FIC: Roses of Picardy [6/?]
Jun. 23rd, 2012 05:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Roses of Picardy
Author: Alex
Fandom: War Horse
Rating: Varies, G to NC-17
Pairing: Jamie Stewart/Jim Nicholls
Disclaimer: No money made, no harm intended. Michael Morpurgo owns War Horse and its characters.
Summary: Captured in battle, Major Jamie Stewart faces an uncertain fate.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sexual content.
Notes: Canon divergent [see pairing]
Can also be read on AO3
*
In many acts and quiet observances
you absorbed me:
Until one day I stood eminent
and I saw you gather'd round me
uplooking
and about you a radiance that seemed to beat
with variant glow and to give
grace to our unity.
---Herbert Read, My Company
*
Never in his life had Jamie desired more ardently to scramble off a train, and not only because he was anxious to see those dearest to him. He’d longed to spend the ride to London dreaming in quiet anticipation, watching the beauty of the passing countryside, but instead he had been trapped by Major Clement Wilkie, a garrulous young man who’d regaled Jamie with tales of his battalion adventures, tales of bloodthirsty Germans, tales of romantic escapades, and any snippet of thought that had apparently drifted across the threshold of his consciousness. Wilkie nattered through breakfast and luncheon, and teatime was approaching with no sign of slowing or fatigue on his part. Jamie sat in an agony of frozen politeness, casting yearning glances at other vacant seats in the first-class car but confining his misery to smiles and murmurs of ‘You don’t say’ and ‘My word’ and an occasional ‘Indeed? How interesting.’ He needn’t have bothered, though; Wilkie steam-rolled over his courteous replies and kept talking. Jamie had wondered what might happen if he simply got up and walked away.
But there they were at last, on the outskirts of London, small, neat houses and dwindling patches of green giving way to factories and row houses, and even Wilkie was momentarily silenced by the sight of the city through the soot-spotted, curtained windows of the train. “Good Lord, there’s a sight for sore eyes.”
“Yes,” Jamie said fervently, and took the opportunity to jump to his feet and shake Wilkie’s hand in farewell. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to make my way to the doors. Jolly nice chatting with you.”
“Wasn’t it! When are you headed back? Perhaps we can join up here.”
“Oh, a few weeks.” Jamie waved his hand vaguely. “I’d have to check my papers, and they’re tucked a bit inconveniently in the bottom of my bag at the moment. You?”
“Christ, I know to the minute when I’ve got to go back. I’ve got two weeks, and not a moment more. Righto, then – maybe I’ll see you back on the train if I’m lucky. Cheerio.”
“Good-bye.” Jamie collected his cap, heaved his kit bag up over one shoulder, and went toward the doors, nodding politely at the people in the first-class car who beamed at him. It was pleasant, if a little odd, to be acknowledged so openly; at every stop, the train had disgorged soldiers both wounded and whole, to cheers and cries of joy. Red, white, and blue bunting was draped along platform railings, or bunched into rosettes, and children carried miniature Union Jacks. The citizens of Great Britain eagerly welcomed their fighting men back to England. It was a heartening sight.
“Eager to get home, I expect,” said a man with old-fashioned, carefully parted hair and a waxed mustache.
“Indeed I am,” Jamie replied. He bowed slightly to the man’s companion, a pinched-looking, overly rouged lady in a lavender suit and sable tippet. “Madam.”
The woman bestowed a benevolent smile upon Jamie. “Back to your family?”
“Yes, madam.”
Her smile grew broader. “And your wife, or your sweetheart.”
Jamie felt his own agreeable expression tighten and nodded his head. “Excuse me.” He made his way to the doors and stood stiffly, waiting for the train to slow to a stop. What in heaven’s name made people so pushing and curious? He hadn’t the least interest in anyone else’s romantic affairs. They were none of his business, he knew that much, and he liked to think he had a healthy respect for the private lives of other people.
Steady on, he chided himself wryly. It was an innocent enough inquiry. Idly, he wondered how her expression might have changed had he said, “Yes, my sweetheart Jim Nicholls.” Oh, the scandal that would arise from a remark like that! He smiled a little at the daring thought, and as the train churned to a slow, grinding halt, wheels shrieking against the track, he swung his cap onto his head and peered out the window. A few other officers who’d been travelling in the first-class car gathered behind him, and they all traded nods and shy smiles. Wilkie joined them, and blessedly, he was silent, looking a bit awed.
“Home,” one said.
Jamie couldn’t help smiling. “At long last.”
“Think I might stay,” a young captain with a dressing on one eye said off-handedly. “Not that France wasn’t jolly good fun, but I must say the food wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”
Everyone laughed, and Jamie felt a glow in his chest. Never mind one nosy Parker of a woman – he was alive and he was almost home, and he would see Jim very soon.
A veritable mob had gathered on the platform, and their shouting was audible even through the closed doors. As the station attendants pulled them open, the noise became positively deafening, and the crowd surged toward the train, scarcely giving the passengers an opportunity to step off. Closer to the station, there was a swell of drums and brass, and a band swung into ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,’ prompting a tremendous cheer, singing, and much waving of tiny flags. Jamie stood on the top step, his gaze travelling rapidly over the crowd, seeking a particular pair of blue eyes, a bright head of hair.
A hand clapped Jamie’s shoulder. “Come on, friend. Let’s not spend our home leave on the train, eh?”
“Sorry!” Jamie hastened off the train, jumping from the step to the platform. He moved aside to let the other fellows disembark and continued to search the throng. He’d cabled Jim immediately after getting off the boat in Dover, but it wasn’t yet four o’clock and perhaps he wouldn’t have been able to leave his work.
“Jamie!”
Jamie swung round. “Mother!” He dropped his bag and wrapped his arms round her, embracing her tightly. She wore a grey fur coat, a velvet hat that looked like an upside-down officer’s peaked cap, and some luxurious, flowery perfume. He buried his nose in her neck, the way he used to as a small boy when she’d swoop into the nursery before the theatre or the opera to bestow a quick good-bye kiss.
“Oh, dear – too tight, darling. Mind my hat.” Margaret extricated herself and held Jamie away, beaming. “You look marvelous, Jamie.” Touching him on the cheek with a grey-gloved hand, she looked him up and down approvingly. “Really so very dashing, dear. Now where’s your father?” She looked over her shoulder and sighed impatiently as an embracing couple nudged her to one side. “Goodness, we’ve simply got to get out of this bedlam. Oh, there he is!” She waved, and Charles, followed by their driver Murchison, made their way through the crowd.
“Jamie!” Charles grasped Jamie’s hand and shook it firmly. “Good God, what a nightmare. Let’s get out of here, shall we? Give Murchison your bag.”
“Welcome home, sir,” Murchison said warmly. He’d taught Jamie to ride, long before they’d had a motor-car. The position of driver was a promotion and the man performed his duties with precision and care, but Jamie always had the suspicion, if not the certainty, that Murchison would prefer to be tending to horses.
“It’s wonderful to see you, Murchison.” Jamie grasped the man’s hand. “Wonderful to be home.”
“Let me get that for you, sir.”
“No, I’ve got it.” Jamie swung his bag over his shoulder and followed his parents through the crush, holding onto his cap with one hand. He dragged his feet, still looking for Jim in the crowd, but in the sea of people and amongst so much khaki it was almost impossible to distinguish one face from another. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to come to the station after all.
Victoria Station was packed and hot with the press of so many bodies, but it was a rather delightful din, Jamie thought; there were so many faces that were streaked with happy tears. They deserved their noisy celebrations. Margaret clearly thought otherwise; her face, as she reached the doors, was a compound of relief and disgust. “Good heavens, what a racket.”
“Mother.” Jamie’s voice held the gentlest of reproofs. “It’s homecoming for these men. You mustn’t begrudge them a thing.” Somewhere, too, in the crowd, were families and friends bidding other men farewell as their leaves ended, as the new majority of young men stepped onto the trains in their crisply pressed khaki for the very first time. Everyone in the station deserved some sympathy, and if that was a sentimental thought, he didn’t care a fig.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Margaret peered at the crowd, and her expression softened a bit. “Yes, you’re right. Well, come along, let’s go home.”
“All right.” Jamie took one more look round, and a pang of disappointment jabbed its way inside him. He pushed his way out the door, and his heart skipped a beat, then quickened.
Jim stood on the kerb, craning his neck and examining the throng that pushed its way out of the doors. He was leaning on a silver-handled cane, he wore their old regimental khakis, and he was the handsomest man in London. As Jamie took a step forward, Jim saw him, and his eyes widened.
“Jim,” Jamie said softly. He let his kit bag slide to the pavement.
“Jamie…Jamie!” Jim removed his cap and rushed forward, limping, and threw his arms round Jamie. “Jamie, oh dear God. Jamie.”
He smelled of Penhaligon’s English Fern and wool and healthy young male, and Jamie drank in his scent greedily. He’d never held him close, and the reality of his strong body overwhelmed him. A lump rose in his throat; if he tried to speak, he’d weep. Surreptitiously, he allowed his lips to press against the faint pulse below Jim’s ear, then pulled back to gaze at him.
“Look at you,” Jim said. Tears gathered in his eyes, but he beamed, his brilliant smile lighting the grey, chilly afternoon. “You’re wonderful.”
“You came.”
