounged in half-shade like fed lions, shirts untucked, boots loosened, faces ruddy with heat and wine. You sat just outside the circle, cross-legged, picking meat from a bone you didn’t remember accepting. Salt crusted your lips. Ash dusted your arms. Your throat still felt tight, but not in a bad way. Just full, like you hadn’t swallowed anything real in days.

Across from you, Mayne flicked a rib bone into the dying fire. It hissed and curled. “They ate the whole bloody thing,” he muttered. “Didn’t say a word. Not even a merci .”

You glanced over. The Free French were scattered now, quieter than usual. Watching from a distance. A few muttered to each other in low tones, but no one dared approach the fire pit. Especially not you or Mayne.

“They’re scared they’ll be next,” you said dryly.

“They should be.”

There was something lazy in his posture, arm draped across one knee, shirt unbuttoned halfway down, collar limp and damp with sweat. But his eyes were alert. Too alert. Still tracking everything. Especially you.

You turned back to your food, feeling the heat crawl higher into your cheeks.

“You always watch me like that?” he asked after a beat. Low, almost amused.

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah, sure. Dream on." 

He let out a soft noise, not quite a laugh, more like a scoff that changed its mind halfway through. “Christ. I can almost stand you these days.”

“Only almost?”

“Let’s not push it.”

You tossed a bone at his boot. He caught it mid-air. Show-off.

“You see Halévy?” he said. “Ate half the carcass himself. Swear he was sucking marrow out of the spine.”

You scanned the circle. Halévy was indeed reclining with both hands over his stomach, looking like he’d just crawled out of a trench made of gazelle fat and existential guilt.

“You think he’s a plant too?” You asked.

Mayne narrowed his eyes. “No. I think he’s just French.”

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

“It should be.”

You shook your head, rolling your eyes, and felt him watching you again.

“You’re still doing it,” you said.

He didn’t blink. “So are you.”

The fire cracked again. Somewhere behind you, someone tuned a radio to the wrong frequency. The sun hung fat and swollen above the tent line, turning the sky the color of split peaches and cheap brass.

“Tell me,” he said suddenly, eyes still fixed on yours, “if I asked you to bury me, would you do it shallow or deep?”

“What?”

“I want to know how much you hate me.”

You studied him. “Depends. Do I get to choose the terrain?”

That earned a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile, something less safe. “I think you’d do it halfway,” he said. “Just deep enough that my fingers still stick out. So you could come by and snap them off later.”

“That's flattering. You really sit around imagining that?" 

“Wouldn't waste the thought on anyone else." 

You dropped your eyes to his forearms. Dust streaked. Veins raised from heat and salt. Blood dried in the creases of his knuckles from earlier. He hadn’t washed it off.

It made you think of other things. Rougher things.

You cleared your throat and stood. He stood too.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

“Stretching my legs.”

“Mind if I come?”

“Always.”

He followed anyway. Of course he did.

You both walked, not far. Just past the tents and the line of drying laundry, where the heat started to break and the sky stretched wide with dusk. The kind of light that made shadows blur at the edges. The kind that made it easy to say things you shouldn’t.

Mayne trailed a step behind you. Hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched like the weight of something invisible was pulling him sideways. Every few steps he kicked a stone, scuffed his boot like he was carving circles into the sand.

“Figured I’d scared you off for good,” he said eventually, voice raw like it hadn’t been used properly in hours.

“You didn’t,” you said.

“No.” His boot clipped a rock, sent it tumbling. “You don’t scare easy. Not like the rest of us.”

You didn’t answer. You just walked slower. Let the silence swell. He came up beside you. Shoulders brushing. Not quite on purpose.

His eyes flicked down on your chest. "Feel better now?" 

The bandage itched, and you found yourself scratching absently at it. "I'll live." 

Your face felt hot. You found it embarrassing, somehow, that he'd said anything at all. Maybe if he hadn't, the whole thing could've dissolved into a bad dream — you wanted it to. You wanted him to forget it as much as you did. 

“You shouldn’t have followed me last night.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I found you.”

You kept walking, but the quiet between you changed. Dense. It was definitely not hostile, but not tender either. It was just alive and dangerous, like you were standing too close to something still ticking.

“You were off,” he added. “Could see it in your face.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t piss in my ear.”

You turned to him. “Why do you even care?”

He didn’t answer straight away. Dragged a hand down his mouth, like he was holding something in. Or trying not to spit something out. Then, quietly: “Because it’s you.”

That did it. Something in you pitched forward, stumbled. A sucker punch to the ribs. Your stomach clenched so fast it almost knocked the wind out of you.

“I meant what I said,” he added. “About being wrong.”

“Which part?” You said. “You’ve got a back catalogue.”

He huffed, one sharp breath, all frustration. “Jesus. You never let up, do you.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You stopped at the ridge. The one you’d trained on. Same hard-packed earth. Same wind slicing the skin. Ghosts still curled in the sand there. You could see it: the memory of the Free French. The tower. The barrel. The moment the world went quiet in your chest.

He stared out across the dunes like it was still happening.

“You didn’t look like you,” he said.

Your throat clicked. “I still don’t.”

He turned to face you. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

His jaw set like stone. “No. That’s not you gone. That’s you still here. Barely. But here.”

You crossed your arms, trying to stay in yourself. “So what, I'm broken?" 

He didn’t blink. “I think you’re more dangerous now.”

“To who?”

He looked straight at you. “Take your pick.”

You both stood like that. Still. Close. The wind caught a strand of your hair and pushed it across your mouth. You didn’t move. He reached up, fingers grazing your jaw. Tucked the hair behind your ear like he had a right to it.

“Don't look at me like that,” you said.

"Like what?" 

"Like, I don't know — like you're waiting on me to ruin something." 

“I usually am.”

“And now?”

His eyes dipped to your mouth like gravity had a hand in it. “Christ,” he muttered. “You’re a fucking war zone.”

“You gonna run from it?”

His hand came up again. Not quite shaking, but close. He cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing just under your jaw.

His voice dropped to something near a prayer. “I should,” he said.

“But you won’t.”

“You ever think about it?” he asked, voice quiet now. “What it does to us. All this.”

“I try not to.”

He nodded. Thumb still near your cheek. So close. “Doesn’t work, does it?”

“No.”

The space between you tightened. He was so close you felt his breath stutter against your cheek. You saw the twitch in his fingers, the wild second where he didn’t know what his own body would do.

“I’m not good at this,” he muttered. “Whatever this is.”

“I noticed.”

He almost smiled, but the kind that hurt. The kind that meant too much. And then his forehead touched yours. Skin to skin. Hot. Still. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just existed, right there in the thick of it.

You closed your eyes.

He whispered something then, low and uneven. Maybe Irish. Maybe nonsense. It could've been a curse, a confession. You didn’t bother to ask. His thumb brushed your lower lip, like he didn’t mean to, like it burned. Like he was thinking about it. Like he needed to remember what restraint felt like.

“You want me to kiss you?” he asked, voice rough.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your fingers had found the edge of his shirt, curled tight in the fabric like a lifeline. Still, you didn’t pull. He didn’t lean in. It was torture. Then he pulled away. Slowly. The warmth of him retreating inch by inch.

You opened your eyes.

He didn’t look at you at first. Just ran a hand down his face, gritted his jaw, stared out at the dunes like they might offer some kind of answer.

“I’m not gonna use this moment,” he said. “Not when you’re still bleeding out from it.”

His hand dropped. He scrubbed his face hard, looked up at the sky like it might tell him what the fuck he was doing.

You swallowed hard. “Then don’t leave.”

He didn’t move.

“Stay,” you said.

He looked down. Your hands met in the space between. You slid yours into his, palm to palm, fingers locked. He squeezed. Tight. Like it’d hold him together. Then he exhaled. Said nothing for a long time.

“I’ll walk you back,” he said finally. Voice thick.

You nodded. “Yeah. Alright.”

He didn’t touch you again. Didn’t have to. You felt it all the same, the ache he left in the space where his hands had been.

And you knew it wouldn’t be long before one of you gave in.

Chapter Text

The tent was already hot by the time Stirling called you in. Early sun pressed through the canvas. You all stood around the table, eyes on the map, trying not to flinch at the red lines scribbled through the Mediterranean like a wound.

Churchill had widened the theatre. Malta was hanging by a thread, and Tobruk was gone. Now it was Crete. Heraklion. Every bloody airbase they could reach along the southern coast — hit them fast, hit them hard, hit them before the convoys got wiped off the sea.

Stirling stood straight-backed, pointer tapping the paper. “We’ve got three targets. Three teams. We move at night. Bergé leads one group with the Free French. I’ll take the second. The third, Mayne.” A pause. “You’ll handle Heraklion.”

You didn’t look at Mayne, but you could feel the shift in the air when his name was said. 

Stirling’s eyes scanned the group. Landed on you. “You’ll drive Mayne’s team. Get them close. In and out.”

You nodded. No one was surprised.

But then he added, “You’ll also manage demolitions on-site. Mayne will lead the raid. You’ll set the charges.” Stirling didn’t give praise. He gave jobs. And that was as close as you were going to get to trust.

“Yes, sir,” you said again, throat dry.

Mayne hadn’t moved. But you could feel his attention press against the side of your face like heat.

Stirling continued with logistics, contact points, and weather. It all sank in, but part of you were still caught in that first line. Heraklion. You’ll set the charges . You swallowed hard. Didn’t show it.

The others nodded and murmured, until the only sound was the wind brushing the tent flaps and the steady grind of boots shifting in the dust. Fraser leaned against a pole near you, arms crossed, gaze flicking between Stirling and Mayne like he was watching a chess match no one admitted was being played.

No one said anything about the obvious. About you and Mayne. But it was there, stretched tight across the canvas like a tripwire. They felt it. Hell, you felt it. The silence that deepened whenever you ended up standing too close. The way he never stood behind you anymore. Always beside you. The way you didn’t correct him when he did.

At the corner of the map, Stirling scribbled in shorthand. Then: “Any questions?”

None. Always none.

The meeting dissolved into quiet murmurs and motion, Fraser talking to Sadler, the Free French checking their gear. Mayne stayed behind, flipping the map open further, peering at some detail no one else noticed. You didn’t move.

You felt his eyes flick up. Felt it before you looked. One glance was all it took.

“Big job,” he said, low. Just for you.

“I’m ready,” you replied.

His jaw ticked. “I know.”

The moon was a sliver, a half-lidded eye watching you from above the cliffs.

No parachutes this time. Just two trucks, matte black with the lights killed. You drove first, Fraser rode beside you. Mayne, Seekings, and Sadler were crammed in the back. The second truck behind held the rest of Stirling’s lot, but they’d peel off two clicks earlier.

You stopped well past midnight. Mayne jumped down first. “We hike from here,” he muttered. “Keep low.”

You killed the engine and slipped out into the quiet. The others moved in silence, grabbing gear, double-checking detonators. Your breaths came short in the cold. You started uphill. Heraklion was out there, somewhere between the sea and the edge of your luck.

You led. Mayne followed a half step behind. Sadler and Seekings carried the bulk of the charges. Fraser flanked the rest of you, always watching.

Nobody spoke. Not really. But every time your pack slipped, Mayne was the one who adjusted the strap. Didn’t say a word, just fixed it and kept walking. His hands were quick, steady. Like he knew you wouldn’t thank him.

You noticed, too, the way he kept glancing at you. At your shoulders. Your stance. Your breathing. Like he was trying to anticipate damage before it hit. And you noticed how, somewhere in the climb, you’d started walking a few paces ahead. Not because you wanted to lead. Because you wanted to shield .

Mayne said nothing. But you could hear him breathing. You could feel him behind you. Like gravity had a personal preference.

The climb turned sharper. You ducked beneath a rocky ridge and came up on the far side. Then, finally: The Heraklion airbase. Carved straight into the coast like a mouth full of teeth. Watchtowers blinking like slow heartbeats. Floodlights sweeping the tarmac in arcs of white.

The five of you dropped to your stomachs.

You adjusted the binoculars. “Three hangars. One guard rotation. Floodlight sweep every thirty seconds.”

Mayne took them from you. His hands brushed yours, knuckles lingering just a moment too long. “We’ll go in quiet. Hit the north hangar first.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. But he didn’t have to.

You nodded, voice low. “Charges set in pairs?”

“Aye. You take Fraser. I’ll take Sadler and Seekings.”

You glanced at him. “You sure?”

“Not a bloody bit.”

He passed you one of the detonators. The casing was cold. “Make it count.”

“I always do.”

The wind picked up again. Grit in your teeth. Fire on the edge of your nerves. And somewhere behind you, miles back, the trucks sat waiting like tombstones. You moved forward. Toward the light, like shadows with bad timing and worse ideas.

You and Fraser slipped past the perimeter fence first, slithering beneath the clipped barbed wire where Sadler had made a gap. The hangars loomed ahead, planes glinting silver under the thin sweep of floodlights. Like steel giants holding their breath.

You crouched low behind the wheel of a gutted transport plane. Everything felt too still.

“Ever think about how much quieter life’d be if we just let the Jerries win?” Fraser murmured, adjusting his sling.

“Only when you talk too much,” you said, unclipping the charge from your belt.

He huffed. A grin tucked under the tension. “You planning to run off again? Paddy’ll throw a fit.”

You didn't bite.

He looked sideways. “You know he watches you, right? Like you’re a lit fuse he’s not sure will blow toward him or away from him.”

You reached for the second charge. “Cover me.”

He gave a soft whistle and raised his weapon. “Touchy.”

You slid forward, and ducked under the belly of the first bomber. Your fingers moved without thinking, clipping the charge to the undercarriage. Each snap of the clasp echoed louder in your skull than it did in the air. The tension was a noose. 

You moved to the next one. Another charge. Another bolt. Another timer. You could feel sweat pooling in the small of your back. Your knees scraped raw over the ground. Somewhere behind you, Fraser's boots shifted, steady.

Then—

BOOM.

Far off. But not far enough.

You froze. So did Fraser.

“That wasn’t ours,” he said.

Another blast, closer.

Your heart kicked once, hard, but didn’t speed up. It froze. Locked.

The floodlights flared, abrupt. Alarms. Dogs. German voices shouting. The whole base flipped like a switch had been thrown.

Fraser muttered something ugly. “Fucking French.”

“Keep watch,” you snapped.

“No shit.”

You moved fast. There was an increased risk of exposure now. You ducked under the next bomber, hands fumbling, slipping with sweat. You tightened the wire, bent the charge into place. Your fingertips felt numb from the pressure.

One more.

One more and you could go.

You scrambled to the final aircraft. Massive. Still warm. You planted the charge at the wing. The timer buzzed alive. Five minutes.

“Done,” you hissed to Fraser.

He raised a hand from where he crouched, rifle drawn tight to his shoulder. “Come on then.”

You both ran.

Across the open tarmac. Straight lines are suicide, you knew that. But there wasn’t time for zigzags. Not anymore. You ducked past crates, breath ragged. One clipped shot sparked inches from your boot. Fraser grabbed your arm and yanked you behind a rusted truck.

A final check: detonator in hand, countdown flashing.

“It’s set,” you gasped. “They’ll blow.”

He nodded once, jaw tight. “Let’s fucking vanish.”

And then you were out. Back through the cut in the fence, across the dirt, away from the lights. But something tugged at you. Off.

Where was Mayne?

His team was supposed to be south. But there’d been no signal. No flare. No regroup. Nothing.

Your breath caught. You didn’t say it. Not yet. But something was wrong.

The detonator read 3:57 when you yanked it from your belt and shoved it into Fraser’s hand.

“Wait here.”

“What, no—”

“If they don’t regroup in the next three minutes, you go without us.”

Fraser blinked at you, then looked at the countdown, and swore under his breath. “Shit.”

“I’ll be back.” You reached for his sidearm. He didn’t fight you. Just stared as you tucked it into the back of your belt and slipped off into the dark.

The southern airfield was a haze of smoke and moving shadows. The hangars were farther apart here, more exposed. Fewer places to hide. You stuck to the wall of a guard shack, heart tight in your throat.

You found them near the edge of the fuel depot. Sadler and Seekings crouched behind a transport jeep, both panting hard, trying to coax Mayne up from the ground. He was sitting — slumped more like — his hand pressed to his side.

“Jesus,” you hissed, dropping down beside them.

“Thank God—” Seekings started, but you cut him off.

“What the hell happened?”

“Trap wire. One of theirs.”

“Is he—?”

“I’m not dead,” Mayne muttered, his voice low and hoarse. “Just taking in the fucking view.”

You stared at him. Blood trickled from his hairline. But he was conscious. Talking. Still himself. Mostly.

“I got it,” you said, crouching and ducking under his arm. “We’re leaving. Now.”

He didn’t argue. Not really. Just slumped into you as you hoisted him up, one arm slung around your shoulders, his weight crashing down. Heavy. Too warm. Too there.

The countdown had to be close. Minutes, maybe less. You all moved. Fast as you could. You could hear Sadler and Seekings behind, gunfire starting to scatter across the field.

You were halfway to the breach point when it happened.

The world split open behind you — a detonation too close, too loud. A pressure wave slammed all of you forward, and suddenly Mayne was gone. Ripped from your side. 

You hit the dirt hard. Ringing. Smoke. Shouting. Your ears throbbed. Your throat burned. Your hands scraped across gravel and you didn’t even notice.

“Mayne!”

There — to your right. Half-crushed under what was left of a steel drum. Blood at his temple, legs twisted wrong. Still breathing.

You were on him in seconds. “Hey,” you whispered, gripping his jaw, slapping his cheek. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

His eyes fluttered open. Then a crooked smile. “Bossy today, aren’t you?”

You exhaled, shaking. Half-laugh, half-panic. “Yeah, well. You’re heavy.”

You pulled him up again. Slung his arm over you. His ribs pressed into your side, and you felt the hitch in his breath every time he stepped. You moved together. One limp-footed, blood-streaked step at a time.

The desert behind you looked like it was on fire.

Smoke curled like black ribbon into the sky. The air reeked of petrol and metal, hot and blistered. Fires burned low across the south hangars — your handiwork. The Heraklion job was done. Barely.

You half-dragged, half-carried Mayne the last hundred feet to the extraction point. His feet shuffled uselessly against the ground. The others weren’t far behind. Seekings and Sadler coming in at a run, guns still drawn, limping slightly. Fraser already had the truck backed in, engine rattling like it wanted to get the fuck out before anything else blew.

You made it. But that didn’t mean you weren’t furious.

You dropped him hard into the back of the truck, not to be cruel, just to do something. Your chest was burning. Your hands shook as you reached for his collar, dragging it open to check his ribs, his temple, the blood that was still leaking from a gash somewhere near his hairline.

“Christ,” you muttered. “Hold still—”

He tried to grin. “That your version of foreplay?”

“Shut up.”

Your fingers pressed against his ribs. You didn’t know how to be either gentle or careful. Not with the noise still in your ears, the panic crawling up the back of your neck. Not when you’d thought—

You swallowed it. The scream, the sob, the way your arms suddenly ached to wrap around him, just to make sure he was still warm. You clenched your jaw. Stepped back.

Fraser jumped into the passenger seat. Seekings and Sadler clambered in beside Mayne.

You swung up behind the wheel. The second your foot hit the pedal, the truck jolted forward and you were moving, tires skidding over loose stone, smoke swallowing the road behind you.

In the rearview mirror, you saw Mayne slump against the wall of the truck bed. His hand pressed to his side. One of the boys gave him a canteen, and he waved it off. But he was watching you. Even then. Watching like you were the only thing he could still see clearly.

You just gripped the wheel tighter. And drove home.

The wheels hadn’t stopped turning and you were already halfway out of the truck. The camp blurred behind the smoke. You shoved open the driver’s door and dropped into the dirt hard enough to jar your knees.

You turned back. Seekings and Sadler were climbing down, bruised, limping, blood on their shirts, but still upright. At least. 

"You all in one piece?" 

Seekings coughed. "Mostly." 

Sadler gave a grunt that could've meant yes or no. 

Fraser was slower, hobbling. You reached for his belt to steady him, and he didn’t protest.

“You good?” You asked.

He nodded once, too fast. “I’ll live. You?”

You ignored that part. You were still standing. That counted.

The only one you hadn’t looked at was Mayne.

He’d slid down the side of the truck and was sitting with his back against the tire, one leg bent, one hand pressed against his ribs like it was the only thing holding him together. Still watching you. Of course he was.

