[Fic] For You the War Is Over (1/3)
Title: For You the War Is Over (1/3)
Author: maybe77
Team: Angst
Prompts: fall, home
Word count: 5200 this part, 14,500 total
Rating: PG-13ish this part, NC-17 in later parts
Warnings:Physical pain/injury, lots of h/c, spongebathing.
Summary: Historical AU. Eames is an RAF pilot shot down in German-occupied France during World War II; Arthur is the French resistance fighter who finds him. There is a happy ending.
A/N: I tried to keep this as historically accurate as I could, but no promises. Thanks so much to metacheese who gave me this idea at the very beginning of match, and love as always to my beta adamaddict_RH. The title is the phrase the Nazis used, in perfect English, when they captured an Allied soldier. It was also frequently used in the poems and writings discovered in the barracks of German POW camps. Cut text is a quote from Winston Churchill.
Eames woke to excruciating pain. He sucked in a breath at the sharp stab of it, but even breathing exacerbated the agony. He lay still, trying to feel out his body, to ascertain the damage, when he heard voices. Immediately his training overrode the pain, and he reached for his pistol. But the quick jerk of his arm felt like it was tearing open his very flesh, and he cried out.
He nearly screamed again when he realized his pistol was gone.
The voices drew closer; whoever was coming was speaking French. Eames’ heart started to hammer. At least if they killed him it would release him from this pain. He heard a door open and through blurry eyes he saw a man approach. He was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes, and when he leaned down over Eames he was frowning. Eames tried to move, his welling panic urging him to flee, but his body could not comply. “Please,” he managed to whisper. Please don’t kill me, or maybe, Please make it quick.
“Shhh,” the man said, watching Eames’ face closely. “You’re safe here. Your plane crashed, and you were badly hurt. Just rest.”
The man reached for something Eames could not see, and when his hands came back into view he was holding a syringe. “Morphine,” the man said, and Eames could feel the pinch as the needle slid into his arm.
He’s not going to kill me, Eames thought as he drifted out of consciousness. And then, before the blackness engulfed him completely, He’s American.
***
When Eames woke again, the pain had lessened somewhat - a heavy, dull throb rather than the sharp torment it had been before. He groaned softly as he tried to move, and in immediate response he heard footsteps approaching. He tensed again - his memory of the last time he woke was vague. Someone had been there, a man. The rest was a haze.
When Eames saw the man, he remembered a little. He gave me morphine. Eames tried to speak, to ask the man who he was, what was happening, but all that came from his mouth was a dry croak.
“Here,” the man said, hurrying closer. “You’ve had nothing to drink since we brought you here. Let me help.” He produced a tin cup and slid his other arm behind Eames’ head to lift him. He brought the cup to Eames’ lips and tipped it slowly, letting the cool water slide across Eames’ tongue. Eames could not have imagined it would hurt so much to do something as simple as drink. Yet he knew his body was parched, and dehydration was a far more likely killer than pain. It was only after he swallowed several times that it even occurred to him to consider whether the water might be poisoned.
The man pulled the cup away and watched as Eames panted and licked his lips. He was at this man’s mercy, there was no question. If he’s going to kill me, at least he’s a handsome murderer, Eames thought wryly. The man just smiled down at him, showing dimples that made him look terribly young and innocent. “Who are you?” Eames choked out, his throat rough but no longer arid.
“My name is Arthur,” the man replied as he eased Eames back down onto the bed. “I’m with the French resistance. My friends and I found you after your plane was shot down.”
Eames felt his eyes go wide with shock. He had no memory of an attack, of falling out of the sky. The last thing he could call to mind was his squadron taking off to do a bombing and recon run on a division of Panzer tanks near Angers. He remembered being in the air, seeing the French countryside sprawling green and gold underneath him. And then… nothing. “Shot down?”
Arthur nodded. “You’ve got a broken leg, some cracked ribs, and you were burned badly on your left side. We’ve got you patched up as best we can, but it’s going to be quite a while before you’re up and about, I’m afraid.”
Eames’ body rebuked his attempts at movement. His right leg was overly heavy and aching. A searing pain shot all along his side when he tried to lift his left arm.
“You shouldn’t move,” Arthur said. “I can’t imagine how much pain you’re in. You’re lucky to be alive. And even luckier we found you before the Germans did.”
Eames concentrated on breathing for a minute. His minimal physical effort had wiped him out completely. His eyes slid closed and a wave of fatigue rolled in. “Thank you,” he said softly.
He felt soft fingertips brush his face so, so gently. “You’re welcome,” came Arthur’s voice, and then sleep overtook him.
***
Thirst pulled Eames from sleep. “Arthur?” he called out, dismayed at how weak and quiet his voice sounded. But Arthur appeared quickly, as though he had been waiting nearby until Eames needed him.
“How are you feeling?” Arthur asked, looking Eames over.
“Thirsty,” Eames replied sheepishly.
Arthur only smiled. “I’m glad to see you’re asking for water. Maybe by tomorrow we can try some food.”
Eames didn’t feel hungry. There was a vague hollowness in his stomach, but no real desire for food. He wondered how long it had been since he had eaten.
“When did I crash?” he asked as Arthur lifted his head off the pillow.
“Five days ago.” Arthur touched the cool rim of the metal cup to his lip.
“Oh,” Eames said. He drank as much as he was able, and when he was finished, Arthur laid him back down. Eames closed his eyes and tried to stay calm. Thankfully sleep came for him quickly.
***
It was his growling stomach that prodded him awake next. The room was brighter, he thought, and when he turned his head he saw that the curtains on the window had been pushed open to let sunlight in. He shifted in bed and was pleased to find it wasn’t unbearable to move a little. And then the smell of food chased all other thoughts away. His stomach rumbled again and while he could feel the ache of near-starvation in his gut, it was, he reasoned, a positive sign at least that he had an appetite.
Before he called for Arthur, he tried to take stock of things. His right leg was in a cast, and he could feel the tight sear of the burns down his left side, his arm and part of his back down through his thigh. His chest was sore - cracked ribs, Arthur had said - but he was relieved to find that his right arm was intact and he could move it without pain. He pushed himself up, a slow and agonizing process. He was sweating by the time he’d gotten himself sitting up, but it was worth it to feel capable of something.