“I wouldn’t miss your homecoming for the world.” Jim took a step back, but still held onto Jamie’s arms. “Oh, Jamie –“
“Who’s this? It’s not Captain Nicholls?” Margaret laid a gloved hand on Jim’s arm. “Why, it is! How do you do? Charles, do look! It’s Captain Nicholls from Jamie’s old regiment. This is the young hero who saved our son’s life.”
“How do you do, Lady Duncannon?” Jim took her hand and bowed over it, then nodded to Charles. “Lord Duncannon. It’s lovely to see you again, ma’am.”
“Captain Nicholls,” Charles boomed. “We owe you a debt of gratitude, young man.”
“I consider Jamie my dearest friend. I’d do absolutely anything for him.” Jim smiled at Jamie, then at his parents. “I hope it’s not intrusive of me to welcome him home, but I was so eager to say hello. I’ll leave you to your reunion.” He replaced his cap.
“Come to dinner,” Jamie said impulsively. He didn’t want to let Jim go, to spend a minute of his leave without his company.
“Oh, yes, do,” Margaret said, smiling at Jim.
“It’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t.” Jim glanced at Jamie. “I’m afraid I’ve rather a lot of work back at the office. But I wonder…perhaps you’d do me the honour of being my guests at dinner tomorrow evening.”
Margaret opened her mouth to speak, but Charles waved a hand expansively. “Nonsense. Wouldn’t dream of interrupting a chaps’ dinner. Sure you’ve both a lot to discuss. But come by another night, eh? Perhaps next week.”
“I’d like that. Very kind of you.” Jim turned to Jamie. “Well? Shall I collect you tomorrow evening?”
Jamie gazed at Jim’s face, his fine, tall body, and his heart gave way to a sharp pain. How could he wait an entire day? He nodded and compressed his mouth to stop himself from protesting.
“Seven o’clock?”
“Yes,” Jamie said hoarsely, and turned to Charles. “Father…let me have one of your cards. Jim hasn’t got our address.”
“Oh, I know it. Lady Duncannon was kind enough to write it down the day we had tea.” Jim nodded at Margaret again.
“Did she? That’s splendid.” As his parents bade Jim farewell and moved toward their automobile, Jamie picked up his kit bag. “Well…I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow evening, then.”
“Seven sharp.” Jim touched his hat and stretched out his hand. “I’m so very glad you’re home, old man.”
Jamie took Jim’s hand, and couldn’t bring himself to let it go. “So am I.”
“Tomorrow,” Jim said softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“All right.”
Aching, Jamie released Jim’s hand with the greatest reluctance and watched him until he disappeared into the throng, turning back once to wave. Jamie raised a hand and then went to the idling motor car – a new one to Jamie, a handsome Rolls-Royce – where his parents were already waiting in the rear seat. Murchison took Jamie’s kit bag to stow it, and Jamie climbed into the front seat.
“Nice young chap. Brave, too,” Charles remarked.
“Very brave,” Jamie said.
“Nicholls. Don’t know the name.”
“Nor do I. Do we know his parents, Jamie?” Margaret had taken out a chased-silver compact and was examining the tilt of her hat. “Goodness, what a crush back there.”
Jamie took out a packet of Woodbines. “I doubt it, Mother.”
“Well, where are they from?”
“Kent. His father owns a bathtub manufactory.”
“Bathtubs – good Lord.” Charles let out a barking laugh.
Jamie lit his cigarette. “Someone’s got to make them.”
“How lovely,” Margaret said, but it was clear her interest had dwindled. “Talking of bathtubs, I wish some of those soldiers had bothered to wash before coming home. The stench in the station was positively frightful.”
Jamie was about to explain that not every soldier had hot water and soap readily available to him, or even cold water and soap, but it seemed too much trouble. He stifled a sigh and nodded to Murchison as he climbed into the car. “How’s Wee Comet, Murchison?”
“He’s getting on, sir, but he’s still spry, I can tell you that.” Murchison steered the automobile into the street. “Frisky as a colt – nipped me on the elbow last week-end when he fancied I hadn’t given him enough sugar.”
Jamie laughed and settled to comfortable horse talk, and tried not to count the minutes until the following evening.
*
“Jamie, do stop pacing,” Margaret complained. “You’re making me frightfully nervous. What on earth’s the matter with you?”
“Sorry.” Jamie pitched his cigarette into the fire and threw himself down on a sofa. Instantly he regretted getting rid of the cigarette and leaving his hands with nothing to do. He reached up and adjusted the tilt on his black tie, then examined his shirt studs and cufflinks. Finally, sensing his mother’s puzzled and disapproving gaze, he crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands on his lap.
“Better,” she said, lifting one eyebrow. “Goodness, you’ve been so distracted today. I expect it’s the change of being home after so much upheaval.”
Not quite. “Yes, I expect so.”
“I am glad you were able to visit the barber. You were altogether too unkempt.”
It was Jamie’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Not much time for grooming in the trenches, Mother.”
“I know that, of course. It’s just nice to see you looking so smart.” She beamed at him, then looked at the clock as the door-bell rang. “Heavens, that’s not your friend already? He’s early.”
Jamie jumped up. “I’d better go and see –“
“Oh, do sit down. We’ve got Cora for that, Jamie.”
“Who’s that? Not your pal Nicholls already?” Charles strolled into the room, his face flushed over his stiff collar. “Christ, Meg, have you got to keep it so hot in here? It’s April, for God’s sake.”
“And it’s cold and rainy outdoors,” she said. “You’ll thank me later, Charles. Are you ready to go?”
“In a minute. No point in rushing – we agreed to meet Reggie and Grace at seven. Bloody place is only a stone’s throw from here.” Charles went to the drinks cart and poured himself a whiskey. “Jamie?”
“No, thank you, Father.” Jamie kept his gaze fixed on the doorway, determined to see Jim as soon as he stepped over the threshold, and was disappointed to see the maid enter alone. “Is it Captain Nicholls, Cora?”
“No, sir,” the maid replied. “Letter for you, sir.”
“For me?” Jamie took the proffered envelope, and examined the seal. He sighed, broke it, and withdrew a single sheet of paper. Scanning it quickly, he shook his head, then noticed that his parents were watching him with avid curiosity.
“Not bad news?” Charles asked.
“No.” Jamie realised he’d better get it over with, and handed the letter to his father.
Charles whipped a pince-nez from his jacket and placed it firmly on his nose. “’George V, by the grace of God King of England and His other realms, et cetera, et cetera…know you that it is Our will and pleasure that the Victoria Cross of England is awarded for an act of the most conspicuous gallantry….’” He trailed off and continued reading, his lips moving soundlessly.
“Charles, I do wish you wouldn’t….” Margaret swept to Charles’ side in a rustle of violet silk and began reading over his shoulder. “Oh – oh, Jamie!”
Jamie felt heat rising up his neck and into his cheeks. “Yes. I rather thought they’d wait, but….” He shrugged.
“’Colonel James Charles MacKenzie Stewart.’” Charles stared at him. “You’re a colonel. Good God, son.” He was at Jamie’s side in a bound, seizing his hand and shaking it, thumping Jamie on the back. “Good God! I’m proud of you – damned proud of you.”
Margaret came forward and took Jamie’s face in her hands. “Oh, darling. The Victoria Cross! I always knew you were brave, but –“ She kissed him. “Marvellous, really.”
“How’d it happen?” Charles demanded. “It doesn’t give details here.”
Jamie felt for his cigarette box and realised he’d left it upstairs. “It was a coincidence, really. A number of us were on the march and sought shelter in a farmhouse. The whole village had been burnt out, and we thought we were alone. Turns out we weren’t.” He went to the cigarette box on a table, extracted one, and lit it. “But as chance would have it, I was outside when the Jerries showed up, so I was able to give a signal, and we weren’t slaughtered.” He’d climbed to the flat roof of an abandoned bakery and picked off a number of the enemy. The night had been wild with thunder and lightning, and he prayed he wouldn’t be electrocuted as he crouched on the roof, shooting with grim and ferocious intent as his comrades in the farmhouse gathered their wits and began a counter-assault. It had been a short and bloody battle, and three of his men had died, one of them young Willie Doyle. He’d written a heartfelt letter of condolence that praised the boy’s courage to the skies, knowing damned well it would never make up for his parents’ loss and grief.
“Dashed proud of you, Jamie,” Charles said. He finished his whiskey in a single draught.
“Philip will be delighted to hear it. I must write him,” Margaret said. She took the letter from Charles. “You’ve a presentation to attend on the twentieth. Darling, is that why you were granted the leave in the first place?”
“I suppose so,” Jamie said. He took out his watch. Ten minutes until seven o’clock. “You’d better go. You’re going to be late.”
“Yes, we had. Do give Captain Nicholls our regards, Jamie. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear the news as well. Come along, Charles. Good night, dear.” She gave Jamie the letter and kissed him on the cheek.
“Good night. I may be quite late this evening, Mother.”
“All right. Cora can wait up for you.”
“It’s not necessary. Murchison found me a key.” He waved at his parents and went to the mantel, glad for the warmth of the fire. He’d spent all winter wet and half-frozen, and still fancied he felt icy mud clinging to him at all times. He wondered if he’d ever be able to shake it. He opened the folded letter and read it again.