He didn’t look up as you approached. But his hand dropped away from the bandage. He was waiting. He didn’t speak when you crouched beside him. Not right away.

You unbuckled and slid the gear off his shoulders like peeling open a burn. The gash at his ribs was soaked, bright and spreading, but he hadn’t said a word about it. Typical.

“Let me see,” you muttered.

He shifted just enough to let you in, head tilted up like he wasn’t really here. A dried streak of blood at his jawline. He looked wrecked. He looked beautiful.

“You gonna scold me, or stitch me?” he said, voice low and scratchy.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

You tore open a packet of gauze and pressed it to his side. Harder than necessary. He flinched.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’ve got hands like a butcher.”

“You’ve got the mouth of one.”

He smiled, lazy. “Think I like it when you talk to me like that.”

“Shut up.”

“You worried?”

“No.” Your hands moved faster. “Just pissed off you didn’t duck fast enough.”

He grunted. “You’d miss me.”

“I’d miss the silence.”

His hand came up then, not to stop me, but just to rest at my knee. Barely there. 

“You looked different tonight,” he murmured.

“Don’t start.”

“No, not like that.” His eyes blinked open, half-lidded with fatigue. “You looked like you were running on lightning.”

You swallowed. Pulled the gauze away. “You always run your mouth when you’re half-dead?”

“Only when the company’s worth crawling back for.”

You sat back on your heels. Breath loud. Hands trembling now that they were empty. “I can’t do this, Mayne.”

“Do what?”

“Drag you out of fire. Wonder if your lungs are still working. I can’t—” You bit down on it. 

He didn’t answer. Just reached up, fingers grazing your wrist.  He opened his mouth like he might say something else, but then—

Voices. Boots. A commotion outside, urgent, uneven. You turned first.

Jordan’s silhouette staggered through the campfire haze. Ash streaked his face, one sleeve torn clear off, shirt burned open at the collar. He looked like he'd walked out of a grave — no , crawled out. His eyes were too wide. Too white. And he was alone.

The second Mayne saw him, something behind his eyes flickered back to life.

But you were already on your feet. You pressed a hand to his shoulder. “You need to rest,” you said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” you said. “But you will be.”

He didn’t argue. Just leaned back, eyes on you like he was memorising the shape of your face in the lamplight. Then soft, low, with something that sounded dangerously close to fondness: “Yes, ma’am.” Then he lifted his hand in a crooked little salute, eyes already half-lidded. “Go on then,” he mumbled. “See if the world collapses without me.”

You left before you could change your mind.

Outside, you cut through the figures pacing along the edge of camp, a blur of boots and smoke and sweat, until you found Stirling in the centre tent. He looked up when you stepped in. So did Sadler, seated stiffly with a cigarette trembling between two fingers. Fraser stood near the back, unscathed but tight-jawed, arms crossed.

Jordan stood in the middle of it all like a man on trial. His smelled like sulfur. His boots were melted at the soles. He didn’t wait for permission to speak.

“It was Bruckner,” he said. “The German.” His voice cracked down the middle. “He turned. Led them straight to us. He sold us out.”

No one moved. The air in the tent seemed to still, thick with the stench of smoke, sweat, and something worse. Grief, maybe. Or fury with nowhere to go. In the silence, you heard Mayne’s voice in your head — suspicious. How he had been watching the Germans. He was only half-wrong. 

“Bergé’s gone,” he added, softer now. “Taken alive. The rest—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

Stirling dragged a hand down his face, like the sheer weight of it all might slide off with enough pressure. Sadler muttered something sharp under his breath, something about trusting Free French too easily. Fraser didn’t speak, but his silence was louder than the rest.

You just stood there, still holding Mayne’s blood on your palms.

And just like that, the moment shifted. The war had found its way back in. It always did.

You slipped out of the tent. Your boots crunched over gravel. You were halfway to the medic’s corner when you heard him calling out to you. 

Stirling stood near the mess tent, still in uniform, his hair as immaculately parted as ever. Even now. Even after this. His arms were crossed behind his back.

“I was just on my way to check—”

“Yes. I imagine you were,” he said, stepping toward you. “He’s stable?”

“He’s breathing.”

“Good.” A pause. His eyes flicked toward the tents, then back to you. “I’ll be heading out tomorrow. Cairo. A few… logistical matters to attend to.”

Logistics. That was his word for it. Never personal. Never leisure. Never a woman with sharp eyes and tan skin waiting in the shadows of a gilded city. Just matters .

“While I’m gone,” he continued, voice low, “I want you to keep things running. The men respond to you.” He didn’t quite smile. “So does Mayne, apparently.”

You didn’t answer.

He looked at you properly then. A quiet calculation, like he was weighing something in his mind and had decided, finally, to let it tip.

“I’ve had reports from Sadler. And Fraser. Even Seekings, which is rarer than rain out here.” He allowed a ghost of a smile. “They say you held the line. That you pulled Mayne out yourself. That you kept them moving.”

You shrugged. “Then they’re generous, sir.”

“Not particularly.” He tilted his head. “They wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t earned.”

The words hung there. Almost praise. Almost human. It didn’t come with stripes or a title or anything official — not that you expected it — but for a moment, it meant something.

“I won’t be long,” he added. “But I’d rather not return to find everything on fire. Keep the boy from throwing himself into one, will you?”

“Which one?”

He almost laughed. Almost. “You’ll do fine,” he said instead. Then, softer: “You already have.”

And just like that, he nodded, turned, and walked back into the night, boots silent, coat catching slightly in the wind.

You stood there for a moment longer. Unsure how you felt. Respected? Trusted? Used? Maybe all three. But appreciation, even when it came trimmed and sanitised like that, was still something. It always had been.

And if he was giving you the wheel, you’d drive.

So you walked. Your boots found the path like they’d always known it. You didn’t stumble your way there — you chose it. Every step deliberate. Every breath louder in your ears than it should’ve been. You knew exactly where you were going.

When you lifted the flap without knocking, Mayne was asleep.

He lay half on his side, one arm slung over his stomach like he meant to hold his own ribs together. His shirt was unbuttoned, sweat-damp and stuck to the inside of his elbow. The dressing across his side had held, but barely. His breathing was uneven. Mouth half open. Jaw slack but still tense, like even in sleep, he didn’t trust himself to rest. 

You knelt beside him. Checked the bandage. Pressed the back of your hand to his forehead, even though you knew he wasn’t burning up. You just needed to feel something. Warm skin. A pulse. Proof. Then you pulled the bandage a little tighter. Smoothed the edge where it had bunched. Your fingers hovered over the bruising near his hip. Then settled.

Didn’t open his eyes, not yet, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You always glare at your patients like that?”

You didn’t answer. You just rolled fresh gauze between your palms, tried to ignore how quickly the air in here was thickening.

“Feels like you’re trying to cauterise the wound with your eyes.”

“You’d deserve it.”

Now he smiled. Just barely. Eyes still closed. “Might be the sexiest threat I’ve had all week.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

He blinked them open then — pupils still hazy, but blue cutting through like something sharpened. “I already have.”

You pressed the gauze down a little harder than necessary.

He winced. “Alright, alright. Jesus. Noted.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you myself.”

“Now that,” he murmured, eyes cracking open, “sounds like love.”

“You’re high.”

He grinned. Crooked. Lazy. Beautiful in a way that pissed you off. “Only on your affection.”

You rolled your eyes. “How’s the pain?”

“Manageable. Especially with the view.” His eyes dropped to where your knees were brushing his cot. 

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached up, adjusted the blanket near his hips. Let your hand rest there. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the heat of him. He was watching you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or kneel.

His hand reached down and covered yours where it still hovered near his ribs. He didn’t press. Just let it rest there. 

You looked at your hands. Then at him.

“How long’ve you been awake?” You asked, quietly.

“Long enough to know you’ve been promoted.” His thumb brushed your knuckle. “Stirling tell you he’s buggering off to Cairo?”

“Briefly.”

“Left you in charge?”

“Sort of.”

“Poor bastards.”

You swatted his shoulder. “Try not to sound too pleased about it.”

“Oh, I am. You’re terrifying when you’re serious. Christ—” he winced, tried to shift, failed. “Should've told the Germans to surrender to you.”

“You talk too much when you’re concussed.”

“You get soft when you’re worried.”

That stopped you.

He looked at you, face still half-lidded, voice suddenly quieter. “You were worried.”

“I’m always worried,” you said. “Someone has to be.”

“But it was me this time.”

You didn’t say anything. Just reached up, touched the edge of his jaw. Rough with stubble. Warm. Alive.

His hand found your waist. A little higher than your hip. Palm spread wide. Holding you there. Rested there. Possessive. Not rough, but anchored. Like he needed the contact more than air.

You looked down at him. “You’re not going to remember any of this.”

“Bet I will,” he said, voice lower now. Thicker. “I’ll remember the way you looked. Right now. Like you’re about to crawl into my bones.”

You swallowed. Hard. Your hand slid down to his collar, then his throat. You felt his pulse, fast. A matching rhythm to yours. He didn’t stop you when you leaned in.

Closer. A breath. Then another. Your knees pressed to the ground, thigh to the side of the cot. Your faces inches apart. You could feel the heat radiating off him. His lips were dry. His eyes not quite steady.

“Don’t,” you whispered. You didn’t know what you meant.

He did. “Too late.”

His mouth met yours like he’d been holding back days of it. Weeks. Months. It was heat and hunger and something softer too — something fragile, buried under all the wreckage. His other hand came up, tangled lightly in the hem of your shirt, and you let him. His hand dragged you closer. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, feeling the heat beneath, the rhythm of breath caught between ribs and pain. His other hand cradled the back of your neck. His lips were warm and cracked and he kissed like he thought it might be the last thing he got to feel.

He pulled you forward, almost on top of him. You shifted — too much.

He winced.

“Fuck—” he muttered, pulling back just enough. His head fell back on the cot. “Christ.”

You froze. One hand on his chest, the other still clenched in his collar. You both caught your breaths. Then you laughed.

“Christ’s sake,” you muttered.

“Worth it,” he groaned.

It wasn’t funny, not really. But the absurdity of it cracked the pressure for a second.

You sat back down beside him. Ran your fingers along the back of his hand, then up to his wrist. “You’re the worst patient I’ve ever had,” you said.

“And you’ve got murderous hips.”

“Maybe I should leave.”

He looked up at you, eyes glassy but clear enough. “You want to stop?”

You didn’t answer.

He let his head fall sideways again, watching you in the dim light. His fingers curled tighter at your waist, then let go. Barely.

“I won’t die tonight,” he said. “Promise.”

You stayed beside him, legs folded under you, heartbeat still rioting. Your hand found his again. Interlaced fingers. Quiet now. 

You stayed like that for a long time. And somewhere between the silence and the pulse, you knew: you’d already crossed the line. There was no going back.

Chapter Text

Mayne lay sprawled on a rope-slung cot like he owned the bloody desert. One leg bent, the other lazily kicking the dust. The bandages around his ribs peeked through his half-buttoned shirt, which he hadn’t bothered to tuck in. The sun glanced off his skin, ruddy, sand-scoured, thighs bared in the ugliest pair of khaki shorts you'd ever seen.

You sat a few feet away, chin resting in your palm, listening and watching him like an idiot. But you didn’t bother pretending not to.

Mayne’s voice was low and rough as ever, but something in it softened when he read. Not the words, those were sharp, florid, stitched together by some dead poet with too much time and too many metaphors, but the way he read them. Slow and unbothered. Like the world wasn’t on fire.

“ I do not love you as if you were salt-rose or topaz—“ 

“You know,” you said, tilting your head towards his thighs, “those shorts might be a war crime.” 

He flicked a glance at you, then at the book. 

“Didn’t say stop,” you muttered. 

He turned a page. “Thought you liked a bit of skin. You’re always staring.” 

“I’m conducting a field study.”

“Is that what you’re calling it now?”

“Just making mental notes.”

He closed the book with one hand, the other resting across his stomach. “And what’ve you noted so far?”

“That you’ve got legs like a goddamn highland cow.” You whistled. 

He huffed a laugh, almost a cough. “Strong compliment. I’ll treasure it.”

“And that you read poetry like it’s a threat.”

He turned his head then, finally looking at you. Eyes half-lidded, dark from heat and morphine and whatever had been clanging around in his ribs since Heraklion. “You prefer threats or promises?”

You should’ve looked away, or laughed it off. You didn’t. For a second, it was easy, just the two of you. Dry air, dusty limbs, and that low murmur of something not quite named yet. You weren’t thinking about the war, or Cairo, or the hundred ways this could all get taken from you. It was just him, shirt half-open, reading Neruda like it was gospel, and you, feeling like you could maybe, finally, exhale. 

“Hard to choose when they both sound so appealing.” 

“Aye, only the finest’s reserved.” 

You dragged a hand across the back of your neck. “You’re impossible.” 

”That’s not a no.” 

There was a pause then, a good one. You didn’t even notice how close you’d gotten until the toe of your boot nudged his cot. He didn’t move, just watched you. 

“Read me another one.” You said, voice low. 

He blinked slow, like a cat in the sun. “You want poems?” 

“Why not?” 

He picked up a book again, flipped a few pages without looking. “Here’s one: You are the knife I turn inside myself— “ 

“That one’s not even subtle.” 

He tilted his head. “Neither are you.” 

You opened your mouth to fire back, and that was when Stirling’s voice cut across the camp. Then he called out. You both turned instinctively. He stood near the centre tent, his cap crooked, his sleeves rolled. The rest of the men were drifting toward him like iron to a magnet, but neither you or Mayne moved. 

Stirling didn’t wait for quiet. He just raised his voice. “This regiment, this group of lunatics called the SAS, is now, officially, part of His Majesty’s armed forces. We are no longer ghosts.” 

Cheers erupted. Laughter, boots thudding the sand, a few men clapping each other on the back like they couldn’t quite believe it. Someone opened a beer with their teeth. Fraser tipped his bottle toward you in silent toast. It was joy, sure. But also relief. They’d made it real. You’d made it real. 

“The Americans have joined the war,” Stirling continued. “Not just in theory. Boots. Ships. Tanks. Finally.” 

Kershaw snorted. “Took them long enough. Thought they’d wait for a handwritten invitation.” 

A ripple of laughter moved through the group. 

“They’re here now,” he said. “And that matters. We’ve received intelligence suggesting there may be a viable route to link up with them. I’ll be taking Cooper and Sadler to scout it, Gaber Gap. Just a quick recon. The rest of you will hold down the base. Maintain readiness. We’re not done yet.” 

Your stomach lurched. It should’ve felt like a victory. Real uniforms, real records, real medals. But ghosts don’t get discharged, and you’d survived this long because you weren’t written down. So you stayed where you were. 

Mayne looked at you, eyes slanted just enough to let you know he wasn’t entirely serious. “That sounds like good news to you?” 

You shrugged. “Depends.” 

His gaze drifted to your knee, your elbow, the corner of your mouth, like he was trying to add something up but didn’t like the answer. 

“They’ll count you,” he said eventually. 

“They’ll count what suits them,” you muttered. “The rest gets swept.” 

You didn’t cheer or toast, you just sat in the middle of it all. Men were shouting, tin clinking, bottles cracking open like fireworks. But even through the smoke and sun-glare you could see it. Stirling’s face. The way his jaw stayed clenched a moment too long, how his smile didn’t quite stick. Something was wrong. 

Mayne saw it too. He always did. “That man just got handed a medal, and he looks like he’s choking on it.” 

You didn’t say anything, just looked at Mayne. Held it long enough that he knew what you meant. 

He exhaled through his nose, slow. “You’re subtle. Like a brick.”

“And yet,” you said, arching a brow.

He grunted, shifted upright with a low wince, and swung his legs off the cot. “I’ll go make him a drink.”

“Try not to insult him halfway through.”

“If I do,” he said, “it’ll be on purpose.”

He pushed himself upright with a grunt, grabbed two sweating bottles of beer from the crate, and trudged off toward Stirling, who stood half-lit beneath the low sun. There was a strange quiet to the moment — not somber, not joyful either. Just two men who knew too much, walking toward the edge of camp like they might find something worth keeping beyond the dunes.

"Bloody hell," a voice muttered beside you. "You let him walk off looking like that?" 

Fraser was squinting after them with his arms crossed. His beard has gotten worse — scruffier, patchier, the sun bleaching it into something almost gold. 

“You know,” you said, staring at it. “You’re about one dust storm away from getting mistaken for a stray dog.”

That dragged his eyes back to you. “Dog’s generous. Thought you’d go with rat.”

“Rats actually clean themselves.” 

He handed you his bottle, mouth twitching. “Bold move coming for my beard when you haven’t seen a mirror in weeks.”

You clinked your beer against his. “Low blow.”

“True though.”

You both drank. In the distance, you could still see the silhouette of Mayne and Stirling on the ridge. 

"You think he's alright?" Fraser asked. 

"Which one?" 

"Pick one." 

You hesitated, "Well, so far Mayne's breathing, and Stirling's pretending." 

He nodded slowly, then turned slightly toward you. "And you?" 

You just blinked at him, unsure. 

"If this whole 'official' thing goes sideways — if they pull something — you know I’m here, right?” 

"You saying you'd start a riot for me?" 

"I'm saying I was born for a firing squad pose and I look great in court-martial white." 

You smiled. It didn't last long, though. 

And Fraser must've felt it too, that the mood was slipping toward something heavier. But then a second later, Seekings barrelled in, Riley not far behind, both of them already halfway through whatever beer they hadn't spilled on their shirts. 

"There she is!" Seekings grinned, all sunburnt and teeth. "You done sulking with Fraser? Come drink like a human with us." 

Riley raised his bottle. "To ghosts no more!" 

They dragged you out into the open, where the rest of the crew had already begun to gather: Jordan, Kershaw, Sadler, Cooper, even Almonds perched on a crate, nodding along to some tune only he could hear. Someone handed out tin cups. Someone else opened the last stash of warm beer. 

“For the ones who didn’t make it,” Kershaw said, raising his tin.

“For the French,” Jordan added quietly.

Everyone poured the drinks. The foam fizzed like a lullaby. And for one brief, flickering second, the air felt golden. Not from the sun, but from something else. Something alive.

You looked around at them — beards thick, eyes bright, uniforms torn at the knees, sun in their teeth — and you wanted to keep it. All of it. The mess, the laughter, the unspoken ache of those who weren't here. The clink of metal against metal. The sound of someone whistling badly. You wanted to keep it all.

Because you were still here. And for now, that was enough.

The cards in your hand were shite, and Riley knew it.

He gave you a look across the overturned crate you were using as a table, and tossed another almond into his mouth. Fraser grunted behind his cards, unreadable as ever, while Almonds made a show of fanning out his hand like he’d just pulled Excalibur.

“You sure you know how to play?” Riley asked, leaning back on one elbow.

“I know enough not to trust you,” you said dryly. “Your poker face gives away your entire childhood.”

Almonds snorted. “It’s not her bluff I’m worried about. It’s her temper. Poor Paddy over there’s been dodging that glare for hours.”

Your neck went hot. You didn’t look at him — at Mayne , sprawled under the lean-to, a tattered poetry book shoved halfway over his face like a sunshield. One knee bent, bandages peeking above his bootline. He hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.

“Mm,” Fraser hummed, eyes still on his cards. “That boy’s got a death wish.”

“Or a different kind of wish,” Riley added, grinning. 

You scoffed. “You lot are worse than old housewives.”

“Jealous ones,” Almonds said.

Riley finally laid his cards down with a grin. "Read 'em and weep." 

Groans all around, a couple of coins clinking into his pile. You stared at your hand again, then at his, then at your pathetic pile of winnings. 

"Absolute robbery," you muttered, shoving the cards away. 

Riley only grinned wider. "Don't hate the player, sweeatheart." 

You pushed your hair back and rubbed at your temples like the weight of humiliation had given you a migraine. "Oh, fuck right off, Riley." 

That set them off. They gave you a few mock-ooh's and whistles. 

"Going to sulk now, are you?" 

"Careful, she'll throw the cards at you." 

"Don't worry, we'll win your dignity back for you." 

You stood, brushing the dust from your knees with more aggression than necessary. "You can keep it. Never suited me anyway." 

Riley raised his canteen in mock salute. "Gracious loser, our girl." 