He surveyed himself. He was wearing a button-down shirt and loose linen pants, with nothing but bandages underneath them. Someone had dressed him, tended his wounds and other needs. He'd seen only person since regaining consciousness. The idea of Arthur caring for him so intimately made him blush.
Arthur chose that moment to enter the room. “Sergeant Eames! You shouldn’t be moving so much!”
Eames looked up blankly. “You know my name?”
Arthur was hovering, checking his bandages. “It was on your uniform when we found you. And your dog tags.”
Eames’ hand instinctively sought the metal discs that hung around his neck. It was reassuring to run his thumb over their coarse surfaces, to feel them both intact. “Just call me Eames. There’s no need for ranks.”
“Well, Eames,” Arthur said, “it’s good to see you up, even if you risked re-opening your wounds in the process. How are you?”
“Hungry. Something smells good.”
Arthur broke out into a wide smile, and Eames couldn’t help but think that it suited him. “I’m glad to hear it,” Arthur said. “I made some broth. You shouldn’t have much more than that; it’s been quite a while since you’ve eaten.”
The broth was possibly the best thing Eames had ever tasted, and he told Arthur as much because keeping the smile on Arthur’s face was a very effective distraction from how weak and incapable he felt. He couldn’t eat much, but it took the edge off his hunger and made him feel a little more human, a little more alive.
When Eames was finished Arthur set the bowl aside and sat down on the bed, looking at Eames intently. “Alright? I’m worried you’ll feel nauseous.”
“So far, so good,” Eames joked, but the expression on Arthur’s face was still one of concern. Eames looked away. “Listen, I want to thank you for all this. You… you saved my life. And now you’re taking care of me.”
“You’re the one who was out there fighting the Germans. Without the British, France would be entirely overrun by now. I’m not in a position to take up a rifle and fall in with the troops, so this is the least I can do.”
“You’re American, right?” Eames asked.
“Yes, from New York. I came to study architecture in Paris a year before the war broke out. I should have left sooner, but…. Once I tried to get out, it was too late. The Germans took Paris and they weren’t letting anyone out of the country. So we fled to the countryside and started helping the resistance.”
Eames’ curiosity was piqued, even as he felt his energy fading. “We?”
“There will be plenty of time for stories,” Arthur said as he stood. “Come on, let’s get you settled so you can sleep.”
***
Eames had no idea how much time passed while he slept. It could have been hours; it could have been days. He stirred to strange noises in the room, and opened his eyes to see Arthur taking things out of a satchel and arranging them on the table next to the bed. “Good morning?” Eames murmured, still groggy.
“It’s almost evening,” Arthur said as he turned to Eames. “It’s also time to change your bandages.”
Eames did not know the depth of helplessness he could feel, how distressing it was to be so vulnerable, until Arthur began tending his wounds. He slowly unbuttoned Eames’ shirt and slipped it off his shoulders. Arthur had to half lift him off the bed to slide his pants off, then helped him lie on his side and set to work removing the bandages from his burns.
He bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain as Arthur pulled the bandages away, but it was embarrassment that made the tears well up in his eyes. He felt naked and powerless. When he suppressed his shame enough to look, Arthur’s face was a passive mask as he cleaned the wounds and re-dressed them. “There,” Arthur said as he secured the last bandage in place.
“How,” Eames tried, his voice cracking, “how does it look?”
“Much better than when we found you,” Arthur said, meeting Eames’ eyes with a gentle expression that only made Eames feel more of a burden. “The doctor said your scarring should be minimal as long as we keep salve on the burns and keep the dressings clean. Thankfully the burns weren’t too severe.”
Arthur’s eyes on him made Eames want to cover himself, but he could barely move. “Are… are you finished?”
“I was going to clean you up before I get you dressed again.”
“Arthur…” The word came out strangled.
Arthur’s forehead creased with worry and he knelt down next to the bed, taking Eames’ hand in his. “Eames, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” He laid his fingers softly on Eames’ cheek. Eames squeezed his eyes tight to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. Had he not been so dehydrated, they would probably be pooling on his pillow by now. “Eames?”
“I just… I need a moment alone, please,” Eames said in a shaky voice.
Arthur pulled away. “Of course. Just call when you want me to come back.”
He kindly draped the blanket over Eames before he left. As soon as the door was closed, Eames began to sob quietly.
He must have dozed off because he woke to tapping on the door. “Eames? Are you alright? It’s been over an hour.”
Eames rubbed at his face, dried tears making his skin tight. He was still naked under the blanket. His right leg hurt from lying on his side so long. When he tried to push himself up, a stab of pain hit him square in the chest. He sighed in surrender. “I’m fine, you can come in.”
Arthur had a candle, which he sat on the small table next to the bed. The dim light cast a dream-like aura over the room, and Eames found the surrealism comforting. “Do you want to sit up?” Arthur asked cautiously.
“Yes, please,” Eames said, reticent now. Arthur’s hands were warm and firm on his bare skin as he helped Eames up. Eames clutched the blanket close around his waist. “I’m sorry,” he said, then faltered for a moment. “This is… this is hard for me. I’ve never had to rely on someone like this before.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Arthur said, and moved as though he were about to reach out to Eames, but then pulled back. “I should have been more considerate.”
Eames shook his head and smoothed at the blanket. “No, you’re helping me. I don’t need to make your job harder by being childish.”
This time Arthur moved to sit next to Eames and took both his hands. “Eames, your plane was shot down. You’re a war hero, okay? I’m taking care of you because it’s the least you deserve after what you’ve been through.”
Eames hummed noncommittally.
“In a few more days your burns should be healed well enough that you can move around better. The leg will take longer, but that’s going to mend too. This is only temporary.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Eames sighed. He made to pull his hands away, but Arthur held tight.
“Eames, I want to do this for you.” Arthur seemed so earnest. And really, what choice did Eames have?
“Alright.”
Arthur finally let his hands go. “Thank you. Now, just give me a minute and I’ll bring you some clean clothes.”
When he came back, Arthur sat down on the bed again. He lifted a cloth to Eames face. It was damp, and warm. Arthur wiped his forehead, his cheeks, just under his lower lip. It felt good. Eames let his eyes flutter closed as Arthur gently swiped the towel over his ears and down his neck.
“There. We can save the rest for some other time.” Arthur picked up the shirt and began helping Eames get his injured arm through the sleeve. When the shirt was on and buttoned, he picked up the pants. “If you’d rather try to do this on your own…” he began.