Conspicuous act of gallantry indeed. He hadn’t felt gallant that January night – he’d been terrified and full of rage. Though he didn’t object to the elevation in rank, he hadn’t wanted the medal; there were other chaps more deserving than he, but he’d been politely shouted down, and his superiors had even managed to get a letter of recommendation from the elusive Colonel McMuir.
Jamie drew on his cigarette and studied the Millais over the mantel. It depicted Esther, the Jewish wife of the Persian king Artaxerxes, in the moment before informing her husband of a plot. She’d risked death warning her husband, but had triumphed in the end. “You could tell them a thing or two about gallantry, old girl,” Jamie murmured, and then froze at the sound of the door bell.
He was out of the room in a flash, but the maid was already opening the door. Jim stood under the portico in a trench-coat spotted with water droplets. At the sight of Jamie he smiled brightly and removed his cap.
“Come in,” Jamie said, and moved forward to usher Jim into the hall.
Jim saluted. “Colonel Stewart.”
“Oh God, not you too,” Jamie groaned.
“Come on now, you expect me not to read the despatches? Of course me too.” Jim transferred his cane to his left hand, shook Jamie’s hand with his right, and then pulled him into a brief embrace. “It’s smashing, Jamie, and I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.” He stood back and inspected Jamie. “You look quite the thing, old man. I’m afraid we’re only dining at the officers’ club tonight.”
“I don’t mind.” His heart sank. Much as he valued his fellow officers, he knew that an evening at the officers’ club would turn into an agonisingly long evening of reminiscences and war talk, and the last bloody thing he wanted this evening was reminiscing and war talk.
Jim tilted his head to one side. “You don’t want to go to the officers’ club.”
“I’m delighted to go wherever you want, old man.”
“Hmm. Look here, I’ve got an idea. It’s a bit off the beaten track, but there’s a little fish-and-chip restaurant in Marylebone. It’s not the Savoy or the Ritz by any means, but –“
“Fish and chips.” Jamie grinned. “I’ve been dreaming about proper fish and chips.”
“They’ll be stunned to see someone all rigged up, so the service should be top-notch. Right, cab’s waiting. Shall we go?” Jim gave him another melting smile, and Jamie felt his heartbeat quicken once more.
*
The restaurant was bustling when they arrived, but they found a table tucked into a corner and in no time had generous platters of fish, chips, and peas. Jamie finished his first plaice and sighed. “Brilliant idea, old man. This is a thousand times better than the Ritz. Besides, that’s where my parents were eating this evening.” He kept his eyes fixed on his plate, painfully aware that Jim was looking at him and that he’d been seized by a sudden fit of intense shyness. It was absurd, he knew; all those months of longing, all those letters whose contents were perfectly innocent and yet weighted with meaning and banked desire, and now he couldn’t bring himself to meet Jim’s honest gaze. “I mustn’t tell them I came here, by the way – I’d never hear the end of it. Mother thinks that if a restaurant hasn’t a fourteen-course meal cooked by a French chef, it isn’t worth mentioning, let alone visiting.”
“You don’t know how good it is to see you,” Jim said softly.
Jamie set his fork on his plate. “I’m nattering, aren’t I? It’s a funny old thing – there was a fellow on the train yesterday and he just wouldn’t shut his mouth, and I spent the entire journey wishing I could get up and – oh, God. Say something, Jim. Stop me from jabbering on like a complete idiot.”
“I could listen to you read the contents of the London telephone directory and be perfectly content.”
“Rubbish.” Heat filled Jamie’s face, and he met Jim’s eyes. Good God – when would this sensation, this thrill of adoration, the bliss and wonder of seeing Jim in the flesh again, cease? The strength of its intensity frightened him. He’d kept Jim’s letters close to his heart, kept the sound of his voice and the chiselled masculine beauty of his face and body closer still, but those were poor substitutes indeed when compared with reality. He wanted to hold Jim close, to kiss him, to make love to him, to celebrate the fact that they were both alive, that he adored him and needed him more badly than he’d ever needed anyone in his entire life, and he wanted to express all that to him in poetry. He tried to think of something eloquent and beautiful to say. “I missed you so much,” he said at last.
Jim’s countenance flooded with warmth. “Did you?”
“Every moment. You got me through the worst of it, Jim, even when you weren’t there. I read your letters to pieces – quite literally. I tried to keep them safe, but not all of them survived the damp and re-reading.” Jamie smiled shamefacedly. “All those little packages and notes and drawings –“ His voice caught in his throat, and he paused to collect himself. “I wish I could tell you what they meant to me.”
“I think perhaps you just did.”
Jamie’s face burned. He found himself staring at the shape of Jim’s mouth. It was firm, made for kissing. He felt his sex stirring to life and took a deep swallow of his beer, trying to get himself under control.
“Jamie, if you knew how eagerly I looked forward to your letters. Every time I got one, I felt euphoria, fear, yearning –“ Jim bit his lower lip. “I thought if you – if something had happened to you, I couldn’t survive it. I simply wouldn’t have the strength. To have you here now –“ He smiled. “I’m saying all this to you in a fish-and-chip shop. It’s a bit absurd, isn’t it?”
“Where else would you say it?”
Jim stared down at his unfinished dinner for a moment. Then, without raising his eyes, he said, “Would you like to come to my flat?”
“Yes,” Jamie said quietly. “Yes.”
*
Jim’s flat was in Hampstead, in a row of neat little houses. Jim had the first floor of his building. “Dashed good luck for me,” he said, fumbling with his key. “I don’t know if I’d have been able to manage stairs at first. Ah, here we are. Bienvenue chez Nicholls.” He opened the door, gesturing for Jamie to precede him, and turned on the light. “Electricity in every room, modern bathroom and kitchen – all the conveniences. I’m quite proud of it, not that I had a thing to do with its construction. Give me your hat and coat and go on into the parlour.”
Jamie took off his silk hat and gloves and shrugged out of his topcoat. “Why, it’s lovely, Jim.” He looked around at the spacious room, its striped wallpaper and velvet drapes, the comfortable, old-fashioned furniture, the slightly faded rugs on a polished floor the colour of dark honey.
“Most of it is cast off from my parents,” Jim said, his voice slightly muffled as he hung Jamie’s coat and his own on the hall rack. “Mother was delighted – she’d been wanting new things for ages, and my flat was the perfect excuse to get rid of this old stuff. I’m glad you like it.” Jim walked into the room, his cane thudding on the floor.
“It’s quite solid. Comfortable.” Jamie’s gaze landed on their regimental photograph sitting on a little mahogany table. He moved toward it and picked it up, examining it closely. He and Jim and Charlie stood close together, gazing solemnly at the camera. “Good God,” he murmured. “Seems a hundred years ago. Poor Charlie. He was so brave, Jim.”
“I know. He was. So are you.” Jim came to stand beside him; affectionately, he touched the photograph in its silver frame. “Don’t we all look like boys there? We’d no idea what we were in for.”
“No. None at all.” Jamie replaced the photograph and gazed at it. A sigh escaped him, and he felt the sudden heat and pressure of Jim’s hand on his arm, comforting him wordlessly. He yearned to lean back into Jim’s touch, but the drive to the flat had drained the urgency and heat from him; he felt shy and awkward again.
Jim seemed to divine his discomfiture and turned the caress into a brisk pat. “I’ll give you the grand tour a bit later. What about a drink? Whiskey?”
“I’d like that, old man.”
“Sit, then. Anywhere you like.” Jim indicated the parlour with a wave and thumped into the kitchen.
Jamie moved to the flowered sofa, then hesitated. “Can’t I help? Can you manage?”
“Oh, I’m perfectly fine!” Jim called. “The leg’s still a bit achy in the damp, but I’m quite dexterous, you wait and see. Just sit down there. I’ll get a fire going in a moment. It’s a bit chilly, don’t you think?”
“Let me do that.” Jamie went to the fireplace, glad to have something to do, and bent to the task of arranging paper spills and wood chips. He found matches in an engraved steel box on the mantel and lit the kindling, then shook coal from the decorative silver bucket onto the fire. It sputtered a bit, then caught, glowing cheerfully in the hearth.
“Oh, Jamie, you’ll get all mucky.” Jim appeared in the doorway, a tray with two glasses and a bottle balanced in one hand.
Jamie rose to his feet, took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. “I’ve been half-drowning in trench mud for more than a year. A little coal dust isn’t going to kill me.”
Jim looked contrite. “I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”
“Not at all. Here, let me get that.”
“Just put the tray on the table there, next to the sofa.” Jim lowered himself to the sofa and stretched out his leg. He took both glasses and handed one to Jamie, holding his up. “To homecomings.”
“Cheers,” Jamie said, touching his glass to Jim’s. He sipped at the whiskey, relishing its smoothness, grateful for the sweet golden trail of heat that blazed its way down to his stomach. He needed the warmth; the room was cold, and he was nearly shivering with a curious apprehension that coiled inside him, disquieting as any silence before the roar of guns.
“Usually the fire would be lit, but it’s Mrs. Taylor’s day off and I collected you straight from the office.”
“It’s perfectly all right. I’m used to cold.”
“Yes, I dare say you must be.” Jim gazed down into his glass and swirled the liquid around a bit. “Was it a rough trip over the Channel? I still have dreadful memories of the voyage over and back. I’m not much of a sailor, I’m afraid. Thank goodness I didn’t join the navy.”
“It was fine. I hardly noticed if it was rough, to be honest. I was so intent on getting home.”