You didn't give them the satisfaction of a backward glance. Instead, you peeled away, muttering something under your breath that might have been another curse, a laughter, or something rude enough to make them laugh louder. And you approached him, under the lean-to, away from the racket, who was stretched out like he'd built the place himself. Smug, quiet, and pretending like he hadn't heard the whole thing. 

You threw yourself down beside him, the dust puffing up around you. 

Mayne didn't move, just cracked one eye open. "Didn't take you for a sore loser." 

"Oh that? That was just strategic retreat." 

He huffed, almost a laugh. "Aye, cards are still on the blanket." 

You picked up a rock and lobbed it half-heartedly at the sand. "It was a rigged game. Riley stacked the deck." 

"Riley couldn't stack his own boot." 

That earned the smallest smile out of you, even though you tried to smother it. You pulled your knees up and hugged them, then stared out past the camp. 

Mayne watched you for a beat, then leaned his head against the post. "So it's not the cards, then." 

You glanced at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

"You tell me." 

“I’m fine.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s convincing.”

You snorted, shook your head. “You’re very nosy for someone pretending to sleep.”

“I wasn’t pretending.” He scratched at his beard, then added, “just easier than listening to you sulk.”

You just stared at him. The comment landed heavier than he probably meant it, and it needled at you in a way you couldn’t shake. You swallowed it down anyway, looking past him instead. The quiet that followed seemed to stretch, long enough that he finally broke it.

“Word is we won’t be out here much longer. Egypt’s nearly finished.”

You picked at the bandage under your shirt, scowled at the sand. “You sound pleased.”

“It’s the job. We did our part.”

“Right. Just like that. Done and dusted.”

He glanced over, caught your tone. “That bothers you?" 

“Doesn’t bother me.” You said it too quickly. “Just funny, that’s all. You spend all this time—” You broke off, shook your head. “Forget it.”

Mayne studied you, jaw tightening. “You’ll have a life again. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

The words landed sharper than he meant. You snapped back before you could stop yourself. “A life doing what, exactly? Going back to nothing?" 

Your voice was louder than you intended, heat in it. He leaned back, unreadable, giving you space but not moving away.

“Didn’t realize I was the enemy here.”

You swallowed, guilt flashing but tangled with frustration. “You’re not. I just—” The words were a jumbled mess and you weren't sure how to tell him that you'd just found him, and already the thought of losing him made your chest feel hollow. How everything after this would probably feel slippery and ambiguous, and there'd be no promises, no certainty you'd even see him again. And what then? What if the next war didn't have space for you, or if this had all been some strange interlude you'd imagined into meaning?

The thoughts just pressed in, but when you opened your mouth nothing came out. You trailed off, because the rest of it was the one thing you couldn't say. 

Mayne studied you for a long moment, his brow furrowing when you didn't go on. "You don't have to say it," he muttered. "I get it." 

You tried to buy yourself a few seconds to rearrage the mess in your head into something that wouldn't sound pathetic or desperate. Something that made sense, but then a shout rang out from the outer perimeter.

Boots thudded. Someone yelled. “Truck coming!”

You all turned. You stood before you realised it. Mayne was already up, dust brushing off his shorts. His stance changed when he saw who it was: Seekings and Kershaw, wind-beaten and stiff, stepping down from a Jeep like they hadn’t stopped moving in hours.

Everyone started to gather. Mayne moved to intercept, calm as ever, with his arms crossed. 

Seekings didn’t waste time. Pulled a folded note from his breast pocket, the paper sweat-stained and marked with GHQ lettering. He read it aloud.

“Captain David Stirling, while scouting for a link route near Gaber Gap, has been captured by enemy forces. He is confirmed to be held as a prisoner of war.”

Silence, fast and sharp. Like someone had sucked the air out of the whole camp. Your stomach dropped.

Seekings looked up from the letter. His voice steadied. “Command has issued a formal notice of restructure. Effective immediately, leadership of the SAS will fall to Major Robert Blair Mayne.”

Every head turned.

Paddy didn’t blink. He just stood there — a long breath, a shift of weight — and then the faintest flicker: a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smirk like it had been waiting years to crawl out.

Fraser leaned toward you, voice low. “God help us all.”

You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. You just stared at Mayne. Your heart doing something stupid and sideways, and tried not to think about the way everything was shifting, all at once.

The camp buzzed again. Not loud. Just enough. A mixture of murmurs and nods, jokes passed with tight grins. Someone clapped him on the shoulder. Seekings quipped, “No pressure, Major.”

“Never liked the sound of that.”

“You’ll wear it fine,” you said, before you could stop yourself.

He looked at you then. Held it. Like he wanted to say something that couldn’t be said with anyone else around. But he didn’t. Not yet.

And you didn’t ask. Not yet.

Chapter Text

They said the SAS raids had turned the tide.

That you’d done enough to shift something vital in the Axis hold. Cut their lifelines. Jammed up their airfields. Left their commanders guessing until there wasn’t enough of them left to guess.

And then it was done.

October 1942. The long, slow, sand-choked war in North Africa snapped in two at Al Alamein. The Americans had finally joined the orchestra, brass and all. Monty got his big push. Rommel pulled back. The sky above Cairo brightened. Not from gunfire, for once, but from the kind of smug optimism that only comes when men think they’ve already won.

You were told to report back to Cairo.

“Reform and reassess,” someone said. Like it was a bloody filing error. Like it didn’t cost bodies to get here. Like your ghosts hadn’t built the damn road.

You returned to the same women’s quarter you stayed in last time. A tucked-away flat behind a paint-chipped gate and two crooked palms. It had a familiar mildew smell. Same cracked tiles, same weak tea kettle. Same corner window where the breeze didn’t quite reach.

It should’ve been a comfort. But it wasn’t. No engines firing at dawn. No gritted voices. No boots crunching across sand. You started waking early anyway, waiting for an alarm that never rang. You’d sit there, fully dressed by six, staring at a wall and trying to pretend you were enjoying the peace.

You weren’t. 

Bought a sofa one afternoon. Didn’t know why. A ridiculous thing, soft blue velvet, too long for the room, legs wrapped in paper like it was a wedding gift. You didn’t even unwrap it for days. Just left it there by the wall, unopened and accusatory. Like it knew you were pretending at normal.

You did that; bought things you didn’t need when you were trying to prove something. A book in Arabic you couldn’t finish. A bottle of French perfume you never wear. A lamp with no bulb. The furniture’s just the latest trial.

Some of the others had already been sent off — shuffled into other regiments, loaned out to special detachments, or quietly absorbed into units that didn’t ask many questions. The SAS, for now, felt scattered. 

They hadn’t called you. Not for anything. Not since Stirling was taken.

Maybe you’d be back with the ATS soon. Back to rules and blouses and someone calling roll like you were just another girl who typed. Only time would tell. And time wasn’t exactly known for giving straight answers.

Fraser asked if you’d seen Mayne.

You shrugged. “Not really.”

Not really was true. But not completely.

Because you had seen him. By accident. The first time, late at night, when you couldn’t sleep, running through backstreets with dust in your lungs and too much in your head. He came out of nowhere. You locked eyes for half a second across the road. He didn’t speak. Neither did you. Just nodded, stiff, polite, like you were strangers who happened to share the same memories.

You weren’t supposed to see each other. There was no good reason to.

And then it kept happening. Coincidence, at first. Then coincidence with teeth. You saw him again near Ezbekiah Gardens. He stood near the fig trees, a bottle dangling by its neck between his fingers, dress shirt clinging to his shoulders in the heat. He didn't turn as you passed. Didn't acknowledge you at all. But his fingers tightened around the bottle just enough that you knew he'd seen.

A few days later, a pub on Sharia Ramses. He leaned against the bar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms still dusted with desert tan, a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand. Your eyes met across the room. No smile. No nod. Just that same weighted look that had passed between you in the tent that night — the one you never spoke about. The one that lingered in the space between breaths.

You turned away first.

It became a habit.

Some evenings you'd find him sitting on a bench near the museum, long legs stretched out, newspaper abandoned beside him. Other nights you'd catch his reflection in a shop window as he trailed half a block behind you. Once, you turned a corner too fast and nearly collided with him — close enough to smell the soap on his skin, the whiskey on his breath. You didn't apologize. Didn't speak. Just stepped around each other like live wires.

Some days you’d walk down a street just because you thought he might be on it. Then cross it when he was.

You’d trained in the same wind, spilled blood in the same dust. You’d bandaged his ribs and kissed his mouth and watched him almost die. But now, in Cairo, you were whatever came after all that. If anything did.

And then one evening, you turned a corner and he was already there, leaning against a sun-bleached wall like it owed him something. He looked like hell. Or maybe he looked fine and you just didn’t want him to.

He saw you first. Straightened. Smirked faintly, like it was all a joke you hadn’t caught the punchline to.

You sighed. “You following me?”

He looked down the street, then back at you. “Thought it was the other way around.”

You snorted. "Keep telling yourself that." 

“Suppose we’re due,” he said eventually.

“Due for what?”

He jerked his chin sideways. “A walk. Or a fight. Whichever comes first.”

You blinked. “What if I say no?”

“Then I’ll haunt your heels like a fucking curse, and you’ll pretend you don’t see me. We’ll call it coincidence and keep lying through our teeth.”

You sighed. “Fine.”

He didn’t answer. Just pushed off the wall and started walking beside you.

No destination. No map. Just Cairo at sunset, and two ghosts pretending they weren’t haunting each other. You didn’t ask where he’d been. He didn’t ask if you’d missed him.

Which meant, of course, you both knew.

You just walked.

Cairo sprawled around you. Alleys like veins, buildings leaning over each other like gossiping old men, heat rising off the street in lazy ripples. The sun had slipped low, painting everything gold and rust. He didn’t say where you were going. You didn’t ask.

Mayne walked with that loose-shouldered ease he always had, but something was different now. Subtle. He’d trimmed the beard, no more wolfish mane, just a sharp jaw and clean edges. The wildness was still there, under the surface, but muted. Like someone had reached in and pressed a thumb down on the volume.

The desert had left him. At least on the outside. You didn’t know if that was good or bad.

For a moment, you wondered if he’d left everything from the desert behind — not just the blood and the sand and the wreckage, but you too. You weren’t sure which would hurt more.

He caught you staring. “If you’re grieving the beard, just say the word. I’ll hold a funeral.”

“I was just wondering which bastard gave you access to a razor.”

He smirked. “Found it meself, like a proper adult. Nearly lost an ear, but still.”

“Shame. I liked the feral thing. Had a certain charm.”

“Yeah? I liked not looking like I crawled out of a ditch. Progress, they call it.”

“Debatable.”

“Tell that to the bits of my face that aren’t scabbed over.”

The air between you was lighter than it should’ve been, but it was laced with something else too. That tension. That pull . You hadn’t touched, hadn’t even brushed arms, but the space between you felt crackling. Raw. 

“So you even know where we're going?” You asked finally.

He shrugged. “Wherever your boots give out, I’ll stop after.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s poetic.”

“You’re the one dragging me through Cairo like a ghost.”

“I didn’t drag you.”

He snorted. “You think I follow anyone for the scenery?”

You gave him a look. “You just make everything sound like a funeral or a love letter.”

He muttered, “Aren’t they the same thing, half the time?”

You passed a tucked-away bookstall, half-shuttered under the awning of a closed antiques shop. Dust clung to the glass like a second skin. He slowed without meaning to, gaze snagging on the weathered titles stacked in crooked towers behind the smudged window.

The door creaked like it hadn’t moved in weeks, and the scent hit you first; dust, ink, something woody and slightly damp, like time itself had been left to stew in the corners. The place was cramped, ceiling low, books stacked like barricades around narrow walkways. 

You didn’t say much. Just wandered. You trailing a hand across faded jackets, him ducking slightly to pass under a sagging shelf. Every so often you’d stop, pull something out, flip a page or two. He muttered something under his breath at one point — a line in Latin, maybe — then shoved the book back with the kind of quiet reverence that didn’t quite suit him.

It wasn’t until you turned toward the back that he reached for it.

A worn French volume, leather cracked along the spine, the gold lettering dulled by sun and fingers. He plucked it from its place with a kind of care you rarely saw from him. Not when handling grenades, not even when pouring whiskey. Held it in both hands like it might bite or bloom.

“You know this one?” he asked.

You glanced over. “Baudelaire. I know of it.”

He flipped it open, thumb tracing the pages. Then, soft and low, he read:

" I am the wound and the blade,

I am the blow and the cheek,

I am the limb and the wheel,

The torturer and the flayed ."

You exhaled through your nose. “Christ.”

He glanced at you, smile tilted like a secret. “Don’t flatter yourself. Wasn’t about you.”

“Didn’t sound like praise.”

“Maybe it is.” His voice dropped, just enough to sting. “You’re both the blow and what’s left of me after.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because for all his aloofness, for all the clipped sarcasm and poetic misdirection, he meant it. And you felt it. Right there, in the hollow beneath your ribs, where the war still lived.

He closed the book, slid it back. You kept walking.

It wasn’t like before. Back in the dunes, everything between you had been on fire. Now it was slow. Softer. Still hot, still close, but there was space again. Space filled with unsaid things, unfinished sentences, breaths you were afraid to share.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Still can’t shoot, can you?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You want to find out the hard way?”

“Just taking stock.” His tone was casual, but his glance lingered. “Figure I’ll still be the poor bastard throwing myself in front of you.”

You didn’t smile. But something pulled tight inside.

“Touching,” you said dryly. “Real romantic.”

“Christ, don’t start.” He looked at you properly then. “You’re trouble. Always were. But some things are worth limping for.”

You hated him for saying things like that. Offhand. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it didn’t mean everything .

Eventually, he veered off with no warning or word, and you followed. A back-alley place, tucked behind a shuttered grocer’s. Half-lit. Half-forgotten. One ceiling fan turning slow above a bar of chipped marble. Three other patrons, all pretending not to listen.

He held the door open with his shoulder and nodded you in like it was nothing.

“Whiskey,” he said to the bartender. “And whatever she wants.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just took the seat beside him and watched the way his fingers tapped the counter, slow and even. Like he was counting something out in his head.

Then, without looking at the bartender, you said, “same.”

The glass landed in front of you a moment later. You took one sip and nearly winced — sharp, smoky, nothing like the watered beer back at camp. It burned down your throat like it had something to prove.

Mayne lifted his own glass and tipped it toward you. “To Cairo.”

You didn’t toast.

He took a long swallow anyway, then side-eyed you. “That’s bad luck, you know. Not to raise a glass.”

You ignored him. Took another sip, bracing this time.

He smirked faintly. “Look at you, drinking like you mean it. Thought I’d have to water yours down with lemonade.”

“It’s disgusting,” you muttered. “Tastes like burnt regret.”

“Good,” he said. “That means it’s working.”

He looked sharper now. Not new, just slightly more polished around the edges. The beard trimmed close, hair pushed back like he’d tried to look respectable and only half-committed. His shirt was cleaner than usual, maybe even pressed. But the dark circles were still there. So were the old bruises, the half-healed scars along his temple and jaw, reminders the war hadn’t gone anywhere, not really.

It wasn’t that you didn’t recognize him. It’s that you did. And it lodged in your throat like a stone.

You tried not to stare at the cut of his jaw, the soft bruise at his temple, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. Tried not to picture the sand still clinging to the inside of his collar or the way his voice had cracked when he called your name through the wreckage.

Tried. Failed.

“So,” you said finally. “Major now.”

He hummed. “That what it says?”

“On the letter.”

He glanced sideways, lips curving like it tasted sour. “Bit of a joke, that.”

“Why?”

“Because it was Stirling’s job. His war. I just showed up late and broke things.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what they needed.”

He didn’t answer.

You looked down at your own drink. Still full. Still biting. “I don’t even know what I am anymore.”

He looked at you. Real slow. Like he was measuring something first. Not what you said, but why you said it. And then he blinked, tilted his head slightly. “What do you mean by that?”

You shrugged, eyes on the table. “I’m not in the ATS. Not officially in the SAS. I don’t wear rank. I don’t get medals. I don’t even know if I’m allowed back in when we move again.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned back, hand still around his glass. There was a muscle twitching in his jaw. Barely. But you saw it. “You think Heraklion did itself?” he asked finally, voice flat.

“That’s not what I said.”

“No,” he said. “But it’s what you meant.”

He reached for his drink but didn’t sip it. Just held it, like it grounded him. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“You think any of us could’ve pulled that job off without you there? You think I’d still be breathing if you hadn’t dragged me out by the ribs?” His tone stayed quiet. A murmur, but tight. Bitter.

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Paddy. HQ’s already made up their minds.”

“Well, it fucking matters what I think.” That landed. It was not a shout, just force.

He pushed the glass away. “You bled for this unit same as the rest of us. You built it. You’re just as much a part of the lads as me, Fraser, any of them.”

You stared at the glass in your hand. The whiskey looked like it might set your mouth on fire. You drank anyway. Wince and all. “I’m not shrinking,” you said quietly. “I’m just… floating.”

He let out a breath, then nodded. “Right. Floating.”

Pause.

“You know what that is? That’s waiting. You’re waiting for someone to hand you permission. Like they’ve earned the right to tell you who you are.” His hand tapped the table once, sharp. “They haven’t. But you keep acting like they have.”

You didn’t answer.

He stared at you for a long beat, the way he does when he wants to say more but doesn’t know how it’ll come out. His voice dropped. “Truth is, you deserve half the stripes on my sleeve. But here we are. I got them. You didn’t. And we can’t undo it. So what’s left?”

You looked up.

He shrugged. “You walk forward. That’s what.” There was heat in him now. And ache, too. A kind of cracked pride. You don’t think he even realized how much he meant it.

You blinked. “Only half? You’re being generous.”

He frowned, like he didn’t get the joke, or hated that you’d made one. “That’s not what I—”

You leaned back. Smiled without meaning it. “No, no. Half’s fair. You did all the shouting. I just did the bleeding.”

His jaw clenched. “Christ.”

You raised a brow. “What? You want me to cry about it now?”

He looked at you then. Not just across the bar, but through it. Past Cairo, past the uniforms, past all of it. “I want you to stop acting like they buried you.”

That one cut.

You looked down. “They didn’t have to. I’ve been invisible since day one.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

His voice was rough now. And quieter. The kind of quiet that held teeth. “You think I haven’t watched you get passed over, shut out, handed the worst bits of the job and told to be grateful for it? You think I haven’t wanted to crack a few skulls clean in half for the way they treat you?”

You looked up slowly. He was leaning forward now, elbows on the bar, hands flat. Not touching you. But close. Too close. “Then why not say something?”

“Because you don’t need me to say it. You’re the one who walked through every shit mission they handed us without blinking. You’re the one who kept walking when most of us would've curled up in a ditch. You knew what it cost. And you did it anyway.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Not right away. But something in you shifted, again.

He saw it. Maybe felt it. “You think you’re floating,” he said. “But you’re not. You’re waiting for someone to tell you it was worth it. That you earned your place.”

He stared hard. “I’m telling you now. You did.”

You breathed in. Too shallow.

“And if that’s not enough,” he said, “then fuck HQ. Fuck all of it. You don’t need their stripes to be what you already are.”

The fan above you buzzed. The bar clattered in the distance, a bottle knocked over. Nobody noticed. But in the space between you, something had cracked open.

He looked at you, eyes dark, tired, burning. “You’re not half of anything. You never were.”

And just like that, you knew. Whatever you’d been pretending not to feel — resentment, distance, ache — it wasn’t any of those. It was him. It’s always been him. 

You were in love with him. Worst part was, you probably always had been.

Chapter Text

You didn’t pretend anymore.

It wasn’t accidental — not the fifth time, not the eighth. You started wearing your boots again, even though Cairo was a city of sandals. Because you never knew how far you’d end up walking.

He’d say, “Same place?”

You’d shrug. “If we’re lucky.”

You never called it a meeting. It was always just being in the same place at the same time. Sometimes it was the rooftop of an old colonial hotel, long since gutted of tourists. You’d sit on the edge with your legs dangling, passing a canteen back and forth like it still held something stronger than water. The skyline flickered in every direction. Cairo never really slept, it just held its breath.

Sometimes it was the back alley near the post exchange. You’d sit on crates. Watch dogs fight in the dust. Say nothing for twenty minutes straight. Once, he dragged you out into the rain, lifted his face to the sky like the water was fine wine, and swore it was better than any meal. You said he wasn't right in the head, but you still laughed, even when you were both soaked through. 