“We both know I need your help,” Eames said as he pushed the blanket off him. The shirt helped cover him somewhat, and the dim light of the candle cast enough shadows that he felt less exposed. Arthur was gentle, careful as he pulled the garment up around Eames’ waist. When he was finished he stood back, but Eames reached out and grabbed his wrist.
“Arthur,” he said softly. “Thank you.”
***
In the morning (or afternoon, Eames still had little concept of the days), a knock came at the door shortly after Eames had woken. “Come in,” he said, and started trying to push himself up.
“Good morning.” Arthur’s voice was cheerful. “How would you feel about some breakfast?”
Eames nodded as his stomach growled in response. He forced himself not to balk when Arthur came over to help him up. “It’s getting better,” Eames said. “The pain isn’t as bad now.”
“Good,” Arthur said as he propped a few pillows behind Eames, then went over to the window to pull back the drapes. He ducked out to bring the food and while he was gone Eames for the first time really looked around the room in the daylight. It was spare, only a chest of drawers, a couple of chairs with well-worn upholstery and a few small tables, all mismatched. Through the window Eames could see only the green of grass and trees. He could be anywhere. He only had it at Arthur’s word that he was even in France.
His head jerked when Arthur came back in holding a small tray. “I thought we’d try a little bread with the broth today. We need to get your strength back up.”
Eames took a deep breath and tried to relax as Arthur came and sat next to him on the bed, settling the tray on Eames’ lap so that he could feed himself with his good hand. “So,” Eames began, hoping he sounded conversational rather than interrogational, “where in France are we?”
“We’re in a village called Trélazé, about 300 kilometers southwest of Paris.”
A memory flashed through Eames’ mind of the map his squadron leader had laid out before their mission. Trélazé had been scrawled on the map just south of their target. “The tanks we were after were just north, outside of Angers,” he said as he brought the spoon to his mouth. Arthur nodded. “So do you live here alone?”
“I provide shelter when resistance fighters need it, but most of the time I am on my own,” Arthur said, his eyes vigilant on Eames’ movements. “When I came here from Paris, the farmer who owned this place took me in. He was a member of the resistance as well. He fought back when the Germans came to commandeer his crops. They dragged him by his collar into the town square and shot him, to make an example of him.” Arthur’s voice hitched as he spoke. “That was two years ago. I’ve been here on my own since.”
Arthur grew silent, and Eames had figured he was done with his tale, but then Arthur looked out toward the window and went on. “He was a good friend. He would have been glad to see his home put to such good use.”
To watch a friend murdered, then pick up his mantle and take it as your own - Eames had been trained into that sense of duty in the Air Force, but it was not something one expected to find in a civilian tucked away in the French countryside, a continent away from home. He would have asked why - why did Arthur stay here, why did he continue to help the resistance - but the answer would be simple and inexplicable, Eames was sure. Arthur did it because it was what needed to be done. For the first time Eames did not see Arthur as his nursemaid, but as an ally - maybe not a soldier, but a fighter all the same. “So you fled here after the Germans took Paris?”
“We tried to stay in Paris after the armistice was signed - by then it was far too late to try to leave the country. The Germans weren’t letting anyone cross the Channel. If we couldn’t get to England, and from there back to America, there was nowhere else for us to go, so we stayed at the university. But by that winter they had started burning our books, and shortly after they started rounding up anyone who wasn’t either French, German or Italian. So we ran.”
Eames remained quiet, nibbling at his bread while Arthur spoke, but he finally asked a question that had been hovering in the back of his mind for some time. “You keep saying ‘we.’ You came here with someone else?”
“My friend Dom and I came to France together in the summer of ’39. We had gone to high school together and thought it would be adventurous to come to study in Paris after we graduated.” Arthur’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “I was seventeen at the time, I thought I was invincible. We knew things were stirring in Germany but we didn’t know how bad. That was before they signed the treaty with the Russians, before they invaded Poland.”
“So why didn’t you leave after that?”
“Things ended in Poland relatively quickly, and even though France declared war, they barely got involved. After the Poles surrendered we thought things were over. Hitler was trying to negotiate peace with Daladier and Chamberlain. And then there was Mal…”
“Mal?”
“We met her at the university, and Dom fell madly in love with her. He didn’t want to leave her. So he stayed with her, and I stayed with him. I was… too scared, really, to try to go home on my own. Mal has family near here, so when we left Paris this was the only place we knew to come.”
“Where are they now?”
“Weapons detail. The three of us don’t fight, not directly, but many in the resistance do - guerilla attacks on German troops. Your squadron did manage to take out a few tanks and some of the Nazi encampment. The rest of them retreated, and Dom and Mal went to salvage what weapons and ammunition they could from the German camp and deliver it to the resistance soldiers. I expect them back any day.”
“And you’re stuck on nursing duty,” Eames added, frowning. “I’m sorry.”
Arthur laid a gentle hand on Eames’ arm. “This isn’t a hardship for me, Eames. I’d rather spend my efforts to help someone live than to help people die. I’ve seen far too much death already.”
Something within Eames shifted and he found himself hating the war anew for the despair it had put into Arthur’s heart. Eames ate in silence, and when he was finished Arthur rose and took the tray away. He returned with a small stack of books and handed them to Eames. “I’ve got to tend to things out in the garden, so if you aren’t ready to go back to sleep I thought these would help pass the time. They aren’t much, but they’re all I have in English.”
Eames took them with a quiet “thank you,” and then Arthur was gone again. He read a few pages of The Mayor of Casterbridge until he dozed off.
The sun had moved a good distance across the sky by the time he woke. He pushed himself up - it was growing easier each time he made the effort - and opened the book again. He was reading when Arthur returned, a stoneware bowl in his hand.
“Rabbit stew,” Arthur said as he held the bowl out to Eames. “My neighbor made it.”
A heavenly aroma and a blur of steam rose off the stew. Eames’ mouth watered as he took it.
Arthur pulled one of the chairs close and sat watching while Eames ate. He seemed distant, and his silence was a disappointing contrast to their earlier conversation. Eames wanted to ask why he had grown so quiet, but Arthur looked pensive, distracted, so Eames kept his thoughts to himself.
When he was finished eating, Arthur rose and took the bowl. “Dom and Mal just returned,” he said, finally chasing away the unsettled silence. “They’d like to talk to you tomorrow, if you’re up for it.”