“Are you excited about meeting the King?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought it over. I suppose so.” Jamie smiled briefly. “I don’t think I’ll really be chatting with him. I’m told it’s a very brief ceremony, which is more than agreeable to me. In and out.”
Jim grinned. “How efficient.”
“Yes, I’m fond of efficiency.” Jamie chuckled.
“Will you tell me how you got it?”
Jamie sighed. “Luck. No more.” He began to sketch out the story, intending to give only a very short rendition of what had happened, but as he spoke, the details firmed themselves in his mind and he found himself telling every bit of that night’s horror. “I saw their faces, you know,” he said softly, “quite clearly. There was lightning flashing, and it illuminated the night as if it were noon. They were all so young, Jim, as young as my men – boys, really. Because of the rain and thunder and lightning, they had no idea where the shots were coming from. They were confused, frightened – easy to pick off. So I did. One by one, using nature to shield me and help me gun them down.”
“You did it to protect your company.”
“Yes,” Jamie said, “but I had murder in my heart, Jim. It was revenge for what happened to us, for Charlie, for the men imprisoned in the village – do you know I don’t even recall its name? What was its name, Jim?”
“I don’t know,” Jim said softly. “I can’t remember. It was Flemish – I don’t speak it. I can’t remember.”
“They never told me. I never saw a sign. But I had that place in my mind’s eye as I gunned those boys down.” He drained his whiskey. “Another, please, Jim.”
Jim poured another glass. “Are you all right? Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked –“
“I’m fine.” Jamie smiled, but it was a tight, unpleasant rictus of a grin, he knew, and he took another drink to cover it. “Bloody hell, I don’t know. I did my duty as I saw it, but my head, Jim, and my heart – Christ.” He swallowed what was left of the whiskey and stared at the empty glass in bemusement, as if someone had made off with the liquid when he wasn’t looking.
“You didn’t write me about it.”
“No. I was ashamed, Jim. I know it saved a lot of lives, but it’s nothing to reward, believe me. There’s no gallantry in an act committed in rage.”
“You’re too hard on yourself, Jamie. Do you know, I was reading the other day – Hobbes, I think – and he said that war was man’s natural state. But I don’t – I can’t believe that. If you’d asked me that three years ago, I might have agreed – I felt the blood run hot in my veins when we charged, when I read the recruiting posters and all those newspaper columns exhorting us to defend our country – but the truth, Jamie, is that war was horrible to me, alien and frightening. Do you remember the morning of the charge?”
Jamie set his glass on the floor. “Yes, of course I do. Every moment of it.”
“You asked me if I was developing scruples.”
“Jim, I –“
“No – let me finish.” Jim drained off the rest of his glass and put it on the tray. He turned back to Jamie and took his hands in his own. “I did have scruples. Maybe it’s just cowardice.”
“You, a coward? Come on, Jim –“
“You’re going to say I rescued you right under the Germans’ collective nose, and I did, and I’d do it again. And I’m doing my bit now, as best I can. It’s not nearly as brave as what you’re doing – don’t wrinkle your nose at me, it’s true. And I’ll do my bit with my whole heart. But I long for peace, Jamie. Every newspaper account, every casualty list, every despatch convinces me that war is unnatural, and immoral. Statesmen make wars, and young men fight them, and in the end, so little is achieved. I know you’ll call me cynical for saying it, but it’s true.” Jim’s hands gripped Jamie’s tightly. He took a deep breath, like a diver about to hurl himself off a cliff, and then released it with a shudder.
Jamie gazed at Jim. “Jim, you’re…extraordinary, do you know that?”
“No.”
“Yes. You…you speak your heart and mind like no-one I’ve ever known.”
Jim smiled bashfully. “I went to a Jesuit school. The Jesuits are great believers in dialectic, so I tried to learn to use reason, but I was always a bit too attached to the personal and the passionate, they said. And they were right. Don’t you see…all I want, Jamie, is for you to be safe. To come home safely.”
Jamie looked down at their clasped hands and found his courage. He drew Jim close and, gently extricating one hand, rested it against the nape of Jim’s neck. His fingers brushed against smooth, warm skin, detecting the faint pulse beneath the flesh, and he moved closer and touched his lips to Jim’s.
Jim’s mouth was warm and inviting, and slowly, the kisses grew deeper, the intensity mounting until they held each other close, their mouths sealed together. Jim suckled on Jamie’s lower lip, teasing at it, biting gently until Jamie groaned. He kissed Jamie’s ear and dipped his tongue inside the sensitive canal, then sucked delicately on the lobe. His hands caressed Jamie’s hair and the nape of his neck.
“I don’t suppose,” Jim whispered, “you’d like to see the bedroom?”
“Show me.”
They rose from the sofa, still exploring each other’s mouth, and made their way down the narrow hall. Jim broke away and opened a door. “Here.” He turned on a lamp on the bedside table, illuminating a small but tidy bedroom, most of its floor space dominated by a brass bed. He pulled the quilt and blankets down, then folded the top sheet back with studied care. He unbuckled his Sam Browne belt and let it drop to the floor, then sat on the bed and pulled off his boots. Quickly, he took off his tunic, draping it over the brass foot-rail of the bed, and untied his tie. He slid his braces from his shoulders, unbuttoned his shirt, and shrugged out of it, letting it fall to the floor beside the Sam Browne belt. “So many clothes.”
Jamie’s mouth was dry. “Yes.”
“Aren’t you going to undress?”
“I’d rather watch you first.”
Jim grinned. “Now I’m not sure I can.”
“Perhaps I can help.” Jamie sank to his knees in front of Jim and moved his hands toward the buttons of Jim’s trousers. He hesitated, then rested his arms across Jim’s knees, gazing up at him. “Jim…I haven’t much experience with this sort of thing. There was a bit of groping at Sandhurst, but I never…I suppose I never let it get too far. I probably should have said so before.”
“Nonsense, don’t be silly.” Jim caressed Jamie’s hair, pushing a stray lock back into place.
“I suppose you’ve lots of experience.”
“Not much. One girl, one boy.”
Jamie tried not to feel jealousy. “Who was the boy?”
“A lad at my school. He was a bit older than I, and…well, I doubt I got that much further than you did. He did teach me a thing or two, though.”
“Such as?”
“I’ll show you. Stand up.”
Jamie stood on shaking legs and clasped his hands behind his back, shivering as Jim unbuttoned his trousers. He stifled a gasp as Jim’s hand delved inside and found his sex, already hard and aching, and closed upon it gently. “Oh, God –“
“Shh. Look at me, Jamie.”
Jamie looked down at Jim’s face; it was radiant in the lamplight, his eyes wide. “I want to kiss you again,” he said in a rasping whisper.
“All right.” Jim stood, his hand still closed around Jamie’s sex, and kissed him again. His tongue lightly delineated the inner softness of Jamie’s lips, tracing round and round until Jamie was moaning with need. Only then did his hand move, pressing softly, sliding up and down.
Jamie keened into Jim’s mouth. His hands slipped round Jim’s body and clasped his tight backside. He pushed his body into Jim’s hand, desperate for deeper, rougher contact. “Please. Please.” He felt Jim’s free hand urging the dinner jacket from his shoulders, and he struggled out of it as quickly as he could, throwing it heedlessly to one side. Clumsily, he tugged Jim’s grey wool undershirt up and off, letting it dangle from the hand that still pressed against his sex in the lightest, most maddening fashion. His hands fumbled with the buttons of Jim’s trousers, and before he knew what was happening, they’d tumbled to the bed in a tangle of half-removed clothes.
He could master his impatience and arousal no longer. He kissed Jim with greater ferocity and rolled atop him, pinning him to the bed. Jim’s hand had disappeared from around his sex, but Jamie slid forward until he felt Jim’s hardness against his.
A cry escaped Jim’s open mouth. “Oh, God, Jamie –“
Jamie rocked against Jim’s erection, feeling Jim’s hips thrusting upward. He wanted to pause to admire Jim’s long torso, to explore every bit of his lean body, but his desire had become a mad, raging thing, and he rubbed frantically against Jim’s cock, hardly aware that he was moaning. Jim wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling him down so they could kiss again, and their muffled cries grew more desperate until Jim let out a shuddering gasp and sudden wet heat splashed against Jamie’s belly.
“Finish, Jamie, finish – please, oh, God –“
Jamie ground himself against the sudden slickness and captured Jim’s mouth again, thrusting harder until the pleasure and urgency crested and blazed within him, and he cried out as his climax overtook his body and tumbled him into blind ecstasy. He collapsed and dragged himself from atop Jim’s body, but Jim’s arms held him tightly.
“No. Stay.”
Breathless, Jamie nodded, and rested his head on Jim’s shoulder, drinking in his scent. He felt himself drifting toward sleep, and nodded off for a moment or more. He awoke to the lovely sensation of Jim stroking his hair. “That feels wonderful.”
“Your hair’s so soft, Jamie. Mine’s like a million electrified wires.”
Jamie reached up and touched Jim’s disheveled curls. “Liar.” He raised himself to one elbow and surveyed their mutual state of dishabille. “I think my shirt got the worst of that.”
“Oh, dear. Sorry.”
Jamie smiled. “I’m not.”
“We can wash it out. You don’t have to leave, do you?” Jim grasped Jamie’s wrist. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“I don’t want to leave,” Jamie replied.
A brilliant smile lit Jim’s face. “Good. Stay.”