The rooftop of the abandoned Imperial Hotel became yours. You’d sit on the ledge, thighs nearly touching, passing a canteen that tasted of metal and memories. His pinky would brush yours when he handed it back. Neither of you acknowledged it but neither of you stopped.

He always showed up looking like he’d wrestled a truck on the way over. His shirt would be wrinkled, sleeves rolled, the top buttons undone just enough to be impolite. He didn’t speak gently. He never had. But his shoulders sat lower now. Less like he was bracing for a punch.

“I saw Cooper this morning,” he muttered one night, eyes fixed on the streetlights below. “He’s sunburnt to hell. Red as a lobster.” 

You snorted. “Suits him.”

“Doesn’t suit anyone.”

“Neither do you,” you said, too quickly.

He glanced sideways. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“Wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

You went quiet again. Cairo shimmered in the distance, yellow and gold and half-suffocating.

Once, his knee rested against yours and didn’t move. Another time, you dropped your hand between the two of you and he didn’t flinch. He just kept talking, low and deliberate, about nothing in particular. Maybe about the heat, a newspaper headline, or even a fight he saw between a cat and a pigeon.  His voice settled into your chest like an old injury. He never said the right thing. But sometimes he said something that almost was.

“I think the war’s starting to forget about us,” you said once.

“No,” he muttered. “It’s just waiting for us to sober up and ruin someone’s day."

“You sound sure.”

He shrugged. “I’m not. But if I were the sort who believed in certainty, that’s the lie I’d pick.”

That was the shape of you and him. Sentences that looped, meaning tucked beneath the obvious. You both never said what you meant, only wandered near it.

“Ever think about what you’ll do after?” You asked, watching smoke curl from a chimney that hadn’t worked in years.

“After what?”

“All this.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just took a canteen, sipped, and passed it to you. “Don’t think I’m built for after.”

“You’re not built for Cairo either,” you muttered. “But here you are.”

He smirked faintly, lazy and crooked. “Aye, well. Maybe I died in the desert and no one told me.”

“Ghosts don’t drink rainwater and call it a pint." 

“They do if they’re Irish and bored.”

There were nights you wanted to say it. Not love. You wouldn’t go that far. But something near it. Something aching and warm and wrecked. Instead, you’d lean your head against your palm and watch him. Let the silence hold the things you were too much of a coward to name.

And Mayne? He’d sit beside you like he’d do it forever, as long as you never asked him why.

Later, it was quieter.

You ended up somewhere else. Not by plan, not really. It was him who led, without saying much, just a glance and a nod, like he already knew the route and didn’t care if you followed. You did.

It was an old theatre, or something that had once held velvet and sound. And now it was just dust and memory. The roof was half-caved, and the marble tiles were cracked down the centre like a bad omen. But in the middle of it all, absurdly, there stood a grand piano with yellowing keys, top warped with heat. Forgotten and ghostly. It hadn’t been played in years.

He stepped around it like it wasn’t strange, like it belonged there. Like you both did.

You sat near the front row — or what was left of it — on the broken lip of a seat with stuffing spilling out. Mayne dropped down beside you, back to a column, legs outstretched. One boot still caked in desert mud, the other tapping a slow, restless rhythm on the red carpet.

The air smelled like mildew and something older. Perfume trapped in plaster. Heat and brass. Something soft, too. A perfume you couldn’t place.

He struck a match with his thumb, lit a cigarette, then offered you one without looking. You didn’t smoke, and you know he didn't as well, but you took it anyway. Just to feel the heat when his fingers brushed yours.

No one else in Cairo knew you were there. No one would’ve cared. And that made it feel almost sacred. Like if anything mattered at all anymore, maybe it was this.

Just him and you and now.

“What are we doing?” You asked, quietly. You hadn’t meant to.

He exhaled, long and slow. “Now or in the grand, doomed sense?”

“Both.”

That got a faint chuckle out of him. “Right now I’m sitting in a haunted theatre with a person who thinks I don’t notice when she stares at me sideways.”

“Not what I was doing.”

“Oh no? You just burn holes in the wall behind me for sport, is it?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned forward just a bit. Voice lower, rougher. “That’s what I thought.”

The lamp buzzed like it had a heartbeat. The shadows clung to the walls like they were listening. He didn’t look smug. He didn’t look cocky. He just looked tired, and something else. Like maybe he’d been waiting for this part — this moment — longer than you had.

He glanced over, deadpan. “Hell of a date spot, eh? Nothing says romance like crumbling plaster and the faint stench of piss.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You trying to impress me?”

He shrugged. “Could’ve taken you to a jazz club. But this place’s got ghosts, and I thought they’d appreciate the company.”

“Charming.”

He grinned, all teeth. “Stick with me. I’ll show you every cursed building from here to Benghazi.”

You sat. Legs sprawled. His thigh brushed yours, warm and solid. Neither of you shifted. The quiet settled again. But this time, it pulsed.

Then he looked at you. “I think about that night sometimes,” 

“Which one?”

He snorted, but it was thin and hollow. “Don’t start that shite. You know.”

Your chest stilled. You kept your eyes on the dark space between. “You were bleeding out. High on morphine.”

“Still happened.”

You didn’t deny it. Just reached down, picked at a loose thread on your trouser cuff like it might unravel the whole moment. His hand found yours — calloused, warm, a little too firm for someone who’d come that close to vanishing. But it was the way his thumb moved, slow and unsure, that gave him away. 

He wasn’t nervous. Not Mayne.

Except tonight, he was. The kind of nervous that looked like a shallow breath, a flick of the throat when he swallowed, a glance that didn’t quite meet yours.

“I was gonna say something,” he muttered, voice low and half-slurred. “That night.”

“Yeah?”

“Forgot the fucking words.”

“That's rare.”

He huffed a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Was gonna quote Yeats. Or some dead Irish bastard. Or maybe the back of a whiskey bottle, I don’t know.”

“Say it now,” you whispered.

He looked at you then. Not fully, just sideways. Like you’d blind him if he stared too long. “I can’t,” he said, almost too quietly. “Not when you’re looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know.”

You didn’t answer. Your hand was still in his. You could feel the shake in his fingers now, small and buried, like he was furious at himself for letting it slip. His thigh brushed yours again. You didn't move. The air in the room was wrong. Too thick and too loud, even the silence. Something waited between you with its teeth bared. Neither of you dared breathe too deep in case it shattered.

He leaned in, just slightly. Close enough for you to count his freckles. Close enough that you could smell the Cairo dust still clinging to his collar. “I can't make sense of it. Whatever this is,” he said, rough. “But I swear it's eating me alive.”

And then — nothing. You could feel him hesitate. You didn’t ask why.

Instead, he stood. Hands on his knees, slow like something ached in him. Maybe everything. He wandered just a few steps across the ruined floor, toward the front of the room.

The piano sat there like it had been waiting.

“Eoin was supposed to teach me,” he said, after a beat. Voice low again, flat. “Back in Palestine. Said he’d show me scales if I stopped flaying the lads in sparring.”

He set his hands on the keys like they might bite. Pressed one, and the note came out wrong. Dead and sour. He muttered a curse under his breath — thick and Irish — and kept playing. Something simple. Something sad. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t in tune. That his rhythm was off and his back was stiff and he played like a man trying not to break open.

You watched. His hands. His shoulders. The rise of his chest when he paused. You watched and the rest of the world blurred at the edges.

He didn’t look up when you crossed the room. Just kept playing.

You sat beside him, not speaking, not touching. Not until you did. First, you leaned in and let your lips rest against the slope of his shoulder. It wasn’t meant to be a kiss, just a breath or a pause, something quieter than either of you could name. Then you let your head follow, resting there like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it had always known the way there. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen. Just kept playing, softer now. Like the noise between you needed someplace to go.

Your eyes slipped shut.

For a second, you thought: If someone bombed Cairo right now, you’d probably just stay sitting.

That was love, apparently. Real inconvenient.

You didn’t plan gifts.

That would’ve meant admitting something. And neither of you were very good at that.

You found the necklace at a stall on a street where the alley chokes with incense smoke and fake antiques. The vendor tried to convince you that it was sacred — thin knots, silver-dipped cross, “blessed by a desert monk.” Lies, obviously. But the cord was sturdy, black-woven and burnished at the edges, and you could thread a little metal into it.

So you did.

A sliver of Eoin’s tag, just the flat steel with his name on it, small enough to carry but heavy enough to remember. Woven in like a secret. One you didn’t even know if you had the right to give.

You didn’t wrap it. Just showed up late that afternoon, found him leaning against a column near your usual cafe, legs stretched.

“Here,” you said, and tossed it at his chest.

He caught it one-handed, rough fingers closing around it like he expected it to bite. Didn’t thank you. Didn’t ask why. Just looked at it.

You hadn’t meant for it to be about Eoin. Not really. But something about the way Mayne sat at that piano playing notes that didn’t quite fit had pulled the memory up. Eoin was the reason you even knew each other. The first fracture. The first loss. Maybe part of you wanted Mayne to remember that. Not the grief, but what came after. What you both made out of the wreckage. Or maybe it was just a thought that showed up and refused to leave. The kind you don’t look at too closely, in case it looks back.

“Did you rob a priest for this?” he muttered, brow twitching.

“Only a small one.”

He didn’t laugh. But he didn’t take it as a joke, either. Just tied the cord around his neck, right there in the street with no mirror and no fumbling apology. His fingers lingered longer than they needed to. The black cord looked too clean against his sunburned skin, too deliberate.

“Don’t wear it if you hate it.”

“Did I say I hated it?”

“You didn’t say you liked it.”

He met your eyes, flat and unreadable. “Then take it off me.”

You didn’t move. He didn’t either.

The next day, he handed you something. Supposedly a gift, but he didn’t announce it, didn’t make it a moment out of it. Just dropped it into your palm with all the grace of handing over a bullet.

It was leather, worn, and woven tight and thick, like something made for a soldier’s wrist. A single bead inlaid near the buckle: cobalt blue, almost black, with a faint white ring at the center.

“The eye,” you said softly. “Nazar.”

“For luck,” he muttered. “Or to keep you from setting everything on fire.”

You looked at him. “You believe in that?”

“I believe in giving you something to fiddle with so you don’t punch anyone.”

You wore it anyway. Tight. So tight it left a faint red line on your skin the first night. And later, you caught him glancing at it. At the way it sat on you.

Just like you caught him reaching up to touch the cord around his own neck when he thought you weren’t looking. Thumb pressing the knot. A ghost of a smile in the corner of his mouth. Never full, never certain, like it didn’t have permission to stay.

Some nights, you couldn’t sleep.

You’d lie on the narrow couch, the new one you hadn’t unwrapped until Cairo got too quiet. You'd look at the ceiling and think about him.

Think about Eoin.

You'd remember the way he used to look at Mayne, in that steady, admiring, and quiet way. He never said it out loud, not really, but you could see it in the way he watched him from across the tent. The way his voice changed when he spoke about him. It wasn’t love. Not the soft kind, anyway. But it was something.

And Mayne — he never looked back. Not openly. Not the same way.

You used to wonder if that meant he didn’t care. Now you know better. He just doesn’t give things away like that. You have to peel it out of him, with a crowbar and a lit match preferably. 

Still, you were jealous. Not of Eoin. But of what they had. The unspoken thing. The closeness forged in the fire before you even got there. A head start you could never catch up to.

And then you were jealous of Mayne. Of his place. His body. His rage. Of the way he just exists without asking permission. The way the world bends around him, even when it wants to break him.

Some days, you wanted to be him. Other days, you wanted to scream at him.

You were angry. At yourself. For how easy it was to give him everything. For how badly you wanted to, without him even asking. For how he could look at you like you were nothing, and everything, in the same breath, and never say a word about it.

You hated how you understood him. And you hated how you still wanted more.

You hated the war most of all.

You kept thinking about that moment in the theatre, at the piano. His hands too clumsy for it. The awkwardness. The quiet. The way he looked when he mentioned Eoin. How the grief hadn’t softened, just receded like an old bruise. How it still lived in his fingers, even now.

And then everything hit at once.

The stillness. The silence. The fact that you weren’t moving — not toward a mission, not toward purpose, not toward anything that felt like yours. His words echoed in your skull: You’re not half of anything. You never were. That’s what. But your limbs wouldn’t listen. Your chest felt too tight, your head too loud. You curled up on the couch. The one you hadn’t meant to keep, hadn’t meant to sleep on, hadn’t meant to feel this alone on. And just folded in. Knees drawn, breath held.

Because how do you fight to belong in a war that never asked for you? How do you stand your ground when even your shadow keeps disappearing? You wanted to move. To try. To earn the stripes he thought you already wore. But you couldn’t. Not tonight.

The bracelet dug against your skin. Woven leather, warm from your body heat. Too heavy for something so small.

It wasn’t cursed. It wasn’t even particularly magical.

But God, it knew how to press.

Chapter Text

You didn’t see the punch.

Didn’t see the bottle. Or the man. Or the exact moment the chair flew across the courtyard and shattered against the mess wall. But everyone else did apparently. Forty soldiers and a handful of their wives. All gathered in that echoey little courtyard behind HQ. The kind of place built for gossip and shade, not grief.

They said he threw the drink first. Didn’t even shout. He just launched it at the tiles like he was trying to drown the sun. Then came the chair. Then came the fists. Then came the silence, thick and stifling, the kind that only ever follows violence or death. Maybe both.

He wasn’t embarrassed, not even a little. They said he just stood there with blood on his knuckles and a cut on his cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like the war owed him an explanation.

He’d gotten the letter first from home. A plain envelope, no warning, no softness in the wording. Just the facts:

Your father has died. The funeral is on the 10th. The family would like you home, if possible.

He brought it to HQ. Straightened his shirt. Probably rehearsed the request in his head more times than he’d admit. And they said no.

No . Not enough time. Not enough transport. Not important enough. And that was that. His Da was going into the ground, and all Mayne got was a line in a letter and a closed door. He didn’t take it well. Which was fair, considering.

By the time they hauled him away, his shirt was bloodstained and someone else’s tooth was on the floor.

Still, he didn’t look sorry. Just furious. Grief-struck. Grief-struck and furious, which is a worse combination than most soldiers know how to deal with.

They threw him in military prison with no warning, no friend at his side, and no time to sober up or come down or breathe. Instead, they gave him a cell, a few bruises for ceremony, and no one saying his name except to spit it through the bars. Paddy Mayne — war hero, lunatic, disgrace, pick one. He’d been all three before breakfast.

By the time word got to you, he’d already been in for a day and a half. Cut off and alone. You found him the day after.

He was crouched near the gardens, hunched like something too heavy was hanging from his ribs. Black eye blooming down one cheekbone. Split lip. Dried blood at his nose, already crusted. He looked up when he heard you, but not like he was surprised. More like he’d been waiting.

His voice was hoarse. “Save the lecture.”

“I’m here to see if you’re alive.”

He scoffed. “Bad news, then.”

He didn’t meet your eyes. Just kept clenching and unclenching his fists like he hadn’t figured out whether to swing again or not. Like some part of him was still in that courtyard, surrounded by gawking strangers, holding a broken glass and the weight of a father he didn’t get to bury. When you sat beside him, he didn’t move.

“They said you got a letter,” you said.

He gave a short laugh. No humour in it. “Aye. No ‘sorry’ , no ‘ regret to inform you ’. Just he’s dead. Funeral’s the tenth. I’m not to go. That’s it.”

You hated how still he was. This wasn’t desert stillness. This was different. The kind of quiet a man wears after he’s shattered something he loved, or been told he couldn’t say goodbye to it.

“You should’ve called me,” you said.

His jaw tensed. “Didn’t want you seeing me like that.”

You looked at him. “You mean like this ?”

He didn’t answer.

After a while, he dragged a hand down his face, fingers catching on the dried blood near his jaw. His voice came scratchy, low. “Bill Stirling showed up.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Who the hell is that?”

“David’s older brother, apparently. Looks the same, but with less hair and less charm.”

“Didn’t think that was possible.”

“Neither did I. Man’s got a handshake like he’s trying to sell you two war bonds and a bridge.”

That almost made you smile. 

He sniffed, leaned back with a wince. “Turned up in the cell, said the regiment’s on the chopping block. SAS might be done for.”

The words hit like sand in the lungs. But you didn’t say anything.

“And then,” he added, more bitter now, “he says I could stop it. Me . Take command. Hold it together.”

He didn’t look at you. Just stared out into the street like the answer might be hiding somewhere there.

“Major Robert Blair Mayne,” he muttered. “Christ. Can you imagine that shite?” 

You didn’t answer. Let the silence be what it needed to be.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t shout. But you could see it, the grief curling behind his teeth, flinching in his fists. He looked like a man who’d fought every war but this one. He didn’t look at you, but you watched his jaw work. Slow and clenched. And you didn’t touch him. Not yet. You just sat beside him and tried not to fall apart.

“Do you want to talk about him?” You asked.

“No.” He said it too fast. Too flat. Like he’d rehearsed it.

“I mean it,” you said, quiet. “You can.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “What for? He’s in the ground. Talking won’t dig him out.”

“No. But it might make breathing easier.”

He leaned forward on his knees, elbows on thighs, hands clasped like he might snap them in half. Eyes on the dirt like it owed him an apology.

“He was strict,” he said at last. “Proper hard bastard. Believed in God, discipline, and not hugging your kids.”

He paused. 

“Didn’t stop me turning out soft. Or angry. Or full of drink.” The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile, not really, just something his face remembered how to do. “He wanted clean-cut sons. Officers. Didn’t get that.”

His voice rasped. 

“Got me instead.”

You didn’t speak. Just let it sit. Let it hurt.

“He taught me to box,” he said after a bit, quieter now. “Said it’d teach restraint. Bollocks, that. All it taught me was how to hit without tearing up.”

His voice cracked, sharp and fast. He swallowed hard. Jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him from shaking apart.

“When I was small, I used to stand like him. Try to match the voice. His walk. Used to hope he’d look at me like I was worth something.” He sniffed. Looked away. “Da never flinched. Even when he was wrong. I hated that. I loved it too.”

“Maybe you are like him,” you said gently.

He turned slightly, just enough to side-eye you. “Then God help us all,” he muttered.

The air around you felt heavy then. Not just with Cairo heat, but with grief. Old and new. Unnamed.

You wanted to touch him. Rest a hand on his shoulder. Let him know he wasn’t alone. But you didn’t. He was still coiled. Still brimming with rage and sorrow and something older than both. You don’t touch a man in the middle of that. Not unless you want to be cut open too.

So you just sat there. Close. Still. And waited. Because sometimes the only thing left to do is to not run.

It’d been hours by then. Long enough for the sun to soften, for the Cairo streets to dull into orange and ash. You didn’t say where you were both going, just started walking. At some point you picked up a bottle. Something bitter. He carried it like a child.

And somehow, the two of you ended up at yours.

It was late afternoon. The light came in like it was sneaking, slipping through the slatted shutters and drawing lines across the dusty floorboards. You could hear Cairo outside if you listened for it. Car horns, distant hawkers, some poor bastard chasing a goat. But the flat held its own kind of hush.

Minimal. That was one word for it. Sparse was another. You hadn’t been expecting company, and the place made that obvious. Littered with half-unpacked crates, a kettle with no matching cups, books stacked like barricades along the walls. Nothing on the shelves but an empty ashtray and a cracked photograph frame you hadn’t bothered to fill. It wasn’t lived in. It was tolerated, more like.

The sofa was still wrapped in plastic. You’d meant to cut it open, eventually. But Cairo made it easy to forget. Or avoid.

And you were nervous. Maybe not visibly, not the kind you’d write home about, but it was definitely there. In the way you wiped your hands on your trousers before opening the door. In how you spoke a little too casually, or moved a little too fast. You didn’t do visitors. Especially not him.

Paddy stepped in like he was scoping the place out.

He stopped near the doorway, squinting. “Christ. This where you live or stash corpses?”

You crossed your arms. “Sit.”

He didn’t. His eyes swept the place; the unlit lamp, the unwashed cup on the sill, the faint smear of oil near the kettle where you’d tried and failed to fix it. His mouth twitched. “Did the decorator off himself halfway through, then?”

“You should see the decorator,” you said. “He’s the one on the sofa.”