Eames looked down at himself. He felt better; the pain was ebbing into a bearable ache, and he had already asked Arthur to lower his dose of morphine. But he felt unkempt, certainly unfit for company. “Of course,” he said, “but Arthur? I don’t feel terribly presentable. Would you… would you help?”
Arthur’s fingers twitched around the bowl in his hands. “Are you sure?”
Eames nodded. “I’m sure.”
By the time Arthur returned with towels and a bucket of water, Eames had already managed to get his shirt off on his own. Unbuttoning it had taken quite a bit of effort, but it had given him something to focus on so that he couldn’t fret over what was to come.
Arthur set down his burdens next to the bed, then moved to close the curtains and light the candle he had brought. “Eames,” he said softly as he approached the bed, eyes on the floor. “If this gets to be too much for you, tell me to stop.” He pulled the blanket back from Eames’ legs, but hesitated before he undressed him the rest of the way.
There was a nervousness in Arthur’s posture that had never been there before. “Arthur,” Eames said. Arthur looked up then, and his eyes were full of hesitance, almost guilt. “Did you do this for me… before I woke up?”
Arthur nodded and looked away again. Eames put a hand on his arm, gentle. “I’ll be alright,” he said, hoping it was true. “I trust you.”
Arthur took a breath and bent to his work. He eased the linen pants down over Eames’ hips, then set about removing the bandages from his burns and unwound the binding around his ribs. His fingers were light and gentle on Eames’ skin, as though Eames were something delicate.
With the dressings removed, Eames was truly bare. Arthur dipped a cloth in the water and wrung it out, then took Eames burned arm and began to dab gently at his skin. Eames couldn’t help but wince at the sting of it, but kept still. The pain at least was an easier thing to process. “If this hurts too much, tell me,” Arthur said softly, his brow creased in concentration. Then, a moment later, “It looks much better even than yesterday. As soon as the doctor is back from Angers I will have him come examine you.”
Arthur cleaned the burned skin first, then set about washing down the rest of Eames’ body with firmer pressure. The warm water felt good on Eames’ skin, down his neck and chest. When Arthur worked his way down to Eames’ stomach he looked up at Eames through his dark lashes, and there was a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “If you would rather…” Arthur stammered, and held out the cloth to Eames.
Eames took the cloth in his good hand, feeling a blush of his own rising in his face. “Of course,” he murmured, and made quick work of washing between his legs while Arthur looked away. He worked partially down his thighs before turning the task back to Arthur. “That’s as far as I can reach,” he said, and watched the nimble movements of Arthur’s hands as he dunked the cloth and wrung it out again, then wiped as best he could around the splint on Eames’ broken leg. He shifted further down on the bed and took Eames’ feet, one then the other, washing each with a caring touch that Eames refused to let himself dwell on.
When Arthur finished with Eames’ feet he dropped the cloth into the bucket and stood. “I can… if you want to turn over, I can wash your back.” The shyness in his voice mirrored the tentativeness on his face, as though he was afraid to say anything for fear of upsetting Eames.
Eames swallowed thickly and nodded. “You’ll need to help me.”
Arthur guided him down onto his back and helped him turn onto his stomach. Arthur’s hands on his body were cautious but strong, protecting Eames’ injuries while he helped him move. It was a struggle, but once he was prone he stretched out and relaxed; it felt good to not be lying on his back for once.
“Comfortable?” Arthur asked.
“Yeah,” Eames breathed out, shifting a little as let himself sag into the mattress.
“I’m going to get fresh water, I’ll be right back.” Arthur leaned in to pull the sheet up over Eames’ waist before he left.
The intermission gave Eames a moment to think. Immediately his mind called up the image of Arthur’s nimble hands, as gentle or firm as the instance required, sure and skilled as they moved over Eames’ body. The contact itself seems to soothe something inside Eames, an emptiness borne of so much time confined here, helpless and pained and alone. He wondered if Arthur was lonely here. Did he miss America? His family? Did he leave someone behind there? A girlfriend? A wife? He would ask. Tomorrow, maybe. He imagined they had many days yet ahead of them for such questions.
The door creaked at Arthur’s return, drawing Eames from his thoughts. They both were quiet as Arthur resumed his task, running the towel over the expanse of Eames’ back. He took his time, careful with the pressure over Eames’ ribs, then worked down toward his waist. The blanket was still covering Eames’ lower body. Arthur laid his palm right at the blanket’s edge, half his hand on the fabric and half on the small of Eames’ back. “Should I keep going?”
Eames closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said, trying to sound indifferent.
Arthur pulled the blanket away and Eames buried his face in the arm he had tucked up under his head. He had to bite his lip at the first warm swipe of the towel over his arse. Arthur was just as attentive here as he was over the rest of Eames’ body, but this felt almost seductive. It was his imagination, Eames was sure. It was the intimate touch, the rivulets of water that rolled down the curve of his arse, the fact that Arthur was the only human contact he'd had in more than a week. The thrill low in his belly was not imagined, however; he could feel himself getting hard as Arthur stroked up his inner thigh with the damp cloth. He was grateful that he was on his stomach, so that Arthur could not see his indecent reaction to what was certainly meant to be a chaste act. He bit his lip harder for fear of letting a moan slip through his lips.
Arthur finished his task and stood. “Shall we get you dressed?” he asked, sounding far more calm than Eames felt.
“In… in just a moment, yeah?” Eames asked a little breathlessly.
“Of course. I’ll just take the bucket and towels away.”
When Arthur was gone, Eames purposely flexed his burned arm, knowing the pain would be acute, knowing it would extinguish the heat that had been stoking in his gut. He whimpered as quietly as he could, and as his arm began to throb he could feel the rest of his body settle. The pain thankfully kept echoing through him when Arthur returned to bandage his wounds and help him dress.
“Thank you,” Eames said as Arthur helped him recline back against the pillows. “I feel much better.”
“I’m glad,” Arthur said as he idly smoothed down the sleeve of Eames’ shirt. “I know that must have been difficult for you.” He squeezed Eames’ hand gently before he stood to leave. “Goodnight, Eames.”
“Goodnight,” Eames said, and watched as Arthur left, taking the candle and closing the door behind him. In the darkness Eames lingered over how stark was the contrast to his life before. It was almost difficult to recount how he had gotten here, as though this were a dream. And then there was Arthur, who at times seemed a dream unto himself.