*
TBC.....
Author: Alex
Fandom: War Horse
Rating: Varies, G to NC-17
Pairing: Jamie Stewart/Jim Nicholls
Disclaimer: No money made, no harm intended. Michael Morpurgo owns War Horse and its characters.
Summary: Captured in battle, Major Jamie Stewart faces an uncertain fate.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sexual content.
Notes: Canon divergent [see pairing]
Can also be read on AO3
*
In many acts and quiet observances
you absorbed me:
Until one day I stood eminent
and I saw you gather'd round me
uplooking
and about you a radiance that seemed to beat
with variant glow and to give
grace to our unity.
---Herbert Read, My Company
*
Never in his life had Jamie desired more ardently to scramble off a train, and not only because he was anxious to see those dearest to him. He’d longed to spend the ride to London dreaming in quiet anticipation, watching the beauty of the passing countryside, but instead he had been trapped by Major Clement Wilkie, a garrulous young man who’d regaled Jamie with tales of his battalion adventures, tales of bloodthirsty Germans, tales of romantic escapades, and any snippet of thought that had apparently drifted across the threshold of his consciousness. Wilkie nattered through breakfast and luncheon, and teatime was approaching with no sign of slowing or fatigue on his part. Jamie sat in an agony of frozen politeness, casting yearning glances at other vacant seats in the first-class car but confining his misery to smiles and murmurs of ‘You don’t say’ and ‘My word’ and an occasional ‘Indeed? How interesting.’ He needn’t have bothered, though; Wilkie steam-rolled over his courteous replies and kept talking. Jamie had wondered what might happen if he simply got up and walked away.
But there they were at last, on the outskirts of London, small, neat houses and dwindling patches of green giving way to factories and row houses, and even Wilkie was momentarily silenced by the sight of the city through the soot-spotted, curtained windows of the train. “Good Lord, there’s a sight for sore eyes.”
“Yes,” Jamie said fervently, and took the opportunity to jump to his feet and shake Wilkie’s hand in farewell. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to make my way to the doors. Jolly nice chatting with you.”
“Wasn’t it! When are you headed back? Perhaps we can join up here.”
“Oh, a few weeks.” Jamie waved his hand vaguely. “I’d have to check my papers, and they’re tucked a bit inconveniently in the bottom of my bag at the moment. You?”
“Christ, I know to the minute when I’ve got to go back. I’ve got two weeks, and not a moment more. Righto, then – maybe I’ll see you back on the train if I’m lucky. Cheerio.”
“Good-bye.” Jamie collected his cap, heaved his kit bag up over one shoulder, and went toward the doors, nodding politely at the people in the first-class car who beamed at him. It was pleasant, if a little odd, to be acknowledged so openly; at every stop, the train had disgorged soldiers both wounded and whole, to cheers and cries of joy. Red, white, and blue bunting was draped along platform railings, or bunched into rosettes, and children carried miniature Union Jacks. The citizens of Great Britain eagerly welcomed their fighting men back to England. It was a heartening sight.
“Eager to get home, I expect,” said a man with old-fashioned, carefully parted hair and a waxed mustache.
“Indeed I am,” Jamie replied. He bowed slightly to the man’s companion, a pinched-looking, overly rouged lady in a lavender suit and sable tippet. “Madam.”
The woman bestowed a benevolent smile upon Jamie. “Back to your family?”
“Yes, madam.”
Her smile grew broader. “And your wife, or your sweetheart.”
Jamie felt his own agreeable expression tighten and nodded his head. “Excuse me.” He made his way to the doors and stood stiffly, waiting for the train to slow to a stop. What in heaven’s name made people so pushing and curious? He hadn’t the least interest in anyone else’s romantic affairs. They were none of his business, he knew that much, and he liked to think he had a healthy respect for the private lives of other people.
Steady on, he chided himself wryly. It was an innocent enough inquiry. Idly, he wondered how her expression might have changed had he said, “Yes, my sweetheart Jim Nicholls.” Oh, the scandal that would arise from a remark like that! He smiled a little at the daring thought, and as the train churned to a slow, grinding halt, wheels shrieking against the track, he swung his cap onto his head and peered out the window. A few other officers who’d been travelling in the first-class car gathered behind him, and they all traded nods and shy smiles. Wilkie joined them, and blessedly, he was silent, looking a bit awed.
“Home,” one said.
Jamie couldn’t help smiling. “At long last.”
“Think I might stay,” a young captain with a dressing on one eye said off-handedly. “Not that France wasn’t jolly good fun, but I must say the food wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”
Everyone laughed, and Jamie felt a glow in his chest. Never mind one nosy Parker of a woman – he was alive and he was almost home, and he would see Jim very soon.
A veritable mob had gathered on the platform, and their shouting was audible even through the closed doors. As the station attendants pulled them open, the noise became positively deafening, and the crowd surged toward the train, scarcely giving the passengers an opportunity to step off. Closer to the station, there was a swell of drums and brass, and a band swung into ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,’ prompting a tremendous cheer, singing, and much waving of tiny flags. Jamie stood on the top step, his gaze travelling rapidly over the crowd, seeking a particular pair of blue eyes, a bright head of hair.
A hand clapped Jamie’s shoulder. “Come on, friend. Let’s not spend our home leave on the train, eh?”
“Sorry!” Jamie hastened off the train, jumping from the step to the platform. He moved aside to let the other fellows disembark and continued to search the throng. He’d cabled Jim immediately after getting off the boat in Dover, but it wasn’t yet four o’clock and perhaps he wouldn’t have been able to leave his work.
“Jamie!”
Jamie swung round. “Mother!” He dropped his bag and wrapped his arms round her, embracing her tightly. She wore a grey fur coat, a velvet hat that looked like an upside-down officer’s peaked cap, and some luxurious, flowery perfume. He buried his nose in her neck, the way he used to as a small boy when she’d swoop into the nursery before the theatre or the opera to bestow a quick good-bye kiss.
“Oh, dear – too tight, darling. Mind my hat.” Margaret extricated herself and held Jamie away, beaming. “You look marvelous, Jamie.” Touching him on the cheek with a grey-gloved hand, she looked him up and down approvingly. “Really so very dashing, dear. Now where’s your father?” She looked over her shoulder and sighed impatiently as an embracing couple nudged her to one side. “Goodness, we’ve simply got to get out of this bedlam. Oh, there he is!” She waved, and Charles, followed by their driver Murchison, made their way through the crowd.
“Jamie!” Charles grasped Jamie’s hand and shook it firmly. “Good God, what a nightmare. Let’s get out of here, shall we? Give Murchison your bag.”
“Welcome home, sir,” Murchison said warmly. He’d taught Jamie to ride, long before they’d had a motor-car. The position of driver was a promotion and the man performed his duties with precision and care, but Jamie always had the suspicion, if not the certainty, that Murchison would prefer to be tending to horses.
“It’s wonderful to see you, Murchison.” Jamie grasped the man’s hand. “Wonderful to be home.”
“Let me get that for you, sir.”
“No, I’ve got it.” Jamie swung his bag over his shoulder and followed his parents through the crush, holding onto his cap with one hand. He dragged his feet, still looking for Jim in the crowd, but in the sea of people and amongst so much khaki it was almost impossible to distinguish one face from another. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to come to the station after all.
Victoria Station was packed and hot with the press of so many bodies, but it was a rather delightful din, Jamie thought; there were so many faces that were streaked with happy tears. They deserved their noisy celebrations. Margaret clearly thought otherwise; her face, as she reached the doors, was a compound of relief and disgust. “Good heavens, what a racket.”
“Mother.” Jamie’s voice held the gentlest of reproofs. “It’s homecoming for these men. You mustn’t begrudge them a thing.” Somewhere, too, in the crowd, were families and friends bidding other men farewell as their leaves ended, as the new majority of young men stepped onto the trains in their crisply pressed khaki for the very first time. Everyone in the station deserved some sympathy, and if that was a sentimental thought, he didn’t care a fig.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Margaret peered at the crowd, and her expression softened a bit. “Yes, you’re right. Well, come along, let’s go home.”
“All right.” Jamie took one more look round, and a pang of disappointment jabbed its way inside him. He pushed his way out the door, and his heart skipped a beat, then quickened.
Jim stood on the kerb, craning his neck and examining the throng that pushed its way out of the doors. He was leaning on a silver-handled cane, he wore their old regimental khakis, and he was the handsomest man in London. As Jamie took a step forward, Jim saw him, and his eyes widened.
“Jim,” Jamie said softly. He let his kit bag slide to the pavement.
“Jamie…Jamie!” Jim removed his cap and rushed forward, limping, and threw his arms round Jamie. “Jamie, oh dear God. Jamie.”
He smelled of Penhaligon’s English Fern and wool and healthy young male, and Jamie drank in his scent greedily. He’d never held him close, and the reality of his strong body overwhelmed him. A lump rose in his throat; if he tried to speak, he’d weep. Surreptitiously, he allowed his lips to press against the faint pulse below Jim’s ear, then pulled back to gaze at him.
“Look at you,” Jim said. Tears gathered in his eyes, but he beamed, his brilliant smile lighting the grey, chilly afternoon. “You’re wonderful.”
“You came.”