He turned, gave the sofa a proper look. Plastic gleaming under the Cairo light, untouched. He stepped toward it, tapped it with a knuckle like it might hiss at him. “You’ve been back how long?”

“Three weeks.”

“And you’ve just been looking at this thing like it’s a wild animal?”

“I didn’t say I haven’t sat on it,” you said, grabbing the bottle. “I said I haven’t unwrapped it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You keeping it a virgin? Outta guilt?”

“It’s clean,” you muttered. “Unlike some people.”

“Right.” He gave a scoff. Lowered himself onto it slowly. The plastic creaked. He settled in with a grunt. “Comfort’s a mortal sin now, is it?”

You poured two drinks into chipped mugs. Cheap stuff. He took the one you handed him, fingers brushing yours. 

He took a sip and winced.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “That’s fucking offensive.”

“Should match the company, then.”

That got a grin out of him, one of the rare ones. Not sweet, not soft. Just teeth and weariness and something too tired to fake charm. He raised the mug like a salute. “Fair enough.”

The silence stretched. But it wasn't awkward, more like charged. Like you were both sitting on a live wire.

Outside, the sun dipped lower. The lines of light on the floor turned gold. You pretended not to watch him. He didn’t pretend at all.

His left eye was still swollen. Purple and bloated under the brow like a plum. There was dried blood crusted near his nostril, half-wiped, like someone had tried to clean him up and got bored halfway through. And he kept wincing just slightly every time he moved his jaw.

“You look like hell,” you said quietly.

He raised the mug and clinked it against nothing. “I’m on theme then. Cheers.”

You didn’t laugh. Just stood there, looking at him, at the thick, uneven stubble shadowing his jaw, darker now with grime and dried sweat. It had grown wild in the past few days, coarser and messier than you’d seen on him before. His moustache curled a bit at the edges. He looked like he belonged in a trench or on a wanted poster.

You moved to the drawer and pulled out the old safety razor you barely used. The cracked mirror from the bottom shelf. A clean rag. Laid them on the table like a truce. Or a dare.

He followed your hands and raised a brow.

“Bit forward,” he said, voice scratchy. “Should at least buy me dinner first.”

“You’re starting to look like a disgraced prophet.”

He ran a finger along his jaw, probably testing how close he was to feral. “Suppose I’ve got a few commandments to break.”

“Lean back.”

“Hmm.” His eyes narrowed, half amused, half suspicious. “Try not to go for the jugular.”

“Try me.”

That made him grunt. But he obeyed anyway, tilted his head back against the wall, mug still in one hand, the other resting limply on his knee. And for once, he didn’t fight it.

You pulled a chair in front of him and straddled it backward, elbows resting on the backrest. You soaked the cloth in warm water, wrung it out, then pressed it gently to his jaw.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe, either.

The scent of shaving soap filled the air. It was sharp, clean, almost medicinal. You lathered it with your fingers, slow and deliberate. Each touch a careful line across the planes of his face; jaw, chin, throat. He was warm. Tense. You could feel the nerves twitch under his skin, just beneath the surface.

He exhaled through his nose. “Strange,” he muttered.

“What is?”

“Letting someone touch my face without wanting to deck them.”

You just kept focusing on the lather. Spread it evenly, rhythmically. Like tuning an engine, not touching a man.

“You’ve done this before,” he said, voice lower now.

"What, you think yours is the first chin I’ve met?" you murmured. 

He made a noise, something between a grunt and a huffed laugh. You reached for the razor. Held his chin with one hand, kept it steady. He let you.

Razor. Swipe. Wipe. Again. Slow. Careful. The blade glided under his cheekbone with a hiss of foam and stubble.

But you could feel his eyes on you now. Tracking. Watching every movement, every breath. He hadn’t blinked since you touched him.

“You know,” he said, “you could’ve left the bruises. Add a bit of charm.”

“You’re not charming.”

“Not even a little?”

You didn’t look up. “You’re a busted knuckle with eyebrows.”

He grinned. You could hear it in the tilt of his voice. “Used to have a barber back home. Fell asleep mid-trim once.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Aye. Woke up with half a moustache. Thought I was cursed.”

You snorted. Swiped the razor under his chin.

“I shaved the rest off in protest. Looked like bollocks for a month.”

“You are a bollocks.”

“And yet,” he said, lifting the mug again with that lazy defiance, “you brought me home.”

His voice was quiet now. Less cocky. More like something else was tugging underneath the surface. You didn’t answer. Just steadied his face again, dragging the razor down his throat with surgical calm. Your palm rested against the base of his neck, fingers splayed.

That’s when he gulped. Just a twitch. Barely there. But you saw it. Felt it.

Your hand slowed. But you said nothing. Neither did he.

Only the sound of the blade, the low hiss of foam. The warmth of his breath brushing your wrist. And the late sun casting golden slats across the floor, making the plastic on the couch gleam like it had just been unwrapped. Like everything had.

When you finished, you pushed his hair back, smoothing it with damp fingers. A few errant strands curled over his forehead. You fixed those too. Your hands landed on either side of his face. You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe to check your work, maybe because you wanted to keep touching him. Your thumbs hovered just under his cheekbones, near the fresh skin you’d just shaved clean. He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. 

“You could make a living outta this,” he said. “War ends, set up a chair in the city.”

“I’ll put you in the window,” you said. “To scare children away.”

He smiled. But it was softer now. Something flickered in his eyes, not sharp, not drunk, not wounded. Just tired. Unarmoured. 

You dropped your hands. 

And that’s when he exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath since you touched him. Maybe longer. 

The plastic-wrapped sofa groaned when you sat back down beside him, a half-meter of heat between you. His fingers tapped the mug again. Your knees were drawn up slightly, one brushing his leg when you shifted. 

“We shouldn’t be here,” he said. 

“You mean the war, or the room?” 

“Aye.” 

You let out a dry laugh. “That clears things up.” 

You didn’t speak for a while. And he just sat there, quiet. The bottle half-empty between you.

“I can’t seem to get it right, no matter what I do.” you said finally.

His gaze didn’t drop. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

“I shouldn’t be. I’m not even — I don’t belong anywhere. I’m not in the regiment. I’m not—”

“You’re mine .”

It slipped out so fast, you thought you misheard him. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t take it back. He just kept watching you.

Your throat went tight. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” he said. “But it’s true.”

You sat back, arms crossed. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“Christ,” he muttered. “If I didn’t mean it, I’d have fucked off weeks ago.”

You looked down. His knuckles were resting on his thigh. Your fingers reached — not deliberately, but not accidentally either. They hovered just an inch away. He leaned forward, slow. Hesitating again. Always hesitating.

He studied your face. “You mad at me?”

“No.”

He leaned in. A breath closer. Enough that you felt the heat off his skin. “You sure?”

“No,” you said. “Not really.”

“Thought so,” he muttered.

He didn’t kiss you then. But he didn’t lean away either.

“What are we doing?” You asked.

He didn’t blink. “Now or in general?”

“Pick one.”

“Right now,” he said, “I’m in someone's flat who keeps a sofa like a body bag and puts her fingers in my hair like it’s not a sin.”

“And in general?”

He exhaled. “Thinking too much about someone who’s a bad idea.”

“Same.”

He looked at you with the kind of ache you don’t speak of. One of his hands reached out, calloused and careful, and landed on your hip. The other followed a beat later. His grip wasn’t rough. Like he’d done this before in a dream and was afraid to wake you. He tugged gently and you froze. Not from fear, just confusion. Heat blooming in your chest, your throat dry. 

“What is this?” You whispered, already knowing. 

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Come here.” 

And God , your heart. It started kicking like it was trying to outrun the rest of you. You didn’t know what you expected, didn’t know what you thought this was. But still, you moved. 

You let him guide you. Let him pull you onto his lap. Your knees straddled his thighs as you sat. His hands didn’t move once you were there. Just rested, warm and wide, against the sides of your waist like they belonged.

Your heart slammed in your ribs. His thumb brushed the inside of your knee. You couldn’t look at him at first. So you looked at his collarbone. His neck. The necklace. The cut on his cheekbone. Then you let your eyes meet his.

You sat like that. Nose to nose. Breath to breath.

His hand moved to your waist. And then, finally, he kissed you.

It was rough, desperate, wrong in all the right ways. The kind of kiss that forgets it wasn’t supposed to happen. His palm cupped your jaw. Your fingers curled into his shirt. You didn’t pull back. You didn’t think. You just breathed him in and whatever this was. Whatever you were.

His hands slid down to your hips, fingers curling, anchoring as you settled on top of him, straddling his lap on the plastic-wrapped sofa. It crackled beneath you, loud and absurd, but you didn’t laugh. You didn’t even hear it yet.

His mouth moved with yours, slow at first, then hungrier. More certain. His hand traced your thigh, rough palm sliding up beneath the hem of your trousers, dragging heat in its wake. The other cupped the back of your neck, thumb brushing along your jawline like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or just hold you still.

You could feel his pulse against your chest, or maybe it was yours. Hard to tell. You were breathing too fast now, your bodies too close to distinguish where one started and the other ended.

His hand slid higher. Under your shirt now. Fingers grazing your stomach, ribs, the side of your torso. Slow, reverent, cautious even in their hunger. He stopped just below your breast, palm splayed out like he was grounding himself there. The other hand still at your neck, thumb now pressing gently into the hollow where your jaw met your throat.

He leaned back just enough to look at you. His eyes scanned your face like it was the first time he’d seen it. “If you knew how long I've wanted this, you'd laugh in my face.” he said, almost laughing to himself. 

You didn’t answer him. Instead you leaned in and kissed his neck, greedy, open-mouthed, dragging your lips along the rough skin beneath his ear. He made a sound then. Something half-caught in his throat, and you felt the sharp inhale through his ribs.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt. Tugged. He didn’t ask why. Just raised his arms and let you pull it off. It clung to his shoulders for a second, then gave way, exposing skin gone gold with sun and scarred with the remnants of every place he'd ever fought. His chest rose and fell, slow and steady, but you could feel the restraint in him.

You looked at him. At the lines of his torso from Heraklion. The faint marks from his prison scuffle still fresh. A bruise just above his ribcage bloomed purple-blue, and something about that made your throat tighten. He didn’t say a word. Just watched you watch him.

You reached for the buttons of your shirt. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

You took your time. Not exactly teasing, but definitely deliberate. Letting the silence stretch and settle. One button, then the next. Each one undone felt like surrendering another part of yourself you hadn’t known you’d been guarding.

When you slipped the shirt off, slow and quiet, revealing just your bra beneath, his eyes darkened — not with lust, not only — but something deeper. Raw. Stunned.

“Christ,” he whispered. “You’re—”

You could feel the word in his throat, hovering. You didn’t need him to say it. Not really.

You kissed again. Slower this time, but no less desperate. His mouth moved to your jaw, then down your neck, each kiss rough-edged with restraint. You tilted your head, gave him more space, and he took it without hesitation. He kissed the slope of your collarbone, the top of your bare chest. His mouth trailed lower, slow, deliberate, until it found the thin scar from many nights ago. He kissed it once, softly, before moving on. His lips brushed the swell of your breast through the fabric of your bra, and you felt yourself exhale, sharp and uneven.

You closed your eyes.

The plastic wrap beneath you crackled again. Loud. Stupid. You were half-laughing, half-gasping when he did it again — right as the tip of his nose grazed your skin and the noise squealed underneath.

He huffed a laugh, mouth still on your shoulder. “This fucking thing.” 

“It’s your fault,” you murmured. "You move too much." 

He snorted, lips dragging along your clavicle. “You like it.”

You shifted again, tangled, and the plastic shrieked like it was trying to report you to HQ. He chuckled low in his throat, that gravelly sound, and you felt it vibrate against your skin.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Somewhere less bloody noisy.”

You barely had time to nod before he moved. Lifted you like it weighed nothing, arms strong beneath your legs and back, then carried you toward the bed. The room tilted and swayed with his steps, but he was steady.

He dropped you onto the mattress, and followed a second later, bracing himself over you.

The bed was small. A single. Too narrow, too warm, too everything. You shifted awkwardly as he laid you down, and muttered, “Sorry. It’s small.”

He looked down at you, half out of breath, eyes dark and steady. “That’s the last thing on my mind right now,” he said, voice rough. 

You opened your mouth to answer but lost the thought the moment he kissed you again.

This time was different, hungrier, rougher. He kissed your throat, then lower. Down the curve of your chest, over the fabric of your bra. His hands were everywhere, firm and searching, memorising skin, chasing reactions. He didn’t ask for anything. He just gave; his mouth, his breath, his hands pressed over your ribs, your hips, the bare stretch of your stomach.

You arched into him without thinking.

The mattress creaked. One of you hissed — possibly you. He didn’t stop. He kissed the skin just above your navel. Then looked up. His hair was a mess, his eye still bruised, and you’d never wanted anything more in your life.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough, hoarse, barely there.

You nodded. Couldn’t speak. Your chest rose and fell too fast, too hard.

He kissed your stomach again. “Say it.”

“I’m sure .”

His lips brushed the inside of your hip, then your thigh, and you stopped thinking altogether. His hands found the waistband of your trousers, thumbs dipping under the fabric like he was asking again, one last silent chance to pull away. You didn’t.

He slid them down slowly, past your hips, your thighs, until they were nothing but discarded cloth on the floor. You shivered. Cairo air warm on your skin, but still you felt bare. Exposed.

Then he kissed you. Your thigh first, the outer curve, then lower. Then the inside, just above your knee. Then higher. You gripped the sheets. Hard.

He didn’t speak. Instead his mouth moved over the most sensitive parts of you. Gentle at first. Then not. His hands dug into your hips, holding you steady as you twitched under him. You tried to be quiet — you really did. But a sound escaped, sharp and guttural, and he didn’t stop. Just breathed against you like he’d been starving for this.

One of your hands clawed at the blanket, the other fumbled blindly until it found his. He reached for you without hesitation. Laced your fingers together and held them tight. His palm was rough, but his grip was steady and grounding. You squeezed and he squeezed back, like you were holding onto something neither of you could name.

He looked up at you once, dark eyes burning, and you thought you might fall apart just from that. Just from the way he looked at you. You were bare now, except for the bra. But you didn’t care. Not anymore. Not when he was worshipping every inch of you like you were holy.

His hand slipped up, slow and reverent. His fingers traced the curve of your side, skimming the band of your bra like a question. You barely nodded. He sat up, still holding your gaze, and reached behind you with one practiced flick. The clasp gave. The straps fell like surrender.

His eyes roamed. Not in a greedy way or a smug way, just quiet. Like he was seeing something he’d waited too long for. Something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

So you pulled him down and kissed him. But this time it was different, because it wasn't just mouths. But your bodies entirely, skin against skin. Your legs wrapped around his hips and he sank into you like gravity had finally won.

He stilled for a second, just one. Like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Like he wanted to remember every bit of it. His forehead pressed to yours.

“Christ,” he breathed, voice ragged.

And then movement. A slow, deep rhythm that built and built until you couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t speak. The plastic on the damn sofa had creaked before, but the bed now groaned under you like it couldn’t hold the weight of this either.

His hand tangled in your hair. Yours gripped his back, nails dragging across old scars and fresh bruises. He moved rougher now, but never without care. Every thrust was a question and an answer at once. Every moan from your lips made his breath hitch. Every time you gasped his name, it pulled him deeper into something neither of you could name.

You held him like you meant it. Like the world outside didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t already broken both of you.

And when you came — sharp, breathless, trembling beneath him — he followed with a curse, soft and helpless into the hollow of your throat. Like it was a confession. Like it was a prayer.

He collapsed against you.

For a moment he just stayed there, his forehead against your shoulder, breath hot and uneven against your skin. Then he moved, slowly, like it hurt to let go. He pulled you with him as he shifted onto his back, arms curling around you, holding you close without a word.

It wasn’t the sex. It was the silence afterward. The way his chest rose and fell too fast. The way he buried his face in the hollow of your neck and didn’t move. You felt it in the way his hands gripped you a little too tightly. In the subtle tremor that passed through him, quiet at first, then harder to ignore. And when you realised what it was — what he was doing — your throat tightened. He wasn’t speaking, wasn’t asking. Just coming apart quietly in your arms, tears running down his face. 

You stayed there against him, being the only warmth left in the hollow apartment. After a while, his fingers traced the inside of your wrist, where the pulse fluttered against his thumb. He was watching you again. Not like a man who was proud of what had happened. Not like he was ashamed either. Just aware and present.

“I’m still here,” you whispered, though he hadn’t asked.

He didn’t answer. Just pressed his lips to the inside of your wrist and held it there like something sacred. Like it was the only thing that hadn’t gone to ruin.

Chapter Text

You woke first.

Cairo's morning light was soft and gray, slipping through the shutters. The ceiling fan clicked above you. The room was warm, too warm. Not from the air, but from the shape of him curled beside you.

Mayne lay half-turned on his side, one arm slung across your stomach like he was still holding onto something. The bruises on his face had darkened overnight. The left eye swollen purple, and there was a crusted cut on his lip that made him look meaner than he was. You winced when you saw it. Remembered the way you’d kissed him too hard. How he hadn’t flinched once.

His mouth was parted slightly. Soft and vulnerable in a way you didn’t think he knew how to be while conscious.

You just lay there, watching him.

He had no right looking like that. Tense and beautiful. Hair a mess. Breathing slow. The kind of mess you want to climb into and stay lost inside of. You traced the line of his shoulder with your eyes, down to where the blanket barely clung to his hips. His fingers twitched in his sleep, brushing your skin.

Then his lashes fluttered, and you knew he was awake.

“You’re staring,” he muttered, voice low and scratchy, thick with sleep.

“I always stare,” you said. “You just never catch me.”

A slow smirk dragged across his mouth. “This one for your field notes too?”

“Mhm.”

His hand slid up to your ribs, thumb brushing the edge of your breast, slow and familiar now. You didn’t stop him. “So what's the verdict now?” he asked, eyes half-lidded.

“You snore loud enough to wake the dead,” you murmured.

He let out a hoarse laugh, wincing when it pulled at the cut on his lip. “Right. Romantic as ever.”

“You want romantic, try not rattling the walls at night.”

"Call it my contribution to the decor." 

You leaned in closer, pressing your lips just shy of the cut you’d left the night before. “And what’s this one say?”

He raised an eyebrow. “That you’ve got a violent mouth on you.”

“You made it pretty clear holding back wasn’t the assignment.” 

“Still stands.”

You fell quiet again, the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. His hand stayed on your side, his fingers splayed. It wasn't possessive, just there. 

His voice broke through, gentler this time. “Grief wasn’t all of it.”

You turned toward him, your noses nearly brushing. “I know.”

“Do you?”

You nodded, then rested your forehead against his. “You think I’d let you climb into my bed if it was just grief?”

He chuckled. “You’d do worse things.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

His thumb brushed a stray hair off your cheek.

“You could rest a bit longer,” he said. “I mean, if you want.”

“It's my bed.”

“Aye,” he said, lips curling slightly. “But I’m the one who wants you to stay in it.”

You pressed your lips to his forehead. Felt the sweat there. The sleep. The ache that never left either of you. Neither of you said what this was, but somehow you both knew. It was in how you didn’t flinch when he touched you now. How he let himself be looked at. How neither of you had moved.

And for the first time in months, you didn’t want to.

The cafe was nearly empty during the mid-morning lull. The sun came in at an angle that lit the dust hanging in the air like gold, and the usual waiter didn’t even raise an eyebrow when you both slid into your spot. Back corner, cracked tile floor, the same chipped table with initials carved into it.

Mayne didn’t take off his sunglasses right away. He sat opposite you with a cup of something too bitter, picked at the edge of the saucer like it had done him wrong.

You stirred sugar into your tea. Watched the way his fingers moved, fidgeting, almost twitchy, like he was trying not to smoke or throw a punch or both.

“Didn’t sleep, did you?” You said, not quite a question.

“Don’t need much,” he muttered, still not looking at you. “Too much of it makes a man soft.”

“Right. And you’ve always been a delicate flower.”

He snorted. Finally glanced at you. The bruise under his eye had gone from plum to mustard yellow, the cut on his lip nearly healed. He looked better, but not fine. He never looked fine.

He reached across the table and took your wrist gently, almost absently. His thumb started turning the bracelet again. The blue bead caught the light like a drop of sea.