Part Two
Author: maybe77
Team: Angst
Prompts: fall, home
Word count: 5200 this part, 14,500 total
Rating: PG-13ish this part, NC-17 in later parts
Warnings:Physical pain/injury, lots of h/c, spongebathing.
Summary: Historical AU. Eames is an RAF pilot shot down in German-occupied France during World War II; Arthur is the French resistance fighter who finds him. There is a happy ending.
A/N: I tried to keep this as historically accurate as I could, but no promises. Thanks so much to metacheese who gave me this idea at the very beginning of match, and love as always to my beta adamaddict_RH. The title is the phrase the Nazis used, in perfect English, when they captured an Allied soldier. It was also frequently used in the poems and writings discovered in the barracks of German POW camps. Cut text is a quote from Winston Churchill.
Eames woke to excruciating pain. He sucked in a breath at the sharp stab of it, but even breathing exacerbated the agony. He lay still, trying to feel out his body, to ascertain the damage, when he heard voices. Immediately his training overrode the pain, and he reached for his pistol. But the quick jerk of his arm felt like it was tearing open his very flesh, and he cried out.
He nearly screamed again when he realized his pistol was gone.
The voices drew closer; whoever was coming was speaking French. Eames’ heart started to hammer. At least if they killed him it would release him from this pain. He heard a door open and through blurry eyes he saw a man approach. He was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes, and when he leaned down over Eames he was frowning. Eames tried to move, his welling panic urging him to flee, but his body could not comply. “Please,” he managed to whisper. Please don’t kill me, or maybe, Please make it quick.
“Shhh,” the man said, watching Eames’ face closely. “You’re safe here. Your plane crashed, and you were badly hurt. Just rest.”
The man reached for something Eames could not see, and when his hands came back into view he was holding a syringe. “Morphine,” the man said, and Eames could feel the pinch as the needle slid into his arm.
He’s not going to kill me, Eames thought as he drifted out of consciousness. And then, before the blackness engulfed him completely, He’s American.
***
When Eames woke again, the pain had lessened somewhat - a heavy, dull throb rather than the sharp torment it had been before. He groaned softly as he tried to move, and in immediate response he heard footsteps approaching. He tensed again - his memory of the last time he woke was vague. Someone had been there, a man. The rest was a haze.
When Eames saw the man, he remembered a little. He gave me morphine. Eames tried to speak, to ask the man who he was, what was happening, but all that came from his mouth was a dry croak.
“Here,” the man said, hurrying closer. “You’ve had nothing to drink since we brought you here. Let me help.” He produced a tin cup and slid his other arm behind Eames’ head to lift him. He brought the cup to Eames’ lips and tipped it slowly, letting the cool water slide across Eames’ tongue. Eames could not have imagined it would hurt so much to do something as simple as drink. Yet he knew his body was parched, and dehydration was a far more likely killer than pain. It was only after he swallowed several times that it even occurred to him to consider whether the water might be poisoned.
The man pulled the cup away and watched as Eames panted and licked his lips. He was at this man’s mercy, there was no question. If he’s going to kill me, at least he’s a handsome murderer, Eames thought wryly. The man just smiled down at him, showing dimples that made him look terribly young and innocent. “Who are you?” Eames choked out, his throat rough but no longer arid.
“My name is Arthur,” the man replied as he eased Eames back down onto the bed. “I’m with the French resistance. My friends and I found you after your plane was shot down.”
Eames felt his eyes go wide with shock. He had no memory of an attack, of falling out of the sky. The last thing he could call to mind was his squadron taking off to do a bombing and recon run on a division of Panzer tanks near Angers. He remembered being in the air, seeing the French countryside sprawling green and gold underneath him. And then… nothing. “Shot down?”
Arthur nodded. “You’ve got a broken leg, some cracked ribs, and you were burned badly on your left side. We’ve got you patched up as best we can, but it’s going to be quite a while before you’re up and about, I’m afraid.”
Eames’ body rebuked his attempts at movement. His right leg was overly heavy and aching. A searing pain shot all along his side when he tried to lift his left arm.
“You shouldn’t move,” Arthur said. “I can’t imagine how much pain you’re in. You’re lucky to be alive. And even luckier we found you before the Germans did.”
Eames concentrated on breathing for a minute. His minimal physical effort had wiped him out completely. His eyes slid closed and a wave of fatigue rolled in. “Thank you,” he said softly.
He felt soft fingertips brush his face so, so gently. “You’re welcome,” came Arthur’s voice, and then sleep overtook him.
***
Thirst pulled Eames from sleep. “Arthur?” he called out, dismayed at how weak and quiet his voice sounded. But Arthur appeared quickly, as though he had been waiting nearby until Eames needed him.
“How are you feeling?” Arthur asked, looking Eames over.
“Thirsty,” Eames replied sheepishly.
Arthur only smiled. “I’m glad to see you’re asking for water. Maybe by tomorrow we can try some food.”
Eames didn’t feel hungry. There was a vague hollowness in his stomach, but no real desire for food. He wondered how long it had been since he had eaten.
“When did I crash?” he asked as Arthur lifted his head off the pillow.
“Five days ago.” Arthur touched the cool rim of the metal cup to his lip.
“Oh,” Eames said. He drank as much as he was able, and when he was finished, Arthur laid him back down. Eames closed his eyes and tried to stay calm. Thankfully sleep came for him quickly.
***
It was his growling stomach that prodded him awake next. The room was brighter, he thought, and when he turned his head he saw that the curtains on the window had been pushed open to let sunlight in. He shifted in bed and was pleased to find it wasn’t unbearable to move a little. And then the smell of food chased all other thoughts away. His stomach rumbled again and while he could feel the ache of near-starvation in his gut, it was, he reasoned, a positive sign at least that he had an appetite.
Before he called for Arthur, he tried to take stock of things. His right leg was in a cast, and he could feel the tight sear of the burns down his left side, his arm and part of his back down through his thigh. His chest was sore - cracked ribs, Arthur had said - but he was relieved to find that his right arm was intact and he could move it without pain. He pushed himself up, a slow and agonizing process. He was sweating by the time he’d gotten himself sitting up, but it was worth it to feel capable of something.
He surveyed himself. He was wearing a button-down shirt and loose linen pants, with nothing but bandages underneath them. Someone had dressed him, tended his wounds and other needs. He'd seen only person since regaining consciousness. The idea of Arthur caring for him so intimately made him blush.
