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Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Of course, sir.’

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

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

‘The cocktails.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘The… dog?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Vibrant hints of wet metal.’

‘With just a subtle undertone of mothballs.’

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

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

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

‘It is still quite bad.’

‘And yet, here we are.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is the sherry all gone?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What’s so funny?’

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

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

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

‘I’m sure they won’t—’

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

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

‘Oh come now, Havers—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No one else is.’ 

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

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

‘I think that’s you sorted for now.’

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

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

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

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

‘Stay. Please,’ the Captain breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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