“You know,” he said, clearing his throat. “If I’d known you’d keep wearing this, I’d’ve picked something less sentimental. Maybe a bloody nail or something.”

You smiled. “Didn’t peg you for a man with taste.”

“I robbed an oracle for this bead,” he said, deadpan.

“Should I get it exorcised then?”

“You’re wearing it, not me.”

You sat like that for a bit. His thumb on the inside of your wrist. Yours wrapped around the handle of your cup. The city moved around you, but you were paused, mid-sentence, mid-story, like a song that didn’t know how to end.

“I was thinking,” he suddenly said. “About you.” 

“Oh?”

He nodded. His leg bounced under the table. You watched his jaw clench, loosen, then clench again. Whatever it was, it was crowding behind his ribs. He muttered something, too low to catch.

“What?”

“I said I don’t like not knowing where you are,” he repeated, clearer. “Out there. Every time you’re gone, it’s like—” He shrugged. “Shite. Like I’m stuck on a cliff waiting for a bloody flare.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the handle. He glanced down at your hands. Then back up. His voice dropped again. “You’re not just anyone, y’know.”

“I know.”

He exhaled. Then chuckled. “Christ, I’m mangling this.”

“You are,” you said softly. “You’re also scaring me.”

His head lifted.

“Just spit it out, Mayne. You’re not subtle.”

He stared at you for a moment. Blue eyes sharp, then soft, then back to sharp. Then, like he couldn’t hold it in another second: “I want you to stay.”

It landed hard. He didn’t let go of your wrist. If anything, he held it tighter.

“In Cairo?” You said.

He nodded once. “Or train the lads. Or… I don’t know, just not the front line. Not the way you’ve been going. You can still serve. Still do everything. Just—”

“Just not risk dying?”

His jaw tensed. “That’s a crude way of putting it.”

“But that’s what you mean.”

“I mean I want you alive.”

The cafe had never felt this quiet.

“I know it’s not my call,” he added quickly. “I’d never tell you what to do. I just—“ He broke off. Swallowed. “Every time you leave, I carry the fucking weight of it. And I know that’s my shite to carry, not yours, but—”

You stopped him. Your other hand moved to the edge of the table, touching his wrist lightly. “You done?”

He hesitated. “For now.”

His thumb was still circling the blue bead. The thread between you, tightening.

“I’ll think about it,” you said.

You didn’t say anything for a while after that. Just let the sun creep across the table, across the cracked ceramic. Across two people who had already said more than they meant to. And not nearly enough. Mayne was fidgeting again. A rare thing. Thumb running over the bead on your bracelet like it had something to say.

“I’m not asking you to quit,” he muttered finally. “Just, stay out of the bloody line, if you can.”

You stared at him. “Is that an order, Major?”

His mouth twitched. “If I wanted to give an order, I'd tell you to walk away.”

“You were the one who told me to fight for this.”

“Aye, and look where that got me.” He waved vaguely at the cafe, the street, the war. “Falling in love with a bloody lunatic.”

You ignored the word. You knew what he meant. Knew he meant it without saying it. “I’m not a lunatic,” you said. “I just know what I want.”

He scoffed under his breath. “That makes one of us.”

“Look, I understand why you’re asking.”

“Do you?”

“I do. You’re scared.”

He didn’t deny it. Just looked off toward the window, jaw tight.

“And so am I,” you added. “But if you die out there, Paddy — don’t think I’m going to sit around and wait for the telegram.”

He glanced at you sideways. “You’d frame it, knowing you. Put it next to that cursed sofa.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He scratched his chin, half-smirking. “You think I want you out there because of some grand cause? No. It’s because if you’re out of my sight, I start imagining all sorts of shite and none of it ends well.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I didn’t say it was. I’m just saying it’s what it is.”

You looked down at your tea. It was cold. Everything in Cairo went cold too fast or stayed boiling too long.

“I’m good at this,” you said finally. “Being out there. I know I’m not a proper soldier, but I know how to stay alive. And more than that, I need to be useful. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

He exhaled, long and slow. “There’s easier ways to be useful, you know. Something that doesn’t involve minefields and lunatics with grenades.”

“Such as?”

“You could run drills. Teach recruits not to blow themselves up,” he explained. "You know whole army's a circus, right? You'd make a fine ringmaster." 

You looked up from your tea. “Thought that was your job." 

He smirked. “Aye, but my circus keeps setting fire to the tent.”

"And you think I'd do better?" 

"Couldn't do worse." He shrugged. "And at least you'd still be in one piece." 

"That's comforting." You huffed a laugh, but it didn't last. 

His words sat there, dry and easy, but they landed harder than they should’ve. You both went quiet again. The kind of quiet that didn’t need fixing.

“I’m not walking away from this, Paddy.” You said eventually. “Not yet.”

He nodded. “Didn’t think you would.”

“You’ll still back me up?”

He shrugged. “You show up in a tank wearing clown paint, I’ll back you up.”

“That’s very specific.”

“Been picturing it since Benghazi.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for your tea again. Cold, still. But you drank it anyway. And for a while, you just sat like that; two people who couldn’t say the right things, but kept trying anyway.

You waited outside the office like schoolchildren called into the headmaster’s. The hallway smelled like stale paper and old brass polish. The HQ assistant had told you and Mayne to sit, but neither of you did.

Your uniform still didn’t fit right. Collar too tight, skirt too stiff. It didn’t help that Cairo was already burning outside, and the fan overhead sounded more decorative than functional. You adjusted your hat for the fifth time. It still sat wrong. Like it didn’t belong on your head — like you didn’t belong in it.

Mayne stood beside you. His uniform looked as worn-in as his face. New badges, same old bruises. You caught his eyes on you and quickly looked away, straightening the front of your blouse again.

“You keep fussing like that and they’ll think you’re smuggling something under there,” he muttered, almost smiling.

“I might be,” you said dryly. “Maybe a small wrench and a few unresolved traumas.”

He snorted. “Just a few?”

You adjusted your collar again. “Feels off.”

He reached out, didn’t ask, just fixed it for you. Thumb brushed just under your chin, slow, careful. Then he adjusted the tilt of your cap.

“There,” he said. “Now you look terrifying.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Not reassuring.”

“No, to them .” He took a step back and nodded at you. “You’re gonna do great.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The knot in your throat was too thick.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. A young officer passed and gave you a glance. Not unkind, just curious. Like you didn't belong there. You looked away.

The assistant popped her head out of the office door. “He'll see you now.”

Mayne looked at you, and for the first time all morning, his face sobered. He didn’t reach for your hand, just tilted his head slightly.

“You ready?”

No. Not really.

You nodded anyway. “Yeah.”

He opened the door, and you walked in first. 

The office was cold. Not in temperature, but in feeling. Like it had been built without the need for warmth. The kind of room meant for papers, rules, and decisions made far from blood. Framed commendations lined the wall. No maps, no sand, no trace of the war you knew.

Bill Stirling stood behind the desk. Tall, clean-cut, not quite David’s copy, but the resemblance was there. In the mouth, the set of his shoulders, the clipped voice when he finally spoke.

“Major Mayne. And… our guest.”

He didn’t offer a seat. Mayne gave a polite nod. You did the same.

“Thank you for seeing us, Lieutenant-Colonel.” You said, voice steadier than you felt. “I understand this is unusual.”

He didn’t respond. Just picked up a file — your file — and flipped it open. Paper rustled. You watched his eyes scan it. You’d been reduced to ink again.

“So," he started. "You’re not officially enlisted in the SAS. You have no rank within it. And you operate under no formal assignment.”

“That was under David’s command,” you said, evenly. “Things were different then.”

“Yes. And that’s the problem.” He snapped the folder shut. “This isn’t the desert anymore. We're not longer a ghost unit, free to run amok. We answer to GHQ now. Which means you answer to someone.”

“I’ve always answered to someone,” you replied. “Stirling. Lewes. And now Mayne.”

His eyes flicked to Paddy. Then back to you. “You’re not ATS anymore either. You’re between structures.”

“I’ve worked in recon, sabotage, transport. Recovered men under fire. I’ve—”

“This isn’t about what you’ve done,” he cut in. “It’s about what the regiment is supposed to be.”

There was a pause. Not long, but enough to feel like breathing through glass.

“I understand your concern,” you said. “But respectfully, sir, I’ve done more than plenty of men in your reports. I’ve earned my place.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your placement was never earned. It was improvised. You were a desert convenience. David's experiment.”

A flush rose to your cheeks. Not from embarrassment, from fury more like. You swallowed it down. You didn’t move, didn’t blink.

“If the concern is risk,” you said, “then let’s speak to that. I’ve survived years out there. Without formal backup. Without incident.”

“That’s not the same as official.”

“I’m not even asking for medals, sir. I’m only asking to keep doing the job I’ve already been doing.”

“And what happens when London starts asking questions?” he asked coolly. “When they decide to comb through the list and find a name that doesn’t fit protocol?”

“She’s not a bloody ghost,” Mayne said suddenly. His voice didn’t rise, just cut through the room like a shot. “You want accountability? She’s been in the field longer than half the men here. She’s done more. Risked more. Saved more.”

Bill’s jaw twitched. “This isn’t about your loyalty to her—”

“I’m not loyal,” Mayne said. “I’m in command. And I’m telling you: we’re weaker without her.”

Silence followed. Bill didn’t look at you. Just leaned back in his chair, fingers intertwined on the desk, face unreadable.

You waited. You weren't even begging, or pleading, just standing there, still in a uniform that never felt like yours, trying to convince a man you barely knew that you were worth the place you’d already bled for.

Bill didn’t answer. But he finally leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

“You understand what I’m saying, Major,” he said to Mayne. “She doesn’t have the paperwork. Or the channels. We’re not just raiding airstrips anymore. This unit is being brought under structure now. And that structure doesn’t include improvisation.”

Mayne didn’t answer right away. He crossed his arms. Studied the edge of the desk. Then, almost casually: “What if she’s not in the regiment?”

Bill looked up.

Mayne went on. “She’s not on the books. Not in the ranks. So don’t list her that way.”

“That’s exactly the issue,” Bill said, clipped.

“Not if she’s listed under something else. Support. Civilian. Liaison. Hell , make up a new column. Something long and vague enough that no one reads it twice.”

“She’s not a civilian.”

“She’s not dead weight either,” Mayne shot back. “So pick one.”

Bill didn’t speak. But his gaze sharpened, calculating. You watched him turn the idea over, already imagining how it could be filed. Trying to make it fit. Swallowed whole by bureaucracy.

You cleared your throat, softly. “You wouldn’t need to sign off on it directly. Just not object to it.”

Bill met your eyes for the first time. “You’re lucky David’s not here,” he said flatly. “He’d argue with me for hours. Then ignore me anyway.”

“Sounds familiar,” you said, then added quickly, “—with all due respect, sir .”

Mayne’s lips twitched. Just slightly.

Bill exhaled through his nose, something between a sigh and a concession. “We’re trying to build a regiment with rules here. With order. If you step out of line, there’ll be no second chances.”

You nodded. “Understood, sir.”

He didn’t offer a hand. Didn’t smile. Just looked at the folder again and said, “That’ll be all.”

You both turned and left. The door shut behind you like a vault. Outside, the hallway felt too bright. Too clean. Like everything in it was trying not to remember the desert. You let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.

Mayne looked over, his tone lighter. “Told you you’d do great.”

You shook your head. “I think you broke his brain.”

“Nah,” he said, straightening his collar. “Just bent it sideways.”

You kept walking. Boots echoing down the hall. HQ had its rules. Its ranks and suits and silence. But you’d made it out intact. Not on paper, not quite. But enough. Enough for now.

The bad part was done. Now came the worse part: the waiting. The quiet punishment of trying, of stepping into a room that doesn’t want you and asking anyway. Of giving your voice when no one asked to hear it. It was suffocating, the effort of not flinching. Of holding composure when all it did was bounce off the walls and come back behind you.

And the truth was, if Mayne hadn’t spoken, maybe you wouldn’t have even been allowed through the bloody door. Maybe you’d still be outside, uniform too stiff, boots too loud, trying to will yourself into someone who looked like they belonged.

He didn’t have to fight for you. But he did. And you’d never tell him, but you were grateful enough it hurt.

Chapter Text

Port of Suez,

December 1942

The new signs didn’t say SAS anymore.

They read SRS, black stencilled letters on a pale wooden board hammered into sun-bleached dirt. Special Raiding Squadron. A cleaner name for a messier truth. In all but spirit, the SAS had ceased to exist. 

You disembarked sometime past noon. A convoy of trucks dust-caked and half-silent, crawling through checkpoint after checkpoint. The sun bore down like it had something to prove. Everything smelled of metal and disinfectant.

This wasn’t the desert. This was a staging ground. An in-between. Not war, not yet, but the waiting room before it.

Uniforms were laundered now. Hung crisp on lines. Recruits stood in orderly rows, each man holding a clipboard or being shouted at by someone who thought rank meant louder volume. A queue had formed for ration registration. Another for rifle checks. Even the latrines had a schedule.

You stepped off the truck and immediately felt wrong. Like you’d shown up to your own funeral in someone else's boots.

Mayne walked ahead, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the main tent like it might move if he stared hard enough. He hadn’t said much since you left Cairo, just the usual curses at the heat, and one dry comment about losing his soul to a requisition form.

You adjusted your pack, shoulder aching. Around you, the new ones took notice. They watched you and Mayne unload like you were ghosts. Or worse — relics.

“Christ,” someone muttered behind you. “Didn’t know they were recruiting bloody field nurses to hump gear now.”

Of course someone had to say it. The stench of disbelief always clung. Like oil on water.

It was a voice you didn’t recognize, too young, too smooth. Probably one of GHQ’s clean-scrubbed miracles, spat straight from a classroom into a war. His boots still had polish on them. His teeth probably did too.

Before you could respond, Mayne stepped in front of you. Didn’t say a word at first. Just looked at the man. A slow, cold scan. From cap to collar. Long enough to sting. “Something to say?” he asked. 

The recruit stiffened. Swallowed. “No, sir.”

Mayne tilted his head a fraction. “Didn’t think so.”

The kid folded like paper and disappeared back into the blur of uniforms.

You exhaled, stepped up beside him. “You’ve got to be more subtle,” you murmured.

He didn’t look at you.

“I can handle myself,” you added, not defensive. 

His jaw tensed. “Shouldn’t have to.”

“I know. But this’ll only make it worse.” You nudged his arm lightly. “Don’t waste your glares on footnotes.”

His eyes flicked toward you now. “I’ll glare at who I like.”

“And I’ll clean up the mess?”

He didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

You kept walking. The dust clung to your boots. You heard Fraser somewhere up ahead, his dry voice barking something at the quartermaster. 

Near the mess station, you spotted Riley and Kershaw, deep in conversation, trading smokes and complaints like old men at a wake. Cooper was back too, unmistakable with his bent posture and endless muttering about supply orders. They saw the two of you, nodded. Familiar, but not warm.

“Fraser’s still here,” you murmured.

“Aye,” Mayne said. “Figures. That bastard’ll outlive the whole bloody war.” He didn’t smile, but his voice softened at the edge. 

The barracks looked different this time. Cleaner. Stricter. No sand in the cots, no scorpions under boots. Just fresh paint, crisp linens, and a schedule posted on the wall like it meant something. No half-mad desert hares storming in the dark. Just a new badge. New tone. New leash. And new faces.

A pack of them sat in the shade of the mess hall. Some in khakis too clean to trust, while others already starting to brown with sweat and sun. One of them, McDiarmid, was black-haired, red-faced, and arguing loudly with Cooper over whether the tea tasted like diesel or just smelled like it. In the corner, Riley was carving something into the stock of his rifle. Kershaw slept upright against a crate. Seekings threatened to drop McDiarmid down a well if he didn’t shut up about tea. 

And just near the perimeter fence, seated in the sun like he’d always belonged there, Fraser. Hunched and smirking as he held out a chunk of bread to a mutt with more ribs than fur.

“Is that a rat or a dog?” You asked, approaching.

Fraser squinted at you. “Bit of both. Calls himself Withers.”

The dog let out a sound that might’ve been a bark or a wheeze. Then coughed and slumped down beside him like he’d given up on the idea of impressing anyone.

“Just what you need. Something else mangy and stubborn.”

He looked up at you, grinned. “Missed you too.”

And you did. Him. Them. Even if the camp had changed, the old lot were still here. Scarred, sunburned, semi-feral. But here.

For a while, you just stood with Fraser. The sun beat down. The mutt twitched in its sleep. And behind you, McDiarmid was trying to impress with his great war story, only to be told by Seekings it wasn’t a near miss. The air between the old SAS and the new recruits was thick, every conversation bent into a quiet dick-measuring contest over who counted as properly battle-hardened. The new lads wanted to prove they belonged, and the old ones wanted to prove no one ever could. 

It almost felt like nothing had changed. But it had. You all knew it.

You caught one of the new lads watching you from the tents. He didn’t speak, just stared, calculating. No open insults. Just that look. Like he was still trying to make sense of the wrongness of you being here — in uniform, in the unit, in the picture at all. Fraser saw it too.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low now.

“Fine.”

“Sure?”

You nodded. “They haven’t said anything I haven’t heard before.”

He leaned back, arms folded. “That mean I can save my dramatic threats for someone else?”

“You saving them for Riley?”

“No. Him I’ll just poison.”

You huffed a breath, half a laugh. 

The wind picked up then, soft but dry. Sand stirred at the edge of camp. In the distance, the port of Suez chugged to life: trucks, whistles, a faint mechanical growl. This wasn’t the war you’d left behind in the desert. It was something new. More polished. Less forgiving. And you were all just trying to fit inside it.

Fraser whistled. The dog lifted its head, ears twitching like it hadn’t fully decided whether to obey.

“Withers,” he said again, louder. “Come.”

The dog didn’t. Instead it stretched, then wandered over with the slow, limping dignity of a veteran.

Fraser grinned, proud. “That’s it. Name’s official now. Withers.”

“Can’t wait to see what he eats.”

“Hopefully McDiarmid.”

The Scotsman — loud and bulky — was currently chasing Seekings around a tent over a stolen tin of condensed milk. It wasn’t clear who had started the fight or why, only that everyone else had instinctively stepped out of range. 

Withers sat by Fraser’s boot and sneezed into the dirt.

You rubbed your forehead. “You’re both going to get fleas.”

Fraser gave a lazy shrug. “We all came back with something.”

You didn’t answer that. Just looked out at the camp, at the mix of old and new. At the way Mayne stood further off, hands behind his back, talking to a couple of officers you didn’t recognize. He was different here. The authority sat on him like weight, not armour.

As night crept in, they lit fires near the trucks. Kershaw passed around the dregs of someone’s bottle. Riley started up a game of cards with the fresh lads, who lost miserably and loudly. And for a moment, it almost felt normal. 

But then someone would say “Major Mayne,” or an order would come in a manilla envelope, and the war would feel buttoned-up again, like a suit that didn’t quite fit.

You sat beside Fraser, legs stretched toward the fire. Withers snored softly under the bench. Across the camp, Mayne spoke with the quartermaster. When he moved, his silhouette cut sharp against the trucks. One man holding the leash of something far too big for anyone to tame.

And you thought about how much harder it was this time.

Not just to fit in, but to re-fit in. To slide yourself back into a shape that had changed while you weren’t looking. To be known for what you were, and still doubted for what you are.

And yet, you stayed. You chose to. Because you still believed in it — in the grit of it, the fight of it, the fact that you had earned every inch of ground you stood on.

And because when you caught Mayne’s eyes across a fire, when he gave that slight nod, not as a lover, not even a friend, but as someone who knew, you felt real again.

No matter what badge they pinned on the front.

There are days when you believe in the cause.

And then there are days like today, where you think the real battle isn’t being fought with rifles or maps or plans, but with locker room breath and snide comments muttered just loud enough to catch. 

Some days, you do believe it. Most days, you fake it. The pretending is harder than the war. Especially when it comes to them.

There were four of them — Conner, Dent, Owens, Laughton. A pack. Always together. Always watching. They’d started in on you the first week you got stationed. That was almost a month ago. They hadn’t let up since.

It wasn’t creative. Just persistent. A hand “accidentally” brushing your arse during drills. A mess tin going missing from your gear. The way they’d go quiet every time you entered a room, then not stay quiet. Always just enough to get the laugh, never enough to get reported.