Arthur chose that moment to enter the room. “Sergeant Eames! You shouldn’t be moving so much!”
Eames looked up blankly. “You know my name?”
Arthur was hovering, checking his bandages. “It was on your uniform when we found you. And your dog tags.”
Eames’ hand instinctively sought the metal discs that hung around his neck. It was reassuring to run his thumb over their coarse surfaces, to feel them both intact. “Just call me Eames. There’s no need for ranks.”
“Well, Eames,” Arthur said, “it’s good to see you up, even if you risked re-opening your wounds in the process. How are you?”
“Hungry. Something smells good.”
Arthur broke out into a wide smile, and Eames couldn’t help but think that it suited him. “I’m glad to hear it,” Arthur said. “I made some broth. You shouldn’t have much more than that; it’s been quite a while since you’ve eaten.”
The broth was possibly the best thing Eames had ever tasted, and he told Arthur as much because keeping the smile on Arthur’s face was a very effective distraction from how weak and incapable he felt. He couldn’t eat much, but it took the edge off his hunger and made him feel a little more human, a little more alive.
When Eames was finished Arthur set the bowl aside and sat down on the bed, looking at Eames intently. “Alright? I’m worried you’ll feel nauseous.”
“So far, so good,” Eames joked, but the expression on Arthur’s face was still one of concern. Eames looked away. “Listen, I want to thank you for all this. You… you saved my life. And now you’re taking care of me.”
“You’re the one who was out there fighting the Germans. Without the British, France would be entirely overrun by now. I’m not in a position to take up a rifle and fall in with the troops, so this is the least I can do.”
“You’re American, right?” Eames asked.
“Yes, from New York. I came to study architecture in Paris a year before the war broke out. I should have left sooner, but…. Once I tried to get out, it was too late. The Germans took Paris and they weren’t letting anyone out of the country. So we fled to the countryside and started helping the resistance.”
Eames’ curiosity was piqued, even as he felt his energy fading. “We?”
“There will be plenty of time for stories,” Arthur said as he stood. “Come on, let’s get you settled so you can sleep.”
***
Eames had no idea how much time passed while he slept. It could have been hours; it could have been days. He stirred to strange noises in the room, and opened his eyes to see Arthur taking things out of a satchel and arranging them on the table next to the bed. “Good morning?” Eames murmured, still groggy.
“It’s almost evening,” Arthur said as he turned to Eames. “It’s also time to change your bandages.”
Eames did not know the depth of helplessness he could feel, how distressing it was to be so vulnerable, until Arthur began tending his wounds. He slowly unbuttoned Eames’ shirt and slipped it off his shoulders. Arthur had to half lift him off the bed to slide his pants off, then helped him lie on his side and set to work removing the bandages from his burns.
He bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain as Arthur pulled the bandages away, but it was embarrassment that made the tears well up in his eyes. He felt naked and powerless. When he suppressed his shame enough to look, Arthur’s face was a passive mask as he cleaned the wounds and re-dressed them. “There,” Arthur said as he secured the last bandage in place.
“How,” Eames tried, his voice cracking, “how does it look?”
“Much better than when we found you,” Arthur said, meeting Eames’ eyes with a gentle expression that only made Eames feel more of a burden. “The doctor said your scarring should be minimal as long as we keep salve on the burns and keep the dressings clean. Thankfully the burns weren’t too severe.”
Arthur’s eyes on him made Eames want to cover himself, but he could barely move. “Are… are you finished?”
“I was going to clean you up before I get you dressed again.”
“Arthur…” The word came out strangled.
Arthur’s forehead creased with worry and he knelt down next to the bed, taking Eames’ hand in his. “Eames, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” He laid his fingers softly on Eames’ cheek. Eames squeezed his eyes tight to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. Had he not been so dehydrated, they would probably be pooling on his pillow by now. “Eames?”
“I just… I need a moment alone, please,” Eames said in a shaky voice.
Arthur pulled away. “Of course. Just call when you want me to come back.”
He kindly draped the blanket over Eames before he left. As soon as the door was closed, Eames began to sob quietly.
He must have dozed off because he woke to tapping on the door. “Eames? Are you alright? It’s been over an hour.”
Eames rubbed at his face, dried tears making his skin tight. He was still naked under the blanket. His right leg hurt from lying on his side so long. When he tried to push himself up, a stab of pain hit him square in the chest. He sighed in surrender. “I’m fine, you can come in.”
Arthur had a candle, which he sat on the small table next to the bed. The dim light cast a dream-like aura over the room, and Eames found the surrealism comforting. “Do you want to sit up?” Arthur asked cautiously.
“Yes, please,” Eames said, reticent now. Arthur’s hands were warm and firm on his bare skin as he helped Eames up. Eames clutched the blanket close around his waist. “I’m sorry,” he said, then faltered for a moment. “This is… this is hard for me. I’ve never had to rely on someone like this before.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Arthur said, and moved as though he were about to reach out to Eames, but then pulled back. “I should have been more considerate.”
Eames shook his head and smoothed at the blanket. “No, you’re helping me. I don’t need to make your job harder by being childish.”
This time Arthur moved to sit next to Eames and took both his hands. “Eames, your plane was shot down. You’re a war hero, okay? I’m taking care of you because it’s the least you deserve after what you’ve been through.”
Eames hummed noncommittally.
“In a few more days your burns should be healed well enough that you can move around better. The leg will take longer, but that’s going to mend too. This is only temporary.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Eames sighed. He made to pull his hands away, but Arthur held tight.
“Eames, I want to do this for you.” Arthur seemed so earnest. And really, what choice did Eames have?
“Alright.”
Arthur finally let his hands go. “Thank you. Now, just give me a minute and I’ll bring you some clean clothes.”
When he came back, Arthur sat down on the bed again. He lifted a cloth to Eames face. It was damp, and warm. Arthur wiped his forehead, his cheeks, just under his lower lip. It felt good. Eames let his eyes flutter closed as Arthur gently swiped the towel over his ears and down his neck.
“There. We can save the rest for some other time.” Arthur picked up the shirt and began helping Eames get his injured arm through the sleeve. When the shirt was on and buttoned, he picked up the pants. “If you’d rather try to do this on your own…” he began.