“I wouldn’t miss your homecoming for the world.” Jim took a step back, but still held onto Jamie’s arms. “Oh, Jamie –“
“Who’s this? It’s not Captain Nicholls?” Margaret laid a gloved hand on Jim’s arm. “Why, it is! How do you do? Charles, do look! It’s Captain Nicholls from Jamie’s old regiment. This is the young hero who saved our son’s life.”
“How do you do, Lady Duncannon?” Jim took her hand and bowed over it, then nodded to Charles. “Lord Duncannon. It’s lovely to see you again, ma’am.”
“Captain Nicholls,” Charles boomed. “We owe you a debt of gratitude, young man.”
“I consider Jamie my dearest friend. I’d do absolutely anything for him.” Jim smiled at Jamie, then at his parents. “I hope it’s not intrusive of me to welcome him home, but I was so eager to say hello. I’ll leave you to your reunion.” He replaced his cap.
“Come to dinner,” Jamie said impulsively. He didn’t want to let Jim go, to spend a minute of his leave without his company.
“Oh, yes, do,” Margaret said, smiling at Jim.
“It’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t.” Jim glanced at Jamie. “I’m afraid I’ve rather a lot of work back at the office. But I wonder…perhaps you’d do me the honour of being my guests at dinner tomorrow evening.”
Margaret opened her mouth to speak, but Charles waved a hand expansively. “Nonsense. Wouldn’t dream of interrupting a chaps’ dinner. Sure you’ve both a lot to discuss. But come by another night, eh? Perhaps next week.”
“I’d like that. Very kind of you.” Jim turned to Jamie. “Well? Shall I collect you tomorrow evening?”
Jamie gazed at Jim’s face, his fine, tall body, and his heart gave way to a sharp pain. How could he wait an entire day? He nodded and compressed his mouth to stop himself from protesting.
“Seven o’clock?”
“Yes,” Jamie said hoarsely, and turned to Charles. “Father…let me have one of your cards. Jim hasn’t got our address.”
“Oh, I know it. Lady Duncannon was kind enough to write it down the day we had tea.” Jim nodded at Margaret again.
“Did she? That’s splendid.” As his parents bade Jim farewell and moved toward their automobile, Jamie picked up his kit bag. “Well…I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow evening, then.”
“Seven sharp.” Jim touched his hat and stretched out his hand. “I’m so very glad you’re home, old man.”
Jamie took Jim’s hand, and couldn’t bring himself to let it go. “So am I.”
“Tomorrow,” Jim said softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“All right.”
Aching, Jamie released Jim’s hand with the greatest reluctance and watched him until he disappeared into the throng, turning back once to wave. Jamie raised a hand and then went to the idling motor car – a new one to Jamie, a handsome Rolls-Royce – where his parents were already waiting in the rear seat. Murchison took Jamie’s kit bag to stow it, and Jamie climbed into the front seat.
“Nice young chap. Brave, too,” Charles remarked.
“Very brave,” Jamie said.
“Nicholls. Don’t know the name.”
“Nor do I. Do we know his parents, Jamie?” Margaret had taken out a chased-silver compact and was examining the tilt of her hat. “Goodness, what a crush back there.”
Jamie took out a packet of Woodbines. “I doubt it, Mother.”
“Well, where are they from?”
“Kent. His father owns a bathtub manufactory.”
“Bathtubs – good Lord.” Charles let out a barking laugh.
Jamie lit his cigarette. “Someone’s got to make them.”
“How lovely,” Margaret said, but it was clear her interest had dwindled. “Talking of bathtubs, I wish some of those soldiers had bothered to wash before coming home. The stench in the station was positively frightful.”
Jamie was about to explain that not every soldier had hot water and soap readily available to him, or even cold water and soap, but it seemed too much trouble. He stifled a sigh and nodded to Murchison as he climbed into the car. “How’s Wee Comet, Murchison?”
“He’s getting on, sir, but he’s still spry, I can tell you that.” Murchison steered the automobile into the street. “Frisky as a colt – nipped me on the elbow last week-end when he fancied I hadn’t given him enough sugar.”
Jamie laughed and settled to comfortable horse talk, and tried not to count the minutes until the following evening.
*
“Jamie, do stop pacing,” Margaret complained. “You’re making me frightfully nervous. What on earth’s the matter with you?”
“Sorry.” Jamie pitched his cigarette into the fire and threw himself down on a sofa. Instantly he regretted getting rid of the cigarette and leaving his hands with nothing to do. He reached up and adjusted the tilt on his black tie, then examined his shirt studs and cufflinks. Finally, sensing his mother’s puzzled and disapproving gaze, he crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands on his lap.
“Better,” she said, lifting one eyebrow. “Goodness, you’ve been so distracted today. I expect it’s the change of being home after so much upheaval.”
Not quite. “Yes, I expect so.”
“I am glad you were able to visit the barber. You were altogether too unkempt.”
It was Jamie’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Not much time for grooming in the trenches, Mother.”
“I know that, of course. It’s just nice to see you looking so smart.” She beamed at him, then looked at the clock as the door-bell rang. “Heavens, that’s not your friend already? He’s early.”
Jamie jumped up. “I’d better go and see –“
“Oh, do sit down. We’ve got Cora for that, Jamie.”
“Who’s that? Not your pal Nicholls already?” Charles strolled into the room, his face flushed over his stiff collar. “Christ, Meg, have you got to keep it so hot in here? It’s April, for God’s sake.”
“And it’s cold and rainy outdoors,” she said. “You’ll thank me later, Charles. Are you ready to go?”
“In a minute. No point in rushing – we agreed to meet Reggie and Grace at seven. Bloody place is only a stone’s throw from here.” Charles went to the drinks cart and poured himself a whiskey. “Jamie?”
“No, thank you, Father.” Jamie kept his gaze fixed on the doorway, determined to see Jim as soon as he stepped over the threshold, and was disappointed to see the maid enter alone. “Is it Captain Nicholls, Cora?”
“No, sir,” the maid replied. “Letter for you, sir.”
“For me?” Jamie took the proffered envelope, and examined the seal. He sighed, broke it, and withdrew a single sheet of paper. Scanning it quickly, he shook his head, then noticed that his parents were watching him with avid curiosity.
“Not bad news?” Charles asked.
“No.” Jamie realised he’d better get it over with, and handed the letter to his father.
Charles whipped a pince-nez from his jacket and placed it firmly on his nose. “’George V, by the grace of God King of England and His other realms, et cetera, et cetera…know you that it is Our will and pleasure that the Victoria Cross of England is awarded for an act of the most conspicuous gallantry….’” He trailed off and continued reading, his lips moving soundlessly.
“Charles, I do wish you wouldn’t….” Margaret swept to Charles’ side in a rustle of violet silk and began reading over his shoulder. “Oh – oh, Jamie!”
Jamie felt heat rising up his neck and into his cheeks. “Yes. I rather thought they’d wait, but….” He shrugged.
“’Colonel James Charles MacKenzie Stewart.’” Charles stared at him. “You’re a colonel. Good God, son.” He was at Jamie’s side in a bound, seizing his hand and shaking it, thumping Jamie on the back. “Good God! I’m proud of you – damned proud of you.”
Margaret came forward and took Jamie’s face in her hands. “Oh, darling. The Victoria Cross! I always knew you were brave, but –“ She kissed him. “Marvellous, really.”
“How’d it happen?” Charles demanded. “It doesn’t give details here.”
Jamie felt for his cigarette box and realised he’d left it upstairs. “It was a coincidence, really. A number of us were on the march and sought shelter in a farmhouse. The whole village had been burnt out, and we thought we were alone. Turns out we weren’t.” He went to the cigarette box on a table, extracted one, and lit it. “But as chance would have it, I was outside when the Jerries showed up, so I was able to give a signal, and we weren’t slaughtered.” He’d climbed to the flat roof of an abandoned bakery and picked off a number of the enemy. The night had been wild with thunder and lightning, and he prayed he wouldn’t be electrocuted as he crouched on the roof, shooting with grim and ferocious intent as his comrades in the farmhouse gathered their wits and began a counter-assault. It had been a short and bloody battle, and three of his men had died, one of them young Willie Doyle. He’d written a heartfelt letter of condolence that praised the boy’s courage to the skies, knowing damned well it would never make up for his parents’ loss and grief.
“Dashed proud of you, Jamie,” Charles said. He finished his whiskey in a single draught.
“Philip will be delighted to hear it. I must write him,” Margaret said. She took the letter from Charles. “You’ve a presentation to attend on the twentieth. Darling, is that why you were granted the leave in the first place?”
“I suppose so,” Jamie said. He took out his watch. Ten minutes until seven o’clock. “You’d better go. You’re going to be late.”
“Yes, we had. Do give Captain Nicholls our regards, Jamie. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear the news as well. Come along, Charles. Good night, dear.” She gave Jamie the letter and kissed him on the cheek.
“Good night. I may be quite late this evening, Mother.”
“All right. Cora can wait up for you.”
“It’s not necessary. Murchison found me a key.” He waved at his parents and went to the mantel, glad for the warmth of the fire. He’d spent all winter wet and half-frozen, and still fancied he felt icy mud clinging to him at all times. He wondered if he’d ever be able to shake it. He opened the folded letter and read it again.
Conspicuous act of gallantry indeed. He hadn’t felt gallant that January night – he’d been terrified and full of rage. Though he didn’t object to the elevation in rank, he hadn’t wanted the medal; there were other chaps more deserving than he, but he’d been politely shouted down, and his superiors had even managed to get a letter of recommendation from the elusive Colonel McMuir.