“Should’ve stayed in the kitchen, sweetheart,” Dent muttered once when you passed him on the firing range.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t give him that.

Conner laughed. “She’s probably got more kills than you, Dent.”

“Different kind,” Owens said. “Off the clock.”

Fraser clipped him on the back of the head that time. “Open your mouth again and I’ll use it to clean my boots.”

They all laughed. So did you. Because that’s what you do when you don’t want to be called uptight on top of out of place. Because if you say anything too sharp, you’re the problem. And if you don’t say anything at all, you’re weak. There’s no winning. Just surviving.

During morning drills, it got worse.

Mayne was leading the course that day, which meant it was brutal. A full-combat simulation across uneven terrain, under the sun that made your bones sweat. Everyone moved like they’d been chewed up and spit out already.

You were halfway through the crawl when Owens kicked a clump of dirt square into your face.

“Oh no,” he said, mock-regretful. “Didn’t see you there, love.”

Your mouth was full of sand. You just kept crawling.

Seekings clocked it. You could tell. His jaw tensed. He muttered something low and fierce when he passed Owens, but didn’t make a scene. None of them ever did. Making scenes made it worse.

You saw Mayne on the ridge. Watching. Always watching. He didn’t move. He didn’t call it out. Just scratched his jaw and said nothing. Sometimes you hated him for that. Most times, you were glad. If he defended you, it’d confirm everything they wanted to believe, that you didn’t belong here. That you needed someone to save you.

And you didn’t. You just wanted to be left the hell alone.

After training, you were supposed to be off-duty. That meant quiet time. Whatever scraps of dignity you could hold onto after a day of being shouted at by men who sweat beer.

Instead, you found your cot half-soaked with piss. Or water. Probably water. Hopefully water.

Laughton was across the tent. Grinning to himself, boots off, stretched like a king.

Fraser said nothing, but handed you a spare blanket.

Riley muttered, “They’ll get bored eventually.”

You didn’t say it, but you weren’t sure that was true. Men like that don’t get bored. They just escalate.

You tucked the blanket under your arm, nodded thanks, and left for the showers. Pretended you didn’t care. Pretended the silence didn’t weigh heavier than the filth. And yet. Even then, with bruises you couldn’t quite place yet and pride scraped raw, you still felt it. That look.

Mayne, across the yard, cleaning the mud from his boots. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t move toward you. But his jaw was clenched, and the vein on his temple was ticking like a fuse.

You shook your head at him, just once. Don’t.

He looked away. Pretended to adjust his boot.

And that, somehow, was worse than the rest of it. Because you knew, under it all, he wanted to fix it. To break them. And you couldn’t let him. 

Because the only thing worse than being mocked in this place was being protected. So you kept your mouth shut. Kept your hands to yourself. Let them circle. Let the silence shield you. But cowards don’t stop when you don’t fight back. They sniff out your limits. They prod the wire until it cuts.

That night, you were walking back from the canteen. The light was low. The kind of half-dark where things happened just out of sight.

They were waiting.

You saw them before they spoke. Leaning against a truck like they owned it, smirking like they’d already won.

“Well, well,” Dent said, peeling off from the others. “If it isn’t Major Mayne’s little shadow.”

You kept walking. Shoulders square. Every step a calculation.

“She doesn’t even salute,” Conner muttered. “Bet she gets saluted somewhere else.”

They laughed. Too loud. Like they wanted to be caught.

“You’ve been awful quiet lately,” Laughton added, sidling into step beside you. “Not feeling chatty, love?”

Something yanked at the back of your head, sharp, quick. Fingers in your hair. You turned fast, but he was already grinning.

“Easy,” he cooed. “Just a bit of fun.”

You stared him down. Said nothing.

Owens stepped closer. “Come on. Give us a smile. You’re lucky we even talk to you.”

That’s when you spoke. Calm, dry, sharp as glass.

“Funny,” you said. “Didn’t know rats could talk.”

“You think just ‘cause you’re close to the Major, you get to run your mouth?” Dent asked, stepping closer. 

“I think you should floss,” you said. 

The slap came sharp. Hard enough to sting. You took it. Then came the shove. Someone yanked your collar, another tugged the end of your bun, pulled it half loose. 

“What’s the matter?” Owens sneered. “No Paddy here to babysit you?” 

You elbowed back. It was fast and clean. Felt bone crunch beneath it. A nose, you hoped. Someone grabbed your arm. You twisted it. Kicked. Got another square in the thigh. The kind of hit that left a dent. 

“You little bitch—” Owens snapped, going for your side. 

You ducked, threw a punch with your knuckles forward, you hit flesh. One of them let out a strangled oof. But there were just too many. Hands gripped your arms. Your jacket tore at the seam. You got one leg free, kicked Owens in the gut, but then a fist slammed into your ribs and the world blurred. You dropped to one knee. 

“You think you’re one of us?” someone hissed, close to your ear. “You’ll never be.” 

Then came the kick to your side. Another to your thigh. You fell, hands scraping gravel, shoulder slamming hard against the ground. Your head hit something solid. Blackness flashed behind your eyes. A high-pitched ringing drilled through your skull. 

“You think you’re safe?” Dent spat. “You think you’ll last in Italy? In war?” 

Hands gripped your arms. Your boot caught someone’s shin, and you heard a grunt, but then a fist slammed into your ribs again, and the wind was gone. You hit the dirt, coughing, struggling for breath. 

A knee pinned you down. Another in your hair, yanking it so hard your scalp burned. You tried to twist, to scream, but someone clamped a hand over your mouth. All that came out was a choked, muffled cry. 

Then you felt it. The cold press of metal, the knife. It didn’t stay still. It roamed, tracing a line from your collarbone to the top buttons of your shirt. They weren’t shaking or rushed. That’s what made it worse, like they’d planned this. 

“Let’s see what the Major’s so obsessed with,” one of them sneered. 

A flick of the blade. One button gone. Your shirt split slightly at the chest. 

A shallow nick bloomed beneath your throat. You felt the blood run, warm, slow, into the hollow of your collar. Your body seized. You tried to kick, bucked. Someone punched your thigh to keep you still. You whimpered beneath the hand, couldn’t help it. 

“Christ, look at her,” someone muttered. “Thought she’d be more mouthy.” 

“Don’t worry,” another breathed. “We’ll loosen her up.” 

You saw where their eyes went. Felt the pause before the next move, the moment between the laughter and something darker. Terror clawed up your spine. The kind that didn’t let you think, only beg. Your hands were trapped, your mouth gagged. Your shirt was half open now, the knife shifting downward. 

Then — barking. A wild, feral snarl. Withers. 

The bark wasn’t distant. It was right there, sharp and primal. A sound that shook the air. 

The body on top of you flinched. Someone cursed, and someone else stumbled back. The knife lifted. Feet scraped the ground. Cowards, scattering. They ran, just like that. 

And you were alone again, flat on the ground, shirt open, skin burning, blood trickling. Your chest was rising and falling like you’d just crawled out of hell. You let the sound of Wither’s barking hold you together, because you had nothing else left in that moment. Not breath, not even dignity. 

You couldn’t move. Even when you wanted to scream, to cry, to do something. But your jaw locked, throat tight. Your body refused to listen. All you could do was lay there, breath shuttering, fingers twitching. Dirt pressed against your palm. 

The stars didn’t blink. The camp didn’t stir. Not at first, then a shout. Shapes moving fast. Boots pounding. Fraser. Riley. Seekings. McDiarmid — loud even when quiet. All crowding closer. Faces lit in fractions by lanterns being raised, zips tearing open. Half the camp was waking. 

Someone gasped. “Fucking hell,” 

“Get the medic—!” 

“Who did this—?” 

It was too much. The world blurred. Their mouths blurred but the sound came muffled. You tried to sit up, but your arms were jelly. You felt a hand on your shoulder and flinched, hard. Fraser. 

Then another voice cut through the noise like a blade. 

“What the fuck happened?” Mayne’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cracked like thunder all the same. Everything quieted. 

He was there. Standing over you. Still wearing his undershirt and trousers. His face was pure murder. His eyes scanned your body, shirt open, blood trailing, knees scraped raw, cheek swelling where someone had hit you again. His jaw clenched, his neck pulsed. 

You think you saw it; the moment something in him snapped. That was when you moved. You didn’t know how. Maybe just instinct or panic, but you pushed yourself upright. Legs like paper, lungs burning. You stood and wobbled. 

Fraser caught your arm but you shook him off. 

“I’m fine,” you said. It came out hoarse, croaked. “I’m fine.” 

Everyone stared. 

You met Mayne’s eyes, and the fury there was so sharp it nearly dropped you again. 

So you turned. Started walking. One boot in front of the other. Everything was aching, but you walked, toward the med tent. Because if you stopped now, you wouldn’t start again. And because the only thing worse than being hurt was being pitied. 

You could feel blood sliding warm down your side, where the knife caught skin. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Your legs kept folding in on themselves. You kept going anyway. 

The medic tent was only twenty steps away, but it felt like a mile. When you reached the canvas flap, you nearly collapsed forward. The light inside was harsh, too bright after the dark. You blinked hard and stepped in, one arm holding your ribs. There was a young medic there, wide-eyed, already rushing toward you. 

He didn’t ask. Just helped you sit, gently, like you might shatter if he moved too fast. Maybe you would’ve. You felt cold, too cold. He examined the cut on your neck, said something about stitches and about the bruising. His voice was underwater. 

Time was skipping again. Fast, then slow. You stared ahead. Couldn’t make yourself blink. Barely felt the disinfectant. Barely registered the way the medic’s fingers pressed around the cut at your neck, or the way the needle slipped in, pulled through, again and again. Your body was locked somewhere between numb and burning. Detached. 

Then the flap opened. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there in the entrance, chest rising with sharp, shallow breaths. His eyes locked on yours. No preamble, no softening. And then he came closer. He stood at the edge of the cot. 

You couldn’t meet his eyes. Your head turned, almost involuntarily, toward the canvas wall instead. Like if you looked at him too long, you’d finally fall apart. 

The medic muttered something about dressings. Said he’d give you a minute. The flap closed behind him with a snap. You still couldn’t speak. Your teeth were rattling again. 

Mayne stepped closer. You felt his presence before you saw it, that heat. He crouched slowly, in front of the cot. His eyes scanned everything: the bruises, the blood, the way you were gripping your own wrist just to stop it from shaking. 

Then his voice came. “Who did it.” 

You didn’t answer. 

His hand landed on your knee, heavy, grounding. His thumb dragged once, slow as a thought, over the fabric of your trousers. “Tell me.” He said, quieter now. 

The room swam for a second before settling back into focus. Words were hard. “They’re gone.” 

His jaw clenched, sharp and tight. “Not what I fucking asked.” 

You swallowed. It scraped on the way down. “Conner,” you said, finally. “Dent. Laughton. Owens.” 

He roamed inside the tent. Hands curling at his sides like he didn’t trust them not to break something. He looked at you like he didn’t know whether to pace or punch a wall. His hair was still damp at the edges like he’d run here from wherever he’d been. “You’ve got blood on your mouth,” he said, quieter now. 

You reached up. There was more than you expected. Wiped it with the back of your hand. It smeared. 

He let out a breath. “They could’ve killed you,” he said. “They were close.” 

“I know,” you snapped. Too fast. “I know, Paddy.” 

He stared at you. And for a second, you thought he might leave. But instead he stepped in, closer and sat on the cot beside you. “You should’ve said something,” he muttered. 

“I told you I could handle it,” you said, quietly, trying to stay level. “It’s just—” 

He turned, not violently, but enough to let you see what was simmering under his skin. “Just?” 

Your mouth pressed shut. 

He ran a hand down his face, scrubbing at his jaw. Then he caught your fingers, gently, with both arms, and laced them through his. You just sat. 

“Don’t tell me you’re fine,” he said finally. 

So you didn’t. 

He squeezed your fingers once, hard. “I’ll deal with it.” 

“I don’t want special treatment.” 

“Don’t mistake this for that,” he said flatly. 

“I’m not—” you sighed, shaking your head. “But if you lose it, if you scream and shout, you know they’ll use it to call me a liability. Say I’ve compromised you.” 

His mouth curled at that. “Let them try.” 

“Paddy—” 

He leaned in slightly. “I saw your shirt, your collar, your blood,” he said. “If you think I’m keeping quiet so some junior arse with a clipboard doesn’t wet himself, then you don’t know me at all.” 

Then, softer than you’d ever heard him, he reached out. Brushed hair from your face. Let his finger rest along your jaw. He traced the line at your throat where the knife had kissed skin. 

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you leaned in, tired. Your head pressed into his shoulder. 

He didn’t flinch. Just exhaled like something inside him gave way, and his hand came to hold you. Protective. One palm on the back of your head, fingers threaded in your hair like he could shield you from what had already happened. 

His voice cracked. “I’m not saying don’t fight,” he added. “But next time, you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I’m used to being alone,” you said. “That’s the point.”

“Well,” he muttered, voice low now. “Get unused to it.”

Chapter Text

Morning came slow.

Everything ached. Not just the parts they touched, the ribs, the neck, the split in your lip. But deeper. Beneath the skin, beneath even thought. Like something in you had turned to glass and didn’t know if it would hold.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. Only remember the moments before. The blood in your mouth, a blade too close, boots kicking mud and memory into your lungs.

Something stirred near your foot. Withers. He was curled up tight against the cot’s leg, his head resting on his paws, ears twitching even in sleep. You looked at him longer than you meant to.

Outside the tent, the base was waking up. There was the usual morning chaos, but none of it reached in here. The medic had left you alone with just a bandage at your neck and a headache behind your eyes. You pushed your blanket off. Your limbs protested, but you swung them over the edge of the cot anyway. Then sat up, stepped outside. Withers padded beside you, with its tail low and quiet, like he knew better than to draw attention. 

No one stopped, but they all saw you. Looked, then looked away. One even straightened, as if to say something — then changed his mind. Maybe they knew better, too.

You found Fraser first. Or he found you. Hard to say.

He was crouched near the supply crates, sleeves rolled. He didn’t look surprised when you walked up. Just stood up and took a good look at you. His eyes dropped to your jaw first, then to the tape along your neck. Said nothing about it. Just squinted into the rising sun and asked, voice rough: “Alright?”

You didn’t answer.

He nodded like he expected that. Then jerked his chin toward the far end of camp.

“Paddy’s already had them transferred.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Pulled strings before sunrise. Shipped them out to some pisshole by the Libyan border. Bound to count crates and shovel sand till the war forgets their names.”

The words didn’t land at first. They hovered, before settling in with a slow, heavy thud. 

“They’re gone,” you said.

“Gone,” he confirmed. “Doubt you’ll ever see them again.”

It hit you harder than you expected — not the justice of it, but the mercy. That you wouldn’t have to see their faces again. Wouldn’t have to pretend not to notice their eyes on you in the mess, or their jokes that lingered longer than they should’ve.

You should’ve celebrated, and yet, all that was felt was the ache behind your ribs easing a little. And then the fear came creeping behind it. What now? 

“That’s it?” You asked eventually.

He shrugged. “Oh, no. Paddy beat the piss out of two of them first in the old barracks. Riley stood watch.”

You stared down at your boots. “Christ.”

“You should’ve seen his face after he came out,” Fraser said. “Didn’t even yell. Just looked like he’d torn his own lungs out and stitched them back in wrong.”

That got a twitch of a smile from you. Sort of. You wanted to say something to him. Thank you , maybe. But you couldn’t find the words that didn’t sound too big or too soft. And Fraser, bless him, didn’t need the words.

He nudged his shoulder against yours, just lightly.

“Glad you’re still here,” he said. And that was enough. Then he nodded toward the tents. “Come on, then. You need food. And I need someone to suffer through the powdered eggs with.”

And just like that, you both walked off toward the worst breakfast in North Africa. Fraser held the mess hall door open. Inside, it was too quiet. Heads didn’t turn, but conversations paused just enough to make the silence heavy. It became obvious to you that they all knew. Probably not everything, but enough. 

You tightened your grip on the tray. Withers padded beside you, brushing your leg. Fraser was still beside you too, muttering under his breath.

“Jesus,” he said. “I’ve been in ambushes less tense than this.”

You made it to the usual table. Back corner, under the crooked ceiling fan that made more noise than air. Riley sat cross-legged on top of the bench. Seekings was poking at a sausage with the kind of focus that should’ve come with a warning. Cooper had a cup of something unholy and was sipping it like fine wine.

The laughter came easy after that. Sharp, chaotic, familiar.

Nobody mentioned the incident. Nobody asked if you were alright. And thank God for that. Instead, they passed you bread. Made fun of each other. Talked nonsense about food and boots and who could piss the farthest in the sand. 

It wasn’t perfect. But it was yours.

McDiarmid was still mid-rant about shin strength when you saw Mayne standing just beyond the mess tent flaps, near the water drums with his arms crossed. Like he’d been there a while.

You set your cup down. “I’ll catch up,” you said, nudging Fraser with your elbow. “Try not to let McDiarmid wreck himself before lunch.”

“Wreck myself?” McDiarmid called, mid-spoonful, “takes more than sausages and bad company to manage that.” 

You didn’t reply, just gave Fraser a half-smile and slipped out before they noticed how quickly you’d gone quiet. Nobody noticed much, really. That was the thing about groups. You could vanish in plain sight if you timed it right.

The sun had sharpened by now. You squinted into it and saw him standing off near the edge of camp, half in shadow. He was still in uniform. Boots caked with something darker than dust. Hair slicked back, damp like he’d just rinsed the sweat off but hadn’t dried properly. Broad, still, and unreadable. But even from this distance, you felt it. That heat coming off him. Not sunlight. Not desert. Him.

You hesitated.

Your ribs protested every step. There was a limp you couldn’t quite disguise, so you didn’t try. Just slowed down, let the sand swallow some of it. Your bruised eye throbbed with each heartbeat, sharp and rhythmic, and you adjusted a few strands of hair to fall across it. It didn’t hide much, but it made you feel like you were trying.

When you got close enough, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you. His eyes swept over the bruises, the bandage, the uneven weight in your stance. 

“Mayne.” 

He was furious. Coiled, even. You could see it in the way his shoulders stayed too still, the way his fingers curled and uncurled at his sides. He was breathing through his nose like he didn’t trust what might come out if he opened his mouth.

“You shouldn’t be walking around.” His voice was low.

“I’m not running laps,” you muttered. “Just walking.”

He looked you over again, slower this time. His eyes lingered on the split lip, the bruised cheek, the way you were keeping your left side guarded. “You look like you got chewed up by the bloody war and spat out sideways.”

“You should see the other four.”

It was a weak joke. Came out flat. But something in his expression twitched. 

“I should’ve buried them,” he muttered. “Not shipped them. Should’ve left them face-down in the sand and lied about it.”

“You didn’t.”

He didn’t answer. Just ran a hand through his damp hair, letting it fall back into place.

“Fraser said you did it quiet.” You added.

He snorted. “Wasn’t for their sake.” He turned his head away briefly. Looked out toward the trucks. Or the sand. Or maybe nowhere at all. “I meant what I said,” he muttered. “Last night.”

You knew what he meant. About watching your back. About not letting this go.

“I know,” you said quietly.

He glanced at you again, and now the fury had shifted. Still there — still hot — but mixed with something sharper. Worry. Guilt. That helpless, heavy way men look when they want to fight a thing they can’t punch. “You don’t get to be alone in this.”

You didn’t answer. Because if you did, you might cry. And you weren’t giving him that. Especially not here, not now. 

“I’ll keep watching,” he said. “Whether you like it or not.”

“I know,” you said. Your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

His hand twitched again, like he wanted to reach out, touch your arm, brush the hair from your face. But you weren’t alone. Men walked past, not close, but enough. So he kept his hands at his sides and swallowed whatever was clawing up his throat.

He glanced up again. “You think this’ll go quiet just because they’re gone?”

“No.”

“Good. Because it won’t.”

“I’m not asking it to.”

He nodded once, like that mattered. Then quieter: “They touched you and lived. That’s the part I’ll regret.” His voice was steel now. 

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t want to thank him for that. You didn’t want to think about the moments last night when you’d thought you might not make it out. About the taste of blood. The way their hands felt like they belonged to a dream you couldn’t wake from.

You cleared your throat, looked down at your boots. “Still standing.”

He grunted. “Aye. For now.” His voice had softened without going soft. That was the closest he got.