“We both know I need your help,” Eames said as he pushed the blanket off him. The shirt helped cover him somewhat, and the dim light of the candle cast enough shadows that he felt less exposed. Arthur was gentle, careful as he pulled the garment up around Eames’ waist. When he was finished he stood back, but Eames reached out and grabbed his wrist.
“Arthur,” he said softly. “Thank you.”
***
In the morning (or afternoon, Eames still had little concept of the days), a knock came at the door shortly after Eames had woken. “Come in,” he said, and started trying to push himself up.
“Good morning.” Arthur’s voice was cheerful. “How would you feel about some breakfast?”
Eames nodded as his stomach growled in response. He forced himself not to balk when Arthur came over to help him up. “It’s getting better,” Eames said. “The pain isn’t as bad now.”
“Good,” Arthur said as he propped a few pillows behind Eames, then went over to the window to pull back the drapes. He ducked out to bring the food and while he was gone Eames for the first time really looked around the room in the daylight. It was spare, only a chest of drawers, a couple of chairs with well-worn upholstery and a few small tables, all mismatched. Through the window Eames could see only the green of grass and trees. He could be anywhere. He only had it at Arthur’s word that he was even in France.
His head jerked when Arthur came back in holding a small tray. “I thought we’d try a little bread with the broth today. We need to get your strength back up.”
Eames took a deep breath and tried to relax as Arthur came and sat next to him on the bed, settling the tray on Eames’ lap so that he could feed himself with his good hand. “So,” Eames began, hoping he sounded conversational rather than interrogational, “where in France are we?”
“We’re in a village called Trélazé, about 300 kilometers southwest of Paris.”
A memory flashed through Eames’ mind of the map his squadron leader had laid out before their mission. Trélazé had been scrawled on the map just south of their target. “The tanks we were after were just north, outside of Angers,” he said as he brought the spoon to his mouth. Arthur nodded. “So do you live here alone?”
“I provide shelter when resistance fighters need it, but most of the time I am on my own,” Arthur said, his eyes vigilant on Eames’ movements. “When I came here from Paris, the farmer who owned this place took me in. He was a member of the resistance as well. He fought back when the Germans came to commandeer his crops. They dragged him by his collar into the town square and shot him, to make an example of him.” Arthur’s voice hitched as he spoke. “That was two years ago. I’ve been here on my own since.”
Arthur grew silent, and Eames had figured he was done with his tale, but then Arthur looked out toward the window and went on. “He was a good friend. He would have been glad to see his home put to such good use.”
To watch a friend murdered, then pick up his mantle and take it as your own - Eames had been trained into that sense of duty in the Air Force, but it was not something one expected to find in a civilian tucked away in the French countryside, a continent away from home. He would have asked why - why did Arthur stay here, why did he continue to help the resistance - but the answer would be simple and inexplicable, Eames was sure. Arthur did it because it was what needed to be done. For the first time Eames did not see Arthur as his nursemaid, but as an ally - maybe not a soldier, but a fighter all the same. “So you fled here after the Germans took Paris?”
“We tried to stay in Paris after the armistice was signed - by then it was far too late to try to leave the country. The Germans weren’t letting anyone cross the Channel. If we couldn’t get to England, and from there back to America, there was nowhere else for us to go, so we stayed at the university. But by that winter they had started burning our books, and shortly after they started rounding up anyone who wasn’t either French, German or Italian. So we ran.”
Eames remained quiet, nibbling at his bread while Arthur spoke, but he finally asked a question that had been hovering in the back of his mind for some time. “You keep saying ‘we.’ You came here with someone else?”
“My friend Dom and I came to France together in the summer of ’39. We had gone to high school together and thought it would be adventurous to come to study in Paris after we graduated.” Arthur’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “I was seventeen at the time, I thought I was invincible. We knew things were stirring in Germany but we didn’t know how bad. That was before they signed the treaty with the Russians, before they invaded Poland.”
“So why didn’t you leave after that?”
“Things ended in Poland relatively quickly, and even though France declared war, they barely got involved. After the Poles surrendered we thought things were over. Hitler was trying to negotiate peace with Daladier and Chamberlain. And then there was Mal…”
“Mal?”
“We met her at the university, and Dom fell madly in love with her. He didn’t want to leave her. So he stayed with her, and I stayed with him. I was… too scared, really, to try to go home on my own. Mal has family near here, so when we left Paris this was the only place we knew to come.”
“Where are they now?”
“Weapons detail. The three of us don’t fight, not directly, but many in the resistance do - guerilla attacks on German troops. Your squadron did manage to take out a few tanks and some of the Nazi encampment. The rest of them retreated, and Dom and Mal went to salvage what weapons and ammunition they could from the German camp and deliver it to the resistance soldiers. I expect them back any day.”
“And you’re stuck on nursing duty,” Eames added, frowning. “I’m sorry.”
Arthur laid a gentle hand on Eames’ arm. “This isn’t a hardship for me, Eames. I’d rather spend my efforts to help someone live than to help people die. I’ve seen far too much death already.”
Something within Eames shifted and he found himself hating the war anew for the despair it had put into Arthur’s heart. Eames ate in silence, and when he was finished Arthur rose and took the tray away. He returned with a small stack of books and handed them to Eames. “I’ve got to tend to things out in the garden, so if you aren’t ready to go back to sleep I thought these would help pass the time. They aren’t much, but they’re all I have in English.”
Eames took them with a quiet “thank you,” and then Arthur was gone again. He read a few pages of The Mayor of Casterbridge until he dozed off.
The sun had moved a good distance across the sky by the time he woke. He pushed himself up - it was growing easier each time he made the effort - and opened the book again. He was reading when Arthur returned, a stoneware bowl in his hand.
“Rabbit stew,” Arthur said as he held the bowl out to Eames. “My neighbor made it.”
A heavenly aroma and a blur of steam rose off the stew. Eames’ mouth watered as he took it.
Arthur pulled one of the chairs close and sat watching while Eames ate. He seemed distant, and his silence was a disappointing contrast to their earlier conversation. Eames wanted to ask why he had grown so quiet, but Arthur looked pensive, distracted, so Eames kept his thoughts to himself.
When he was finished eating, Arthur rose and took the bowl. “Dom and Mal just returned,” he said, finally chasing away the unsettled silence. “They’d like to talk to you tomorrow, if you’re up for it.”