Jamie drew on his cigarette and studied the Millais over the mantel. It depicted Esther, the Jewish wife of the Persian king Artaxerxes, in the moment before informing her husband of a plot. She’d risked death warning her husband, but had triumphed in the end. “You could tell them a thing or two about gallantry, old girl,” Jamie murmured, and then froze at the sound of the door bell.
He was out of the room in a flash, but the maid was already opening the door. Jim stood under the portico in a trench-coat spotted with water droplets. At the sight of Jamie he smiled brightly and removed his cap.
“Come in,” Jamie said, and moved forward to usher Jim into the hall.
Jim saluted. “Colonel Stewart.”
“Oh God, not you too,” Jamie groaned.
“Come on now, you expect me not to read the despatches? Of course me too.” Jim transferred his cane to his left hand, shook Jamie’s hand with his right, and then pulled him into a brief embrace. “It’s smashing, Jamie, and I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.” He stood back and inspected Jamie. “You look quite the thing, old man. I’m afraid we’re only dining at the officers’ club tonight.”
“I don’t mind.” His heart sank. Much as he valued his fellow officers, he knew that an evening at the officers’ club would turn into an agonisingly long evening of reminiscences and war talk, and the last bloody thing he wanted this evening was reminiscing and war talk.
Jim tilted his head to one side. “You don’t want to go to the officers’ club.”
“I’m delighted to go wherever you want, old man.”
“Hmm. Look here, I’ve got an idea. It’s a bit off the beaten track, but there’s a little fish-and-chip restaurant in Marylebone. It’s not the Savoy or the Ritz by any means, but –“
“Fish and chips.” Jamie grinned. “I’ve been dreaming about proper fish and chips.”
“They’ll be stunned to see someone all rigged up, so the service should be top-notch. Right, cab’s waiting. Shall we go?” Jim gave him another melting smile, and Jamie felt his heartbeat quicken once more.
*
The restaurant was bustling when they arrived, but they found a table tucked into a corner and in no time had generous platters of fish, chips, and peas. Jamie finished his first plaice and sighed. “Brilliant idea, old man. This is a thousand times better than the Ritz. Besides, that’s where my parents were eating this evening.” He kept his eyes fixed on his plate, painfully aware that Jim was looking at him and that he’d been seized by a sudden fit of intense shyness. It was absurd, he knew; all those months of longing, all those letters whose contents were perfectly innocent and yet weighted with meaning and banked desire, and now he couldn’t bring himself to meet Jim’s honest gaze. “I mustn’t tell them I came here, by the way – I’d never hear the end of it. Mother thinks that if a restaurant hasn’t a fourteen-course meal cooked by a French chef, it isn’t worth mentioning, let alone visiting.”
“You don’t know how good it is to see you,” Jim said softly.
Jamie set his fork on his plate. “I’m nattering, aren’t I? It’s a funny old thing – there was a fellow on the train yesterday and he just wouldn’t shut his mouth, and I spent the entire journey wishing I could get up and – oh, God. Say something, Jim. Stop me from jabbering on like a complete idiot.”
“I could listen to you read the contents of the London telephone directory and be perfectly content.”
“Rubbish.” Heat filled Jamie’s face, and he met Jim’s eyes. Good God – when would this sensation, this thrill of adoration, the bliss and wonder of seeing Jim in the flesh again, cease? The strength of its intensity frightened him. He’d kept Jim’s letters close to his heart, kept the sound of his voice and the chiselled masculine beauty of his face and body closer still, but those were poor substitutes indeed when compared with reality. He wanted to hold Jim close, to kiss him, to make love to him, to celebrate the fact that they were both alive, that he adored him and needed him more badly than he’d ever needed anyone in his entire life, and he wanted to express all that to him in poetry. He tried to think of something eloquent and beautiful to say. “I missed you so much,” he said at last.
Jim’s countenance flooded with warmth. “Did you?”
“Every moment. You got me through the worst of it, Jim, even when you weren’t there. I read your letters to pieces – quite literally. I tried to keep them safe, but not all of them survived the damp and re-reading.” Jamie smiled shamefacedly. “All those little packages and notes and drawings –“ His voice caught in his throat, and he paused to collect himself. “I wish I could tell you what they meant to me.”
“I think perhaps you just did.”
Jamie’s face burned. He found himself staring at the shape of Jim’s mouth. It was firm, made for kissing. He felt his sex stirring to life and took a deep swallow of his beer, trying to get himself under control.
“Jamie, if you knew how eagerly I looked forward to your letters. Every time I got one, I felt euphoria, fear, yearning –“ Jim bit his lower lip. “I thought if you – if something had happened to you, I couldn’t survive it. I simply wouldn’t have the strength. To have you here now –“ He smiled. “I’m saying all this to you in a fish-and-chip shop. It’s a bit absurd, isn’t it?”
“Where else would you say it?”
Jim stared down at his unfinished dinner for a moment. Then, without raising his eyes, he said, “Would you like to come to my flat?”
“Yes,” Jamie said quietly. “Yes.”
*
Jim’s flat was in Hampstead, in a row of neat little houses. Jim had the first floor of his building. “Dashed good luck for me,” he said, fumbling with his key. “I don’t know if I’d have been able to manage stairs at first. Ah, here we are. Bienvenue chez Nicholls.” He opened the door, gesturing for Jamie to precede him, and turned on the light. “Electricity in every room, modern bathroom and kitchen – all the conveniences. I’m quite proud of it, not that I had a thing to do with its construction. Give me your hat and coat and go on into the parlour.”
Jamie took off his silk hat and gloves and shrugged out of his topcoat. “Why, it’s lovely, Jim.” He looked around at the spacious room, its striped wallpaper and velvet drapes, the comfortable, old-fashioned furniture, the slightly faded rugs on a polished floor the colour of dark honey.
“Most of it is cast off from my parents,” Jim said, his voice slightly muffled as he hung Jamie’s coat and his own on the hall rack. “Mother was delighted – she’d been wanting new things for ages, and my flat was the perfect excuse to get rid of this old stuff. I’m glad you like it.” Jim walked into the room, his cane thudding on the floor.
“It’s quite solid. Comfortable.” Jamie’s gaze landed on their regimental photograph sitting on a little mahogany table. He moved toward it and picked it up, examining it closely. He and Jim and Charlie stood close together, gazing solemnly at the camera. “Good God,” he murmured. “Seems a hundred years ago. Poor Charlie. He was so brave, Jim.”
“I know. He was. So are you.” Jim came to stand beside him; affectionately, he touched the photograph in its silver frame. “Don’t we all look like boys there? We’d no idea what we were in for.”
“No. None at all.” Jamie replaced the photograph and gazed at it. A sigh escaped him, and he felt the sudden heat and pressure of Jim’s hand on his arm, comforting him wordlessly. He yearned to lean back into Jim’s touch, but the drive to the flat had drained the urgency and heat from him; he felt shy and awkward again.
Jim seemed to divine his discomfiture and turned the caress into a brisk pat. “I’ll give you the grand tour a bit later. What about a drink? Whiskey?”
“I’d like that, old man.”
“Sit, then. Anywhere you like.” Jim indicated the parlour with a wave and thumped into the kitchen.
Jamie moved to the flowered sofa, then hesitated. “Can’t I help? Can you manage?”
“Oh, I’m perfectly fine!” Jim called. “The leg’s still a bit achy in the damp, but I’m quite dexterous, you wait and see. Just sit down there. I’ll get a fire going in a moment. It’s a bit chilly, don’t you think?”
“Let me do that.” Jamie went to the fireplace, glad to have something to do, and bent to the task of arranging paper spills and wood chips. He found matches in an engraved steel box on the mantel and lit the kindling, then shook coal from the decorative silver bucket onto the fire. It sputtered a bit, then caught, glowing cheerfully in the hearth.
“Oh, Jamie, you’ll get all mucky.” Jim appeared in the doorway, a tray with two glasses and a bottle balanced in one hand.
Jamie rose to his feet, took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. “I’ve been half-drowning in trench mud for more than a year. A little coal dust isn’t going to kill me.”
Jim looked contrite. “I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”
“Not at all. Here, let me get that.”
“Just put the tray on the table there, next to the sofa.” Jim lowered himself to the sofa and stretched out his leg. He took both glasses and handed one to Jamie, holding his up. “To homecomings.”
“Cheers,” Jamie said, touching his glass to Jim’s. He sipped at the whiskey, relishing its smoothness, grateful for the sweet golden trail of heat that blazed its way down to his stomach. He needed the warmth; the room was cold, and he was nearly shivering with a curious apprehension that coiled inside him, disquieting as any silence before the roar of guns.
“Usually the fire would be lit, but it’s Mrs. Taylor’s day off and I collected you straight from the office.”
“It’s perfectly all right. I’m used to cold.”
“Yes, I dare say you must be.” Jim gazed down into his glass and swirled the liquid around a bit. “Was it a rough trip over the Channel? I still have dreadful memories of the voyage over and back. I’m not much of a sailor, I’m afraid. Thank goodness I didn’t join the navy.”
“It was fine. I hardly noticed if it was rough, to be honest. I was so intent on getting home.”
“Are you excited about meeting the King?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought it over. I suppose so.” Jamie smiled briefly. “I don’t think I’ll really be chatting with him. I’m told it’s a very brief ceremony, which is more than agreeable to me. In and out.”