“Thanks,” you said. Barely above a whisper. “For whatever you did.”

His eyes held yours. There was this brief stillness that meant more than anything else he could’ve said. Then he stepped back. Arms folded again. Like a gate closed just enough to keep the wolves out.

“When it’s quieter,” he said. “Come find me.”

“I will.”

And with that, he turned and walked off. Rage unfinished. But the worst of it — for now — was behind.

Chapter Text

By midday, the sun was cruel again.

It was not hot, just violent. It had the kind of heat that cracked lips and split skin and left your uniform clinging to your back like a second, salt-stained regret.

You and the others were on the field behind the hangars. The wind was scarce that day. There was just the smell of metal, blood, and sweat too stubborn to dry.

Mayne was barking again. Not orders, more like curses shaped like orders. Like someone had handed him the concept of leadership and he’d chewed it, spat it out, and made something feral out of it.

“Pick it up, Riley, or I’ll make you wear the fuckin’ tire!”

“McDiarmid, that’s a rifle, not your gran’s knitting needle. Move like you mean it!”

He didn’t treat you differently. Not even once. That was the closest thing to mercy he ever gave you.

“Again! Until the bloody thing stops hurting or you drop dead.”

You were running drills with a fireman’s carry over your shoulder. You bore Seekings, who’s twice your weight and none of your grace, and every time your boots hit the ground, you could feel the stitches on your neck pulling.

By the third lap, they’d started to bleed again.

By the fifth, you stopped feeling it altogether. 

Pain became background noise, just like the distant boom of artillery from another front. Just another reminder that the world was coming undone, one piece at a time.

You did endurance marches next. There were sandbags rigged with flares, mock grenades, smoke bombs. You dove, rolled, came up blind. Could barely hear Cooper shouting over the blasts.

At one point, Fraser hauled you out of a trench when your knee locked up mid-crawl. “You alright?” he asked, panting.

You didn’t answer. Just pushed off him and kept going. He didn’t ask again.

The others stopped looking at you like you might break. Now you were all breaking equally, beautifully, together.

Mayne ramped it up. As if madness was contagious and he’d caught it early and terminal.

“Crawl lower or I’ll bury you myself!”

“Grenade left, NOW!”

“If I can still hear you breathing, you’re not moving fast enough!”

He was everywhere — on foot, on top of the truck, at your heels, in your head. Sweat soaked through his shirt, dirt up to his elbows, veins bulging in his neck as he howled like some blood-drunk saint sent to train the damned.

And the worst part? You all moved faster when he shouted. Like the team trusted his rage more than your own lungs.

You watched Tonkin grab Riley by the collar when he froze mid-sprint. Yanked him back behind a crate before the flare hit. Seekings threw Cooper a canteen without a word. McDiarmid bled from his eyebrow, didn’t blink.

You weren’t individuals anymore. You were a machine that knew it would burn out soon. So you pushed harder. Faster. Meaner. Like you could outpace whatever was coming. And you all knew something was.

The murmurs had started during breakfast, and by lunch they were impossible to ignore — not in the way they were said, but in how often. A kind of slow, inevitable truth sinking into everything. You didn’t need anyone to tell you directly; it was in the way men stood tighter during water breaks, in how Fraser lit two cigarettes back-to-back without realizing, in the sharpness in Riley’s laugh that hadn’t been there the day before. Word was Bill Stirling was back from Cairo. Briefing tomorrow. Italy. No more training, no more staged chaos in the sand — this was the real thing. Naples, maybe. Or somewhere just north. Mountains, they said. Mines. Fog so thick you could choke on it.

You wouldn’t be dropped in behind the lines this time — you’d be the line. No clean exits. No clean anything. Just stone villages, Nazis and Fascists patrols, cold wet ground, and the constant, grinding certainty that death had finally caught up to you. The kind you don’t walk away from with a good story.

By the time the sun began to drop, heavy and red as a shot-out eye, you were wrecked. Uniforms torn. Elbows skinned. Stitches leaking. Every movement stung. Every silence felt like an omen.

Mayne didn’t dismiss it with ceremony. Just spat into the dirt, muttered “That’ll do,” and walked off toward the far end of camp like he needed to hurt something that wouldn’t bruise.

You stood alone for a moment. Blood seeping down your side. Arms shaking. And still — still — part of you wanted another round.

Because tomorrow you’d be soldiers again. Tonight you were just bodies trying not to remember how breakable you really were.

By the time you stumbled into the mess, the sky was bruised purple and the heat had finally let go. Not gone, just loosened its grip like a man deciding to save the killing for tomorrow.

You smelled like smoke and metal. Sand in your boots. Blood under your nails. Fraser had a new gash on his forearm. Seekings looked like he’d been chewed and spit back out. You could feel your shirt sticking to the blood at your collarbone again. But none of you said anything.

You just sat at that same table in the back corner. Crooked ceiling fan grinding overhead.

McDiarmid collapsed first, sprawling across the bench with a groan. “Someone tell Paddy I’m already dead.”

“No one tell him,” Cooper said. “He’ll just make you run drills as a ghost.”

Tonkin shoved a dented tin tray toward the middle of the table. “Dinner’s a choice between overcooked despair and powdered guilt.”

“Lovely,” Fraser muttered, poking at something that might’ve been meat once. “Bit of seasoning and it’s just like Glasgow.”

Seekings dumped himself down next to you. “So… Italy.”

That shut everyone up for half a beat.

You stared at the mess on your plate. Potatoes that had lost their will to live. Something green. Something worse.

Cooper finally broke the silence. “You think they’ll send us through Naples?”

Fraser snorted. “They’ll drop us wherever they think we won’t immediately die. Which means they’ll drop us exactly where we’ll immediately die.”

“Perfect,” said Riley. “I’ve always wanted to bleed out in a vineyard.”

“Wine country,” Seekings nodded. “Very romantic.”

Kershaw leaned in, voice lower. “They say it’s mountains. Mines. Thick fog. You move two feet, you lose a leg.”

Tonkin shrugged. “Could be worse.”

“How?” You asked.

He looked at you deadpan. “Could be raining.”

You all paused.

Then Fraser raised his cup. It was full of something that was either tea or mild poison. “To the last dry meal, then.”

The others followed.

“To the last dry meal.”

“To mines.”

“To fog.”

“To dying somewhere more scenic than Egypt.”

“To Paddy’s temper.”

That one got the biggest laugh.

You sat back and let the noise move around you. Their voices. Their laughter. It didn’t come easy — not after the last few days — but it came. Even to you. No one looked at your face anymore when they made jokes. No one flinched at your bruises. No one was watching you like you might shatter. It was worse, and better.

Now you were all afraid of the same thing. Not gossip. Not scandal. Just war. The next front. The next breath. The bloodbath with your names carved into it.

You pushed the potatoes around with your fork. Your collar burned. Your eye ached. But still, you were here. At the table. With the bastards.

And you could feel it. That pull in the gut. That tuning fork in the chest kind of fear. The kind that says: You’re not going to make it this time . None of you are.

“You alright?” Fraser asked you. 

You blinked. “Yeah.”

“You look like you’re writing your will in your head.”

“I’m just trying to decide which one of you gets the dog.”

“Withers?” Seekings asked. “Christ, I’ll take him.”

“He’ll eat you,” Cooper said. “Out of loyalty.”

You took a sip of something lukewarm and vile. “I’ll leave him instructions.”

Fraser grinned. “Tell him I always fed him. Don’t let him believe Seekings' lies.”

The table hummed again. Quiet laughter. Forks scraping. Jokes layered with fatigue. And beneath it all: the war, waiting just outside the mess tent. Listening. Getting ready.

By the time you made it back to your tent, the air had cooled, but not kindly. It was that dry, metallic kind of cool. The kind that clung to your skin after sweat, soaked into the bandages, reminded you of everything that still hurt.

You peeled your shirt off with slow fingers, each movement a negotiation with your ribs. The left side throbbed. The stitches across your neck had bled again — a mess of dried red stuck to cotton.

The medical tin rattled as you opened it. Half a roll of fresh dressing, a cracked mirror, a rust-stained pair of scissors that looked like they belonged in a crime scene. You dabbed at the blood with what passed for antiseptic, wincing as it hissed against the skin.

“Brilliant,” you muttered to yourself. “Good as new.”

Withers lay curled at the corner of the cot, watching with those tired, loyal eyes like he knew better than to interrupt. You tossed him a strip of dried meat from your pocket ration — he caught it mid-air with a grunt, then promptly flopped down again like he’d earned his keep.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you told him. “You didn’t get beat half to hell and carry Seeking’s arse through the sun.”

He blinked. You could’ve sworn it was sarcastic.

You were just finishing the dressing — one last tug around the shoulder, tight enough to hold but not choke — when you heard it.

A footstep. Soft. Too soft. Just outside the canvas flap.

You turned fast, muscle memory overriding logic, and your fist flew out before the rest of you caught up.

He caught it. Mayne. His hand closed around your wrist like it was nothing, like you’d offered him a cigarette, not a punch.

“Christ,” you snapped, pulling back. “You trying to get your jaw broken?”

He held on a second too long before releasing you. His eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just studied.

“You’re still jumpy,” he said, voice low. 

“No,” you said. “You’re just sneaky.”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped inside. Ducking slightly under the flap. Not invited, but not unwelcome.

In the dim lamplight, he looked like something dug up from the desert — shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, sun-baked and storm-sick. His hair was damp, pushed back with fingers not meant for grooming. His boots were caked like he’d walked straight out of hell to find you. 

“What do you want?” You asked, too tired to dress it up.

“You.” It slipped out too fast, too real. He looked away as if he’d accidentally admitted to murder. Then added, gruffer: “To check you weren’t dead in a pile of your own stubbornness.”

“Still breathing,” you said, dry. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m used to disappointment,” he muttered.

You turned away, sat back on the cot. Your ribs protested. “Didn’t think you’d come,” you said.

“Didn’t think you’d try to deck me.”

“Trauma reflex.”

He stepped closer. You tensed again — couldn’t help it — and he caught it. Eyes narrowing slightly, voice dipping low. “You still guarding yourself,” he said. “Even now.”

“You’d be jumpy too,” you said, “if the last time someone got too close, they used it as a cue to break you open.”

Silence stretched between you like wire. Thin. Tight. Sharp enough to cut. Then he reached forward, slowly, and touched the edge of the gauze on your shoulder. Just two fingers. Barely a brush. Like he was asking a question without saying it.

You didn’t flinch this time.

He exhaled through his nose. Frustrated. Tired. Trying to keep it from showing and failing. “I wanted to come earlier,” he said.

“Why didn’t you?”

He looked down at his boots. Shrugged. Then, like it cost him something: “Didn’t trust myself not to hit someone else on the way here.”

That got you. Not the words. The way he said them. You pushed him, lightly. A palm to his chest.

Then you pulled him in. There was no buildup. No poetry. Just heat and silence and his mouth on yours like he meant to stay there.

The kiss was messy. Too much. Not enough. Teeth and breath and the scent of smoke on his shirt and blood on yours. His hands slid around your waist like they belonged there. Yours gripped the back of his neck like a lifeline.

For a second, you forgot the war. Forgot yourselves.

Then you broke apart — slowly, reluctantly — and sat there like idiots trying to relearn how to breathe.

He was the first to speak. “Don’t do that again.”

“What?”

“Punch me. Before kissing me. It’s bloody confusing.”

You gave a breath of something like laughter. “No promises.”

He sat back on the cot, legs spread, arms loose. That raw, soldier calm. Like he was ready for anything and nothing all at once.

“How bad’s it going to be?” You asked, finally.

He didn’t pretend not to know what you meant. “Italy?” he said. “It’ll eat us alive.”

You nodded. “They say Naples.”

“They say a lot. What matters is — they want us there before the first push. That means behind lines. That means mines. Civilians. Ambushes. Dead radios. Worse than anything we’ve had.”

“So no picnic then.”

“No picnic.”

Silence again. This one quieter. Less sharp. You leaned against him, head to shoulder. Careful. He let it happen. Let you rest — a word you hadn’t used in weeks. His hand came to rest on your thigh. Warm. Steady. Not possessive. Not tentative either.

“You lot make it look easy,” you sighed.

“No one makes it easy,” he said. “We all bleed the same.”

You closed your eyes. Felt the hum of his breath beside you. The weight of it all pressing in.

“Paddy?”

“Aye?”

“Don’t go getting killed before I do.”

He let out a short, sharp sound. Not quite a laugh, not quite a warning. “I’ll try,” he said. “But no promises.”

Chapter Text

You were already sweating by the time the canvas tent filled with smoke and nerves.

They’d lined up folding chairs, old crates, ammo boxes. Anything you could sit on that didn’t belong to someone more senior. Half the lads looked like they hadn’t slept. The other half looked like they’d fought sleep and lost. Fraser sat beside you, boot tapping a rhythm on the wooden floor. 

Withers was sprawled near the entrance like he owned the place. Ears twitching. One eye half-closed, tail flicking lazily every time someone stepped over him.

“Right,” you murmured, scratching behind his ear. “You’re in charge while we’re gone. No gambling. No chasing cooks.”

Fraser leaned in. “If we don’t come back, you inherit the tent.”

Withers gave a huff like he’d heard it all before.

Near the front, McDiarmid and Seekings were engaged in some kind of silent war. Elbows nudging, boots kicking, something about a stolen watch or a stolen sausage or both. McDiarmid jabbed Seekings in the ribs. Seekings retaliated with a shove that knocked them both halfway off their crates.

“Settle down.” Mayne’s voice, low and sharp.

They froze.

He didn’t say anything else. Just fixed them with a look that carried don’t make me get up energy . It worked. McDiarmid straightened his shirt. Seekings gave a sheepish grin.

Mayne remained standing. He hadn’t slicked his hair back properly, damp from the heat already. But his posture was rigid, like he’d been bracing all morning. Not for the mission. For this .

He cleared his throat. “You lot behave. Our guest’s coming.”

Fraser leaned over to you. “Let me guess. The Pope?”

Mayne ignored him. “He’s the brother of the brother we made famous,” he added dryly. “Try not to bite.”

That got a low ripple of chuckles. Even Riley smirked. Then the flap opened.

Bill Stirling entered like a man who thought the desert was waiting to applaud. Immaculate. Pressed khakis. Shaved face. The kind of posture you didn’t get from battle — only from boarding school and being the first son. His boots didn’t squeak, but they looked like they should have. He paused. Surveyed the room like a headmaster counting delinquents. The laughter dried up on its own.

“Good morning,” he said, enunciating every syllable. “I trust you’ve all been briefed generally. Now let me provide the official outline.”

He paced to the centre. You and the others didn’t stand and he didn’t ask you to.

“The invasion of Italy is under way,” he began. “We will undergo Operation Husky.”

That got a few straightened backs. Someone coughed. Withers let out a low, bored sigh.

“You’ll be part of a sabotage cell operating behind enemy lines,” Bill continued. “Thirty-five men, one woman.”

You didn't blink.

“You’ll cross the Mediterranean via the Ulster Monarch, departure at zero hours. From there, insertion will occur near the southeastern coast. Sicily is mountainous, heavily defended, and, I’m told, lovely this time of year.”

No one laughed.

“Primary mission: neutralise the artillery defenses at Capo Murro di Porco. Expect searchlights, heavy guns, and defenders in numbers greater than our own. Secondary mission: remain alive. Though that one, I gather, is less popular with some of you.”

That drew a few tight chuckles. Mayne remained still.

Bill turned then, slowly, letting his gaze fall over the room . “You’re not here to grandstand. You’re here to serve. And while your methods may differ from conventional units, you are still accountable to GHQ. Which means me. Is that clear?”

McDiarmid muttered something under his breath. Something about bootlickers and broom handles. You kicked his shin before Bill could notice.

“Was that a question, Corporal?”

“No, sir,” McDiarmid said quickly, sitting straighter.

“Good.” Bill nodded once. “Major Mayne will remain operational lead. Coordination with Allied units will follow insertion. Transport is in hand, documents to follow. Pack lightly, move quickly. That will be all.”

He didn’t dismiss the team so much as withdraw, like a man confident that the speech itself had done the work.

The second the tent flap closed behind him, McDiarmid exhaled dramatically. “Do you think he sleeps in a coffin or just sucks the joy out of the air like that naturally?”

Riley leaned back. “Bet he writes poetry. Sad, pale poetry.”

Mayne said nothing. Still standing. Still watching the flap. You looked up at him. He looked like he was caught between two rooms. Two loyalties. Two versions of himself — the one who got medals and the one who earned scars.

He blinked, finally. “Dismissed,” he muttered.

And just like that, you all scattered. Boys again, for one more morning, before you became ghosts in a country you hadn’t even seen.

You moved slower than the rest, ribs aching, stitch pulling under your side like thread through leather. Withers had disappeared under someone’s crate. Fraser gave you a nod on his way out, but didn’t linger. He knew the difference between peace and traps. And this tent, right now, was a trap.

Because Bill Stirling hadn’t actually left.

He was still standing near the back, behind the flapping corner of canvas, arms behind his back, like a teacher waiting to scold a child who hadn’t turned in her homework. Only there was no register here. No detention. Just him. And you.

He stepped forward. You didn’t.

He called out to you, voice smooth. “May I have a word?”

Not a request. Not really. Everyone else knew to leave. There was a kind of invisible rope around the two of you now. Even Mayne didn’t stop on his way out. No look. No hesitation. He just kept walking like someone who had decided there were certain things he couldn’t be seen protecting.

You nodded once. “A word.”

He circled you the way a man circles something he doesn’t think belongs. Not hostile. Not warm. Just evaluating. Like you were a bit of bad weather someone had forgotten to report.

“You’ve managed to make quite the impression,” he said, stopping at your side. “Though I admit I still haven’t decided if that’s admirable or alarming.”

“I guess that depends who’s watching, sir,” you offered. 

He gave a polite little hum. The kind that meant nothing. “Curious, isn’t it? One woman in a unit of thirty-five. Against regulation. Against tradition. Against precedent.”

“Against boredom,” you said. “Can’t imagine how dull the reports would be otherwise.”

Bill turned fully then. Still not angry. Still not yelling. Just a glint in the eye like he’d rather be scraping something unpleasant off his shoe.

“Four men transferred last week,” he said. “No incident recorded. No paperwork. Just gone. Like ghosts.”

“Isn’t that what we’re training to be?” You asked.

His jaw twitched. “You seem to believe your presence here is… unshakable .”

You let the silence hang for a second.

“I believe I’ve done the work,” you said evenly. “Same drills. Same dirt. Same bruises. More, even.”

“Work doesn’t make you welcome,” he said, too quickly. “It makes you visible. And visible people draw fire.”

You stared at him. “So do men who underestimate the quiet ones.”

That landed. Not like a blow, but like a crack in a mirror. His mouth pulled into something that tried to be a smile but forgot how halfway through.

“You know, it’s strange,” he said, quieter now. “You’ve started to remind me of someone.” He tilted his head. “The bark. The temper. The indifference to rules. It’s not unlike Mayne.”

You didn’t flinch. But your stomach did something ugly behind your ribs.

He stepped in — just enough to make it feel like an interrogation, not a chat. “And forgive me, but I find that deeply concerning.”

You could’ve laughed. Should’ve. But you were too tired.“Then don’t look at me,” you said, calm and flat. “Look at him. He made me like this.”

Bill blinked. “Is that an admission?”

“It’s a survival strategy.”

The air was too still. You could hear something buzzing outside. A fly or a motor. You didn’t know.

He studied you again. Same circling gaze. “I’ve seen soldiers lose their usefulness before,” he said. “Not because they were slow. Or weak. But because the war rewired them.”

“Then maybe they were wired wrong to begin with.”

He gave a soft chuckle. The most condescending sound you’d heard in days. “There it is. That tone.”

“What tone?”

“The one that tells me you’ll break something soon. And not just bones.”

You stepped forward. Just a little. “And if I do?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He stepped past you. Paused just as he brushed your shoulder. “Don’t confuse acceptance with approval. You’re here because someone decided you were useful. That’s all.”

“Then I’ll be the most useful fucking ghost you’ve ever seen,” you muttered.

But he was already gone. And you were still standing. Still sore. Still shaking just slightly, like the tent wasn’t holding steady anymore. But you didn’t move for a long time. Because what he said wasn’t a threat. Not really. It was a weather report.

And the storm was already here.