Eames looked down at himself. He felt better; the pain was ebbing into a bearable ache, and he had already asked Arthur to lower his dose of morphine. But he felt unkempt, certainly unfit for company. “Of course,” he said, “but Arthur? I don’t feel terribly presentable. Would you… would you help?”
Arthur’s fingers twitched around the bowl in his hands. “Are you sure?”
Eames nodded. “I’m sure.”
By the time Arthur returned with towels and a bucket of water, Eames had already managed to get his shirt off on his own. Unbuttoning it had taken quite a bit of effort, but it had given him something to focus on so that he couldn’t fret over what was to come.
Arthur set down his burdens next to the bed, then moved to close the curtains and light the candle he had brought. “Eames,” he said softly as he approached the bed, eyes on the floor. “If this gets to be too much for you, tell me to stop.” He pulled the blanket back from Eames’ legs, but hesitated before he undressed him the rest of the way.
There was a nervousness in Arthur’s posture that had never been there before. “Arthur,” Eames said. Arthur looked up then, and his eyes were full of hesitance, almost guilt. “Did you do this for me… before I woke up?”
Arthur nodded and looked away again. Eames put a hand on his arm, gentle. “I’ll be alright,” he said, hoping it was true. “I trust you.”
Arthur took a breath and bent to his work. He eased the linen pants down over Eames’ hips, then set about removing the bandages from his burns and unwound the binding around his ribs. His fingers were light and gentle on Eames’ skin, as though Eames were something delicate.
With the dressings removed, Eames was truly bare. Arthur dipped a cloth in the water and wrung it out, then took Eames burned arm and began to dab gently at his skin. Eames couldn’t help but wince at the sting of it, but kept still. The pain at least was an easier thing to process. “If this hurts too much, tell me,” Arthur said softly, his brow creased in concentration. Then, a moment later, “It looks much better even than yesterday. As soon as the doctor is back from Angers I will have him come examine you.”
Arthur cleaned the burned skin first, then set about washing down the rest of Eames’ body with firmer pressure. The warm water felt good on Eames’ skin, down his neck and chest. When Arthur worked his way down to Eames’ stomach he looked up at Eames through his dark lashes, and there was a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “If you would rather…” Arthur stammered, and held out the cloth to Eames.
Eames took the cloth in his good hand, feeling a blush of his own rising in his face. “Of course,” he murmured, and made quick work of washing between his legs while Arthur looked away. He worked partially down his thighs before turning the task back to Arthur. “That’s as far as I can reach,” he said, and watched the nimble movements of Arthur’s hands as he dunked the cloth and wrung it out again, then wiped as best he could around the splint on Eames’ broken leg. He shifted further down on the bed and took Eames’ feet, one then the other, washing each with a caring touch that Eames refused to let himself dwell on.
When Arthur finished with Eames’ feet he dropped the cloth into the bucket and stood. “I can… if you want to turn over, I can wash your back.” The shyness in his voice mirrored the tentativeness on his face, as though he was afraid to say anything for fear of upsetting Eames.
Eames swallowed thickly and nodded. “You’ll need to help me.”
Arthur guided him down onto his back and helped him turn onto his stomach. Arthur’s hands on his body were cautious but strong, protecting Eames’ injuries while he helped him move. It was a struggle, but once he was prone he stretched out and relaxed; it felt good to not be lying on his back for once.
“Comfortable?” Arthur asked.
“Yeah,” Eames breathed out, shifting a little as let himself sag into the mattress.
“I’m going to get fresh water, I’ll be right back.” Arthur leaned in to pull the sheet up over Eames’ waist before he left.
The intermission gave Eames a moment to think. Immediately his mind called up the image of Arthur’s nimble hands, as gentle or firm as the instance required, sure and skilled as they moved over Eames’ body. The contact itself seems to soothe something inside Eames, an emptiness borne of so much time confined here, helpless and pained and alone. He wondered if Arthur was lonely here. Did he miss America? His family? Did he leave someone behind there? A girlfriend? A wife? He would ask. Tomorrow, maybe. He imagined they had many days yet ahead of them for such questions.
The door creaked at Arthur’s return, drawing Eames from his thoughts. They both were quiet as Arthur resumed his task, running the towel over the expanse of Eames’ back. He took his time, careful with the pressure over Eames’ ribs, then worked down toward his waist. The blanket was still covering Eames’ lower body. Arthur laid his palm right at the blanket’s edge, half his hand on the fabric and half on the small of Eames’ back. “Should I keep going?”
Eames closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said, trying to sound indifferent.
Arthur pulled the blanket away and Eames buried his face in the arm he had tucked up under his head. He had to bite his lip at the first warm swipe of the towel over his arse. Arthur was just as attentive here as he was over the rest of Eames’ body, but this felt almost seductive. It was his imagination, Eames was sure. It was the intimate touch, the rivulets of water that rolled down the curve of his arse, the fact that Arthur was the only human contact he'd had in more than a week. The thrill low in his belly was not imagined, however; he could feel himself getting hard as Arthur stroked up his inner thigh with the damp cloth. He was grateful that he was on his stomach, so that Arthur could not see his indecent reaction to what was certainly meant to be a chaste act. He bit his lip harder for fear of letting a moan slip through his lips.
Arthur finished his task and stood. “Shall we get you dressed?” he asked, sounding far more calm than Eames felt.
“In… in just a moment, yeah?” Eames asked a little breathlessly.
“Of course. I’ll just take the bucket and towels away.”
When Arthur was gone, Eames purposely flexed his burned arm, knowing the pain would be acute, knowing it would extinguish the heat that had been stoking in his gut. He whimpered as quietly as he could, and as his arm began to throb he could feel the rest of his body settle. The pain thankfully kept echoing through him when Arthur returned to bandage his wounds and help him dress.
“Thank you,” Eames said as Arthur helped him recline back against the pillows. “I feel much better.”
“I’m glad,” Arthur said as he idly smoothed down the sleeve of Eames’ shirt. “I know that must have been difficult for you.” He squeezed Eames’ hand gently before he stood to leave. “Goodnight, Eames.”
“Goodnight,” Eames said, and watched as Arthur left, taking the candle and closing the door behind him. In the darkness Eames lingered over how stark was the contrast to his life before. It was almost difficult to recount how he had gotten here, as though this were a dream. And then there was Arthur, who at times seemed a dream unto himself.
Part Two