Jim grinned. “How efficient.”
“Yes, I’m fond of efficiency.” Jamie chuckled.
“Will you tell me how you got it?”
Jamie sighed. “Luck. No more.” He began to sketch out the story, intending to give only a very short rendition of what had happened, but as he spoke, the details firmed themselves in his mind and he found himself telling every bit of that night’s horror. “I saw their faces, you know,” he said softly, “quite clearly. There was lightning flashing, and it illuminated the night as if it were noon. They were all so young, Jim, as young as my men – boys, really. Because of the rain and thunder and lightning, they had no idea where the shots were coming from. They were confused, frightened – easy to pick off. So I did. One by one, using nature to shield me and help me gun them down.”
“You did it to protect your company.”
“Yes,” Jamie said, “but I had murder in my heart, Jim. It was revenge for what happened to us, for Charlie, for the men imprisoned in the village – do you know I don’t even recall its name? What was its name, Jim?”
“I don’t know,” Jim said softly. “I can’t remember. It was Flemish – I don’t speak it. I can’t remember.”
“They never told me. I never saw a sign. But I had that place in my mind’s eye as I gunned those boys down.” He drained his whiskey. “Another, please, Jim.”
Jim poured another glass. “Are you all right? Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked –“
“I’m fine.” Jamie smiled, but it was a tight, unpleasant rictus of a grin, he knew, and he took another drink to cover it. “Bloody hell, I don’t know. I did my duty as I saw it, but my head, Jim, and my heart – Christ.” He swallowed what was left of the whiskey and stared at the empty glass in bemusement, as if someone had made off with the liquid when he wasn’t looking.
“You didn’t write me about it.”
“No. I was ashamed, Jim. I know it saved a lot of lives, but it’s nothing to reward, believe me. There’s no gallantry in an act committed in rage.”
“You’re too hard on yourself, Jamie. Do you know, I was reading the other day – Hobbes, I think – and he said that war was man’s natural state. But I don’t – I can’t believe that. If you’d asked me that three years ago, I might have agreed – I felt the blood run hot in my veins when we charged, when I read the recruiting posters and all those newspaper columns exhorting us to defend our country – but the truth, Jamie, is that war was horrible to me, alien and frightening. Do you remember the morning of the charge?”
Jamie set his glass on the floor. “Yes, of course I do. Every moment of it.”
“You asked me if I was developing scruples.”
“Jim, I –“
“No – let me finish.” Jim drained off the rest of his glass and put it on the tray. He turned back to Jamie and took his hands in his own. “I did have scruples. Maybe it’s just cowardice.”
“You, a coward? Come on, Jim –“
“You’re going to say I rescued you right under the Germans’ collective nose, and I did, and I’d do it again. And I’m doing my bit now, as best I can. It’s not nearly as brave as what you’re doing – don’t wrinkle your nose at me, it’s true. And I’ll do my bit with my whole heart. But I long for peace, Jamie. Every newspaper account, every casualty list, every despatch convinces me that war is unnatural, and immoral. Statesmen make wars, and young men fight them, and in the end, so little is achieved. I know you’ll call me cynical for saying it, but it’s true.” Jim’s hands gripped Jamie’s tightly. He took a deep breath, like a diver about to hurl himself off a cliff, and then released it with a shudder.
Jamie gazed at Jim. “Jim, you’re…extraordinary, do you know that?”
“No.”
“Yes. You…you speak your heart and mind like no-one I’ve ever known.”
Jim smiled bashfully. “I went to a Jesuit school. The Jesuits are great believers in dialectic, so I tried to learn to use reason, but I was always a bit too attached to the personal and the passionate, they said. And they were right. Don’t you see…all I want, Jamie, is for you to be safe. To come home safely.”
Jamie looked down at their clasped hands and found his courage. He drew Jim close and, gently extricating one hand, rested it against the nape of Jim’s neck. His fingers brushed against smooth, warm skin, detecting the faint pulse beneath the flesh, and he moved closer and touched his lips to Jim’s.
Jim’s mouth was warm and inviting, and slowly, the kisses grew deeper, the intensity mounting until they held each other close, their mouths sealed together. Jim suckled on Jamie’s lower lip, teasing at it, biting gently until Jamie groaned. He kissed Jamie’s ear and dipped his tongue inside the sensitive canal, then sucked delicately on the lobe. His hands caressed Jamie’s hair and the nape of his neck.
“I don’t suppose,” Jim whispered, “you’d like to see the bedroom?”
“Show me.”
They rose from the sofa, still exploring each other’s mouth, and made their way down the narrow hall. Jim broke away and opened a door. “Here.” He turned on a lamp on the bedside table, illuminating a small but tidy bedroom, most of its floor space dominated by a brass bed. He pulled the quilt and blankets down, then folded the top sheet back with studied care. He unbuckled his Sam Browne belt and let it drop to the floor, then sat on the bed and pulled off his boots. Quickly, he took off his tunic, draping it over the brass foot-rail of the bed, and untied his tie. He slid his braces from his shoulders, unbuttoned his shirt, and shrugged out of it, letting it fall to the floor beside the Sam Browne belt. “So many clothes.”
Jamie’s mouth was dry. “Yes.”
“Aren’t you going to undress?”
“I’d rather watch you first.”
Jim grinned. “Now I’m not sure I can.”
“Perhaps I can help.” Jamie sank to his knees in front of Jim and moved his hands toward the buttons of Jim’s trousers. He hesitated, then rested his arms across Jim’s knees, gazing up at him. “Jim…I haven’t much experience with this sort of thing. There was a bit of groping at Sandhurst, but I never…I suppose I never let it get too far. I probably should have said so before.”
“Nonsense, don’t be silly.” Jim caressed Jamie’s hair, pushing a stray lock back into place.
“I suppose you’ve lots of experience.”
“Not much. One girl, one boy.”
Jamie tried not to feel jealousy. “Who was the boy?”
“A lad at my school. He was a bit older than I, and…well, I doubt I got that much further than you did. He did teach me a thing or two, though.”
“Such as?”
“I’ll show you. Stand up.”
Jamie stood on shaking legs and clasped his hands behind his back, shivering as Jim unbuttoned his trousers. He stifled a gasp as Jim’s hand delved inside and found his sex, already hard and aching, and closed upon it gently. “Oh, God –“
“Shh. Look at me, Jamie.”
Jamie looked down at Jim’s face; it was radiant in the lamplight, his eyes wide. “I want to kiss you again,” he said in a rasping whisper.
“All right.” Jim stood, his hand still closed around Jamie’s sex, and kissed him again. His tongue lightly delineated the inner softness of Jamie’s lips, tracing round and round until Jamie was moaning with need. Only then did his hand move, pressing softly, sliding up and down.
Jamie keened into Jim’s mouth. His hands slipped round Jim’s body and clasped his tight backside. He pushed his body into Jim’s hand, desperate for deeper, rougher contact. “Please. Please.” He felt Jim’s free hand urging the dinner jacket from his shoulders, and he struggled out of it as quickly as he could, throwing it heedlessly to one side. Clumsily, he tugged Jim’s grey wool undershirt up and off, letting it dangle from the hand that still pressed against his sex in the lightest, most maddening fashion. His hands fumbled with the buttons of Jim’s trousers, and before he knew what was happening, they’d tumbled to the bed in a tangle of half-removed clothes.
He could master his impatience and arousal no longer. He kissed Jim with greater ferocity and rolled atop him, pinning him to the bed. Jim’s hand had disappeared from around his sex, but Jamie slid forward until he felt Jim’s hardness against his.
A cry escaped Jim’s open mouth. “Oh, God, Jamie –“
Jamie rocked against Jim’s erection, feeling Jim’s hips thrusting upward. He wanted to pause to admire Jim’s long torso, to explore every bit of his lean body, but his desire had become a mad, raging thing, and he rubbed frantically against Jim’s cock, hardly aware that he was moaning. Jim wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling him down so they could kiss again, and their muffled cries grew more desperate until Jim let out a shuddering gasp and sudden wet heat splashed against Jamie’s belly.
“Finish, Jamie, finish – please, oh, God –“
Jamie ground himself against the sudden slickness and captured Jim’s mouth again, thrusting harder until the pleasure and urgency crested and blazed within him, and he cried out as his climax overtook his body and tumbled him into blind ecstasy. He collapsed and dragged himself from atop Jim’s body, but Jim’s arms held him tightly.
“No. Stay.”
Breathless, Jamie nodded, and rested his head on Jim’s shoulder, drinking in his scent. He felt himself drifting toward sleep, and nodded off for a moment or more. He awoke to the lovely sensation of Jim stroking his hair. “That feels wonderful.”
“Your hair’s so soft, Jamie. Mine’s like a million electrified wires.”
Jamie reached up and touched Jim’s disheveled curls. “Liar.” He raised himself to one elbow and surveyed their mutual state of dishabille. “I think my shirt got the worst of that.”
“Oh, dear. Sorry.”
Jamie smiled. “I’m not.”
“We can wash it out. You don’t have to leave, do you?” Jim grasped Jamie’s wrist. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“I don’t want to leave,” Jamie replied.
A brilliant smile lit Jim’s face. “Good. Stay.”
*
TBC.....
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Date: 2012-06-25 03:31 am (UTC)